by Claire Dyer
The portrait is finished. She and Vita had their last sitting on the 2nd January while Boyd was at work and then out for a drink with Trixie, and Vita’s been working on it in the weeks that have followed: the strange, quiet weeks after Belle’s funeral when Boyd was preoccupied with sorting out her will, paying his tax bill, signing the house over to Vita and making the plans for him and Honey to move back into the flat. The portrait is wrapped in brown paper under the bed and she’s supposed to be hanging it in the flat as a surprise for Boyd.
This is what she’s told Vita and, with her head deep in the sand, there’ve been times recently when she believed it actually might happen. But then the letter arrived. It was hand-delivered. She’d told Boyd it had been a voucher from the dry cleaners. It came in a plain white envelope with her name on it, and inside was a type-written note in block capitals. It said: ‘I AM COMING FOR YOU. IT WON’T BE LONG NOW. WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, THAT’S WHEN I’LL COME.’
If she wasn’t pregnant, she’d tell herself to stick it out. She likes to think it was when they’d made love after the New Year’s Eve party that this child had started and she already loves it with a fierce, piercing passion and so that’s why she has to go. She is being punished because she didn’t open all the doors on New Year’s Eve. She’s being punished because she’s never really been good enough.
This child is, she believes, the child in Elizabeth’s prediction. For so long she’s thought the baby was William, but now she knows it wasn’t.
Boyd wakes and kisses her. She lets him hold her and breathes in the scent of him, the colossal, magical scent of him. She stamps it onto her heart, telling herself that this will be the last day he will ever hold her like this. She must be strong. She cannot falter or change her mind. There can be no coming back. Not this time. Not ever.
She’d once thought guilt was the most powerful emotion, but now she believes it’s love: she will do this extraordinary thing because she loves him with all her heart.
* * *
It’s late afternoon and there’s no one here, but still she moves slowly and silently as though afraid she’ll be discovered. Vita has gone out for the day and Honey has told Boyd she isn’t feeling well and will stay home today. She must be gone by the time they both get back.
She glances around the lounge. Everything is as it should be. The air in here is familiar. If she were to place the flat of her hand on the wall next to the fireplace she’d feel the echoes of all they’ve said and done pulse through her fingers like the bass notes of a song.
She creeps upstairs and gathers her stuff from the bathroom and from the dressing table in their bedroom, she slips clothes off their hangers, picks up the book she’s reading from beside the bed. A business card falls out of it. It has Elizabeth’s name on it. She bends down to pick it up, puts it in the bag too.
There, under the bed, is the portrait, wrapped in brown paper, ready to be hung in the flat. They’re due to move out of here next week but she can’t go, not with him, not now. This, she tells herself for the millionth time, as she plucks her toothbrush from its glass in the bathroom, is the best way. It is the only way.
Her phone rings. She takes it out of the pocket of her jeans and looks at the screen. Of course it’s Boyd. Boyd is calling. There’s a flicker of something in her belly; it could be the fear of being found out, or most probably it’s the baby telling her to hurry up.
Boyd’s call could be about anything: to ask what she’d like to have for dinner tonight, to remind her to get the carpets in the flat cleaned before they move back in, to tell her he loves her. She lets the call go to voicemail and lays the phone down on the bed, up near her pillow, where he’s sure to see it. She touches it with one finger as if to bless it, as if her fingerprint can hold a record of everything she wants to say.
She has deleted all the messages, there must be no trail.
The iPad Boyd gave her for Christmas is downstairs, her browsing history cleared and she’s de-registered her email accounts and destroyed the letter.
She zips up the holdall. The noise is exceptionally loud in the silence of the house. For once, even the town’s streets seem empty of traffic; the birds in the garden are mute. There’s still a hint of winter chill in the air.
This isn’t the first time she’s done this. She’s left before. She always leaves. For a short while she’d believed that this time it could be different, that this time she could stay, but now she knows this is the only way. Doing this will put the wrong things right. It will keep the people she loves safe. Honey Mayhew is on her way out. Soon she will cease to be.
She’s standing on the doorstep, the house is behind her. The salt she scattered on the doorstep has long since been hoovered away. She hopes Vita and Boyd will forget about her soon too.
Best foot forward, she says to herself and then smiles ruefully. She’s better, obviously she is – after all the accident was months ago – but her ankle still gives her gyp on occasions; she imagines it always will, when the weather changes maybe. It’ll be something she can complain about when she’s old and cranky.
She starts walking. She gets to the end of the path, wheeling the bag behind her. She turns left, walks along the pavement past next door’s gate, doesn’t look back, counts the houses down, 21, 20, 19 … until she gets to the end. Opposite the Terrace, there’s a border of scrubland and then the main road.
At the corner, she gets ready to cross.
It’s hard leaving Albert Terrace; hard to leave the house with its navy-blue door, its riot of a garden and the people who live there.
If arriving was difficult, leaving is the hardest thing she’s ever had to do.
She looks to her left and then to her right; a blackbird sends up a torrent of song, like an alarm and, of course, he’s there.
Reuben is standing on the opposite side of the road as she knew he would be. She’d always known somehow that the day she left would be the day he’d come and now he is crossing the road and walking towards her, limping slightly.
She can already feel his arm gripping hers, see the glint in his dark eyes. She remembers his hands hurting her, his dark, beady eyes.
She lets go of the handle of the case and stands completely still apart from a slight tremor in her hands. She bunches them into fists and waits. There is nowhere to run.
‘So,’ he says when he reaches her. He’s wearing a brown leather jacket, his skin is dark, he has a day’s worth of stubble on his chin. She’s got one foot on the pavement, one on the road. He is positioned in front of her, blocking her way. He is broad and strong.
She takes hold of the handle again, what feels like a hundred butterflies are ricocheting in her chest. ‘So, it’s just you and me,’ he pauses, draws his lips back over his teeth and says slowly, ‘again.’ A bead of spit has gathered in the corner of his mouth.
Honey swallows; she mustn’t let him see her fear.
‘How did you find me?’ she says.
‘It wasn’t difficult. I have people who do this kind of thing for me, quite regularly actually. I usually leave the dirty business to them, but this time it’s different. This time it’s personal.’
He takes a step closer to her so they are face to face. She notices the lines around his mouth are deeper and darker than before. He shifts his feet, placing them about a foot apart in order to give himself more balance.
‘Have you any idea,’ he says, ‘what it’s like to lose a leg?’
Another step closer. She can smell his breath; it is sour, with a faint trace of alcohol on it.
‘Have you?’ he asks. He reaches out and grips her arm like she thought he would, the pressure of his thumb on her skin is familiar. It is almost as if the bruises are still there and are rising to meet him. She can feel the weight of him on her, the rock of the boat in the water; see the red cushions, the black marble counter top, the silver ice bucket. She can feel his arm pressed down on her chest so her ribs are hurting. She can taste the fear.
She sha
kes her head.
‘I didn’t think so, you bitch.’ He spits out the last word.
She takes a step back and bumps into her bag. Around her now are cars and people walking. Boyd may be driving home and may see them. He may stop and wind down his window and lean his massive body towards them and say, ‘Everything OK, Honey?’ And she’d nod and say, ‘Yes, it’s fine. He’s just asking the time.’
Or maybe Vita will cycle past, or Colin will walk by and they will dispel the threat of this by saying something innocuous like, ‘Where are you off to, Honey? Can I help you with your bag? It looks heavy.’
Or maybe Boyd won’t come, nor Vita, nor Colin, and this man, this Reuben Roberts, will put a hand in his pocket and bring out a knife. She can already feel the slice of metal against her skin, see the blossoming of blood, feel the child she’s carrying freeze in her womb. This is what revenge looks like. This is it happening.
He’s saying, ‘This is just a warning. I’ve been watching you. I’ve been waiting for my moment.’ He’s loosened his grip on her arm and raises a hand to her face, letting his fingers hover over her mouth. ‘I can destroy the pretty little life you’ve built for yourself here in an instant.’ He clicks his fingers, moves his mouth right up to hers, and says, ‘Just like this,’ and he blows on her, his breath is fierce, warm and sticky. ‘I presume they don’t know, these good people you live with?’ He stresses the word ‘good’ and makes it sound ridiculous, makes it clear he thinks they are ridiculous for believing in her. ‘What would they think if they knew what their precious girl is capable of? Would they ever sleep safely in their beds again?’
‘What do you want?’ she asks.
‘To scare you,’ he says, ‘and this is just the start. I have many things planned for you, Sweetums.’ His voice is snide; his eyes hard and dark. His teeth, she notices, are incredibly white, luminous almost.
And suddenly Honey’s had enough. Suddenly the pieces fall into place. She’s spent what seems a lifetime trying to prevent the very thing that’s happening right now from happening. She’s hidden and lied and been afraid and has left the people she loves rather than staying and fighting. What ever happened to the girl who used to stand and fight, she thinks?
And, what is the worst that can happen? She gets found out, the truth is told, she goes to jail, loses everything? No. There are things she will not lose: her child is one and Boyd is the other. The girl who she’d been before is still there after all, the girl who will kick out rather than be kicked down. She takes a step forward. Her neck is aching, she’s been holding her breath and her chest is hurting. It feels as though she’s being starved of oxygen.
‘No,’ she says. It comes out as a whisper.
He laughs, ‘Ah, try talking a little louder, my love.’ He leans in again, ‘I remember you used to cry out loud enough before. I always thought that you actually liked it rough and were just pretending you didn’t, but you didn’t fool me, you whore.’
‘No,’ she says again and this time it comes out strong and clear. ‘No, I hated it and I hate you and don’t even think of blackmailing me. I know far worse things about you than you know about me.’ She doesn’t pause. The words come out in a flood. ‘You think I’m worried about being found out? Surely you have much more to lose than me? Your precious wife? Your precious reputation? Your hands are dirtier than mine, Mr Roberts, much, much dirtier.’ And when she’s finished speaking, she raises her hand to his mouth, pushes her face against his and blows. ‘Your life can go up in a puff of smoke, just like this.’ She clicks her fingers and turns on her heels and starts to walk back along Albert Terrace.
‘This isn’t over,’ he calls from behind her.
If anyone were watching they might think they were two friends joking with one another, or two lovers having a tiff, raising their voices over the hum of distant traffic, birdsong, airplane engines. To a passer-by there is nothing suspicious about this exchange.
She looks over her shoulder and says, ‘Bring it on.’ Her voice is still strong, still clear. ‘And,’ she halts, turns around again and says, ‘you can stop the texts and the letters; they mean nothing, they don’t scare me. You are nothing to me, nothing. Do you hear?’
In the distance a siren bleats, she’s aware of a car door being slammed shut, her skin is hot, the air on it is cool. The butterflies are somersaulting, she can feel her muscles clenching around her baby. She is an animal poised to strike. She is a mother fighting for her child and to keep the man she loves.
‘What texts?’ he calls out. ‘I haven’t sent you any texts, or letters. That’s not my style, you should know that by now. I’d do nothing that can be traced back to me.’
‘Pardon?’ She starts to walk back towards him. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, I haven’t sent you any texts, you stupid little girl, but believe me, this isn’t over.’
And then he’s going; he’s crossing back over the road, limping still. He’s walking away from her and she’s following him, trundling her case after her. ‘What do you mean?’ she says again. ‘If you didn’t send the texts, then who did?’
As he reaches the other side of the road, he stops and looks at her and says, ‘I don’t give a fuck, Miss Honey Mayhew, not one flying fuck. But that’s not my style, not my style at all.’
Honey is in the middle of the road; her feet are frozen to the tarmac, her heart is racing.
A flatbed lorry is approaching; she can hear the rattle of metal poles.
If it isn’t Reuben Roberts, then who’s been sending the texts? Who sent the letter? What has every fucking horoscope she’s read actually meant? Was what Elizabeth said all baloney? Who was actually in control of this? What is real and what is made up?
Instinctively she puts her hand on her stomach and then suddenly she knows. The realisation hits her like a gust of wind, or a freak wave, or something else that’s unexpected and unpredictable. She has to get back to the house and she has to go now.
She turns around. For the first time in a long time, she’s back in control. The thought makes her heart sing. She can beat this. Honey Mayhew is here to stay.
The flatbed lorry is closer now, the poles making a sound like a hundred hands clapping.
The last day
On the last day Graham Silverton’s short cut has taken him on a route which passes the end of Albert Terrace.
He stopped for lunch on the M3, some god-awful egg sandwich which has been repeating on him ever since. He should have chosen the beef one. The radio is still playing, the DJ now reading out requests from people in love with one another. He’s saying, ‘This goes out to Rob from Abigail. Abigail says she knows she’s not been easy to live with lately, but you are her rock and her soul mate; she can’t imagine life without you.’ The record Abigail’s requested is Hello by Adele.
Graham snorts. What a fucking cliché, he thinks.
He sees the slender woman with short, blonde hair in the road. She’s facing Albert Terrace. She is standing stock still. He sees the case at her heels. He sees a man in a brown jacket walking away from her, limping slightly.
Graham swerves a little to avoid her as Adele’s is saying something about saying hi from the other side, or something like that.
Graham Silverton doesn’t see what happens next.
Vita
I’m cutting the stems of some tightly-budded daffodils one of my clients has given me as a thank you. I wish people wouldn’t do this. I like flowers, always have them in the house if I can, but I hate thank yous and would much rather that people just pay me the money they owe me and say goodbye. All this fussing about doesn’t sit comfortably with me.
I’ve just finished the portrait of a cat. A cat! Whatever next! The cat was, I have to admit, a pretty thing with a sweet round face, green eyes and a stripy coat but, for heaven’s sake, wouldn’t a photo have done the job?
The house is very quiet. I’d half-expected Honey to be home when I got in but no doubt she and Boyd have gone off somewher
e, to the flat maybe.
‘Sodding fucking things,’ I say as I sweep the stem ends off the worktop and into the bin. I look around for a place to put the vase. ‘Suppose it’ll have to go on the mantelpiece,’ I say to no one in particular.
I’m just carrying the vase out of the kitchen when there’s a knock at the door.
I plonk the vase down and go to answer it.
‘Mrs Harrison?’
Two police officers are standing on the step.
I nod. No one has called me that for years.
‘Can we come in?’
* * *
How on earth am I going to tell Boyd?
I ring the office and ask Trixie where he is.
‘He’s out doing a valuation,’ Trixie says. ‘He should be back in about twenty minutes.’
‘Oh, OK. Thanks,’ I daren’t look down at my feet because it feels like the floor is moving.
‘Why? Is there anything wrong? Can I pass a message to him?’
‘No, that’s all right.’
And I hang up before Trixie can say anything else. Our conversation sounded normal, but there was nothing normal about it at all.
The evening is drawing in; people are making their way home from work, the cafés in Farnham are closing, the staff are wiping down the tables and stacking the chairs just as the restaurants are preparing for the evening trade. Everything is so fucking ordinary, but nothing will actually ever be the same again.
I couldn’t let the police tell him. There was no way I’d allow a police car to pull up outside the office and for Boyd to watch the officers’ slow, measured walk to the door. They’re not happy about it but I insist I have to do this myself. ‘Just try and stop me,’ I say to the well-meaning policewoman with the slightly large hips, and so I get on my bike and I cycle. I cycle past Colin’s house and I don’t think of him. I pass the end of the road. All that’s left there now is the skid mark from tyres. It’s obscene how quickly it’s all got tidied away.