by Jennie Ensor
She waited, straining for the sound of him. But there was nothing except the splash-patter of rain on roofs and the gurgling suck of water into a drain. Laura pressed on her jeans pocket for her phone. A wave of relief at the answering bulge. She pulled out the device. It was still working but the battery indicator showed a long strip of red. It was almost dead.
She pressed 9 three times. A man’s voice, infused with a calm firmness.
‘Police.’ She heard her voice waver. ‘There’s a man coming after me. I think he might hurt me …’
Footsteps again, from the street. Slower now. Close, getting closer.
The phone went black. With shaking hands she stuffed it back in her pocket. Her body was cold, as cold as the inside of a freezer. Her breath came in hoarse rasps, too loud. She clamped a hand over her mouth and waited for her father to find her.
30
Suzanne
Early hours, 5 May 2011
Suzanne lay in bed listening to the wind. The breeze had become a restless, shifting, snarling creature. A branch creaked loudly as if in pain. Her back twinged in sympathy. She would have turned over only the mattress in Debbie’s room had moulded itself to her body, making movement difficult.
It must be gone midnight; she couldn’t see the clock but its unrelenting tick bore into her. Though bone tired, dozing off on the train back to London, and going straight to bed at 10pm on arriving at Katherine’s, she’d been unable to get to sleep for thinking about Laura. Since Daniel’s frantic phone call, just as she’d stepped out of the solicitor’s office, a thought had gnawed at her. How would Paul survive if Laura went to the police? He’d be questioned, arrested perhaps, and put in a cell. He would never cope with the suspicion, the humiliation.
A ripple of fear began, as it did when she let herself think about it. What if Laura was right?
Suddenly she was uncertain. What if Paul did look for another girl to groom, who would eventually succumb to his base urges? Could they let that happen? And didn’t he deserve to be punished?
Her thoughts turned to the solicitor’s assessment. The divorce could become a real thing now, not just a threat or a distant possibility. The process would be painful and difficult; there’d be financial matters to sort out, property and investment splits, and pension arrangements. But the children weren’t children anymore, which would make everything much easier.
She sipped from the glass of water by her bed, trying to forget an urge to use the loo. It was at the far end of the landing and had a noisy flush that could wake up Katherine and Jeremy. But, if she didn’t flush it, it might get blocked with toilet paper. She berated herself for having such trivial thoughts when her life was crashing down around her. What did it matter if she woke them?
Yawning and groggy, she sat up and switched on the light. 12.13am. Katherine’s hairdryer lay on the dressing table with all the other things she’d had to ask for or borrow. She felt like one of those seashore creatures on nature programmes – a particularly inept one, waking up to find she’d made a home under the wrong shell.
Although she’d been there for a week now, every time she woke during the night she wondered what she was doing in this room, in this narrow bed, all alone. And every time, despite knowing what her husband did, a grief came over her for the loss of him, and all the intimate things she had got used to over the years: his warm body beside her as they lay down for the night, his jaw-clenching in his sleep, the tigerish yawns in the mornings that never failed to startle her. Even those things that had become rare over the years: his jokes and anecdotes, the pats and squeezes …
She put on the long brown cardigan – her makeshift dressing gown – stepped into her slippers and padded to the bathroom. Katherine’s stuff was piled on top of the large mirrored cabinet. On the shelf beside it, a mess of ointments, lotions, tablets, tonics, hair products, skin products and depilatory creams. She wondered if Jeremy minded.
Leaving the toilet unflushed, she went downstairs to get a banana. On her return she picked up one of Katherine’s books that she’d started reading a few days ago. A romance about a divorced woman who meets the man of her dreams in an online chatroom. Kat had planted it, no doubt.
Struggling to reach the end of the chapter, she put it down again. She couldn’t concentrate on anything with this storm raging outside. Why hadn’t Laura phoned her back after getting her message? Or had she been out somewhere for the evening and not had a chance to play it? She hadn’t answered her mobile either, though that was hardly unusual. If she’d gone to the police station she’d be back by now, wouldn’t she?
Another gust of wind creaked the branches, jolting the window. Suzanne checked the clock again: 1.05am. Finally, she fell back into a fitful sleep, broken from time to time by the sound of the wind and rain.
31
Laura
Early hours, 5 May 2011
The shiver flitted across her shoulders, along with an insane leaping of her heart, the urge to empty her bladder. The footsteps were back.
They had come and gone several times during the seemingly endless time she’d been sitting here. Was her father waiting for her, just out of sight, ready to … what? Could he really be angry and scared enough to hurt her? He must know he couldn’t stop her from going to the police indefinitely, unless he killed her – which was crazy, wasn’t it?
Get a grip, girl. Come on, get your act together.
Again, a doglike pant mingled with the slap of feet on wet paving stones. Was the sound even real? Or was it a tape replaying in her head, her mind playing tricks on her?
The footsteps changed in texture, as if meeting another surface, then stopped. She closed her eyes. A squirt of hot urine soaked into her underwear. She held her breath, squeezing in her fear, biting hard on her lip to stop herself from screaming.
Don’t let him find me. Please, don’t let him find me.
Minutes passed. No more footsteps. Nothing now but the whoosh of rain, slowly rising in intensity, and the deafening pump of her heart. Was he still there, waiting for her to come out of her hiding place?
Her body was going numb with cold and her shoulder ached badly where it had been wrenched. There was an odd tapping noise too. Where was it coming from? She realised it was her teeth tapping together. A surge of relief, followed by anger at herself – what was she going to do, sit here in the dark all night?
But what if her father was sitting in his car on the street just a few yards away, waiting for her to emerge? He would be livid after what she’d done to him. His eye would be hurting like hell, if not permanently damaged.
No. This is ridiculous.
Careful not to wince, or nudge the row of bins in front of her, she forced herself up into a crouching position and peeked around the edge of the outermost bin. A section of the street was visible.
The rain was less heavy now. She took a step towards the pavement, part of her still unwilling to leave the refuge of the bins, then another.
He’s not there.
She walked slowly along the edge of the wall until she had a clear view of the road. The pavement was empty. No car with its engine idling. None of the parked cars were lit inside, nor, as far as she could see, did they have anyone inside. She walked along the pavement in the same direction as before, scanning the cars, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times.
He’s not here, she told herself, picking up speed. He’s gone home.
But whose home? Her heart fluttered in panic. He might be waiting for her now, outside her flat. That would be the obvious thing to do. She couldn’t go home.
She checked her wrist and remembered she wasn’t wearing a watch. Had the last Tube gone?
A tear rolled down her face, then another. She wiped her eyes with her hand so she could see the pavement. Houses gazed down, pitiless.
She stopped. The sound of voices, laughter. Ahead, two women carrying umbrellas, trying their best to hold them in the windy squall. They were on their way home from the pub, she guessed. Th
eir voices unguarded, over-loud.
‘Please, could you help me?’
They appraised her suspiciously, not stopping. She tagged along beside them.
‘There was a man following me. He’s gone now but I’m scared he might come back.’ She could hear the madness in her voice. Rain-soaked and straggly-haired, she must look a bit mad. ‘Would you let me use your phone please, so I can call the police? There’s no battery left on mine.’
She looked at each woman in turn. Both had the same anxious-hostile expression, as if at any second she might lean over and bite one of them.
‘Sorry, it’s late,’ one said. ‘I’ve got to get home, I’ve a childminder waiting.’
‘It doesn’t look like there’s anyone following you now, love,’ the other added. ‘Why don’t you get on home?’
Laura ran down the street in the other direction, towards the main road and buses. There was only one place she needed to get to, and she’d walk there, if necessary.
After she’d been walking for about ten minutes, a night bus loomed in the distance. She ran to the next stop, turning to put out her arm. The bus pulled up just beyond the stop. Grateful, she climbed in.
‘I only have one pound twenty on me,’ she told the driver. ‘Is that enough?’
He gestured for her to get on board. The lower deck was empty except for two youths on the back seat. She sat next to the exit doors and tried to make herself presentable by combing through her hair with her fingers. The recorded announcement informed them of the next stop and where the bus was headed. Soon, the bus slowed. Three teenage boys got on. She sighed, her impatience rising, and hoped the bus would not stop again.
At the police station, the male officer behind the counter looked surprised to see her.
‘I want to report a crime,’ she began. ‘My father abused me when I was a child. Also, I understand that a month ago, he had sex with a girl I know. A twelve-year-old girl.’
The officer’s eyebrows raised and he jotted something down. He said he would set up an interview as soon as possible.
‘I need to use the toilet, if you don’t mind, and you wouldn’t have a jumper lying around, would you? I’m really, really cold.’
She was shown to the toilet then taken to a well-lit, sparsely furnished room, where she was given two blankets and a mug of scalding tea. She had no anxiety anymore, just a wonderful sense of relief. She’d made it.
After a while another officer appeared, not in uniform. He took her to a smaller room with a table, a tape-recorder and two chairs, and asked her to tell him what had happened.
‘It started about ten years ago,’ she began, and she didn’t stop until she’d told him everything.
32
Paul
Early hours, 5 May 2011
Paul went to the kitchen and poured a tumbler of whisky. Some spilled over the edge of the glass. The pain was more bearable now, less like a spike was being driven through his eye. But his vision on that side was still blurred and patchy, darker than it should be, as if he were trying to see underwater. Christ, he was in a state. How the fuck had he made it home without having an accident?
After downing the contents of the glass, he went to the downstairs bathroom and looked at his face in the mirror. He breathed in sharply. His left eye was a mess, spotted and streaked with red where the white should be. In the corner, a clump of congealed blood. He looked pitiful.
He lurched into the hall, considering whether to drag himself upstairs. He could lie on the bed and fall into a stupor. But the large, empty bed would be yet another source of pain, another reminder that he had lost Suzanne. Instead, he went into the office, the room that had once been his sanctuary.
The room was dark, the curtains drawn. He didn’t bother to turn on the light. He sat at his desk, leaned his head into his hands, and closed his eyes. The fury in Laura’s face, that moment before she dug into his eye, came back to him. He recalled his surprise at the excruciating pain, and at the fact she had the stomach for such a thing. How it had left him gasping, unhinged, and made him want to hurt her in return – hurt her very badly. How, as she was running away, he’d started the engine, intending to smash into her at high speed, to crush her with his metal machine. How, when he lost sight of her, he’d searched for her on foot, winded and stumbling, his one thought: to stop her for good. And how, much later, anger spent, he’d gone back to the car, put his head on the steering wheel, and sobbed for the man he’d become.
He listened to the soft chug chug of a distant train. His thoughts came and went; the happy times, early on. Fishing with Grandpa by the river on drowsy golden afternoons, sharing tangy homemade lemonade and cookies. Holding the net for him, asking why the fish let themselves get caught. Later, the long summer days left alone to do whatever he pleased: building cities out of handfuls of Lego, climbing into next door’s garden and stealing their best apples. And when he was older, after things had got worse at home, the sweet relief of escaping for a while to train at the local pool. Jacko, the swimming coach, who’d told him he had the potential to be a champion. Holding a trophy for the first time …
Then he saw Emma’s look, just before she’d climbed out of his car for the last time, as if he were the scum that floated on a pond. He felt himself falling into a deep, impenetrable darkness.
He opened his eyes. His heart was pounding, like a volley of hammer blows nailing down his own coffin. A chill went through him. He thought of the knife rack in the kitchen. It was filled with high-quality knifes, kept sharp. He hated cutting anything with a blunt knife. The largest had a blade that was seven inches long and capable of doing serious damage. He imagined the blade breaking the surface of his skin, the ease with which the steel would rip his flesh.
He didn’t want to die. The thought of perpetual nothingness scared him. But how could he go on living?
Heart racing, he turned on the desk lamp, opened the top drawer and removed last year’s leather-bound desk diary from the back-left corner. There, still tucked between the pages, was the photograph of Emma. It was the only one he’d printed. Not the one on his camera, which he’d left there as a decoy, just in case anyone questioned him about the photo shoot, but the image that had mattered the most. Several times he’d gone to the drawer to get rid of it, scared that Suzanne might find it as she’d found the other one, but he’d been unable to destroy it.
Emma looked back at him from the photograph. Her smile tugged on his heart again. That alluring, mischievous, all-too-familiar smile; her breasts cupped in the pale blue bra, her slim hips gently stretching the skimpy briefs. Desire rose like sap through his body, becoming an ache in his groin. He still wanted her, despite everything that had happened, despite the wrongness of it. If, by some magic, Emma could be here with him now, standing in this room, he would not be able to resist her.
He pushed away the photograph in horror. What was he truly, if not a monster? His daughter had only done what he deserved. She should have stabbed both eyes and blinded him.
The pain wasn’t only physical now, it was a mental anguish. It cut into the part of him that contained the residue of a decent man – the part that had once held fantasises of future happiness and was now no more than a husk of shrivelled dreams. The pain plunged and twisted, intolerable.
He found the cigarette lighter in the kitchen, the one used for lighting dinner candles. Sitting back at the desk, he guided the flame to Emma’s paper face. It distorted and blackened, then began to disintegrate. He watched the photograph become a pile of ash then pressed the lighter button again. Carefully, he guided the flame to the centre of his palm. The pain was pure, focussed, distracting him from the other, deeper pain. Ignoring the smell of charring flesh, he kept his hand open to receive the flame until he could take no more. Dropping the lighter, he slumped over the desk.
There was nothing left for him, he knew that now. Whatever he did, wherever he went, there would be no escape from his own mind.
He opened the front door.
The rain had stopped. A gust of wind scattered white blossom across the path.
His Porsche waited for him on the driveway. He unlocked it, lowered himself into the driver’s seat, and turned the key in the ignition.
33
Suzanne
Early hours, 5 May 2011
Suddenly she was wide awake. Someone was at the window. The brisk rap of knuckles against glass. Suzanne pulled back the curtains. All she could see were streaks of rain on the windowpane and the swaying branches of the monkey puzzle tree, one of which came close to the window.
It’s only a branch.
Getting back into bed, she caught sight of a wispy light in the wardrobe mirror. Heart thudding, she went closer. But now there was only the vague reflected features of her own face. Outside, the wind flurried and sighed.
She switched on the bedside light. Her small collection of possessions lay on the dressing table, exactly as they were when she’d gone to bed. She glanced at the alarm clock: 2.17am.
At first she thought it was a church bell – in her dream she was walking out of a church, beside Paul, confetti drifting down.
The shawl of sleep began to dissolve but the ringing wouldn’t go away. What could it be? A burglar alarm? Or was the house on fire?
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. No, it was the doorbell. Someone was walking across the landing. Suzanne sat up.