When You Are Mine(68)

I join her in the kitchen, taking a stool at the breakfast bar. I notice a green rubbish bag on the floor near the sink. The top is wrung tightly and tied off in a knot. It looks like the scrawny neck of an old man.

‘What are you doing up so early?’ Tempe asks, as she puts water in the coffee machine.

‘I’ve been looking for Blaine.’

‘Who?’

‘My neighbour’s dog. The Jack Russell.’

‘You hate that dog.’

‘I don’t hate him.’

‘You’re always complaining about how he barks and keeps you awake.’

‘I didn’t want him to go missing. Did you see him?’

‘Me?’

‘Mrs Ainsley thinks somebody left the side gate open.’

‘And she’s blaming me.’

‘No, of course not.’

Tempe makes a ‘mmmmph’ sound and puts a pod in the machine. I notice a gauze bandage on her hand, dotted with blood. It has been clumsily wrapped.

‘What did you do?’ I ask.

She looks at the bandage and frowns, as though she’s forgotten.

‘Oh, I scratched myself on a wire coat hanger … the dry cleaning.’

‘Do you want me to bandage it properly? I’ve done a first-aid course.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘It’s still bleeding.’

‘I’m fine.’

The coffee machine gurgles and spits, producing a dark sludge that smells wonderful. She adds frothy milk and hands me a mug. I glance at the rubbish bag. Tempe changes the subject and talks about my wedding dress. I was due to have the final fitting today, but I want to be at the hospital when Daddy wakes up.

‘I’ll reschedule,’ says Tempe. ‘We should also talk about the table arrangements.’

‘I thought we decided on orchids.’

‘Yes, but if you wanted to be a little more daring, you could choose lisianthus. They have pretty layers like roses and come in white, purple and pink bouquets.’

‘I’m happy with orchids,’ I say, feeling as though Tempe is again trying to change my mind.

We’re sitting opposite each other. Our knees touch. I move away. She asks about Alison Goodall. I tell her what happened and watch her react with a mixture of anxiety and anger.

‘He’ll come for you now.’

‘Why? He got what he wanted. I’ve lost my job.’

‘He’ll want more. I remember when he thought Alison had learned about me. Darren accused me of telling her. He threatened to kill me if he found out I was lying. I had to prove that I loved him.’

‘In what way?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Did he want you to sleep with other men?’

‘Don’t keep asking me that. You’re blaming me, just like he did.’

‘No, that’s not—’

‘He used to say I was nobody. I was shit on his shoes. I was a bug on the windscreen … a miserable, pathetic piece of garbage that he could toss away and nobody would miss me. Nobody would care.’ Tempe looks at me seriously. ‘Somebody has to stop him, Phil. He can’t keep doing this. He’s relentless. He’s like the Terminator. He never gives up.’ Her bandaged hand is beating at the air, like she’s hitting at a drum. ‘Someone has to kill him.’

Her solemnity makes me laugh. ‘Now you’re being melodramatic.’

‘How would you do it?’ she asks.

‘What?’

‘Kill him?’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘With your karate, you could do it so easily.’ She makes a chopping motion with the same hand.

‘Karate is for self-defence.’

‘Yeah, but you could crush his windpipe; or drive his nose into his brain. I bet you could do it and nobody would ever know it was you. The perfect crime.’

‘There is no such thing,’ I say.

‘But if you get away with it?’

‘It’s still a crime.’

‘What if you make it look like an accident?’

‘That doesn’t make it perfect.’

‘Bad people get away with things all the time. Why can’t good people do the same?’

‘Good people don’t commit murder.’

‘When is it our turn?’

Her earnestness reminds me of my younger self, when I would argue with my mother about life being unfair because I couldn’t go to a party or a sleepover at a friend’s house. It was never my ‘turn’. Back then I had no real concept of fairness. After three years as a police officer, I’m still not sure. Justice and fairness are like rain that falls more heavily on some people than others. People with umbrellas tend to stay dry. People on high ground avoid the flood. Rich people. Connected people.

Tempe is frowning at me, unhappy with the analogy. I laugh and she shakes her head before a shy smile breaks across her face.

As I’m leaving, I pick up the bag of rubbish, saying I’ll drop it at the bins. Tempe takes it from me and grimaces, swapping the bag to her good hand.

‘My bin is full.’

‘We have room in ours. I’ll take it home.’

‘No. That’s OK.’