Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
TASHA
My heart hammers against my ribs as the detective steps away, and I shove the door closed, twisting the lock with fingers that barely feel like my own. It takes me two tries before the lock turns into place.
Why did she come to our house? Detective Sara Sató with her neat hair and her suit and her polite apology for disturbing our evening.
Why did all the uniformed officers go to the other ten houses and we got the detective?
I didn’t like the way her eyes kept flicking back to me even when Marc was answering questions.
The horror of it all is squeezing me tight.
I turn to Marc, needing his solid strength – his support – but the hall is empty. He was just here. Sitting by my side on the sofa among the mess of puzzle pieces and Barbie dolls as we answered questions about Jonny.
Have we seen anything suspicious? No.
Do we know of any trouble Jonny was having? No.
Do we know of anyone who might want to harm him? No, we said in unison. But I couldn’t stop thinking of Keira and how that answer to Detective Sató felt like a lie.
‘Marc?’ I call his name softly, desperately hoping Lanie doesn’t wake.
Where four-year-old Sofia finds every excuse not to go to bed and eight-year-old Matilda cries if the light isn’t left on, ten-month-old Lanie is the easiest to fall asleep.
But she’s the easiest to wake too, and I can’t be a mother right now.
There’s no reply from Marc, and so I go in search of him.
The hall is cluttered with little shoes, kicked off and forgotten beside the empty shoe rack.
The living room is an explosion of pink plastic toys and teddies and dolls.
I should’ve tidied it away by now. My eyes snag on a sticky stain on the coffee table.
Jam? Chocolate from the biscuits they had after school?
Another thing to clean. I’ll add it to the list alongside filling in Matilda’s permission slip for the school trip to the zoo next week and finding the box of my dad’s sleeping pills I collected from the pharmacy.
I swear they were in my bag the other night and now I can’t find them.
All the endless jobs nagging and prodding and pushing at me, all still in my head.
And yet something has shifted. I might not watch TV police dramas like Beth, but even I know what suspicious circumstances means.
It means Jonny was murdered. Someone came into our perfect community and killed him.
The obvious questions will be running through everyone’s heads.
Why?
How?
Who?
They knot and tangle inside me too, leaving me nauseous. I need Marc.
I find him outside, pacing the length of the patio in slow, hesitant steps.
When we first moved into this house, I had dreams of sitting in this garden at the end of the day, savouring a herbal tea, enjoying the view.
A lawn that stretches out towards a small copse of trees.
Flower beds at the edges, now completely overgrown.
Ivy strangles the fence posts, and the hydrangeas I once planted with such hope have long since sprawled beyond their borders, drooping under their own weight.
I can’t remember ever sitting out here. The day never seems to end.
The light from the house spills onto the patio, illuminating Marc’s face.
For a moment, I see the gangly, out-of-place teen with the sharp hip bones I fell in love with when I was seventeen.
He’s filled out. Aged well. That dark Italian hair and broad shoulders, an easy smile.
Then it’s like I see him properly for the first time in months and the man before me is a faded version of my husband.
He’s lost weight, and there are dark circles around his eyes.
I step outside to join him, the October night air pushing through the thin fabric of my jumper.
Marc is holding an unlit cigarette in one hand and a cheap plastic lighter in the other.
I’m about to call his name, but the cigarette makes me pause.
Marc hasn’t smoked since college. And where did he get that cigarette from?
What if one of the girls had found it? The questions disappear when I see the anguish in his expression. He looks… shaken.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, my own need for support pushed to one side.
Marc shakes his head – a jerking movement – before continuing his pacing. His thumb scrapes over the metal of the lighter, flicking the orange flame on then off.
‘Marco,’ I plead. ‘Talk to me. What’s going on?’
‘I’ve just been told my neighbour – my friend – has died. What do you think is going on?’
‘I wouldn’t call him a friend. He blocked our planning permission, remember?’
It’s the wrong thing to say. I know it the second Marc’s dark eyes blaze.
A muscle ticks in his jaw as he speaks. ‘Is that all you think about? Our neighbour has been murdered in his home and all you can think about is an extension?’
The venom in his voice stings, and instantly my throat is aching with emotion. Tears threaten behind my eyes. ‘I just…’
I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
Jonny was an awful person. Do I care that he’s dead?
No. Do I care that a week ago, Beth, Georgie and I talked about how we’d kill him, and in some twisted nightmare reality, he’s now dead?
Yes. It’s rattled me. If anyone finds out what we said that night, will they think we had something to do with it?
I watch the grief and worry war in my husband’s eyes and pray he never finds out what I said.
‘Don’t turn on the tears, Tasha.’ He sighs, and the bitter edge to his voice reminds me of his mother and how she talks to me like I’m less than she is. Less deserving of respect or kindness.
I was so excited to meet Marc’s parents that first time, three months into our relationship when he brought me home for dinner.
Marc’s mum, like my parents, grew up in another part of the world.
I thought my understanding would connect us, but I was wrong.
Marc’s dad was welcoming enough, but his mum spoke over me at the table, using Italian so I wouldn’t understand.
But I caught the gist. I wasn’t the nice Italian girl she wanted for her son.
I’m still not. Eighteen years of marriage.
Three beautiful grandchildren. And my Italian mother-in-law still treats me like I’m temporary.
I bite the inside of my lip, fighting back the tears and the hurt and the sudden rush of anger towards Marc that I don’t want to feel.
Anger for all the times he didn’t stick up for me to his mum, saying he wouldn’t take sides between the two women he loved but allowing his mum to be openly rude to me.
Anger for all the times he’s not here. In the office all week then disappearing on Saturdays to play golf.
Anger for all the times it feels like he doesn’t see me.
‘You never liked that Jonny and I were friends,’ he continues, voice rising.
I try not to think of Lanie’s bedroom window above us.
‘Because he was an asshole to every woman on this close,’ I reply. ‘If you knew—’
Marc shakes his head. ‘You just didn’t get his sense of humour.’
I grit my teeth. Marc is wrong, but fighting is the last thing I want to do. I draw in a long breath, releasing it slowly. ‘Please, Marco. I don’t want to argue. I’m sorry you’re upset, but so am I, and I need you.’
Something hardens in his expression at my plea.
‘And what about what I need? Have you ever stopped to think about that? It’s always about you, Tash.
’ He throws a hand in the direction of the house.
‘I come through that front door every day knowing I’m about to have all of your day’s troubles heaped on me along with a crying wife? ’
‘I don’t cry every night,’ I say quietly.
He rubs at his temples, squashing the cigarette in his hand.
‘You do, and I hate it. I wish I could make you happy. I wish I could make everything right, and I’m trying.
But right now, I’ve just been told my friend is dead.
Yes, my friend. I don’t talk about Jonny to you because I know you hate him, but we hung out, we messaged.
He was someone I trusted and liked. Someone I confided in.
’ Marc’s voice cracks. ‘But instead of offering me support, once again you twist this to being about you.’
His words sting.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I didn’t know you were so close.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s a lot you don’t know—’ He stops then, pinning his lips together as though physically stopping himself from saying more.
Marc rakes a hand over his face before sighing.
‘I’m going to bed. I’m sleeping on the sofa in my study.
I need some space.’ He turns to me, and I see a hollowness in his eyes.
He opens his mouth. Stops. Starts again.
‘You have no idea how much I’m trying to fix everything. No idea what I’ve done for you.’
He strides into the house without a backward glance, leaving me open-mouthed, hurt cleaving at my chest as I replay our fight.
Marc rarely raises his voice. He doesn’t lash out.
I don’t recognise this version of my husband.
He and Jonny were friends. Good friends.
How did I not know? Or did I simply choose not to see it?
The conversation from last week with Jonny replays in my mind.
‘He’s visiting a client,’ I’d said.
‘Of course he is.’
Jonny had said it so casually, but his tone… it was like he knew something about Marc’s business trip that I didn’t.
The thought leaves me with an awful sick feeling that I’ve been focused on all the wrong problems. Like I am a sinking ship, trying to scoop the water out with my hands, keep myself afloat a little while longer, instead of trying to find the source of the leak.
No. Marc and I are solid. He was upset about Jonny, that’s all. We’ll talk tomorrow, and it will all be OK. But I’m not sure I believe it. Something I don’t understand has shifted in my marriage tonight.
Outside, alone in the dark of the garden, I bury my head in my hands, wishing I could just disappear. Be somewhere else – someone else – just for a little while.
I need help.
I need to talk. Not about Marc. But Jonny.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and send a message to Georgie and Beth.
I’m freaking out. Can we meet quickly? Outside mine? xx
The replies come fast, and five minutes later, we’re huddled in the shadows beside my house.
‘I haven’t got long,’ Beth says first. ‘I told Alistair I was dropping a casserole dish back to Jean.’ She pulls her cream shawl tight around her shoulders, long hair braided down her back, and glances over her shoulder.
Two of the police cars and Detective Sató’s car have gone, leaving only one car and the blue van behind. Light streams from Jonny’s windows.
‘Me neither. Nate was in the shower. He doesn’t know I’ve popped out,’ Georgie adds. ‘I can’t believe Jonny is dead. Who would do this?’
‘Some man who found out he was sleeping with his wife is my guess,’ Beth whispers.
Georgie nods. ‘That’s what I thought too. Or a break-in gone wrong.’
‘I can’t believe it either,’ I say, emotion cracking in my voice.
Georgie’s gaze lands on me. ‘I know it’s awful that it happened, but I’m not going to pretend I care Jonny’s dead, and you’d better not either, Tasha. This is good news for you. You can reapply for planning permission.’
Her words land with a jolt. I’ve been so fixated on Jonny’s death, I haven’t stopped to think about what it means. A whole new future opens in front of me. One I thought was as dead as Jonny is now. My parents living with us. The perfect solution to all my problems.
I swallow, focusing on Georgie’s question.
‘I’m not upset he’s dead.’ My voice dips lower.
‘I hated him as much as you did. But he’s dead after we joked about killing him.
More than joked after that weird woman – who, by the way, still hasn’t been seen since – pushed us to go into insane levels of detail. ’
Beth hugs her arms around her chest. ‘You know no one saw him today, right? He went into his house last night and never came out again. What if he was murdered during the quiz night like Keira suggested?’
‘Then it’s like Keira said – we’ve all got alibis,’ Georgie says. In the darkness, her mouth forms a tight line. ‘And no one knows what we talked about in the pub last week.’
‘Keira knows,’ Beth says, her voice barely a whisper.
My legs feel suddenly like they might buckle. My mind starts to race. If Keira talks to the police…
If they find out that we joked about killing Jonny on the same night he was murdered, what happens?
We’ll be arrested. Questioned. The whole of Magnolia Close will turn against us. It’ll be like the Gallaghers all over again. But worse. At least I’ll still have Beth and Georgie’s friendship. And the girls will have their friends. I couldn’t bear it otherwise.
Georgie places her hand on my arm. ‘It’s OK,’ she says, seeing the fear written on my face. ‘Where is Keira anyway? Like you said, she didn’t show up to the quiz night. Her daughter hasn’t started at the school. We’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘But don’t you think that’s even weirder?’ I ask. ‘It’s like she’s disappeared into thin air. It makes no sense. Why would she say she was a new parent if she wasn’t?’
‘She didn’t look like a parent, did she?’ Beth says. ‘Maybe she gets a kick out of joining strangers on nights out and pretending? Who knows. The important thing is, we didn’t kill Jonny. We say nothing to the police. Only that we were together all of yesterday evening.’
She shoots another glance over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze to Jonny’s house.
Two men in dark overalls push a gurney out the front door, its wheels bumping.
My eyes are drawn to the black body bag lying strapped to the top.
Jonny’s body. But now it’s not him I’m thinking about.
It’s the night in the pub with Keira, and the exact moment she joined our table.
Not walking through the door from the street but moving towards us from somewhere else in the pub.
As though she was lingering just out of sight.
Listening to our conversation about Jonny before deciding to join us.
She’s the only person who knows what we talked about that night. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray I never see her again.