The Wife Before Me(79)

Her coat hangs from a hook on the door. As she puts it on she is startled by a movement outside the window. Her fingers freeze on the buttons until she realises it’s her reflection. She closes the blinds and turns off the lights.

The exterior light that automatically turns on when the basement door opens has broken. First thing in the morning she’ll call an electrician to fix it. The glow from a streetlamp filters through the wrought-iron railings above her and illuminates the passageway leading to the steps. Cracks on the surface have made it uneven in places and she must be careful of her ankle, which is still painful. She locks the door and pulls down the security shutter.

‘Elena.’ He speaks her name softly. Before she can move, he is behind her, his arms encircling her. He pushes her against the wall and forces her face into the rough stone.

‘One word from you and I’ll smash your head in.’ His breath is warm on the back of her neck, his tone an obscene caress. ‘Are you listening to me? Repeat every word that demented fool told you.’ His knee crashes into the back of her legs and her body jack-knifes in a spasm. ‘Speak to me, Elena. I’m waiting.’

‘I told you already,’ she gasps. ‘I wasn’t there.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’ He pulls her head back from the wall by her hair.

‘Why would I risk breaking bail―?’

‘I’m asking the questions, bitch.’

Once again, her forehead is smashed against the wall. Her mouth fills with the metallic taste of blood. It rolls slickly down her cheek.

‘He hated me because I knew his friend was a fucking paedophile. He’d do anything to slander me so you’d better start talking. What did he say?’

Tears run from her eyes but she is afraid to cry out in case he attacks her again. A trembling suspicion has turned into conviction. Billy alone in his house, answering a knock on the door late at night. Questions asked and a blow to the head when he refused to answer them.

Her arm has been twisted so violently behind her back she fears it has been dislocated from its socket. How long can she withstand the pain before she breaks? And if she breaks and reveals what Billy told her, what then? Death? She knows now that he has killed twice. Why not a third time? She will never hold her children again, hear their voices, wipe their tears, share their laughter. She whispers their names: Grace… Joel… Grace… Joel… if these are the last words she utters, she will repeat them until she has no breath left to do so. He releases her arm and encircles her neck. Gloves, soft leather, flexible, untraceable. Grace… Joel… Grace… Joel…

‘Do you want me to strangle you, Elena?’ He has still not raised his voice. Anyone passing above them would think they were a couple embracing in the shadows. ‘You always liked a bit of rough and this will be as rough as it gets unless you tell me everything. The police didn’t believe a word from your lying mouth when you tried to kill me. I’ll make sure you―’

Suddenly, the locked security shutter springs upwards with a loud clatter. The office window cracks outwards, as if blown apart by an internal explosion. Startled, Nicholas reels back and releases his grip on her. Elena collapses to the ground as shards of glass shatter around them. She hears a sigh, as if a beast imprisoned for too long has been released. Unable to tell if Nicholas is injured but knowing she only has seconds to escape, she staggers to her feet and runs, sobbing hysterically as she mounts the steps. Nicholas, too, has risen. He grabs her ankle but his grip is weak and he overbalances when she kicks back hard with her other foot. He curses as he slides back down the wrought-iron steps. She reaches the footpath. The bike is locked to the railings. She leaves it there and runs onto the road, searching for a taxi. Her right arm hangs limply by her side. Blood is still streaming from her forehead.

Nicholas has reached the pavement, his tall frame forming an elongated silhouette under the streetlamp. ‘That was only a taster tonight, Elena.’ His voice, now rough with fury, reaches her. ‘Just remember that you were the last person to see Billy Tobin alive. One mention of tonight and the police will be knocking on your door so fast you won’t have time to blink before you’re in handcuffs.’ She hears him walking away, his footsteps fading.

A taxi draws up beside her. ‘Good God, lady! What happened to you?’ the driver asks when she collapses into the back seat. He rummages in the glove compartment and hands her a wad of tissues. ‘You need an ambulance, not a taxi. I’ll call one for you.’

‘It’s superficial. I’ll be okay.’ She scans the road but Nicholas has merged into the night. ‘I was cut by flying glass.’ Perhaps that’s true. There could be splinters of glass embedded in her skin, along with grit from the wall. ‘There was a gas explosion in my office,’ she continues. ‘I need to ring Bord Gáis and report it.’

‘I’ll do that for you, lady. Then we go to the hospital.’ The driver is Nigerian, broad-cheeked, his dark eyes filled with concern. A medal of St Christopher hangs from his rear-view mirror. His deep voice with its rhythmic intonations helps to calm her down. She speaks to an official from the gas board and gives him the address of the office, as well as Rosemary’s phone number.

The driver, having escorted her to the emergency department of the Mater Hospital, refuses her offer of payment. ‘You are alive to tell the tale,’ he says. ‘It is a miracle to survive a gas explosion. Someone in heaven was watching over you.’