Lyra Young sat on the edge of the bed, her husband’s phone clutched tightly in her hand. She glanced over at Harry, then quietly stood, crossing the bedroom in bare feet to the en-suite. Sitting on the toilet seat, she stared at the phone again.
What she was about to do could change her life completely and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to take that chance right now.
The bathroom seemed extra bright and she half-closed her eyes.
Her thumb trembled just millimetres from the screen. It had a blackness so deep it threatened to swallow her.
Closing her eyes, she tapped it.
* * *
Lyra sat quietly, shoulders slumped, her tears long gone. She’d cried enough over the bastard, now she had to decide what to do.
She’d suspected Harry of having an affair for some time but made herself believe his excuses for the late nights and disinterest in sex.
It had been hard enough forgiving him for his past transgressions, let alone admit to herself that he might be doing it again.
As she thought about Harry’s affairs, Lyra unconsciously rubbed her left collar bone - the one he’d broken slamming her against the wall the last time she’d confronted him two years ago.
She didn’t think she had the strength to go through all that again.
Leaning forward, Lyra rubbed her temples with her fingertips, knowing that she had to get away from him, if only for the sake of her child. But she knew he’d never let her - the one time she’d tried, he’d chased her down and dragged her back to the house.
She hadn’t gone out for two weeks after that, too embarrassed to show her bruised face to the world.
Well she’d wanted the excitement of dating a criminal all those years ago and now she was paying for it. It was her own stupid fault really.
If she just accepted his affairs and stopped trying to change him, he wouldn’t hit her.
Lyra sat back, the images of the pictures on his phone running through her mind. They made her feel sick - and the sex texts were really disgusting!
Suppose Tracey had got hold of the phone and seen them! It didn’t bare thinking about.
There had to be a way - this had to end.
* * *
Lyra stood at the front door, half in, half out.
“I told you, I saw it in the car Harry.”
Harry pushed passed her and Lyra winced when her shoulder caught the door post.
“Fasten your seat belt darling,” Lyra said, easing herself into the driving seat and starting the car.
“Yes mummy.”
Harry slammed the glove-box closed. It fell open and he slammed it again.
“It’s not bloody here I’m telling you!” he growled. Without waiting for an answer he stormed back to the house.
“Think I left the garage unlocked Tracey, won’t be a sec.”
Lyra hopped out of the car and hurried around to the back. Making sure that her daughter wasn’t watching, she bent down and placed Harry’s phone on the ground.
Getting back into the car, she slid the gear-stick into reverse and waited.
After a few minutes Harry stormed out of the house, slamming the front door behind him, his face twisted in rage.
“What the fuck you done with my phone? I told you the last time what I’d —”
Spotting his phone laying behind the car, Harry hurried over, bending down to pick it up.
“Must have dropped it,” he muttered.
“What’re you doing Harry?” Lyra called, slamming her foot on the accelerator as her husband’s image disappeared from the driving mirror.
The car jerked backwards, catching Harry’s head between the bumper and the solid garage door.
The engine stalled, replaced by an eerie silence.
Before Lyra could stop her, Tracey was out of the car, hands covering her mouth, eyes wide with shock as she stared at the redness dripping down the cream coloured woodwork.
Lyra gathered her daughter in her arms and hurried her into the house.
“Hush darling, hush now,” she repeated over and over, cuddling the trembling youngster.
* * *
It was two weeks since Harry had died. A terrible accident, the local paper had described it.
Tracey seemed to be coping well and Lyra had done her best to ease her through the trauma of her father’s death.
The funeral was tomorrow and Lyra had made arrangements to see Harry for one last time before the coffin was secured. She’d argued with the funeral director, who didn’t want her to view Harry, telling her that, although they had done their best, the circumstances of the accident meant that his face had been badly damaged.
Standing next to the coffin, Lyra stared down at the bruised and battered face of her husband, feeling nothing - not even the tiniest bit of remorse.
“Bye Harry,” she said, slipping his mobile down under his body. “Why don’t you take your fucking tart with you? Where you’re going, I’m sure you’ll both get on like a house on fire.”
Turning from the coffin, Lyra walked away without a backward glance.
* * *
Three months later - after all the commotion had settled down - Lyra was sitting with a glass of Merlot, wondering whether the insurance payout would be enough to treat her and Tracey to a nice holiday in San Francisco, when her phone rang.
Still leafing through the holiday brochures, she answered it, not checking to see who the caller was first.
“Hello Lying Lyra,” a voice said quietly. “Enjoying my money are you?”
Lyra threw the phone from her with a stifled scream.
Only one person had ever called her that before —