Chapter 34
34
ONE DAY BEFORE HE LEFT ME
The events of the last few days flash like a croupier dealing out cards: the deck split into two – one half my past, the other, my present; both sides running into each other by imaginary hands: the river, Kit, James, Kane, Rebecca, Lynn, Alan, the jolt of the car, the necklace, Kit’s furious denial last night, James’s words, my wedding dress, Ava, the hotel door, Libby’s words, the foot of the stairs.
I open my eyes. The bed is empty.
Kit has already left. I replay the real night before, the day that happened when we didn’t get run off the road, well, not me at least. I’d got back from the cinema late. Kit had been on his laptop, researching the clients that are going to be at the function today. I’d been tired, turned in when I got home. Kit had ordered a taxi to pick him up early to save parking costs at the train station. I know that in the kitchen will be a note from him, it will say: Wish me luck! See you later, love you. xxx A few days after he disappeared I had torn open bin bags searching for that note, my fingers pulling apart the black plastic, hands covered in rotting food. I’d just wanted to hold something from him, something real. That’s how Lynn had found me, the day she took me to Mum’s.
Next to the note will be an almond croissant, a French press already primed and ready beside the kettle.
The weight of the future presses down on me.
I get up, see the note, the breakfast, my finger running along the indentations of his words. I make the coffee, sit picking at the croissant, taking it into his office. I stand still, eyeing the jacket on the back of the door. I walk towards it, my fingers reaching in the pocket. It’s empty.
I take the jacket off, pull the pockets inside out: no box.
I have a flash from the tickets he’d slammed on the table last night. His train didn’t leave until ten but he’d already left when I got up.
Finding the necklace started this. I know where I need to go.
I pull on a pair of jeans, throw my arms into a grey sweater, and grab the car keys, locking the door behind me.
The rain is falling as my fingers trace the dent at the back of the car, the brake light fractured into a spiderweb. I feel like I’m trapped in it, splintered and tethered to a web of lies.
I click the central locking and climb in.
The jewellers isn’t hard to find, and is nestled between other high-street buildings only a short distance from the train station. I unbuckle my belt and take a deep breath. My eyes focus on the sign in deep blue, two letters in looping italics: H my head is spinning. I look up behind him, Harold and Cutler Jewellers and Pawnbrokers. Pawnbrokers pulses at my temple.
He’s sold it. Kit’s sold the necklace.
I find myself stepping forward, a hand reaching for the locket. ‘How much?’ I question.
‘Seven hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘May I?’ I ask, fingers already reaching and turning over the locket. No Just jump ; No ‘K’; no kisses, no Marry me .
‘Would you like to try it on?’ My head is shaking in decline. I pass it back.
‘It is an exceptional piece, and perfect timing I might add. ’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well.’ He looks around the shop as though Kit is going to emerge from the shadows. ‘He brought it in just this morning, and I expect it will get snapped up quickly. The early bird catches the worm, they say!’
His words drop, each one adding pressure to my skull. Kit’s pawned it. I try to grasp at this new version of the man I had always believed was perfect.
‘So if you’re interested, you might want to snap it up quickly.’ He unleashes his salesman smile again.
‘No, I… no thank you. I thought it was… Never mind.’ I start backing away from him, the necklace staring at me. I land myself back out onto the pavement with an apology.
He sold it. He sold my necklace.
Back home, I begin to frantically search Kit’s office, the bedroom, the kitchen, his backpack, his coats in the cupboard at the foot of the stairs, anything that will give me a clue to what happens today and why he pawns the necklace.
I return to Kit’s office, open his PC and check his calendar. The whole day is blocked out: ‘Spring Celebration’.
I put ‘Corporate Team Building in Monmouthshire’ into the search engine. Just in case James missed something, just in case James knows more than he’s letting on.
Five search results come up.
I reach for my phone. I don’t know what I’m going to say. Hi there, my boyfriend is on his way to your function and something may happen there to make him fake his own death. Do you have any idea what that might be?
Someone picks up on the first ring. ‘Hi, um, I’m coming to an event this afternoon and I can’t for the life of me remember if I have the right day? I work with BPA?’ I’m put on hold.
‘Sorry, we don’t have a BPA listed for today.’
‘Oh, sorry my mistake.’
I ring the next on the list, then the next, then the next. Nothing for a function with BPA.
I begin scrolling, switching to images of Monmouthshire in case something jumps out at me. I’ve always been better at places than names. I scroll down, until a logo catches my eye. It’s two horses pulling along a plough against a green background. I’ve seen that before. I click on the image.
Chepstow Racecourse.
Is Kit at the races?
I shake my head. He can’t be. He’d told me everything about the event, about being blindfolded and having to follow teammate’s instructions, crazy golf, a lunch on a deck by a river. He’d laughed. He’d told me about the golf ball getting stuck between a clown’s teeth. He’d told me all about it. In detail, the mouth opening and closing, having to put his hand in to grab the stuck ball. The food: Thai, good noodles.
The answers chime in my ears, a high-pitched ring.
One by one, images of Kit start to play. The way he pays attention to the sports news, the look on his face when we were on the way to the caves as he heard about a player being transferred, his intensity as he watched sports on TV, the passion he had for a team or a player, or a match, the fight we had about my coat on the night of the charity football game. The way he knocks on the door frame three times, his smiling face asking me to give him a kiss for luck before he goes out to meet a client. Wish me luck, before he goes for drinks with potential companies, wish me luck when he heads off to deal with emails, wish me luck, wish me luck, wish me luck: the note he left me this morning .
Is Kit a gambler?
No. He can’t be.
I would have noticed; I would have seen the signs. Surely , I would have seen the signs. I think to moments when I’ve returned to see him leaning forward watching the TV. I’d always assumed it was because he was so into sports. I think of the time he’d spend on his phone, the way he would smile or frown. Was he making bets? James and I used to tease Kit about being a sore loser, and he would take it in that flippant way that he has about him when his team didn’t win or a player performed badly, but Kit has always been like that, taken himself away for a while. ‘Go and have your strop time,’ I would say and he’d kiss me, go for a run, go to his office, go for a ride. Often he would take me with him, but he would be quiet. But that isn’t new behaviour; that is how Kit’s always been.
Another image flashes: Kit and his newspapers, the intense way he sometimes looked when he read them, pen in hand. I push back the chair and go outside. The wind is already picking up, the beginnings of the storm that will hit us tomorrow.
I rummage through the recycling box, pulling out all the newspapers and carrying them back inside. I sit on the lounge floor, turning to the sports sections. The Daily Mirror on a Saturday morning. I’d do the crosswords while he read the sports section.
The room feels like it’s closing in on me. I open the pages. There are red dots everywhere … next to football matches, rugby games, horse races, boxing. My mind is spinning. The air constricts around me as my finger runs down the horse racing fixtures.
I feel like laughing, crying, shouting, screaming.
I’m going mad; this can’t be real. Kit’s not a gambler.
I can’t have missed this. There must be another reason. I’m connecting the literal dots wrong; I’m creating a story that doesn’t exist. He would have told me; he would have asked me for help, or James, his parents, anyone. Kit wouldn’t fake his own death over a few misplaced bets. But then I replay last night. He had every opportunity to tell me, and he still didn’t. And then there is the necklace, the best part of seven hundred and fifty pounds he’s just got for it.
At the bottom of the page is an advert for William Hill bookies. Something about this pulls at me, a tug, as though someone has a rope lassoed to the base of my spine. William Hill… William Hill: WH.
I rush into his office, yank open the drawers, pulling out the receipts. Kingwood Team x 4 – WH. Jenkins x 6 – PP.
My fingers are shaking as I type in ‘betting offices’ into the search bar. There is a list, best betting sites: Paddy Power .
Jenkins x 6 – PP.
The Topmire Account x 3 – L.
Ladbrokes.
I keep searching, the initials correlating with betting shops, online sites. I lean back in my chair, my hand covering my mouth.
I think of the money he’s had from Rebecca.
This is why he does it.
This is why he fakes his own death.
Debt.