Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

I strip the bed and soak out the bloodstained sheets in the sink. I let them dry on the heated rail and get started on bleaching the basin and tiles. I scrub the lamp base and replace it on the nightstand, its thick marble still intact after connecting with Patrick’s skull. I clean everything, put it all in order, remake the bed, and then strip down for the shower.

I let the streaming water run over my forehead. The cut throbbing. All my muscles pound and sing under the hot shower, but I can’t relax yet. In the mirror I pick open my scabbing forehead cut until a drop of blood beads out. I make sure there is water on the floor and then I smash the largest remaining shard of the bathroom door. A satisfying crack.

I phone down to reception. My voice is shaky. I need help.

The receptionist runs up to assist. It’s a different girl from yesterday, older, more friendly. I stand trembling in my towel. I explain how I just got out of the shower and slipped on the wet floor into the glass of the door. My forehead dribbles red onto my cheek and into my hairline.

She’s appalled on my behalf: “Floor tiles shouldn’t be that slippery!” She can’t apologize enough. Refunds are offered.

I say it’s fine. I’m fine. Just shaken up.

She calls her manager, who offers me a free stay. I decline. They offer me a free dinner. Shivering in my towel, I accept. My blood sugar is low; I do need to eat. I already ate all the cookies in the minibar about an hour ago. I dress and go down to eat in the pub restaurant below.

The problem of the broken door is solved. The problem of food is solved. I am given a dressing for my wound. The receptionist insists on helping me apply it.

It’s not until I am safely on the motorway home that I stop at a service station and call Eddie back from a pay phone.

“It’s done. Thank you. Thank you for helping me. I really appreciate it.” I feel very close to Eddie. We’ve been through something together.

“That’s all right, sweetheart. Happy to help. Just, you know, don’t make a habit of it.” He snorts lightly into the receiver.

I smile silently. I definitely won’t be making a habit of it. “I won’t,” I promise gently.

There’s no way really to tell him how much he’s helped me. How much I owe him. Yet he seems to glean it down the line.

“Listen, love, I didn’t tell you anything you wouldn’t have worked out for yourself. It’s just shock. I remember the first time for me. That feeling. Shock does some—yeah, it does some funny stuff to the brain. But you’re all right now?” He’s gruff again, back to reality. Enough of the mushy stuff.

“Yes, I’m better. I just need to ask you one last thing, Eddie. How long do you wait to report someone missing?”

Silence from the other end. I can almost hear him blink.

“You don’t,” he says simply.

“But what if you have to?” I insist.

There’s a moment’s silence on the line and then I hear him put two and two together. The penny drops. Someone I know isn’t coming back.

“Right. I see. Right,” he says, and starts to talk me through it.

—

As soon as I get back home I call Mark’s iPhone. It goes straight to voicemail, of course. Buried three feet deep in the Norfolk woods. I clear my throat.

“Hi, honey, I just got home. Just wondering where you are. Hope New York was great. I just got back from Norfolk. Wondering where you are? Let me know if you want some dinner left out. See you soon. Love you.” I make a kissing sound and hang up.

Phase one: done.

Phase two: get my house in order. I burn the note I left on the stairs in our fireplace. I was never at Caro’s. I’ll tell the police I was in Norfolk. A minibreak while Mark was traveling for work. I tidy our home. I undo all the mess I created searching for the USB before I left.

Finally, when it’s all done, I slump down exhausted on the sofa in my empty house and stare at the walls—painted York Stone White, the color we chose together.

The next morning I wake early. I slept deeply and now every muscle in my body aches, torn and battered from hours of stress and exertion. I rise and make myself a hot chocolate. I need the sugar. I need the warmth.

At five past seven I call Mark’s mobile again.

“Mark, it’s Erin. I’m not sure what’s up. I’m getting a bit worried now, so can you call me please?” I hang up.

I go to the living room and light the fire. I’m staying in today. All day.

I check the Swiss account. Two million euros went in yesterday morning. He must have planned to transfer it all over to his new account after the handover. But I do notice around £800,000 is missing from the account. I do not find it in Mark’s savings account. I do not find it in his current account. It must already be nestling in his Swiss account, somewhere out there, God knows where. There’s no way to find out now. But so much the better for my current purposes.

Now that I think about it, it all fits perfectly. The story of Mark will hang together nicely.

Mark has been asking around about a client wanting to shift diamonds, a client needing help with certain assets. It will look suspicious. It will. Which is ideal. My husband has stumbled into something he shouldn’t have and run away. Or something worse has happened. Perhaps he got involved with the wrong people. We’ll never know. They will look, the police, but they will never find anything.

There are three stages in documentary filmmaking, and they are: research and preparation, patience while the narrative unfolds, and, finally and arguably most important, editing your footage to create a lucid and compelling narrative. I know life isn’t a documentary—but if the process works, then why not use it? And believe me, this story is not a story I ever wanted to tell, but here I am; this is what I have to work with and this is the narrative I have chosen. And it’s a narrative I’m sure the police will buy into.

In his online bank account I see he took out three hundred pounds from the cash point near our house after he got back from New York. It’s the largest cash withdrawal you can make. My guess is he hailed a cab to take him all the way up to Norfolk—he knew where I was because of my phone, or because of Patrick. Patrick was following me; he followed me up to Norfolk. He texted Mark to let him know but he must have been in the air by then. Mark would have known I was there even without turning on the find-my-phone app.

Patrick is the bit I can’t understand. I’m not sure who killed Patrick and left him crumpled in the woods. Mark or the tall man? Perhaps Mark met up with Patrick after Patrick had attacked me at the hotel, maybe that’s when Mark collected my rucksack, phone, and gun. Maybe that’s when Mark slit his throat? I found the knife in some leaves near the body and buried it with them both. Perhaps Mark didn’t want to risk having to share his earnings? Or perhaps the tall man killed Patrick? Maybe Patrick heard the gunshots, came to investigate, but ran into the man as he left. Too close to the road to fire his gun, perhaps the tall man cut Patrick’s throat and let him bleed out onto the leaves.

Either way, Patrick is hard evidence of what kind of man I married. I can’t quite believe Mark did what he did: having me followed, terrifying me, making me doubt myself. Hiring Patrick to attack and rob me. And now they’re both dead.

I’ve been trying to pin down the exact moment it all changed between Mark and me. But maybe Mark never trusted me. It’s funny: the more I question his reasons for betraying me, the clearer his story becomes. To the extent that it shocks me I didn’t see this entire thing coming. How could I not have noticed? But I was so happy; I loved him so much.