Still Life (Still Life Series Book 1)

by Isobel Hart

  He looked up at that. His eyes were cold and angry. I took a step back instinctively.

  “No, Samantha, I’m not okay.” His voice sounded clipped. Okay, he was really angry; really, really angry – thermonuclear angry, I suspected. I cast my mind back, trying to figure out what I might have done, but came up with nothing.

  “What’s the matter?” My voice sounded small. The kettle reached maximum boil and then clicked noisily from inside the kitchen, the still-moving water the only sound in the room as he stared at me. Then he stood and stalked towards me, and for the first time I saw what he held in his hand. My contraceptive pills.

  “You dropped your bag,” he said in a menacing tone, “and there was shit all over the floor. Imagine my surprise when I picked all your crap up to find these.” His voice sounded strange, hard, as he loomed above me. I shrank away from him, walking backwards until my back hit the sideboard.

  “I can explain–” I started, but he grabbed me by my neck and cut my words off.

  “I don’t want to hear any more shit from you, Samantha. You’ve been lying to me all this time. All you needed to do was let me fuck you. It was good. We were good together. You just needed to let me fuck you.” His voice sounded unrecognisable, like a stranger. “But you couldn’t do that. You had to take these.” He waved the packet at me with his other hand. “So now you’re forcing me to do this.”

  He squeezed my throat, cutting off my air supply. I clawed at his hand with both of my own, fear making me forget everything else but the desire to survive. He’s going to kill me, I thought, as black spots started to cloud my vision. If I passed out, I knew I was done for. Unable to prise his hands from my neck, my own hands flailed blindly out sideways, trying to find something, anything, to hit him with. My fingers brushed the sideboard, solid and smooth behind me, and on it the carved wooden elephant. Without thought, I grabbed it and swung it hard against his head. It hit his skull with a sickening crack, then with a duller thud when I hit him in the same place a second time. The pressure on my throat eased, and he slid to the ground. I gasped for breath, bent over as I forced oxygen back into my lungs, until gradually the black dots cleared and I could see again.

  Edward lay very still on the floor in a pool of his blood. I bent down and touched my fingers to his neck gingerly, feeling for a pulse. Faint, but there was one. I debated what to do next, my mind still foggy. Call the police, I thought immediately, but would they arrest me for hitting him, or was it self-defence? Run away . . . but where to? If he died, I’d be a murderer. Call an ambulance? Then the police would look for me anyway, but they might not know I had hit him. Would he remember? Nausea rose, the cloying, metallic scent of his blood turning my stomach. I leant back against the sideboard and took some deep breaths. Edward groaned, and reminded me he had just tried to kill me. I needed to get away from him.

  I grabbed my handbag off the side where he’d placed it and ran out the door, not even picking up my coat as I went. My keys were in my bag where I kept them, where Edward must have replaced them, so I jumped into my car and drove, uncertain where I was going, until I reached the hospital. All the time my mind flickered over who I could call, who could help me. Who would even believe that Edward had tried to kill me? I didn’t believe it myself.

  Once I’d parked, I sat there, behind the wheel, shaking. My head throbbed as the immediate hit of adrenaline left my body. The memory of Edward lying in a pool of his blood sent nausea roiling through me again, and I opened the door and vomited onto the ground beside the car.

  “Are you okay, love?” a concerned voice called over. I looked up; an elderly man and his wife had stopped and were both staring at me. I must have looked a mess. I wiped the vomit from around my mouth with my sleeve, but could still taste it. I needed to think clearly, and I needed a drink of water.

  I got out the car and locked it, nodding at the couple with what I hoped looked like a smile, before making my way inside the hospital, my appointment with the anaesthetic consultant no longer important. I clutched my handbag to my chest and strode, head down, towards the cafeteria, where I bought myself a coffee and a bottle of mineral water. I drank a sip of the mineral water first to remove the taste of vomit, wincing as I tried to swallow and my throat protested painfully. Then I sat and stared at my coffee.

  People drifted in and out as I sat there, watching my coffee growing cold in front of me. Then finally, I picked up my phone and texted Elliott. I need help.

  Chapter 11

  He’d texted me back almost immediately. I hadn’t said who I was in the message, so he must have entered my name in his phone when we’d exchanged numbers.

  Where are you?

  Canteen, I replied. Five minutes later, he stood at the table in front of me.

  “Wow, things must be serious – you let your coffee go cold,” he joked, until I looked up at him. “Jesus, Sam, what happened to you?” He slid in beside me and took hold of my jaw gently. “The blood vessels in your eyes are blown . . . and your throat.” He lifted my chin. I winced, and he let go quickly.

  “Did he do this to you? What the fuck happened?”

  Tears welled up in my eyes, and I nodded before trying to speak. “He tried to . . .” My voice sounded hoarse and breathy. It hurt.

  “Don’t speak, and don’t drink anything else,” he said as I reached for my water. “Come with me.” He took my hand and led me to A&E.

  “I don’t want to . . .” I croaked at him.

  “Sam, you need to get checked out. You have a serious throat trauma. He could have damaged your airway. That’s not something you mess about with.” He sounded very authoritative, but frankly I felt relieved to let someone else make the decisions.

  We walked in through the back door, and within minutes I lay on a trolley being examined. The benefits of knowing one of the doctors.

  I caught the staff looking each other, and Elliott, when they examined my injuries. Eventually a female doctor asked what they all wanted to. “Try not to speak. I’m going to ask you some questions about what happened. I just want you to gently nod or shake your head to reply, okay?” I nodded, the movement sending pain through my neck. “Were you attacked?” I nodded again. “Elliott said you told him it was your boyfriend. Is that true? Was it your boyfriend?”

  “Edward Patterson,” Elliott supplied, and I bobbed my head again, wincing.

  “Can you show us what he did?”

  I mimicked the way he’d held my throat using Elliott’s hand around my neck.

  “We’ll need to get some photos of the bruising,” the doctor said to one of the nurses. Then to me, “Samantha, we’ll need to let the police know about this.” My eyes filled again. “He can’t be allowed to do this to another woman,” she said.

  A tear rolled down my cheek. I gave her a small nod, terrified at the thought of seeing him again. Worse, I had no idea what would happen when the police found out I’d hit him. I knew I needed to tell them – it was now or never. “I hit him,” I whispered, and they all turned back to look at me. “To get away. I couldn’t breathe. I reached out and found something, a wooden elephant, and hit him with it.”

  They were all wide-eyed now, including Elliott.

  “Did he collapse?” the doctor asked.

  I nodded.

  “Was he moving when you left? Did you call an ambulance?”

  “I heard him groan. I couldn’t stay to help him. I just had to get away. I was scared,” My voice croaked, the tears coming in earnest now, dripping off my chin onto my dress.

  “It’s okay, Samantha, don’t strain your voice any more. We’ll let people know, and they’ll go round there and see that he’s okay. I’m sure the police will want to speak to him anyway.” The doctor’s tone of voice sounded professionally comforting.

  They applied ice and then X-rayed me to make sure the damage wasn’t worse than it seemed to be. I’d damaged my vocal cords, but seemed to have escaped more serious harm. Elliott stayed by my side the entire time, like m
y own personal guard dog. Then the police arrived.

  In short, breathless whispers, I described what had happened. When they asked why he’d been so angry, I told them about him finding the contraceptives. They’d nodded as if it were entirely normal for a guy to try and kill his girlfriend because she didn’t want to have a baby with him.

  Officer Frank Murray – a taciturn mountain of a man, who said little but whose eyes never seemed to leave me – stepped out to make a call. When he came back inside, he told us, in a matter-of-fact way, that Edward had not been found.

  Stunned, I could only think about the viscous texture of the pool of blood I had left him in. “Are you sure?”

  Officer Murray nodded. “We found no evidence of any struggle in the apartment. There was no sign of a body, or any blood. In fact, we found nothing to indicate anything untoward happened at all.”

  Relieved I wasn’t a murderer, I couldn’t hide my surprise. “How can he be well enough to be walking around?” I looked at Elliott, confused. Then the fear hit; he was out there, pissed off with me enough that he’d tried to strangle me.

  “Do you have somewhere to stay?” Elliott said, when the staff announced they were happy to let me go home. “You can’t go back to the apartment, not while he’s still out and about. You need to wait until the police pick him up.” I couldn’t have agreed more; there was no way I wanted to be anywhere near him. Flashbacks sent tremors of fear through me every time I thought about him. My choices consisted of a safe house for battered women, a friend or a local hotel.

  “I’ll call Heidi,” I decided. I’d texted her earlier but hadn’t got any sort of response yet. I dug my phone out of my bag, aware of Elliott watching me as I waited for the phone to connect. It rang with the single tone of an international call.

  “Paul’s taken me on a surprise trip to Italy for the week,” Heidi squealed as soon as she picked up. “We’re hoping we’ll get pregnant.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her what had happened to me. I knew she’d feel obliged to pack up and come home, and I didn’t want her to do that. “Have a lovely time,” I said instead.

  “What happened to your voice? You sound like Bonnie Tyler.”

  “Hangover,” I improvised. “Have fun.” Tears threatened again. “I’ve got to go,” I said quickly, and disconnected the call. I looked at Elliott. “I’ll stay at the Travelodge.”

  “You won’t be safe there. Most of them don’t even have receptionists anymore. He could walk into the place.”

  “Why? Well anyway, I don’t have much of a choice.” Weary, feeling overwhelmed by everything that had happened I was at a loss. “Most of our friends are exactly that – our friends. I don’t want to put them in the middle of this.”

  “Come home with me.”

  “What?”

  “Come back to mine. I have a spare room, and you’ll be safe because he won’t know where to find you. I can make sure you’re okay. I have a coffee machine,” he added when I hesitated. “Come home with me.” Insistent, he almost seemed excited by the prospect. I didn’t have the strength to fight him. It wasn’t as if I had many other choices.

  The policeman barely lifted an eyebrow when we gave him the details of where I’d be staying, jotting the address down in his pad. The medical staff were another matter. I ignored the curious glances and excited whispers that followed us when Elliott helped me out to the car.

  We’d agreed he’d drive my car back to his place and leave his own in the staff car park. His place turned out to be a small maisonette, occupying the upper two levels of a three-storey house. It was a good area. I had nothing with me, but he found an unused toothbrush, and then showed me where to find the bathroom, while he made up the bed in the spare room.

  It was late afternoon by the time I fell gratefully into the cool cotton sheets, wearing a borrowed t-shirt that reached nearly to my knees. The throb of my throat acted as a constant reminder of events, but, despite all the trauma of the day, I fell asleep in minutes. My last thoughts were of the look in Edward’s eyes as he’d gripped my throat.

  ***

  I woke late the next morning, surprised I’d slept straight through dinner. I must have been asleep for fifteen hours or more, and yet my body still felt the pull of fatigue. Initially confused, it took several minutes to remember where I was, and then why. Memories of the attack flooded back. I stood quickly, determined not to allow myself to become a victim, stumbling a little as dizziness made my head swim. I knocked into the bedside table, sending the lamp toppling over.

  “You okay?” Elliott asked from the doorway, as I sat back down heavily on the end of the bed, one hand on the bedframe to steady myself.

  “Been better,” I admitted. My voice sounded a little stronger, though still hoarse. I gathered my legs beneath me and tried to stand a second time, noting my bloodshot eyes as I caught my reflection in the dressing table mirror. “Don’t you have work today?”

  “No, I took a day off.”

  “God, not on my behalf, I hope?” I picked up the lamp and set it back down on the bedside table. “It’s bad enough I’ve already involved you in all this shit. You must regret the day you ever spoke to me.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, with a slight smile. “Anyway, I’d already planned to take some time off today. I’ve been doing some research – I thought, as you were here, I could run it past you, and maybe introduce you to a friend of mine.”

  “I only work as a rep. I don’t have anything to do with allocating grants for research.” This was not the first time I’d been approached by someone who wanted pharmaceutical company sponsorship cash for their work.

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. Look, before we get into it, let’s get some food inside you. You didn’t eat last night. You must be starving.”

  I thought about it, feeling the familiar ache of hunger from my hollow stomach, and nodded. “Scrambled eggs?”

  He smiled. “I think we can rustle something like that up. It needs to be soft. Tomatoes too?”

  I nodded again.

  He moved around the kitchen with ease, serving the eggs in minutes, then pulling out the chair opposite to share the small meal. They tasted good, good enough to ignore the ache in my throat on every swallow. I finished quickly, placing my knife and fork together with some regret.

  “Someone was hungry,” Elliott observed with a grin, pushing what remained on his own plate towards me.

  “No, really,” I protested.

  “Go on, have it. You need it more than I do.” He slid the plate in front of me again, watching while I wolfed down the contents.

  I leant back on the chair with a contented sigh. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. How’s your throat?”

  “Not too bad,” Thinking about it brought flashbacks of Edward’s face. I couldn’t rid myself of the memory of his crazed expression; his anger, directed at me.

  “Hey, stop,” Elliott placed his hand over mine. “Don’t go there, not now. It won’t help anything. Don’t think about him.”

  I nodded and stood, intending to scrape off the plates. The muffled beep of a text arriving on my phone, from within the depths of my handbag, diverted me. With a quick look at Elliott I placed the plates back on the table, retrieving my bag from the side in the hallway and rummaging inside until I located the phone. Edward’s name sat beside the new message icon. My hand shook as I unlocked it and read the message:

  I hope someone is looking after you. You need help, Samantha

  “What the fuck! He’s a bloody lunatic. What does he mean I need help? He’s the one who tried to fucking strangle me!”

  Elliott reached for the phone, his eyes dropping to read the message. “He’s playing mind games with you. We just need to work out why. You have to show this to the police. Maybe they can use this text to track down his cell phone or something. The sooner they have him in custody, the sooner you can stop worrying. What you can’t afford to do is lose it right now.”
<
br />   My heart raced. “You’re right.” I took some deep breaths, trying to slow my breathing as I rummaged for the card the police officer had given me, the one with contact numbers on it. My hands were trembling badly now. “Here.” I held it up. The small card shook in my hand.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Sam.” Elliott placed a hand on my shoulder. “Call them.”

  I took another deep breath, then punched in the numbers.

  The phone answered on the second ring. “Officer Murray.” I briefed him quickly on the text I’d received. “Do you know what he means by that?” he asked when I’d finished.

  “No. No idea.”

  “Are you still staying with Dr Harvey?”

  “Yes, for now,” I confirmed.

  “We have a car in the area,” he informed me. “If you see any sign of Mr Patterson, or if you receive any more texts or phone calls, I want you to contact me immediately – or tell my officer.”

  “I will,” I promised. Feeling safer knowing there were other people looking out for me.

  “I’ll get someone to make enquiries into the mobile phone information. We’ll be in touch when we know more.”

  “Better?” Elliott asked, when I ended the call.

  “Much. They seemed confident they can trace him through his phone. Did you know they’ve got a car in the area?”

  “They mentioned they would. Only until they pick him up – it shouldn’t take them much longer.” He paused, shifting a little. “Um, my friend will be here in about twenty minutes.”

  I looked down at the borrowed t-shirt and the knickers from yesterday I still wore, and my cheeks heated. I’d been so at ease in his company, it had never crossed my mind to cover up. “I’m sorry,” I said, backing towards the hall. “I’ll go and get dressed.” A thought struck me – maybe he had a woman coming around. “I can get out of your hair completely if you’d like? Give you time to talk to your friend . . . without me?” I kept my eyes fixed on the ground, reluctant to reveal how oddly unsettled the thought made me.