LITMIR.BIZ

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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 rattling 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

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