by Emma Rowley
I’m OK really. When I can’t bear it, when it almost gets too much for me, I’ve got this trick. I’ll close my eyes and imagine that none of this ever happened. I’ll just think, really hard, about how it used to be. Not about people. That just upsets me.
I think about the boring stuff. Sitting on my bed, doing my homework, the noise of the kitchen radio trickling up to me. Curled up on the sofa watching TV, King snoring softly on the rug in front of me, the rain slapping against the windows in big drops. And I’ll picture the scene, in my mind, so I don’t forget.
I don’t do it when he’s around. He caught me once. He came in when I was sitting propped against the wall, with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears. He didn’t like it. He wants all my attention. I still do it though, even when he thinks I’m right there with him. When he wants to be together, I can go somewhere else in my head.
A long time ago, it made me feel closer to him. He was always so controlled, unknowable, despite all the nice things he used to say. And I felt so special, chosen.
But now I don’t want to be close to him, I don’t want to be close to him at all, though I try not to let it show.
Because I have realized something while I’ve been in here, something important. Trust can be a weapon.
I trusted him. He knew my secrets, my fears. How I felt about school, my parents, how much they argued, if Holly really did want to get with Danny. Just everyday, teenage stuff—good in a way I didn’t understand then.
It all seemed so much at the time. Mum and Dad were arguing, more than usual. It didn’t seem to have stopped them, moving up here, like they wanted. I wasn’t doing well at school, my exams looming on the horizon like some horrible slow-motion disaster—a hurricane or a tsunami—inching closer. Just thinking about them, how behind I was getting with everything . . . I wasn’t academic like Mum and Dad, not really. And then Holly and Danny—that was a mess, with her so jealous, it just got awkward. I couldn’t keep everyone happy, anymore, so I was seeing less of him. It seemed such a big deal at the time.
And then he came along. I met him through school. I know now how bad that sounds. But it was just a crush, at first. I wonder, was that why I liked him, because it seemed so safe? Nothing was going to happen; I wouldn’t get hurt. He seemed so gentle, and reassuring.
But then it did happen.
I was the one who made the first move. I just stood up on my tiptoes, my hand on his sleeve, and kissed him. I was blushing. He’d just told me, looking down into my face, that we couldn’t do anything, that however much he wanted to, however much it felt we were meant to be together . . . I felt like it was up to me to show him that we could.
So he kept my secrets and, afterward, we had our secret. But now I’ve had time to think about all this, I’m not so sure, really, if it was me who started it, or if he just made me feel that way. In fact there’s lots that I’m not so sure about now.
It’s like I’ve finally woken up, and I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been, and how messed up this all is, and if I go too far down that road I crumble and cry, and the panic rises up again, and I’ll start shaking and choking, and that won’t do at all, not while he’s here, not in front of him.
So I don’t, I just take big slow breaths and I fix my eyes wide open and make my face look sweet and pretty and all the time I’m thinking, this isn’t over. I do my big wide-open eyes and smile and nod and don’t say much—it’s easier that way—and I think my thoughts behind my happy face.
Because now, I need him to trust me.
CHAPTER 30
Kate
I go from sleep to waking in an instant, no slow swimming to consciousness, the way you do sometimes. Suddenly my eyes are open, and I’m alert.
I sigh. I’ve been doing so well, I haven’t had to take a pill for ages. I was going to tonight, I was so restless and cross, but in the end I forced myself to read, just a few chapters of Pride and Prejudice, my old comfort book. I poured my thoughts into its safer channels until, calmed, I could sleep.
But now I am wide awake, in the dead of the night. The room’s dark, no bright moonlight tonight. But the birds are yet to start their dawn chorus: it’s the quiet of the witching hour.
I must have kicked off the sheet in the night; I go to reach for it again. I always need something covering me, even when it’s hot.
And then I go still, freezing in place mid-turn, propped up on one arm.
I wait. A beat, and then another. It’s probably no more than fifteen seconds that pass in total, me straining so hard to catch the sound that I can hear the rush of blood in my ears, and I begin to relax just a little, realizing that I am holding my breath.
I hear it again. A creak. Just a small moan from old wood, so slight you might ignore it, or decide it was just an old house settling around you, if you didn’t know what it was.
A slow pressure of weight on a floorboard, not so close, but not so far, either. Just outside my shut door, in the hallway. It’s a familiar sound. There’s a long runner of carpet there, but it doesn’t stop that one board creaking, it never has, however slowly you tread.
I am sliding out of my bed now, my feet on the floor, before I form another thought: I take a step toward the closed door, oh so carefully. The boards in my room are solid, I know. Even Mark, who was big, could get up and leave me sleeping, putter around, without disturbing me.
But I can’t make a sound. I take another step, moving with exaggerated slowness, and pause. In my white cotton nightie, like a statue in the air, I’m reminded of something so incongruous from childhood: playing Grandmother’s footsteps. Take a step, and freeze.
There’s not another sound from outside. I take another step, and then one more and I’m there, reaching for the door.
My hand is inches from the silver door knob now, reaching down, slow as a dream, then I stop. I could end this now, swing the door open and show my fears for the lie they are—the wild imaginings of someone under pressure, someone who’s too much alone. I know I could and yet, I can’t. I just wait.
At first I think it’s just a trick of the light, the burnished gleam of the metal. Then I realize: the door knob is turning, slowly, so slowly you could almost miss it. By fractions of an inch, it’s moving.
I hesitate, just for a beat. And then with a speed born of sheer instinct, something clicks into gear and I quickly turn the heavy iron key, the metal cold in my hand. The lock’s stiff, I never turn it, why would I, but it closes now, the metal sliding into place with a solid clunk.
The door knob jumps back round, like whoever’s turning it on the other side has let go.
Now I brace for the sound of footsteps, the panicked run of an intruder who’s been surprised, heavy steps thudding down the stairs, two at a time, a shout to someone further down the house: “Go! Go! Let’s go!”
Nothing. I keep listening, strangely calm, not thinking, just reacting.
“What do you want?” I say.
There’s no reply, but I can sense the presence, every instinct, every fiber of my body, telling me that it’s not just empty space behind the door. I put one hand on the wood, almost to steady myself. “What do you want?” My voice is high. “My cash is in my handbag, in the kitchen.” And so is my phone, I never sleep with it.
I’m on one side of the door. And someone is on the other.
I’m weighing up the door: It’s heavy, solid wood, the lock’s an old-fashioned one but sturdy. It’s the hinges I’m looking at, evaluating. It wouldn’t be so hard for someone to bust off, all it would take is a couple of steps back and a few good tries, perhaps not even that....
My hand on the door, I feel it more than hear it, the infinitesimal pressure of movement, a weight shifting outside.
I’m utterly still, waiting again. And then they come: footsteps, slow and unhurried, someone strolling down the corridor, avoiding that squeaking board—that lesson learned—and starting down the stairs, to the little landing by the window, and then down again, quickening sl
ightly, as though a decision’s been made.
I hear the front door open and shut, no effort to be quiet now, as casual as someone leaving for work. Then silence again.
I slide down by the wall, my legs giving way now; my chest’s heaving, the tears about to come.
Once I got mugged, years ago; I know there’s a moment, when you’re torn between telling yourself that everything’s OK, don’t panic, and then oh, it’s happening, they’re actually following you, the whole gang of them, chatting between themselves, and now they’re catching up: “Give me your bag or I’ll break your fucking arm.” I didn’t start to cry until I walked into the Chinese half a minute away and they gave me sweet milky tea and pushed their phone over to me, so I could call the police. Then, only when I was safe, I let myself react.
So I can’t lose it, not yet. I stay still, not daring to make a noise, though he knows I’m in here. What if it’s a trick? The front door closing and opening, but no one going anywhere, me walking down the stairs, the figure stepping out of the darkness, where he’s been waiting all this time. My voice wavering: “What do you want?”
In a burst of activity, I leap up and whirl round, I push my chest of drawers in front of the door, wedge my dressing-table chair on top too, my heart thudding. Then I open my window as wide as it will go. If I have to, I will climb outside; I will hang out by my arms and drop to the ground. I will push out my pillow and duvet, so I’m ready.
I listen; but I’m at the quiet side of the house, away from the road; all I can see is a sliver of garden and the trees between here and Lily’s.
Should I scream? Lily won’t hear. I can’t hear cars; at this time of night the traffic slows to nothing. I shiver, the sweat now cold on my skin in the night air.
And what if it brings him back? I can’t.
I’ll have to wait.
CHAPTER 31
Sophie
He called me Nancy again, the last time. I didn’t say anything.
It’s almost funny, what I don’t know about him. Who he is. Who he was. He never liked to talk about himself, or his family, or the past. We’d talk about me: school, my friends, my problems. I thought it showed how much he cared. But now we don’t talk about me, and we don’t talk about him. His visits are short, mostly. Oddly formal, in a way.
But I pay attention, squirreling away the scraps. It’s not that I want to know more about him, not now. But I suppose it’s proof he’s not in control of everything. It’s almost like a game I play, a one-sided game. To get through this. What will he let slip when . . .
It’s like he goes somewhere else, as he moves over me. “Nancy,” he said. “Nancy.”
I turned my face away, as he finished. I don’t know if he remembered what he’d said.
I almost didn’t ask, the first time he did it. I must have only been here a few weeks, maybe a month, and I didn’t want to rock the boat. I’d thought I’d feel closer to him, being in here, but sometimes I didn’t, not really. In fact, quite the opposite. Sometimes he seemed so distant.
We were safe and we were together—all I’d ever hoped for us. And yet I was finding it harder and harder to ignore the feeling in my stomach, that gnawing cold in my guts.
You’re homesick, I told myself. That’s natural. You just need to get used to this.
But he wasn’t helping. He wouldn’t talk about what we’d do next, anymore: he kept telling me not to worry about it. All our plans, about where we’d go and what we could do—we’d never nailed them down, not totally. We’d have to react to the situation, he said before I came here, we just needed to make ourselves safe. But now I was in here, all his urgency seemed to have gone....
Still, I made myself do it, afterward. I knew he’d be more relaxed, as we lay there in the darkness.
“Who’s Nancy?” I just came out with it. He said nothing, his head on the pillow behind me. But I could hear the change in his breathing. I’m better at reading him than he thinks.
“What did you say?”
“You called me Nancy.” I tried to make light of it, but I was annoyed, back then. More than annoyed. “You know, some girls would get jealous. . . .”
It didn’t work.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that it’s time to establish some boundaries. . . .”
Then he’d switched on the overhead light, bright in my eyes, and made me sit up, still tangled in the duvet while he lectured me. He needed space, he said. I couldn’t expect to know everything about him. I asked too many questions. Did I know what questions like that showed him? That I still didn’t trust him. It hurt his feelings.
I didn’t know what to say. I almost laughed, but I hid it. He was sitting me down like I was a clingy girlfriend. I might be young, like he always said, but I knew that our situation was so very far from that. He didn’t seem to be able to see it.
But I didn’t laugh. Something in his face told me that would be a mistake.
An old girlfriend, I decided privately. He was so jealous of my boyfriends, he’d once said, he couldn’t bear to hear about them. It was only Danny, anyway.
It showed how much he loved me, I thought.
When he did it a second time, sometime that first winter, it was different. We’d been lying on the mattress, him stroking my hair. I was awake, my eyes fixed on the patch of starry night sky in the ceiling. It was cold—my breath made little puffs in the air, even though we were inside.
I couldn’t sleep. I was feeling so different about everything, keyed up and awake. I was sleeping at odd times by then, we were out of sync. I just wanted him to leave now, so I could switch on the TV again, cuddle up in bed with Teddy, and be cozy.
Maybe he sensed it, me turning away from him—my impatience for him to go. I don’t know why else he’d stayed. He’d already stopped sleeping over the whole night. He said it was best, the safest thing for us.
But maybe it was the idea of my waking up when he was asleep that he didn’t like. I could tell he tried not to let me see where he kept his keys, always putting them away before he turned the handle and came in.
They had to be somewhere in his clothes, surely—he hadn’t brought anything else with him tonight but the food bags. Maybe that little secret pocket that they put in men’s suits, Dad used to keep change in there....
I shifted, quietly, checking the weight behind me. He’d not moved for a few minutes now. He must have fallen asleep, after all. I could hear his breathing, slow and steady. I started to slide out from under the covers, carefully—
“Nancy,” he said suddenly, too loud in the quiet room. He wrapped an arm over me. “Nancy, stop it.” I stilled, uncomfortable. He was heavy. I’ve never liked that about him, the reality of him; the heat and sweat. So I’d moved, again, trying to shrug his arm off me.
His hands were round my throat before I knew it. “Nancy,” he said, then mumbled other things, words I couldn’t make out. Then loudly: “I said stop it!” I was pulling at his hands, shocked. I tried to twist away.
Then something changed in him: “You whore. You lying whore.” I scrabbled under him, half off the mattress. But he was too heavy, his breath hot in my face. I was choking now, still trying to get his hands away from me. My bare feet were kicking on the carpet. Both hands pulling his thick forearm. He’s stronger than I thought, much stronger. The blood thundered in my ears. The edges of my vision turned black, my sight shrinking.
I don’t know what stopped him. Maybe he woke up, maybe he came to his senses. But his grip lessened, just for an instant, and with a shove, he was off me. I scrabbled off the mattress, my back against the wall, wheezing for breath. I wrapped my hands around my burning throat, keeping my eyes on him.
For a moment, we both just stayed there, looking at each other.
“Calm down,” he said shakily. “Calm down. Don’t look at me like that.”
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t pretend that this was OK.
“You called me Nancy again,” I said eventually. My voice sounded strange,
hoarse. “Who’s Nancy?” I think a part of me, even then, was jealous. I know, I know. It was so messed up.
He didn’t answer. He just started moving around the place, slowly and methodically, setting right the upturned table by the mattress, getting kitchen towels to mop up the beakerful of water we’d knocked over. I breathed in, and out, slowly, trying not to freak out. I didn’t know what he’d do.
Afterward, he’d made us both a cup of tea, and had sat me down on the sofa, pale but cold-eyed. He held my hand. I think I thought he might say sorry.
Nope.
This was my fault. I’d panicked, I’d pushed him. He’d needed to shut me up. I was hysterical. It was my fault. I could feel myself teetering, wanting him to convince me: it wasn’t a big deal.
But something steeled in me. I stayed silent, as he got up and left. He told me to get some sleep.
No, I thought. This isn’t fair. You’re wrong. You are really wrong, something is very very wrong with you.
And I’ve put our lives in your hands.
CHAPTER 32
Kate
No, nothing’s gone, I tell the officers again, we’ve checked all over.
Yes, I’m absolutely sure.... No, I didn’t actually see anyone, but I knew he was there. I felt him—yes, through the door—and I heard footsteps.
The look between them is less veiled this time. The second officer, the one with the pad, has already stopped taking notes.
It’s all going wrong.
I stayed in my room until the birds started to sing and the sky lightened. I couldn’t bring myself to unlock my door until I heard the engine and looked out of the window to see my sister’s neat red car pull up. As ever she was early, thank goodness. I rushed down to them, barefoot on the gravel and hugged her, surprising us both.