The Dead Ex(42)

Why? As one woman wrote, It’s proof that my ex really has moved on. I can’t pretend any more. There were several ‘likes’ for that one, including mine.

Finally, I make a decision. Tomorrow, I tell myself. I have a new client scheduled then for 9 a.m. so I text her, explaining I have to cancel for ‘personal reasons’. Then I realize the date – April Fool’s Day! – and almost change my mind. Travelling from Cornwall up to London on the train is a big deal when you could have a seizure at any time. So, too, is the prospect of visiting your ex-husband’s wife. But it must be done if I’m going to get anywhere.

‘It’s work,’ my husband used to tell me when I questioned why he had to have so many late meetings. And I accepted this. I was even concerned that he was working too hard. How stupid was that?

All these thoughts are whizzing round my head as I try to leave the house the next day. It makes me feel bad and even more stressed. I’ve massaged lavender into my wrists, but it isn’t working. So I take some deep breaths and tell myself firmly that I have to lock up the house, walk down the high street to the station, get on a train and sit there for the best part of six hours without having a seizure. Then I have to make my way across London to my house, where they now live.

It can’t be that hard. I’ve done it before. The police reminded me of that.

But that was before they discovered my personal diary and wedding album. What else might they find if they dig deeper?

Meanwhile, my solicitor’s warning rings round my head. If it was me, I would want to find out what happened to my ex. Please resist that temptation. It could do more harm than good.

That’s all very well but I can’t shake off the suspicion that Tanya knows something. That woman is evil. She stole my husband. What else is she capable of?

The train is packed. Just as well I reserved a seat. It’s on the aisle, because it’s easier to get to the loo that way. Of course, that will only help if I sense a seizure coming on. I don’t always get the burning aura, and the humming is becoming increasingly rare for some reason.

I glance at the man sitting next to me on the window side. Is he the type who will freak out if I roll to the ground and thrash around? Will he pull the emergency cord? I’ve never actually had a convulsion on a train before, but there’s always a first time.

When it initially happened in front of David, he was hysterical. I know this because, when I came round, he was screaming. That made me scream too. We were in the kitchen right by the phone but he hadn’t even had the presence of mind to ring 999. I did it instead. I didn’t know what had happened, so I described my own symptoms as falteringly recounted by David. Falling on ground. Eyes rolling. Shaking.

‘A possible one-off.’ That’s how the young duty doctor had described it at the hospital. ‘Go home and rest. Let us know if it happens again.’

These thoughts – and more – go through my mind as the train rattles its way towards Paddington. I reach into my bag and feel for the bottle of tablets. Did I take one or two or none this morning? The more I think about it, the less sure I am.

I wake with a start. Someone is nudging me. It’s an elderly woman. Her face is creased with concern. Instantly, I know I’ve done it again. The other seats around me are empty. People tend to clear the room when an epileptic is in full fling. ‘I’m sorry,’ I stutter.

‘No need to apologize,’ she says. ‘I’m always doing it.’

Really?

‘So easy to doze off on trains. At least that’s what I find. I’m relieved I could wake you. Deep in the land of nod there, you were.’

I am swamped with relief. ‘So I was just asleep?’

‘What else could you have been, love? Anyway, we’re here.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. But she’s already on her way, gathering great pace with her stick. Hastily getting down my stuff from the overhead rack, I make my way onto the platform and head for the Underground. ‘Avoid public transport where possible,’ my consultant had advised. ‘You might fall on the line or have a seizure as you go down the escalator.’

But I don’t know the bus routes, and if I get a taxi, there will be a record of someone dropping me off.

Of course, that shouldn’t matter. It’s not as though I’m going to do anything to Tanya. Merely ask her a few questions. But even so, the fewer witnesses the better. Mind you, when she sees what I have in my bag, I bet she won’t want anyone else to know either.

Then I stiffen. There’s a broad-shouldered woman in police uniform talking to one of the orange-clad TfL officials at the barrier. She glances at me. My mouth goes dry. There’s no law that says I can’t be here, but I feel as if I’ve skipped bail. Then she goes back to talking again. I insert my travel card (included in the rail ticket, which I’d paid for with cash) and go through. I wait for someone to tap me on the back. But it doesn’t happen.

I hover now at the top of the escalator. Heights always do this to me. I’m all right if I can’t see the bottom. But there is no one in front. So I have to wait until someone else arrives.

When they do, I am so relieved that I step in quickly after them. But they walk down on the left. The space in front falls away from me. I grip the rail tightly.

I’m going to fall.

And that’s when I see him.