The Fear

by C. L. Taylor

  I don’t want to go to jail.

  Mike’s being kept prisoner in a cage. Say something.

  Forty thousand pounds if I don’t.

  I can talk my way out of this.

  I don’t want to go to jail.

  ‘Wendy Harrison?’ the police officer says, reaching out an arm. ‘Are you Wendy Harrison?’

  Wendy runs a hand over her hair, pats it back into place and smiles tightly. She knows exactly what to say.

  Chapter 37

  Lou

  I wake with a start, my brain cloudy with sleep, my eyes almost sealed shut from crying. Someone is pounding on the hotel room door. Mike jumps out of bed, hair dishevelled, boxer shorts hanging low on his hips. He doesn’t make it more than halfway across the room when the door slams open and four men in navy uniforms and berets burst into the room.

  ‘Police! Police! Police!’

  Mike roars as he’s wrestled to the ground. One police officer kneels on his back and another pins his legs to the ground as the third grabs his hands and slaps handcuffs against his wrists.

  The fourth man speeds across the room towards me. I scream and scoot across the bed, but there’s no place to hide, nowhere to run.

  ‘Louise Wandsworth!’ the man says in a thick French accent as I cower in the corner of the bedroom. ‘Are you Louise Wandsworth?’

  I nod mutely.

  As Mike is bundled out of the room, the policeman holds out a hand. ‘Come. Louise, come. You are safe now. We take you home.’

  Sunday 6th May 2007

  How long does it take to get discharged from a hospital? When I was woken up just after six this morning to have my vitals taken, I asked the nurse whether I could leave, seeing as everything appeared to be normal. She told me no, I needed to be officially discharged by a doctor. It’s now lunchtime and there’s still no sign of a doctor. When I moaned to the nice lady who brought me a tiny portion of spaghetti bolognaise with a pile of overboiled carrots and a cup of tea, she shrugged and said, ‘You might be here for hours yet, darling. They’re all terribly overworked.’

  I barely slept last night and not just because of the snoring ladies or the fact I had to sleep on my back because of my cast. I’ve got to get back to the barn. If Mike’s not dead now, he will be if I stay here much longer.

  No one stopped me as I slipped out of bed, shoved my feet into my shoes and stumbled across the ward. I half expected to feel a hand on my shoulder as I hurried through the never-ending white corridors and out the front door, but I didn’t attract so much as a second glance. If the taxi driver I flagged down was concerned about the fact I had one arm in a sling and was dripping in sweat, he didn’t let on, although he did whistle when I told him where I needed to get to.

  ‘That’s going to cost you from here.’

  ‘I know, but it’s the only way I can get home.’

  A message from Ben flashed up on my phone as we left Hereford.

  Just to let you know that Dad’s conscious and doing okay but the doctors want to operate. He’s going to need a pacemaker. How are you? Did you sleep ok? Have they let you out yet? If so are you going to the police or straight home?

  Going straight home, I tap back, then pause.

  Going straight home. Glad to hear that your dad is doing okay. I hope his operation goes well.

  I press send, then tap out another message. In the next thirty minutes or so I’ll lose reception and he’ll worry if he can’t get hold of me.

  Don’t worry if I don’t reply to your texts. Normally I’d go into Bromyard or Malvern to check my phone but I can’t drive because of my arm. We can stay in touch via landline though. My number is 01886 884579.

  I press send, then wind down the window and sit back in my seat.

  ‘You all right, love?’ the taxi driver asks, glancing at me in his rear-view window. ‘You look a bit peaky. You’re not going to throw up are you? I only had a valet two days ago.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, as I pop the last painkiller the nurse left me into my mouth. But I’m definitely not.

  My stomach twists as the taxi pulls away and disappears down the lane, leaving me standing at the bottom of Dad’s driveway. I don’t want to do this. I want to rewind time and find myself back in my cosy, cramped little flat in London with a weekend of lazy lie-ins, box set binges and drinks with friends stretching before me. But I can’t. I have to open the barn door.

  The smell hits me the second the door opens – piss, shit and something else, something sour and bitter. It’s the scent of death. And there’s Mike, lying face down on the floor of the cage with his face turned away from me. There’s something dark and viscous puddled around his hair. Blood? Worse?

  I thought I’d gasp, cry or shout but I don’t make a sound. I feel nothing. My brain, so frantic and fearful less than half an hour ago, has gone to sleep. I don’t know if it’s relief or my pain meds kicking in, but all the frustration and terror I’ve felt over the last couple of days has gone. I don’t have to count the hours since Mike last had a drink anymore. If I wake up tonight, heart racing, it won’t be because I’m worrying if I can make it back on time. It’s over. Mike is dead. And I’m going to prison for the rest of my life.

  I close the door to the barn and wander back through the garden. I feel as though I’m in a dream as I let myself into the garage and pick my way through Dad’s crap. I’m not even sure what I’m doing as I one-handedly wrestle with jam jar lids, prise open paint pots and unlatch toolboxes, but there’s something soothing about the methodical way I move from one side of the garage to the other, rooting through nails, screws, washers and bolts.

  When I’ve finished looking through all the shelves, I begin dragging the larger items out of the garage and onto the driveway – the lawnmower, leaf blower, workbench and cardboard boxes. In the gaps they leave behind I find more stuff: bin bags, plastic bags, rags, blankets and tools. I carry the bags outside, one by one, then upend them, tipping the contents onto the driveway. I almost laugh as half a dozen keys land on the gravel. But I don’t. Instead I stoop to pick them up, shove them into my pocket and grab a blanket.

  I don’t look at Mike as I walk back into the barn, but he’s still there, in my peripheral vision, prostrate on the floor of his cell. The second key I try fits the padlock and it opens with a soft click. I step into the cage, the blanket in my hands, and shake it out. I’m not sure why I’m doing this, but it feels like the right thing to do, not least so I don’t have to look at him anymore. I begin at his feet, awkwardly draping the blanket over his trainers and the worn cord of Dad’s trousers. As I reach his waist, a memory pops up in my brain – of finding Mike passed out on the bed in the Travelodge hotel in Birmingham. We’d been to a local supermarket and stocked up on cider, bread, ham and cheese and then returned to our room. ‘A bed picnic’, Mike called it. I went for a bath afterwards and when I came back he was face down on the bed, fast asleep, his right hand curled around a hunk of bread. I pulled the blanket over him, then curled up beside him and watched him sleep. As his chest rose and fell I felt happier than I’d ever been. I was going to spend the rest of my life with the man I loved and no one could keep us apart.

  I pause as I pull the blanket up over Mike’s shoulders. Did he just move? I focus on the soft curve of his back, holding my breath, watching for a gentle rise and fall but none comes. He’s still haunting me, even though he’s dead. As I move to cover his head, something glints in my peripheral vision. Something silver, red and white. I turn to look at it. It’s just a Diet Coke can. Nothing to worry about—

  A can of Coke?

  I turn sharply. As I do, I’m grabbed round the waist and yanked off my feet.

  I smash down onto the hard floor of the cage, hitting it with my elbow, hip, then head. Before I can move, Mike is on top of me. The shock of the fall and the weight of his body on top of mine knocks the air from my lungs and, for a second, I can’t breathe. He shifts his weight, only a fraction of an inch to one side, but it’s enough
. I suck damp barn air into my lungs, press my hands to his shoulders and twist beneath him.

  ‘Stay still,’ he hisses. The skin is pulled tight over his cheekbones, his eyes are red-rimmed and his breath is sour. He snatches at my wrists, but I twist them out of his hands and pound at his back, his shoulders and ribs. My blows bounce off him and he hooks his feet around mine, pinning my legs to the ground. For a man who’s barely eaten in days he’s scarily strong.

  ‘Stay still!’ He raises an arm, fist clenched. I twist my head to the side and close my eyes, anticipating the blow.

  It’s like no pain I’ve ever known – like being smacked round the head with a brick.

  As Mike hits me again and again I smell the rusty scent of blood and something wet and warm trickles into my ear. I tense, eyes screwed shut, and wait for the next blow.

  Nothing happens.

  He’s still here. I can feel the warmth and weight of him straddling my waist. I can hear his laboured rasping breath and smell the fetid stench of his breath, hair and skin. What’s he waiting for? I want to open my eyes but I’m too scared of what I might see.

  The pressure on my torso suddenly eases as Mike shifts his weight. I don’t move an inch. Is he going? Does he think he’s punished me enough? I feel the heat of his breath on my ear before I hear his voice.

  ‘You ruined my life. Do you know that? You turned me into a man I despise.’

  He pauses, waiting for a response.

  ‘It’s all your fault, Lou. All of it. You made me like this.’

  Fear pulses through me and every muscle in my body tenses. He’s going to kill me.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I open my eyes and look up into his face. ‘For everything. It is my fault, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please, just let me go. Please. I’m sorry. I love you.’

  His lips thin into a smile as he slips his hands around my neck. ‘No you don’t.’

  The ground is cold and damp beneath my cheek. Something wet and rancid-smelling seeps through my T-shirt and chills my skin. I inhale sharply, desperately, but nothing happens. I try again. A loud rasping sound reverberates up from my throat, but my lungs are still empty. I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe? Panic forces me up and off the ground but my arm is too weak to take my weight and I collapse back onto my side. The fall jolts my broken arm and I cry out in pain. Grey shapes swirl around me as I open my eyes. My lungs are burning, my tongue feels too big for my mouth and my throat feels as though it’s stuffed with cotton wool. What happened to me? Where am I? Why can’t I—

  I’m in the cage, lying on straw that smells of urine and decay. My stomach twists, my body convulses and I retch, spewing bile over my arms and hands. I vomit again and again and, just when I think it will never stop, it does. Air rattles in and out of my lungs as I struggle to breathe.

  ‘Where is it?’ The door to the barn flies open and Mike limps in, carrying a length of metal piping in his hand. ‘Where’s my van?’

  He’s going to kill me. I survived once, by some miracle, but he’s not going to let that happen again. I can see it in his eyes.

  ‘Where’s my van?’ he shouts again.

  I try to shake my head but I can’t. All I can do is pray that when he kills me he does it quickly.

  Mike pulls himself up to his full height. From down here he looks huge and powerful. ‘Tell me where my van is or, this time, I will snap your fucking neck.’

  So he didn’t mean to kill me before. He just wanted me to pass out.

  ‘Louise!’ He grabs hold of the door and yanks but the padlock is shut and it holds firm. ‘Fuck.’

  Still holding on to the cage, he awkwardly lowers himself into a squatting position and sweeps at the straw, muttering under his breath. He hasn’t got the key. He must have dropped it after he shut me in here. He looks back at me and grits his teeth as he stands back up.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  CLANG! The whole cage shakes as he smashes the pipe against the padlock. It jumps.

  Please, I pray. Please don’t open.

  CLANG! He smashes it again. Beads of sweat have appeared on his forehead and he’s breathing heavily.

  His top lip tightens over his teeth as he stares at me through the bars of the cage. ‘Fuck the van.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. My car keys. He’s been in Dad’s house.

  He smiles. ‘Looks like I’ll have to take Chloe on a little trip in your car instead.’

  ‘No!’ I croak as he turns to leave. ‘No! No, Mike. No! No!’

  I grip the bars of the cage with my good hand and, gritting my teeth against the pain, try and haul myself to my feet. I get as far as a semi-crouched position, then black spots appear in front of my eyes and a whooshing sound fills my head, making me feel as though I’m under water. Then everything goes black.

  Chapter 38

  Chloe

  It’s been twenty-four hours since Chloe Meadows last saw her mum. Her dad returned from the pub three hours after her mum left the house – stomping around and shouting Julie’s name. When she didn’t appear, he slammed open the door to Chloe’s bedroom and barked at her to sit up. Chloe, puffy-faced and red-eyed from crying, forced herself up from her pillow and stuttered that her mum had said she was going out for a bit but didn’t say why. Her dad didn’t believe her. He thought she was covering. He ranted, raged and threatened then, getting nowhere, stormed across the landing and delivered the same speech to Jamie who promptly burst into tears.

  After he’d torn ten strips off both his children, Alan Meadows stomped back down the stairs and rang everyone who might know where his wife had gone. Chloe stood at her bedroom door and listened as he swore at her nan, her Auntie Meg and her mum’s best friend Sally. Shortly afterwards she heard the theme tune to Match of the Day. Then her dad swearing at the TV. It wasn’t fair. Why was her mum allowed to escape and she wasn’t? And why hadn’t she asked her to go with her? She would have left in a heartbeat. She really wanted to text her to ask her where she was but she couldn’t risk her dad discovering her rooting through his sock drawer. She couldn’t text any of her friends either. Not that she’d know what to say to them. Her life was collapsing around her ears and there was no one she could talk to about it. Not her mum, dad, friends, her nan and definitely not Mike. And if she ever saw the weird skinny woman again – the woman who’d given her the diary that she’d thrown against the wardrobe and was lying splayed and curled on the carpet – she’d stab her in the heart.

  It’s Sunday afternoon now. Her dad hasn’t said a word to her all day, not even when she went down to get breakfast and asked if her mum had come back yet. Now Chloe’s back in her bedroom. Last night, before she fell asleep – broken and exhausted – she scrawled I should have jumped on her bedroom wall in eyeliner. She tried to scrub it off with a make-up remover wipe when she woke up but there’s still a greasy stain on the wall and the word jumped.

  ‘Chloe?’ There’s a tap at her bedroom door. ‘Chloe, can I come in?’

  She sighs and swings her legs off her bed. Before she opens the door, she glances at the patch of carpet by the wardrobe but the diary’s not there. It’s under the bed, where she shoved it after her dad got back.

  ‘Yes, Jamie.’ She looks down at her little brother and his pale, pinched face.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is she coming back?’

  Chloe sighs. ‘Probably.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Chlo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I have a hug?’

  ‘Why?’ Chloe can’t remember the last time she and her brother touched, never mind hugged. When he was a baby he’d fall asleep in her arms. When he was two he followed her everywhere. She loved him back then, back before he became their dad’s little mimic. She loves him now too, she’s sure, she just can’t feel it anymore.

  Jamie tucks one leg behind the other and scratches t
he back of his calf with his toenail. ‘Because I’m sad about Mum.’

  ‘Okay then.’ She crouches down and opens her arms. Jamie steps into the gap and wraps his arms around her neck, pressing his skinny little body against hers.

  ‘You won’t leave will you?’ he says, lisping the words, something he does when he’s tired. ‘Promise me you won’t leave too.’

  Chloe doesn’t say anything. She can’t. But she hugs him tighter to make up for it.

  Chloe is sitting on Jamie’s bed, watching him play Minecraft when there’s a sharp rap at the front door. She and Jamie share a look. Is it their mum? But she’s got her own set of keys. Why would she knock?

  ‘Jamie,’ Chloe gestures for him to pause his game and, for once, he does what he’s told.

  They both listen, their eyes fixed on the gap in the bedroom door as their father’s heavy footsteps carry up the stairs from the hallway. They hear the click of the front door, their dad’s sharp intake of breath and then,

  ‘Mike! Fucking hell. You look like you’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards. And you stink like shit. Where the hell have you been? The police have been looking for you. Chloe, Chloe! Stick the kettle on. Mike’s back!’

  Chloe stops dead in the doorway to the living room. Sitting directly across from her, with his elbows on his knees, is someone who looks vaguely similar to the love of her life. He’s the same height with the same hands, same broad shoulders and silvery-grey hair, but his face is all wrong. There are dark circles beneath his hooded eyes. His lips are pale and chapped. His cheeks are pinched and the lower half of his face is covered in thick stubble.

  ‘You all right, Chlo?’ He smiles tightly as his gaze sweeps the length of her body then returns to her face.

  ‘Yeah.’ She doesn’t break eye contact. ‘I heard you were missing.’

  She can feel her dad watching her from the sofa by the window but he may as well be on the other side of the world. This is about her and Mike and no one else.

  ‘Apparently so.’ Mike raises his eyebrows. ‘But I’m back now.’