Apple of My Eye Read online

  I could take a chance, I supposed. I wound down my window and stuck my head out, tried to gauge what else was on the road. She was getting away, so I slammed my car into first and turned the steering wheel. The road was clear and I could make a go for it.

  But just as I moved off, the car juddered, stalling with a thud. And the road was no longer clear, and my engine wasn’t catching when I turned the key in the ignition. Her rear lights were moving further and further into the distance, blurring with the rain and the condensation and actually, my tears, too.

  I slammed my fist on the steering wheel in frustration, the horn blaring loudly.

  Kneading my forehead with the heels of my hands, I tried to regain my composure. This was just a setback. This wasn’t defeat. I’d still do this. Nothing of worth in this world was ever easily achieved. I reminded myself that I’d asked God to send me a sign and He had. He’d brought her to me and I had to keep faith that He would bring her, and her baby – my baby – to me again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eli

  The screech of the security alarm wakes me. Did I hear glass breaking? My heart’s thumping and I sit up in the darkness, afraid to turn on the light, trying to figure out what’s happening as my body adjusts to the rude awakening. I can’t think. The noise is too loud.

  I put my hand to my stomach – a protective instinct, maybe. It’s what a mother should do. Mother. I think of my mum. She’s two doors away down the hall. Is she awake? Is she safe? I want to call out, but what if someone’s near? An intruder. What if I’m drawing attention to us? My bedroom door’s closed but not locked. Why would it be?

  I curse the alarm. It’s so loud I can’t hear if anyone’s approaching, climbing the stairs, rattling the door handles.

  The security company will call, I remind myself. If I don’t answer, they’ll send the police. Or at least, I think that’s what they’ll do. I’ve never really checked; never felt like we’d really need the system. It was just one of those things.

  I try to place the breaking glass – had it happened or had I dreamed it? It has to be real. The alarms only go off if there’s a breach into the house.

  Climbing out of bed, I lift my phone, switch it to silent mode, creep to the en suite and lock myself in, keeping the lights out. I’m shaking. Adrenaline, I tell myself. A hormone. Just like all the other hormones. It won’t kill me. I’ll be fine. I hope my mother is. I need her to be okay. I need her to be here with me. And God, I wish Martin were here, too. And where are the police? The call from the security firm? I glance at my phone. They’ll call him first, I curse, if no one taps in the security code.

  I think of how isolated I am. Here in this beautiful home, which is to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere. People don’t just walk past. Most people don’t even know this house exists, closeted away as it is by the surrounding trees. No one outside these four walls will hear the alarms. No one else’ll come running to help us.

  I search my phone, fat fingers mistyping as I try to see if I have a number for the security firm saved. I should just call the police. I can’t think. The noise of the bloody alarm’s starting to hurt my ears and my stomach’s swirling, with both fear and pregnancy sickness. I realise that I’m going to throw up. I clamber to the toilet, try to be as quiet as I can.

  My mother’s still two rooms away. Or I hope she is. What if she’s hurt? I grab a towel, wipe my mouth, try to orientate myself after the sickness has made me dizzy. My phone lights up with the sight of an incoming call notification from a private number and I answer, trying to keep my voice low, which is ridiculous given the screeching of the alarms.

  A calm voice speaks, asks me for our password and asks if I’m safe.

  ‘I’ve locked myself in the bathroom,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t hear anything over the noise of the alarm. But I think, I think there was broken glass before. I think I heard a smash.’

  ‘Okay. We’ve notified the police of a potential break-in. We can deactivate the alarm if you wish,’ the calm voice says.

  ‘Yes, yes, do that,’ I say, thinking it might give me a chance to think.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Hughes. We’ll do that. The police should be with you soon. If you’re in a secure place, we’d recommend you stay there.’

  ‘Okay,’ I whisper, trying not to think about my mother. What must she be thinking? Is she scared?

  The alarm falls silent. I can still hear buzzing in my ears. A rattle at the bathroom door makes me jump.

  ‘Eli, it’s me.’ My mother’s voice. I hear it and feel it at the same time.

  Tears spring to my eyes. I reach for the door and unlock it, pulling her into a hug.

  ‘Mum, you’re okay. Thank God. The police are coming.’

  She holds me. I allow myself to nestle against the soft fabric of her dressing gown.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Whoever it was ran away as quickly as they arrived. I was downstairs, couldn’t sleep. Heard the crash – it was the glass beside the door. I ran from the kitchen, but they were driving off. I’m sorry I didn’t get a look at the vehicle. I don’t have my glasses on.’

  I can feel her trembling and cold as I hug her.

  ‘Oh, God, no, I’m glad you didn’t get near them. And they didn’t see you. Mum, you could’ve been hurt!’

  ‘I didn’t think,’ she says. ‘I just, well, I didn’t know what to do. They threw something in. I didn’t see what it was, but it looked like it was wrapped in paper.’

  I stand up, start to walk towards the stairs.

  ‘Don’t you think we should wait? For the police. You don’t know what it might be.’

  I switch on the landing light and look down into the hall. My mother’s right, of course, to be cautious. This is still Northern Ireland. Security alerts aren’t a thing of the past. You never know why someone might target you.

  But it doesn’t look like a device of any sort. It’s more rudimentary than that. Solid. I can see the rough edges of a rock, wrapped in what looks like paper. A brown elastic band wrapped around both.

  ‘I think it’s just a rock,’ I call to her.

  ‘But better to be safe,’ she says.

  She looks pale in the light. Shaken. She must have had such a fright.

  I feel a chill run up my spine. This could’ve been worse. If they’d seen her, would they have hurt her, or did they see her and that scared them away? I walk down the stairs, get closer to the rock. No signs of wires or tubing. I know I should leave it for the police but I’m curious. I can’t understand why anyone would do this.

  ‘Wait there,’ I call to my mother.

  I open the door of the hall cupboard, dig into a bag filled with other plastic carrier bags and pull two out. Wrapping them around my hands, I walk back to where the rock lies.

  ‘Eliana, you’re not going to lift that, are you?’ My mother looks horrified.

  ‘It’s just a rock. I’ll be careful. Look, I’m covering my hands, making sure I don’t disturb evidence.’

  I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. Evidence? When did my life become an episode of CSI? I chide myself for being too flippant. I carefully lift the rock, pull the elastic from it and unwrap the paper. I turn it towards me and staring back at me, I see the same neatly printed writing that I saw on the note in the bottom of my bag.

  My stomach drops. I feel my legs start to shake. I can’t ignore this. I can’t see this as anything more than what it is. A threat. A revelation. An accusation.

  SO MUCH TO DO IN LONDON AT THIS TIME OF YEAR

  ROMANTIC WALKS, PERHAPS?

  A DATE AT THE THEATRE?

  IF I WERE YOU, I’D WATCH MY HUSBAND MORE CLOSELY …

  I drop the rock. I hear my mother’s voice somewhere in the distance just as I hear the siren of an approaching police car.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eli

  A polite female police officer has made two cups of sweet tea. Mum’s sipping gingerly at hers, the rattlin
g of the cup on the saucer showing that she’s still on edge. I’ve put my cup down. I only had to glance at it to know there’s no way I’d be able to drink it. My stomach is swirling, my head now sore, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I want to ring Martin. Now. Ask him. Now. Accuse him?

  I excuse myself and stand up. I walk to the sink and fill a glass with water so I can wash down one of my anti-sickness pills. Not that I think it’ll make any difference just now.

  The police officer, Debbie, or Denise, or Dotty or something – I hadn’t quite caught it – eyes me sympathetically.

  ‘Sickness tablet,’ I tell her. ‘It’s hyperemesis – morning sickness that doesn’t want to go away, essentially. These help.’

  ‘That must be tough,’ she says.

  ‘It is. But I’m told it’ll be worth it.’

  That, of course, was before someone had pointed the finger directly at my husband, telling me he isn’t to be trusted. Romantic walks? Theatre dates? Sex? Intimacy? Love? My stomach turns again and I close my eyes, breathe deeply, try to quell the sickness. She must think me such a fool.

  ‘How far gone are you?’ she asks.

  ‘Thirty-two weeks. Almost there.’

  ‘Babies have a great way of bringing people together,’ she says, and I wonder, is it true? Especially if people don’t want to be together to start with. Or at least one of them doesn’t appear to.

  I shrug my shoulders, walk back to the sofa, where I sit beside my mother. Dotty or Daisy – actually, I think it was Deirdre – sits across from me. Adopts an ‘I’m listening’ face while her colleague, tall, cropped red hair, eyes bleary with tiredness, continues to make notes.

  ‘So you can’t think of who might have done this?’ he asks.

  William. His name is William. I remember that.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Who on earth would want to frighten Eliana?’ my mother asks. ‘She’s a nurse in the hospice, for the love of God. And she’s pregnant.’

  ‘And your husband’s in London, like the note says?’

  My face blazes with embarrassment or shame, I can’t decide. My name is Eliana and I can’t keep my man. I feel my wedding ring pinch at my finger. It’s started to get too tight, but that doesn’t mean I want to take it off.

  ‘We’ll have to talk to him, of course,’ William says.

  ‘Of course,’ I nod.

  ‘And when is he due back from London?’

  ‘Tuesday,’ I reply. ‘He’s working there.’

  William nods, as does Deirdre. I wonder what else they’ve dealt with tonight. Do they think I’m just some crazy woman with a cheating husband? A waste of police resources.

  ‘If you give me his number, I’ll give him a call. Ask a few questions.’

  ‘Of course,’ I tell her. ‘I imagine he’ll be worried. The security company will probably have called him first.’

  I rhyme his number off. It’s one of only two mobile numbers I remember by heart – his and mine. Deirdre writes it down, stands up, takes her phone from her pocket and taps in the number. She walks out of earshot just after I hear him answer. I’m tempted to follow her … I want to hear his reaction. His first reaction.

  William speaks again. ‘We’ll investigate all angles,’ he says. ‘We’ll get SOCO out as early as possible in the morning to examine the scene.’

  ‘Can they not come now?’ my mother asks, a hint of impatience.

  He shakes his head. ‘Afraid not. It’s more useful if they come when the light’s better. They can get a good look at any unusual tyre tracks or the like. We’d ask you not to disturb anything before they get here.’

  I feel embarrassed again. I’ve already lifted the rock, read the note. I did cover my hands, but I probably should’ve left it where it was.

  ‘It’s possible Mr Hughes’ll be able to shed some light on everything,’ William says, nodding in the direction of his colleague.

  ‘Well, it was hardly him, he’s out of the country. I told you that,’ my mother fusses.

  I say nothing. I know exactly what this policeman isn’t saying. This is a domestic. A wronged husband maybe, making sure that his hurt is shared by me, and by default Martin. I think of the note in my bag. The note that just hours ago I was convinced I was going to bin.

  ‘There’s something else I need to show you,’ I tell him.

  I can see my mother’s eyes widen. I blush again as I get up and go to fetch my bag from the hall. She’ll be annoyed that I didn’t tell her about it when it happened. But it was so vague and I didn’t want to believe it. I still don’t want to believe it.

  It’s a bit more crumpled, but it’s still there. I pull it out, straighten it and hand it to William. He pauses to put on latex gloves before taking it from me. I suppose it’s evidence now. I really must ask his full name again. His rank.

  ‘Sorry, my head’s all over the place. Can you tell me your name again?’

  ‘Constable William Dawson,’ he replies, not looking up from the note. ‘And where did this come from?’

  ‘What is it?’ my mother asks impatiently.

  ‘It was delivered to my work. No postmark, so I think hand-delivered. No one saw who left it; I asked our admin officer.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  I try to think … two days ago, wasn’t it?

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  I’m aware of my mother’s sharp intake of breath beside me.

  ‘And what actually is it, Eliana?’ she says.

  I notice William, Constable Dawson, look up at her. Her motherly tone is fierce when in full flow.

  ‘A note, Mum,’ I say.

  ‘Well clearly,’ she says. ‘But what does it say?’

  Dawson holds it out in her direction. ‘Can you make sure not to touch it? We’ll be taking this with us for forensic analysis.’

  She nods, and leans towards the note. Her eyes widen and I see her hand go to her chest, to finger the gold crucifix she always wears. I watch as she inhales and turns to me, puts her hand on my knee.

  ‘This doesn’t mean anything, Eli. None of this. You’re not to be annoying yourself about it.’

  I almost laugh. She’s trying to tell me this is nothing while we sit in a house that’s been broken into, talking to two police officers.

  ‘This puts a different slant on things,’ Dawson says. ‘Multiple letters.’

  ‘Two is hardly multiple,’ I hear my mother interject.

  I ignore her, nod to Dawson.

  ‘I don’t understand why anyone would do this,’ I say.

  ‘Sheer malice,’ my mother says. ‘Some people have so little to bother them that they put a pregnant woman through this ordeal.’

  ‘We’ll see what we can find out. Check for any CCTV close by, see if we can pick up the car on it. There are a number of avenues we can look at,’ Dawson says, his expression sympathetic.

  Deirdre walks back in. ‘I’ve spoken to your husband. He’s obviously concerned about you.’

  ‘I’ll call him soon,’ I say, thinking there are one or two questions I need to ask him myself.

  She looks at her colleague. ‘Mr Hughes says he can’t think of anyone who may hold a grudge and says there is no truth at all to the allegations in the note. I’ve asked him to come and see us on Tuesday when he arrives home.’

  ‘There’s a second note,’ Dawson says. ‘Similar kind of thing. I’ll just bag it here for evidence.’ He takes a small plastic bag from his pocket and slips the note in, sealing it afterwards and handing it Deirdre. She reads it through the clear plastic and looks back at me, sympathy written all over her face. I imagine she thinks I’m deluded too.

  ‘That’s your crime reference number. You’ll need that when you contact your insurance company. My number’s there, but obviously I’m on night shifts at the moment, so you won’t be able to reach me during the day. I’ll get a colleague to call you in the morning, or they might come out with SOCO,’ Dawson says.

  I nod.

&
nbsp; ‘It’s entirely up to you if you want to stay here tonight,’ he said. ‘But obviously we’d advise you to make sure the property’s as secure as possible.’

  I glance down at my swollen stomach and to my mother, who looks stunned by everything. I wonder how exactly we’re supposed to ‘secure the property’.

  ‘Maybe we should go to a hotel,’ I say to my mother.

  ‘And leave the house open to anyone?’ she says. ‘No, Eliana. We’ll stay here and we’ll not let whoever this spiteful creature is win.’

  ‘We can help secure the property for you,’ Dawson says. ‘It’ll be a bit of a make-shift job but it will do until morning?’

  ‘That would be great,’ my mother says.

  ‘Good, if you have some bin bags or an old sheet, and some masking tape or something similar?’ he asks. My mother nods and sets about gathering what he has asked for. It all still seems very surreal to me.

  ‘If you can think of anything at all that might help, or of anyone who we should talk to, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m very sorry you’ve had this upset,’ he says, as he waits. ‘And it probably goes without saying that if you receive any more notes from this person, or if you feel in danger at all, that you contact us immediately. Use 999 if necessary, we’ll have this address flagged with first responders so that any call from here will be prioritised.’

  I nod. By this stage I’m exhausted. I just want them to go. I want to sit down. Close my eyes. Pretend none of this is happening. I want to speak to Martin, but what do I say? Do I ask him outright if he’s having an affair? Do I go in all guns blazing? Do I start packing his bags, throw them out into the drive to languish in the rain until he returns? Do I leave? Do I stay and believe him and live in fear of the next note, or the next rock through a window, or the next whatever? Martin, my Martin – romantic walks. Dates. With someone else. I want to scream. This must be what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you.

  My mother arrives back with a roll of bin bags, some masking tape and a dustpan and brush to lift the broken glass. I offer to help, but both police officers insist that my mother and I sit down. They can manage. I can only imagine they feel sorry for us – this heavily pregnant woman whose husband might be cheating, and this older lady wandering about in her nightie and dressing gown.