Page 43 of We Live Here Now

My heart is pounding so hard when I reach the closed door that I’m not sure I’d be able to hear anything through it even if they wereshouting at each other on the other side, but as I go to press my ear against the cold grain, the wood moves ever so slightly, opening.

I step back, my hand over my mouth, sure I’ve been caught, but the door stops at only two inches wide. It’s a creaky old door with a stiff metal latch. It should have been louder when it opened, but there was nothing. A smooth silence as if it had just been soaked in oil.

A breathless moan escapes from inside. I can’t help myself; I take a step forward. I have tosee.I put my eye to the gap and it immediately widens. They’re bathed in moonlight—Cat, perched on the shelf against the wall, her legs wrapped around Mark, who looks almost comical with his boxers down around his ankles as he frantically pumps himself into her. It’s grotesque and revolting to see my friends, good-looking as they may be, like this, but without thinking, as an icy draft snakes up my legs, I lift my phone and start to record.

Neither of them even glances toward the door as Mark groans, lowering his head to Cat’s exposed breasts. As his hands and mouth grasp at her breasts, she gasps and pulls her legs tighter around him. “Fuck me harder,” she mutters, her eyes closed, and then wraps her hands around his neck. “Fuck me till it hurts me.”

He stops then, pulling out, his dick hard and almost purple even in the darkness, and spins her around, bending her over the shelf, hand on her neck as he thrusts back into her, the cheeks of her arse moonlight pale as he grips them.

“God, you’re such a dirty bitch,” he mutters, gripping her by her hair, and they encourage each other with breathless words and commands and insults. I can hear his flesh slapping against hers, and yet, despite how uncomfortable it’s making me feel, I keep on recording.

I have to, I tell myself. Iso would never believe this is real without evidence. Maybe of Mark but never of Cat. Neither would Russell. Neither would Freddie, and neither would I if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes. I feel sick. How long has it been going on?

I record them, lost in each other, for a few more seconds and then quietly step away and creep back upstairs to my own bed,climbing in beside my own disappointing husband. I lie there, wide awake and in shock, and maybe fifteen minutes later I hear two pairs of guilty feet carefully returning to their own rooms and their own unsuspecting partners.

53

Freddie

The mood in the house the morning after the party is as gray and miserable as the sky outside. Iso has been throwing up since dawn, which put a damper on everyone’s hangovers, and the cleanup is a long and reluctant process all round. Emily doesn’t really help but she at least makes breakfast, although no one is really in the mood for it, especially her, and it becomes just more washing up to do.

She’s quiet, not making much effort to pretend everything is all right, instead claiming a headache. It’s actually a relief when the others clamber into their cars and head back to London with promises to visit again soon. Emily immediately goes for a lie-down as if she can’t stand to be in my company, which sours my already bleak mood. She’s barely looked at me today, as if the energy we’ve had to put into pretending everything is fine to friends new and old is all my fault, but it’s not as if the party was my idea.

I need some air, and figure now is as good a time as any to check the postbox for yesterday’s mail as I’m not sure my mood can get any worse.

It’s foggy again—god, I can’t wait for spring—and I’m barely able to see more than a few feet in front of me as I stroll, but I’m happy to be out of the house. My phone buzzes and I’m surprised to see it’s the vicar texting. I don’t remember giving him my number.

Just to let you know that you can talk to me whenever you need to, totally confidentially, and that obviously goes for the concerns about Emily you shared last night too. Maybe you should talk to her doctor again?

I frown. I don’t remember talking to him about Emily at theparty. I scan through my memories and suddenly get vague flashes of being huddled with him in the poolroom, talking earnestly, but nothing more than that. My head starts to throb, a nauseating stabbing sensation, as if the effort is too much. Seems I have got a hangover after all. If I had whole conversations last night I don’t remember, I must have drunk more than I thought too.

I send back a quick reply.I will and thank you.

Three dots flash up as he types a reply.I’m sure she won’t harm herself. Although I do feel that’s my responsibility for mentioning the suicide crossroads in the first place. I didn’t realize she might get obsessed with it as you said.

Emily’s not obsessed with the crossroads. Why would I have told the vicar that? If anything, it’s the opposite. Emily’s terrified of getting injured again. She’s in no hurry to die. Why would I have said she might be suicidal? Maybe the vicar got the wrong end of the stick from something I said.

I reach the mailbox and there’s only one letter—no bills today, thank fuck—our life insurance policy renewal that needs signing and sending back, so I put the vicar out of my head, and as it starts to rain, I hurry back to the house.

The pipes are rumbling and I know Emily’s settled in for a long soak in the bath before we cobble together an attempt at dinner, so I light the fire, which goes some way to keeping the endless draft at bay, and with a beer cracked open, I fill out the form. I canceled a lot of things when I started getting into this financial mess, but I never canceled the insurance. My parents died of carbon monoxide poisoning when working on a new house, and between that and what happened to Emily, I know how fragile life can be.

I sign at the bottom and scan the details and terms and conditions. I stare at the numbers mentioned. There’s a lot of money for a payout in the event of the unthinkable. More than I realized. Definitely enough to get me out of all this financial trouble. I stare at the figure for a long time before licking the envelope and sealing it up.

As the fire crackles, outside the afternoon sky is sinking into night. There’s a storm approaching and slowly the wind starts towhistle around the house. I stare out as gusts cough and wheeze against the bricks, and my mind empties for a while with the sheer exhaustion of months of deception. As the heavy splatters of rain come, I doze off.

I have half dreams of Emily tumbling from the ridge—Did you push me, Freddie?—her fingers reaching for mine, but this time she grabs me and pulls me down with her, and we fall in terror, staring at each other, the rocky ground hurtling closer.

I finally startle awake at the sound of Emily coming down the stairs, and only after I gather myself and shake away the cobwebs of my headache do I realize that, for the first time in what feels like forever, as thunder starts outside, I’m warm in this house.

54

It’s not the storm that keeps the raven awake.

He has weathered worse in this life on the endless, reckless moor. He hides behind the warm chimney as the wind batters the front of the house and fluffs his feathers to protect the cold husk of his dead, accusing mate.

He turns his head away, preferring the cold wet air to her brittle feathers. Perhaps he should move backward and let the wind take her. Bright Wing is becoming impatient. She has gone back to the others tonight. She doesn’t like the house either and doesn’t understand why he has to stay. He can’t explain to her why. He doesn’t truly understand himself.

Unfinished business.

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