Page 48 of We Live Here Now

Did I mean what I said to Freddie last night about wanting our marriage to work? I think so. He’d never do to me what Mark and Cat have done to Iso and Russell. I’ve started to think back on our old dreams of living in France and running a little hotel or Airbnb. Maybe if we’re careful we could do that.

My period still hasn’t come. I’ll give it a few more days and then do another test. Who knows, maybe hormones have added to all the weirdness I’ve experienced. I let the hot water run over me and do my best not to think about Mrs. Tucker’s odd story. I won’t feed my post-sepsis delusions. There is nothing strange about the third floor.

I’m still feeling chirpy when I’m dressed and check that Mark got the form I filled in for the payment. I need to find a way to explain the money to Freddie at some point. Maybe I’ll tell him the truth when the cash is in? He’ll be so relieved to be out of the hole I bet he won’t even mind. If I’m okay with it, then that’s his excuse to be okay with it too. I’ve kept one secret from him; I’m not sure I should keep another. Not if I want us to work.

I don’t want to be around when Merrily and Pete come, so I decide to take myself out for the day, to Taunton. Buy myself something new to wear. Then do the supermarket in case snow does come. Maybe stop somewhere for lunch. Have a self-care day, as Iso would say.

I leave the heating on—maybe Freddie is right about the draft, but there’s no way I’m going to admit that—and wrap up warm. It’s going to be good to get out of Larkin Lodge for a few hours. A taste of the freedom to come.

61

Emily

I get home just after eleven thirty. The motorway was a nightmare and after twenty minutes driving the ache in my leg kicked in, so I turned back onto the country roads and ended up in a lovely café in a small market town having a toastie and getting lost in a book for an hour, a twisty new Harriet Tyce thriller about a lawyer with problems that make mine feel like a walk in the park.

It’s not been the full day out I planned, but I feel rested, and when I get back to the Lodge I’m glad to see that the Watkinses have already been here. They’ve left a digger and various other bits of heavy machinery in the garden, and I feel a twinge of guilt that they probably won’t get to use half of it. Maybe I’ll make Freddie tell them we’ve changed our plans. It’s his fault anyway.

I go upstairs to hang up two new tops I found in a little boutique, not wanting Freddie to see I’ve been out spending money, but when I get to the middle landing, a thudding sound from the third floor nearly makes my heart stop. I drop the bag, forgotten, and stare up at the next landing.What now? Is this my head playing tricks on me again?There’s another thud, and then a caw, and relief floods through me. A bird. Another bird is trapped in the house.

My hands tremble, but my fear of the upstairs bedroom has been slightly abated by the night of the party—There are no ghosts at Larkin Lodge—and I can’t leave the bird stuck there until Freddie gets home. That’s hours away, and it could die of shock and panic by then. I take a deep breath and climb the stairs, grateful that while I still feel that chill sense of dread growing with every step, there’sno awful rotting smell enveloping me. I reach the top, glad I came home while it was still daylight.

My heart pounds and, for a moment, while the bird thumps and caws against the bedroom door—of course the bird is stuck in the bedroom—I glance at the little stenciled cupboard on the landing. I can almost see Gerald Carmichael lying on the floor, eyes wide and dead.Although he didn’t die there, I remind myself.It didn’t happen. He died of cancer.It was just a child’s imagination.

The frantic noise falls silent and my worry that the bird has knocked itself out overwhelms my fear of anything else, and without hesitation I open the door.

I stand in the doorway and stare for a long moment.

It can’t be. It just can’t be.

A raven is perched on the windowsill, and it hops around to look at me, expectant. It’s calm now that it’s got someone’s attention, beady, bright black eyes staring at me as if to say,Come on then. Open the window. Let me out.

I swallow hard. The raven is whole and healthy, glossy and firm. Even the space where its wing is badly scarred and feathers are missing looks strong. And the area of shocking white around the old wound is stark as fresh snow. I know this bird. I’ve seen this bird before. I took this bird’s dead carcass out of the fireplace downstairs and threw it away when I set the other one free. It is the same bird. No other raven could have those markings. But how did it get in this room?

And more importantly,how is it alive?

It caws again, and I force myself forward, my mouth half-open still. It doesn’t fly away in a panic as I get nearer but shuffles from foot to foot, eager to get out. Close up I can see the damage clearly. Thisisthe same bird. I’d bet every penny of Mark’s one hundred and fifty thousand pounds it is, even if it’s impossible.

I open the window and the bird darts out, whirling out to the fresh air in a dance of absolute joy, crying into the sky for all to hear that she’salive alive aliveagain.

It isn’t possible. None of it is. And yet that bird that was dead is alive.

I look back at the space on the landing where young Mrs. Tucker was sure she saw Gerald Carmichael lying dead before Fortuna pulled him into this room.

It was just a dream though. Wasn’t it?

62

Freddie

“She’s still convinced the house is haunted,” I say to Dr. Canning, one eye on my office door. I’ve left it open just wide enough in case Alicia is listening. “And it’s made her paranoid. The vicar is worried too. He feels bad because he’s the one who said about the suicide victims being buried under the house, which hasn’t helped.”

A shadow falls across the carpet outside. I’ve been warned three times already that my assistant, Alicia, is a nosy parker. I’m not even sure why I want her to be listening in, but the bees are buzzing loudly, and it seemed like the right thing to do.Just in case I need a witness to prove my concerns.

“And she’s veering between manic and depressed,” I continue, before hesitating and then adding, “I’m not sure she’s always taking the pills you prescribed, and I don’t know how to make sure she does without her getting angry.”

“That doesn’t sound good.” I can hear the doctor’s pen scratching notes. “I’ll bring her next scheduled appointment forward, but it still will be a week or so. In the meantime, I’ll email you some recommendations for some good psychotherapists in your area. Not NHS, I’m afraid. But they should be able to see her quickly. And do what you can to persuade her to take her pills. The problem may be as simple as she’s spending too much time on her own. Between the accident and the miscarriage, she’s been through a lot. You both have.”

“You’re right.” I infuse my tone with a hint of relief. “That could be it.”

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