‘One more thing.’ I walked across to the printer, pressed start. Paper shot across the room. Ifan picked one up, read it, grinned.
I said, ‘That’s the first. Nine hundred and ninety-nine to go and every page printed with ‘Every Breath You Take, Every Move You Make, I’ll Be Watching You’. Just in case he hasn’t got the message.’
Ifan didn’t say anything, just gave me a look. We left as silently as we’d come.
A week later and I was ready to go. Speaking through the intercom, I told the receptionist I wanted to make an appointment to see Jason Fellowes. She was new and didn’t know me. She buzzed me in. Once inside I hung about in the hall until just before six, then I shot up the stairs to find a seat in reception. It was busy, every chair taken with clients waiting for their therapy session. Good, I thought, the bigger the audience, the greater his humiliation.
The phone rang on the receptionist’s desk. She said, ‘Special delivery? Fine. Bring it up, I’ll tell him and he can sign for it.’
So far, so good, it was going to plan. A couple of minutes later, three men staggered in carrying a large square box. I heard one say to the other, ‘Fucking ’ell, what’s in this? It’ll break me bleeding back.’
No one said a word, just watched impassively as they dumped the box by the receptionist’s desk. ‘Need a signature from Mr Fellowes, mate.’ The receptionist picked up her phone the same time as, coincidently, JF walked in. He caught sight of me, came to a halt, turned to leave. He was quick but not quick enough. He’d reached the door when the receptionist called out, ‘Before you go, Jason, I need a signature for this box. It’s special delivery, addressed to you.’
I watched. He hesitated, walked rapidly across to the receptionist and, with his back to me, avoiding my gaze, signed. I said in a loud clear voice, ‘Mr Fellowes, can I speak to you for a moment?’ It was the signal for Cherie.
He ignored me. He’d reached the door when the box burst open. She sprang into the room, rushed over to JF and in a simpering voice, asked, ‘Is that you, Jason?’ That stopped him, he stood open mouthed, his hand on the door knob. He didn’t answer. I repressed a laugh. He looked exaggeratedly surprised, like a character from a pantomime.
I’d seen and met Cherie before and together we’d worked out her routine and her dress – if you could call it that. That evening she surpassed herself in the vulgarity stakes. She was heavily made up, her mouth a red cupid bow, her blonde hair curling round her heart-shaped face. She was wearing an electric-blue, sequined satin bra, a tight long skirt in the same colour split at the back and an assortment of feathers and balloons, some of which she contrived to burst as she sprang out. She looked like an old-fashioned movie star in a Hollywood musical.
She stood for a moment wobbling on very high heels, her arms outstretched, her gaze taking in the occupants sitting round the room. She spoke in the little voice of a child-woman, seductive yet innocent.
‘I’m been looking for you, Jason. My name is Cherie Dear. I’m here to entertain you with my dance and my music.’ She smiled. ‘In my very own special way.’ She winked at the audience. ‘Enjoy.’
She had a slight lisp which I think was put on but it added to the farcical atmosphere and to make doubly sure she knew who her target was, I was to indicate with a slight hand gesture who he was. But it was obvious. It was a set-up and he knew it. He stood by the doorway twisting his hands like a frightened schoolboy about to be caned. There was no sign of his bravado, his arrogance, his confidence; all that had gone and what remained was a middle-aged, pathetic-looking man with a weak mouth.
I walked towards him and pushed him roughly in Cherie Dear’s general direction. He licked his lips nervously, his eyes shooting round like a lizard, and when he caught my gaze, he tried to run back towards the door, but it was too late. Wiggling exaggeratedly, Cherie ran over to him and pulled him by the hand into the middle of the room. I, meanwhile stationed myself by the door so he couldn’t get away without passing me.
‘Come here, Jason. I know who you are. Don’t be naughty, you mustn’t run away when Cherie Dear wants to play with
you. I promise I won’t hurt you.’ She giggled and looking at the audience. ‘We won’t hurt him, will we? We like games with boys, don’t we? We like having fun.’
I pressed the remote for the music. It was in the burlesque style; vulgar and loud. Cherie began twirling round, gyrating her hips, clicking her fingers to the music. She grabbed his hands, trying to get him to dance, but he refused and the more he resisted, the more outrageous she became and the funnier it got. She treated him as if he was shy, and that he needed more encouragement, but that made him squirm even more. I took a quick look round the room. The audience were transfixed, most were smiling, some were embarrassed and two left the room, looking disapproving.
She was moving in on him now, enjoying herself, enjoying the attention, enjoying tormenting him. She danced around him, sinuously bending her voluptuous body, waving her long feathers in his face and around his neck. She ran her hands down her body, miming undressing herself, before she removed her skirt. With a flourish she waved it in his face and smiling and without self-consciousness, she stood dressed in nothing more than a black satin thong and a miniscule blue top which barely covered her breasts. Very little was left to the imagination. He was transfixed. Not with pleasure but terror.
She began pulling off his tie and his jacket. He stood, his eyes starting out of his head but he didn’t move. He acted as if hit by a thunder bolt. She glanced towards me. I gave her an encouraging wink.
‘Jason, you need some help, you must be hot darling. Look at you. The sweat’s pouring off you.’ She turned towards her audience. ‘He needs help, doesn’t he? He doesn’t know what to do. Shall we help him?’
The receptionist pushed past me and didn’t return. She must have thought she was employed by a madhouse. I moved away from the door so anyone could come in. The word was getting round. I’d only met Cherie Dear once before but by now I knew we were on the same mission – his humiliation.
She could do whatever she liked with him because he was paralysed with fear.
She pushed him round, stood behind him, put an ornate mask over his eyes, then, dropping her top off, she covered her breasts with feathers, and moved back in front of him. She pulled off his mask, removed the feathers from her breasts and after tickling him with the feathers round his neck and face, moved her body close to his.
I glanced around. The room was full. Where they’d all come from, I had no idea, but they didn’t look as if they’d been waiting for therapy. These were office workers, professionals, men and women, they’d come off the street to watch the fun. The word was out. Some of them took photos with their mobiles, the men guffawed, one shouted, ‘Go for it, Cherie.’
That gave Cherie the green light. She really began hamming it up and the more sexually suggestive she became, the more pathetic he seemed. She was a natural exhibitionist; she leant back on the receptionist’s desk on her elbows, crossing and uncrossing her legs suggestively, but when he didn’t respond she jumped off, ran towards him, and pressed her virtually naked body against his. He seemed incapable of protecting himself from her assertive female sexuality, faked though it was, but the best was to come.
‘Won’t you dance with me, Jason? Don’t be shy. You and me together and don’t bother about them. Forget them.’ She giggled, ran around the room and whispered loud enough for us to hear, ‘I have a song for Jason. It’s called “Move Closer”, it’s one of my favourites.’ That was my cue to start the music. She began singing, ‘Move Closer’. I turned up the volume.
The tune and the words are highly sexual and she interpreted them in such a way as to make him look an impotent fool and a figure of fun. The audience loved it but the more he tried to resist, the more outrageous she became and the more we laughed. He refused to dance but this played right into her hands. It gave her the o
pportunity to move on to her finale. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips,
shaking her head, wagging her finger.
‘Jason, sweetheart, I’m disappointed with you. You won’t dance but I can help you. It’s a song I’ve chosen for you. It’s about a psychologist, like you. Listen carefully, then I’ll let you go home, you naughty boy.’
Sweating profusely, JF was becoming smaller, meaner, more rat-like with every second and I swear to God, if he could, he would have crawled his way under the reception desk. He was well and truly trapped. She began clicking her fingers to the music, a swing jazz number with a jaunty clarinet and as she walked round the room, she smiled and giggled at each one of us.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I want you all to join in,’ and on the down beat, she began singing ‘He Ain’t Got Rhythm’. It was an old Billie Holiday number from the thirties which she sang in a mock American accent. ‘He’s the loneliest man in town ’cos he ain’t got rhythm’ and as she pranced and danced all around him, she periodically turned to us and asked, ‘Why is he the loneliest man in town?’ and we shouted back, ‘Because he ain’t got rhythm.’
I had no idea how Cherie Dear had planned to finish her act, but when she began pulling his tie and shirt off, and said he looked so hot that she wanted to take off his clothes, he bolted out of the room. I ran after him. As he disappeared down the stairs towards the front door, I shouted, ‘Frightened, are you? Humiliated, are you? Now you know how I feel.’ He didn’t look back, just slammed the front door behind him.
The party was over. I gave Cherie Dear a hug and told her I’d be in touch. She said she’d enjoyed every minute and she’d add it to her repertoire, then she flung her clothes on and raced down the stairs. We were on a high. It’s true what they say, revenge is sweet. I glanced at my watch. Time to go. I was to meet Ifan. I let myself out. As I walked down the street the police arrived, closely followed by the press. Someone must have called them. I stopped to watch the fun, until Ifan appeared.
He grabbed my arm, ‘For Christ sake, Anya, let’s go.’
‘Why should I, I haven’t broken any laws.’
‘Maybe not now, but what about “breaking and entering”; they’ll easily put two and two together, and come up with a motive.’ He put his arm round me and said, ‘I insist, let’s go.’
We walked quickly in the opposite direction down the street. ‘Where are we heading?’ I asked. ‘Pizza Express,’ he said, ‘it’s on me.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, why not, shouldn’t we celebrate? I presume the plan worked.’
‘It did, it worked really well.’ I began laughing, ‘You should have seen his face. I’ll never forget it. That stripper, Cherie Dear, she’s wonderful, the sound system was ace, everything went according to plan and, I have you to thank for that.’
‘Appreciation at last, but…’ He never finished his sentence. A police car drew up beside us and two police officers jumped out. They stood in front blocking our path.
‘Are you Anya Morgan?’
I looked at Ifan for support, ‘Yes, why?’
‘You’re wanted for questioning at the station.’
‘What for?’
‘Get in and you’ll find out.’
‘What if I don’t want to?’
It was then Ifan spoke, ‘It’s easier to do what they say, Anya.’ I looked at the ground.
‘You heard what your boyfriend said.’
I smiled. ‘I always do what he says, don’t I, Ifan?’
He was serious. ‘No more games,’ he said. I stared at him and got in the car.
We were there all night. I discovered how the police had found out. After the Wigmore Street break-in when I’d flooded the reception with the lyrics of ‘Every Breath You Take’ the police were called. Everyone was interviewed, including JF. He told
them that I was an ex-client and stalking him, but he’d no idea why.
Ifan and I were separately interviewed by two of the police, one female, one male, but by then I was so overwrought and tired I hardly looked at them. They said it was just a preliminary enquiry, and questioned me for hours, eyeballing me the whole time. So I told them. Everything. I had no choice actually. How I’d first met JF, the sessions at Wigmore Street, the argument, his suggestion we meet in Hackney, then the worst thing that happened, the rape.
The only thing I noticed was how poker faced they were, with the exception of when I told them about my bag and how the spirit of Anya helped. I could tell by the expression on their faces they thought I was mad.
‘So why didn’t you report this alleged rape?’
‘Because I knew no one would listen and I knew he’d say I was making it up and that I was mad. That’s what men do, don’t they, and he’s a therapist.’
‘And…? What’s that got to with it?’
‘Everyone who has a different view to them is called mad.’
‘How do we know you aren’t making it up?’
‘My friends can tell you the effect it had on me. I was falling apart.’
‘Did you go to a rape counselling service?’
‘No, I’d had enough of counsellors. I did go to a STD clinic to get checked out.’
‘Which one, and don’t lie because we’ll find out.’
‘The Whittington, near Archway. I’m not lying.’ Eventually they stood up, leaving me in the room on my own. When they came back, I asked where Ifan was. They said he was outside, waiting for me. I’d had enough by then. I began to cry. I wanted to see him, but they said they had more questions and if I told the truth, then I could go.
‘So at what point did you decide to stalk?’
‘It was sometime after. After what he did. Can’t remember too well.’
‘Days, weeks, months?’
‘Weeks but it went on over months.’
‘Was it your boyfriend who suggested it?’
‘Ifan, is that who you mean?’
‘You tell us.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend. No, it wasn’t him; the idea came from my bag, Anya, my namesake. She understood and told me what to do.’ There was a long silence. They were staring at me. I continued, ‘Yes, I know it sounds strange but that’s what happened. It’s the only way I can make sense of it. You took my backpack away and if you look inside there’s another bag, made of indigo-coloured leather. The spirit of Anya is inside the bag. She helps me, that’s why I carry the bag with me when I go on an intervention. The perfume is Coco Mademoiselle and when the fragrance enters a room, I know it’s Anya and she’ll help me.’
They looked at each other. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’ They didn’t answer. The man said, ‘Intervention? You mean when you stalk.’
‘Yes, to frighten him, so he knows there’s no hiding place and wherever he is, I’ll get him.’
‘It’s an offence, do you know that?’
‘I do, but what he did was an offence and I reckon rape is far worse than stalking. I trusted him but he abused my trust and raped my body. That memory will never go away so it’s in my mind too. Don’t you understand, I had to punish him. No one else will.’
‘So you decided to take the law into your own hands?’ I didn’t answer.
‘Answer me.’
‘Yes, I wanted him to suffer like I had, terrify him, destroy him, take my revenge.’
‘And this latest, hiring the stripper, that was also part of your revenge?’
‘Yes, whatever he’d done to me, he had to suffer too. So he knew how I felt, humiliated, powerless, shocked. You’re a man
so you don’t know, but what if someone forced something into your body. How do you think you’d feel?’
He didn’t react but looked at his colleague, stood up, and said they’d be back soon. They were gone ten minutes and when they returned, they told me they were going to write a
report and I might or might not be prosecuted.
It was dawn by the time I was released. Ifan had waited for me. He said it was time to go home but first he had to pick up his bike. Neither of us said much. I was so exhausted, I could hardly put one foot in front of the other.
He glanced at me, put his arm round me and said, ‘Would you like to come back to my flat?’
‘Yes, I would. I don’t want to be on my own. I’m so tired, I feel like a zombie.’
Ifan gave me his keys, put me in a taxi, gave the driver the address, and said he’d follow on his bike. I arrived before him. I let myself in. His flatmate wasn’t there. I lay on his sofa and within minutes was asleep. I couldn’t have been asleep longer than ten minutes before the front door bell went. I dragged myself up and let him in. He left his bike in the hall and we sat down. He sat right by me and I didn’t move. I wanted him there.
He said, ‘I’ll make you a cuppa, if you want.’
‘Please. I’m exhausted.’
‘It’s been a long night, what do you want to do?’
‘Sleep.’
He got up, went into the kitchen, made a cup of tea, handed it to me, and said, ‘Okay, use my bed. I’ll sleep here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, I’ll sleep on the sofa.’
‘Do you have something I could borrow to sleep in? I’ve been wearing these clothes all night – and the day before.’
I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t. He stood up, retrieved a shirt off a hanger and silently handed it to me. I went to the bathroom, washed, and changed into it. It was white cotton, and I rather liked it.
He was on the sofa, lying on his side and almost asleep by the time I finished. I stood in front of him. I said, ‘Ifan… what if?’ He looked up into my eyes, didn’t reply, but turned on to his back, lightly running one of his fingers along the line of my leg under the shirt.
‘Suits you,’ he said, then sat up, paused but must have had second thoughts. He said, ‘Anya, the bed, it’s in there.’ I didn’t move. He said then, ‘Anya, please, it’s better that way.’ He lay back down, and half-turned away.
My Name Is Echo Page 26