‘Just having a few drinks with my new colleagues. They’re a good bunch. I won’t stay out too long.’ We both danced around the elephant in the room. I wanted to ask if anything else had happened to make her worry – and if she had eaten today. But if she hadn’t, she was hardly likely to tell me over the phone. I sighed, feeling the distance between us.
‘Enjoy yourself, you deserve it. I love you,’ she said, and I was just about to respond when my eyes were drawn to the door.
Somehow, I knew the man who had just walked in was Luke Priestwood. Looking from left to right, his eyes scanned the pub as he tried to find me. He was slightly shorter than me, with light-chestnut hair. I found myself sizing him up, assessing his strength. He was sinewy but not as broad as me. I could take him if I had to. I caught his eye, desperate to end my call. It felt wrong, talking to Emma while I was doing this. If he was the person I thought he was then the last thing I wanted was Emma hearing his voice. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
It was only after I’d hung up that I realised I had forgotten to say I loved her too. There was no time to dwell, though, as he joined me.
‘Mr Priestwood, is it?’ I said cautiously, bracing myself as I rose from my seat. For all I knew the guy could be ready to pull a knife on me. My muscles tensed. I was ready for him if he tried.
But his expression was not that of someone who wanted to fight. He shuffled nervously before me, dipping his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out his wallet. ‘It is. Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said, pointing to my half-empty pint glass. I felt guilty enough just talking to him, never mind accepting drinks. I eyed him up as he leaned against the old-fashioned wooden bar. He was dressed casually in jeans and a jacket, his shirt pressed. Despite having been neatly folded, my Lacoste shirt still had creases from my overnight bag. I caught myself. Why was I comparing myself to this man? Because I was jealous of his former relationship with my wife? Had there been a relationship? From how Emma had described it, she had been easy prey.
A pint was laid in front of me, snapping me out of my thoughts. Luke delivered a half smile. ‘I asked the barman for the same again. I figured we might be here for some time.’
I nodded, unable to bring myself to thank the man before me. ‘What’s this all about?’ I said, before his backside had rested on his seat. ‘Because you didn’t contact me to buy property, did you?’
‘No,’ Luke sighed. ‘It’s a long story. One with a sting in the tail.’ He sank back a mouthful of his pint. ‘I’ve not come here to make trouble. I’ve told myself a million times to walk away. But then I heard Emma was moving to Leeds.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. I felt my grip tighten around my glass. Our meeting was getting more surreal by the minute. Just what was going on?
‘I live in York,’ Luke said. ‘But sometimes I come to Leeds.’
‘Why did you call me? Why don’t you get to the point?’ I said, my anger simmering beneath the surface. It was difficult to equate the man before me with the person Emma had described. He looked harmless, like any bloke down the pub. How could this be the man Emma had been driven to kill? Something awful must have happened to push her to such an extreme. I lowered my gaze, determined to keep my emotions in check.
‘I used to be her schoolteacher years ago, but I imagine she’s told you that. Judging by the way you’re glaring at me, I expect that’s where the truth ended.’
I raised an eyebrow, trying to relax my facial muscles as they tightened around my frown.
Luke gave a nervous laugh, raising his palms in mock surrender. ‘Mate, I come in peace. It’s not what you think.’
‘What do you expect?’ I said. ‘You’ve come here to relive your sick infatuation with my wife. Should I go to the jukebox and play “Don’t Stand So Close to Me”?’ I exhaled tersely. I had to distance myself if I wanted to hear him out.
Luke raised a cautionary finger. ‘There’s a lot of truth in that song. Especially when it ended with me almost being killed. Seriously. I’m trying to help you here, but if you’re not ready to hear it, then I’ll go.’
‘Stay where you are,’ I said, swallowing back the bitter taste in my mouth. ‘Tell me everything you know.’
There was no doubt now. He was talking about attempted murder. He was talking about my wife.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EMMA
2017
It wasn’t that I hated being alone. For most of my life, I’d preferred my own company, particularly when I was growing up in Mersea. But having three small bedrooms in close proximity did not offer much privacy. Every argument, every outspoken word could be heard. Our windswept bungalow jutted out of the landscape like a jagged thumbnail. Not many people wanted to live this far out, let alone on an island regularly cut off by the tide. I did not doubt that moving away would be the best thing for our son. He would miss the beach and the raw freedom of his surroundings, but I knew he would delight in our new home. I wanted him out there in the big wide world, but I wanted to be by his side too. The thought of being separated haunted my nightmares with terrifying lucidity. I did not deserve my beautiful child. Since confiding in Alex, I had wrestled with my conscience. But I was not a character from a horror story. Perhaps I was not even a killer after all.
A miserable growl emanated from my stomach. I hadn’t eaten, apart from some salad Theresa had guilt-tripped me into and a chocolate digestive which I had taken a bite from then spat out in the bin. Hunger distracted me from my thoughts. Theresa would never understand.
For once, our house was steeped in serenity. The only sounds were the grandfather clock in the hall and the soft hiss and crackle as damp logs burned in the hearth. Alex always filled the void with the mundane chatter of a television show. Coming from the city, he had never gotten used to country life. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of the pinecones I had picked with Jamie days before. I ran my hand along the long wooden beam my father had fitted years ago. It had been replaced after the fire. I thought about that day, how I’d hugged my knees as the flames danced around me. It was my father who had found me. Another horrific episode I wished I could forget.
I stared into the fire, my memories cracking open like festering eggs, the stink within leaking out. Alex had said that my nightmares were my subconscious mind trying to deal with what I repressed. If only he knew. Was I a product of my social environment or was I just born like this? I tried to think about Mum, to use my adult brain to analyse what sort of a person she really was. I’d been thirteen when she’d left. I focused hard, visualising her face, the memory blurred around the edges. I clung on tightly to the memories of her good days, when she was sober and Dad was around. Picnics at the beach, crabbing in the water, her skin freckled from the sun when we stayed out too long. But then there were the bad days when she was feeling neglected. When she drank too much and her moods raged like a storm. She was stick thin, unlike most of the mothers who picked up their children from school. I used to watch them, in their chunky knitted jumpers and padded coats, welcoming their children with warm hugs. I cycled home on my own from an early age. I withdrew from the heat of the fire – thinking of the past wasn’t helping. I had to move forward. Move away and forget this place.