it’s best that you contact Human Resources. This situation is completely out of my hands … unless, of course, you are in hospital and couldn’t get to a bloody phone.’
‘Er … no, I fell asleep. I mean, I was sick, I, um …’
‘Enough, Kara, I am too busy cleaning up your mess to talk. Call HR. I think they will need to see you. As far as I am concerned, you no longer work with me.’ The phone went dead. Kara continued to stare into the distance. It was an unwelcome, life-changing moment: her career was over, and she now had nothing. Her boyfriend and her job were the two most important things in her life. Now, each was flushed down the toilet.
The only solace she had was there in that medicine box. She swallowed hard, again to force the nauseous feeling away, and shuffled on unsteady feet to the kitchen. As she lifted the lid to the medicine box, she got a whiff of stale sweat. Normally, that would have had her tearing up the stairs to the shower, but not today. All she wanted was to be rid of the torturous thoughts weaving in and out of her subconscious.
She swallowed another four tablets and reached for the bottle of brandy that she kept for cooking. The taste was harsh and ripped at her already sore throat. Squeezing her eyes tightly, she gulped back mouthfuls, gasped for breath, and then filled her mouth with more amber nectar. A sudden warm feeling softened her tense muscles and she stared at the drugs in the box. If she took all of them, she would be over this pain for good.
She shook her head, remembering a time when she’d stared at a bottle of tablets but didn’t have the guts back then. She gulped more of the brandy, but as she was about to snap open the first pot of pills, she felt weak and overcome with tiredness. She made her way into the living room and flopped onto the four-seater leather sofa. Within seconds, she was out cold in body, yet her mind was awash with vivid nightmares of the past.
A noise in the distant recesses of her mind rendered her half-awake. For a moment, she was unsure where she was until she saw the huge inglenook fireplace and the antique trunk she and Justin used as a coffee table. Slowly, she pulled her aching body to an upright position and took large breaths of air. It was all coming back to her and her face crumpled in pain. After pushing the quilt from her legs, she frowned. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, but who had covered her over?
Like a fragile child, she got to her feet and gingerly made her way to the kitchen. The money was gone, and the medicine box was put away. Angie! It must have been Angie who covered her over. A deep sadness enveloped her because she knew then that she had to get herself together and deal with the mental anguish of being alone. The date on the kitchen clock was flashing, and yet Kara could not comprehend it. She’d lost six days. How the hell did that happen?
Snapping out of her daze, and in a rush to pull herself together, she made breakfast, and just as she finished the last mouthful, she heard what she assumed was the postman, as he shoved the mail through the letterbox. She looked down at the floor and saw a letter from Lucas Lane and Partners, Solicitor, their solicitor and long-term friend. With no stamp, she surmised it had been hand-delivered.
She fingered her way around the seal and then ripped the envelope open. She had to read the words twice in disbelief. Discounting all the legal jargon for the moment, the solicitor said she was to move out by the end of the week. What? She fell to her knees and screamed like a wild animal. ‘You bastard, you FUCKING BASTARD!’ Gagging in between sobs, Kara punched the door repeatedly. How could he be so cruel? This wasn’t her man; this was not him at all. He would never have thrown her out on her ear. She reread the letter, hoping she’d misread it, but the instruction was there in black and white.
Justin owned the house. It was his before they met, and now he was turfing her out to move in his girlfriend. How could he? This was their home, albeit in his name, but it was theirs. They’d shared and decorated it and made it their own.
Falling to her knees, she clenched her stomach, as if her insides were being pulled away from her. She gasped for air, as though her lungs wouldn’t work. Unexpectedly, she was fraught with an uncontrollable rage. Her otherwise disciplined persona was somehow switched off, as if the devil himself had taken control of her senses. Tidal waves of incensed fury pushed her to act so out of character, that she wasn’t fully aware of her actions. A sudden red mist descended and blinded her.
The sleeping tablets, the drink, and the feeling of utter betrayal pushed her to search the cupboards for something to destroy their love nest. If he wanted the house, then he could fucking have it. Yet, she was going to make dead sure he would never live in it again. She headed straight for the garage – his garage that housed every tool imaginable. There, by the garage doors, were the lawnmower and strimmer, which had stood unused because they employed a gardener, but Justin, being Justin, liked his man tools and toys.
By the side were two petrol cans, in case he ever needed to mow the lawn himself or fill up his car. In a fit of anger, she grabbed the cans and returned to the kitchen, intent on a mission. She would destroy their home – his home.
Her anger now reaching to a new level, she could only imagine Justin and some bimbo enjoying a house that she and Justin had painstakingly decorated and furnished. She splashed the petrol up the walls, over the sofas, up the stairs, and on the bed. Then, almost falling down the stairs breathless and seething, she ran into the kitchen, where she splashed the rest of the fuel over the worktops before throwing the can at the French doors, smashing the glass.
The sound made her rage heighten, as she pulled open a drawer, snatched the sharp carving knife, and began stabbing the highly polished cabinets, imagining it was his body she was desecrating. With one swift movement of her arm, she cleared the worktop of everything: the cups, the toaster, the kettle, and the antique vases belonging to his great-grandmother. They all crashed to the floor. Then, taking a deep breath, she reached for her lighter.
She backed away from the kitchen and towards the French doors. The broken glass on the floor pricked the heel of her foot and she winced in pain. Then, grabbing the newspaper that had been left on the kitchen table by the door, she set it alight.
Instantly, the flames grew at speed. Without a second thought, she threw the burning newspaper onto the kitchen worktop and retreated into the rear garden. Wearing only a thin tracksuit, the cold night air caused her to shiver. As she turned to walk away, an enormous explosion knocked her to the ground. The gas boiler had caught alight and had blown the side window clean away from its frame.
Kara lay on the cold damp grass, unable to move. The blast had also shot a heavy piece of the doorframe across the garden, striking her across the back. But all she could do was stare and watch as the brilliant-white detached house became steadily consumed with grey choking smoke. The growing flames flared up and out of the broken windows, licking the walls and turning them black. Everyone in the close could hear the loud bangs and whistles. As she lay there winded, a horrific high-pitched scream belted out from next door – it was not a woman’s scream.
It hit her all at once like a bat across the head. Her eyes widened at the destruction in front of her, and voices in her head were pummelling her with fury for her irresponsible actions.
‘Oh my God! Have I done this?’
Mr Langley was cradling his wife on the drive. Her head was bleeding profusely, and she lay there unconscious. The blast from the side window had shot shards of glass and debris just as Jenny Langley was taking the shopping from the boot of her car, resulting in her being hit hard around the head.
The neighbours ran from their homes to see Justin’s house billowing smoke from the flames. One man called the fire brigade and another called an ambulance. Hearing Mr Langley’s screams, they ran to his aid. Mr Johnson, a retired police officer, helped carry Jenny Langley away from the burning building and onto the grass where he rolled his jacket and laid it under her head. Mr Langley was in a blind panic. All he could do was hold his wife and offer up a prayer that she wouldn’t die.
‘Is anyone in there?’ asked Mr Johnson.
Mr Langley was too traumatised to answer. The rest of the neighbours couldn’t or wouldn’t help. They gathered in the close, watching the once beautiful house being destroyed