by CS Savage
40
It's lovely to see you with a friend, and what a beauty she is. Of course, not perfect like you, but I can't let that disappoint me, only one can be special. I raise my face to the sky, revel in the faint sunlight on my skin, but despite this respite from the rain, I keep my cap pulled low, my collar up. The contrast between you is stimulating, one so striking and blonde, the other so fragile, so delicate. I briefly flirt with the idea of having both of you and feel myself harden. But I know Mother will not allow it, I'm lucky she is letting me have you. And I am obedient and I will follow, and we will be blessed together.
41
Clancy
I am watching you. I know what you are up to. And I'm closer to you and yours than you think.
It'll all catch up with you in the end – I'm nearly ready.
She was sitting at her desk, had had a typically shit busy morning. A full clinic – seen eight patients – and Dan still wouldn't be happy. She had been desperately trying to catch up with her admin, a never-ending mountain of letters and emails, had been working through a pile of mail methodically, when she had seen the handwritten white envelope, familiar handwriting. Her heart had sunk. Another bloody letter. All she needed. There was no doubt it was from the same sender. A sheet of wafer-thin paper, rose pink. And again, the black printed writing. She raised her hands to her temples, gently rubbed each side of her head, stretched her neck out. This was getting beyond a joke.
She sat, drummed her fingers on her desk, tried to think. There were so many different patients who might bear her a grudge, so difficult to know which one would be this sinister. The threats were really starting to freak her out; she knew she had to tell someone. Dan was the manager, and by rights, he should be told. She considered it for half a second before discounting the notion – she hadn't spoken to him since the meeting with Dr Vikaj, couldn't bear the thought of going to him with this, even though she knew she should. And Hamish was cross with her…hadn't even texted her asking how the meeting had gone. She had been too stubborn to text him. Maybe this was just what she needed. An icebreaker. She picked the pink sheet of paper up off her desk and headed towards his office, her step already lighter at the thought of making up with Hamish. She walked down the corridor past various doors before she reached a blue one, leant forward and checked through the viewing pane. She could see him in there, sitting at his desk staring at his monitor, felt her pulse rise a little at the sight. She tapped gently, peeked her head around, tried to give a warm smile.
'Hi, Hamish, have you got a minute?'
'What's up?' His brow was furrowed with concentration, for once, he didn't break into a grin at the sight of her. Clearly, still annoyed.
'Sorry to interrupt. I wanted your advice on these.' Clancy held the two sheets of pink paper towards him. 'I've been getting threatening letters. I didn't think too much about the first one, but I just got another this morning.'
Hamish reached out for them, lowered his head as he read, then looked up. His expression changed, softened. He motioned to the chair by his desk. Clancy plonked herself into it with a thump, only aware now that she was shaking. Horrified, she felt tears pricking behind her eyelids. She wasn't sure if it was the impact of the letters or him being nice to her again. But either way, she didn't want him thinking she was a pity case.
'Have you shown these to anyone else?'
She shook her head.
'When did you get the first one?'
'Last week, sometime. Came in the post with the normal mail, addressed to me here. I've still got the envelope somewhere.'
'And the second?'
'Just opened it, not sure when it arrived. You know what it's like. I sometimes get a bit behind opening my mail.'
He was silent a second, rubbing his chin. 'God, Clancy, I don't know. Do you think you should call the police? Hopefully, it's just some prankster, but you can't take the chance. And what does he mean by you and yours?'
'Rowan,' the thought struck her for the first time as she said her daughter’s name. But how would any of her patients know she had a daughter, know anything about her? Then, she remembered the photo frames on her desk; Rowan at Halloween in her school uniform holding a pumpkin, Rowan and her at a Christmas meal – both wearing party hats. It wouldn't take a genius to guess she had a daughter and what she looked like. She could kick herself for being so indiscreet. If she had put Rowan at risk, she would never forgive herself.
Hamish watched her, handed her a tissue. 'Don't panic, Clancy, but let's talk to the police, just as a precaution…'
She nodded. 'I'll call Steve, ask him what he thinks.'
An hour later, she managed to get Steve on the phone and had told him the story.
'Can you think of anyone who might have sent them?'
'Just a few, yes.' Clancy tried hard but didn't quite stop the sarcasm reaching her voice. 'It could be a number of my patients. It isn't the first time I've had hate mail. Just this time, it seems a bit more sinister – the fact that they say they're watching and nearly ready. And that they refer to Rowan.'
'Yeah, I get that. Look, I'll send someone round to collect them. We'll check them for prints. And let me know if you get any more or think of anything else.'
'Will do. Thanks, Steve.' She was pensive as she put the phone down, running through patients' names in her mind, but no one person particularly stood out. She sat and stared for a while out of the window, onto the grass, green from all the recent rain. What should I do? Rowan might be at risk, but surely not. If she mentioned the letters to her or Beth, Beth would panic, leave… She didn't want that. She would keep shtum, just do some gentle probing to check if anything was going on with Ro. Subconsciously, she touched the wooden surface of her desk lightly and then returned to her screen, reluctantly clicked her mouse and went back to reading her emails.
42
Rowan
'What do you think?'
Beth's eyebrows raised symmetrically. 'Wow. It's not really me – but it'll be very sexy. Maybe a bit over the top?'
Rowan was sitting with Beth in the lounge. They were in their usual places and were looking together online for a dress that she could wear. It was wonderful to have a bit if cash to splash on herself. She was looking at the ASOS site, had found a little black dress, low cut in front, mid-thigh length with a side split, lace shoulders over thin shoulder straps. It would look superb matched with a pair of classic patent high heels. She grabbed the laptop back, didn't reply – she knew what he had asked for.
'A bit pricy, isn't it?’ Beth said. ' I hope he's worth it.'
Rowan didn't look up as she started clicking through the site, going through the check-out proceedings. 'Well, actually, he gave me the money to buy it.' She reached in her bag for her purse. She had put the cash in the bank to make the online purchase easier, didn't want her mum asking questions about where the fifty-pound notes had come from.
'He did? How much did he give you?'
Rowan looked up and caught Beth's stare. 'Not that much. He just said he wanted me to treat myself, that’s all. For God’s sake, why do you have to be so negative about him all the time? He just likes me. Men are always giving their girlfriends presents.'
She watched as Beth bit her lip. 'I don't know, Rowan. Don’t you think it’s a little bit…dodgy?'
'No, I don’t.' Rowan slammed the laptop closed, shoved it under her arm and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Bloody cheek. What does she know about men anyway?
Rowan had arranged to meet with Fariq the following Friday. She had got into the habit of checking Facebook on the hour, to see if he had been active or had sent her any new messages. He must be busy working, didn't have time to keep messaging her – though she would have drilled his inbox if she hadn't known it would look desperate. She had to be satisfied with the one message she'd had on Monday, brief and informal, just confirming the plan to meet on Friday. She had tried to bite back the sour feeling that crept up on her, worried that he woul
d cancel. But tonight, a message came through.
Pick you up at the end of your street, 7 pm Friday. Don't be late babes, can't wait.
The relief swept over her, the date was on.
43
Clancy
Clancy couldn't quite put her finger on it, but sharing the letters with other people made her feel more on edge. Only a glass of wine would help settle the feeling in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps telling others had made her break down her wall of denial. She closed her office door behind her and walked down the corridor towards the reception. Checking her watch, she realised that it was seven-thirty pm. God knows where the time had gone. As usual, she was behind schedule and would be late home. It didn't matter how many resolutions she made to try to change, she never actually managed to. All the lights were off in the other offices. It was unusual even for her to be the last member of staff remaining, perhaps this was adding to her unease. She was glad to shut the building door behind her.
Pulling her hood up against the damp air, she headed through the grounds to her Golf. The lighting was poor, and shadows fell long across the paths. She followed a narrow tarmac track past Hawthorne ward and on past the decrepit-but-listed buildings long vacated. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Jerking her head to the side in response to a slight rustle, she stared into the gloom, but could see nothing. She increased the speed of her steps almost to a jog and reached into her coat pocket, her keys ready in one hand and – just in case – her phone in the other. She couldn't wait to be back at the car park, her car door safely locked behind her.
She hurried on, tried to tell herself she was being daft, but through the silence, she thought she could hear the echo of footsteps. And then, she was certain, there was no mistaking it – there was definitely someone walking behind her.
She tried to check over her shoulder, nearly tripped on a pothole in the tarmac, didn't manage to see anything, but the sound was clear in her ears.
Suddenly, she felt a tug on her rucksack. It jolted her backwards, twisted her body away, her arm raised to protect her face as she spun on the spot. She turned to see a hooded figure, dressed in dark clothing, standing behind her, his face caught in shadow. She flicked her right foot out, aiming for his shin, booted out as hard as she could. Was satisfied by the crunch she heard that coincided with a yelp of pain. She turned and raced towards her car.
She could hear some muffled noises, footsteps. But she had had a decent head start, and her key was already in her hand. She shoved it into the lock, yanked open the door and threw herself into the driving seat, slamming the door behind her and putting her headlights on full beam. All she saw was a shadow retreating into the background. Holy shit! She had seen nothing useful at all, would have nothing to tell security. Even so, she drove straight to the security office, leapt out of her car under the bright light outside and knocked on the Perspex window.
A guard, uniform black, approached the window and asked her if he could help. Looking at his facial expression, she was suddenly aware of how she must look – her face damp with sweat, and she felt flushed. The guard eyed her with an alarmed expression as she blurted out her panic.
'I've just been assaulted. A man followed me through the grounds, grabbed me. I just managed to get away. I was walking back to my car, past Hawthorne ward, and I heard someone following me. He grabbed my coat, tried to pull me into the bushes…I managed to throw him off…'
She watched as he pulled the silver end of a microphone towards himself, pressed a button and radioed to his colleagues,
'There's been an incident in the grounds, repeat, an incident – by Hawthorne ward. A lone female was followed and apprehended by a male, he tried to pull her off the path.' The guard looked at Clancy inquisitively, she guessed he was waiting for a description, racked her brain to understand what she could remember.
'I couldn't see his face, he had some sort of hood up. But he was well built, about six foot, dressed in dark clothes…'
The guard motioned to the side door, leant forward, pulled the catch and indicated towards a chair as he repeated the description into the mike. The response came back quickly, 'Heading over there now,' as Clancy sank gratefully down onto the seat. She was mildly surprised that she felt so flat – must be numb with shock.
'You alright, love?' the guard asked, his face a picture of concern.
She nodded mutely, unable to give any words of reassurance, despite the fact that the silence begged for them.
'Is there anyone I can call for you?'
She shook her head, wondered for a second what it would be like if there was someone she could call on. They both looked up as a voice came over the tannoy.
'No sign of anyone in the area that meets that description. We’re going to walk the site, see if we can find anything. Can you check the CCTV?'
'I'm on it.' The guard moved over to a bank of monitors in the corner of the office, started flicking through images, eventually settled on a paused screen.
'This is the camera by Hawthorne.'
She watched as he rewound the video footage, the digital clock in the corner counting backwards. As the time moved to seven thirty pm, she saw herself on the screen. The guard pressed the keyboard, slowed the footage. She was running backwards, her curls bouncing frantically. They watched as she suddenly slowed and then saw her in a tussle with a dark figure, her leg returning to the ground before flying out with a kick, the figure had his arm outstretched, holding her coat. He stopped the video, and they both stared at the screen. Her description had been accurate, but his face was obscured, and they both could have been staring at any well-built man.
'I'll keep looking through and check other cameras, see if we can get a clearer image. And I'll have to ring this through to the police. Not that I'm hopeful…but they'll want to speak to you, no doubt.'
It was thirty minutes before Clancy had built up the psychological strength to move. She sat, hands wrapped round a mug of tea, and worried. Who the hell is this guy, and why has he tried to attack me? Is it the same guy who’s writing the letters? Her mind flicked to Rowan. She didn't want to ring her and tell her what had happened, didn't want her to worry. But she couldn't dismiss this, knew she had had a close shave. Eventually, she stood up, thanked the guard and returned to her car outside the reception, aware she was under his watchful eye. She had felt uneasy for a reason. She should have listened to her own warning signs. An officer would be in contact soon to take a statement from her. But she knew it would come to nothing. It never did.
44
Rowan
Her suspender belt itched. She had never worn one before, but he had been specific in his instructions. The stockings were gossamer-thin – they felt like silk, such beautiful quality. She pulled her hem down, hoped the stockings wouldn't ladder, and then tottered off down the hall and out to meet Fariq, wrapping her shrug closely around her. When she got to the end of the road, she could see the car’s engine purring, waiting on her. She didn’t hesitate, slipped into the passenger seat. Fariq was wearing a black suit, white open-necked shirt, brogues. He was close-shaven, his hair neatly brushed. She watched as his eyes scanned her body from head to toe, tensed for his reaction.
'Hi, babes. That is one wonderful dress.'
Pushing the car into gear, he drove off, heading for London Road, stabbed the CD controls. Music flooded through the vehicle. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small white envelope, motioned to the CD case.
'Fancy doing the honours?'
Rowan had never carved lines before, but she had watched him doing it, and she wasn't going to show her ignorance. She put the plastic case on her knee, carefully opened the wrap, shifted a little of the pungent powder on to the case, took the credit card he handed to her. She took it, looked down at the name, ‘Fariq Hussein,’ ‘Barclaycard Gold Card.’ Being careful not to spill, she imitated what she had seen him do, chopping the lines, straightening and separating them, and then took the note from him and rolle
d it into a tube.
'Tighter than that,' he said. She re-rolled it. All the time, the engine hummed as they drove into the city. Seeing she was ready, he pulled into a side street, stopped the engine, and leant towards her, taking the note in his hand, bent his head towards her lap – she could see the reflection from the streetlamps shine on the back of his hair. He held one nostril with a finger, inhaled deeply with the other, sat back into his seat, a broad grin on his face, eyes closed. A sediment of powder settled around his nose. He passed the note to her, indicated towards the case, raised it for her and watched intently as she leant towards it, inhaled, dropped back, face flushed. Without speaking, he started the engine and headed back onto the road.
Rowan felt the energy flood through her, her blood felt like it was boiling, her body tingled. She didn't flinch as Fariq dropped his hand on her knee, caressing the silkiness of her stockings, gently inched upwards, rubbed a rough finger against her inner thigh.
'Good girl,' was all he said, as they travelled north through Streatham and down the hill towards Brixton. The traffic was heavy, engines rumbling, cars inching forwards, horns tooting with impatience. Eventually, they drove over Westminster Bridge, the Thames sparkling like a long mirror, the Houses of Parliament imposing their austere beauty. Fariq swung the car through the streets, turning down alleyways and, ten minutes later, pulled up in a parking space.
As she got out of the car, he held out his arm. She wrapped hers through his, and they walked past glittering store fronts – manikins clad in unbelievably expensive dresses, cosy restaurants – the aroma of spices and garlic floating down the street.