From the Inside

by Collette Heather

  Yeah, you do know why, I tell myself. It’s because you were having a panic attack. A panic attack which, I gratefully note, has mostly subsided. I inhale deeply, and hold it in for a second before letting go. I feel better. Calmer. I am not going to die today. I think that the sudden flurry of movement – of normality – has also helped jolt me back to self.

  Tanya’s face flares in my mind, in all its red-headed, delicately beautiful glory. No, I am absolutely not going to die today because that bitch has to pay.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I drift back to my flat from Brixton tube station. London is supposed to be the knife crime capital of the country, and Brixton is supposed to be a hotbed of social angst, but I feel invisible around here. Sometimes, I think that I may as well be a ghost. Maybe, I think, I am dead and just don’t know that I am, like Bruce Willis in that film, The Sixth Sense.

  I smile humourlessly to myself, because after Lucy died, that theory sure makes a whole lot of sense. Maybe, after my little girl ran out into our street and was hit by that car after our argument in which she blamed me for driving her daddy away, and then him killing himself.

  You killed my daddy, were her final words to me before she ran out of the front door for the final time. I think, after that, I must have calmly just gone upstairs to the bathroom, laid down in the bath and slit my wrists from elbow to wrist bone. Because a part of me died that day. The weird thing is, I can remember doing that in a strangely vivid kind of way. Fake memories are very much a thing. Not that I have ever been to a psychiatrist or counsellor, but I’m pretty up on this stuff. I mean, I did used to be a social worker – I know the rudimentaries of Psychology, having taken my degree in Social Science.

  I recognise on an intellectual level that I absolutely did not lie down in my own bath and slit my wrists, but it is a running theme in my nightmares. It is an image that has taken root, that I have a hard job shaking.

  I’m really not all that right in the head.

  In many ways, I do sincerely wish that I had killed myself. Maybe I will yet, after I have made Tanya Crawford feel as bad as I do.

  I am thinking this as I insert the key into the front door, and step into the hallway which I share with the young couple who also live on the ground floor. Our paths hardly ever cross. They are a good ten years younger than me, childless, and both work long hours. She is a rather lovely Japanese girl who works at the Japanese embassy, and he is one of those skinny, bespectacled, prematurely balding, geeky types who is something to do with computer programming. The girl – Aki – did tell me once what her partner did, on one of the rare occasions that we met in the shared hallway, but I have long since forgotten. I doubt that she remembers telling me, either. We abide by the London code of conduct – keep yourself to yourself.

  It serves me well.

  Once inside my flat, I peel off my shin-length boots and place them on the shoe-rack by the door. The panic attack may have passed, but I still feel strange. Out of sorts. I had been so sure that the man had been watching me on the tube. It is silly, I know it is, but the feeling of being watched clings to me.

  *

  After chugging back a pint of water, then retreating to the bathroom to carefully remove every last scrap of makeup and apply the obscenely expensive serum and moisturiser, I perch on the end of the bed, staring at the blank screen of the laptop. It is on my desk, the lid open and directly facing the bed. It should be Luke and I on this bed, right now, while the laptop films everything…

  In my hand, I am holding a hairbrush that I picked up in the bathroom and absently, I start to brush my hair, my eyes never leaving the blank screen. I can see my reflection in it, a black and white, see-through version of myself.

  With a loud sigh of irritation, I jump to my feet and cross the short distance to the desk. I lean over the computer and press a button. I am now recording. It took me ages to work out how to do this, as well as countless visits to online forums filled with computer nerds, but now I know, it is easy. But isn’t that always the case? One of life’s truths right there – it’s always easy when you know how.

  Yes, one click of a button and the laptop is secretly recording, its screen remaining blank throughout its three hour recording time. Another click of a different button and my torso in the black dress fills the screen where I am hovering over the laptop.

  I go back over to the foot of the bed and sit down, staring at my image on the screen. My face is shiny and pale with the lack of makeup and thick layer of moisturiser, and there is a look in my gleaming eyes which I can’t say that I care for. My surgically-enhanced lips are set in a grim line and I can’t frown all that well anymore, thanks to the Botox, but I look unhinged. Possibly demented.

  I start brushing my hair before I begin my evening ritual of putting it into the two, night-time plaits that I coil onto the top of my head to protect the long lengths whilst I sleep.

  “Well, Tanya,” I say to the screen. “I guess you win tonight, because he’s going home to you. It’s me he wants, though. We have swapped numbers. It’s only a matter of time.”

  What am I even doing? I think. I hadn’t intended to record myself, but I discover that it feels good to say these things aloud. Cathartic. I put down the hairbrush next to me on the bed, and begin plaiting my hair.

  I watch myself thoughtfully on the laptop screen, entranced by my own image plaiting my golden hair, feeling rather like Narcissus, the Greek God who became obsessed with his own reflection in the pool of water and subsequently drowned trying to ‘be’ with himself. Except it’s not myself that I want to be with. The lust I feel for Luke is very real, and not just a by-product of my desire to destroy Tanya.

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Tanya, but your days of happiness are numbered. I am going to destroy your life, just like you destroyed mine. I have been stalking your husband for a while, now, following him during the days. It’s strange, I’ve grown quite attached to him. I mean, you would think that it would be you that I wanted to follow, wouldn’t it? It is you, ultimately, that I want to hurt. But you seduced my husband, so I shall seduce yours. Fair’s fair, after all. You see this bed that I am sitting on? Yes, you do, don’t you? This is the bed that your husband is going to fuck me on. And you are going to watch. You are going to see every last, little detail.”

  I grin proudly at myself, feeling quite wanton and cunning, like a beautiful villain from a movie, perhaps. Because saying this aloud feels so damn good. Maybe Tanya will never see this part of my homemade video, but just talking about my plans for revenge is arguably almost as good as acting it out.

  “The thing is, Tanya, you have everything to lose, and I have nothing to lose. And what I do have, you can’t take from me. You’ve taken everything else from me, but you can’t steal my financial security. I may not be as rich as you, but unlike you, what I do have is mine. Without your husband, you have nothing, don’t you? No job, no nothing. This flat you see me sitting in may be small, but it is mine. The thing is, there is no one left to monitor me in the world. I am an orphan, and you took my husband and child from me. They are dead because of you. Their blood is on your hands. I no longer have any kind of moral yardstick in my life. There is no one left to judge me, because perhaps it is only ever other’s judgement that stops a person acting a certain way. But I am free, Tanya, free from such constraints. I am free to do whatever the fuck I want. Do you really think I care that the video of me and your husband together may get out? No, I don’t care. I have nobody, it doesn’t matter. But it would matter to you and Luke, wouldn’t it? Such a video would ruin you, would it not?”

  I grin at the camera and stand up as I have finished plaiting one side of my hair, and now must find a hairband to secure the ends. I spy one on the shelf above the desk which is cluttered with books and nick-nacks, and I walk over towards it, plucking it up with my fingers. I look down and my torso has filled the screen, one hand visible, clutching the end of the long plait.

  “I am going to infiltr
ate your life, Tanya. I’m not sure how, yet, but I shall, after I have fucked your husband.” I walk backwards towards the bed, and begin to plait the other side of my hair. “He wants me badly, you should’ve seen the way he was looking at me in The King’s Head. I shall wait for him to call me, though, I don’t want to come across as desperate. But he will call, I’m sure about that.” I pause in the plaiting of my hair and smile at myself on the screen. At Tanya. “And one day soon, you’ll see for yourself exactly how he looks at me. You’ll see the look of adoration and lust in his eyes when he is fucking me. After we have done the deed, and after I am a part of your life, I am going to blackmail him with the video. I don’t know yet how much money I shall ask for. A substantial amount at any rate – fifty thousand, at least. Maybe more. But I want to keep it to a realistic amount. You and I both know that this isn’t about the money, but I want him to think that it is. I want it to be an amount that he could feasibly pay me without you noticing, yet at the same time, enough to worry him. And after, when I have taken his money, I am going to tell you, anyway. I cannot wait to see the look on your face. I think I shall show you the video on my phone. You shall know me well by then, or at least, you shall think that you know me well. You won’t know me, of course, but that’s by the by. Perhaps, you and I shall be sitting there relaxed, enjoying our girly chat. I might say, oh-so-casually, oh my God, Tanya, you simply must see this video on my phone, it’s hilarious. And together, we shall watch me fucking your husband. I will watch your world implode, from the inside. And it’s going to be beautiful.” I get to my feet and walk over towards the computer. When I reach it, I bend down so that my grinning face with the half-plaited hair fills the screen. “See you on the other side, bitch.”

  I halt the recording, the smile dropping like lead from my lips.

  I have the same feeling that I get whenever I look at her profile on Facebook. It’s that Tanya-scab syndrome all over again. It feels good picking at it at the time, but afterwards, I’m left in mental pain.

  I just want this to be over. I want to do this so I can be free of her.

  I lay back on the bed and lace my hands behind my head, staring up at the smooth, high ceiling. The wheels have been set in motion – there’s no turning back now.

  And I am ready.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He texts me the next day at five thirty-three. I haven’t followed him today, I’m keeping a low profile. Now that we have been officially introduced, I daren’t risk it. Technically, I don’t even need to stalk him anymore, because I have accomplished what I set out to do.

  It’s been one hell of a day. I have spent it pacing my tiny apartment, staring at my phone which has been permanently grafted to the palm of my hand.

  I haven’t even been to the gym today. I go there most days, but not today. I don’t want to miss a call from him, or, just as bad, I don’t want him to suggest an impromptu drink this afternoon, when I am all sweaty, away from home and unprepared. I know that the chances of him suggesting such a thing are slim, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared for all eventualities. As such, I have spent the day with my hair and skin prepped, ready for action. I’ve waited too long for this, I am not going to blow it. Luckily, my cupboards are well stocked, so I don’t need to go anywhere for at least five days.

  When a text comes through on my phone, I am pacing the bedroom, simply to add some variation to my day, as I am going stir-crazy in the living-room. I stare at the text icon on the home screen. Theoretically, the text could be from anyone, but I just know that it is from him. No one texts or calls me. No one of interest, anyway, it’s usually just people in call centres in India.

  I have this phone for four reasons – the first one being for online banking and a way to pay bills with relative ease. Secondly, I have it so I can spy on her Facebook from a different electronic device should I so wish, and thirdly – and less importantly – I have it so I have a means of contacting the emergency services if I am involved in an accident. Finally – and most importantly – I have a number that I can give Luke when the moment arises.

  And now that moment has arisen.

  I go to open the text, my fingers stumbling over my lock-screen number, so much so that I fluff it the first few attempts. Not wanting to get locked out of my phone for ten whole minutes, I tap it in very carefully the third time.

  I’m in. Sure enough, it is from him. I have already memorised his mobile number, just in case. I open the text, my heart slamming painfully hard in my chest…

  Hi, it’s Luke. We met last night in The King’s Head. About that drink. What say you to this Friday, half five, a pub of your choice? I understand if you’re working and want to leave it until a later time.

  I reread the text at least ten times before I can properly make sense of it, my mind whirring and my hands shaking. My breath comes in shallow, hitching little gasps. I think I’m hyperventilating. The phone screen blurs before my eyes, and dimly, I realise that I am crying. I’m not sure why, for they are neither tears of joy nor sadness.

  It occurs to me that I am possibly insane.

  I collapse on the edge of the bed, forcing myself to take deep breaths.

  That’s it, nice and slow. Nice and calm…

  How long, I wonder, should I wait before I reply? Too quick and I look too keen, too long and I look disinterested. It’s a fine line, a delicate balance. I count the passing seconds aloud.

  “Fifteen minutes,” I mutter to myself.

  Waiting so long is nothing short of agony, but somehow, I manage it. I have to manage it. I have to play this perfectly. I text back, bang on the fifteenth minute:

  Hey. That sounds lovely. I too, am finishing work earlier this Friday.

  Then I go on to suggest a pub in the borough of Clapham – a suggestion that is entirely for his benefit. It’s kind of rough, in a trendy, bohemian kind of way – not the kind of place that I could imagine his snotty, Nicole Kidman lookalike of a wife ever frequenting. Plus, it’s sufficiently far away from his place of work and his home address, so he is unlikely to run into anyone he knows there. I have, of course, given this venue some serious consideration. I had long ago decided on this place – months ago, in fact, on the off-chance I were to ever be asked such a question.

  I am prepared for every eventuality.

  He is apparently amenable to this suggestion, for he texts back immediately in the affirmative.

  Fantastic, I reply. Five thirty it is. I look forward to it.

  I am much quicker in replying this time – just three minutes and seventeen seconds, to be exact. Now, at this point of the texting, it is imperative that I look like I’m not playing games. I didn’t see his first message immediately as I am so busy, but because I like him, I am therefore now aware of any incoming texts from him, and will be looking out for them.

  He texts back a simple, me too. See you then, and that is that. Conversation over.

  I don’t move from my position on the bed for an hour, lest I break the spell. I just sit there, staring at my phone. I can’t believe that this is finally happening.

  It almost seems too easy.

  And I am still crying.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It is part of my masterplan to be seven minutes late – any earlier, and I look too keen, any later and I appear tardy.

  I push open the door of The Lord Bodnant, praying that he is here before me, that I can sweep in on a tide of apologies over my lateness, but work was just so hectic, and, oh my, will you please forgive me?

  I immediately spot his broad back at the bar, his unmistakable, glossy dark hair tinged with grey at the temples. He is wearing a dark grey suit – an outfit that might’ve looked out of place in a drinking establishment such as this one, were this not London. But this is London, and suits mingle seamlessly with the alternative crowd – students and hip, creative types who probably work in the young, trendy fields, like advertising, TV and graphic design.

  I am halfway across the pub floor when he turns
around to face me. It’s almost as if he has sensed me coming up from behind, and I am gratified to see the way his face lights up when his gaze latches onto me.

  I have missed him. I’ve barely left my flat for a week, not since we spoke in The King’s Head, as I no longer have a pressing need to trail him. The only contact I have had with him – with anyone, for that matter – is a brief text exchange yesterday afternoon, confirming that we’re still on for tonight. I find it quite amazing, really, how accustomed I had grown to stalking him, the extent to which he had become a part of my daily routine. Although, I do not much care for the word stalking – it sounds so predatory – I prefer following with intent.

  “Hello,” he says, when I draw level with him at the bar – a bar-top that is so vintage, I worry that the lightest of brushes against it may result in a splinter. “You look lovely.”

  I blush – an involuntary reaction to his compliment. I have tried so hard to get the vibe right – the vibe of, city-girl-having-come-straight-from-work-to -meet-the-hot-guy-for-a-drink, vibe. I am wearing a fitted, but not skin-tight, black and tan floral dress with a cute little string tie under the bust. I have teamed it with a black cardigan, and another pair of low-heeled, black boots. I have the same leather jacket I was wearing the last time he saw me, slung over one arm.

  There is an awkward moment where I feel as if he is about to lean in for a kiss, but he seems to think better of it, and ever so subtly leans backwards.

  “Thanks, but I’m sure I don’t,” I say. “I didn’t have time to change, I came straight from work.”

  “Me too,” he grins, looking pointedly down at his suit. “What would you like to drink?”