by Ruby Molloy
Boyd gives Hailey a lift back to hers while I head home and get showered and dressed for work. If I get there early, it means I can finish early too.
Delta’s already at her desk when I arrive just before eight. I’m coming out of the kitchen with a coffee – I’m going to need a few to get through the day―when she calls me into her office. “He’s back,” she says, as if we’re midway through a conversation.
“Who’s back?”
“Mystery guy. He sent a message late last night. Here, take a look.”
She spins her laptop my way and I scrunch up my eyes, trying to focus as I read. “Jack and Jill, the nursery rhyme? Why would he post that?”
“No idea. Guy’s obviously lost the plot.”
I stand upright and say hesitantly, “I know this is going to sound crazy, but someone sent Jack a bunch of photos of me, Charlie and Violet. Made it look as if Charlie and I had something going on. You don’t think that Jack in the nursery rhyme is meant to represent my Jack do you?”
Delta lowers her hands on the desk and leans back in her chair. “When did this happen?”
I shrug. “A couple of weeks ago. It’s kind of personal, so please don’t tell anyone, but what if they’re linked somehow?”
“Whoever’s posting the messages has mentioned your name a couple of times now, Kayla. You want me to call the Police, I will. Or we could leave it a few days and see how it progresses. It’s up to you.”
“What if it’s Mike?” I ask, waiting for the fallout.
“Mike?”
“You know, Mike.” Is it bad that I can’t remember the guy’s surname or how he looked? “The guy who’s job I took.”
I can see her considering the possibility. “Shit. That devious little slug. You really think it’s him?”
“I don’t know ... it was just an idea.”
“I should call the Police.”
I wince.
“What? You think that’s a bad idea?”
“It might not be Mike. Maybe I’m reading way too much into things and the nursery rhyme has nothing to do with Boyd. You mind if we leave it a while? It’s probably nothing.”
Delta looks doubtful. “You sure?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s up to you, but maybe you could think about it for a day or two?”
“Okay, let’s do that, but if anything thing happens, and I mean anything, you let me know.”
“Okay.”
I make my way back to my desk, considering whether to send a copy of the post to Boyd, but I don’t want to add to his worries. He has enough on his plate right now, with his dad.
I leave work early and go meet Boyd at the hospital. He’s sitting in the waiting room, head bent, scowling at his phone. It takes him a moment to realise I’m there and when he does he pulls me in for a kiss. It’s hot and a little desperate. I don’t know what’s behind it, but I give him what he needs.
“You okay?” I ask once he’s released me.
He says nothing, just grabs my hand and pulls me down the corridor, away from the middle-aged woman who’s staring at us like she’s forgotten what it’s like to be kissed.
Steve’s room is off a wide corridor. He’s pale and bruised, his large frame taking up most of the bed, but he’s in good spirits. Boyd hands him a newspaper and a bag of grapes, and they share a joke about hospital food.
Boyd’s quiet, subdued almost, and I end up leading the conversation. Wanda, who’s sat on Steve’s right, glances Boyd’s way several times, obviously as concerned as I am. I guess it’s difficult for him, seeing his dad, always so big and strong, suddenly vulnerable and confined to bed.
When visiting time’s over we say our goodbyes with a promise to visit tomorrow. We’re silent on the Tube journey home. I catch Boyd staring at my reflection in the glass, his expression pained. I smile and he smiles too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“He’ll be okay,” I say.
He frowns, his mind obviously elsewhere because it takes him a second to catch my drift. He reaches for my hand and brings it to his thigh. It’s something he’s done a dozen times before, but there’s something in his expression that tells me he’s hurting.
I’m not sure where it comes from, but a ball of uneasiness forms in my stomach. I fight it, but it tugs me down and it’s not until we’re back on the street, the air cool on my face, that my mood lifts.
We cook dinner together, Boyd peeling and slicing the veg, me cutting the chicken into chunks and soaking the noodles. We don’t talk much. We eat, we watch some TV and later, in bed, we have the best sex of my entire life.
Boyd drags it out, his fingers between my legs giving me my first orgasm. He’s rougher tonight, desperate almost, switching positions until I’m on my hands and knees and he’s powering into me from behind. My fingers are curled into the sheets and Boyd’s thrusting hard, fingers gripping my hips.
I cry out when the orgasm rips through me. Boyd powers on, falling on top of me when my arms give way. And when he comes, he does so silently. Boyd’s usually vocal when he comes. Not that he hollers or anything. He groans or curses, as if it’s too much to hold in, but he never comes silently.
He rolls us to our sides, still inside me, his arm clasped across my ribs, his handing cupping my breast.
That’s when the feeling returns, that sense of foreboding.
I should say something. But what? I’d only sound stupid or, worse, neurotic. So I bite my tongue, pretend everything is okay and fall asleep in Boyd’s arms.
The week continues, Boyd and I visiting Steve in hospital, sharing dinner afterwards , making love every night when we hit the sheets. Only Boyd grows more sullen and uncommunicative as the week progresses. And when Steve’s released from hospital, Boyd’s bad mood continues. I realise that ominous feeling I’ve carried around is there for a reason and that Boyd’s mood had nothing to do with his dad. I don’t think about this. Or, at least, I try not to. I love him, he loves me; what could be wrong?
Work at PNL becomes more hectic, with Charlie signing yet another new client. I snatch at the excuse of more work so I can put Boyd’s change of mood on the back burner.
Today’s lunch―a green apple that’s beyond ripe―is eaten at my desk. I take time out to text Boyd and he replies, only it’s short and to the point: ‘Sorry. Busy.’ Guess he must be to send such a brief text. Usually I get a little more from him than that.
Knowing he’s likely to be working late, I stop off at the deli on the way home, picking up a couple of beef and ale pies. They’re enormous, the crusts thick and golden. I know Boyd will easily eat his plus half of mine. But when I get home I find him sitting on one of the new sofas, watching TV with a beer in his hand.
“Hey,” I say happily, glad I’ll be seeing more of him tonight.
“Hey.” He doesn’t look my way. It’s not like Boyd. I guess the match is an important one.
“I’ll get dinner on in a sec,” I say, unpacking the pies and the new potatoes with the lemon and dill dressing.
Again he answers without looking my way. “Not for me, thanks. I’m going out for drinks with Tag in a while.”
I close the fridge quietly. “You are?”
He’s still staring at the TV. “Yeah. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” I say. I’m lying. I do mind. I mind that he’s looking at the TV and not me.
I’m in the bedroom changing out of my work clothes when I hear Boyd’s voice ring out. “I’m off. Catch you later.”
The front door slams and he’s gone.
I stand there dressed in my shirt and panties, my jeans in my hands, wondering what the hell’s going on. Is this the real Boyd? Is that what’s happening? Was it all an act and now that I’ve moved in I’m finally getting to see the real Boyd?
I shuck off my shirt and change into an over-sized blue sweatshirt and leggings. The apartment’s quiet. Beer bottles, an empty wrapper and books are scattered over the coffee table. I don’t have it in me to clear it away.
&n
bsp; I make a ham sandwich and sit in front of the TV, my mind on Boyd. Something’s up, but I don’t know what and I don’t know how to fix it.
It’s late when he returns. I’m already in bed, too uptight to sleep. I hear him undress, his jeans giving out a soft thud when they hit the floor. He climbs in behind me and I find myself tensing, expecting his arm to hook around my middle. Only, Boyd remains on his side of the bed. I lay awake while he falls asleep and when morning comes he’s gone.
I lay on my back, eyes closed, fear in my belly.
I hope today will be better. I hope yesterday was an exception.
My hopes are wasted. I leave work at five and once again Boyd’s home before me, feet up on the coffee table while he watches football.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies.
I have a sense of déjà vu; his eyes are on the TV and he has a beer in his hand.
“You want me to make dinner?” I hold my breath, fearful he’ll say he’s going out.
“Yeah. If that’s okay?”
“Sure.”
There’s no eye contact again and it hurts. Enough that I have to blink away the moisture and go through to the bedroom where I can fight off the tears in private. I don’t change my clothes. I stay in my jeans and my navy tee with the pale stripy shirt over the top. I fix dinner alone while Boyd stares at the TV and when it’s ready I lay it out on the table. Boyd finds a tray, loads it with his plate and cutlery and takes it back to the sofa. He tosses a rhetorical, “You don’t mind do you?” over his shoulder.
I eat alone.
Or at least I try to, but my throat has tightened and my appetite has gone.
“What’s going on, Boyd?” I didn’t rehearse the question. It just kind of pops out. It doesn’t matter, anyhow, because he doesn’t seem to have heard. I scrape back my chair and pick up the remote, clicking the power button.
Silence.
Boyd frowns and there’s anger in his eyes. “Babe, I was watching that.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Can’t it wait? I’m watching the game.”
“The game?” I don’t exactly yell, but my voice has risen and I’m gesticulating wildly with my hands. “You’ve barely spoken to me in two days. What’s going on Boyd?”
The way he looks at me, it breaks my heart. The warmth has gone. I’m not sure where it went or why, but it’s been replaced by cold detachment. It’s the way he used to look at me before we hooked up. I hated it then and I hate it more now.
“Nothing’s going on. I’m eating dinner and trying to watch the football. If you’re gonna throw your toys out the pram you think you could postpone it for an hour?”
“What?” I reel back, eyes wide, unable to believe my ears.
Boyd’s expression darkens and I can see the play of muscles in his jaw. “Fuck, Kayla, you gonna make me repeat that?”
He’s glaring at me and I’m not there anymore, I’m in the past, staring at Liam, wondering if he’s going to lash out, hoping the storm will pass. Only this isn’t Liam. This is Boyd. My Boyd. And this isn’t him.
“Don’t do this,” I say.
His glare is fierce now. “Christ, do what?! Watch the TV? Coz I’m pretty sure a guy’s allowed to watch his own fucking TV in his own fucking home.”
“Boyd ...”
His plate hits the TV, shattering on contact. Gravy slides down the screen, pooling on the carpet.
Boyd shouts, “See what you made me do?!”
I flinch. “I didn’t―”
“Yeah, you fucking did!”
My gaze shifts between Boyd and the mess on the floor. I can’t process what I’m seeing. This is Boyd; forever calm when I’m hot-tempered, steady as a rock where I’m erratic.
“Fuck this!” he rages. “I’m going out.”
He’s gone so fast my brain lags behind. I stand motionless, trying to find some scrap of sense from the last few minutes, but there’s nothing. No excuses.
I sink to my knees and drag the tray towards me, loading it with the debris. And when I’m done I take it to the kitchen and leave it on the counter top. That’s when the house phone starts ringing. I hurry towards it, stupidly thinking it’s Boyd. I’m ready to accept his apology, ready to listen to his explanation.
Of course it isn’t him. It’s Tag.
“Kayla. Is Boyd there? Been trying to reach him for a couple of days, but he’s not picking up.”
“What?” Everything I’m feeling is expressed in that one word.
Tag pauses, but that’s okay because I already have a question lined up. “Didn’t you see Boyd yesterday?”
I can almost hear the penny dropping. “Shit, I’m not thinking straight,” Tag says. “Course I saw him yesterday.”
“When?”
“When?”
“Yes, when did you see him yesterday? I’d really like to know.”
Another pause. “Is everything okay?”
“No, Tag, everything is not fucking okay! Last night Boyd said he was meeting up with you and now you’re phoning, saying you haven’t spoken to him in a couple of days? And just now he threw his dinner at the TV, so no, everything is not fucking okay!”
“What the fuck?”
“Do me a favour, Tag? When you speak to Boyd next, tell him I said goodbye!”
I hang up. I do this by ripping the chord from the wall socket while screaming, “Fuck you, Boyd!” at the top of my voice.
Chapter Twenty-One
Truth
JACK
I know she’s gone. There’s a chill to the apartment, as if her absence is enough to cool the air. I walk into the spare room and check the closets. Empty. Same as the bathroom shelves. Once there were pots of face cream and long, slim bottles of body lotion. Now there are dust rings.
I go through the motions, kicking off my boots and fetching a beer from the fridge. I have trouble swallowing when I see she’s cleared up the mess from the TV. Christ, I wish she hadn’t done that. It brings it home. What I’ve lost. What I’ve thrown away, acting like a dick, like I was cut from the same cloth as her ex.
But I know Kayla. I know her inside out.
When the message came through to my phone, I knew what I had to do. I had to protect her.
I had to make her hate me.
I remember my thumb hovering over the email alert, seeing the subject line, knowing it was bad news before my thumb connected with the glass. I remember reading the sentences, each set on its own line, no more than five words in length, as if it was a poem, not a threat.
I remember Kayla leaning over me, watching. I remember feeling sick with fear, knowing she was someone’s obsession.
Losing Kayla ...
I’m not gonna acknowledge how much that hurts. And even though my head is pounding and my stomach aches like a motherfucker, I act like everything is okay. I fix dinner as if I have an appetite, as if that pain in my belly is everything to do with hunger and nothing to do with losing Kayla.
Somewhere out there is the crazy son of a bitch who rammed my dad’s car into the fast lane. Someone who’s fixated on Kayla. Someone who threatened to harm her if I don’t stop seeing her.
I hope I find the fucker.
I hope I make him pay.
But I can’t do that, not yet, not when I don’t know who he is. Though one thing’s for certain, it’s not Liam Berwick. Tag and I hacked into his computers―work and home. Aside from a shitload of porn there was nothing to be found.
Whoever sent me that email knows a thing or two about computers. They know how to hide behind an email relayer and a proxy IP address.
My phone gives out three successive beeps. It’s a message from Tag. He’s watching Kayla for me. Tomorrow, it’s Mason’s turn. Me, I’m staying home watching football.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sea Washed Glass
KAYLA
My alarm is ringing and it’s all I can do to reach out and turn it off. Only it won’t turn off. It keeps on rin
ging. And ringing.
Eyes closed, I pick it up and throw it at the wall. It seems to do the trick.
In the bathroom I run the shower cold. Cold enough to numb the pain, if only for a few lousy minutes.
It’s been four days.
Doesn’t sound like a lot, but it feels like forever.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
I mean, we were happy, weren’t we? We loved each other.
But then ...
God, why am I playing it over in my mind again, feeling like I’ve missed something?
Was it me? Did I do something ...
Don’t go there, Kayla.
Do. Not. Go. There.
I wash and rinse. Twice. It’s become a game; see how long I can withstand the cold. One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus, three ...
I ram my fist into the tiles. It hurts. I guess the cold can’t mask the pain forever.
Shivering, I dry off and stand in front of the bathroom mirror. I look the same. If you discount my eyes.
They’re empty. I’m empty.
I mean, I’m here, and my heart’s beating just the same as it was a week ago, but something’s missing.
I dress in my favourite jeans and a stripy t-shirt. I take care of my hair and make-up. Gotta put on a front.
I find an unoccupied seat on the train and make myself small. If I could, I’d make myself invisible. There’s a guy opposite me. He keeps looking my way. I stare him out and when he looks away, cheeks red with embarrassment, I feel nothing.
Violet and Charlie arrive late for work. Charlie walks in five minutes after Violet, but no-one is fooled. Shelley shoots each of them a glance over her half-moon specs. Charlie reacts with a grin, but Violet keeps her head down. Me, I do the same, though for different reasons.
A door slams way off down the corridor and I jump. This is how I am now. Anxious. Jumpy.
I can’t get my mind off Boyd. I knew there was something wrong. I should have said something. But Boyd changing the way he did ... that’s one thing I never saw coming. Not in my wildest nightmares.