Page 92 of The Trap by Catherine
To her.
But it gets its name from its interior.
The Pink House is pink on theinside.
Don’t panic. Stay calm. It’s OK. It’s OK. It’s OK.
But she can’t and nothing is and she doesn’t.
All the moments of the rest of Lucy’s life are rushing at her at once, looking like this, feeling like this, happening here, in this broken place. There will be no other life after this one. Its ending has already begun.
No one will ever find her.
And she screams and she screams and she screams.
ONE YEAR LATER
She’d beenout-out, and town had been busy. Stumbled out of the club to discover that there wasn’t a taxi to be had. Spent an hour trying to flag one down with one hand while trying to hail one via an app with the other until, resigned, she’d pushed her way on to a packed night bus headed not far enough in sort of the right direction. Her plan was to call someone at its terminus, apologize for waking them and ask them to come get her, but by the time she got there—to a tiny country village that was sleepy by day and empty by night—her phone had died. She’d been the last passenger and the bus had driven off before she could think to ask the driver if she could perhaps borrowhisphone. It was four in the morning and beginning to drizzle, so she’d started walking. Because, really, what other choice did she have?
This is the story Nicki recites in her head as she leaves the edges of the village and enters the thick, solid night beyond. If someone stops for her and starts asking questions, she’ll be ready.
She has her lies all prepared.
What she’s actually done is drive Lucy’s car out here, park up, and wait for the last bus from town to amble its way into the main square and then out of it again. Count five minutes off the clock, just to make doubly sure that anyone who actually took the bus to this glorified crossroads at this ungodly hour is long gone before she makes her move. Change her shoes into something much more unsuitable. Hang an impractically tiny, glittery bag from a strap on one shoulder and lock the jacket a sane person would wear in these conditions into the boot. Shove the key fob down between her breasts until it’s lodged behind the point in the band of her bra where the two cups meet, secure but completely hidden. Turn off her phone. Set out to walk a lonely country road like she’s done on so many other nights before this, hoping to bait the man who took her sister.
Thirteen other nights, so far, in seven other villages.
The drizzling ramps up into a hard, stinging rain and this pleases her, because sheshouldbe wet and cold and shivering. After the footpath runs out and she starts to stumble in her high heels, she fantasizes about hearing the crack of a bone in her own ankle and the searing pain that would follow, the kind so bad it takes your breath away. The balls of her feet burn and the strap on one of the shoes is working to rub away the top layers of her skin, exposing red and raw flesh, and Nicki welcomes the distant stinging that she knows will turn to burning soon.
She deserves it all and more, after what she did.
At the time, it didn’t feel like a bad thing. It didn’t even feel wrong. It feltmiraculous,as if she’d been slowly suffocating for days in a tiny, airless space and had just managed to kick a door open, to the outside, and gulp down lungfuls of fresh air.
It had become obvious to her that she and Chris weren’t going to last.Lucy was hell-bent on selling the house, the only fixed compass point Nicki had. And then she’d gone out that night, to meet her so-called friends in the Duke, and when they weren’t talking about the kinds of lives that sounded to Nicki like slow, torturous deaths, they were telling her that Luce was right, and that Chris was great, and that allsheneeded to do was stop being the problem, basically.
So she’d left them without saying goodbye, slipped out, into the warm night. She’d seen a new message from Luce about there being a viewing at the house the following morning and thrown the phone away in a flash of fury. Hours later, she’d woken up on an unfamiliar couch and realized that absolutely nobody who knewwhoshe was knewwhereshe was, and no one had any way to contact her.
And thought,What if I just left?There and then. With only the clothes on her back and the cash in her wallet, and without anyone’s permission or blessing.
Nicki didn’t want to hear all the reasons why she couldn’t do the thing she knew she absolutelycoulddo. She didn’t want to have to justify wanting it. She didn’t want to talk about it at all, actually, especially not with people who’d never understand.
It didn’t feel selfish, it felt empowering. Doing what you wanted with your own adult life wasn’t a crime. As for telling Luce and Chris, her priority wasn’t the concerns of people who didn’t seem to care one bit about whatshewanted. And anyway, wasn’t this what you weresupposedto do? Make space for you. Speak your truth. Live authentically.
She was going to tell them. Of course she was.
At some point.
But before she could, three Garda cars had come up the track.
So now Nicki must pay for all the pain she’s caused.
This is part of her penance. And anyway, she’d rather be out here than at home. Ironically, she hates the house now, hates the neighbors who whisper behind her back every time she comes or goes, hates that every journalist in the land knows exactly where to find her, hates that every crazy idiot in the country knows it too.
The hate mail isn’t arriving by the literal sack-load like it was a year ago—that had been news to her, that if you got enough post, they’d deliver it in actual hessian sacks—but it still comes dribbling in, and someone with a shaky hand sends her envelopes stuffed with faintly photocopied prayers at least once a week without fail.
Last Friday night someone put a brick through Chris’s car window, presumably mistaking it for hers.
But she can’t leave. She won’t move.
