The GPS tracker refreshed, showed them further up the street, still moving. They’d be back soon. I’d wait a minute, then sneak out for a quick look as they were approaching the house, run back round the side and into the kitchen so that I could be crouching in front of a cupboard, inexplicably soaked and looking for rice-cakes when Sarah came in.
But … fuck. I’d missed my chance. The tracker stopped outside the house, didn’t move.
Didn’t move.
I refreshed the screen. Sophie was mumbling in her sleep.
Didn’t move.
I snuck back outside, barefoot, splashed quickly round the side of the house.
I couldn’t hear them, only my breathing, the rain. My phone flashed in my hand – it was on silent, thank fuck, a text.
Zac: Hey dude, sorry for rushing off earlier. Loved the wrestling match with the kids! I think it’s going to be a big one for me with Rhiannon.
I texted: OK
Where the fuck were Jack and Sarah?
I refreshed the feed on the soaked screen. It showed them virtually on top of me, but the street was empty. Oh. No, wait. They were on the move again.
I padded quickly back round the side of the house, into the kitchen, refreshed the feed every few seconds, dried my hair in the bathroom, went into the bedroom, pulled on some dry clothes, my trainers.
Oh.
They’d come to a halt. I enlarged the screen to get a better fix. They were either in Montfort Park, five hundred metres from our house and most likely abandoned, or in the industrial-estate car park right next to it, which would definitely be abandoned.
Not moving.
Not moving.
Fuck. I could walk round to see what was happening, bump into them as if by chance. Oh, hi, Sarah, hi, Jack the Dom. What a surprise. I felt like leaving the kids alone and taking my evening constitutional in the torrential rain. You guys going well? All right, then, as you were.
What if Jack was abusing her? What if I was standing in my kitchen, impotent, essentially watching Sarah being …
Fuck.
I’d wait. A relaxing night, that’s what I’d craved. I had to wait, had to wait.
What if …
I waited. Waited.
The front door opened twenty minutes later, just as the kettle came to a boil. I’d flicked it on when the GPS showed Sarah returning. She wouldn’t notice the coincidence, never did. Her birthday teapot was on the bench, ready and waiting.
‘Cuppa?’
She put her hands up, smiled. ‘Don’t come near me, I stink.’
Heartbeat. ‘What?’
‘I’ve been vomiting but it’s fine, I’m OK. Just let me go to the bathroom.’
I poured the boiling water into the teapot, considered pouring some across my hand, my arm.
18
18
Wednesday. Fucking Wednesdays.