I look at the children’s drawings on the fridge, the kind of pictures only a mother would keep, and the unwashed dishes – no excuses. I’m thinking about cleaning up myself, when there’s a sound from above. I stand deadly still and hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Cait’s here! So that’s why the door was open. Tor mentioned that she was going to pick up supplies and children’s clothes. I consider what to do. It’d be easy to slip back into the night, but I feel I’m being presented with a unique opportunity. Perhaps I could silence Cait more directly.
Owen would get the blame, no doubt. In some ways, I might be doing Cait a favour. Her life is one long series of disappointments, and it would help her achieve her goals, too, as Owen couldn’t get custody of the girls if he was in prison. Always look for a win-win.
As I think this, I realize, oddly, that I would miss her.
I take my shoes off at the bottom of the stairs and slowly make my way to the first floor, placing my stockinged feet carefully on the outside of each step. I head towards what an estate agent would call the ‘principal bedroom’, although it’s far from deserving of the title.
As soon as I open the door I’m hit with the unmistakable stink of petrol. I put my hand over my mouth and step back. Through the half-open door, I can see Cait’s bed is soaked with it. A green fuel cannister is lying on its side on the floor.
What stupid idea has Cait got into her head? Suicide? Insurance fraud? I can leverage either.
The moment I enter the room, the door slams behind me anda rough hand shoves me. I stagger forward, only just stopping myself from falling, and then turn quickly to see a man standing there staring at me, wild and unshaven, his hands toying with a box of matches.
Chapter26Matches
‘Hello, Lalla,’ says Owen O’Donnell. He smiles, leaning his bulk against the door. There’s a bed with a petroleum wet patch behind me. I feel the knife in my pocket and slowly remove it from its plastic bag in readiness. Sadly it will remove Cait’s fingerprints, but needs must.
‘Cait sent you, did she?’ he says, glowering with menace. ‘Ask you to do more of her dirty work?’
‘The question is, what are you doing here? Planning to burn your wife’s house down? That’s romantic.’
‘Fuck you. If it wasn’t for you, we’d still be together.’
‘If it wasn’t for me, she’d be dead, Owen, and you’d be in prison, you disgusting little coward.’
He lurches towards me, kicks me hard in the stomach, and I fly back onto the petrol-soaked bed. I lie there, feeling the pain course through my body, but it immediately turns into anger. My hand slips back into my pocket. I will enjoy cutting this throat.
‘You speak like that again and I’ll kill you,’ he says. I notice he’s slurring his words and swaying slightly.
‘What do you want?’
‘Money!’ he shouts. ‘I told Cait I needed five grand today, and she didn’t even reply. Stupid bitch.’
‘You think burning her house down will help?’
‘I’m dead unless I get five grand, so I’m making my fucking point.’
‘What point is that?’
‘I’m burning her bed. This time without her in it,’ he says, and laughs. ‘Next time, who knows?’
‘You’ll burn down the entire house, Owen. It’s petrol. Are you pissed?’
‘Not pissed enough,’ he says.
‘Let me go,’ I say, pushing myself to my feet. I grab the handle of the knife as he strokes the match against the matchbox. Even if I pull the knife, he could probably disarm me. I might cut him once or twice, but unless I catch an artery, his strength and size would leave me at his mercy. I need to get closer, somehow.
I take a step towards him. ‘This has nothing to do with me, Owen. You need help.’ I stare up at him, eyeballing, and take another step. I’m close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. He puts the matches in his jacket pocket, raises a hand and holds my chin.
‘I might like to help you.’ He smiles.
I take the knife out of my pocket. He holds my face so firmly I can’t even glance downwards. If I stab now, I could hit his coat, bone or muscle, and I can see in his eyes what this scared and humiliated man would do to me.
I look up at his neck. It would be difficult. But the decision is taken out of my hands as his hand moves from my chin and he gropes my crotch.
My hand rises. One fast blow. I stab, but he feels the attack coming. His head jerks back, and the knife slices across his neck rather than into it. Blood cascades from the wound. He grabs my arm, and twists it so violently that I drop the knife. His other hand grabs my neck and squeezes hard. He shoves me hard, and I fall back onto the bed. He stands holding the gash on his neck.
