Chapter 32
Seven days, seven scratches on the wall, again, again, again.
There’s a rhythm to it, a routine that’s developed, the days stretching out endlessly before her.
Marie’s obsessed with food, with cooking and preserving, finding ways to stretch the ingredients in case the next week the supplies are less than they need.
There are jars piled on every shelf, pickles and ferments, cabbages sliced and brined, bramble jam glistening when it’s caught by the rays of the rising sun.
She barely recognises herself now, compared to the person she used to be; someone who despised domestic tasks, who only cared about academic success, the validation of her peers. It’s a perverse housewifery, mother not to a child but a child-killer.
Janice wouldn’t survive without her. Marie knows that.
She feels the responsibility deep to her core.
Sometimes, she dreams of leaving but the idea of Janice’s slow decline stops her in her tracks.
Janice might not deserve an easy end, but that’s not in Marie’s hands. There’s enough blood on them already.
For months now, the food delivery has been stable.
No alcohol, either. To her surprise, the predictability is sucking the life out of her.
She thought she wanted routine, but now she’d do anything rather than unpack the same collection of chicken, cod, broccoli, onions.
Over and over again, the repetition of it eating into her brain.
Why do we always have chicken curry? Janice whines one night, and Marie has to restrain herself from throwing the saucepan she’s holding straight into Janice’s face, from picking up the chilli powder and rubbing it into Janice’s eyes.
After all, it would only be serving Janice with her own medicine.
But Marie is above that. Or at least she tries to be.
The monotony disarms her. She gets sloppy.
She lowers her guard. Spring’s on its way, the hawthorn hedge is in bloom, a couple of the sheep have had lambs.
When she and Janice walk down to the pier, she’s forgotten to be afraid.
Janice is a few steps ahead of her, and Marie doesn’t even bother to keep up, enjoying the view, the light breeze.
The peace shatters the moment Janice sees the box.
There are multiple green glass bottles sticking out the top, the lids glinting in the sunlight.
Janice lets out a yowl, a high-pitched noise that raises the hairs on the back of Marie’s neck.
There is no stopping her. The woman grabs the drink from the box, all three of the bottles, and turns on her heel, marching back to the croft.
Should Marie go after her, wrestle her to the ground and confiscate the alcohol? She’s faster than Janice. Stronger, too. She could take her down.
But something holds her back: a reluctance to foist her views on Janice. Janice is her own person. If she wants to drink herself to death, who is Marie to stop her? She hovers for a moment more, before sitting down on the ground next to the pier, looking out at the loch.
The cameras are always watching, she knows that. Expecting her and Janice to fly at each other. Why give them a show? Two women slugging it out for booze, of all things. Fuck that.
She wraps her hands around her knees, the breeze picking up slightly now, cutting through her jumper.
Standing up, she jogs on the spot briefly to get her circulation moving.
She’s about to turn back up to the croft, brave the consequences of a drunk Janice, when she sees something unusual tucked into the side of the box. An envelope – large, brown.
Eyeing it like she would a cockroach, she reaches out to touch it. It’ll be instructions of some kind, maybe some maintenance that’s needed; a change to the usual routine.
There are only a few words written on the front. Not an address, not a name.
I know exactly what you did. This ends now.
A thump in her chest, a catch of breath. The predictability shatters. She’s so fucking stupid, to have longed for change. How arrogant she has been. Looks like Nemesis has finally caught up with her. Slowly, reluctantly, she opens the envelope, pulls out the papers that are inside.
Watching waiting I’ll catch you I’ll stop this he’s mine you can’t have him he’s all mine not yours mine mine mine mine.
Garbled words, the odd sentence, capital letters jumping at her randomly from off the page – watching me watching you watching me – the words repeating themselves over and over again in her mind.
By the time she’s walked back to the croft, she’s exhausted, even though the sun has barely reached the top of the sky. She’s weighed down by the box, filled with tins of Spam and marrowfat peas. The papers are tucked in on top of the food; they’re the heaviest burden of all.
But all thoughts of them go out of her mind the moment she steps over the threshold.
It’s chaos, chairs lying on their sides, her jars of preserves smashed everywhere, the bramble jam bleeding its juice out on to the floor.
Swallowing hard, trying to hold back a scream, Marie walks in further, dumping the box on the table.
Janice is crouching in the far corner, her head in her hands. She’s weeping, great sobs shaking her thin body. One of the whisky bottles is lying on its side – the contents look to be half gone already. Marie hesitates, goes over to her, puts a hand on her shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I can’t go on like this anymore.’ Janice picks the whisky up, unscrews the lid and casts it aside. She necks a mouthful. ‘I don’t deserve to be alive.’
Another long week begins.
Later, much later, when the crying and the screaming and the puking are done, Janice leans over to Marie, her eyes bright, glittering in the light from the single bulb hung overhead.
‘When the time comes, let me die, won’t you?’
‘You’re not going to die.’ Marie’s answer is automatic. Why would she try and stop it? The question goes unasked.
‘I want to,’ Janice says. ‘Seriously. I can’t go on like this. Will you burn me?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I don’t want the worms to get me. Or the beetles. I picture them at night, crawling through me, picking at my bones. Please, just burn the hell out of me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘A fucking cremation, you stupid bitch. That’s what I did with the kids. Nobody understood. I was just saving them. What kind of mother would let rats eat her babies?’
Marie’s blinking. She remembers the story, the small bodies covered in petrol, scorched to the bone.
Janice is still talking. ‘Let me burn. Just let me burn. Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, your house is on fire, and your children all gone . . .’ It’s her parting shot. With that, she collapses to the floor, her eyes tight shut.
Marie takes the envelope, pushes it to the back of one of the shelves. There will be a time for her to deal with what it means.
That time is not now.