Worse, he notices that his hands are bloody. He puts the phone on his lap and turns up his palms. Smears of blood cover both. Watery, somewhat washed away by the rain, but clearly blood. It’s beneath his fingernails, between his fingers, it’s in the cracks on his knuckles.
He doesn’t know why it’s there, or what he’s done. Queasiness rises in him and he drops the phone into the crack between the bench and the wall, to hide it. He’s afraid for Maggie to see it and suspect him of something, the way he suspects himself.
There, in the room where he has sat chatting with his father after a day’s work, where he has kneeled to tie the laces on hisson’s shoes, where he has held Maggie’s coat for her as she puts it on, where he has fed generations of beloved dogs, he’s terrified of what’s become of him. After a life of responsibility, he feels nothing but a dread, horror and hopelessness that he’s no longer in control of his actions. And, most terribly, that he might be dangerous to those around him.
His hands clench, one locked into the other, until his fingers turn white. He’s trying to hide the sight of the blood. The effort and horror of it all makes him cry. Silently.
Ruth tries to pull her thoughts together, to keep panic at bay and think rationally about Jayne.
Jayne’s never spoken directly about her time in the army to Ruth, but Mark has shared some of his experiences with Toby who related them to Ruth, in awe. They were difficult, troubling things. Horrific, even.
It intrigued Ruth. For a while, when they first met, she watched both of them but especially Jayne for signs of her past. She wasn’t rewarded. Jayne seemed happy. She wasn’t plagued by ambition or tormented by comparing herself to others. She spoke in cheerful, no-nonsense terms about the challenges of her work as a physiotherapist. She referred to the armed forces in clipped, jolly tones. While she never confided in Ruth in any depth, she was a good listener. She demonstrated her devotion to Mark and drank in the attention he lavished on her.
But there were maybe little signs of trauma. Times when Jayne seemed distant, or jumpy. When she spoke of nightmares but never shared their horrors.
And there was that time on the beach.
The gang was on a weekend away, in Cornwall, shortly after Jayne and Mark married. Ruth and Jayne were lying together onthe sand, towels side by side, chatting amiably. The men and Edie were surfing. Mark came out first. They watched him walk up the beach, his thickset, hairy torso shining. It took a moment to register that blood was running thick down his shin. Ruth stood. Jayne froze. She slipped into a coverup as if she was ready to help, to take action, but she couldn’t look at the wound or at Mark, didn’t even approach him. She was useless. Checked out.
It was Ruth who drove Mark to A&E and stayed there with him while they put stiches in. And that seemed to be no surprise to Mark. “Jayne hates blood,” he’d said, as if it was no big deal. But it was odd. In every other circumstance Jayne was so attentive to him.
Ruth’s no psychologist, but she wonders if Jayne has suffered greater psychological trauma than anyone imagined.
If Jayne’s dangerous.
I should have worked harder to get beneath her surface, Ruth thinks, if I was really her friend. Why was the time we spent together so shallow? So focused on drinking and acting as honorary members of the gang. Did we ever have real conversations or was it bluff and bluster from the men and Edie, with Jayne and I playing along?
We were, she thinks, a very privileged group until Rob died.
And at what price? How much was hidden?
Self-pity wells up in her. She feels confused, fuddled, overwhelmed, too drunk to know anything. Are her instincts about Jayne fantastical or possible? She picks up the gun, marveling at its cold, smooth surfaces. It’s surprisingly heavy.
Why bring a gun unless you plan to do harm, or you believe harm will come to you?
She feels her own terror creep up on her again. It’s the fear of the unknown. Of what’s here, in the house, of what’s outside, of Edie, and now, of Jayne. Her muddled brain doesn’t know which to tackle first or even if she can.
She looks at the gun in her hand. She’s uncomfortable holdingit, doesn’t really know how to. But if Jayne believed there was a threat, then Ruth must defend herself in Jayne’s absence. From the threat. Or from Jayne.
It feels like good logic. It’s the best she can do. Alarmingly, her hands start to shake and her resolve wobbles. I’m still drunk and this is too much for me to handle, she thinks. I can’t do it. Even for Alfie. A sob escapes her. The urge for another drink arrives suddenly and powerfully. It’ll help.
She tries to deny it. She must check the house. For Jayne, Emily. For threat.
Fear makes her jumpy as she goes downstairs.
The kitchen’s deserted. Table laid, food out on the side, cooked but not served and cold to her touch. The utility area seems to reproach her with its ordinariness, white cabinets too bright, overhead lights glaring. The sitting room is empty, the fire died down to embers. A trace of woodsmoke still scents the air.
Satisfied she’s alone, an idea strikes her. Jayne is not here, and neither is Emily. They have gone. Left her. So, Ruth must lock the door to protect herself. This is what she will do for Alfie. She will protect herself because he needs his mother. He’s all that matters, really. She runs the bolt across and leans on the back of the door. It’s solid. The bolt is a good one. She feels safer.
Tomorrow, as soon as it’s light, she’ll leave here and get down to the farmhouse, she tells herself. She’ll go home to Alfie and never leave him and never drink again. She’ll confront Toby.
She thinks that Jayne and Emily are probably both down at the farmhouse by now, safe and warm. On the phone to their husbands. She feels jealous. And unable to fight the urge to drink any longer.
The gun comes upstairs with her, to her bedroom. In the bottom of her bag, where she left it, is the vodka bottle. She sits on the side of the bed and drinks deeply from it. The gun lies on the duvet beside her. She drinks again, hating herself for it, wiping her facebetween sessions of guzzling the vodka. But after a while letting it drip down her chin. When the bottle is empty, she drops it.
She touches the handle of the gun. Picks it up. Considers that this is how some people end their lives.
She puts it on the bedside table. No, she thinks, that’s stupid. If someone breaks in, they’ll snatch it. But it needs to be where she can reach it.
