The Woman Next Door(23)

I go to the French windows and peer inside.

The light is shining on them so I can’t really see anything, but one of them is slightly open. Tentatively, I push it wider and step into the cool kitchen.

It is lovely in here. Melissa has such good taste. I hope she will forgive me. I was so looking forward to sitting here and drinking coffee with her again, like we used to.

I will leave the cake for her on the table. I simply cannot let things slide back to the way they were. Not when it seemed as though our bridges may be mended.

‘Coo-ee?’ I say, not too loudly. The air feels thick and unnatural, only punctuated by the ticking of the large railway clock on the far wall. It feels as though there is no living soul here. Melissa is not one for plants, or pets, though I’ve never felt the lack until now.

But there is a strangeness in the air I can’t identify.

I’m just about to place the cake on one of her beautiful granite counters when there is an indistinct but recognizably human noise from the other side of the kitchen, from just out of sight beyond the table. I swivel round so fast in shock I almost drop the lemon drizzle onto the floor.

Then I realize I can see the gold of Melissa’s pretty hair, tied in a ponytail, just beyond. She is kneeling down on the other side of the table.

‘Oh my goodness!’ I say. My heart is galloping uncomfortably fast. ‘What are you doing down there, Melissa?’

I come closer and see that she is crouching on her haunches, like toddlers do with such ease. Her hands are over her mouth. She is looking down at something just out of sight on the floor. Oh no, I do hope it’s not a spider or a mouse. I would go a long way to help Melissa, but I’m not sure I’m up to that.

‘What is it?’ I say gently, moving closer. ‘Are you …?’

The rest of my sentence is whisked away in an out-breath that seems to go on and on. I am aware of the thud and whoosh of my own blood.

‘Oh …’, I say, but it comes out as a strangled whisper.

There is a man lying on the floor in front of her.

It’s the one I saw this morning, dressed now, thankfully, his head turned away from Melissa. A heavy-looking stone implement lies at her feet on the floor and it takes a moment or two for me to understand that it’s the pestle from that ugly pestle and mortar set she went on about so much.

My brain is slow to make sense of this strange scene. I look at the sticky redness on the side of the man’s head for several minutes before I connect it with the pestle and with Melissa.

She rocks back and forth a little, seemingly unaware of me, until I come and kneel beside her, taking her hands and forcing her to look into my eyes. Hers are cloudy with shock so I speak slowly, while gently chafing her hands to comfort her.

‘Melissa, look at me,’ I say, forcing authority into my voice. ‘Tell me what happened’.

‘He’s dead.’

The words are whisper soft and I feel her breath on my face.

‘I killed him. I didn’t mean it. I just …’ She breathes in a big suck of air. Her lips tremble. They are deathly white.

I understand then, with a rush of bright clarity.

‘Did he … did that man try to hurt you?’

She doesn’t answer me so I gently press on.

‘Did he … force himself on you?’

She doesn’t reply, just stares into my face as though there are answers there. I’ve never seen her look so young. Oh my poor, dear girl. My heart twists with sympathy and affection.

‘You poor baby!’

I pull her into an embrace. She falls willingly into my arms, limp as a rag doll. I breathe in the sweet smell of her hair before she struggles slightly and pulls back.

‘Are you hurt?’ I say.

Finally, she finds her voice, which comes out flat and toneless.

‘I … I just lashed out.’ She stares down at the pestle, which has a patch of jammy wetness and a few black hairs stuck to it. ‘I didn’t, I didn’t mean to.’

I shudder in distaste then force a briskness into my voice.

‘Go and wash your face in the bathroom. Take a few moments to calm yourself down and then I’ll make tea and we can talk.’

Almost meekly, she rises to her feet and almost stumbles out of the kitchen.

I think I may be experiencing a delayed reaction. It is only now that my own legs begin to shake so hard I almost collapse. I lean back against the table, breathing hard.

I wish someone would tell me what to do. I’m aware that we should call the police, and when I have watched dramas on television I have always been very dismissive of characters who fail to do this obvious thing.

But let me tell you, the aftermath of violence feels very different to television programmes. It’s as though the normal rules of life have been crumpled up and tossed aside. Surely it is an impossible thing to lift a telephone and alert the outside world to the intimacy of the scene in this kitchen? How would they ever understand?

I saw him this morning, strutting about like Cock of the North.

I glance at the body and feel disgust rising in my throat. I don’t want to be near it. I walk over to the sink, taking deep breaths. And as my breathing starts to settle, I make a decision.

I will help her. I will do whatever it takes. A feeling of euphoria dares to trickle into my tummy. We have a bond now that she can’t share with another living person.