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11. SPRING 2013

As soon as the front door closes behind Nicholas, Catherine locks herself in the downstairs loo. The weapon being used to torment her had been practically placed in her son’s hand, although so far Nicholas doesn’t seem to realise that he has a direct connection to the book. She hears Robert outside the door and picks up a magazine, rustling the pages to let him know she’ll be some time. She looks down at her knickers hanging around her ankles and is suddenly awash with self-pity. She doesn’t deserve this. Why torment her? And why now? She begins to cry, almost wanting Robert to hear and comfort her. He is standing just on the other side of the door.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, yes.” She rustles the magazine again then stands, pulling up her knickers and blowing her nose under the sound of the flushing toilet. She checks herself in the mirror. She looks like shit but it’s Sunday, that’s allowed. Pull yourself together, you stupid cow. Read the rest of the book, stop putting it off. Just face it. And then you will know what to do, what you are up against. She smiles at her reflection, and almost laughs at the madness of it.

It is three in the morning and Robert is asleep. She had managed to get through their evening together and then, when they were in bed, gone through the ritual of lying next to him feigning sleep, waiting for him to doze off, and then she had crept back downstairs and locked herself in the loo again. Now she is reading a description of her own death. Of how someone else has imagined it. Of how it will end for her. And it is merciless. It is messy. And she sees what she would not be able to see if she was dead. The image others would see when they looked down at her. Her skull crushed, leaking brains. Her tongue severed by her own teeth. Her nose, sliced off, wedged under a cheekbone. That’s what the train would do to her after she’d jumped in front of it. Only Catherine would know, as she fell, that in fact she hadn’t jumped at all. She had been pushed. Very gently, nudged. Tipped over onto the track, just as the train is coming into the station. It is busy. There are crowds of people. Such a terrible accident. But the price she must pay for living the past twenty years as if everything is absolutely fine.

Fear this intense is a distant memory for Catherine. She had forgotten what it was like. She is middle aged, an age where death sidles up and plays on the mind more frequently, but she has always succeeded in marching onwards, shrugging off the pinchy fingers of fear that might snag her progress. But now she is caught in their grip. The hatred directed at her is undiluted. It’s the sort of hate she imagines directed at sadistic murderers and child molesters, but she is neither of these. They have twisted her into something vile. They have defaced her character. They want her to explain herself. Why should she? She shouldn’t have to. That is not the role she should be cast in.

Catherine is the one who teases the truth from people. She has made a career out of it. It is what she is good at. She is persuasive, one of the best. Seducing the truth from people, opening them up, filleting out the delicate secrets they’d rather not reveal, then laying them out on a slab for others to look at and learn from; and all done in a perfectly charming way, never ever giving anything of herself away. And she will not open herself up for examination now. She will hunt out the hunter. They have twisted this story. But who are they? Someone she has never met? Yes, someone she doesn’t know. She reads the last sentence again: “Such a pity she hadn’t realised that doing nothing would be such a deadly omission.”

She wants to screw up this book but its two hundred pages are stronger than she is. She will destroy it though. She will not be passive. She rises from her seat, dressing gown flowing, and strides into the kitchen. She finds the matches, long, elegant matches whose only purpose to date has been to light fig-scented candles, and strikes one, holding the flame against the cover of the book. It is slow to burn, the laminated cover resistant, at first only issuing a toxic smell. But then the pages begin to catch, edges blacken and produce a sliver of red, and then a blue and yellow glow as the fire takes. She holds the book for as long as she can before burning her fingers, and then drops the fiery bundle into the sink, turning on the tap and extinguishing the fire she had started.

“What are you doing?” She doesn’t move. Robert thunders towards her and stares down into the blackened mess. They both stare at it, this thing which, despite all her efforts, is still recognisable as a book. He is standing next to her, searching her face for an explanation. Catherine sidles away from him, pulling her dressing gown tighter.

“Catherine?”

She shakes her head. Caught. She has been caught. Perhaps she wanted to be. Perhaps it is for the best. Between finger and thumb Robert lifts the sodden pulp and holds it up: “perfect,” the only distinguishable word left on the jacket.

“It’s about me.” She might as well have said, “I’ve lost my mind.” She wishes she could suck the words back, but they are out now. Is this what she wants? To tell him? Now?

“Darling,” she hears confusion and anguish wrapped in the word as Robert drops the book back into the sink. She grabs at it with both hands, rushing it to the bin as if it is still on fire, and drops it in. She pulls out the black bag and ties it up. All this done at speed, as if someone has pressed fast forward. She runs the bag to the front door and out of the house, dropping it into the dustbin outside, and banging down the metal lid. Slowly now, she walks up the steps back into the house and closes the door behind her.

She can see Robert in the kitchen, watching her. He doesn’t move and neither does she. The length of the hall stands between them, a ten-foot space swimming with unspoken words. Catherine struggles to work out which ones to swallow, which ones to use. And once chosen, which order they should be in. She is the first to move, travelling through the hall towards Robert, her mouth open, gathering up words as she goes.

“It was sent to our old address. To me. It’s about something that happened, years ago.” She falters. “They’re trying to punish me.”

“Punish you? Who’s trying to punish you?”

“Whoever wrote the book.”

“Punish you for what? Is it to do with a film you made? If it is we should get the police involved….”

“No, it’s nothing like that….”

“Well, what then?” He sounds impatient. He is tired. “Who sent it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What makes you think it’s about you?” There is scorn in his question.

“I recognised myself.”

“Do they name you?”

She grabs his hand, hoping it will give her the strength to carry on.

“No, they don’t name me but they describe me and—”

“Describe you? What — blond? Middle aged? For God’s sake, Catherine…”

He takes his hand out of hers and sits down. She feels the words slip back down her throat and anger rise up. She is angry with his ignorance. Blames him for not knowing. For not being there. For making it so hard for her to tell him. And now the moment has gone. She cannot tell him now, not like this, and her speechlessness makes her weep. She sits down, and collapses, face on arms.

“Oh, Catherine, Catherine. You shouldn’t have let things get this bad.” His tone is softer and she feels his hand on her hair.

“What is it about that book? Nick read it, didn’t he? That seemed to bother you. Why?” He waits for an answer and she forces herself to look up at him, her face soggy and flushed.

“It frightened me…. I saw something in it that…” She pushes herself on, trying to tell him some truth. “It made me hate myself. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” And she falters; she can’t do it, so she tells him something she knows he will believe. “I’m being paranoid… it’s in my head, I can’t explain….” A moment’s silence, then he fills it.

“Oh, Catherine, you don’t have to explain to me. I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t mean to get angry, but I worry about you.” He takes her hands in his. “I know it’s not been easy between you and Nick. It’s hard for you. But he loves you, you know that. He and I just find it easier to talk, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.” He puts his arms around her to soften his words, but they still make her flinch. “He can be tricky, I know that. I’m not blaming you. That book’s obviously triggered something… connected with you. What’s it about? Guilt? A mother and son?” He waits for her assent and reads it in her silence. “You have nothing to feel guilty about, Catherine. Nick is twenty-five and it’s about time he moved into his own place. He can always come back to us if he needs to. We’ve still got a spare room.” He takes her face in his hands and forces her to look at him.

“The only one who’s punishing you, Catherine, is you.” His voice is gentle. “You must stop it. Promise me?” She nods.

“We’ve been here before, Cath. Let’s deal with it quickly this time — there’s no need for you to torment yourself. Go and see the GP. Talk to her. And why don’t you ask her for something to help you sleep?” He smiles. “I know you too well. You’ve tried to hide it, but I can tell. And you look bloody awful.” He kisses her. She nods.

“I’m sorry, you must be exhausted,” she says. “And you’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just promise me you’ll go and see the doctor.”

“Yes I will. I promise.”

“You know you can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you.” It is not a question. He takes her hand and leads her back upstairs. “Just talk to me, Catherine. When you feel like this, just talk to me.” His words — kind, caring — conflict with the backdrop in her head: her face, the one her husband is stroking now, smashed beyond recognition on a railway line.