Dana dialled Jack’s number. He answered on the sixth ring. ‘Jack, it’s Dana. Have you heard from Chloe?’
‘Err. No. Nothing. Why?’
She detected an irritable tone in his voice. ‘Oh. It’s nothing. I’m worrying unnecessarily I’m sure. Did you go out this evening?’
‘Out?’ Jack asked.
‘Yeah. You and Chloe?’
‘No. What makes you think that?’
‘Well, it’s just Chloe said she was meeting you later, that’s all.’
‘No. I came straight home.’ Jack realised the trouble lying could cause. He was tongue-tied, and at this moment, he knew he shouldn’t have fibbed.
‘So you never saw Chloe this evening?’
‘No. Look, I have to go. I’m sure she’ll turn up.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Jack. Sorry to have bothered you.’
Dana ran the conversation over in her head. Jack knew something. She was certain of it. She debated calling him again, pressing him, firing questions. She didn’t want to appear rude, but it was late, Chloe wasn’t home, and she’d never do this without a phone call or a text to let Dana know she was okay.
Dana sat at the table in the kitchen. The seconds loudly clicked as the hand swept around the clock. She picked up her phone, again dialling Chloe’s number, deciding not to leave another message.
Jack is hiding something. He knows where Chloe is. She specifically told me earlier she was meeting him for a drink. The two of them had to have been together. Surely Chloe couldn’t be with him now? Could she? The two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing food, a bottle of wine, under the duvet.
She fought the paranoia. Wrestled it, punched it, kicked it and threw it to the back of her head.
I’ll call him again. Sod it. This is my life. The phone rang. Eventually, a recorded voice answered. ‘You’re through to Jack. Leave a message.’
Dana hung up, then redialled. The same thing, the ring, then his voice.
He was refusing to answer.
That was all the proof she needed.
‘We have a problem.’ Jack walked into the living room.
Lydia was sat at the table, already working her way through a bottle of wine.
‘What is it?’
Jack relayed the phone call he’d just received. ‘Dana knows something isn’t right.’
Lydia’s voice began to slur. ‘Well, we deny everything. What can she prove?’
‘You’re not getting it, Lydia. It’s not something you can brush under the carpet. You murdered someone. We removed the body, wiped the scene and we’re going to fucking hide her.’ Jack’s voice was loud, harsh.
She gripped the glass, throwing her neck back, the contents emptying into her throat. She seized the bottle, holding it like it was a baby.
Jack poured a large whisky into a glass, tasting it and then grimacing at the strength. ‘Look, Dana is suspicious. But at the moment, she knows nothing. She has no proof in regards to us. We keep a low profile, play it cool. Early tomorrow, I’ll dig a grave in the garden and keep Chloe hidden.’
‘I’m not comfortable with this. A dead body in the garden. Jack, it’s not right.’
He lifted the bottle of whisky, pouring another measure. ‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I don’t know. Why don’t we dump her somewhere? If it’s out there in the garden it’s just a constant reminder, you know.’
‘Christ, Lydia. What were you thinking?’
She placed her head in her hands. Her shoulders began wobbling and she cried uncontrollably. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought you were having an affair. I saw red. I didn’t intend to follow her, but this rage… it came over me, and I couldn’t control myself. When I turned up at her door, I intended to scare her, frighten her off, warn her to keep away. I didn’t realise she had a wife. Jack, I’m so sorry. I’m scared.’
He placed his hands on hers. ‘Look, we’ll get away with it if we’re clever. We need to keep quiet and be sensible.’ He stood. ‘Come on, let’s call it a night.’
Lydia finished the glass of wine, and they went upstairs.
At 5.10am, Jack was in the garden, towards the back with a shovel from the shed. He’d turned on the sprinkler before he went to bed to soften the earth and make the digging more manageable. Now, he left it on to drown out the sound of shovelling. The garden was vast and there was little chance the neighbours would hear. Still, Jack had to be careful. The high fences either side would hide what he was doing. He peered at the neighbour’s houses: the bedroom curtains were drawn.
The air was chilly as he rammed the end of the shovel into the soil. The earth was thick and clumpy and stuck to the end of the shovel. The sky was clear, sprinkled with stars and the frost was patchy on the grass. Jack would dig the area where the sprinkler had soaked overnight. He wore a jacket and an old pair of jeans. Despite the cold, sweat beads on his face made the work uncomfortable.
Eventually, the hole was big enough for him to stand in. He tested it: it was deep enough to cover up to his knees.
Visions of his boss circulated in his mind. He recalled a recent awards ceremony. Her face gleaming with pride, she had held Jack’s arm aloft, telling him she couldn’t have done it without his hard work. She had worn a plain red dress, had her black hair back, tied tight. She had been so pleased with the direction the company was headed. Chloe grafted, starting early, leaving last, wining and dining clients, calling Jack at the weekends and at ungodly hours. She lived and breathed the company.
Now, she lay dead because of a terrible mistake. Lydia had killed her. Jack knew his wife wasn’t a bad person, but she was ill. She suffered delusions, paranoia.
As he dug, he recalled numerous occasions when they’d had friends over. She’d clasp his arm in the kitchen. ‘Claire and Ted, they’ve been talking about me. The room went silent when I walked in. Claire blushed. She giggled and then the conversation changed.’
Whenever they’d eaten out, she had to sit facing the kitchen, watching the chef, making sure they didn’t poison her food.
Jack knew his wife would never survive prison. Lydia wasn’t a well person but she refused to get help. She found it a weakness to speak to anyone about her problems, about her thoughts.
Jack loved her; he’d do anything for his wife. Even hide a dead body. He stood, straightening his back. His fingers were numb; his forearms ached, his right shoulder throbbed with pain.
He looked at the thick soil, stood back, taking it all in, then moved to the house.
He closed the kitchen door, peering outside as the heating warmed his body. He thought about the future, Lydia and him, how they would come to terms with what they’d done. How they would deal with it. One step, one day at a time. That’s what his father had told him years ago. Embrace and face. That’s what he’d said.
Jack stood at the kitchen door as the minutes passed, his mind a whirl of emotions, a knot deep in his stomach, widening, spreading, rotting his soul.
He drew a deep breath, held it, five seconds, ten, then let it out, forming a patch of condensation on the glass. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving the garden. The security light went off.