The Fear

by C. L. Taylor

  ‘I’m not a journalist. My name is Wendy Harrison. I’m Mike’s ex-wife.’

  ‘Oooh.’ The other woman’s eyes widen and she takes a step back from the counter.

  Inside Wendy rolls her eyes. Outwardly she forces a smile. ‘I see you’ve heard of me.’

  ‘You can’t … you shouldn’t be here,’ Joy stutters, her gaze fixed on Wendy’s hands.

  Oh get over yourself, Wendy thinks. If I was going to stab you I’d hide in the car park until dark and wait for you to turn your back, not turn up in the office in broad daylight. Anyway, one little puncture wound does not an axe-wielding maniac make. And besides, Mike provoked me. She considers telling the wide-eyed woman all this but settles for asking, ‘Is Mike here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then.’ She shrugs. ‘I’m not doing anything illegal. I just wanted to talk to you about him. See if maybe, between the two of us, we can work out where he might be.’

  Joy’s hunched shoulders relax, just the tiniest bit, but she remains tucked up against the wall. ‘None of us know. I’ve talked to the other drivers and I’ve rung Greensleeves and everyone’s clueless. Last thing I heard from him was a phone call saying he was doing an extra job. For someone called Milly, he said. He didn’t give me the address.’

  Milly? Wendy runs the name through her mind but comes up blank.

  ‘Did you tell the police that?’

  ‘Of course I did. They said I’d been very helpful.’

  ‘What else did you tell them?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, they asked me if he’d been depressed and if he …’ she raises an eyebrow at the other woman, ‘was in a relationship.’

  Joy shakes her head. ‘I don’t know anything about Mike’s private life. And I wouldn’t ask.’

  Of course you wouldn’t, Wendy thinks. You don’t have a nosy bone in your body, do you? You do your job, keep your head down and go home at the end of the day like a good little girl. She sighs. Honestly, the number of people who go through life wearing blinkers so they don’t have to see or experience anything unpleasant. Pathetic, utterly pathetic.

  Still, talking to the lifeless ‘Joy’ hasn’t been a complete waste of time. She’s got the name ‘Milly’ out of her. A potential suspect perhaps? Maybe a love interest. Interesting that the police didn’t tell Wendy anything about her, unless they think it’s her pseudonym. Inwardly she laughs. If she were going to knock Mike off, she’d wouldn’t leave a clue like that behind. She’d be much cleverer.

  ‘Okay then,’ she flashes her teeth at Joy. ‘Thanks for your help. If Mike does reappear, which I’m sure he will, could you ask him to let me know he’s okay? Thank you.’

  She doesn’t wait for the other woman to respond. Instead she turns on her heel and strides out of the unit. As she does, her handbag starts to ring. Wendy sighs, unzips it and pulls out her mobile phone. If it’s Ted, having a go at her for getting something wrong again she swears she’ll—

  She stands stock-still and stares at her phone. An unknown number is flashing on the screen. Could it be Lou? A jolt of fear passes through her. Has Ben figured out that she’s Saskia and told Lou all about her elaborate ruse to meet up with him? With all the excitement about Mike’s disappearance, she’s barely given Ben a second thought. No. Lou can’t be ringing? There’s no way Ben can know who she is, even if he has contacted Lou to ask how she is. It has to be a work call.

  She taps at the green button and presses the phone to her ear. ‘Wendy Harrison speaking.’

  ‘Hello Wendy, this is Lou, from Consol eLearning. Are you free to speak?’

  Wendy jolts then glances back at the glass door of Unit 9. Joy has disappeared from behind the desk. ‘I am yes.’

  ‘Great. The thing is, Wendy … um … I was wondering if we could meet? Are you free today at all?’

  Wendy sighs. The last thing she wants is to be dragged back into Lou’s office for another hard sell from Gary. Tempting though it might be to get another look at Lou, she’d much rather go home and have a nap for a couple of hours. And besides, there’s still a chance Ben will take her up on her offer to go and visit Lou together.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Wendy says. ‘What is it you want to discuss?’

  ‘It’s um … it’s a personal matter. I thought perhaps we could meet in Priory Park if it’s not raining. We could talk as we walk. Or … or maybe get a coffee if you prefer.’

  Wendy’s eyes widen. Lou wants to talk to her about a personal matter? Now this is a fascinating development.

  ‘Yes,’ she says quickly. ‘I’d love to meet, although I’m not sure about a walk. How would you like to come to my house? I cooked the most delicious carrot cake yesterday and it needs eating.’

  ‘Um …’ She can hear the indecision in the other woman’s voice. ‘I’d um … I’d rather we met in a café if that’s okay with you.’

  Wendy raises her eyebrows. Lou doesn’t want to come to her house. That’s interesting. Very interesting indeed.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she says. ‘I twisted my ankle yesterday and I’m pretty much housebound for the next couple of days. You’ll have to come to me. Or we could arrange to meet another time, when I’m better …’

  She holds her breath as she waits for Lou to respond.

  ‘Okay,’ Lou says. ‘I’ll come to you. What’s your address?’

  Chapter 30

  Lou

  I cry out when Mum and Dad appear on the TV, but my muffled scream doesn’t leave my lips. I’m still tied to the bedposts, my mouth stuffed with a sock and sealed with tape. The second Mike left the room, I tried to get free. I wriggled my wrists and twisted and squirmed on the bed, but the tape held firm. I tried to shout, but the sock shifted in my mouth and slipped back towards my windpipe making me jolt forward, terrified I’d suffocate.

  ‘This is a message for Michael Hughes,’ my dad says, as my last school photo appears in the top right corner of the screen and French subtitles run along the bottom. Dad is stony-faced and his voice is unusually clear and strong, but his clasped hands bounce lightly on the table as he speaks. He’s probably desperate for a drink. ‘Mike, I don’t know why you took her, but please, please, bring Louise back unharmed. She is our only child and we love and miss her dearly.’

  A sob catches in my throat, then I burst into tears. I’m not the only one crying. Mum has tears running down her cheeks. She nods at everything Dad says, then when he says the words ‘only child’, she gasps and presses her hands to her face. Mum! I shout her name in my head. Mum, I’m here. I’m here, Mum. I’m here.

  A policeman appears next. He says that they know Mike took me to France and they have reason to believe that he may have attacked a man in Rouen.

  ‘If you see Michael Hughes or Louise Wandsworth, please contact a member of your local police force. Under no circumstances should you approach them. Alternatively, please ring …’

  By the time the appeal is over I can’t see the TV for tears. They know. Everyone knows that he’s got me and they’re trying to find us. I’m relieved and scared in equal measure. If Mike sees the news, or spots a paper with our faces on, he’ll move us on again. He’ll take me somewhere where there aren’t many people. He’ll keep me locked up and he’ll—

  I try to take a breath but I’ve been crying so much my nose is bunged up with tears and snot and when I inhale only the tiniest amount of air makes it into my lungs. I exhale forcefully but no air comes out.

  I breathe in.

  Nothing. Not even the tiniest stream of air.

  Panic rises in my chest as I thrash from side to side, dragging my face along the pillow. I’ve got to get the tape off my mouth. If I don’t I’ll die. My lungs are already starting to burn. Oh god, please, please. I don’t want to die. Please god don’t let me—

  ‘Lou! What the fuck?’ Mike appears standing in the doorway, weighed down with bags, flowers and a teddy the size of a two-year-old. He drops them, speeds across
the room and jumps onto the bed. He rips the tape from my mouth, then forces his fingers between my teeth. As he pulls out the sock, I gasp, sucking air deep into my lungs.

  ‘Lou,’ he cradles my head in his arms. ‘Oh my god, Lou.’

  He hurries back across the room and slams the door shut, then ducks back down and starts rummaging through his backpack. When he pulls out a Stanley knife I scream.

  ‘Stop it, stop it.’ He presses a hand over my mouth. ‘I’m going to set you free. Don’t scream. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  He continues to apologise as he cuts through the thick tape on my wrists, then he holds my hands in his and presses his lips to my red, chapped skin.

  ‘Can I go?’ I say. ‘Can I go home now?’

  Mike gives me a puzzled look. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  The air is cold and crisp as I cross the yard and head towards the barn. I need to check on Mike before I go and meet Wendy. The terror I felt in the first couple of days – that he’d managed to escape or was waiting to jump out at me from beyond the barn door – has faded but I still feel jittery as my wellies splash through the puddles and drizzle mists my face.

  The barn door creaks as I open it. Mike is lying on his back on the floor of his cage with one blanket over him and another balled up beneath his head. He opens his eyes as I walk in.

  ‘I need water.’ His voice is dry and rasping, his hair is lank and there are dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘Here!’ I throw him a small bottle of water, only a quarter full.

  He groans as he rolls onto his side and slowly sits up. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

  I cover my nose and mouth with my sleeve. Even with the straw soaking up the fluids in the bucket, the smell in the barn is unbearably fetid.

  ‘Has Chloe told you that I hurt her? Because I haven’t. I swear.’

  He’s never going to understand. Everything he’s said since I locked him in the cage has been an attempt to convince me to let him out. Yesterday he even admitted he’d invented the near-death lorry story so I’d feel sorry for him. Should I tell him that I’ve arranged to meet Wendy? It might elicit a reaction. No, best to keep it to myself for now.

  ‘The bucket’s full,’ Mike says, hanging on to a bar and pulling himself up to his feet. ‘Could you empty it?’

  He retreats to the back of the cage and unstacks the bricks surrounding and covering the bucket. He nestles his face in the crook of his elbow as he reaches down and picks it up. He turns and walks towards me, the bucket swinging from his right hand.

  ‘Mike, how do you expect me to—’

  I break off as he drops his arm from his face and his lips curl into a smile. I turn to run but I’m too slow. Before I can reach the safety of the yard, warm piss, shit and straw rain down on me, soaking my hair, my shirt and my jeans.

  ‘I hope you die alone and in pain,’ Mike screams as I slam the barn door shut. ‘And if I ever get out, you will.’

  Despite washing my hair twice, scrubbing my body with the scratchiest loofah I could find in Dad’s bathroom cabinet and covering myself in perfume, the faint odour of urine still clings to me as I get into the car and start the engine. I can’t tell if I’m imagining it or it’s somehow made its way up my nostrils, but I open the window anyway. Any nerves I may have had about going to Wendy’s house – along with any guilt about keeping Mike locked up – vanished the minute he threw his shit bucket at me. Nothing is more important than making him pay for what he’s done to me and Chloe. Nothing.

  As the car winds its way through the narrow country roads, I replay the conversation I had with Wendy earlier. There was something odd about her reaction when I asked if she’d like to go for a coffee. She sounded breathy and enthusiastic, as though it was the most exciting thing to happen to her all year. If there was any doubt in my mind about who she was, it’s gone now. She has to know who I am. But why so excited? I’d be nervous if it was the other way round.

  I turn off the A4103 onto the B4219 and glance at the map on the passenger seat beside me. Wendy lives on Clarence Road which is only five or ten minutes away. I didn’t want to meet her at her house but she gave me little choice with her sore ankle story.

  My phone bleeps as I pull onto Worcester Road. Please don’t let it be Wendy cancelling. I snatch up my phone and glance at the screen. It’s a text from Ben.

  Where are you? I’m at your house.

  What?! I yank the steering wheel to the left to avoid clipping the kerb. The driver behind me sounds his horn.

  Thirty seconds later and I’m parked up on the side of the road with the phone’s screen inches from my face. I didn’t misread Ben’s text. It definitely says Where are you? I’m at your house. He can’t mean the farm. I didn’t give him my address. I haven’t given it to anyone.

  ‘Hello!’ he answers the call a split second after the dialling tone sounds in my ear.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Outside your house. At least I hope it’s your house. I got pretty lost trying to find it. Big old farmhouse up a track?’

  ‘Yes, how …’ I can barely speak I’m so shocked.

  ‘I looked your dad up on the electoral roll. He was the only Steve Wandsworth in Hereford and Worcester. Anyway, how are you? And where are you? You sound a bit breathless.’

  ‘I’m coming back,’ I say. ‘Stay in your car. Don’t move. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  I drive like a maniac to Acton Green, my stomach in knots. I shouldn’t have told Ben to wait for me in his car. If he gets out and wanders round he’ll find Mike in the barn. I should have suggested we meet at The Dog and Duck instead but I panicked. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell’s he doing at my house? It would have to be something serious to look up my dad to find my address. But what? We’re not together anymore. What would he possibly need to say to me that’s so urgent? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  ‘Ben!’ I jump out of my car and hurry across the gravel to where he’s standing beside his open car door. He’s not wearing a coat and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest. His trainers look too clean for him to have traipsed through the garden but there’s a weird look on his face that I can’t read.

  Please, I silently pray as I stop still about a foot away from him. Please don’t ask me why I’ve got a man locked in the barn.

  ‘Ben,’ I say. ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?’

  ‘I took the day off.’ He smiles nervously. ‘You look well. Really well!’

  Why’s he being so weird and awkward? I feel sick with nerves. I haven’t got the faintest clue what’s going on.

  ‘Seriously Ben, what are you doing here?’

  His eyes flick from the top of my head to my muddy boots. ‘I was …’ he tails off and shakes his head.

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘Worried about you.’

  ‘Why? I’m fine.’

  He runs a hand through his hair. ‘In the last text you sent you said you’d been better.’

  ‘And?’ I glance towards the garden. The trees and plants are bent towards the house. If Mike shouts for someone to help him, his voice could carry on the wind. I need to get Ben out of here. Or at least into the house. ‘Life’s been a bit hectic.’

  ‘Hectic?’ Ben frowns. ‘I know that I’m not supposed to talk to you about this but I just … I can’t believe how well you look … considering.’

  What the hell is he on about? And where’s all this stuttering and twitching come from? What is it he’s not telling me?

  I reach into my pocket for my keys. I need to get him into the house. ‘Considering what?’

  ‘How ill you are.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh god, Lou. I’m sorry. I’m a bit lost for words if I’m honest. I’ve never had to deal with this type of situation before. I mean, I lost my gran and grandad in my late teens, but they died quite suddenly. I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye.’

  I stare at him in disbelief. ‘Someone
told you I was ill?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He glances away, then back at me. ‘She made me swear not to tell you.’

  ‘Who said I was ill?’

  ‘Saskia.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your friend, Saskia.’ He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, then sighs, bends at the waist and groans loudly. ‘Oh fuck. This is a wind-up, isn’t it? Jesus, I can’t believe I fell for it. Of all the fucking psycho—’ He straightens up. ‘You told your friend to tell me that you were dying, didn’t you? To get me to come up here because I didn’t reply to your messages. Jesus, I’ve met some manipulative women in my time but this takes the absolute biscuit. I genuinely can’t believe—’

  ‘Ben!’ I snap. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Number one, I’m not dying. Number two, I didn’t ask anyone to try and convince you to come up here. If you remember rightly I was the one who ended things. And who the hell is Saskia?’

  Ben stares at me as though he can’t quite make up his mind whether to laugh, scream or hit something, then he sighs and says, ‘Have you got any beer?’

  ‘Here you go.’ I plonk a glass of cheap red wine on the side table next to Ben and take a seat beside him on the sofa. He reaches for the wine, takes a big swig, grimaces and then sets it back down. I do the same.

  ‘Here, look at these.’ He hands me his phone. ‘I wasn’t sure what the 3G was like out in the sticks so I took some screenshots of Saskia’s messages before I left London.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought …’ he shrugs ‘… that you might have nurses or carers and I’d have to convince them to let me in.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ I stare at him in disbelief. What kind of sicko would convince another person that someone they knew was dying?

  ‘Just read the messages. They’ll explain everything.’

  We sit in silence for a couple of minutes as I read the message thread. I don’t recognise Saskia, or her name, but according to Ben she’s a mutual friend. ‘She wanted to come here with you. Why didn’t you agree?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know her, do I? And anyway, I wanted to drive. When I got your text last night and you said you’d been better and you couldn’t talk I freaked out a bit. I thought …’