Behind Every Lie(22)
I waited, frozen, hoping if I didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t say a word, that perhaps Seb wouldn’t punish me.
The first time Seb had hit me, Eva was just a baby. I had burned his dinner, so he punched me in the stomach. I almost left him, but of course there was Eva to consider. And it was my fault anyhow. I decided then to try harder, be a better wife, a better mother.
But better is such an idiosyncratic word. My definition of better certainly didn’t match Seb’s.
And it wasn’t so bad, really. Nothing like my father, when he was drunk.
Seb grabbed me, yanking my arm nearly out of its socket. I flinched, even though I had been expecting it. I imagined the purple bruises that would appear, and the stories I would spin for Rose tomorrow flashed through my mind.
I tripped on the stairs.
I ran into the banister.
I caught my arm on the chain swings at the park.
Motherhood and marriage had made me a remarkable liar.
The distant wail of a fire engine reached my ears. Seb released me and rushed to the front door, opening it as a fire engine and a police car pulled onto the sidewalk in front of our house. Neighbors had clustered in the street, staring up at the smoke curling over our house like a cloud.
Seb jogged down the stairs to meet the firemen as I hovered in the doorway, gulping in great breaths of warm summer air. I glared at my neighbors, hating them for their nosiness. Seb spoke animatedly to the firemen, rolling his eyes and laughing. He didn’t see the police officer circle the back of the fire engine and approach me.
The copper was a rather large man, with a bulky body, a double chin, and a graying handlebar mustache. His black-and-white captain’s hat read metropolitan police.
“Everything all right, missus?”
I pushed my glasses up my nose, soot and ash thick in my throat. “Yes. We had a small fire, but not to worry. We’ve extinguished it.”
He assessed me with dark, hooded eyes, then glanced toward Seb, who was still laughing with the firemen. “Sebastian Clarke’s your husband?”
“Yes.”
He cocked his head at me. “When did he arrive home tonight?”
“I suppose it was about twenty minutes ago.”
“Interesting.”
I frowned. “Why so?”
“Two fires associated with your husband in one night.”
“You must be mistaken—”
“Katherine!” Seb called. “Can you check on Eva?”
“Yes, certainly.” How on earth had she slept through this chaos? I turned to the policeman. “Apologies, Officer …”
“Hamilton.”
“Apologies, Officer Hamilton. I must check on my daughter.”
I turned and went inside, but not before I noticed Seb’s eyes tracking my every move.
* * *
The next morning Seb was still odd with me, his responses abrupt and cool. The scent of smoke lingered in the air, bitter on my tongue. I prepared breakfast quickly, hoping Eva would keep her chatter to a minimum. He was clearly not in the mood.
I watched Seb out of the corner of my eye, my mind on what the police officer had said last night. Could Seb have set fire to the Gardener?
Once, when Eva was a baby, one of our neighbors had a raging house party. Cars blocked the road, and the sound of thumping music kept us up late into the night. Finally Seb took his keys and went outside, keying every one of the visitors’ cars. Our neighbor and his friends came outside shouting. Shortly afterward, the police arrived, but the officer was on Seb’s payroll, so he arrested our neighbor for breaching the peace.
When Seb returned, he’d seen me watching him with wide, baffled eyes. “They won’t do it again,” he said, his voice flat. “Trust me, it does no good to be seen as soft. I have a reputation to look after.”
I knew he was thinking of his own childhood growing up on a council estate in East London. There, the only people who survived were those who established themselves as powerful, respected, and feared. Seb’s reputation meant he’d gained those things. But would he go so far as to commit arson?
Personally, I’d always believed that while revenge might be sweet, it was also very like a medicine: a little could cure you, a lot could very well kill you. But I knew now more than ever that Seb did not feel the same way.
“Mummy, what’s that?” Eva’s voice brought me crashing back to the present. She was pointing up at the spot on the living room ceiling that had bubbled from the heat.
“Mummy was playing with fire,” Seb answered for me. He shov eled another bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Wasn’t that a bit stupid of her?”
Eva looked horrified. “Mummy! We don’t play with fire!”
“No.” I forced a laugh. “You are most certainly right, my love. We don’t play with fire. I was very silly, but I’ll clean it up today.”
Seb dropped us off at Rose’s and left without another word. The sticky August heat wave was already warming the air, the sun a hazy orb hanging over the skyline. I pushed my damp hair off my forehead, realizing for the first time that my hands were trembling.
I spent the day jumpy and on edge, with Rose constantly asking if I was okay. By the time we were waiting outside for Seb to collect us at the end of the day, I was a ball of nerves, dreading whatever punishment he’d dreamt up.