Chapter 5 Freya
FREYA
I’ve barely slept a wink, tossing and turning, as I tried to separate my fractured dreams from reality.
Every time I closed my eyes, the same nightmare would return, and I’d push it away in the hope that when I woke up, I’d be transported back to the day before, when I was ignorant to what my life was about to become.
But the panic-induced sweat that soaks my pillow is real, and the palpitations that make my heart feel like it’s beating outside of my chest make me want to cry out.
How had my perfect life turned on its head in the space of a single evening?
A single moment? And what were the repercussions going to be in the cold light of day?
Why did I drink so much? I feel like I might be sick, its poison still making itself felt even six hours later.
I hate this feeling—of not being fully in control of how I feel, or how I behave, so it would seem.
Snapshots of last night flicker in my mind’s eye like a film shuttering on an old camera. Faces, expressions, accusations, denials all merge into a melting pot of shame.
There’s a knock at the door, followed by the incessant ring of the bell.
It can’t be much past six, as the sun’s not yet making itself fully known around the edges of the blinds—in the bedroom that Charlie and I share, that he’s yet to come home to.
I groggily reach for my phone on the bedside, my arm feeling like a lead weight.
The fear that’s been twisting itself around my vital organs all night catches in my throat when I see that it’s 5:54 AM. Nobody knocks on the door at this time on a Sunday morning with good news.
I try to prepare myself as best I can as I make my way down the stairs, pulling my dressing-gown belt tight around my waist. I can see the two dark figures through the opaque glass panel, and I steady myself on the bottom banister, forcing deep breaths in and out before opening the door.
“Hello,” I say, my voice not my own.
The two uniformed officers consider me with an expression I can’t quite read. I look to the female of the two in the hope that she’s going to give me something—anything—to steel my jangled nerves.
“Can I help you?”
“Freya Adams?” asks the policeman.
My mouth instantly dries up. “Y-yes,” I manage, my lips sticking to my gums.
“Do you own a Volkswagen Polo, registration number GV25 ODU?”
“Erm, yes, it’s my husband’s car.… Why, has something happened?” I can’t breathe, the sickening panic blocking my airways.
They look at each other in a conspiratorial way that I thought only happened in movies.
“What’s happened?” I ask again.
“The vehicle was involved in an accident last night,” says the woman, watching me carefully while her colleague surreptitiously scans the hallway beyond, his eyes fleetingly moving to the top of the stairs.
My blood runs cold. “Oh my God.”
“Were either yourself or your husband driving it last night?”
“What kind of accident? Is anybody hurt?”
“Mrs. Adams, were either yourself or your husband driving the vehicle last night?”
“Erm…” I fall heavily against the doorframe as my raddled brain races to catch up. What am I supposed to say? Do I tell the truth, or deny all knowledge? Until I know the facts, and what I’m dealing with here, it’s impossible to know the best course of action.
“We … we went to a friend’s house for dinner,” I start. “Over in Regent’s Park.”
They look at each other again—almost smugly, as if their suspicions have been proven right and they’ve nailed their suspect.
“But we used public transport,” I add, watching their judgmental expressions fall. “Are you sure it was our car?” I look past them, gasping when I see it’s not where it’s normally parked, across the street.
“Is your husband home?” asks the man.
I don’t know. Is he? I’d thought I’d lain awake waiting for him, but I must have had periods of sleep, otherwise the nightmares wouldn’t have been able to haunt me. Could he have come in and sloped off to the spare bedroom in disgrace? As much as I hate him right now, I so hope he has.
They’re waiting for me to answer, but the words are wedged in my throat.
“Mrs. Adams?”
“I— Sorry, I’m just in shock. I’m trying to remember if the car was there when we got back. But I can’t be sure. It could have been. Or maybe it was stolen while we were out. What time did the accident happen?”
“Around half past midnight,” says the man. “Just about a mile away from here.”
I shake my head, considering the lesser of the two evils. If I have a sudden recollection of it being there when I got home, does that make it better or worse? My head hurts at the myriad possibilities laid bare for me. All I have to do is pick one.
“A man has been very seriously injured…,” says the female officer, as if urging my conscience to do the right thing. “He was out walking his dog when the car—your car—mounted the pavement.” She grimaces. “It’s not looking very good.…”
My knees threaten to buckle, and I hold on to the window ledge. “And the driver?” I dare to ask.
“They absconded,” says the man, his eyes narrowing as he looks at me. “So what time did you say you returned home from your friend’s house?”
I didn’t. “Er, I think it was around midnight.” It’s taking all my concentration to try to stay one step ahead of them, knowing they’ll pounce at the earliest opportunity if I slip up.
“And your husband was with you?”
It’s the million-dollar question.
I look up to the ceiling, wishing I could see through the joists and floorboards into the bedroom above.
Is he up there, sleeping off his hangover, imagining that his biggest problem is talking me around to giving our short-lived marriage another chance?
Or is he out there, somewhere…? The sound of a morning songbird infiltrates my brain, heralding the promise of a new day, and I can’t help but wonder what this particular one will bring.
The possibilities send a shiver through me.
“Yes,” I say, because I have no other choice.
They look at each other again. “So are we to assume that your car was taken without either your or your husband’s knowledge at some point last night?”
I shrug my shoulders, praying that I’m doing the right thing, even though my instincts are screaming at me to do the exact opposite.
What if they double-check the facts? What if they go to Frank and Coco and ask them what time we left …
if we were together … if we were driving.
… I suck in a breath. Had we told them we had the car?
I know I wasn’t supposed to be drinking—that I was supposed to drive home.
It was an agreement we made before we even left the house.
And I have a vague recollection of Charlie telling me to stop before it was too late.
But by then, it already was. Had the others heard his warnings?
Had we at any other point told them that Charlie’s car was parked up outside?
I rack my brain for anything that might call my alibi into question.
“I guess it must have been,” I say, careful to keep my voice steady.
The man nods to himself. “It sounds like a joyrider’s taken it for a spin and come unstuck then?”
It’s more of a question than a statement, and despite not wanting to give him anything further for fear that I’ll only dig a bigger hole, it seems he’s expecting an answer.
“It appears that way. They were only talking about car theft being a problem in this area on Facebook last week.…” I stop myself from elaborating any further, knowing the more words I use, the more trouble I’ll get myself in when this all blows up.
Because I’ve got a sickening feeling that it will.
There’ll be CCTV. There’ll be DNA. There could even be witnesses.
“So I’ll report the vehicle being stolen,” he says, looking to the stairs at the sound of a creak coming from the floor above.
I hold my breath.
“I might need to have a word with your husband at some point, just to corroborate what you’ve already told me.”
“Of course,” I manage. “If you leave me your number, I’ll get him to call you when he wakes up.”
He hands me a card and reluctantly steps back out onto the porch, his eyes still scanning the landing. “That would be most helpful.”
I offer a tight smile. “I’ll be praying that that poor man makes a full recovery.”
They both give me a resigned nod and I wait until they reach the end of the path before closing the door.
I stand there for a moment, not wanting to turn around because I can sense Charlie’s presence. And I honestly don’t know how he’s going to play this. Does he know what he’s done? Is the guilt going to be etched on to his furrowed brow?
I steel myself, expecting an outpouring of remorse, but as it turns out, the only thing that’s pouring is the blood, from the nasty gash on the side of his head.