Something in the Water(101)

Before I buried him I searched his pockets. Looking for a clue, I suppose, something, anything that might prove it was all a huge misunderstanding. That he loved me really. I hoped I’d find something that would, somehow, show that Mark had actually done it all for me, for us. Of course, I didn’t find anything like that. But Mark had two phones on him. His iPhone and the new burner phone he’d been using to contact Patrick, the phone he’d checked our Swiss account with during the deal. He was clever. His own phone was on airplane mode; he must have done that after he texted me that night. Turned airplane mode on in London, no doubt, before he came for me, so that no signal towers would ever know where he was. The last text he sent me was cleverly vague as well, all circumstantial in a court of law. I know where you are. I’ll be back soon, honey xxx. If I had happened to go missing for some reason on my trip to Norfolk, Mark could have pleaded ignorance. He’d covered his bases.

A brief scan of his emails, on the burner, revealed he’d been looking at apartments in Manhattan over the past two days. New houses. For his new life. Without me.

I wonder what I did. When exactly it was that I drove him away. I wonder how I could have been so wrong about us. About him. I truly believed he loved me. More than that, I saw it. I swear I saw it. I knew he loved me. Didn’t I?

But now is not the time. I have to sort this out, because things can get much, much worse if I’m not fast and careful now. I have to tidy up. Mistakes come down to three things: (1) lack of time, (2) lack of initiative, (3) lack of care.

I strip the bed and soak out the bloodstained sheets in the sink. I let them dry on the heated rail and get started on bleaching the basin and tiles. I scrub the lamp base and replace it on the nightstand, its thick marble still intact after connecting with Patrick’s skull. I clean everything, put it all in order, remake the bed, and then strip down for the shower.

I let the streaming water run over my forehead. The cut throbbing. All my muscles pound and sing under the hot shower, but I can’t relax yet. In the mirror I pick open my scabbing forehead cut until a drop of blood beads out. I make sure there is water on the floor and then I smash the largest remaining shard of the bathroom door. A satisfying crack.

I phone down to reception. My voice is shaky. I need help.

The receptionist runs up to assist. It’s a different girl from yesterday, older, more friendly. I stand trembling in my towel. I explain how I just got out of the shower and slipped on the wet floor into the glass of the door. My forehead dribbles red onto my cheek and into my hairline.

She’s appalled on my behalf: “Floor tiles shouldn’t be that slippery!” She can’t apologize enough. Refunds are offered.

I say it’s fine. I’m fine. Just shaken up.

She calls her manager, who offers me a free stay. I decline. They offer me a free dinner. Shivering in my towel, I accept. My blood sugar is low; I do need to eat. I already ate all the cookies in the minibar about an hour ago. I dress and go down to eat in the pub restaurant below.

The problem of the broken door is solved. The problem of food is solved. I am given a dressing for my wound. The receptionist insists on helping me apply it.

It’s not until I am safely on the motorway home that I stop at a service station and call Eddie back from a pay phone.

“It’s done. Thank you. Thank you for helping me. I really appreciate it.” I feel very close to Eddie. We’ve been through something together.

“That’s all right, sweetheart. Happy to help. Just, you know, don’t make a habit of it.” He snorts lightly into the receiver.

I smile silently. I definitely won’t be making a habit of it. “I won’t,” I promise gently.

There’s no way really to tell him how much he’s helped me. How much I owe him. Yet he seems to glean it down the line.

“Listen, love, I didn’t tell you anything you wouldn’t have worked out for yourself. It’s just shock. I remember the first time for me. That feeling. Shock does some—yeah, it does some funny stuff to the brain. But you’re all right now?” He’s gruff again, back to reality. Enough of the mushy stuff.

“Yes, I’m better. I just need to ask you one last thing, Eddie. How long do you wait to report someone missing?”

Silence from the other end. I can almost hear him blink.

“You don’t,” he says simply.

“But what if you have to?” I insist.

There’s a moment’s silence on the line and then I hear him put two and two together. The penny drops. Someone I know isn’t coming back.

“Right. I see. Right,” he says, and starts to talk me through it.



* * *



—

As soon as I get back home I call Mark’s iPhone. It goes straight to voicemail, of course. Buried three feet deep in the Norfolk woods. I clear my throat.

“Hi, honey, I just got home. Just wondering where you are. Hope New York was great. I just got back from Norfolk. Wondering where you are? Let me know if you want some dinner left out. See you soon. Love you.” I make a kissing sound and hang up.

Phase one: done.

Phase two: get my house in order. I burn the note I left on the stairs in our fireplace. I was never at Caro’s. I’ll tell the police I was in Norfolk. A minibreak while Mark was traveling for work. I tidy our home. I undo all the mess I created searching for the USB before I left.