Chapter 4 Owen
About eighteen months ago, Cait and I were sitting in the sunshine watching our children playing together in the sandpit in Highgate Wood, when I asked her, ‘What’ll happen to the girls if he ends up killing you?’
Cait looked quite surprised by my question, but I have a nose for such things and Cait’s habit of covering up even on the warmest of days meant she was hiding either an eczema outbreak or bruises.
With a child’s pink spade in her hand, Cait explained quite matter-of-factly and completely tearlessly how Owen punched and kicked her, and, more recently, had started to strangle her.
I suggested various quick solutions using everyday household items (bleach, iron, even the kettle, a favourite of mine), but these were all rejected.
I even offered to do it myself at one point and Cait laughed.
As she was unwilling to do anything, I told her to take pictures, make notes, and record as much as she could, which she did with impressive thoroughness, and hid rolled up in her headboard until required by the courts.
I met them in the autumn, at a school fete, working side by side on a second-hand stall.
A picture of familial unity. I asked Owen, quite loudly, why he beat his wife and whether he intended to stop.
He tried to shout me down, but I had so much detail that Cait had shared with me, and such a large audience of other parents, that I didn’t stop until the police arrived.
He never much liked me after that, but someone tried to hurt me once too.
The difference being, with me, it was only the once.
‘Who was in your house?’ says Sophie, her arm already around Cait’s shoulder.
‘Owen,’ says Cait, shaking now. ‘He texted me a photograph he took of me asleep in my bed.’
‘He’s not supposed to be near you, is he?’ says Aisha. ‘You’ve got a court order.’
‘The number is anonymous. He sent me another text last week, asking for money. He says he’s in debt to some bad people. Probably gambling again.’
‘So this picture is a threat?’ I say. ‘He broke into your house, right?’
‘What else could it be?’ Cait stifles her tears, then presses her finger to her nose. ‘He was probably searching for money while we were all asleep.’
‘Fucking bastard,’ says Sophie. ‘He should be locked up.’
Cait looks up, her face etched with fear, nails scraping across her red neck. Sophie is hugging her tightly.
‘You must tell the police right now,’ says Aisha, sensible as ever.
‘But there’s no proof it’s him.’
‘Does he still have a key?’ says Sophie.
‘I was going to get the locks changed, but it’s two hundred pounds. I thought the court order would be enough,’ says Cait.
‘It’s never enough with men like that,’ says Sophie, stroking Cait’s long red hair.
We don’t get into too much more detail, as Jethro decides he wants Nathan’s spade and Nathan objects by throwing soil in his mouth. Other children take sides, and a small skirmish breaks out on the patio. We all rise to intervene.
‘Drinky-time!’ I call out, trying to keep my mood light and cheerful.
A horde of small people stop fighting and career towards me as I stand between our voluminous double-fronted fridge (my husband seems to think we’re American) and the rather quaint old-fashioned butler sink, diluting some blackberry and raspberry juice.
If I didn’t dilute, at least two of the mothers here would react as if I were feeding rat poison to their children.
My mind wanders to the dead man as I pour the bright red drink into their little organic bamboo beakers.
At first, I presumed he was just a common burglar after cash, jewellery or the key fob for the Porsche.
But he didn’t seem like a burglar. He was dressed quite smartly, but perhaps they go upmarket when raiding Muswell Hill.
No, it was something else. The way he looked at me, with recognition.
And why did he strangle me? Why not just run?
As I muse, Jethro grabs at the tray and a beaker tips over.
I feel a strong urge to tip the rest of the beakers over his head.
I often have such urges, but I have learned to resist and now have excellent self-control.
If I didn’t, I’d probably be a widow by now.
Instead, I mouth the word ‘monster’ and Jethro starts to howl again.
Nathan, who’s consumed too much sugar, starts to cry along with him.
Sophie rises, looks at her son, and then turns away and heads over to her handbag for her vape.
I’m rushing towards my son when I hear Cait’s phone ping again and, out of the corner of my eye, I see her jump up and run into the hall.
I suspect Owen has texted something even more unsavoury, but I can’t follow her because I’ve just grabbed hold of Nathan and he’s struggling the way sheep do when they’re about to be shorn.
‘Not the living room, Cait!’ I call out. Even if I had Aisha’s creative powers, I don’t think I’d be able to come up with something believable if Cait stumbles across a fresh corpse.
‘Stop,’ I say harshly to Nathan, as he pulls my lip down with his grubby fingers. I can taste soil. I put him firmly on the floor, and dart for the door.
I am only halfway across the kitchen when a piercing scream echoes from the hall.