Nell （Present）
NELL
PRESENT
I close the door behind Alex, unable to watch him walk away. He understands; he feels the same desolation that I do at the thought of not seeing each other for another two weeks. Will I even be alive in two weeks’ time? The thought comes from nowhere and makes me want to weep.
I walk despondently to the kitchen, dismayed that uneasiness at being alone in the house is already seeping into my veins.
I pull open the fridge door, intentionally making the bottles jiggle in the rack, needing to make noise to break the suffocating silence.
But not so much noise that I won’t be able to hear someone breaking in, because with Alex here, I haven’t gotten round to having the locks changed.
A need for carbs makes me close the fridge and open the cupboard instead.
There’s a packet of chocolate biscuits on the shelf, already open, and I dig inside, aware that I’m about to start comfort eating.
But I’ll do whatever it takes to get me through the rest of the evening, and the night. Tomorrow, I’ll call a locksmith.
Munching on the biscuits, I switch on the kettle, make a mug of tea and carry it to the island, trying not to dwell on the fact that it will be the end of November before I see Alex again.
It seems incredible that ten days ago, I was on the point of breaking up with him because I felt I couldn’t trust him. Now, I’d trust him with my life.
I take out my phone, bring up the calendar, and look at the dates.
Alex is due back on Saturday the twenty-ninth; if he stays for two weeks, he’ll be here until the middle of December.
He’ll return to the US on Sunday the fourteenth, and spend Christmas with his father in Washington.
And—I mentally cross my fingers—I’m hoping he’ll invite me to join him and his father for Christmas.
It’s wishful thinking, because we haven’t discussed Christmas, or the New Year.
But Alex had said that since his divorce, he spends every Christmas with his father, and hadn’t he said his dad wanted to meet me?
I smile at the idea of us spending our first Christmas together in the US. It would be perfect.
Something interrupts my daydream and I sit up straighter, holding my breath.
Above the hum of the fridge, my ears detect a noise from somewhere inside the house, a sort of creak, or a squeak.
I take my phone, slip it into my pocket, then slide from the barstool, my heart beating erratically, my whole body on alert.
Keeping my eye on the kitchen door, I move quietly to the worktop and take a knife from the wooden block.
I stand poised, my hand raised, ready to pounce if the door handle so much as moves.
Would you though? a voice in my head asks.
Would you really drive that knife into someone’s heart the minute they come through that door, without waiting to see who it is?
Because that’s what you’d have to do. If you so much as hesitate, they’d get to you first. What if it’s Alex?
What if he does have a key and has come back because he left something behind, or because he’s decided he can’t bear to leave you?
What if you kill him? You’d have a third death on your conscience.
A tremor whips through my body. The knife trembles in my hand.
Shut up! I scream silently to the voice.
I direct my focus back to the door handle.
It hasn’t moved so if there is someone out there, I’ll need to go and find them.
I take a step toward the door, then another.
The thought of someone waiting on the other side makes me falter.
My mind spins, frantically weighing my options.
I should call the police. But what would they do if I tell them I’m calling because I heard a noise in the house?
They wouldn’t come out for a noise, so to give it weight, I’d have to tell them that someone has been following me and if there is someone on the other side of the door, and they hear me calling the police, they’ll be in here before the conversation has even begun.
I force myself forward, a step at a time, until I’m by the door.
I put my hand on the handle, my body so tense I can no longer feel my limbs trembling.
I turn the handle slowly and pull the door open a crack, blocking it with my foot to prevent it being slammed open from the other side.
I peer into the hallway through the gap, glad that I left the hall light on when I closed the front door behind Alex.
The hallway is clear but from where I’m standing I can’t see if anyone is crouching on the stairs.
To the right, the sitting-room door is wide open, as if it’s inviting me in.
The room is in darkness and I wish I could remember if I’d left it that way.
I don’t remember turning off the light but maybe Alex did. Or it could be a trap.
Reasoning that I can’t go upstairs without having checked downstairs first, I leave the kitchen, close the door quietly behind me, and move silently into the hallway, then pause in the sitting room doorway, listening.
There’s no sound so I reach out with my right hand, still clutching the knife, and flick the light switch on the wall.
Keeping my arm raised in front of me, I step into the room.
A quick scan tells me it’s empty; the only place someone could be hiding is behind the sofa.
I move toward it in a sideways step, keeping one eye on the open door.
I reach the sofa and peer behind it; no one is hiding there and realizing that with the curtains still open, anyone walking past will be able to see me with the knife in my hand, I quickly drop my arm and pull them shut.
I leave the sitting room, closing the door behind me.
Reassured that there’s no one downstairs, I move to the stairs and listen again.
There’s no sound, no creak of a floorboard, so I go upstairs, my tread light on the wooden steps.
Arriving on the landing, I hesitate, torn between the bathroom and the bedroom.
The bathroom is nearest, so I choose that.
I switch on the light. It’s empty. Only the bedroom is left, the door ajar.
When I get out, I will kill you. The echo of Damon Parker’s voice spurs me on.
I take a breath, then slam the door back against the wall.
The noise ricochets through the house; I leap into the room, ready to bring the knife down.
The room is empty and as I pull the doors of the wardrobe open to check inside, I catch sight of myself in the mirror, knife in hand, and feel suddenly foolish.
Sinking onto the bed, I take a shaky breath; I scared myself for nothing.
But as I sit there, my skin begins to prickle, just as it did the day I called Sadie and Simon because I sensed that someone had been in the house.
My eyes move to the window. It’s the old sash-cord type and my heart trips when I see that it’s been pushed up a couple of inches.
I go toward it, wondering if Alex opened it when he came up to fetch his bag.
Or was I right about someone being in the house and they left through the window when they heard me coming up the stairs?
I peer down at the road, calculating. The distance from window ledge to the pavement is twelve feet at most. If someone held on to the ledge and lowered their body to the ground, the drop once their legs were fully extended would be between six and seven feet.
Not far enough to deter anyone from doing it, if they were fit and healthy.
And if they could close the window behind them.
Maybe that’s why it’s not completely closed; it would be difficult to hang on to the ledge with one hand while sliding the window down with the other. But how did they get in?
As I stand there thinking that I really need to get my locks changed, my phone pings, making me jump. I look at my phone slowly, apprehensive about who the message might be from. Relief floods through me when I see it’s from Sadie.
Hope you’re not feeling too down now that Alex has left, she writes.
Just a bit, I reply.
Don’t forget Simon and I are here if you need anything. He asked me to remind you to get your locks changed.
I frown at the coincidence then tell myself it’s understandable that Simon is concerned.
Yesterday, when I’d had everyone over to meet Alex, I had cornered Simon and asked him not to say anything about me thinking that someone had been in the house.
And he had agreed, providing that I went ahead and got the locks changed.
It’s on my list of things to do tomorrow, I reply.
A thumbs-up emoji appears on my screen. Exhausted from all the emotion, I think about going straight to bed. But realizing that I won’t feel safe sleeping in the bedroom, I tug my green throw from the bed and pull it down the stairs after me.