A pleasant warmth floods my body as I allow myself to buy into the dream for a few moments. I lay my head back on the padded seat and tell myself this is really happening. It’s real!
The car glides effortlessly down the road, speeding us further away from the life we’ve known for the past few years. Granted, it’s not the life I’ve dreamed of, but it’sourlife. It’s familiar and I understand it. The struggle and the daily grind can be exhausting, but I know how to navigate them and survive.
I glance out of the window as the city falls away, replaced by endless stretches of motorway and, eventually, farmland skimming past.
The journey is long, almost four hours, and by the halfway point, my broken sleep is catching up with me and I’m drifting off into a pleasant reverie.
I can see the new house as clearly as if I’m standing at one of the enormous lake-view windows I’ve seen on the DreamKey website. In my mind, I’m already barefoot on the cool marble tiles, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in my hands. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’ I imagine saying to Dev, who’s leaning against the kitchen island, flipping through a glossy cookbook.
The thought makes me smile, and I sink further into the softness of the lush limo seat. I picture the two of us throwing dinner parties for new friends. I’ll wear something elegant and understated, my hair styled, confident in my skin for a change.
And then there’s the garden, stretching to the water’s edge. I push the lake from my mind and instead imagine myselfkneeling in the rich soil, planting lavender and rosemary, my fingers muddy. It’s so vivid I can almost smell the herbs, sharp and clean …
Dev’s voice cuts into my thoughts. ‘Hey, what about a dog? I’ve always wanted one. What do you think, Merri?’
I blink and sit up a little straighter, engaging with my excited husband. ‘Yeah, a dog might be nice.’
Dev beams at me. He’s already moved on. Talking now about getting a small rowboat we can take on the lake.
Flashes of Beth’s face, the screaming and then the dark depths of the water fill my head. I can still see the detectives, hear the questions they fired at me again and again.
The disbelief on their faces.
I wonder where they are now.
9
The Watcher
Eighteen miles away, he moves slowly around the small kitchen, the shuffle of his slippers the only sound in the dim, yellow-tinged light. The bulb overhead flickers, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s been like that for ages and he knows it’ll go soon. Everything does, in time.
He opens the cupboard and takes out one of the seven tins of beans he keeps each week in there – one for each day. He sets it down carefully on the counter – always in the same spot, just beside the knife block where the Formica has peeled at the edges.
His fingers are stiff as he works the tin opener carefully around the edge. It sticks halfway, as it always does, and he exhales sharply before wrenching it free. He pours the beans into a dish and pops it into the microwave. Then he reaches for the bread, takes the last two slices from the packet, and slots them into the ancient toaster. The lever needs coaxing down, as it has done for years.
The room smells of damp and old cooking oil and, beneath that, the faint, lingering ammonia tang of cat pee. He needs to get on his hands and knees again, scrub the bottom of the door where Frederick used to spray. The bugger got territorial in his old age, but he misses the little menace more than he’d thought possible. He stares into space for a long moment, recalling the soft white fluff on Frederick’s ears, the way thecat would wind around his legs, a low purr rumbling against his ankles.
The only living creature that had cared about him. The only soul he’d talk to, sometimes for days on end. And now even he has gone.
While he waits, he adds to the shopping list. His pencil scratches on the small notepad: bread, milk, can of beans to replenish his stock. Only the essentials, always watching the pennies.
The toaster pops. He lifts out the slices, turning them over in his hands, inspecting them. They’re a bit scorched at the edges and barely touched in the centre, but he doesn’t care enough to do anything about it. He takes the dish out of the microwave. A splatter of sauce lands on his wrist, hot against his pale skin.
He scrapes butter onto the toast, then pours the beans over it, the heat spreading outwards, seeping into the bread. He lifts the plate carefully on to his lap tray, adds cutlery, and carries it through to the sitting room.
The local newspaper is wedged in the door, damp from where it’s been shoved through the letterbox. He sighs. He sets the tray on the arm of his chair, then bends to retrieve the paper. His knees crack as he straightens.
He sinks into the chair with a groan, remembering how Frederick would jump on to the armrest, curling neatly into himself, tail brushing against his master’s elbow. He feels the loss like a physical pain.
He eats slowly. There’s a method to it, the way he balances the beans on his fork, cutting the toast into neat squares before lifting each piece to his mouth. He chews steadily, his gaze wandering over the peeling wallpaper, the damp-stained ceiling. He should get that seen to. But who for? There’s no one here but him now the cat’s gone.
Halfway through his meal, he flips open the paper, the ink smudging slightly where the damp’s bled through. He skims the usual rubbish – council disputes, another shop closure in town, some busybody droning on about potholes – and then his gaze locks on to a photograph.
Notts couple win dream home!
The picture shows a young man and woman, standing on the porch of a fancy glass-fronted house and they’re beaming. They’re so happy, he can almost feel the joy radiating off them as they clutch the oversized key.
Underneath the photograph, the caption reads:Merri Harris and Dev Jain: the lucky winners!
