He Said/She Said(105)

I inch sideways along the wall, take the five steps down to the kitchen the same way, my phone behind my back, trying to guess on the virtual keypad where the nines might be. But I can’t even unlock it with my PIN, and anyway, Jamie’s on to me.

‘Thank you,’ he says, when all three of us are in the kitchen. He holds out his free palm like a primary school teacher confiscating some chewing gum. Instinctively my fingers grip the phone tighter. He prods the knife into Beth’s side. At her stifled yell, I throw it down on the kitchen table. Jamie places his own phone next to it; from the same pocket he produces Beth’s. He lines them all up on the Formica table, faces up, a row of glossy blank slabs. Mine looks old and battered next to Beth’s sleek, oversized handset and Jamie’s BlackBerry.

Does he mean to rape us? Does he mean to kill us?

I know this kitchen, I can find my way around it blindfolded. There is our block of knives, across the room and out of my reach. They are painfully visible but I also know that there’s a cleaver in the drawer behind me, and a mallet in the pot with all the wooden spoons. Holding the door open is an old-fashioned ten-pound weight that would double up as a cosh, if only I could bend down to retrieve it. There are all the murder weapons you could want in here and yet Jamie has the advantage. All it takes is one blade.

The minute hand on the kitchen clock ticks forwards. Kit is due back any time now. This is scant comfort. I know that he would do anything to protect me. I also know, from Lizard Point, that this is not the kind of crisis he thrives in.

I don’t plan to kick Jamie; rather, I see my foot rising towards his groin. My aim is true but he moves at the last moment, and rather than the incapacitating kick in the balls I was going for, most of the impact hits his thigh. The shock makes him drop the knife, which is good, but I wanted him on the ground and before the blade hits the tiles there’s an explosion of pain in my head. The blow Jamie lands on my left ear is so forceful that the explosion seems to come from somewhere deep inside me. I stagger into the wall. The knife appears to slide across the floor again and again as my vision plays tricks. The room tilts gently to the side, righting itself just before the point of my collapse, then tilting again. When the images circling in my head join together as one, I see that Janie’s knife is on the far side of the room, the blade wedged under the fridge, and he has taken another knife from the block, twice the length of the weapon he came with. Kit’s prized Sabatier knife. I bought it for him last year to celebrate fourteen years of marriage, the steel anniversary. You can cut through gristle with a Sabatier. We had it professionally sharpened a couple of weeks ago. You could probably perform surgery with it.

‘What’ve you done to her?’ asks Beth. The pain from my ear radiates through my neck and into my teeth. Her words are misshapen. Is this a perforated eardrum? My tongue probes a loosened molar but I can’t taste blood, only sense a hot rhythmic throbbing.

‘Sit down, please.’ The new knife in Jamie’s hand is so still it’s as if it’s been set in mid-air, cast in thick glass. As Beth slides behind the table, his other hand reaches into his back pocket and produces a few sheets of printer paper, which spring out of their folded quarters as they flutter to the table.

‘You too, please, Laura,’ he says. ‘Beth, keep your hands under the table.’

‘I can’t fit any more,’ I plead. Moving my jaw to speak plucks at the damaged nerve. I remember what he did to Antonia; this is his signature move.

He looks me up and down. ‘I’m sure you can.’ His downward tilting of the knife to my belly is all the persuasion I need. I say a silent sorry to my twins as I ease myself painfully on to the bench. There’s a splash of yesterday’s chicken soup I must have missed when I wiped the table down. Three seconds into this sitting position and my back begins to cramp. How long does he mean us to stay like this? There is nothing I can use to defend myself here. The confiscated phones, their screens black in repose, are out of reach.

‘Hands under the table, Laura,’ he says. Again, I can only obey. As I slide my hands on to my lap, the skin on my arms feels . . . fine. Normal. It’s like I’ve shot straight through worry and out the other side. It makes an awful sense. The creeping feeling has always been about dreading the worst. Now the worst is here, it’s too late for the early warning system. Even my anxiety has given up on me.

Face to face with Beth for the first time, I see with shock that her white neck is ringed with a vicious red welt. The imprint of a buckle is clear under the point of her chin. She sees me see it. ‘He made me drive,’ she says, and it’s enough; I picture her, a belt looping her neck to the headrest. ‘He was at Antonia’s when I went over.’ I retch to picture the scene: the Balcombes’ comfortable family home broken into and terrorised by its former master. My voicemail echoing in a blood-sprayed room. Beth reads my face and shakes her head. ‘They’d already gone,’ she reassures me. The image downgrades to that same notional room, a back door swinging in the breeze, toys abandoned in the garden. ‘She texted me to tell me he was there but by then it was too late.’

I can’t get the timeline straight in my head.

‘Never mind Antonia,’ says Jamie. ‘We’ve got to get down to business. Three pages each should be enough, for now.’ He nods his permission for us to take our hands off our laps and we share out the paper between us. Whatever he has in mind, I resolve to spoil my paper; if we run out, one of us will have to go to the study to get more out of the printer. He can’t overpower us both up two flights of stairs. I try to telegraph this thought to Beth but her eyes are wild and unfocused.