Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller (39 page)

I stared at the photo. Zac looked so like Mikey, I saw that now
–
same impossibly straight hair, same mischievous expression. How had I not seen?

In the other photo, Mikey with her, in what looked like a register office. She was wearing the same black dress she had worn for dinner, her burgeoning belly a discreet fecund bump under the stretchy fabric. Black fabric. Odd choice for a wedding.

I sat on the sofa in my coat. Outside, I fancied I could hear the whistle and whoop of the funfair. But I was no longer sure of anything that I, Shona McGilvery, could hear, smell, taste, see, touch. I did not know, if I stood up, whether I would feel the floor under my feet, or whether I would keep on reaching with my toes until I fell through into oblivion. I did not know, I think, in that moment, if I was even real and, if I were, what possible reason there was to continue to be real.

Isla gave a shout, almost an
Oi!
as if to tell me that she
–
she was the reason. I picked her up and held her to me. She babbled away, unaware of anything at all, apart from me. She was with her mother, she was awake, that was all. I cradled her to my chest and carried her into the kitchen. At random, I opened cupboards. Pans, plates, wine glasses, tumblers. Tea, coffee, tins
–
chopped tomatoes, kidney beans, jars
–
apple compote, piquillo peppers in oil, artichoke hearts. It was all so normal
–
the assorted tins and jars of a middle-class professional working couple who liked to eat well.

In the fridge, there was milk in the door alongside the butter. There was salad, cod loin in cellophane packaging, carrots ... what did these things matter? What did I expect to find
–
a rosy red apple ripe with poison? No one thinks of a witch’s groceries.

“
Pea risotto,” I said aloud, pulling the fish, the butter, the eggs, onto the floor. “Fucking pea risotto.”

I had seen her with someone in the supermarket. She had told me it was Red. I had known it wasn’t Red because he had black hair. Black, like Mikey’s. Like John’s, the imaginary policeman. Let’s talk about it, I had told her. I had wanted her to trust me and she had taken my trust and held it like a beating heart in her hand. And she had reached for the knife. No. I had handed her the knife. Here, I had told her. Cut right through it.

And then:
Is it John?
I had asked, feeling the crease of concern in my brow. And she had looked at me blankly, not a clue who I meant.
John Duggan
, I had insisted.
You know, the policeman?

I covered my mouth tight with my hand to stifle the roar that came out of me. I pulled the food from the fridge and threw it onto the floor. I opened all the cupboards, reached my arm around the mugs so as to sweep the whole lot out and send it crashing.

No.

These houses were close together. Someone would hear, they might call the police.

At the front of the cupboard, a mug I recognised: Black, with white writing.
But You May Call Me Lord
. He must have bought two. I picked it up. The first time she had been to the cottage, I had joked about putting peanuts in his coffee
–
you mean so he chokes, right?
she’d replied. Of course, she knew about his allergy as well as I did. Mikey had told me this mug was from a business trip but maybe he bought it, bought both, when he was with her
–
maybe she bought them, as a joke.
Here
, she might have said,
one for your home, one for your mistress’s cottage in the woods
. She liked dark jokes, didn’t she? And the biggest, darkest joke of all was on me. How the hell could she have agreed to the set-up? A woman like her, who could surely have anyone
–
why share?

I was still holding the mug. I could line it with peanut oil, sneak it back into the cottage, swap it for the other one. And wait. That’s all I would have to do.

No.

I carried Isla through the wee house, found two bedrooms coming off the hallway: one, theirs, taupe-coloured bedding, scatter cushions in pinks, lilacs, acid-greens. By the window, a small bureau, closed up, a dull brass key poking out of the lock.

I turned the key. Opened the bureau. The space was so tight I had to sit on the bed to be able to open the desk all the way. Inside were pens, a silver letter holder stuffed with bills, a chequebook: Ms. G. Smyth-Banks ... Nothing of interest. What was I expecting to find? Not like it could get any worse.

In the wardrobe, her clothes
–
some I recognised, like the patchwork skirt with the pockets, a cheesecloth smock top; some, more formal, I did not. On the top shelf, box files, one labelled
House.
I tried to pull it down but couldn’t manage with one hand. I put Isla on the bed and dashed back, pulled the box down with both hands. It was heavy. I placed it on the open bureau. The popper catch was stiff but I prised it open. Inside, official documents: gas bills, electricity, same kind of thing as the bureau ... I looked at the address: Burns Cottage ... and the names: Mr. M. Quinn and Ms. G. Smyth-Banks Quinn. How many fucking surnames did the woman need? And why were her names on our utility bills?

I checked back with the bills in the letter holder, some I saw now were bills for the Fittie house, all with her name on, other bills with her name alongside his. Bills from the cottage.

A fist of pain in my chest, I flicked through the documents in the box file. Papers scattered over the duvet, floated down to the floor. Towards the bottom, in a plastic sheath, I found the deeds to the Fittie Place. In her name only, thank God. Lower in the pile, another document, also in plastic: the deeds for the cottage. With shaking hands I examined the names on the document: Mr. Michael Quinn and Ms. Georgia Smyth-Banks Quinn.

“
Oh God,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

In my hands, the document shook so much I could no longer read it. But I didn’t need to read it again to know that I didn’t own my home. That I had never owned it.

Don’t you need me to sign anything?

Don’t you worry, Shone, babe. You’re exhausted. I’ve sorted everything.

Caught up in the baby and all her needs, befuddled by exhaustion, by love, by trust, I had taken him at his word. Having a child had been the making of the man, is what I had thought. But now it made perfect sense. Why indeed would Georgia agree to share? She wouldn’t, that was the answer. She never had. She had never seen the cottage as the mistress’s cottage in the woods. She had seen it as hers. Because it was hers. She had never seen Mikey as her lover. Because he was her husband. Why agree to a husband only half the time? Why not? Isn’t that what I’d done? But another woman? Who would agree to that?

I carried Isla back into the living room and sat on the sofa, rocking gently, madly, making this awful, keening sound over and over, as if, along with all my rational sense, all language was beyond reach. I don’t know how long I sat there until I became aware of Isla’s fingernails sharp in my nostrils, and a deep cold come through my coat into my bones. I was shivering. My face was sticky and when I stretched it, the skin under my eyes felt like it was cracking.

“
OK,” I said to myself. I stood up. “OK.”

I found the nursery, a box room. White cot in the corner with a circus mobile hanging above it. There were acrobats, elephants, a ringmaster. I laid Isla on the mattress. The back of my head brushed against the mobile, making the circus people swing. The bed smelled of Zac, of the washing powder his clothes were washed in. Did Mikey pull his clothes from the washing machine? Did he hang them out to dry in the breeze that blew over the sea wall? Did he love this family more than us? My tears dropped, wetting the covers. I tucked Isla in, soothed her, but she was restless. I wished I was still breastfeeding
–
for myself as well as her.

“
Stay there, my darling,” I whispered. “I’ll get some milk.”

I found Zac’s bottles, made up one for Isla, heated it in the microwave. I could hear Isla starting up for a cry. The microwave bell pinged.

“
Isla, darling,” I called softly down the short dark hallway. “Mummy’s coming. Mummy’s here.”

Mummy was right here. Mummy wasn’t going anywhere. Isla needed me, now more than ever. Her home, her safety, her life, was down only to me now. I would hold her while she drank this milk. I would hold her safe in my arms until she slept and I would make a plan: something that would make things fair. Something that would settle the score such that they would regret what they had done for the rest of their sad and sorry lives.

Once Isla was asleep I went back into Georgia’s bedroom. Georgia and Mikey’s bedroom. I dug my phone out from my bag, sat on the bed, my breath quickening. In the midst of this maelstrom, one thing I could be sure about was that I could not bear for his name or his face to appear on this phone. If he dared call or text, I would throw this phone against the wall, I would jump on it over and over until it lay in pieces at my feet. I switched it off. But instead of bringing me even a grain of peace, as the screen died all the tranquillity I had conjured for Isla’s sake melted away. In its place a fizzing current threatened to bubble over my head and drown me. I was gasping for air. My chest heaved with the effort of simply trying to breathe. A plan had half-formed in my mind but there were too many holes in it and now I could not think clearly enough to plug the holes, to finish the plan. I stood and opened the wardrobe. I pulled out her clothes: four, five hangers at a time. In the other half of the wardrobe I found his clothes. A blue sweater I thought had gone missing in the move, a pair of stripy socks I hadn’t seen for months and some old jeans he’d told me he’d thrown out. All of them I heaved onto the bed.

In the living room I pushed the photos one by one until they lay face down on the table. In the kitchen I emptied the rest of the food out on top of the pile of fish and butter and cracked eggs. I stood back, admiring the slimy mass that oozed over the grey linoleum.

Still breathing heavily, I marched into the bathroom, scanned it frantically for damage possibility. In the mirror, my reflection scowled back. I could not stand to look at it, could not stand the hate in its eyes. I cast about, looking for something heavy. There was a metal loo brush holder on the floor. I picked it up and with all my strength rammed it into the mirror, sending out icy spider legs. My reflection splintered into shards.

I looked around for more to do, thought maybe I could take a shower, wash some of the filth from me. And then I saw her phone. On the side of the bath, propped up against a bottle of shampoo. I imagined her lying in the suds, her red hair tied up in a loose, sensual knot, composing love texts to Mikey, Michael, whoever he was.

“
Hang on,” I said aloud, my fingers closing into fists.

The phone was the key. It was the plug to the hole. I lunged for it and pressed the on button. A photo of her, him and Zac bloomed before my eyes. Ghosts, that’s all these people were, phantoms. I slid to unlock and got the Enter Passcode screen.

“
Fuck.”

I tried her birthday. No. I tried Mikey’s. No.

I was frantic. I had to find the passcode. Four simple digits were all that stood between me and what I had to do.

Zac’s birthday was 27
^th
February. I typed in: 2702.

It opened and I cried out:
yes
. But as I opened the message file and saw the trail headed Michael the word died in my throat.

They weren’t the love notes I was expecting. The messages were like the house: the normal, everyday, private lives of a married couple.
What’s for dinner? Lunch out?
And then, one that made my heart tighten:
Booked Treetops for Thursday lunch. Let’s get room service!
The Treetops was the hotel by the golf course. Room service. She had told me all about the room service. And I had sat and listened while she told me which sexual position they were in when it arrived. Her and John. Not John, of course, but Mikey. She was telling me all about my own partner. She must have been getting off on it, probably went home and told him, let him get off on it too. Oh God, oh God.

In my clenched hand the phone dimmed. But I could get back into it
now, whenever I wanted, use it for whatever call I wanted to make. I did not know much about police procedure but I was pretty sure the police would be all over this place, should I find the courage to go through with what I had planned.

By then, they would be looking for incriminating evidence.

I would have to clean up every scrap of mess I had made.

TWENTY-SEVEN

I finished cleaning at around 4am. Exhausted, I lay on the sofa and tried to sleep but could not. I made myself a strong espresso coffee with milk and drank it in the living room. Two hours melted to nothing; 4am became 6am.

I prepared milk for Isla and woke her, changed her nappy and left. As I was away to close the door, I saw her trainers on the shoe rack. An idea came to me. I picked them up and packed them. Out on Fittie Place, there was no one around. It was too late for the fishermen, too early for the lady who liked to sit out on the bench and watch the comings and goings of the square.

On the way to Govan, I stopped at The Horn, the famous greasy spoon on the A90, for breakfast. I ordered the full Scottish and ate every bite. In my constant plotting, I’d had a panicking thought about CCTV cameras, so as I carried Isla to the café and back again to the car, I kept my actions as breezy and normal as I could. I was acting, I suppose you could say. See me, a tired but happy mother with her wee girl, taking her time, away to Glasgow to see her folks.

At around 11am, I parked at the end of our street. I’d left the buggy in the boot, thank God, so with Isla heavy on my hip, I pulled it out and shook it open. It had started to rain
–
fat drops. I took off my coat and draped it over her to keep her dry. The rain quickened. By the time I reached my parents’ front door, my hair had stuck flat to my head, my clothes were dripping.