Woman Last Seen(41)
Fiona shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
Her voice seems to jar Mark back into himself, in an instant his expression changes. Melts. He looks suddenly vulnerable. “You don’t think I have anything to do with her disappearance, do you?”
Fiona holds his gaze, wondering what to say. The truth is no one knows what people are capable of. Who knew that Leigh was capable of being a bigamist, married to two men, running two lives for years and never telling a soul? Never telling her. Fiona thought she knew her best friend inside out. She thought Leigh trusted her. Who can say what secrets Mark might be hiding? What anyone is capable of. It is totally feasible that Mark discovered Leigh’s lie. What might that have led to? Crimes of passion are reported in the newspapers all the time. People murder betraying loved ones. It happens.
Fiona takes a deep breath.
She does not believe that about Mark.
“No,” she says eventually. “No, I don’t think you have anything to do with her disappearance, obviously not. My guess is she has run off. Leading a double life must be—” She shrugs, embarrassed. “Well, fuck, what must it be, Mark? Unbelievably stressful. I can’t comprehend it.”
Fiona pours them both another vodka. They knock them back without saying anything more for a moment. They can’t find the words.
“It can’t be true,” says Mark eventually.
“But she is only here half the time,” Fiona says quietly, trying to convey as much sympathy as humanly possible. “And the photo.” She shrugs apologetically, although it isn’t her that should be apologizing.
“What shall I tell the boys?” he asks.
“I don’t know. You should talk to the police. See whether they think this is going to hit the papers.”
Mark looks horrified. “Do you think it will?”
“Well, it might, it’s—you know—juicy. And, well—” Fiona falters, finding it difficult to say any of the stuff that needs to be said. “It might hit the papers if she hasn’t just run off. If there is more to this.” If they find a body. “I hate it that these thoughts are even in my head.”
“This can’t be my world,” says Mark. “It can’t be Leigh’s world.”
“But it is.” Fiona coughs to swallow the tears that are threatening. “If the papers pick up on this the boys need to be prepared and protected.” Mark nods. “Would you like me to stay? To be with you when you tell them?”
He nods again. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you can have our bed.”
“No, no, Mark. I’ll take the sofa. Honestly.” Fiona doesn’t want to lie on their sheets. She doesn’t want to smell Leigh’s sweat, perfume or washing powder, maybe their loving whereas presumably that is something Mark might need.
“I should have taken the sofa,” he mutters. Fiona doesn’t really understand his meaning. She thinks he’s not thinking clearly when he adds, “I want to meet this other man.”
“What? No!”
“I have to. I need to see him. See their home. See it all for myself.”
“That’s probably not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Fiona plays with her empty glass, wishing it were full. “Well, she’s missing, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“So—well—in cases like these, the husband is always the suspect and we know you didn’t do it.”
“You just said you think she’s run away.”
“Well, yes, let’s hope she has.”
“She’s not dead, Fiona.”
Fiona sighs. “We don’t know what she is.”
17
Kylie
Wednesday 18th March
I slept last night. I didn’t expect to but the blackness swallowed me. I woke as the morning sunlight crept under the boarded window. I strain my eyes and look around the room for the millionth time. Waiting for something new to jump out at me, something that will help me get out of here. What? I’m not sure. It’s not as though a trapdoor is suddenly going to appear. I’ve checked every link of the chain to see if there is a loose one, there isn’t. The zip ties that bind my hand to the chain have chafed the skin on my wrist, but no matter how much friction I create, they are unchanged, immovable. I’ve scoured the room for a nail or a sharp edge, something I could use to wear away at the plastic, but there’s nothing. The place is immaculate, bare, barren. Other than the water bottle, which is almost empty now. And the typewritten notes.
As the morning passes, I am forced into using the bucket, and the smell of my own pee now lingers in the room. It’s oddly not too disgusting because it is at least human and familiar when everything else is sterile and strange. Although I imagine I will feel differently when I need to do more than wee. Waves of horror and panic slosh through me, leaving me feeling helpless and lost as I wonder how long I might be locked up here for. As I consider being here might not be the worst thing that could happen to me. What is he planning to do to me? I swallow back tears. I try to think about real, physical things, not allow my imagination and fear to take control.
I consider the emptiness of the room. It is not usual. Spare rooms in most homes are stuffed with boxes of old toys or paperwork, unused exercise machines, the ghosts of hobbies—taken up with enthusiasm but not sustained. This room is nothing like that. And the rooms people are kept captive in on TV—on the occasional newspaper report about a real-life example of someone horrendously unlucky—always reveal a squalid, filthy place. Abductors normally live chaotically; the broken and spoiled property reflecting the ravaged lives of damaged, dangerous people.