Ten minutes more and I’m pulling into our street. There’s not much I can say for it, other than it’s normal. Cars are parked intermittently and there are rows of semi-detacheds on either side. There are small patches of green outside each house, with tarmacked driveways leading to individual garages. It could be any street in any part of the country. When people think of Britain, they usually think of cobbles and red postboxes – but, for most, this is the United Kingdom. We’re cookie-cutter houses, with plastic wheelie bins and recycling boxes on the pavement outside.
The clock reads 04:39 when I pull onto the driveway. Dan has set up a gadget in each of our cars that makes the garage door open automatically when we approach. The gears grind and boom as I wait, like a jet liner taking off. I’m convinced it’ll wake the neighbours but, when I’m parked safely inside, I instantly forget about anyone else. My fingers throb from where I’ve been gripping the steering wheel so firmly and my shoulders are tight and sore.
Despite the madness of circumstance, I’m home.
The car looks far worse in the bright overhead light of the garage.
In the bluey-white glow from the moon, I knew I’d done a poor job of cleaning away the blood from the bonnet – and can now see how I’ve only succeeded in smearing the red into the silver paint. There are spots where it looks like a faded tie-dye job. It’s almost hypnotic. It could be some sort of Turner Prize nonsense, some abstract image of gore – except I did this.
For the first time, I wonder why there’s no damage. In my confused, flustered state, I’d somehow missed it. If I did hit something, then why is the car unaffected? There are no dents in the front bumper, nothing other than blood swirls on the bonnet – and the windscreen is not cracked. Would it be possible to hit something and cause that much blood loss, and yet not damage the car?
I have little time to dwell because, as I’m about to dig out a bucket and sponge, the door that leads into the house opens with a resounding click.
Chapter Three
The route from house to garage involves a double door, with a slim one-step porch in between. It’s instinct, perhaps self-preservation, but I lunge for the garage light switch and plunge the room into darkness. At the same moment, Dan’s silhouette appears in the doorway. He’s haloed by the light behind; his slim waist and wide, muscled shoulders striking in their athleticism. I’m not used to his new physique.
‘Rose?’ he says, unsure of himself.
I step towards him, stopping him coming down the stairs into the garage. He takes the hint, shifting back into the light of the porch. He’s wearing lounge pants and a loose shirt but they’re uncrumpled and it doesn’t look like he’s been in bed anytime recently.
‘Are you okay?’ he asks.
‘Bit tired, that’s all.’
I can see him clearly but I doubt he can see me, not with the darkness of the garage behind. I’m on the top step, an arm’s length from him, close enough to see his pupils expanding and narrowing as they try to adjust to the light.
‘Why’d you drive home at this time?’ he asks, perfectly reasonably.
‘The hotel bed was too uncomfortable. I was awake anyway, then I saw your text. I figured I could get a few hours’ sleep at home before work later.’
The lie comes so easily that it leaves me a tiny bit wary of myself. Everyone lies: ‘That shirt looks fine,’ ‘Your daughter’s a really good singer,’ ‘No, I don’t mind staying at work for an extra hour.’ They’re white lies to save someone’s feelings, or to maintain a social norm. This feels bigger and yet the words are out of my mouth before I’ve even processed them.
I take another step forward and Dan moves with me, backing through the second door into our kitchen. There’s a dim light glowing through from the living room, not enough for either of us to properly see one another. We’re silhouettes in the murk.
‘Did you check out from the hotel?’ he asks.
‘Yes. Some poor sod was on the night shift. He seemed a bit confused.’
Another effortless lie.
‘How’d the meeting go?’
I’m surprised he remembered why I was away. I was meeting a client, hoping to make a sale – and the offer of a free hotel at the end of it was too much to turn down. I could’ve driven back, of course, but that would have only meant a restless night in bed with Dan, each of us trying not to cross the invisible wall down the centre of our mattress.
‘Fine,’ I reply, even though it definitely wasn’t.
One lie feeds into the next in the same way that one truth would lead into another. It’s not like he really wants to know the answer anyway. It’s been quite a while since we spent the evenings telling each other about our respective days. It’s all small talk now. Good day at work? What did you have for lunch? That sort of thing.
‘Is Liv back?’ I ask.
‘No. I’m sure she’s fine.’
At least we're sticking to that line of answering.
He doesn’t sound as reassuring as I’d want him to be. The safety of a child should be definitive. She’s definitely safe.
‘I’m sure she is, too,’ I reply.
He nods shortly and there’s a moment in which I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing. On the same wavelength, for once. Whatever’s happened between us, she’s still our daughter.
‘I suppose she is eighteen,’ he adds.
‘Did you try calling her?’
‘No answer.’
This is the first time in two years that Olivia has failed to let us know she’s staying out. Sometimes the text comes late – and oftentimes it’s short and to the point – but it’s always there. She was sixteen and I was the typical panicked parent back then. Dan was the cool head. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he cooed – and she was. To a point. She was drunk on cider, probably high on something too, though she always denied it. One of her friends called Dan in the end, asking if he could pick Olivia up because she wasn’t feeling well. It was five in the morning and I’d barely slept. We grounded her, because that’s something you can do – just – when your child is sixteen and underage. At eighteen, you can only ask for a bit of courtesy.
Dan yawns but there’s something odd about it, as if he’s pretending. His hand covers his mouth before he starts and there’s no squinting tiredness to him afterwards.
‘I’m going to go back to bed,’ he says, ‘get another hour before I have to be up for school. Can’t have the kids looking more awake than me.’
He chuckles at his own joke and heads for the stairs, not waiting for a reply. He’s a deputy headteacher, so he has a point – although he’s never been one of those parents whose heads can’t hit the pillow until our child is home.
It’s only when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, directly underneath the light, when I notice the smudge of dirt on his wrist. Dan’s not quite a neat freak and certainly not a germaphobe – but he likes things to be in their place and is the sort to religiously wash hands before meals.
‘What’s on your wrist?’ I ask.
He spins, looking at me and then down to himself. He rubs the mark, only succeeding in spreading whatever it is.
‘I was unblocking the kitchen sink earlier, probably that.’
He shrugs and then he’s gone, not bothering to ask if I’m going to follow.
I call after him to say that I’ll be up in a bit but it’s meaningless. Our bed sharing is more to do with habit than anything else.
The kitchen counter is a good place to lean as I listen to him padding around upstairs. He heads to the bathroom first and the water runs, then he’s off to the bedroom. There are a couple of dull thumps and then quiet. I think about calling Olivia myself, perhaps firing off a text to check she’s all right, but she won’t appreciate it if she is asleep on someone’s sofa. She probably won’t hear or see it anyway, then she’ll get annoyed I was harassing her. I figure I’ll give it an hour.