Prologue
The sun blazed from an unsullied sky. The leaves ceased their rustling and the blades of grass stilled. Peace once again folded itself over the trees and the natural order was restored—except for what now lay there, broken and bloody, sprawled on the mossy woodland floor.
A fly gently settled on her forehead and observed with interest the clotted mess forming before its compound eyes. It shimmered like a jewel as it dipped its head to greedily taste. Where once was beauty lay destruction and the buttercups averted their sunny faces from the sight.
He slipped away between the trees, his every fiber singing with the joy of what he’d done; he was transformed, the secret of who he was and what he could be finally revealed. He was Mors, God of Death, and the air in his wake shivered with the knowledge that something inhuman had passed that way.
What he didn’t see, as he left her there, was the bubble forming at her parted lips, or the plucking of her fingers as they grasped at life’s thin thread.
1
NOW
“I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape”
—Charles Dickens
I wake early with a headache. Not the kind that renders me incapable but one that throbs and threatens, spitefully jabbing behind my eyes with bony fingers. The noise from the street feels physical, each sound jarring against my skin and shrieking along the axons to my brain. The sun filters through the curtains, illuminating the dust motes and trickling languidly down the wall. The day is set to be unseasonably hot and I feel apathy settling on me like a blanket.
I lie on my back and pretend I’m alone. When we were first together, I insisted that I slept on Tom’s left. That afforded me the joy of seeing him as soon as I woke, but he favored the left-hand side of the bed so eventually we swapped. Now he’s on my blind side, which is convenient this morning as it means I don’t have to deliberately avoid looking at him—and yes, I know I’m being petty. I turn, only to find that for once he’s already up. I tend not to sleep well and am usually awake at five, well before Tom surfaces, so it’s mildly disorienting to find a bed full of emptiness next to me.
He’s at the counter in the kitchen already feeding his enthusiasm for the day with eggs and toast, the sight of which makes me feel nauseated. The ketchup glistens like a puddle of gore. He hasn’t noticed me. I stand in the doorway and watch this man who I’ve been married to for the last four years.
Tom Dryland is nice. A much-underrated word that could imply insipidness or even weakness, particularly in a man, but Tom is none of these things. He is mostly patient and kind and has an unflappable strength of character that is reassuring to those around him. If he has a fault it is that he’s always, always right. It’s this unflinching self-belief that gives him the ability to face problems and make decisions with calm decisiveness. While not Christian Bale or Brad Pitt, he has a symmetry and evenness of features that sets him above the ordinary and I sometimes wonder why he chose me. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t spend my life in a state of cringing gratitude but I do occasionally wonder what exactly he saw that made him think, “Yes, this is the one for me.” His mother certainly couldn’t see it. Her outpouring of grief when he announced our engagement was enough to make me look around to see who’d died. I sometimes wonder if there’s something about me that’s inherently off-putting to parents, be they mine or someone else’s. Whatever the reason, Tom calmly weathered her hysterics, and despite her objections we married the following spring on a clear and sunny day, the happiest of my life. I must remind myself of what we have and try to face today with optimism and good grace. Tom wants a fresh start for us, and I can’t let who I am stand in our way.
I pour myself a coffee to try and clear the fog in my head. As I do, Tom looks up from what he’s reading and I see it’s a brochure for the house in Cleaver’s Lane. It’s the latest in our long list of maybe homes and this one has a hold on him. It’s a house he remembers from his childhood; one he passed on visits to his aunt—or if not that particular house, one so much like it to make it special. Despite my best intentions I feel the familiar flutter of disquiet in the pit of my stomach and quickly look away. I’m a second too late. His eyes meet mine and he sees the expression on my face. A matching look of apprehension makes its way to his.
“God Izzy, you look so pale, are you okay? Did you manage to get some sleep in the end or not? I tried not to wake you when I got up so you could have a bit of a lie-in.” He cocks his head slightly and frowns. “You’re not still worrying about this are you? I’ve promised you we won’t go anywhere until we’ve found somewhere we both like.”
I find his tone vaguely accusatory and sigh before I can stop myself. I can’t go over the same things with him again, not today. It’s not fair to him or me.
I make the effort to sound distinctly more chirpy and upbeat than I feel.
“I’m fine Tom, really I am. I just woke up with a bit of a headache that’s all. A coffee and a bit of toast will fix it.”
I feel him watching me as I go to the fridge and I can picture the familiar concern creasing his brow.
“Are you sure you’re all right? If you’re still fretting about today it’s going to be fine, honestly. We’ll drive over this morning, find somewhere quiet to have some lunch and see the house this afternoon. Trust me, you’ll love it as much as me when you see it. Please don’t get all anxious about this again; wherever we live we’ll be happy. You know that.”
It’s impossible to explain to him how I feel. Although I really don’t want to leave London I’m not just “fretting” about seeing a house, it’s this house I seem to be struggling with. Even the name of the road sounds sinister to me. I can’t articulate what it is or why without sounding completely irrational, so I say nothing. I’ve dismissed so many that I’m reaching the point where I’ll eventually have to give in. If this one means so very much to him, it may as well be now.
I have tried to make Tom understand my feelings about a move but a problem I find with being me is that it’s sometimes difficult to have my opinion truly acknowledged, particularly where emotions are involved. I have calmly and carefully explained my reservations, which are then gently set aside. They’re dismissed either as manifestations of my resistance to change, or as no more than my feelings of anxiety over the unknown.
I think I’ve been too honest with Tom, if there is such a thing. I wanted him to go into our relationship with eyes wide open. I now think, on reflection, I should have held some things back. We all have inner thoughts and secret fears, the things we keep inside us hidden behind the face we present to the world, but I told Tom all, so tipped the balance in his favor. He thinks he knows my innermost workings. I just guess at his. He doesn’t do it intentionally or unkindly, but he tends to accept my opinions only when it suits. When it doesn’t, he uses my weaknesses to diminish them.
If I become angry, I’m overstimulated. If I tear the details up and scream and cry, I’ll just be exhibiting an inappropriately impulsive response. So instead I keep quiet and go with the flow. Over this I needed him to look beyond my limitations and accept what I truly feel.