Fiona Barton - The Widow

“Lesley said I did a lovely job on Eve’s hair today. She wanted a Keira Knightley bob with red flashes. I knew it wouldn’t suit her—she looks nothing like Keira Knightley with that great round face—but she loved it.”

“Well done, love.”

“Wonder what her husband said when she got home . . . Do you want this last piece of chicken? Go on, or it’ll go to waste.”

“Okay. Don’t know why I’m so hungry—I had a great big sandwich at lunchtime—but this is delicious. What’s on the box tonight? Isn’t it Top Gear ? Let’s get the washing up done quickly and go and have a look.”

“Go on. You go. I’ll see to the dishes.”

He kissed the top of her head as he squeezed past her at the sink. While it filled with hot water, she put the kettle on.

Later, sitting in front of the television, he let himself take out the new information and examine it minutely. He knew where to find Dawn and Bella. He could go and wait outside the nursery and follow them. But what then? What was he thinking of? He didn’t want to think about it here, in his sitting room with his wife curled up on the sofa.

He’d think about it when he was on his own. Figure out something. He just wanted to see them.

Just wanted a look. He wouldn’t speak to Dawn. He’d been careful to make sure she didn’t know what he looked like, but he couldn’t risk speaking to her. He had to keep her at arm’s length. Keep her behind the screen.

He had to wait weeks for his next south-coast delivery. It was exhausting, fretting and worrying at the details of his fantasy while keeping up his role of devoted husband at home. But he had to maintain boundaries. No slippage.

On his and Jean’s seventeenth wedding anniversary, he’d made a big fuss over her with flowers and a meal out. But he wasn’t really there at the table in their favorite Italian restaurant. Jean didn’t seem to notice. He hoped she hadn’t.

He felt sick with anticipation as he drove down the motorway. He’d looked up the nursery school in the Internet club and had an address. He’d sit down the road and watch.

Glen arrived as the children were beginning to trickle out of the building, clutching pictures nubbled with painted pasta in one hand, their mums’ hands with the other. He worried he might have arrived too late but parked so he could watch in his rearview mirror and no one would be able to see his face.

He almost missed them. Dawn looked older and scruffier than in her Facebook photos, with her hair tied back and an old jumper swamping her. It was Bella he recognized first. Skipping along the pavement. Glen followed them in the mirror until they passed his van and he got his first direct sight. Close enough to see the smudged makeup under Dawn’s eyes and the golden glint of Bella’s hair.

They went around the corner, and he started the engine. “Just want to see where they live,” he told himself. “That’s all. Where’s the harm in that? They won’t even know I’ve been here.”

Driving home the back way, he pulled over and edged up a farm track, turned off his phone, and masturbated. He tried to think about Dawn, but she kept sliding out of the picture. He sat afterward, shocked by the intensity of the experience and afraid of the man he’d turned out to be. He told himself it would never happen again. He would stop going online; he’d stop looking at porn. It was a sickness, and he’d get better.

But on October 2 he was given a delivery in Winchester and he felt the physical certainty that he would drive down her street again.

He turned on the radio as he made his way, to distract himself, but all he could think of was the golden glint. I’ll just look to see if they are there , he told himself. But when he stopped for fuel on the motorway, he bought a sleeping bag from the bargain baskets and sweets.

He was so wrapped up in the fantasy that he missed his turn and had to double back to the garage. It felt dreamlike as he acted the deliveryman for the customer, joking and asking after business, holding his secret close. He was on his way to Manor Road, and nothing could stop him.

The danger was part of the reason he was doing it. Glen Taylor, former bank executive and devoted husband, could see the shame, the disgrace he risked by his actions, but TDS wanted to stand close to it, to touch it, be singed by it.

“See you soon, Glen,” one of the blokes in the parts department called.

“Yeah. Bye.” He walked to the van and climbed in. There was still time to turn back, to go home and be himself again. But he knew what he would do and signaled to pull out.

Manor Road was deserted. Everyone was at work or indoors. He drove slowly, as if looking for an address, playing the part. Then he saw her, standing behind a low wall, looking at a gray cat rolling in the dust on the pavement. Time slowed, and he found he’d stopped the van. The sound of the engine had distracted the child, and she was looking at him and smiling.

He was jolted back to reality when a front door slammed shut behind the van and, in the side mirror, he saw an elderly man standing on the doorstep. Glen pulled away, turning left into a side street almost immediately, and drove around the block. Had the old boy seen him? Seen his face? And if he had, so what? He’d done nothing wrong. Just parked.

But he knew he had to go back. The child was waiting for him.

The van pulled forward to turn back onto Manor Road, and he could see there was no one there. The only living things were the cat and the child, standing inside her garden, waving to him.

He didn’t remember getting out or walking over to her. He remembered picking her up and holding her and getting back in the van, strapping her into the passenger seat. It took less than a minute, and she didn’t make any fuss. She took the sweetie and sat quietly as he took her away from Manor Road.

FORTY-SIX

The Widow

FRIDAY, JUNE 11, 2010

Dawn has always been on the telly. She likes to tell everyone that Bella is alive. That someone took her because they couldn’t have children and wanted a child so badly. Someone who’s looking after her, loving her, and giving her a good life. Dawn has got married now—one of the volunteers from her campaign, an older man who always seems to be touching her. She’s got another little girl. Where’s the justice in that? She holds her new baby tight when she’s on the breakfast show, to show what a good mother she is, but she doesn’t fool me.

Before he died, if Glen was in the room, he’d turn the telly off, casually, to pretend he didn’t care, and then go out. But if he wasn’t there, I’d watch. And buy the papers and magazines when they wrote about Bella. I loved seeing the pictures and videos of her. Playing, laughing, opening her Christmas presents, singing in her baby way, words muddled up, pushing her little stroller. I’ve got quite a collection now from the magazines and newspapers Dawn has talked to. She has always loved the publicity. Her fifteen minutes of fame.

And now I am about to have mine.

When Mick finally turns up, he’s carrying bags of shopping and Chinese takeout. “Couldn’t be bothered to cook,” Kate says with a laugh. “Thought we could have a treat, instead.”

Mick’s clearly staying, too, and I try to remember where I put the sheets and duvet for the sofa bed.

“Don’t mind me, Jean,” he says with his teenager grin. “I can sleep on the floor. I’m not fussy.” I shrug. I’m too fed up with the whole thing to care anymore. Once, I would’ve run around making up beds, putting clean towels out, changing the soap for a new bar. But now I can’t be bothered. I sit with a plate of noodles and shiny red chicken on my knee and wonder if I have the energy to lift my fork.