by Sarah Dunant
Upstairs he had fallen asleep almost immediately, snoring as he often did after too much booze. If the hotel hadn’t been full she would have taken another room just to get away from him. As it was she had lain awake for hours trying to trace the line of how they had got to this: where it had all gone, the pleasure and the passion. She had made a vow to herself that night. Whatever happened, by this time next year she would be alone. And however bad it was, it would not be as bad as this.
Of all the many roads she had imagined leading away from Tom, this one had not been on the map. In the last year she had had two men; one she had frightened, the other had frightened her, one she had cried with, the other she had made cry. Neither had really known the meaning of sexual pleasure. I want a lover, she thought. A man who isn’t scared of me or of himself, someone who will put his fingers up inside me and find my heart. What was it her gay friend Maurice had once said to her? That when you were fist-fucked you could almost imagine his hand reaching up through your body and grabbing at your heart. Love and pain. Maybe they were never meant to be separated. Maybe romance was like icing on the cake, too sweet to have any real taste.
She pulled herself up against the pillows and looked out onto the empty room. She saw him again sitting at the end of the bed, his body shaking with tension. Did you really think you could just walk in here and fuck me? she thought. That I was your right, like the woman in the pub, or the one at the bus stop? Well, now it’s your turn to find out how it feels to be so frightened.
She closed her eyes, tired of the sight of his wiry body and lopsided smile. She tried to think of something else. Then she tried to think of nothing. She tried to sleep. She tried to stay awake. Still no sound of entry.
It must have been sometime after three when she heard the movement from below, a sort of scraping metallic noise, over so fast that she thought she might have imagined it. Her body had heard it, too, though; a flush of terror swept through her, hot and cold at the same time. She slid the plastic bag from under the pillow, got out of bed, and glided silently to the top of the stairs. Nobody had given her any instructions as to what to do if it happened. But if he was there she was going to see him. She waited. Then, after about a minute or so, she heard something else, a series of footfalls with the crack of a floorboard underneath. The whole house seemed to jump to attention at the sound.
She squatted down and gazed between the banisters. On the landing, at the top of the stairs that led down to the kitchen, a figure was flattened against the wall, more a shadow than a man. In the doorway to the living room Veronica was standing, freeze-frame.
The policewoman looked up and saw her on the stairs. She gave a quick flick of the hand to keep her away, but at that instant her partner went for the door and Veronica was across the hall and behind him within seconds.
Elizabeth heard the crack as the kitchen door smashed open against the wall, presumably under the force of his foot, and the light went on. She waited for the shouts. But they didn’t come. Nothing. Then she heard the metallic snap of the cat flap and a harsh little laugh. The light went off again. She stashed the plastic bag hurriedly in the bathroom at the top of the stairs and tiptoed downstairs.
They were already back up on the landing.
“What happened?”
He snapped his head up toward her, clearly pissed off to see her there.
“Nothing. Go back to bed.”
“What happened?”
Veronica shrugged slightly. “I think your cat came home.” She paused. “I’m afraid it didn’t get a chance to eat much. We scared it out again.”
The RSPCA would give them a medal. Never mind, she thought. The tom would come back. Stomach over cock. He was easy to tempt.
She felt suddenly rather faint and in need of a drink. She took a few steps down the stairs.
“Stay up there,” he said firmly.
“I need some water.”
“Get it from the bathroom.”
“I haven’t got a glass.”
“Then use the tumbler.”
“It’d be better if he didn’t see any lights on,” Veronica said, trying to soften his edge. “I doubt very much he’ll come if he thinks you’re still awake.”
In which case you two dummies just comprehensively scared him off by turning on the light in the kitchen, she thought but didn’t say. “All right.”
The man turned on his heel and went back into his room. Interesting how even professionals can be undermined. It must be so embarrassing, using up all your adrenaline and style on empty air.
“Maybe he won’t come now. Maybe it’s too cold for him,” she said to Veronica.
But as she did so she saw him standing in the snow, watching the girl at the bus stop. No, he wasn’t afraid of the weather. The itch he had to scratch was too powerful for that.
“There’s still time,” she replied. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”
Upstairs, she didn’t even bother to try. Three turned to four. The night grew slower and colder. Around five she heard someone climb the stairs and go into the bathroom. She wasn’t even mildly frightened. She had known for some time by then that he wasn’t coming.
What happened? she thought. Did I make it too obvious? Was Mirka’s lust too much of a giveaway? Perhaps men like that can’t handle women taking the initiative or showing sexual desire. She got up and went to the window. Across the way everything was black night, save for the odd set of Christmas tree lights acting as homing devices for Santa’s reindeer.
God, I’m so tired of this view, she thought again. I want it out of my head. It and you. Out of my head and out of my life. I want it finished. Now.
But it wouldn’t be now. She knew that.
The morning came in cold and sluggish. She waited until it was beginning to get light, then pulled on a skirt and sweater and went downstairs. This time they didn’t try to send her up again. They both looked tired. Tired and subdued. She made them tea. In the kitchen the cat bowl was full, though the garden pellets had gone. She put on the light and picked out some music. Christmas Day. More a question of what you didn’t want to hear. She went for Sting, early hits. Christmas morning with the Police. Would they get the reference?
She brought the tray into the living room, tea and buttered toast. Veronica played mom. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked her.
Elizabeth shook her head.
“Well, you can catch up today. He won’t come now.”
“No.”
On the sofa the inspector said nothing. He was looking at her strangely. Was this bruised pride or wasted time? she thought. Isn’t this what police work is meant to be: slow, careful, with small rewards? Not like the movies. They ought to be used to it. Or maybe it was more serious than that. Maybe he was wondering whether they should have been there at all. What must that first report by that young sergeant have said? Unstable young woman, possibly seeking attention? Listen, she wanted to say, I didn’t make up that tape. Nor did I put those fingerprints on the hammer. But, then, he wouldn’t know about those. Maybe she should “discover” it in the bushes out in the garden. That would give them something to think about.
He was stirring his tea when his radio spluttered into action. He grabbed it out of his pocket and put it to his ear. He said “yep” a couple of times, then, glancing across at Veronica, got up and went out. Her eyes followed him. He went into the back room and closed the door. For a while they sat there in silence.
“Will you have the rest of the day off?” she said, mainly because she couldn’t bear the sound of the silence.
“After we’ve filed a report, yes.”
“What will you do?”
But she never got an answer because as McCormick came back into the room Veronica stood up immediately, reading the urgency in his face.
“I need a word,” he muttered.
“What’s happened?” Elizabeth asked quietly.
He scowled, and it was clear he didn’t want to tell her. Veronica raised her
eyebrows slightly. They had some kind of conversation without talking.
“What’s happened?” she said again.
“There’s been an incident,” he said at last.
“An incident? Where?”
“In a house on St. John’s Way.”
St. John’s Way. Four streets along the other side of Holloway Road. An easy journey from Montague Crescent.
“Was it him?”
“I just need to talk to Inspector Peters for—”
“Was it him?” she said, this time much louder than she intended. So loud that they all registered the panic. “Please?”
He sighed impatiently. “We don’t know yet.”
Which meant they did.
“Is the woman all right?”
“I can’t tell you any more than that.”
He turned on his heel and Veronica followed him out of the room. They were gone for only a moment or two. She had to put down her cup, her hand was shaking so much.
When they came back in he had his coat on.
“Do you have anybody you could invite to come over and be with you? A friend maybe? Or someone whose house you could go to?” She stared at him, not speaking. “Inspector Peters could stay with you till they arrive. There’s nothing to worry about. You’re completely safe. But you might feel better to have someone with you.”
She spent a long time trying to get her breath right, make her voice sound in control. “I appreciate your concern,” she said at last, “but I don’t respond well to being patronized. If something has happened which involves this . . . this madman, then I think you at least owe it to me to tell me.” There was a pause in which no one spoke. She stared at him. “He’s done it again, hasn’t he? He’s attacked someone else.”
Another little interchange of looks. This time it was Veronica who spoke. “It looks like that, yes.”
“And did she describe him? Was it the same man?”
The policewoman took a breath. “No, she didn’t describe anyone. But there’s a report that someone saw him leaving the house; they’re checking that out now. Listen, why don’t you give me a phone number, Elizabeth? I can call whoever you want for you.”
She sat staring down at the mug of tea. Its heat could no longer warm her hands. It was too weak, really. She should have let it brew for longer. She’s dead, she thought. That’s why they won’t tell me. He’s killed someone.
“Elizabeth?”
“Er . . . it’s all right. I’ve . . . I’ve actually been invited to a friend’s house for lunch. I can go there.”
“Good. I’ll stay with you till you—”
“No. No. I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Really,” she said firmly. “If it’s all right with you. I think I need to be alone.” The man frowned slightly. She smiled at him. “It’s all right. I promise. I’m fine. I’ll keep all the doors and windows locked and nail up the cat flap. Though I doubt whether it’s necessary now. I mean, he’s hardly likely to want dessert, is he? Not so soon after a main course.”
The man stared at her for a while. He didn’t like her, that much was clear, although whether that was because she’d just marred his career prospects or something more substantial was hard to tell. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
She saw them to the door. “By the way,” he said, turning to her as he walked out, “I think you can put away that hammer now. It wouldn’t have been much use against him anyway.”
“I don’t know—” She started to deny it, but the flush in her face gave her away. Like being caught lying in class, the shame rising up like vomit. If he’d seen inside the bag, chances were he’d have put his stupid mitts all over it, too. Idiots. All of them, idiots.
“You’ll be fine,” Veronica said quietly, but it was definitely more the social worker than the policewoman talking. “You know, it’s all right to be scared sometimes, Elizabeth. Living alone can do that to people. But you should forget it now. Go to your friend’s and put it all behind you. We’re going to get him this time. I promise you. We know what we’re doing.”
She turned to follow her partner but the sight of her leaving was suddenly too much. Before she realized she had done it Elizabeth leaned out and grabbed hold of her hand. “Number forty Montague Crescent,” she said quickly. “He lives in the middle flat of forty Montague Crescent.” The policewoman looked at her sharply. “I’m not making it up, I swear to you. I’ve been trying to work it out all night . . . which light it was that I saw go on that evening. And I’m certain now it must have come from number forty.”
From halfway down the garden path the man let out a noisy sigh. Both women heard it and knew what it meant. “Thank you,” said Veronica carefully. “That’s really helpful. I promise you we’ll check it out.”
“Do it now. He’ll be back there by now.”
The policewoman pulled her hand gently out of the grip. “Don’t worry, leave it to us.”
They turned and walked down the path. She watched them get into their car. They’d be laughing about her now. Laughing or bitching.
She slammed the door after them and burst into tears.
She was still crying when she heard the cat flap snap open. She got herself downstairs in time to see the black tom striding across the room as if the house belonged to him. But arrogance had made him slow and this time she caught him. As she grabbed him he swiped out at her with his claws, ripping red lines across the backs of her hands. She held him down, cuffing him hard across the head. He lashed out again, the claw raking her arm this time. The pain made her loosen her grip. He smashed his way out through the cat flap and over the wall.
Nursing her hand, she slammed the cat pellets into the trash. She was still crying. Enough. Enough revenge. It didn’t work. All it did was make you feel more soiled than them.
The scratch marks were raising blood tracks up her arm. She went up to the bathroom and dug around in the medicine cabinet. The antiseptic hurt more than the cuts, but she quite liked the pain. At least it gave her something to cry about.
St. John’s Way: big Victorian houses, most of them converted into apartments but with gardens generous enough to be divided off. It was a cornucopia of opportunity; he could have helped himself from a dozen French windows or spiral staircases. Did he know who he was getting or was it just potluck? How much had he hurt her first?
It wasn’t her fault. How could anyone have predicted where he’d go next? Even if the police hadn’t been with her, there was no reason for them to have been on St. John’s Way on the off chance of finding someone to protect. She couldn’t be held responsible for the woman’s death. It wasn’t her fault.
She looked at her watch: 7:49. How was she going to make it through the rest of the day? She was so tired. How long was it since she had slept? Not last night. Nor the night before. When, then? She realized she couldn’t remember. Veronica was right. She needed help and she needed to get out of here.
“Remember. Call me if you need me. Anytime.” On this of all days surely Catherine would take her in, hear her confession, and absolve her of the sins she was afraid she might have committed. Of all people she’d understand how it was possible to feel guilty for one’s innocence. She wouldn’t judge her. It was either her or Sally.
She decided to call as soon as she had stopped the bleeding. She cut off a length of gauze and started tying it around her lower arm. She was digging around in the cabinet looking for the pair of surgical scissors she kept there when the doorbell rang.
The sound of it stopped her in her tracks. It was Christmas Day, for Christ’s sake. Nobody visits anybody this early on Christmas Day. Especially not her. Everyone knew that she and Tom usually went away. Unless it was the family next door taking pity on her single status?
She waited. But whoever they were didn’t ring again. She realized she was shivering slightly. It couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t dare. She went down the stairs and peered through the peephole. No, the sidewalk in front of the house was empty.
She went into the front
room, sneaking a look from behind the muslin curtains. Sometimes, if people stood right on the step, the fish-eye lens couldn’t catch them. But the step was deserted, too. She thought about opening the door to check, but decided against it.
By the telephone in the hall she had written Catherine Baker’s number on a pad. She dialed and it connected. As she stood waiting for someone to answer she felt her arm throb from the claw marks and it was then that she remembered where she had left the surgical scissors. They were in the kitchen by the stove: she’d used them to try to prize out the French window bolts, the bolts that once gone left the kitchen vulnerable again to the determined visitor. Suddenly, in that instant, she understood it all.
She smashed the phone back onto the receiver as the opening chords of Van Morrison’s Enlightenment hit the air.
twenty-six
The door to the kitchen was wide open. She made a grab for the handle, but he jumped her from the side before she was barely in the room, slamming his body weight straight into hers, so that she smashed first against the wood then headlong onto the floor. She was back on her feet right away, hurling herself across the room toward the French windows, one of which had to be open, and from where someone was bound to hear her screams over the music. She never got there. Once again he used his body like a battering ram, tackling her from behind and catapulting her forward. This time she struck a chair on her way down, the corner of it cutting into her chest underneath her ribs. As she hit the floor he was on top of her. But it didn’t stop her fighting. Oblivious to the pain, she flailed underneath him, yelling at the top of her lungs, lashing out wildly in all directions. It took all his weight to pin her down.