I have never, ever, seen him look like this. He’s almost unrecognizable. “This is what your husband looked like when he came to the police station, on the day you say he went missing. His nose was broken in two places. I’m not a medical professional, but I’d guess these injuries were caused by more than just a slap. The only reason we didn’t bring you in then was because he refused to press charges in the end. I think he was afraid of you.”
I accept that my mind might have a hairline fracture, but my memory works just fine.
I’m not crazy.
“This is insane! I’ve never seen him looking like that—”
“In his statement, your husband said he had confronted you about an affair he believed you were having with Jack Anderson, your co-star in this movie. Any truth in that?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“Anything that helps me find your husband and ensure his safety is my business. A few hours after he left the police station, you reported him missing. Where is he now, Mrs. Sinclair?”
Everything is too loud, I just want her to stop talking, or for someone to explain what is happening in a way that makes a shred of sense. “I told you, I don’t know. If I knew where he was, or if I had hurt him myself, why would I call the police?”
She shakes her head. “One last question. Can you remind me what time you said you came home the night you realized he was … missing?”
“About five p.m. I guess, I’m not sure exactly.” I notice Wakely scribble something down.
“See, now that’s interesting, because it means you were home when your husband made his final call from the phone you said was his, the one that was left on the coffee table. He has been seeing a domestic abuse counselor for a little while now. He said this wasn’t the first time you attacked him, and he left a message on his counselor’s phone. Want to know what Ben said?”
Not really.
She hits a button on her iPad, and Ben’s hushed voice fills my dressing room. It’s like hearing a ghost.
“I’m sorry to call, but you said that I could if I ever felt in danger again, and I think she’s going to kill me.”
Twenty
Essex, 1987
“You’ll get square eyes,” Maggie says, getting out of bed and turning off the TV. I’ve been living here for a long time now and she’s always saying that, so I check my eyes as often as I can in the mirror to make sure they are still round. I carry on staring at the screen anyway, even though the picture has gone. I can see a girl in it, like a little gray ghost of me. She smiles when I smile, and stands when I stand, and looks sad when I look sad. I don’t see what she does when I turn and walk away, but sometimes I imagine she stays right where she is inside that screen. Watching me.
“Do you know the best thing about Christmas?” Maggie asks.
I’d forgotten that she said it was Christmas today and don’t answer.
“Surprises!” She ties one of her bras around my head, like a blindfold. I don’t always like Maggie’s surprises. She pulls me up and leads me to the door in the flat I’ve never been through before. It’s locked and I’m afraid of what might be behind it. I hear her take out the giant set of keys, then she opens the door, and we shuffle inside. It’s dark, but I can feel soft carpet beneath my toes, just like in my bedroom. She takes the bra off my face, which I’m glad about, but I still can’t really see until she opens the heavy-looking curtains.
The room is beautiful, like the grotto in Dunnes Stores in Galway at Christmas. A pretty pattern of red and white flowers is all over the walls, and there is red carpet on the floor. I see a big red sofa, with lots of cushions, and the fireplace is a bit like the one at home. Paper chains are hanging down from the swirly white ceiling, and in the corner of the room there is a giant green tree, covered in tinsel, with a big silver star on top. Best of all, there are presents underneath, more presents than I’ve ever seen before.
“Well, go on then, see if there’s anything there for you,” says Maggie. Her yellow T-shirt with a smiley face comes down