by J. A. Baker
The pain in my leg suddenly becomes excruciating, sharp lines of pain howling their way up and down my calf muscle. I glance down to see she is holding the knife, moving it about. Driving it further in. I watch, as with one quick, vicious flick of her wrist she puts all her weight on the handle and pushes hard.
....................................................................................................................................................
By the time I finish throwing up and am able to move, she is gone. A shadow disappearing into the gloom of the night. I call after her to return, to not leave me again, to stay with me. I tell her how sorry I am for everything I have put her through, for that day down by the river and beg for her to turn around but as I drag myself round to the back door and slink into a crumpled heap on the doorstep I know I am doomed. It’s over. She’s gone and once more I am left alone.
I have no idea how long I am there for. Hours probably. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to summon up the energy or inclination to move, even when I hear the heavy thud of footsteps as they thunder up the driveway and into the house. I stay there, perched on the cold stone of the doorstep as an army of police officers tear through my house, their muddy feet trampling over my polished floors, their harsh, cold voices filling the vacuum of silence behind me. I listen to their boorish behaviour, hear them barking orders and patiently await their approach. I know what comes next. I’m prepared. My arms drip with fresh blood after more scratching. It runs down my hands in snaking rivulets, a creeping lattice of oily scarlet liquid that drips down and covers my bony fingers. I take a deep breath and try to relax as the door behind is barged open and a hand is placed under my elbow. I let myself be manoeuvred about as I’m roughly wrenched to my feet and dragged away,
“I’m ready,” I say as a female officer leads me out of the house and into the back of a car, “I’ve been ready for a long time now.”
Thirty Five
“York?” Mike says incredulously, “how in god’s name did she get to York and why there of all places? It’s an hour away. She had no car and no money with her. It doesn’t make any sense.”
The police officer shakes his head, bewildered.
“We don’t have the full details as yet but we will get them to you as soon as we do. All we know is that a female claiming to be Anna has been found in a street in York by a group of young women. She’s been admitted to York District Hospital for injuries that aren’t life threatening. She has a head injury and is dehydrated. I’m afraid I don’t have any more information for you but as soon as I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
His radio crackles into life and Mike feels his blood freeze in his veins. An update perhaps? He needs to know more. The officer turns away and heads over to his superior where they flock into a corner whispering to one another and talking into radios. Mike pulls on his coat and shouts over to Toby and the boys who are busy crying and hugging each other after hearing the news that Anna is alive.
“I’m heading off to York to see her. Anyone want to come?”
They stop, too stunned to speak. Callum breaks the silence first, “Yeah! Course we do.” He turns to Mason who is already pushing his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, a huge grin spreading across his face
“We’ve received more information if we can just have another few minutes of your time?” The officer is back from the brief meeting and eyes up Callum’s coat. He sees the determined look in Mike’s face and puts two and two together, “before you head off to the hospital.”
Mike nods and sits down, his backside balanced on the edge of the sofa, ready to leave as soon as this is over. He hopes this is important. More important than setting off to the hospital to see his wife. His patience is at an all-time low right now. So this had better be bloody good.
“We’ve just had word that the police in York have arrested somebody in connection with the disappearance of your wife and have taken them in for questioning.”
Mike feels himself shrink as the words are spoken. A cold finger of dread traces its way up and down his spine and he is overcome with a sense of queasiness. He didn’t want to begin to wonder how she had made her way to York. Truth be told, he had convinced himself she had taken herself off there after having a mini breakdown. Stuffed a handful of cash in her pocket and taken a train or a bus or even hitchhiked her way there. But this piece of news changes all that. Mike grits his teeth and thinks about some hideous pervert running his hands over Anna’s terrified body, his pulpy fingers tracing their way over the slim contours of his wife’s tiny frame. He feels a rage build in his abdomen and brings his fists together, banging them rhythmically on his knees, tapping out the beat of his blood as it pulses round his system, thick and furious.
“Who? I want his name.” Mike stares over at the officer, daring him to refuse his request.
The collective sound of their breathing is all that can be heard as they await his reply.
“I’m sorry. All I can say is that she was taken in for questioning shortly after Anna was found in the street. If I knew more than that I would tell you.”
Mike blinks, his vision becoming blurred as he looks to Toby and to the boys then back to the policeman,
“I’m sorry? Who was taken in for questioning? You said, she.”
“That’s right.” The officer lets out a little cough and meets Mike’s gaze, “a woman in her late forties is currently being held in York Police station in connection with the abduction of your wife. I don’t have a name as yet but when I do, you will be the first to hear about it.” The officer gives an uncharacteristic smile and stands up.
Toby stares at the officer who pulls at his collar uncomfortably.
“A woman in her late forties?” Toby barks, “would this be the same woman who owns those newspaper clippings I gave you half an hour ago by any chance?”
Mike places a steady hand on Toby’s shoulder, “She’s alive Toby. Let’s save the recriminations for later eh?”
The young officer dips his head and slowly backs out of the room.
Thirty Six
Four months later
The sound of the hammering sends an icy trail down her spine. Standing to one side, out of sight, Anna watches as the For Sale sign is erected in the garden, set amongst the rose bushes and dwarf conifers, a splash of colour protruding from the dark green foliage. Such a welcome sight, that sign. A new chapter, a way of putting the last few months behind her.
“Don’t, Anna,” Mike places a hand on her shoulder and tries to move her away. She shrugs him off and continues to stare out. He rubs her back and rolls his eyes, “Okay, have it your way. But no complaining if you wake up tonight with nightmares.”
“Nonsense,” she whispers and stands on her tiptoes to watch as the estate agent squats on the side of the pavement to take a photograph of the exterior. She feels stronger now, able to deal with it. She refuses to give in to the demons. They’re there all right. Always lurking, ready to pounce. But she’s stronger than they are.
“I wonder how they will market it?” she says to nobody in particular. “Will they admit to its past or just brush over it?” She thinks back to when pictures of the house were splashed across the front pages of every tabloid both here and abroad for god knows how many weeks, the ins and outs of the case dissected under the scrutiny of the public eye. Who would want to buy such a house now? She peeks further down into the village. At least the road is now free of reporters and journalists. Their behaviour sickened her, peering through the windows and hammering on their door day and night. After a story. Not the real story. Any story. And the more gruesome the better. Any morsel of gossip that would feed the interest of the masses and sell papers. But the worst is over now. And once the house is sold, it will be an end to it. In theory anyway.
“There’ll be plenty of nosy buggers booking appointments to look round,” Mike says as he comes back in and hands Anna a cup of coffee.
“I’m not sure what they’ll
expect to find,” Anna hooks her finger through the handle and stares at swirling froth.
“Whether you like it or not people are fascinated by murderers and all the grisly details of their victims. Especially female killers. She’s the new Rosemary West according to Sky News. Now are you going to come away from that window and let the poor estate agent get on with her job without feeling as if she’s being spied on?”
Anna shrugs, “She can’t see me.” She continues to watch. She has a right to know what is going on after what she endured. It’s cathartic. Her therapy. She was offered counselling but politely declined. Isn’t that what families are for? To help each other through stuff like this? She thinks of Phoebe’s family and shakes her head. She’s been over it time and time again. Has spent too long trying to fathom the workings of that woman’s mind and decided she would rather remain ignorant of the mind of a psychopath.
“Me and Toby spoke about this last week. We both think they should demolish it,” Callum slopes past carrying a plateful of sandwiches that threaten to topple at any given moment. His schoolbag is slung over his shoulder, crammed full of textbooks. Things have changed. For both boys. Reading magazines and watching programmes about high powered, souped up cars suddenly seems such a pointless way to spend their time. A geography book pokes out of the top of his bag. Anna leans over and surreptitiously pushes it back in place. They’ve both done a lot of growing up in a short space of time and realised that teachers are not their nemesis. Anna laughs into her coffee. Some good had to come out of this whole sorry mess.
“Apparently those reporters practically camped on the doorstep of poor Nancy’s family after her body was washed up further downstream,” Anna still thinks of her all the time and wishes she had known, wishes she had been able to see Nancy, catch her before she set off down the path and been able to warn her and tell her to turn around and go back home. They still haven’t worked out why Phoebe killed her but are now re-opening a missing persons case - a lady who resembles Nancy. A friend of Phoebe’s. No surprise there. Anna just can’t work it all out and Phoebe isn’t forthcoming with any reasons as according to the police, she is still in denial, claiming her husband did it. Anna blinks hard and swallows back the tears. They are there most days now, always present, always ready to spill out with very little provocation. Sometimes deranged killers don’t need a reason to kill perfect strangers. That’s what makes them deranged.
“Well, I’m with Callum on that one,” Mason is behind her, staring out at the new sign sticking up over the hedge, “Reckon they should burn the fucker. Raze it to the ground.”
She should correct him, tell him to curb his language, but things have changed in their house just recently. People have altered, their family dynamics transformed and morphed beyond recognition. And she can only think that that is a good thing. Shortly after her release from hospital, Anna considered moving house. It was a short lived desire but a strong one. She no longer knew herself. But after a while she began to realise that this is her home. Phoebe was an intruder, a brief interlude in her idyllic life and now she is gone. This is where Anna belongs, in her home next to the river. She lets her gaze wander over to the water, so still now after the heavy rains, so deceptively calm and tranquil. She hasn’t walked the river path since it happened. But she will. She refuses to be defeated by it, to be ground down by her ordeal. A cormorant hops its way along the edge of the water before opening its long black wings and taking off into the haze of the hot summer sky.
“Tom said he doesn’t care how much it sells for. He just wants rid,” Mason says as he mirrors his mother’s stance and stares out at the river. “He never got on with his mother anyway. She didn’t want him to move to New York. Said she never forgave him not becoming a doctor like his dad.”
“And when did he tell you all this?” Anna raises her eyebrows and surveys him carefully. His skin is clearing up and his jaw and neck have thickened. He has had a growth spurt and it shows.
“When he brought the flowers round for but you but you didn’t want to see him, remember?”
She nods, feeling her face burn. It was churlish of her to do that but she just couldn’t bring herself to look at him. He was a connection to Phoebe and anything to do with her made Anna’s skin crawl. Still does. So instead, she went out for a walk. Not by the river but to the shop. Just to prove to herself that she could. And she did. It wasn’t half as daunting as she had expected it to be. In fact it was rather liberating, knowing she would be safe, knowing that her attacker is safely incarcerated many hundreds of miles away in a psychiatric unit awaiting trial. If there ever is one. Rumour has it she isn’t fit to stand trial and may just remain there for the rest of her born days. That suits Anna just fine. Court dates and appearances would only whip up more public interest and that’s something she can well do without.
Dark clouds the colour of gunmetal scud across the sky, heading east, ominous and heavy, ready to spill their innards. How easily the weather can change. So volatile. So unpredictable. And she should know.
Thirty Seven
Nothing has changed. My life has come full circle. Once again I’m alone and as always, nobody believes anything I say. I stare up at the ceiling and count the cracks. There’s not a lot else to do around here. So I count. Grooves on the floor, cracks in the ceiling, bars on the windows.
They have accused me of some hideous crimes, these people, tried to tell me I murdered my own husband. Ridiculous I told them. How can I possibly have murdered him when he is still alive? One of them laughed when I said this and the others sat with stern expressions, scribbling away taking notes then looking up to scrutinise my every move. They think I’m mad you see. Disturbed, psychopathic, call it what you will. They think I am a murderer. Check the house, I told them. You will find him there, in his study reading a newspaper or sitting in his usual position, arms resting behind his head as he stares out of the window watching everything and everyone go by, unable to join in with any of it. A passive onlooker in a mad, mad world.
I have seen a number of doctors while I’ve been in here. They want to work out what is going on inside my head. ‘How can you work it out when I don’t fully understand it myself?’ I told them just the other day. They don’t like it when I come out with that one. They accuse me of being obtuse, trying to hinder their investigation. There is no investigation I told them. They have accused me of all kinds of atrocities. Kidnapping, assault, a whole host of lies. Apparently I attacked a woman called Anna and held her captive. I keep telling them I don’t know anyone called Anna. Instead I tell them about Suzie, how we were meant to be together, how her hair twirls lightly in the breeze, how beautiful she is and about how much I have missed her. God, how I have missed her. And to think I had her back and then let her go. I was so close. So close. Such stupidity and carelessness on my part to lose her. Not like me at all.
They tell me they are looking into a number of other unsolved cases and have given me names to see if I remember them. I shake my head as they ask me about a lady called Nancy who went missing while walking by the river at the back of my house. I tell them they should ask Martyn about that one and listen when they sigh loudly and scratch their pens over their writing pads while they take more notes. They tell me to think back to when Debra went missing and ask where I was when she disappeared. I reply that I can barely remember where I was last week let alone two years ago. More sighs and head shaking along with cautious, furtive glances to see if I am being deliberately inept or whether or not I am truly mad.
Sometimes, they leave me alone and I am allowed to wander outside with one of the doctors. They are generally kind but I get the feeling they think I’m wasting their time. Just yesterday I talked to one of them about the day I found my mother. He seemed very interested in that and suggested we talk about it some more when we got back inside. It fuelled his interest further when I mentioned Dr Tavel. There are occasions when I get it right and I think yesterday was perhaps one of those times.
&nb
sp; It’s fairly comfortable in here and everyone is friendly. I keep thinking I can see Suzie or can hear her voice. Often I catch the tinkling of her laughter as it floats in on the breeze, or spot the hue of her hair as it glints like liquid gold in the rays of the early morning sun. And then she disappears, leaving me alone once again.
They have talked about transferring me to a more secure place. I realise I don’t have any say over where I am going but have mentioned to them about my love of being near the water. At night, when my mind is free of the clutter they fill it with, I dream of tidal surges and dark currents and swirling eddies and wonder if I will ever get to see the river again. To not see it will be hell on earth. Like living in a cold vacuum and I’m not sure I can handle that.
I find myself wondering how Martyn is managing without me, whether or not he is remembering to take his medication properly and whether he is missing me. That day on the cliff still haunts me, the look of horror on his face as he tumbled downwards, the sound his head made as it hit the boulders below but mainly whether or not it was my fault. He had been having an affair with Debra and I had been furious with him. It wasn’t a push, more of an attempt to get him away from me. But that’s not how they see it in here. They keep telling me that every action causes a reaction and every action has consequences. But as I keep telling them, it doesn’t count because Martyn isn’t dead. He is as alive as you or I. They exchange surreptitious glances when I say this and scribble away with motorised arms, trying to recall everything I say, asking me to backtrack, to repeat and reiterate until I am blue in the face.
There are a few things that worry me. Firstly, I think about Tillie and how she is doing. They have assured me she is happy and is with new owners who are taking good care of her. I don’t know how they can be so sure of that but don’t want to probe for fear of what I might hear. I just want her to be loved and happy. That’s all I ask. Then there is the business of my houses. What will become of them? It’s not the money. I have no interest in that kind of thing. That sort of behaviour is for the nouveau riche. But who will look after them? Martyn is in no fit state to maintain a house. He can barely look after himself let alone a couple of huge, rambling properties. The final thing that I am worried about - and it does depress me deeply - is the fact that Tom hasn’t visited or called me or written. No communication at all. They have spoken to him you see and warped his mind. I have no doubts about that. Told him I murdered his father, and for that he can’t forgive me. I am now a persona non grata as far as my only child is concerned. They have spoken to me about him, making out as if they know him better than I do. The person I brought into the world, the boy I taught to read, the young man I taught to drive. My son. As if they know him better than I do. They reckon he has told the police that I have suffered from mental illness for most of my life. Such nonsense. They said he told them lots of things. All about my life after losing Suzie and my parents, about my life in foster care, about my teaching career. They read all this out to me and wanted to know why I hadn’t been taking my medication regularly. I explained over and over that the tablets weren’t even mine, that they belong to Martyn but they argued otherwise saying I had become unstable and dangerous because of it. I laughed long and hard at that comment. Me, dangerous? I sigh and think back to that day down by the river, how I had inadvertently pushed Suzie deeper under the water, accidentally trapped her long, golden hair around my freezing fingers when all I wanted to do was help her. That was all it was. I was just trying to help. I stare up at the bars on the windows that keep me captive and laugh until I cry. I rub at my nose and wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve then shake my head until it hurts. Dangerous indeed. For goodness sake. They don’t know the half of it.