What I Did

by Kate Bradley

  I have to push forwards. Feeling better for just taking the pain relief, I think through my options: I can’t call anyone. I have no shoes. No money. It’s four miles to the nearest village. I can’t use my car. I don’t know anyone who lives nearby – there isn’t anyone nearby. That’s the bad news.

  The good news is that Jack is upstairs and is apparently having a bedtime story. He didn’t sound hurt or upset but seemed content choosing a book. He’s with his dad, which although it is a disaster, Jack will be happy about because he does love him.

  I feel reassured.

  What might be the worst news is that I’ve been assaulted, tied up and by taking my keys and phone and shoes, his dad is expecting me to stay here – forcing me to. Why? Suddenly, I see that it isn’t Jack who is in danger, but me. By making the bedroom warm and reading him a story, his father has made sure Jack will soon fall asleep. Then when all is quiet, he will come down to see me. He has come here to punish me. Jack is safe – if anything was going to happen to him, his father has already had ample opportunity to harm him.

  It’s me he wants to harm.

  Immediately, I see I was right not to challenge him. Instead I’ve got to do the opposite: I’ve got to get out.

  I mustn’t be here when he comes for me.

  But that means leaving Jack.

  It’s not for long though, I tell myself. I have no choice but to get help – perhaps I even have to consider the police. What’s clear is that we will never be safe here again – we will never be safe anywhere again. What he’s done tonight means I have to think fresh on old ideas. And if that means calling the police and risk losing Jack, so be it. The truth is, now he’s attacked me, tied me up, perhaps I have grounds to get them to listen to me, side with me. Although he’ll say I made it up or I did it to myself, there’s still a possibility they’ll believe me.

  The back door is still ajar and, stepping outside, the air is cold in my face. I take another step, contemplating the shadowy garden, the darker fields beyond. I look at my socked feet, grateful the ground hasn’t seen rain in nearly two weeks and my socks are thermal. It’s not much, but it’s something.

  I place my foot gingerly down outside onto the stone step. I briefly consider another weapon, but looking around the garden, I don’t need light to know there isn’t anything. There are no tools because I don’t have any. I’ve never seen a log lying around and if there was, how would I find it with no torch? And if I did, how would that be any better than a knife? I feel the reassuring weight of my own, tucked in my waistband.

  I draw my fleece around me and stare into the night. The wind lightly blows in my face and I think about how I’ve never got used to how dark the countryside gets in Herefordshire. It’s not like town life when the street, house and shop lights lift the dark. Here, in the countryside, there’s nothing to puncture the night.

  Just me, in the darkness, shoeless and running . . . where? Cleasong?

  The moon is only a fingernail crescent, offering no light. Even as I stare, the black crosses it and I realise that with cloud cover, as soon as I step away from the spill of kitchen light, I will be running blind. I leave the patio, and for safety, run under the concealment of the shadows. Now I am truly in the dark. I take a deep breath: the air is heavy with moulding nature, warm, yeasty and rotting.

  I hear a noise behind me, and then the sound of a badger barking nearby, and my fear is as a touch on my skin: I am not alone.

  Here in the dark, something is with me.

  Something, no – someone – is standing here in the garden shadows with me. The night is so dark, there is so little light, but I can sense them . . . like a single candle in a vast cave, my sight barely breaks the darkness. But I look, look, look. Who is it? Is it him? It can’t be – he’s upstairs reading to Jack. Even so, the feeling that I am not alone sets alight my nerves and, broken from my inertia, I shoot into the night.

  twenty-seven:

  – now –

  I make it only a short distance before I trip in the dark and then I stumble over something and half fall into the border plants. I’m so adrenalised it takes me a minute to draw a decent breath, before I look back, owl eyes to where I was standing – I was so, so sure there was someone standing with me in the dark.

  I feel my heart wham-wham, sure . . . and then less sure. I was so frightened, but as I centre myself, I see nothing there except shadows and my heart eases. I stay watching, crouched in the gloomy far edge of the garden, looking back across the inky sea of lawn, to the cottage. The feeling of being spooked has already passed: it was visceral but has now gone.

  Perhaps . . . it’s just a side effect. Perhaps.

  This is what I tell myself.

  But it had felt so real.

  I’m hidden by the dense canopy of the huge rhododendron bush. I’m no gardener, but I remember learning that rhododendrons drop poison onto the ground underneath them to stop anything else from growing; perhaps this is how they manage to proliferate – killing everything else. Its thick, leathery leaves brush against my cheek, as if it doesn’t want me here, as if my presence will draw another more efficient killer.

  I cower amongst it as I listen to my breathing slow. Normally I’d use my hands to steady my uncomfortable crouching position, but instead I hold the burning, thudding things in front, so nothing touches them anywhere, not even themselves. The painkillers are working now, and although my hands are incredibly painful, it’s dulling to a muted, manageable soreness.

  Something scuttles near me and I almost flinch, but I don’t because it’s not him. Rats and badgers can’t hurt me. I reach for my knife, tucked in my waistband. It’s gone. I look back across the lawn, but I can’t see it. I hate myself for losing it so quickly.

  Without it I am truly helpless. I can’t stay here, not doing anything, just waiting.

  If I’m going to Cleasong, it’ll take a long time. I’ll have to head down to the road. I consider that I could flag down a passing car but we rarely pass other cars out here, particularly at night. Even if there was traffic, they come hurtling around the corners. The road weaves and bends with high hedges on either side. There’s only a grass verge and that’s non-existent in places. I would be very vulnerable stumbling on the road in my dark outfit – and it’d be incredibly dangerous to try and flag them down. If I die out there, roadkill, then no one is ever going to save Jack.

  Looking out into the night, I remember the distant farm. West, in the direction that the sun falls, I don’t know anything about it, but I’ve seen the house and outbuildings as I’ve stood looking at the sunset. Although I don’t know who lives there – or even if it’s occupied – I suspect it’s my best option. It’s certainly a lot nearer and there’s likely to be a farmer and dogs and help. I’m pinning all my hope on an idea in the distance, but right now, it’s the best I’ve got. Worst-case scenario, I’ll push on to Cleasong if there’s no one there.

  I turn back to whisper to Jack that I’m not leaving him but instead going to get him help, but what I see then dumps fear into my blood.

  Upstairs, the curtains in Jack’s room have now been drawn.

  Pulling Jack’s curtains closed is the last thing I do at night. I check on him, shut his curtains, then clean my teeth and go to bed. Jack loves to lie in bed and see the sky as he goes to sleep. He loves to see the stars; we’ve even angled his bed so he has the perfect view. When we lived in town, the light pollution was so bad it meant he couldn’t really see anything of any worth, but it’s wonderful here in the dark of the countryside. It’s been a surprise and a delight to discover how much Jack loves stargazing. Only yesterday, I was scouring the internet looking for a bargain telescope that I can surprise him with for Christmas.

  But the curtains are shut already.

  That means that Jack might already be asleep, and if that’s the case, his dad will be coming to look for me.

  I plunge on, hitting my hedge, and push, fighting, my way through it. I emerge on the
other side, scratched, falling forwards onto a field, but the cottage is behind me now and I don’t look back again.

  twenty-eight:

  – now –

  Jack. I could only think of him. His name held on my breath and my heart. My feet tramp plunging, pistoning, ploughing on through the mud field. My wet, socked feet are already numb with cold but I punch forward, not looking back.

  Fear keeps me running – pushing me forward.

  In my mind it’s like he’s right there, running close behind me, his breath on my neck. Sometimes he’s carrying a broom handle, sometimes a petrol can. But in my worst dreams he holds out Winston to me in his arms – an awful offering. Winston is still alive despite his broken back, his back legs flopping. And as he holds the dog, yelping and whining in great pain, he’s always laughing, his face the same grimace of humour that I imagine he had when he killed Winston.

  The air is cold as I pull it into my throat, but it burns in my lungs with the exhaustion of running, still running.

  I want to concentrate on the ground, the things underfoot that cut my ankle. But somewhere a fox barks and I think of Winston again. Winston is significant – not only because I loved him – but because his death was the start of this. If he hadn’t killed the dog, perhaps my life would be different; perhaps Jack’s life would be different.

  I run.

  The ploughed furrows mean that each step jolts me, sometimes up, sometimes down. I click my hip, my knees jar with the unexpected rough cadence of the ground, but still – panting, I run on. I won’t let myself think of the past; instead I keep my eyes on where I need to get to, and then I reach the other side of the huge field and I’m forced to stop because the other side is a hedge.

  In a place where everything is just shadows against shadows, layers of black against black, I nearly slam into it.

  My first thought is to turn to see if he’s behind me, but I already know he isn’t. The ploughed field I’ve just run across stretches behind me. Blind eyes search the dark: but I can’t detect any movement. He could be there . . . but I can’t see him and I just don’t feel him.

  If he was, I’m in no position to fight him. But still I wished he was here ready to grab me.

  Because instead it means that he’s back there, in the cottage, on the other side of the pulled curtains, with Jack.

  I bend, drawing great lungfuls of air into my chest, then afterwards, it’s my stomach that’s heaving and I think I’m going to be sick. I want to drop to the damp earth and die. I feel worn, broken, used up. I wish I could just give up, let the cold take me in the night, but I have to keep going. I have to find a way to save Jack. I have to get help.

  My eyes have adjusted to the lack of light. I can’t see through the hedge, exactly, but I stand, freezing numb feet in the damp mud, and try to find the best way through. Looking up and down, I can’t make out a gate. It’s through the hedge or nothing. Only then, I notice the moon glint back from something in the hedge. I move closer: urgh. It’s a wire fence.

  It’s banked up and thick with weeds. It’s hard on my feet. They already feel ruined. When I was running, I was aware that I was stamping on the occasional stone and I feel it now.

  It’s too dark to see properly despite the thin moon, but through the hedge it seems to only be wires, pegged in by metal stakes. I part the wire and begin to climb through. Then my city-girl mistake: electricity bites.

  The shock is not too much but I fall back, surprised.

  A scream rips forth and I sink to the ground, beaten. I lie and scream all my hurt and fear at the moon. I have endured worse than tonight, but for some reason, it’s this sting and surprise that means I cannot stand any more, and it defeats me.

  I think of my dropped knife and I don’t think I can get up again. I don’t think I can face another electric shock. I don’t think I can run across another field without shoes on.

  I think I’m screaming a lot. I think he could hear it a field away. Like the beating wings of an insect, drawing a bat to it, he will find me in the dark and he will consume me.

  I have run out of bravery.

  I cannot go on.

  twenty-nine:

  – now –

  I’m lying on my back in the cold field, my eyes shut, unable to go on – I just can’t, I just can’t – when suddenly I instinctively know – again – that I am not alone.

  Someone’s here.

  Now.

  Watching me.

  The thought is as clear as lightning: at once both illuminating and chilling and infinitely dangerous. I don’t want to look, but my eyes are traitors and snap open. For a moment I just lie there staring into the dark, not breathing, not moving, but simply listening as if my life depends on it.

  Perhaps it does.

  The stars emerge from behind a cloud. I can’t see the cloud, black against black, so it’s like a magic trick. All the time I stare, I think: Someone is here.

  Is it him?

  At first, I thought, yes. But now . . .

  . . . I think: No.

  But who else would be standing in this dark field? It doesn’t make sense. Why would they be here? How would they know that I would stop here? Or if he has followed me, then why am I still alive? My stare is fixed, waiting . . . for a noise . . . to be attacked . . . I don’t know . . .

  And then it’s like the pressure drops. Someone has stepped up to me but I’m squeezing my eyes shut. I don’t want to see. Then I feel a chill on my neck.

  And I know they are there. I might be guilty of many things, but I am not guilty of imagining this.

  Enough.

  I’m up and I’m running and I plunge into yet another bloody hedge and the electricity bolts through me again as I reach the other side but this time it doesn’t hurt too much and something jabs my cheek but I wrench my face away and I’m under one of the wires and climbing over the other. I understand two things: one, that the thought of the electric fence was worse than the reality, and two, I am more afraid of standing in the dark with an unknown presence than running in the night.

  And so it is that I find myself running forward again, scratched, poked and hurting afresh, but moving closer to the farmhouse – relief layered upon relief – and it has its lights on.

  I have finally found help.

  thirty:

  – now –

  I struggle across the last field, but hope has helped strengthen me and I can move faster. Something flying hits me in the face – a moth perhaps, its dusty wing touching the corner of my open mouth, but it doesn’t slow me.

  The house lights puncture the night. As I get closer, I feel a burst of extra power. Perhaps he’ll have a Land Rover and he’ll drive me back as we both hatch a plan. He’ll have dogs too – perhaps the best thing.

  I pant and stumble in the dark, but the house looms bigger and bigger. I have nearly made it. I didn’t think I could, but I have. There’s one final hedge. When I reach it, I realise that the farmhouse garden is just behind it.

  I tuck my burnt wrists back under my fleece, but now they bother me less than my feet. Now my feet are crying; tomorrow they will be screaming.

  And then I think: I might not be alive tomorrow to hear them. I actually start a little in the dark as if the thought surprises me. It shouldn’t, because it’s always been there – a low thrum of concern, a low beat very, very nearly undetectable when there’s the cacophony of all my other challenges. But here it is. I pause, almost amused. Is this the right response to the thought that I might die tonight?

  Yes, the drugs help – a lot – but I’ve been here before. How many times have I thought I might die?

  If I do, I just hope that Jack lives. With that, I push through the hedge, now not even caring if it gives me a jolt.

  It scratches me. My feet kick through where the hedge is denser. My right foot stubs against a thick stem. But I keep going.

  And I emerge on the other side.

  I’m standing in a garden; the
farmhouse is just in front of me. I pause, dragging air into my aching lungs. I stare at the building. It’s great to see it, for my journey to be over, but it’s not what I expected. It’s not the architecturally lovely thing that my cottage is, but a large 1970s box with large windows and a flat-roofed extension to the side.

  My breathing slows. A farmhouse that has a farmer is still a farmhouse, no matter what it looks like.

  I hear loud music. It’s spiky, shouty and sounds angry. This is just the type of person I need! The doorbell is the same – new looking. Whoever lives here takes care of things. I’m hoping for practical and strong. It all feels so positive.

  I ring the bell and hold my breath.

  thirty-one:

  – now –

  Somewhere in the dark, across the field behind me, a fox screams again and I’m reminded of waking up on my floor. I hate that sound.

  When Jack and I first moved to the country, there were many things we struggled to adjust to. Planning ahead, even for milk, was something that took a few weeks to get right. For just about forever, I’d been making Jack a warm milk – just a small amount so he didn’t wet the bed – before he went to sleep, but many times we ran out of milk and there could no longer be a quick dash to the shops.

  It wasn’t just the practical problems of being isolated that was the worst thing, more that it also didn’t provide the feeling of safety I’d been hoping for. After fleeing, we moved a few times, staying in hotels, not really sure what we should do. But when Jack started to show severe anxiety, I realised we needed something more permanent. This had seemed like the answer. Homeschooling and not yet having to register with a GP meant that we were instantly harder to track. There were no links with me to Herefordshire – I’d never visited the place before and knew no one who lived here, so there was no reason to look for us here.

  It should’ve been the ultimate place of safety. Rolling hills of nothingness – our idyllic cottage should’ve felt like a haven.