Page 71 of Insomnia

“But Emma, wha—”

I hang up and stare breathlessly out of the window. What do I do? Go back into the hospital and try to explain to the police there that this time I’m not being paranoid, this time I know there is someone trying to hurt my family and that they have to send someone right away? I dial Robert’s number and it rings and rings and rings. I try Chloe’s. It goes straight to voice mail. Caroline is at my house. That’s why she said I still had the keys. She’s gone to Robert’s as a safe haven from his mad wife, who could turn up at her door at any time. She’s in my house. She’s going to hurt my family.

I think of my mother. Of me. Of Will’s drawings.

I have been so worried about repeating the past, but what if I’ve been looking at it all the wrong way around?

What if the past was all about the future?

Phoebe said I was singing our mother’s song. A song that was thirty years from being written when our mother sang it. So there’s only one way she could know it.

It’s all been a warning. Flashes of something terrible happening in the future.

I look at the clock on the dashboard.

It’s just past 1:00a.m.and I’m at least half an hour from home. I think of my mother’s numbers as I put the car into drive and pull away fast. 113155218222. More jigsaw pieces slotting into place: 1:13a.m. 1:55a.m.2:18a.m. And 2:22a.m. I have to get home before 2:22.I’m running out of time.I drive into the storm.

57.

Caroline

I’m soaking as I come back into the kitchen and drop the empty honey jar into the trash. I’ve left honey-sweet surprises outside that will sting like a bee. My clothes are slick and heavy against my skin and my long hair is drenched, but I don’t care. The rain was invigorating. Perfect weather for my plans. I am the storm come to wreak havoc.

I close the door quickly, but rain has still blown hard inside, wetting the floor. It’s a wild night and I love the sound of the rain beating at the house, attacking from outside, while I attack from the inside. I lock the door and pocket the key. Everything is ready. I can relax.

I don’t know what Emma was complaining about with her insomnia. It’s very calming to be the only person awake in a dark house. Sometimes the night is the only time any of us can truly be ourselves. And here I am. At last.

Emma.

Sweet Emma. Pretty little thing. You’ll love her. You really will.

Well, you were wrong about that, parents dearest. I wasn’t exactly keen all the way back then, before I’d met her, and now I have nothing but disdain for sweet Emma.

She stole her sister’s boyfriend and married him. Her husband is kept on a leash. Her daughter is a slut. But, of course, everything’s all about Emma. Take, take, take. Always gets what she wants. The career. The house. The family. And such a whiner. Not so sweet after all.

I sit at her pretentious kitchen island and sip from my glass of wine. No need to rush. They’ve all drunk their hot chocolates. Everyone needs a soothing drink before bed in times of stress, don’t they? That’s what I said. Something to help get them off to sleep. Everyone trusts a nurse. Especially a grateful one who’s sharing their concern.

No NightNight this time.

I found her sleeping pills when I went upstairs to shower. Crushed a few and popped them in a tissue in my pocket. Easy to add. Robert wasn’t watching me. I’m not his crazy wife. I’m a health-care professional. Chloe was in her room, all red-eyed because she hasn’t managed to wreck a marriage, and Will is just a sullen little boy. I made sure I saw them both drink it. Down the hatch. Robert took his mug up to bed. I checked on him. It’s empty. Used to doing what he’s told, I expect.

I can’t believe he let me in.Oh, I’m a bit nervous. She has my keys. She threatened me. Can I—well, I know you don’t know me—but could I stay here? I didn’t want to call the police. I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She’s got problems but I don’t want to get her into trouble.

Only a man would believe that shit. If a woman feels threatened, she calls the police. End of. But you can always count on white-knight syndrome to put the blinkers on a man. And he thinksshe’s crazy anyway. He’s bought into that hook, line, and sinker. So much for love.

And now here I am, alone. Taking a moment, as they say, looking out at the storm in the gloom.

I swallow more wine. A Sancerre. Much nicer than I can afford. Of course it is. There’s two more bottles in the fridge. I’m not surprised she drinks too much. She’s that type.

I should probably get started. They’ll be dead to the world upstairs. I open up iTunes, put my earbuds in, and press play. “Candle Book and Bell.” My song of the moment. She at least gave me that. It fills my head and I hum along as the haunting melody starts.

I look at the clock on the oven. It’s 1:13a.m. Lighting flashes outside, harsh white light, and I go to the back door and rattle the handle. A double check. Good. It’s locked. I rattle again to be sure. I murmur along to the song, set to repeat, as the lyrics kick in.

“Choices, broken-backed / Become the facts / Distract the heart from the hand / That signs it off...”

I meander through her home, her life. Her office. I’ve seen her in here. From outside, looking in. In the living room, a vast soulless space where it’s clear no family time is spent, I check the windows and the patio doors. Locked. I can see the broken glass glittering on the ground in the rain. Just in case.

I turn back inward and tip some wine onto the backs of the elegant sofas. No one really wants sofas like these. They’re not comfortable. Nothing about them says warmth and welcome. They’re simply prestige.As long as your house looks like you’ve made it, that’s probably all that matters, isn’t it, Emma? At least it will look good on the news. If they get to take photos inside.

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