The Stranger in Our Home Read online

  I climbed the steps, surveying the space. It was cold. Empty of all its clutter, there wasn’t even a sheet or a blanket to keep me warm. I still had my coat and I pulled it tight about my chest, wrapping my arms around myself.

  The dust flew up beneath my feet, flecks dancing in the narrow shafts of afternoon sun, boards creaking in a weird accompaniment to my footsteps. I checked the window. Thanks to my efforts earlier it was jammed shut. It was too high up, anyway, I couldn’t possibly climb down and escape that way. Now I found myself facing the only object left in the attic – the crate with the pear drum.

  I ran down the steps again, grasping the handle and rattling the door. I thumped it, once, twice, but there was no response. I took a couple of steps back, as much as the space would allow and threw my shoulder against the door. It bloody hurt. I tried again. The door wouldn’t budge. My hand opened and closed in anger against the wood but to no avail and I slid back to the ground, dipping my head and nursing my shoulder.

  Craig. I understood Steph’s motive, at least I thought I did, but Craig – why would he do this? I remembered his loving touch, his gentle kiss, the meaning behind his words. This is real, Caro. Just words, to seduce me further. Oh God, I’d been so naïve, falling for my own fairy tale. He’d been the perfect storybook lover, hadn’t he? What was he after in all this?

  Revenge? No. Love? Why didn’t I believe that? Money? Maybe. If he was still married to Steph, he stood to benefit too, just as much as she. Perhaps there was a half-truth in there, about his relationship with Steph, that he’d never loved her either, that she too was a means to an end. His face had been inscrutable in all the time that Steph had been relishing in my defeat. I felt woozy, my head beginning to spin. I couldn’t believe any of this.

  I must have stayed like that for a few moments, on the floor in the gloom of the steps beyond where the daylight could reach. I could hear noises from downstairs, voices, a door opening and closing. What were they doing?

  I thought of Steph’s lies about New York. Where had she been living? Somewhere nearby for sure. I groaned. Had she been staying with Craig the whole time? Was that why I’d never seen inside his cottage, not once? He’d always come to me, sleeping with me here in this house. When Patsy, the dog, had stayed behind at the cottage, had she been with Steph?

  I heard a door open downstairs, voices louder and fading away.

  ‘The big one, by the summerhouse …’ It was Steph, almost hissing.

  A door slammed. Were they talking about how they would kill me? It had to be some way that would seem like an accident, a tragic accident. I felt the blood pounding at my temples, sweat breaking out on my skin. I closed my eyes, unable to process it all. My head sank against the wall. I watched the strip of light under the door, dreading a movement of shadow, footsteps on the stairs, voices getting louder. Craig and Steph coming back for me.

  What were they waiting for?

  But no, they weren’t coming up the stairs. There was the bang of the front door and silence. I rushed to the attic window, peering round as far as I could. Were they leaving? No, they were walking towards the barns. They disappeared inside only to emerge a short while later, now heading towards the back of the house and the garden. Steph was carrying a coil of rope, Craig walking beside her, the two of them deep in conversation.

  I froze – the trees, the ones that surrounded the summerhouse, the big one that used to have a swing. I watched in disbelief as they disappeared from sight. The rope Steph was carrying had a noose. Oh God, was that their plan to get rid of me? Not an accident but suicide. I thought of the picture I’d painted before Christmas, of myself hanging from a tree. If the police found that, and my body … Panic overwhelmed me and I leapt for the door again, rattling at the handle, screaming for help, hammering with my fists until the blood seeped from my skin and I leant my head against the door, sobbing. Who wouldn’t believe it after all that I’d done …

  The flashy one or the nutcase.

  CHAPTER 53

  They were back. I could hear voices once more, drifting up the stairs from the hall far below. My head swayed, the ground heaving beneath my feet. I clutched at the door, trying to hear, struggling to stay calm.

  I looked across to the attic window. There must be some way out. The first burst of a crimson sunset bloomed like some exotic cocktail, orange and red quivering over an aquablue horizon. I pushed myself onto my feet, moving towards it. My fingers clawed at the window catch but it was no good. I contemplated breaking the glass, but the frame was too small for me to climb through, and to what purpose? To leap from the roof and make their plans for suicide real?

  I spun around, my eyes darting from wall to beam to ceiling. There must be another way out. This room didn’t cover the whole roof, only the highest section. Most attics were interconnected. If there was a hatch to the rest of it, if I could escape through some other opening, then maybe I could find a way into the main house. My old bedroom on the floor below had an attic trapdoor.

  I’d wasted too much time, brooding on my sister and Craig’s betrayal.

  I began to feel the walls, groping the rafters with shaking fingers, beneath the tiles, in the corners and behind the beams where the light didn’t quite reach. Yes, there was a hatch, screwed into place above the floor. I flicked my eyes toward the steps, listening. It was quiet.

  I looked at my thumb. It was my longest nail and I slotted it into the first screw. It was a really crap way to undo a screw – even though it wasn’t tight, I had to press down hard to get it to move. It was so painful and kept slipping, my thumb bleeding. But eventually it shifted and the screw dropped to the ground. Using the head of the first screw, I freed the next one and a third. They were tighter, the skin on my knuckles shredding, but I carried on. The fourth screw fell into my hand. I licked my lips as the hatch door lifted smoothly away. Propping it up against the wall, I peered into the hole.

  Carefully I climbed into the void. I’d thought it would be pitch black but the roof wasn’t felted and through the gaps in the tiles came tiny chinks of dying sunlight, like scarlet pinpricks over my head. I inched across the joists, razor-sharp beams of fiery red moving across my body, my arms and legs. I heard something scuttling in the distance and swallowed. The wood was rough, splinters caught in my hands and knees, I was terrified of my weight crashing through the ceiling. Slowly I progressed, exploring with painful fingers for another hatch. At least on the second floor, the rooms below were empty. I couldn’t be heard.

  Dusk began to fall. My pinprick lights were fading. I hadn’t found a thing except an old plastic bottle, a crisp packet and some loose wiring, left behind by a previous builder no doubt. Then I felt a cold draught, a change in depth, a square shape emerging beneath my touch. Excitement bubbled. I traced the edges: no screws this time, thank God, but loose planks of wood resting on a frame. I peeled them off, one by one. Relief flooded my body. I felt the rush of fresh air. One of the planks slipped, I caught it just in time and held my breath, my heart thudding as I waited for a reaction. But there was none. My head hung over the hole, my eyes blinking from the dust as I tried to figure out where I was. Yes! It was my old room!

  I pulled myself back into the roof. What was I going to do? I had some half-baked idea that I could sneak across the landing and down the stairs, all without either Craig or Steph noticing. Really? I held a hand against my chest, willing my heart to slow its beat, so loud I was sure it could be heard two floors below. The house had a front door and a back door but that was it. Either I got across the main hall and out the front or ducked into the kitchen and round the back. I felt my coat pocket, I still had my car keys. But it seemed so completely impossible either way.

  Then I heard something – a car outside revving up the drive, skidding on the gravel. A visitor?

  I hesitated – did I drop down now? Into my old room where the window faced the garden? Whoever it was could be in as much danger as me. How did I warn them? Or did I go back to the attic where the wind
ow overlooked the drive, where I could see who it was, get their attention, call for help? I wavered in an agony of indecision. Who was it?

  I clambered back across the joists as far as I could, through the hatch into the attic. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the window. In the far west, the sky was blazing red, the horizon alive with colour. I gasped. The figure climbing out of the car was Mary Beth.

  My hands splayed against the window. She was tugging a woollen hat further over her ears, fishing out her bag, locking the car door. She couldn’t see me. Was she a part of this? No, I didn’t believe it. That time on the bench outside the church after the funeral, she’d spoken like a true friend, for all that we hadn’t known each other long.

  I swore as the fear gripped me. She was in danger, interrupting Steph and Craig’s plans. Another witness was the last thing they wanted. I hammered on the window, shouting and screaming. But outside she couldn’t hear me. Downstairs, Steph and Craig were still ignoring me. Did they know yet about our visitor? Mary Beth moved out of sight and then the doorbell rang.

  I flew down the steps to the door to the attic and hammered again.

  ‘Mary Beth! Mary BETH!’

  ‘Caro? Are you there? Are you alright?’

  She’d heard me! Her voice sounded distant and confused.

  ‘Get out of there!’ I screamed through the door, hammering still. ‘Go!’

  ‘Caro?’

  Mary Beth’s husky voice was followed by a yelp and the crashing of some kind of a struggle.

  ‘NO!’ I cried.

  I rattled and hammered at the door with all my strength, determined to break through but it held fast. I heard the sound of furniture smashing, the splinter of breaking glass. Mary Beth screeched in alarm. My heart thudded in my chest, what were they doing to her? What could I do? Anything to distract them, to get one of them to come up here.

  My eyes flew to the crate with the pear drum and then to the hatch into the roof void. Maybe?

  I ran to the crate and lifted up the lid. I grabbed the pear drum. I dropped to my knees, grasping the handle on the pear drum. It was stiff at first, but then it began to move, sliding round as the fingers of my other hand fumbled with the keys.

  I pressed on the first note and a melodic drone began to thrum.

  CHAPTER 54

  The sound of the pear drum filled the house. Perhaps it was the tension in me that gave it a strange underlying beat, like a real drum, my own heartbeat echoing the tone of the notes.

  I kept winding the handle. The volume rose and fell until my chest felt tight and my grip on the handle loosed. I paused to listen below.

  The noise in the hall had stopped.

  I wound the handle again. The music growing once more. I held my breath, ready to leap the moment I heard footsteps on the stairs. The music mesmerised, a haunting tangle of notes over which I had no control, dust clouding beneath one last flare of crimson daylight. I stopped again.

  I stretched my other hand flat against the wooden floorboards. The sun had gone and I was plunged into darkness, the attic lit only by a narrow beam of pale moonlight, the exact same shape as the small window behind me.

  The silence was more unnerving than the sound of violence. Was that the scraping of feet? Then I heard another screech of alarm from Mary Beth. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs.

  Now!

  I jumped from the floor, dropping the pear drum with a crash, darting for the open hatchway. I slipped through, only just managing to pull the cover in place behind me as the key jangled in the lock.

  I didn’t stop to listen. I clung to the joists like a rat on a ship’s rope, crawling on my hands and knees. Every second stretched out. The light from the roof holes had gone and I was sure I wouldn’t find it, my heart in overdrive as I scrambled to locate the bedroom hatch. There it was, a grey box of light. I swung my legs down into the hole. They were bleeding, the fabric of my trousers torn to shreds. My hands grasped the opening and I fell tumbling to the floor below. I’d planned to roll in my attempt to land safely but my body seemed to crash like a whale into the sea. The pain rocketed up my limbs but I held myself to the floor, listening.

  I could hear Craig in the attic. He was calling my name, vibration in his voice. I sprang forward, the bedroom door swinging open as I plunged towards the attic door. The key was still in the lock. Craig was at the top of the wooden steps, his face turning just in time to see me slam the door shut. I cranked the key. I heard his feet thundering down the steps but it was too late. He was locked in.

  I spun around.

  Steph was at the top of the stairs. She had Mary Beth in front of her. Mary Beth’s neck was pulled back and Steph held a chunk of glass to her throat – a piece of the broken bowl. Mary Beth looked so small, her eyes wide open, leaping towards mine as her feet stumbled on the stairs. Her hands clutched at my sister’s arm, scrabbling to loosen her grip. I could hear Craig hammering on the door behind me then a loud thud as he threw his body against it. It held, but only just.

  ‘Let her go, Steph!’ I staggered towards her, then stopped. My voice was far more confident than I felt.

  My hands waved uselessly as I flung my head around trying to find something to grab hold of. The hall was bereft of any furniture, not even a painting. I felt as if I was back in the summerhouse, reaching out for something to defend myself with. Only this time there was nothing.

  ‘Climb over, Caro!’ Steph gestured to the balustrade.

  Mary Beth squeaked as Steph adjusted her hold, the glass blade pressing into her skin. Mary Beth stood rigid against her arm.

  I held out a hand, rasping as I caught my breath.

  ‘No, please!’ I cried. Mary Beth – she hardly knew me yet had been so compassionate.

  ‘Climb over the banister, Caro. Now!’ Steph’s voice was ragged and wild. When I didn’t move, she pushed the glass again, up against Mary Beth’s chin. Mary Beth mewed in terror.

  I took a step towards the railing.

  ‘Please, Steph, this is crazy. Don’t do this.’ I was hoarse, snatching great lungfuls of air. ‘You don’t have to do this. Think of the consequences!’

  There was another crash against the attic door. Steph blinked but didn’t answer.

  There was yet another crash. I heard the attic door splinter at its hinges. Steph had pushed Mary Beth round so that they were both looking down over the railing to the hall below.

  ‘Go on, Caro, climb the banister!’

  My feet edged backwards.

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ I cried. My eyes swung from Mary Beth to Steph. ‘Think of Elizabeth – she did love you, I know she did. Don’t do this again!’

  Mary Beth gasped, her eyes rolling back to try to see Steph, her hand reaching along to grasp at Steph’s. They struggled but Steph was stronger. I saw a bead of blood on Mary Beth’s neck.

  ‘Just as you loved Danny? You’re the murderer here, Caro!’

  I saw Mary Beth’s eyes switch to mine. There was confusion on her face. I felt a stab as if Steph had taken her blade to me. I closed my eyes momentarily, unwilling to meet the look of incredulity on Mary Beth’s face.

  This time the crash behind me made the walls shake, the attic door peeling off its frame. Craig was standing there, his face red with effort, his shirt stained with streaks of black dust and blood.

  In that moment, Mary Beth twisted her body free. Steph jerked the blade down. There was a sharp squeal from Mary Beth, then nothing. Just a hissing. I swung round to see Mary Beth’s eyes wide and staring, her body folding to the floor. And Steph stepping towards me, the bloodied glass in her hand inches from my chest.

  Craig grabbed me from behind. I felt his weight throwing me to one side, away from Steph.

  He lunged towards Steph. They struggled and she crashed against the handrail. I screamed. Staggering to my feet I dived forward, only to be flung against the wall. Steph reached out for my hair, dragging me up. Craig fought to separate us. But Steph hung onto me and we both grappled against
the railing. It shuddered against our bodies. All I could see was the blood pouring from Mary Beth’s side, her eyes dull and fading.

  I heard an almighty crack. I felt the railings give. My arms flew out against thin air. I was falling. Steph too. Our hands, our fingers snatching in vain. Both of us reaching out for Craig.

  CHAPTER 55

  I am floating between two worlds, the living and the dead. As I lie here in my hospital bed, the faces shimmer above. I can hear their speech, the machines, the clicks and beeps that mark each breath. They’ve no idea that I’m awake, that I can hear. My eyes are open but I cannot move. Even my eyes are fixed in one direction. Someone else is lying on this bed, not me.

  My sister, my lover, they think that I am dead. Except I am not dead.

  I drift in and out of consciousness. Most days I can see the window so I know that time is passing, the sun blazing in my eyes, the stars pricking the midnight blue. I watch the clouds, the speed at which they cruise the sky, their shapes constantly changing, each one a new story to distract me – the black swans flying in a dark line, the handless girl weeping for her lost innocence, the hare hugging the lover she cannot have. I am haunted by my own creations.

  Slowly the stories fade. My memory returns, voices familiar and repugnant. My sister, my lover, they are both at my side. The hospital staff are like white ghosts hovering on the fringes of my sight. Always I hear the machines, the constant whirring and clicking of my heartbeat and lungs, like a slow steam train rolling down the track. That’s me, I realise, this cyber patient hooked up to keep me alive. This is to be my punishment.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Crowther, there’s no sign of consciousness. Sometimes there are signs of life, awareness. And a very small hope of recovery. But in your sister’s case, there is none.’

  They are wrong, but I can’t tell them. The voice is kind, the consultant. He’s different when my husband and sister aren’t there, clipped and efficient. Now he’s almost hesitant. For a moment the words don’t go in.