Page 71 of We Live Here Now

70

Emily

Sally and Joe are not my business. That’s what I told myself when I got home, climbing into bed still angry at both Freddie and the vicar. They’re happy, and I’ve got enough problems with Freddie’s debts. Whatever part of Sally that’s trapped here might also be dangerous. She threatened to slit Georgina Usher’s throat all those years ago. What might she do if I set her free? I went to bed having decided that I’d leave it well alone, get the money, get out of this place, go to France. Work on my own marriage, if I decide to stay in it. My period still isn’t here, and surely if I do another test soon, I’ll get a clear answer.

A rattle from the hallway startles me out of my near sleep. It’s only ten but feels like the dead of night as I push myself up to half sitting to listen. There’s no wind buffeting the outside of the house, and the rattling from the landing is an island of noise in the silence. The rattling stops and there is the scraping and grunt of wood, followed by immediate icy air. It smells fresh, not rotten. It’s air from outside.

I get up, the floorboards already cold underfoot, and wrap my dressing gown tight, my heart starting to race. I pull the bedroom door open slowly, peering cautiously out as I reach for the light switch. I can see it, even before the sudden brightness of the bulbs makes me squint. The hallway sash window is open upward, the bottom panel lifted , not the top panel fallen. Thick flakes of snow drift in, appearing as from nowhere, spat out by the endless, unforgiving darkness beyond.

My skin prickles with more than just cold, and something glints at my feet, demanding my attention. I stare at that tiny space in the floorboards.

The nail. The nail is back. Of course it is. I skirt around it, and when I reach the window I can’t bring myself to shut it immediately, a sudden fear of closing myself up in here and it becoming my grave. I grip the windowsill, letting the cold air encircle me, ignoring the heavy flakes of snow that land on my face and hair. I take in a deep breath. Sell the house. Get out of here , I think. Larkin Lodge isn’t your problem. Sally Freemantle isn’t your problem.

The window slams shut so fast that I barely have time to pull my hands away, and as the wood comes screeching down hard, it traps my little finger, white pain exploding through me. Splinters tear and cut at my skin as I stumble backward, pulling my hand free, the window snapping that final inch shut. As I cradle my hand, the lights suddenly flicker overhead. For an awful moment I think I’m about to be plunged into the pitch-black, but the yellow bulb sputters back into life and, moaning, I go into the bathroom. My finger’s throbbing hard and already swelling, and, worst of all, it’s bleeding around the nail. Sepsis sepsis sepsis , is all I can think.

At the sink, almost sobbing in my fear and panic, I stick my finger under the tap and open the bathroom cupboard to find the antiseptic and plasters.

I shriek as the water turns from freezing to boiling in an instant, the hot water coming out in a jet, splashing up my arm, and once again I’m forced to yank my hand away and stumble backward. In the hallway the window creaks open and slams shut, over and over, so fast and angry I think the glass might break.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” I slide down to the floor, gripping the small bottle of antiseptic in one hand as my cut finger pumps blood over my dressing gown. “Please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

My knees under my chin, I hide my face, curling up like a child, just wanting it all to go away. This madness of the house. I want to be back in the hospital. I’d rather be in a coma than dealing with all this. I want it to stop.

The noise goes on, a cacophony of bangs and slams and rattles and creaks, taps around the house coming on and off, the shower starting up, doors slamming, and all the time I keep my head down, curled in on myself as if I can make myself disappear. Finally, when I can’t take it anymore, I look up and scream, “Okay, okay, I’ll do it!”

Everything stops, an instant silence.

“I’ll do it,” I repeat, more softly. “I’ll set you free.”