Page 52 of Insomnia

“What if she’s trying to turn my family against me? Or what if she hurts them?”

“What if she isn’t and doesn’t, which is the most obvious answer.” She eats another chip. “You need a good night’s sleep. You can’t do anything today. She’s not going to hurt your family. Why would she? They’re her family too. And you’re going down a really dark path with what you think she’s capable of. You said you’ve already left one angry voice-mail message, so leave it at that for now.” She looks at my wineglass as I drain it again. “Aren’t you driving?”

“I’ll get a cab,” I mutter. “Or walk. Or go and sleep outside my house.”

“Don’t be silly.” She pauses. “You’re in no state to be alone. You can stay here tonight.” It’s a reluctant offer, I sense, but it makes me feel instantly calmer. Spending the night around Caroline. Inside her house. I might even get some sleep.

“Thank you,” I say, embarrassed to find tears threatening to spill over. “I’ll be fine in the morning. It’s all been a bit of a shock.”

“Let’s have a cup of tea and then I’m going to get an early night, I think,” she says. “I’m covering for a colleague tomorrow. You should probably try to sleep too.”

After our tea—during which I get a disappointing text from Darcy saying he’s got nothing yet—I follow her upstairs and then wait in the spare room while she showers quickly before using the tired disabled bathroom myself, brushing my teeth with my finger so my mouth feels at least a little fresh. When I come out, she’s waiting in the corridor.

“There are some books in the back room if you want something to read. Ignore the mess in there. I’ve been meaning to get it all down to the dump or charity shops but you know how it is. Never enough hours. They’re mainly crime novels or those Barbara Taylor Bradford 1980s family sagas, but plenty to choose from. My mum’s.”

“Thanks. See you in the morning,” I say as she disappears into her room, and even though I’m not sure a book is going to do me any good, I figure I should take one to be polite. I’ve been weird enough as it is.

The third bedroom is down at the other end of the corridor, and it’s chilly, the radiator turned completely off. I have a twinge of money guilt. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to worry about the heating bills. There are also boxes everywhere. I can see framedphotos poking out of one, as well as other decorative pictures and knickknacks—old china dolls and blown-glass animals that clearly aren’t to Caroline’s taste. They’re not mine either, really, and yet there’s something I find comforting and heart-warming about them.

How wonderful to have had a mother to love and be loved by and who you share all these boxes of memories with. For a moment I feel my own mother’s cold dry fingers gripping my wrist in the hospital and remember how her eyes flashed open and terrified me. What did she see in that moment? Did she see me? Did she see anything at all?

Shivering, I turn to the stack of books up against a wall. Thick, well-worn paperbacks, bought from charity shops that they will no doubt now return to. There are several Wilbur Smiths, some Shirley Conrans, and then a lot of crime novels. I pick out an Ian Rankin, because at least I’ve heard of him.

I turn the light out and head back to my room. The shapes and shadows make me feel five years old again, the layout so similar to my mother’s house, and I hurry along the landing, happy to get back to some light. Maybe reading will help me switch my brain off and sleep before dawn, although as soon as I’m under the covers I can feel my heart picking up its pace again. Alert. Awake. Worried. It’s still early though, and so I open the book, determined to focus and start to read.

I’m five chapters in, and it’s past eleven, when my phone lights up on the bedside table, the vibration making me jump. I see who’s calling and my stomach knots.Here we go.

“Phoebe,” I say, cool. No more hysterics from me today. I don’t know what my sister’s game is yet, but Caroline’s right, until I’m in the clear I’ve got to hold my fire.

“I don’t know what that voicemail message is all about.” She’sice in my ear. “But it’s not convincing me of your sanity. Nothing warrants that kind of reaction.”

“Don’t turn this around—”

“Something’s wrong with you, Emma. Your secretary told the police about your Dictaphone. Mum’s numbers? For God’s sake.”

“That’s not what it—”

“What it sounds like? What is it then? From what I hear you’ve been losing your shit since Mum was in the hospital. Not your shit. Yourmind.” She lets out a long sigh. “Maybe you should check yourself in somewhere. Recalibrate.”

“Well, I’ve had to since my husband asked me to move out.” She’s not mentioned what I said to her about Hartwell. The awful things Sandra said she was saying to our mother. She’s just glossed over it like it doesn’t matter, and I’ll let it go for now, until I’m in the clear, but that’s an admission of guilt if ever there was one. “Which I’m sure you already know,” I continue. “Being as close to Robert as you are.” I wonder if the acid from my tongue stings when it lands in her ear. If it does, she glosses over that too.

“I meant a facility. Somewhere someone can keep an eye on you until your birthday is over. All these accusations. So much paranoia.”

She means a loony bin. Somewhere like our mother was, except a place for people who haven’t yet committed their crimes. My face burns. She’s calling me mad.

“It’d be for the best. For everyone,” she says, softly. “For your family. You don’t trust yourself at the moment. I know you don’t. Because I know you, Emma. I’m your sister.”

“Fuck you, Phoebe,” I say, despite my promise to stay calm. “I know your game and fuck you.” I hang up and turn my phone off, leaning against the cool pillow as my rage burns.

43.

I am not mad. I have not had a psychotic break. I am not out of touch with reality,I tell myself over and over as I tap my fingers against the glass. No. I am not mad.I. Am. Not.I am, however, still wide fucking awake.

I’m in the third bedroom and a draft creeps in around the frame as I peer out the old window down into a dark garden below. All this started when Phoebe called me from the hospital.Did it though? Didn’t it start the night before? At 1:13a.m.when Mum bashed her own brains in and you woke up and haven’t slept properly since? Isn’t that when it started?

Not with Phoebe’s text at all.

The numbers start up in my head, and then I’m muttering them over and over under my breath.“One hundred and thirteen one hundred and fifty-five two hundred and eighteen two hundred and twenty-two.”I repeat them like a mantra.

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