Chapter 41

Anthony made himself beans on toast for tea. He wasn't hungry, but he had to eat in order to take his pills. He turned off the television. He couldn't stand early evening programmes. It was all quizzes and soaps.

He shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the light and pulled two slices of white bread out of the bread bin before slipping them into the toaster. He turned to the cupboard behind him for a small tin of baked beans, and something outside the window caught his eye. He stopped and looked out into the blackness. He couldn't see anything. There were no cars on the road and no people around, yet he was sure he'd seen something.

Putting it down to a trick of the light, he returned to making his tea. He opened the can of beans and tipped them into a bowl. He put it in the microwave and timed it for two minutes.

While waiting for them to heat up, he put a plate and cutlery on a tray to take into the living room. He rarely sat at the dining table to eat. He didn't see the point when it was just him to cater for. He had thought of getting rid of it, donate it to charity or something, but that would leave a huge gap on the far side of the room. It would make him feel even more lonely than he already did.

Something caught his eye again. He quickly turned to look. There was someone outside – he was sure of it. The doorbell rang.

Anthony hardly ever received visitors. Only Dawn and Rita, and they called first, so he knew to expect them. He tried to look out of the kitchen window without getting too close, so whoever was outside wouldn't know he was in, but all he saw was his own reflection looking back at him.

The doorbell rang again.

He jumped. The toast popped up. He jumped again. The microwave beeped. His tea was ready, but he didn't want to move.

Another knock on the door.

‘Shit,' he said, under his breath.

He had to answer it. Whoever was out there knew he was inside. He should have had a security chain fitted, but he'd never felt vulnerable in his own home before… Not until now.

The doorbell rang again.

‘Shit,' he said again. Tears were forming in his eyes.

Anthony dug in his cardigan pocket for the house keys. They jangled as he approached the door. He hadn't realised how much he was shaking.

He swallowed hard and took a deep breath as he turned the key and pulled open the door.

There wasn't just one person standing on the doorstep but a whole group of people. Something flashed and blinded him. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was brilliant white light. He opened them and more flashing caused him to stagger back in confusion.

‘Mr Griffiths, what can you tell us about the murder of your son?'

‘Who would want him dead?'

‘Is it true you haven't visited him since his release from prison, even though he only lived twenty minutes from here?'

‘Do you have anything to say to the parents of Stephanie White?'

The questions from the sea of journalists came in quick succession. They all held out mobile phones and recording devices to catch anything he said. More photographs were taken, momentarily lighting everything up in a brilliant, blinding white.

Anthony stepped back and slammed the door. He was visibly shaking as he turned the key in the lock and bolted the door at the top and bottom. The doorbell started to ring again, and someone knocked on the door.

The letterbox was lifted. ‘Mr Griffiths, if you'd just answer a few questions, we'll leave you in peace.'

He didn't believe a word they said.

‘Go away!' he shouted. He didn't recognise his own voice. It sounded nervous, frightened, petrified. He was in fear in his own home.

He staggered to his bedroom, holding onto the walls for stability. He slammed the door closed and went over to the window which looked out onto the back garden. He pulled the curtains shut, plunging the room into darkness. He fell onto the bed face-down and cried into the pillow.

When Anthony woke up, he was surrounded by silence. A ticking clock in the distance, probably the small carriage clock on the mantel in the living room, and the hum from the fridge were all he could hear. He hoped the journalists had gone, and he'd be left in peace.

He must have fallen asleep within minutes of throwing himself down on the bed. He sat up, wiped his eyes and turned on the bedside lamp. Next to it was a framed photograph of his wife. It had been taken on the day they'd moved into their first home just after they married. She was standing on the doorstep, the front door wide open behind her. The sun was shining on her, and she smiled to the camera. She was proud, pleased, happy to be living in her own home with the man she loved. It was the beginning of their journey together. They were both full of hope and optimism, but that had died so quickly.

He picked up the frame and held it close. He looked deep into his wife's beautiful eyes. She really was beautiful. Smooth skin, full lips, shiny hair, gorgeous figure, tiny ears, button nose. He loved every inch of her.

Anthony hugged the frame, holding it tight to his chest. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

‘I miss you so much, Carole,' he choked. ‘It's a physical pain being apart from you. Every day is torture. I just want us to be together. I want to hold you. I want to kiss you. I want to smell your hair. I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you as much while you were still alive. I hate myself for not realising you needed help. It was all such a tragedy, all such a big mistake – every bit of it.'

He looked back down at the photograph. He smiled through the tears.

‘I'm so, so sorry, Carole. I love you.'

He put the photo, face-down, on the bed next to him. He swung his legs off the bed. He was weak from crying, from lack of food, from exhaustion.

Anthony took several deep breaths and managed to grab a hold of his emotions. He braced himself by placing a hand on the bed either side of him. The tears stopped flowing, and his mind began to clear. He knew what he had to do.

He looked at the calendar box of tablets on his bedside table. He hadn't taken any today, and he should have had three at breakfast time, two at lunch and two this evening. He had missed a full day's dose. No wonder he was feeling so ill. He took a pad of paper and a pen out of his bedside drawer and started writing. He took his time, choosing his words carefully, and when he had finished, he felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt for years. He sealed two letters in two envelopes and left them on the bedside table, before taking the photo of his wife in his hands and kissing it one last time.

‘I hope you're waiting for me, Carole.'