Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

Will laughed and said that he had forgotten about the van, and the offer was withdrawn.

Very occasionally, particularly if Carl had sold some paintings at a good price, we would go out to supper in a little fish restaurant just a few doors away from our home.

This was a real treat for us, and I was delighted when, later in the week having had such an exceptional run of sales, Carl suggested we celebrate with a meal out in our favourite restaurant.

I washed my hair, trying desperately to blow-dry a little bounce into its lank flamess which was emphasised by then by my half-grown-out layered haircut, and we both put on our smartest clothes – we didn’t need to, but we enjoyed dressing up every now and again. I even considered risking the orange suit, tucked away at the back of my wardrobe – I hadn’t quite been able to bring myself to throw it out – but thought better of it. In the end I settled for the familiar and safe calf-length skirt, cotton print blouse and a jacket.

The Inn Plaice, in spite of its appalling name, was anything but and, because it was in a back street away from the seafront, had to rely on the quality of its food rather than a stunning location with which to tempt diners. Its proprietor, Pete Trevellian, the younger son of a family of fishermen, behaved more as if he were hosting a dinner party for friends in his house than running a restaurant, but Pete had a good set-up. His fish, mostly supplied direct from his family’s fishing boats, was good and fresh, and his father and brothers were able to make a better living than many fishermen in the area partly because of the family restaurant outlet. The Inn Plaice had a big local following and, unlike many eating houses in the town, which relied almost entirely on the seasonal tourist trade, was able to remain open all the year round.

Pete greeted us, as he did most of his regulars, with a complimentary glass of wine. But once we were settled at our table with menus Carl suddenly announced that he had forgotten a quick errand he must run, and jumped up and left before I had time to protest. He was gone for several minutes and, just as I was beginning to wonder where on earth he had got to, he returned clutching a bunch of daffodils. ‘For you with my love,’ he said. ‘Supermarket special, I’m afraid – should have thought of it earlier, shouldn’t I?’

I shook my head and thanked him profusely. Another of the many things I loved about Carl was his spontaneity. It was typical of him to be sitting at a restaurant table, think about buying me flowers, and just rush off and get some. I was as knocked out by my slightly tired-looking daffs as I would have been by a bouquet of orchids.

Carl ordered more wine. We then turned our attention to the menu and chose crab chowder followed by an assortment of grilled local fish served with a side dish of Pete’s irresistibly crunchy chips, and fresh fruit salad with clotted cream for dessert.

In the end we got through two bottles of wine, as well as Pete’s initial glasses, an unusually large amount for us, but it just turned into one of those sort of evenings. As we said our goodbyes and set out on the short walk home I realised that I was definitely slightly tipsy. I made a concentrated effort to walk straight as Carl could be a bit stiff about drinking to excess, but he seemed easygoing enough that night. After all it was he who had ordered the deadly second bottle and I fancied he might not be stone-cold sober himself. I leaned against him heavily as we turned, perhaps both of us swaying slightly, into the cobbled alley that led to Rose Cottage.

I could see from the light of the street lamp on the corner that there was something strange about our front door. It seemed to have shiny red marks all over it, standing out starkly against the faded, pale-blue paint. I caught my breath. I could feel Carl stiffen beside me. Both instantly sober, we covered the last few yards to the cottage in silence. The shiny red marks were writing, as I think we had both immediately suspected, although we could not see to read what had been scrawled across the door to our home until we were directly in front of it: ‘YOU CANNOT ESCAPE – I’M WATCHING.’

The words were roughly scrawled in thick daubs of bright-red gloss paint which had run and dripped down the wooden panels. I reached out and touched a particularly shiny patch. It was still wet. My hand came away smeared with red. I stared at it. The dripping red paint looked like blood. I felt my vision blur.

Carl’s grip on my arm tightened.

I wanted to cry out, but my voice temporarily deserted me.

Carl found his all right. He bellowed his anger into the cold night air. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he shouted at the top of his voice. And immediately he began to scrub at the paint with his free hand and the sleeve of his good overcoat. I didn’t try to stop him. After a few seconds he seemed to pull himself together and stopped the frantic rubbing. ‘We don’t even have to look at this,’ he muttered, his earlier flash of near hysteria apparently under control.

Swiftly he unlocked the front door and together we climbed the stairs to bed. The joy of our evening out had been destroyed.

We didn’t say much. There wasn’t much to say. But I knew what would happen that night, knew it with dreadful clarity, and so, I am sure, did Carl. I did not have the energy nor the determination to pace the house and keep myself awake, so I just gave in to the promise of misery. Maybe I hoped that the alcohol I had consumed would give me some kind of bizarre protection as I slept. It didn’t.

That night the nightmare was the very worst of all. The blood had seen to that. For that is what I saw on my front door, blood, not paint. And it was blood, I knew all too well, that I was going to see inside my head. Always.

At breakfast the next morning, I finally gave voice to most of what I was thinking. ‘The reality may be that we just can’t hide any more,’ I told Carl sombrely.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Not here, anyway. Maybe we can’t stay here any longer. I think the time has come to move on. What do you say?’

I was numbed by his words. ‘This is our home,’ I protested. ‘I don’t want to move from here, I really don’t.’

‘Anywhere we are together would be our home,’ he countered. ‘That’s all that matters isn’t it?’

I nodded. I didn’t know quite what to say.

‘Let’s give it a few days, see if anything else happens,’ I managed eventually.

But I knew what I truly felt. Not only did I not want to run again, I was not going to run again. The running was over. I also knew I could not expect any more from Carl. He had done too much already to protect me. I suspected that he was drained of energy. I was not going to be a victim any more, not of nightmares nor superstitions nor anonymous threats. I reckoned it was up to me to sort out our lives once and for all, to remove the fear that had always been there in its different ways for both of us.

That afternoon, while Carl was working, I slipped out of the house. I had to creep away stealthily because Carl would never have allowed me to do what I was planning. He loved me too much and I knew only too well how great was his fear of losing me. But I had had enough. It had all gone on far too long.

I found an inner strength I did not know I had. On tiptoe I left the cottage, opening and shutting the old front door with the greatest of care. I was afraid, but my steps were determined as I walked along our little cobbled lane and into the network of narrow streets that led down the hill from our cottage to the harbour, the place that had always been so special to us.

I wanted to be there alone just once more before it all changed, perhaps for ever. Before I took our futures into frightening unknown territory beyond the point of no return.