Page 58 of The Psychopath Next Door

I couldn’t go back to work after what I’d seen. Emma with Mike. The misery on her face as she’d got into her car, as if she couldn’t bear to be parted from him. Or maybe she was thinking ahead, with dread, to coming home and telling me the news. I could hear it, imagine it all. She’d tried to make it work with me. She’d wanted it to. For the sake of the kids, she didn’t want to break up with me. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She loved him. Our marriage was over.

I let myself back into the house and almost keeled over in the hallway – found myself bent over, hands on my knees, gulping down lungfuls of air. Could I smell it in the air? The stink of adultery, of animal sex? Had they tried to resist but been unable to keep their hands off each other? Had she screwed him in our bed, or on the sofa where we watched TV together? Had he bent her over the kitchen counter where I cooked our family meals? My entire body palpitated; my vision went black. I was going to vomit, going to faint.

It was only the sensation of something wet on the back of my hand that stirred me, brought me out of the state I was in. Lola, licking me. Trying to comfort me.

‘Good girl,’ I said in a ravaged voice, crouching to pet her and rub her ears. She licked at my face and I realised there were tearson my cheeks. There was part of me that wanted to phone Emma and tell her what I’d seen. To demand the truth, a confession or, better yet, a convincing denial, though I didn’t know if I’d believe her. Despite being almost completely crazed, I retained enough self-knowledge and sense to know I was not going to be receptive to anything she had to say in that moment.

So I didn’t call her or text her. Instead, for the next couple of hours, I staggered around the house, not knowing what to do with myself. Trying to make myself a coffee, then finding that so long had passed since the kettle had boiled that I had to start again. Halfway through my final failed attempt to fix myself a hot drink I found myself moving around the house, looking for evidence of sex. Crumpled bedsheets. Tissues in the bin. Alien hairs on the pillow. I even opened her underwear drawer to see if the sexy lingerie I’d bought her several Valentines ago – which I hadn’t seen her wear since – was lying on top of her more utilitarian knickers and bras, showing signs of having just been worn.

I was still sitting on our bed when I heard the front door open, then footsteps coming up the stairs.

It was Dylan.

‘Why are you home?’ he asked.

I couldn’t think of an explanation. ‘I wasn’t feeling well.’

‘Please don’t give it to me, Dad.’ He went into his room, and soon I heard him chatting to one of his mates through his Xbox headset.

What would happen if Emma and I split up? She’d want to keep the kids and they’d no doubt want to stay with her. I’d end up living in the cold, empty flat above the shop, surviving on microwave meals and being rejected on Tinder or whatever middle-aged people used. I had been out of the game so long that I had no clue how I would survive being single.

I went back downstairs, to make another attempt at brewing coffee, but as I reached the hallway the front door opened and Rose came in.

I said hi, and she blinked up at me like she was shocked to see me.

‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ I said, repeating the lie I’d told Dylan, although it was hardly an untruth now. I didn’t feel at all well.

‘Right,’ she said.

She seemed to be in an even bigger daze than me, blinking at me but giving the impression she wasn’t really seeing me.

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Huh? Oh. Yeah. I’m tired, that’s all, after that train journey.’ Oh yes. I had forgotten Fiona had taken Rose out to visit the countryside. ‘I’m going to go for a lie-down.’

She ran up the stairs like she couldn’t wait to get away from me, leaving me standing by the front door, having forgotten what I’d come down for. My head was a mess and I had the sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to someone. And who was the only person who knew about Emma’s relationship with Mike?

Fiona.

‘I’m popping out for ten minutes,’ I called to the kids, unsure if they had heard, but going out our front door and taking the few steps to Fiona’s anyway.

She answered straight away. She looked a little dishevelled, not her usual groomed, calm self. God, was there something in the air today?

‘Ethan?’

‘Can I come in? I need to talk ...’ I trailed off.

She hesitated, studying my face, no doubt seeing the pain etched there, then said, ‘Okay.’

She led me into the kitchen, just as she had the last time I’d visited. The blinds were open, giving a view of the garden and thefields beyond. I could hear birds singing, music thumping from someone’s back garden, the noise of children playing. It all felt unreal. Normal life carrying on while my world had tipped off its axis.

Fiona stood by the counter. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. Was I imagining it or did she seem nervous? I’m sure at one point her eyes flicked towards the block of kitchen knives, as if she thought I was going to grab one and hurt myself. Or stab someone else. Did I look suicidal, or murderous? It wouldn’t have surprised me if I looked completely mad. She was certainly eyeing me as if I was about to say something monumental.

‘It’s Emma,’ I said. ‘I think ... I think she’s seeing Mike again.’

She exhaled. ‘Oh, thank God.’

‘Yes, I . . . What?’

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