(2012) Say You're Sorry

by Michael Robotham

  “You should ask DCI Drury. Make his day.”

  My mobile is ringing. I don’t recognize the number, but the voice is familiar.

  Victoria Naparstek apologizes for her behavior at the hospital and asks me what I’m wearing.

  “Why?”

  “I want you to take me to dinner and I’m just making sure you’re not wearing that tweed jacket.”

  “Is tweed a problem?”

  “It makes you look like a supply teacher.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “I’ve booked us a table at Branca. It’s an Italian restaurant in Walton Street. I’ll see you at eight.”

  I end the call. Ruiz has an arched eyebrow. “You have a date?”

  “Just a meal.”

  “With that very fetching psychiatrist.”

  “She wants my opinion on something.”

  “Not your body then?”

  Ruiz is the only one of my friends who doesn’t try to convince me that Julianne and I are going to get back together. I think he hopes it, but would never say as much. Although he talks a lot about sex, the only woman in his life is his ex-wife Miranda, who seems to have decided that Ruiz was a lousy husband but perfectly adequate as an occasional shag.

  “I have to get changed,” I tell him. “She doesn’t like tweed.”

  “Obviously a woman of taste.”

  “Out of my league.”

  “Chin up. Even the shittiest player can fluke a goal.”

  Victoria Naparstek is waiting for me in the hotel foyer. She’s wearing contact lenses and sexier clothes—a mid-thigh black dress, leggings and boots that make her taller than I am. It’s one more thing to be self-conscious about.

  The Italian restaurant has tea candles in red globes on every table. It’s perfect lighting to hide a myriad of flaws and blemishes—mine not hers.

  “How is Augie?” I ask.

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you. He was granted bail this afternoon. He’s out.”

  “Where?”

  “At his mother’s house.”

  “What happened?”

  “The judge was so angry about the suicide attempt that he wouldn’t listen to any more excuses. The police failed in their duty of care, he said. He granted bail with conditions. Augie has to wear an electronic ankle tag.”

  She raises her glass in a mini-celebration, pushing her hair behind her ears.

  “Did the prosecution mention Augie’s father?”

  “Inadmissible. You can’t blame a son for something his father did or didn’t do.”

  One of my shirt cuffs has come undone. I don’t have the dexterity to do it up again. Victoria notices and reaches across the table.

  “There,” she says.

  “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  A smile. She has the kind of dimples that leave a mark on a man’s mind.

  We make small talk and eye contact. Naparstek is a Jewish name. Her great-grandparents escaped from Poland in 1935. She’s an only child, which meant she was rather spoiled and bookish. She grew up in Glasgow, went to boarding school and was head girl. Her father makes corporate videos. Her mother is a speech therapist.

  I listen and tell myself to remember this—how it feels to talk to an attractive woman and flirt a little. What I don’t mention is that I woke up this morning with an erection, imagining Dr. Naparstek with her very smart business skirt hiked up over her hips and the base of my penis grinding against her pubic bone.

  “I’m sorry I seem to be doing all the talking,” Victoria says. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Liar!”

  “It’s true.”

  She carries on, telling me about performing the lead in her school drama and flirting with the idea of becoming an actress. The conversation blossoms and we grow comfortable together, discussing the edited highlights of our lives. Then, out of the blue, she asks, “Do you remember when we first met?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told the mental health review tribunal that my patient was fantasizing about raping women… about raping me.”

  “How is Liam?”

  “Let me finish,” she says, steeling herself. “After the hearing he was denied release and went back to the secure unit. Six months later he applied again and was given approval for escorted day trips, weekend leave, that sort of thing. Two months after that he abducted and tried to rape a childcare worker walking her dog on Putney Common.” She lowers her head, whispering. “He cut her neck, but she fought him off. You were right. I should have listened.”

  I think about saying something, but there are no words I can offer her. Silence is kinder.

  We walk back to the hotel. This is the bit that terrifies me. There have been two women since Julianne and I split up, both one-night stands—a teacher at Charlie’s school, and a divorcee I met at dance classes. You could call it pity sex or lonely sex, hungry and sad: two people trying to forget rather than to forge something new.

  Why am I thinking about that now? I rationalize things too much. I should just act.

  Victoria Naparstek takes the decision for me, pulling me into a shop doorway, kissing me like a teenager. Then she takes me by the hand and we continue walking.

  “Before you invite me upstairs,” she says, “let me warn you that I’m going to say no.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m just warning you—but you should still ask.”

  “The point being?”

  “I’ll be flattered.”

  “You like me then.”

  “I do. You’re a nice guy…”

  “There’s a “but” in there somewhere.”

  “I get the feeling that you’re hung up on a nice girl… and it’s not me.”

  “I could get hung up on you.”

  “I’m not very patient and don’t like waiting in line.”

  “That’s no reason we shouldn’t sleep together.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Yes.”

  She laughs and kisses me again. As she steps away, I grab her and pull her close, hearing her exhale softly. Her mouth opens. There is nothing left to say.

  Later that night or early the next morning, she is lying next to me, her head resting on my shoulder and her right arm across my chest.

  “I thought you were going to say no,” I say, tracing my fingers over her breasts.

  “I have no self-control.”

  “Maybe I should apologize.”

  “It’s a bit late now.” She kisses the tips of my fingers. “It was certainly different.”

  “In a good way?”

  “Definitely worth repeating.” She rolls out of bed. “Not tonight, sadly, I have an early start.”

  “So you’re loving me and leaving?”

  She’s in the bathroom, getting dressed. “It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like?”

  “Complicated.”

  “You’re seeing someone else?”

  “This was probably a mistake.”

  “Don’t turn it into a tragedy. Nobody got hurt.”

  She’s studying herself in the mirror, adjusting her hair. There is something very sensual about a woman preparing herself.

  “Are you married?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Nothing.”

  She pulls on her overcoat and kisses my cheek. There is a note on the floor, pushed under the door. She picks it up and reads the name, her forehead buckling.

  It’s a handwritten message from DCI Drury.

  Blackout over: the storm breaks.

  I haven’t heard him coming.

  He is sitting in the shadows with just his hands and knees in the light. My heart stops and I take a juddering breath, scrambling to the end of the bunk.

  He leans forward, his face now visible.

  “Good morning, Princess.”

  The skin wrinkles around his eyes.

>   When there were two of us he would never come down the ladder. He’s more confident now that I’m alone. I haven’t had a chance to study him up close for a long time—not for years. He’s a forgettable man; one you wouldn’t notice twice. Once even.

  “You must be hungry. Are you ready to come upstairs?”

  I shake my head.

  “I have a warm bath waiting. Hot food.”

  He’s smiling with a mixture of compassion and dry humor.

  “Where’s Tash?”

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  “Is she all right?”

  George glances at the window. “You were very foolish helping her escape like that. I know what you did. I know how you did it.”

  My bladder is full. I have to use the toilet.

  He walks around the basement, stopping at the sink and examining the empty cans as though frightened he might catch something.

  He points to the ladder. “I’m going up now. You know what’s going to happen if you don’t come to me? Remember the hose?”

  He grips the ladder and climbs easily, balancing on the uppermost rung before swinging through the open hatch like a gymnast. He peers back through the hole.

  “Come on now, Piper. You know you want to.”

  “Are you going to hurt me?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You hurt Tash.”

  “She didn’t do as she was told.”

  I scan the room, looking for something—a weapon or a way out.

  “Don’t make me wait, Piper.”

  I don’t want to go up the ladder, but it’s been three years living in a hole. I want to see different walls.

  “I have hot food,” he says again. “A warm bath.”

  I climb. One hand follows the other. Higher. I hold my arms above my head. He reaches down and grabs me by the wrists, lifting me easily. Hoisting me to the edge of the trapdoor and then higher onto my feet.

  He lets me go. The room is dark. I’m standing under a set of iron stairs. George walks through a door into a second room, motioning me to follow. He’s wearing a jacket and corduroy trousers—the sort of clothes my father would wear.

  We’re in some sort of workshop or factory, with high ceilings and narrow windows running along the top of the walls. The plaster is crumbling, the roof panels are broken. I notice a chest freezer with a blinking red light; a table, two plastic chairs, boxes, metal drums. Then I smell the food. Barbecued chicken. Still warm.

  He tears open the bag. I think I might faint from hunger. The bag is from the Chicken Cottage in Abingdon. I know that shop because the man who runs it has one of those mail-order brides from the Philippines who looks like she’s about seventeen.

  “Maybe you should wash first,” says George.

  I shake my head.

  He offers me a chair. My hands are shaking. Stomach cramping. I can see the greasy warm flesh, the golden brown skin, the fat drumsticks…

  He sits down opposite and watches me eat. I keep cramming chicken into my mouth because I’m scared he might take it away.

  “Something to drink?”

  He opens a can of lemonade.

  “You’ll make yourself sick. Maybe you should slow down.”

  But I keep eating. I can’t chew quickly enough. I swallow and almost choke.

  He takes the corner of the greaseproof bag and pulls it away from me. My eyes and hands follow the food, but he smacks at my wrists, telling me to slow down.

  I can’t answer. A wodge of food is caught in my throat. I can’t breathe. He stands and puts his arms around me, tightening his grip, forcing air out of my lungs. I cough up a ball of masticated chicken.

  He sets me down on the chair.

  “Do as you’re told next time.”

  That’s when I puke. He steps back but not in time to save his shoes. He calls me something. I don’t catch the words. My whole insides are coming out. I feel as though they’re going to finish up on the floor with the regurgitated chicken and lemonade.

  I wipe my mouth and nose with my sleeve.

  “Where is Tash?”

  “I caught her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I killed her.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He laughs. “She’s in another room—just like this one.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “No, I’m punishing her.”

  “Punish me instead.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Please, let me see her.”

  “No.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Again, he doesn’t answer.

  “I want to go home. Please let us go. We won’t tell anyone.”

  “I thought you had outgrown all this,” he says, sounding disappointed.

  “Let me see Tash.”

  His hand shoots out and grabs my face so hard that my jaw feels like it might collapse. He lifts me up. My toes are barely touching the ground.

  “Shut up! Understand? Stop whining.”

  He says it in a tiny whisper that echoes in my skull.

  “Do you hear me?”

  He forces my face up and down. Then he lets me go. I don’t know how I stay upright. He sniffs at his fingers and wrinkles his nose.

  “Time to get you cleaned up.”

  He leads me away from the table to a bed and a big old-fashioned bath on clawed feet. A wood-fired boiler is warming the room and heating the water. The bath is already half full. He turns on the tap. Steam billows. Bubbles froth. A large trunk at the bottom of the bed is open. There are shampoos, soaps, body washes, lotions, conditioners, moisturizers, perfume, bubble bath—it’s like he’s raided every hotel in the country, taking all those little complimentary bottles.

  Adding more bubble bath into the running water, he watches it froth and foam. Then he opens a second trunk and takes out a big fluffy towel.

  “You haven’t undressed.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not in front of you.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Please,” I ask, in a squeaky voice.

  I look at the bath and then the open trunk. It has a mirror fixed to the inside of the lid. I catch a glimpse of my reflection. My hair is matted into rat’s tails. My eyes are red.

  The bath is ready. He dips his fingers into the water.

  “You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  But that isn’t true. He hasn’t seen me naked before. Not up close. Not like this.

  He takes hold of my face again, forcing me to look into his eyes, which peer deep inside my head. His fingers tighten. Tears fall on the back of his hand.

  “Don’t disobey me, Piper. You know what I can do.”

  I take off my clothes. He holds them between his finger and thumb, dropping them into a plastic rubbish bag. I cover my breasts with my forearm.

  He motions to my knickers. Soiled. Yellow.

  “Those next.”

  “I want to leave them on.”

  He shakes his head.

  I push them down, turning my back, stepping quickly into the bath and sliding beneath the surface, curling up into a ball. He pulls his chair close so his knees touch the edge of the bath.

  He hands me a pink disposable razor.

  “Do your legs.”

  I hesitate. He reaches into the water and grabs me by the left ankle, lifting the leg upwards. I don’t have time to grip the sides of the bath. I slide completely underwater. He’s holds my leg higher, keeping my head under. I can’t breathe. I may never breathe again.

  When he drops the leg, I come up spluttering and coughing, leaking snot, eyes stinging.

  “Either you shave or I do it for you.”

  I shave, one leg at a time, propping each on the edge of the bath. He watches. My hand is shaking as the blade carves a track through the foam.

  Then he tells me to stand up. I cover my groin and breasts. He points to my pubic hair.
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  “We have to do something about that.”

  I don’t understand.

  “Shave it off.”

  My hand is shaking. I can’t do it.

  Nobody has ever touched me there. Nobody. The only guy who ever tried was Gerard Bryant who pushed his hand up my skirt at the Odeon in Oxford, but got a punch in the stomach for his troubles.

  I don’t punch George. I stand very still and taste the tears that are running into the corners of my mouth. He talks to me as he works, but the words don’t register. When he’s finished he holds up the towel, putting it around my shoulders, drying me gently, my arms and legs, between my toes…

  He lets me keep the towel around my shoulders as he opens the trunk and removes the top shelf. Beneath there are bras, knickers and lingerie. He chooses a nightgown.

  “Put this on.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you to.”

  I raise my arms. The fabric slides over me. I stand self-consciously, still feeling naked. He puts his hands on my shoulders and makes me sit while he brushes my hair and pulls my face towards his, using a tube of lipstick to paint my lips.

  He puts his hand under my chin and lifts my head so that I’ll look at his face. His thumb and forefinger are digging into my cheeks, pulling my mouth out of shape. I don’t want to look into his eyes. Instead, I try to concentrate on a spot just above them, a patch of dry skin on his forehead.

  “Don’t you look pretty?” he says, pointing me towards the mirror.

  He makes me stand.

  “Do a twirl.”

  I shuffle in circles. Then he leads me to the bed and forces me forwards, his hands urgent, lifting the nightdress over my hips, bunching it around my waist. His breath quickens with the march of his fingers.

  I should fight. I should bite and scratch. I should jam my fingers into his soft bits. Instead, I squeak like a kitten as his fingers invade me.

  I don’t know what happens next. My mind goes blank. He’s talking to me but the sound is washed away. I’m writing in my head, putting words together randomly.

  I become a different person. I can be somewhere else… in a safe place. Why can’t I be an angry person, who can fight and punch and kick? Why can’t I set loose the dogs of war? I don’t know what the “dogs of war” are or if they’re real dogs but they sound pretty scary.