Forget Her Name(20)

‘He?’

‘Well, whoever did this. I don’t know, do I? Some fucking pervert. Some freak.’ I’m angry at his attitude, but am still careful not to mention Rachel. I hate the idea that he won’t want to marry me if he finds out just how crazy my sister was. Some of these things can be hereditary, after all, and he mentioned once that he’d like to have kids one day. ‘I guess you must have left the window open after your shower this morning.’

‘No, I always shut the window afterwards. I make a point of checking it before I leave the flat.’

‘But—’

‘It wasn’t me, Catherine. If the bathroom window was open when you came home, then presumably someone climbed up the fire escape and pushed it open from the outside.’ He makes a face. ‘It’s an old window. The catch is frail, and the frame’s rotten in places. If someone wobbled it about enough, maybe it came loose. I’ll take a look in a minute.’

Someone climbed up the fire escape . . .

The snow globe, the gross eyeball. Now this break-in. An emerging, hostile pattern. Then there’s the nature of the incident itself. My wedding dress targeted. Not any other kind of clothing. It’s exactly the sort of horrible prank Rachel would have loved to inflict on me. Something intrusive, disturbing, impossible to pin down. And deeply personal.

Except that my sister is dead.

I sneak a look at him. There’s no point sharing my fears with Dominic. He may be my fiancé but he never met Rachel. He’s heard stories about her, of course. The stories I could bear to share with someone outside our family. But he can’t possibly understand the full extent of her evil. You had to be there, I think bitterly. To grow up under Rachel’s shadow, to breathe her poisonous presence into your lungs, day in, day out. To feel that toxicity in every pore of your body and know you’d never entirely wash it out.

‘What is this stuff, anyway?’ He bends to the sequinned bodice, sniffing one of the thick, red smears. ‘God, it’s grim. Smells like—’

‘Blood,’ I say.

‘Yes, almost certainly.’ He glances round at me, his eyes wide, an arrested look on his face. ‘It’ll need to be tested.’

‘Tested?’

I have visions of him handing the remains of my wedding dress to someone at the hospital, maybe a lab technician. It’s not an idea I’m comfortable with. Not something this personal.

‘By the police.’

At first, I can’t comprehend what he just said. Then his words begin to filter through the waves of horror I’m feeling after seeing the dress again. Its stark, bloodied reality.

‘The police,’ I repeat slowly. ‘You want to call the police?’

‘Catherine, someone broke into our flat. Went through our things. Totally trashed your wedding dress.’

‘I know, it’s just . . . I feel violated.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable. And the last thing I want right now is to have the police here, traipsing round the place, asking questions. I’ve had a full day at work, I’m dog-tired, my chow mein is getting cold . . .’ He turns back to study the shocking display on the bed. ‘But we can’t let whoever did this get away with it.’

It’s deliberate, the way the dress has been placed on the bed. The bed where we sleep together. And I can see him thinking the same thing.

‘Have you checked everywhere else?’ he continues.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Whoever did this probably looked over the whole flat. Maybe stole something.’ He peers past me into the hallway. ‘They might still be here.’

I can’t speak, but shake my head. There’s something so vile, so abhorrent about the idea of a stranger coming into our home, invading our private space, touching our things . . .

He drops the shred of satin he’d been examining. ‘Hey,’ he says softly, and takes me in his arms. ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You hear me?’

‘But who could have done this? To us? To my lovely wedding dress?’

‘I don’t know. But I’m going to bloody well find out.’ He looks into my face, his eyes serious, watchful. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

I manage a slight nod. Though in truth I’m far from okay.

‘That’s the spirit.’

He kisses me firmly, then reaches into his pocket for his mobile phone. Seconds later he’s talking to a police officer as calmly as if he’s discussing work. I stand listening to his level tone, unable to take my eyes off the ruined dress while Dominic gives the police our address and a few other details. Then he rings off.

‘Could be an hour before they get here,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe two.’

‘That long?’

‘It’s not a priority.’ He sounds terse, yet seems to accept the long wait as painful but necessary. No doubt it’s something he’s used to at work. The endless frustration of lengthy waiting times. ‘Look, I’m going to check out the rest of the flat. You stay here.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Catherine, for God’s sake . . .’

‘I’m not staying in here alone. Not with that.’ I shudder, nodding towards the dress. ‘It stinks, for one thing. And for another, it’s horrible. Like something out of a nightmare.’