His & Hers(76)

“My mother-in-law used to clean for half the village,” I say.

“I would never have guessed,” Priya replies, staring at all the boxes and mess as we step back inside the house.

“She’s not been well,” I explain, meaning the dementia.

“I did notice the cancer drugs in the kitchen. They were the same ones my mother had to take, not that they helped.” She reads my expression without me having to say anything. “I’m so sorry, I presumed you knew.”

I didn’t.

“We should get going,” Priya says, and I know she’s right.

We head out toward the car, and the empty street is in complete darkness. I wonder whether Anna knows about her mum, and then I worry again about where they both might be now. My mind wanders back to the cameraman and his criminal record. I have Richard’s number in my phone; having thoroughly checked him out there isn’t much I don’t know about him. He’s married to another BBC News anchor, and they have a couple of kids, but that doesn’t mean anything. On the off chance that he and Anna are still together, or that he might know where she is, I call him.

I hear his phone ringing.

But not just on the other end of the line, it’s right next to me, as though he is here in Anna’s mother’s garden.

It’s too dark to see anything, so I hang up and fumble to find the flashlight function on my mobile again. When I turn it on, I see that Priya is holding a phone that does not belong to her.





Her



Thursday 01:10



I am certain that the scream did not belong to a woman or a child; it was Richard.

There is a voice screaming inside my head too. It’s my own, and it’s telling me to get the hell out of this house. My fingers hover over the handle of the front door, but I can’t just leave. What if he’s hurt? What if I can help? Jack was right—I do always run away from my problems. Perhaps it’s time to stop. I tell myself that this isn’t a horror movie, and turn back toward the staircase.

I climb the first step and grip the banister, as though it might be the only thing stopping me from falling over. Facing my fears doesn’t make me feel any less afraid. The stench of damp combined with something unfamiliar makes me nauseous, but I force myself to keep going.

“Richard?” I call.

But he doesn’t answer.

When I reach the first floor, I find myself at the end of a long cobweb-covered landing. All the doors on either side of it are closed, except for the one at the very end. That door is slightly ajar, and throwing a sliver of light into the otherwise dark hall. I try the switch, but nothing happens.

“Richard?” I call his name again, but hear nothing.

I force myself to take a step closer and the elderly floorboards creak.

I can’t imagine growing up somewhere like this; it’s like a haunted house from a fairground, except that it’s real. No wonder Catherine Kelly was a little odd at school if this was her childhood home.

The floor continues to creak beneath my weight, and I remind myself that Catherine Kelly is Cat Jones. Nothing about this scenario feels right. The voice inside my head screams at me again to turn back and get out.

But I don’t.

I keep walking forward, every step heavy with hesitation, getting closer to the door at the end of the hall. I stop when I reach it, taking a few seconds to summon the courage to push it open. When I do, I can’t move.

Cat Jones is swinging from a beam on the ceiling, a St. Hilary’s school tie acting like a noose around her neck.

Her eyes are closed, and she’s still wearing the white dress she wore to present the lunchtime news earlier today. Her bare legs and feet are sticking out underneath, as though someone took her shoes. One foot is still oddly balanced on a chair leaning against the wall, and the frayed ends of a red-and-white friendship bracelet are sticking out of her slightly open mouth.

The woman she became is so different, but I can see the child she once was hiding just below the surface. Things are always easier to see when we know what we are looking for.

I take a step toward her and almost trip over something on the floor.

It’s Richard.

He is lying facedown, and there is a small pool of blood around his head. He has been hit so hard there is a concave crater on the back of his skull, and there are stab wounds all over his back.

I freeze.

I’m scared to touch him, and I can’t stop my hands from shaking. I bend down and check for a pulse. The surge of relief I experience when I find one is overwhelming. He’s still alive. I need to call an ambulance, but my phone has been taken and I’m also aware that whoever did this must still be here. Not just in the house, but upstairs.

Nobody has left since Richard screamed.

An army of goose bumps line up on my skin as I realize that I would have seen whoever did this pass me if they had left the room. Or at the very least, heard them; the house is eerily silent now, as though my own fear has muted all sound. Everything except for the body swinging from the beam on the ceiling, like a slow, creaking pendulum. I wish I could make the noise stop.

That’s when the pieces of the puzzle start to fit together, a picture forming despite the gaps. Cat Jones must have attacked Richard before killing herself. I can think of no other explanation for what I am seeing. Then I spot my phone on the dressing table, next to what looks like a kitchen knife.