Page 47 of The Dead Ex

Once I was shocked to find myself thinking how easy it would be to put a pillow over his head. I knew a woman who did that once. She got Life.

The weird thing is that my husband hadn’t done anything wrong then – well, nothing I knew about.

I loved him. Everything was good.

But I still couldn’t stop thinking about the pillow. It was as if I knew what was to come.

15

Vicki

2 March 2018

Just as I am potting some rosemary (a symbol of good luck) on my kitchen window sill, the door knocker thuds. It’s DI Vine again, with a different sergeant this time. He doesn’t introduce her. I’ve been waiting for this. The police often follow up quickly after an interview to unnerve suspects.

‘There are just a few more things we need to check. Mind if we take anotherlook?’

‘It’s becoming a habit,’ I say.

They don’t smile.

I gesture inside. ‘You know the way.’

Be calm, I tell myself.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ I ask the woman, who is waiting with me. She’s younger than the last with a slightly foxy face and two silver stud earrings in one lobe. I decide to get her on side. Might be easier.

‘Cup of tea would be nice. Milk with two sugars.’

‘I don’t have a kettle in case I burn myself. I told your inspector that before.’

‘Ah yes,’ she says heavily. ‘You have epilepsy, don’t you?’

She says the word with a certain amount of scepticism. I’m used to that. Unless someone has seen you have a seizure, they often don’t understand. I’ve actually heard of people like me being accused of being ‘benefit cheats’.Sometimes I wish others couldgo through it – just the once – and then they might be more understanding. Mind you, it’s the babies that really upset me. The parents’ stories on the websites reduce me to tears.

‘Can’t be easy to do your aromatherapy stuff,’ she says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘What if you have one of your turns when you’ve got a client?’

My mind shoots back to one of my worst early experiences. When I cameto, I found my lady – still in her underwear – dialling 999. ‘Ambulance,’ she was babbling in the way you do when you’re scared stiff. ‘Quick.’

‘Are you ill?’ I’d asked sleepily.

She’d given me an ‘are you mad?’ look. ‘No. But you were. Your eyes started rolling and you began thrashing all over the place. You hit me. Look!’

There was indeed a bruise starting to show on her arm.

‘You must remember!’

But I didn’t. That was when I’d explained my ‘condition’. At least, I’d tried to. I was feeling very tired and woozy, which is what always happens.

‘Then you shouldn’t be treating people,’ she said. ‘You could have hurt me. Isn’t there a law against it?’

No. Someone with our condition can still carry on working. Yet, as it was explained to me at the time of diagnosis, you have to be ‘sensible’.Not take risks. As if that was possible.

On the other side of the wall, I can hear cupboards being opened.

‘What would you do,’ I demand, ‘ifyousuddenly started fitting?’

The woman looks as if I’ve asked something quite ridiculous. ‘No idea. I’ve never been in that position.’