‘Do you think he’s having a breakdown?’ Kristy asked in all seriousness.
‘Something terrible is clearly going on inside of him, Kristy, and I don’t know what to do.’
‘I still don’t understand. How did you get hit?’
‘After he left the pub I sat a little stunned. I thought he was going to the loo or getting another beer but he just walked out the door and by the time I reacted he was halfway down Bridge Street shouting at anyone near him. Telling them to fuck off, asking if they wanted a fight.’
‘Chris was saying this?’
‘I know, I couldn’t believe it either. It was like I was watching someone else. There was a young couple. Early twenties and he grabbed the guy, shouting at him that he needed to look after his girl. Treat her right, love her dearly, or he would find him and he would make him pay.’
‘Make him pay? Chris really said all this?’
‘I ran over and pulled Chris off of the guy, who was fuming. He wanted to call the police but I told him my friend was going through a difficult time and that I was sorry on his behalf. I then turned to Chris and asked him what the hell he was doing, asking if he was out of his mind, if he had taken any drugs, but instead he said the strangest thing to me.’
‘What?’
‘He said that I wasn’t safe; we weren’t safe because of him. He said that he needed me to leave him alone and he started running towards the river. I chased him telling him to slow down but he wasn’t listening. He just ran and ran. I had no choice but to grab him, both of us falling as I did.’
‘And Chris hit you?’
‘Yeah, I could see he regretted it straight away. He said he needed to be with Julia now before storming off, leaving me on the deck.’
‘Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry.’
Kristy gave Steve a long hug.
‘I just don’t know what to do to help him through this. Julia needs to come back. I just don’t think she will.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Kristy, do you mind if I have a few minutes on my own?’
‘Of course not. Just come to bed when you’re ready.’
‘Thanks, love.’
After kissing Steve on the head Kristy went back to bed. Steve put the peas back in the freezer before looking in the kitchen mirror at his eye. The darkness of broken blood vessels already flooding to the surface. He couldn’t believe how Chris had been towards him. Making himself a drink of water Steve thought again about his friend’s behaviour. It was far worse than he had just told his wife. It was true, Chris had hit him, but what he didn’t tell Kristy was that Chris didn’t hit him in the street and that he’d followed him home and stopped him before he went inside.
‘Look, Chris, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you but you can’t have Julia leaving you turn you into this.’
‘She hasn’t left me!’
Chris went into his house and before he could close the door Steve pushed his way in.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m not leaving you, mate, not when you’re like this.’
‘Steve, get out.’
‘No, Chris, we’ve known each other a long time. Something is going on and I want to know what.’
‘It doesn’t matter; just get out.’
Chris tried to push Steve out, but Steve being both bigger and stronger than Chris he failed.
‘Fine, stay; I’m going to bed.’
Steve watched Chris go upstairs slowly, holding on to the banister to keep him upright. He knew that Chris would sleep it off and be very different in the morning. Whatever was going on Steve was more likely to find out if he put on a little pressure.
Steve followed Chris up the stairs and grabbed his friend’s shoulder to turn him around. As he did Chris lunged at him, hitting Steve in the chest with his shoulder, forcing him backwards against the banister, which creaked angrily at the sudden weight. He couldn’t believe how explosive it was. It happened so fast Steve didn’t have time to prepare for the hit and the wind was knocked out of him.
Steve stood up to grab Chris and both men staggered into the bedroom and fell onto the bed. It was then Chris had hit him, just once before Steve put up his guard ensuring the other blows glanced off of his forearms. With no choice Steve pushed Chris and he fell off of the side of the bed. Chris rose to his feet and tried to attack him once more. His arms flailing and thrashing without landing any clean punches on Steve. The whole time he was telling Chris to calm down. Chris lunged again and Steve had to take action.
As Chris leapt for him he dropped his shoulder and turned, allowing him to glance past before putting him in a headlock. Chris fought to remove himself and drove himself at a wall. Both men hit it hard before Chris spun again, grabbing a knife from seemingly nowhere. Steve immediately stepped back, panting hard.
‘What are you gonna do with that – stab me? Is that it, Chris? You’re gonna stab me?’
‘Just get out.’
‘She was great, and I’m sorry she left you. I really am. But look at you. Are you really going to stab me, Chris?’
‘Steve, just get out.’
‘You need to get a grip. It’s about time you let her go.’
‘I can’t let her go. I need to be with her, Steve.’
Steve took a small step towards Chris and Chris stepped back, hitting his back against the wall.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, just get out, please.’
‘Or what?’
‘Don’t, please. Steve, just go.’
‘Fine, all right, I’m going.’
Steve walked backwards, his arms still raised defensively and his eyes flicking from Chris to the knife until he was at the bedroom door. Then he turned and walked down the stairs. Chris followed and watched from the top as Steve opened the front door. He looked back, sighed, and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
As he walked into the city, his whole body shook. The adrenaline began to wear off. He couldn’t believe what Chris had just done to him. There was something more going on than a man trying to cope with his marriage failing. But he didn’t know what. And he knew he couldn’t talk to Kristy about it, because she would call the police. Steve had to work it out on his own.
Chapter 21
8 days left
6.52 p.m. – Kings Road, Cambridge
I loved and hated date nights in equal measure. Not my date nights, obviously – they are about as active as the mating habits of the dodo. I mean my sister’s date nights. I loved them because when Natalie and George were out I had the entire house to myself, albeit only for a few hours. I hated them because it was a reminder of how easy those two have it with one another. A stark contrast of how shit it was with John and how lonely I felt in the wake of it. But, still, I didn’t want to complain.
So I spent the time doing a little extra work from home. A presentation to my boss about how insurance claims are rising on household contents and the preventive measures we had in place to combat it. It was all a bit unethical in my view. Most people only claimed when they needed to. But work’s work and needs must.
It also helped me forget the argument with Chris. If you could call it that. I couldn’t believe what he had said to me and how much it had struck a chord. I still felt bruised by it; however, I couldn’t help still wanting to save him and talk to him about his problems.
Nat was right from the very start. His life wasn’t mine to protect. His problems weren’t mine to manage. She was also right about my choice in men. Why did I always want to save them?
After finishing my presentation I rubbed my eyes and made a mental note that I needed to get them tested. They felt overworked and strained, making me feel like I was getting old. I looked at the poster George had put on our living room wall. ‘Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, but about learning to dance in the rain.’ At first I hated it, but now it was a quote I tried to adopt as often as I could. Well, in the last few days anyway. I read it in th
e mornings as I had my first cup of tea and said it to myself as I headed for work. I know, how ‘America’ of me.
Saying the quote in my head I closed my laptop lid, stood up, and stretched, uncurling my fingers towards the ceiling. It felt good to have my muscles do something. It was getting late and I’d not had any dinner so I went into the kitchen and began to rifle though the cupboards for inspiration. Lacking any I settled on a pot noodle. I wondered if I shouldn’t be so lazy and cook a proper meal. That thought didn’t last long.
As the kettle started to boil I flicked on the radio, BBC2, hoping for something I could jig to whilst I waited. Surprisingly one of my favourite songs was playing. A Nineties classic by a band long forgotten. A rare treat for airtime. I sang along, a little out of tune, but that’s another good thing about their date nights.
Twirling the noodles on my fork I blew on them to cool before putting the food into my mouth. And still managed to burn myself. But I hadn’t realized how hungry I was and ate them quickly regardless. The song finished and the news was being reported. Its reader unimaginative and emotionless as he discussed world events. How people couldn’t get on the property ladder and the chaos of the Middle East. I choose to zone out from it. The news always made me feel a little helpless and I knew I couldn’t be helpless any more. Helpless was what kept me with John. So I changed the station, finding BBC Cambridgeshire instead. It was the news again. At least it would be relevant to the area and possibly a little less depressing. I sat down and continued to eat quietly as I listened to the local travel update:
‘There are delays to train services out of Cambridge this evening due an incident that happened approximately three hours ago, which means that services between Cambridge, Peterborough, and London are cancelled. If you are travelling this evening please check before beginning your journey as the lines are closed.’
My fork slipped out of my hand and clattered to the floor. It sounded like there had been a suicide.
Going back to my laptop, my hands shaking, I clicked on Google and typed into the search engine ‘train line delays today.’ It took me three attempts to spell it correctly as I was panicking, wondering. Could it be him? I clicked on the third link, taking me to the BBC news website. As I scrolled down my worst fears were confirmed. I felt as if my heart was going to explode out of my chest as I tried to read, missing words and confusing the narrative as my ability to focus had been temporarily robbed.
It said there had been an incident involving a man on the line, and there was a fatality involved. There was a link to a police inquiry page. They were needing witnesses to identify who the man was. I clicked on it. I was beginning to feel light-headed. There was a description of the man. As I read I thought I was going to be sick. CCTV footage confirmed he was between twenty-five and thirty-five. Around six feet tall. I was convinced it was him until I read he had blond hair.
Scrolling down there was a grainy picture of the man who they thought had died. I didn’t want to look but knew I had to, and relief washed over me with such force I needed to sit on the floor.
It wasn’t him.
I curled my knees up to my chest to make myself as small as I could and tried to take calm, measured breaths. Each one becoming more difficult until I began to cry. I had really thought it would be him. That he had done it, and that moment was a kind of pain I would wish on nobody. I didn’t ever want to experience it again.
I’d convinced myself that that part of my life was behind me, that I was moving forward reluctantly, even though I knew it wasn’t. I knew that he was still there in his house, and probably planning his end, and that no one else would stop him. I would forever live with the guilt if I didn’t try. I knew I had to go back. I had to get him to talk to me. I had to show him another way and part of me was so angry with him for making me have to.
I still had the stone; I would use that as an excuse. Grabbing my car keys and shoes I texted Nat to say I was going for some drinks with work friends so she didn’t worry, and then I left.
I got into my car, put it in gear and, still shaking, I drove to Peterborough.
Chapter 22
8.41 p.m. – London Road, Peterborough
Since his fight with Steve, Chris had wanted to call or text to say something. He hated that he’d hurt his friend who had only ever wanted to help him. He hated that for a moment he could have really hurt him with that knife, even though he had done it for Steve’s own good. But if Steve was angry and stayed angry, like the train girl was, it would make the next eight days easier to manage and he could die knowing they would be left alone.
He hadn’t been outside since coming back from his night out with Steve. He knew he’d have to soon; he was running out of food. But, following his meeting with Steve and the train girl knocking at his door hours before, he felt increasingly paranoid.
Each time he heard a police car go past he thought it was for him. Every time the postman dropped something through his letter box he thought it was a knock, a detective on the other side ready to ask some questions or tell him his friend had been involved in an incident and the man who killed Julia had attacked Steve or his wife as he said he would if he thought Steve knew anything about that night. But no one came. It meant that somehow, despite pulling a knife in his friend, he hadn’t told anyone.
He lay back on his sofa and looked at his ceiling. Its dated, bobbled Artex looked like tiny upside-down mountain ranges. He let himself imagine they were. And his ceiling was a tiny country full of life. He imagined people eating, sleeping, laughing, making love. Going to work, being born. Dying. He tried to picture where Julia would be and what she would be doing. Would she be with him, would she be with another man, or would she be dead somewhere with no gravestone for people to mourn at?
He started to imagine where her killer would be but stopped himself. He already knew. He imagined. The power he could have over him. He could create night and day with a simple flick of a light switch. He could create a devastating tsunami with paint and roller. He could stand up and crush him under his thumb.
Rubbing his eyes Chris laughed at himself. He knew he was beginning to lose his mind. Hearing something he stopped himself laughing and listened. He thought he heard a tapping from somewhere in the house. He made his way into the kitchen, thinking the sound was coming from the back garden. Then he heard it again.
Chris looked at the clock. It was too late for it to be anyone he knew. He heard it again, louder this time, and quietly, quickly he took the small knife he had returned to the drawer after Steve left. White-knuckled, he walked into his living room to look out of the bay window to try and make out who it was. The figure on the other side of the glass was one he had come to recognize. Unbelievably, she was back. He ducked down into the shadows, not knowing what to do.
***
Looking at the small object in my hand, the weight of it heavier now than ever before, I knew I had to knock on his door one more time. The object should be reconnected with its owner, well, that was my excuse, but really, I needed to see him. To talk to him. I hoped my returning it would open a conversation, that he wouldn’t dismiss me for the third time.
I knew why he was doing it. He was hurting, wounded. I hoped my perseverance would pay off. Standing there I couldn’t help but think of It’s a Wonderful Life. One of my favourite old films. I thought of how the central character George Bailey wanted to kill himself because of bad luck in life and because of debt. He was saved by being able to see his future. Maybe Chris was the same, and I could be the one to show him something different. A thought I shook off with a sad smile. Life wasn’t like that.
I stepped onto his front lawn and snuck a look through the window into his lounge. I couldn’t see much as the only light was the overspill from a lamp in his hallway. Casing his living room in a lifeless glow. As there was no sign of him I pressed my hands against the glass and took my time looking at his world, trying to see any sign of who he was.
I focused on the walls. There wer
e no pictures but light marked where pictures had once hung. There were no plants or personal items of any kind. Just a sparsely decorated space, like a show home. I was starting to think he had left but then I saw a pair of shoes. And immediately I knew they were the same shoes that had sat on the platform.
I knocked once more but still there was no answer. Feeling stupid for driving all that way for no reason I quietly opened the letter box, placed the small black stone inside, and closed the lid. The stone dropped off of the shelf between my world and his, sounding louder than I hoped as it hit the laminate floor on the other side. I turned on my heels, wrapped my arms around myself even though I wasn’t cold, and began walking as fast as I could away from him again.
Once again I was that pathetic girl on the platform being silently pitied by a stranger, and I wouldn’t allow myself to feel this way again. Only this time I was the stranger looking in, and seeing me as I was felt disgusting.
Only when I had passed his front gate and was on the main footpath did I let my composure slip, just for a second. My chin wobbled, giving my feelings away, followed by a long, shaky intake of air as I fought to hold the sadness that was pushing against the insides of my cheeks, wanting to spill tears.
In the silence between inhaling and exhaling I heard him, just behind his door, picking up the stone I had tenderly cared for, and knowing he wouldn’t thank me I began to walk away. A voice telling me not to look back.
But I did.
Stood in the open doorway of number 29, the stone cradled in his hands like it was as delicate as a butterfly, stood a barefooted Chris. His unblinking eyes were focused on me. An expression of confusion on his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
Chris didn’t hold my gaze for long and instead looked back to his hands, his shoulders rolling in as he did. It made him look young, like a child holding some treasure they had discovered. I stood unmoving, not knowing what would happen next. As he lifted his head once more, I saw an openness in him that I’d not seen before. His eyes, although tired, had a brightness in them. I noticed he had a small scar running from the edge of his right one. I wondered how he had got it.
Our Little Secret: The most gripping debut psychological thriller you’ll read this year Page 13