time they got round to eating, the chicken was tough and dry, so Michael called for takeaway and got dressed to go and pick it up from their favourite place a few miles out of town.
While he was gone, Karen made herself a coffee and sank herself down on the sofa to read a magazine – one of those real-life ‘my mother stole my husband’ types that she swore she only bought for the quizzes.
The downstairs of Karen’s home was modern – sleek lines and chrome kitchen appliances – but it could hardly be called cosy. Everything she owned was a fingerprint hazard, and the off-spec glass patio doors had been a nightmare to find blinds for – even more so considering she never closed them.
The darkness beyond the doors gave the impression that there was nothing there, as though the world began and ended with her house. Silly really, as she was surrounded by other houses; they just weren’t packed together like soldiers in a row. When the darkness was this thick, she felt completely cut off from everyone else. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen the house in the first place: you could be surrounded by people and yet still be on your own.
A thump against the back kitchen door pulled Karen’s attention from her magazine, but only briefly. That was quick; he’d obviously forgotten something. She wondered why he’d been so uptight when he’d arrived home. Had they fought? Did she know about Karen, or suspect? She assumed he wouldn’t be back if his wife knew about her, unless she’d kicked him out.
Lost in thoughts of Michael’s marriage ending, it took her a minute to realise he hadn’t come in. He couldn’t have forgotten his keys; he’d locked the door behind him and she’d heard his car leave. She reached over and cracked the front room curtain open. The car wasn’t on the drive.
‘Hurry up, Michael, I’m bloody starving,’ she muttered to herself, picking up her magazine again.
A second noise, like a short blast of hail against the door, pulled Karen to her feet. She dropped her magazine on the sofa, moved towards the kitchen and peered through the window, greeted by nothing but blackness. Fumbling with her keys, she pulled open the kitchen door and stared out into the night. There was not a movement or sound anywhere. As she went to close the door again, she glanced down. A jumble of items lay beneath the step: a pair of boots she hadn’t worn for years, a jumper, a necklace. Her heart pounded as she picked them up, noticing a card that Michael had sent her for her birthday a year ago, and one of her lipsticks. How had these things got out here? The last time she’d seen any of them they had been in her bedroom, the boots in the wardrobe, the card in a box under her bed.
She scooped up the items and locked the door behind her, throwing one last look into the darkness. The garden was silent; no telltale sniggering or thud of footsteps to indicate that this was the work of bored teenagers.
Shaking slightly, she deposited the items on the sofa and crossed the room to check that Michael really had locked the front door behind him. He had, but she opened it now, staring down the empty street, dimly lit by the eco lamps the council had replaced the once harsh street lights with. Who had thrown those things?
She was about to lock the front door again when she noticed the piece of paper sellotaped to the stained glass. She pulled it off and slammed the door shut, turning her key in the lock, then switched on the hallway light. Her hands trembled slightly as she unfolded the plain white notepaper and looked down at the words written in neat cursive handwriting.
I know what you’re doing. I know what you’ve done.
‘You’re sure these things were inside the house? You hadn’t thrown them away? It’s probably kids going through the bins to try and scare you.’
When Michael had returned, he’d found Karen sitting on the sofa staring at the collection of belongings she’d found at the back door, the letter laid out on the cushions next to her.
‘I hadn’t thrown any of them away. They were in the house, in my bedroom. Someone’s been here, someone’s been through my things!’
‘We should call the police.’ Michael picked up the phone. ‘If you’re sure someone’s been in here, then it