He Will Find You

by Diane Jeffrey

  I read once that burglars spend on average less than five minutes in your house. I’m not sure how long I’ve been home for, but I don’t think there’s anyone still in the house. If there was anyone in it at all. It certainly doesn’t look as if we’ve been burgled.

  Scissors in hand, I head upstairs. By the time I get to the top, I’ve persuaded myself that I simply forgot to lock up and that I’m letting my imagination run amok.

  But then I step into the master bedroom. Someone has been in here.

  At that moment, the door bangs downstairs. Did I close the front door when I came in? For a few seconds, I’m rooted to the spot. Has someone just left the house? Or have they entered it?

  Without making a sound, I walk over to the bedroom window and, half hiding behind the curtain, I look out, through the bars, at the empty driveway. There’s no one outside.

  I can hear someone walking through the entrance hall downstairs. I can just make out the footsteps over the sound of my own breathing.

  ‘Katie?’

  All the fear that was building up inside me is instantly wiped out by a wave of relief.

  I concentrate on inhaling and exhaling slowly until I catch my breath enough to shout back.

  ‘Alex! I’m in the bedroom.’

  I hear him running up the stairs and then he appears in the doorway, still wearing his cycling jersey and shorts, a hangdog expression on his face and possibly the biggest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen in his arms.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, reaching for the flowers, my trembling hands belying my words. ‘These are beautiful. Thank you.’

  ‘To make up for my bad behaviour last night.’ The words roll glibly off his tongue and he gives me a blatantly unrepentant grin.

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ I hear myself saying. I am so pleased to see him right now.

  ‘Can I take you out to lunch to earn your forgiveness?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve bought some groceries. I was going to make chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce.’

  His face clouds over, but as soon as his eyes look into mine the expression disperses. It’s gone quickly, but I’m sure I saw it. I’m used to this now. Blink and you miss it.

  ‘But I can always put the shopping away and make that for dinner instead,’ I add.

  He smiles and I know I’ve come up with a good answer. The right answer. I attempt to smile back, but it feels alien to my face. His intense blue eyes refuse to look away and I know I’m being examined, but I can’t work out why. I can feel the hairs stand up along my arms.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asks.

  Goodness, I am tense! He’s only concerned.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I reply.

  ‘I’ll go and get a shower and then we’ll go out.’

  He disappears into the en suite bathroom, leaving me alone with my suspicions. I try to think this over rationally. I want to believe I’m mistaken. No one has been in the bedroom. I got spooked, that’s all. The most likely explanation is that Alex arrived home before me, opened the front door and then went to put his bike away in the garage. Yes, that must be it! I could go and ask him now. On second thoughts, no, I can’t, because if that’s not what happened then he’ll blame me for leaving the front door unlocked. Surely I locked the door? Didn’t I?

  Thoughts race around my mind, contradicting each other. I try to shut them out, but I know they won’t go away until I think this through.

  I look around the room, my heart pounding. A voice in my head taunts me: who’s been sleeping in my bed? The bed is made, just how I left it. I put the bouquet I’m still holding on the bed and kneel down to look under it, not knowing if I’m checking for something or someone. There’s nothing there, no one there. I’m starting to feel silly now. I haven’t looked under the bed out of fear since I stopped believing in the bogeyman as a little girl. I’m being childish. Nothing is out of place.

  I check my jewellery box and my underwear drawer. Nothing is missing. But I’m certain that someone has been in the bedroom. Why am I so sure there was someone here?

  Then it comes to me. It was the smell. When I walked into the room, I got a whiff of an unfamiliar musky fragrance I didn’t recognise. It didn’t smell like any of the gels and creams Alex uses and it certainly wasn’t from any of my bottles and jars. It smelled like men’s cologne. But Alex doesn’t wear aftershave.

  I inhale deeply through my nostrils, but the air smells of Alex’s sweaty body and the pungent scent of the lilies. If there ever was a strange odour, I can’t detect it now, even with my currently enhanced sense of smell.

  My heartbeat starts to slow down to its normal pace as I visualise Alex’s bottles in the bathroom. They are always lined up – whether it’s on the shelves or in the shower tray – with the tallest on the right and the smallest on the left. As Hannah pointed out, he does have a lot of body care products. I smile to myself, partly at the thought of Hannah and me laughing together on the night before my wedding, but also at how stupid I’ve been. Alex must have added another bottle to his collection. That would explain why the smell wasn’t familiar.

  But Alex didn’t sleep in here last night. I shout down the voice in my head with one that sounds a lot more confident and a lot more like mine. In that case, the smell was already in the room, but I didn’t notice it until I came back this morning. End of story.

  I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror. I’m alarmed at the appearance of the woman staring back at me. Her hair is messy; her face is pale and drawn. No wonder Alex was worried! Only the trousers – low-cut maternity jeans that embrace my rounded tummy – and my favourite green long-sleeved T-shirt look familiar.

  The shocking sight of my reflection galvanises me into action. By the time Alex comes out of the bathroom, I’ve changed into a short cotton skirt and a thin purple and blue jumper, my hair is tied back and my complexion is looking rosier thanks to the copious amounts of make-up I’ve just applied to my face.

  Alex looks me up and down and raises both eyebrows into an approving arch. ‘Have you seen my wife?’ he says. ‘She was here just a few minutes ago.’

  I punch him playfully on his arm and he kisses me hungrily, and for a moment I don’t think we’re going to make it out of the bedroom. But then Alex’s stomach rumbles, which seems to be our cue to leave. I take his arm and he takes the flowers to put in a vase downstairs before we leave.

  We have lunch at a pub near Grasmere. It has picnic tables in the garden and as it’s a lovely day, we opt to sit outside. Alex is ravenous, and shovels the food into his mouth. Over lunch, he talks nonstop about his triathlon season, mostly with his mouth full and waving his fork around for emphasis. His enthusiasm is contagious and I look forward to seeing him compete one day.

  When he has finally run out of things to say or stopped talking for me to speak – I’m not sure which – I remain silent. I want to talk about last night. I need to tell Alex that he scares me sometimes and that I don’t want to be frightened of the man I married. I’d like to confide in him about Hannah not ringing or texting anymore.

  But, inexplicably, I’m struck dumb. I’m aware Alex is looking at my mouth, which is opening and closing repeatedly. I must look like I’m impersonating a goldfish, as I struggle to find the right words, any words. When I do speak, it isn’t any of the ideas I was trying to express.

  ‘Does anyone else have a key to the Old Vicarage?’

  ‘My mum does,’ he says, scratching his arm where the scars are. ‘It used to be her house, you know.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ I say, ‘in case I lose my keys one day or lock myself out.’

  I look at Alex. I think about how kind and sensitive he can be, how caring he is most of the time and I wonder what triggers these mood swings and what I can do to avoid them.

  ‘My father was a violent man,’ Alex says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘I haven’t seen him for man
y years, not since I was ten, when he left us.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He hit my mother, and from when I learnt to walk and talk, he beat me, too. He used to make me lie over a chair, then he beat me with the belt from his trousers.’

  ‘Oh, God, Alex. How awful.’

  ‘He was cruel and heartless,’ he continues. ‘I’ve spent my whole life trying not to become him.’

  I notice tears well up in his eyes and I reach across the table and take his hand in mine, but he pulls it away and rubs his neck.

  ‘I don’t think you’re cruel and heartless, Alex.’ He doesn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘My father used to encourage me to solve my problems with my fists,’ Alex continues. ‘I became a horrible playground bully from the moment I was sent to boarding school. I think I only picked fights in an attempt to seek his approval.’

  A solitary tear escapes and races down his cheek. A lump forms in my throat, but I try to stay strong for Alex.

  ‘Oh, Alex.’

  ‘I don’t want to be like him.’

  ‘Alex, you’re not.’

  ‘I have a quick temper.’ He cradles his head in his hands.

  ‘Yes, you do. But you’re not violent.’ And then I get where this is coming from. ‘Are you anxious about becoming a father?’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s almost a whisper.

  ‘You’ll be an excellent dad,’ I say, trying to sound reassuring and hoping that it’s true.

  ‘D’you think so?’ He looks up, into my eyes.

  ‘I know so.’ I reach for his hand again. This time he lets me take it, although it feels flaccid in mine.

  ‘I want to be a good husband to you, Katie, and a good father to our child. Or children. Not just good, great. The best.’

  My heart melts when he says that because that’s exactly what I want, too. Alex has grown up without a father and I lost my mother. All we both want is to be the perfect family.

  ‘Come on, let’s go.’ And as he says this, he squeezes my hand.

  ~

  The rest of the day is perfect. We go for a gentle walk by the lake after lunch; we watch a film on Netflix in the afternoon, snuggled together on the sofa; in the evening we prepare the chicken together for dinner, laughing and chatting. We put music on and Alex dances while I sing.

  Alex is back to himself, back to being the man I love. My adorable husband. At the very back of my mind, I’ve buried the thought that this version, the one that feels genuine, is merely a mask that slips every now and then, revealing underneath it a glimpse of the real man – a damaged soul who is at war with himself and battling against the world. That version of my husband is frightening. But what scares me even more is if that is the real Alex, then I really don’t know him at all.

  It isn’t until the evening that his mood changes. We’re in the kitchen. Alex has cleared up the dinner dishes and he’s sitting at the table typing away on his mobile while I make us mugs of tea.

  ‘My face is itchy,’ Alex complains. He puts his phone down on the table and rubs his face with both hands.

  I turn to look at him. His cheeks are red and blotchy. He’s wearing a T-shirt and my eyes travel over his biceps. The skin there is irritated and angry, too. Earlier in the day, I’d noticed him scratching his arms and neck.

  ‘Your arms,’ I say.

  He follows my gaze, then without another word, he gets up and leaves the room. I hear him thundering up the stairs.

  I finish packing the dishwasher and then take him up a cup of tea.

  When I step into our bedroom, he’s looking into the full-length mirror, naked except for his socks. In any other circumstances, I would have cracked a joke, but this isn’t funny. I can see all of him; he has his back to me and the front of his body is reflected in the mirror. From behind, he has the appearance of someone who has spent too long on a nudist beach while in the mirror his chest is busy breaking out into blisters.

  ‘Have you ever had chickenpox?’ I ask.

  ‘This isn’t chickenpox,’ he says. ‘It’s an allergic reaction.’

  He whirls round to face me and I force myself not to look down, but I can see out of the corner of my eye that he even has blood-red marks around his genitals. I feel sorry for him, I really do, and I feel utterly helpless.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Chemicals in the shower gel, probably. Allergens. But you know that, don’t you?’

  His tone is accusatory, but I’m not sure what he’s driving at. He stomps into the bathroom, his sock-clad feet and the carpet in the bedroom undermining his physical expression of fury.

  Wary, I follow him into the bathroom to find him examining his shower gel. He brandishes the plastic container at me.

  I’m about to ask him what he means, but he gets there first.

  ‘You knew I was allergic to certain preservatives in shower gels and shampoos. You did this deliberately, didn’t you?’

  His face is contorted. He might be wearing socks, but he’s taken off the mask.

  I don’t answer. Now that he mentions it, I did know that. In an email, he once gave me a whole list of chemicals and preservatives that cause him to have dermatitis.

  ‘I thought this morning that this bottle had been topped up. Turns out I was right!’ His voice is raised, but he isn’t shouting. Not yet. ‘Were you trying to punish me for last night?’

  Last night? I’m so confused that it takes me a moment to remember what happened last night. We had an argument – I can’t even remember what about – when we got home from his mother’s house. He ended up sleeping in one of the guestrooms.

  ‘Alex, I haven’t touched any of your stuff in the bathroom.’

  ‘Why should I believe you? You lied to my mother’s face; how do I know you’re not lying to mine?’

  That’s what the argument was about. My white lie to his mum about enjoying the meal.

  I brace myself for him to lose his temper completely and scream at me, but he suddenly stops as if his battery has run out. I watch his blemished hand reach into the bathroom cabinet, as if in slow motion, and take out a large tube of cream. Then he gently pushes me out of the way and goes past me, back into the bedroom.

  I pick up the offending body wash. The biggest bottle. The one on the right. It’s nearly full. Alex accused me of topping the bottles up. I flip open the lid and take a sniff. The scent is faint and fruity, nothing like the brand he usually washes himself with, although it’s the same bottle. And nothing like the odour I smelled in the bedroom earlier, either.

  Stepping back into the bedroom, I see Alex applying cream all over his body. I offer to rub it into his back. He hands me the tube without a word. I hand him the mug of tea I’d made for him. It must be cold by now, but he sips it anyway.

  ‘I promise you, Alex, I haven’t tampered with any of your things.’ When he doesn’t answer, I try again. ‘You have to believe me, Alex.’

  I can hear my pleading tone of voice and I don’t like it. I close my mouth and say no more. Alex doesn’t speak either. He doesn’t need to. I can see his eyes in the mirror and his look says it all.

  Alex doesn’t utter a single word for the rest of the evening. He won’t look at me and he won’t talk to me. By bedtime, I feel as if I’ve ceased to exist. I’m like a ghost wandering around this soulless shell of a house. I wish Alex goodnight and, when there’s no reply, I make my way upstairs.

  I expect him to sleep in the other room again tonight, but he climbs into bed some time after me. I’m still awake; I haven’t been able to get to sleep. He turns away from me and I put my hand on his waist. He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t shake me off either.

  I mull over this evening’s incident. I feel sorry for Alex and I understand why he got upset. But I wish he hadn’t taken it out on me. Alex is tempestuous, but our relationship is full of passion. We never fought, Kevin and I. Well, hardly ever. He never lost his temper. But I’m not sure our relationship could ever have been described as passionate.

&n
bsp; I scold myself for comparing my husband with my ex-boyfriend. I don’t regret leaving Kevin. But for the first time, I feel a twinge of regret at dashing headlong into this marriage with Alex. At times, I feel like I’m caught. Ensnared in a trap I laid for myself.

  I curse myself as silent, self-pitying tears meander their way down my face. I try to focus on the wonderful afternoon Alex and I had. I wonder how to reach Alex, how to get him to talk to me. After opening up to me in the pub earlier, he has now raised an impenetrable wall of silence – resounding silence – around himself and between the two of us.

  To: kaitlyn.best@newzmail.co.uk

  From: alexanderriley9987@premiernet.co.uk

  Sent: Tue, 14 Feb 2017 at 19:35

  Subject: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!

  Dear Katie,

  Happy Valentine’s Day, princess! I’m so glad you liked the flowers I sent.

  Thank you for your card. It arrived in the post this morning. You’re such a romantic!

  For Valentine’s Day next year, I’ll take you out for a candlelit dinner. You deserve to be spoilt rotten. The very best for my Best girl! We’ll have to get a babysitter, won’t we?! Ooh, there’s a thought!

  Katie, I have something important to ask you. I wish I could do this over a candlelit dinner this evening, but you’re too far away. That said, I don’t think I’d feel any more nervous asking you in person than I do right now typing it out on my laptop!

  What I want to say is this: Katie, you are the love of my life. What we have feels so special and unique. Would you consider making me the happiest man alive by marrying me? It might seem sudden, but I’ve never been so sure of anything. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Katie. You’re the one for me. After all, we’re going to have a child together! I think it would be the right thing to do for the baby, don’t you? I would be very proud to call you my wife. We’ll be the perfect family.

  You don’t need to answer straight away – take as long as you need – but I do hope you’ll think about it.

  I’ll give you a ring later. (See what I did there?!)