36
The door slams behind them and Anna struggles to keep her balance as Marc pulls her along the entrance hall and into a room at the back of the house. He shoves her into a chair at the end of a long table and strides away to the window, breathing heavily. She grabs on to the seat for support.
Anna was already hyperventilating with nerves before she even rang the doorbell, but the way she’s just been manhandled has sent her into overdrive. The room starts to go hazy, spinning around her, and there’s a buzzing in her ears. Just in time, she realises she’s about to pass out, so without thinking about Marc’s reaction, she puts her head down between her knees to stop the room from spinning.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he says again. Three long strides and he’s back beside her, looming over her. She can feel his physicality, anger beating off him like flames. Slowly she brings her head up, looks at him straight on. His eyes are piercing, burning with rage that’s so white-hot she has to put up a hand to shield her own gaze.
‘I could kill you right now,’ he says. ‘I could kill you right now and no one would blame me. Why the hell have you come to my house?’ He shifts from one foot to the other, as if preparing to hit her. Anna braces herself, her head still down.
But after a moment or so, he still hasn’t struck her. Instead, he moves away. Anna keeps her head down for a little longer, but the room has stopped spinning, she’s got her breath back under control.
‘Go on, then,’ she says, pushing herself to her feet and holding her hands up to him. ‘Go on, hit me. Kill me, if you like. I’m not going to stop you.’
Marc moves back towards her again, his face pale, his eyes blazing. He pulls back his right hand, tightening it into a fist. This is it, finally. Anna’s going to receive the punishment that she deserves.
He doesn’t hit her, though. Instead, he collapses on to the chair next to her, his head in his hands, and bursts into tears. Anna stands rigid for a while longer, uncertain whether she should say something, put a hand on his shoulder, anything. She opts for the safer option and sits back down in her own chair, pulling it away so that he has more space.
His sobs subside and he looks up at her, his eyes bloodshot, snot running from his nose. He wipes it with the back of his hand, the movement impatient.
‘I can’t do it,’ he says. ‘I want to, but I can’t. You shouldn’t have come.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I couldn’t keep away. I need to know how he is.’
He looks at her, completely silent, his mouth slightly open. Then he starts to make a barking, painful noise. It’s laughter – of a sort. ‘I have no fucking idea.’
‘You what?’
He laughs again, a sob breaking through. The sound sends a chill through Anna.
‘I have no fucking idea. Sally lost it with me – said it was too much. They’ve gone. Moved away. She doesn’t want me visiting, won’t tell me what’s going on. I thought about taking her to court, but I don’t want to make the situation any worse.’
‘Why did she lose it?’
‘She found out I was still sending you letters. I dropped one in front of her. She said I had to choose, continue the contact with you, or stay with her and Toby. She told me that letter she sent you about your mum would be the last communication you had with us, ever. We had nothing left to say to you, not even words of hate. But I couldn’t stop. It’s been eating me alive, the idea of you sitting there, getting away with it.’
The words go through her like nails into a coffin. Anna can’t look at him – seeing the expression of anguish on his face is too painful. As her eyes wander round the room, looking anywhere but at him, she sees the neglect in the garden has spread indoors, too. There’s dust everywhere, accumulated debris and an overflowing ashtray spilling on to the dining table. Empty sandwich wrappers, crisp packets, remnants of takeaways from McDonald’s. The room smells of stale food, stale smoke.
Sally and Toby are gone.
She remembers the last time they ate in here together, the first Christmas they celebrated together after Toby was born. Same room, the table bright then, polished, laid with shining cutlery and glasses, crackers and an angel chime.
She broke it all.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ she says. She’s not going to challenge the hate mail.
‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough? The only thing you can do to make this better in any way is go back in time and not get in the fucking car in the first place.’
Anna opens her mouth. Shuts it again.
‘Get out of my house.’ He’s standing now, moving closer and closer to her. ‘Get the fuck out before I do something I regret.’
He’s not joking. The set of his jaw tells Anna that much. She picks up her bag and scurries for the door. But before she goes, she needs to ask one more question.
‘Was it you? Outside the prison?’
