by C. L. Taylor
No!
A man in a yellow security jacket pulls the metal grating from one side of the tube entrance to the other.
Stop!
I try to shout, to tell him to wait, to let me in, but he disappears through a side door and slams it behind him. I burst out of the alley and onto the main street. I’m panting, my thighs are burning, and a cramp is ripping at my side, but I continue to run—left, after the woman I saw a few moments ago, but now I’m closer I can see she’s got headphones on over her cap. She doesn’t look around. An elderly Asian woman on the other side of the road gives me a curious look then glances away quickly when I catch her eye. I step into the road, to go after her, but a car speeds past and I’m forced to jump back. I’m forced to stop running.
“Sue.” A man breathes my name and my body shuts down. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Cars speed past and I wait. “Sue.”
I wait for the end.
Wednesday, August 12, 1992
I need to write this quickly because James has popped out to go to the hospital and I’ve got no idea when he’ll be back. It’s become too dangerous to leave the diary hidden in my sewing room, so I’ve started keeping it under a loose floorboard in the hallway. That way, if anything happens to me and the police search the house, they’ll find it and the truth about James, and what he did to me, will be revealed.
So I’m going to say it as clearly as I can—I think he’s going to kill me.
I don’t know when and I don’t know how, but he said he’d rather spend his life in prison than think of me “spreading my legs” for another man, and considering what he did to the man I did sleep with, I’ve got no reason to doubt him.
This is the first time he’s left me alone since Sunday night, but he’s not taking chances on me escaping. He’s locked me in the house and disconnected the phone so I can’t call anyone for help and I can’t hammer on the wall because the couple who live next door have gone on holiday and there’s no one on the other side. I’ve checked all the windows—twice—but they’re locked shut and the back door is double glazed so I couldn’t shoulder it open even if I tried. An hour ago, I shouted through the letter box at a woman pushing a stroller down the street, but she didn’t so much as twitch. I can only assume the traffic is drowning me out or the house is set so far back from the pavement, my shouts don’t carry.
I can’t even ask Mrs. Evans to help me—not that she would, because she’s not here. She suffered a heart attack while I was in York visiting my mum. That’s why James has gone to the hospital, to see her. And I’m trapped and there’s nothing I can do but write.
I came back from York on Sunday early evening in a very good mood. I’d finally been to visit Mum thanks to the £50 James had given me for the train fare (I think he wanted me gone so he could spend the weekend with whoever it is that he’s shagging), and Mum’s mood was brighter than the last time I’d seen her.
Mum had asked how I was and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I told her that James and I were impossibly happy and we’d gotten engaged (she cried when I showed her my engagement ring and said she wished Dad was around to walk me down the aisle), and I was making a huge success of my costumier business. So convincing was my little tale that I started to believe it myself, and as I settled myself into my seat on the train home, I was bubbling with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell James about my visit, maybe even grab a little bit of time to organize my fabric while Mrs. Evans took her daily nap. It was as though stepping outside London had removed the gray fog from my brain. I wasn’t neglected and put upon. I’d just become a bit depressed after everything that had happened. I needed a bit of fighting spirit, a bit of positivity back, and I could turn things around. Besides, I had nearly three hundred pounds saved up. With the cake tin Mum had pressed into my hands before I left (containing nearly two hundred pounds in assorted crumpled bank notes), that was almost enough for a flat deposit and the first month’s rent. Maybe, I thought as the train chugged into King’s Cross, I won’t have to work in Tesco full time after all. If I live with James and his mum for another two or three months and my business takes off, I’ll only work on the tills part time to cover my rent.
“James,” I called as I pushed open the front door and stepped into the dark hallway. “James, are you home? I’ve had the most wonderful couple of days.”
The answering machine light was flashing red in the gloom, but I was only vaguely aware of it as I abandoned my suitcase, replaced my shoes with soft, suedette slippers, and padded down the hallway and into the living room. The black mask wall hanging leered back at me as I glanced around, but other than that, the room was empty.
“James?... James? Mrs. Evans?”
I glanced at my watch. 7:30 p.m. There was every chance James had decided to stay on at the theater for post-rehearsal drinks, but his mother should still be at home. She normally watched Songs of Praise in the living room on a Sunday night. Perhaps she was in the toilet? Or taking a nap in her room? The house was uncommonly quiet, and I felt like a burglar, tiptoeing around, barely breathing for fear of disturbing the peace.
“Mrs. Evans?” The bathroom door was open so I tapped, nervously, at her bedroom door. “Mrs. Evans, are you okay?”
There was no answer so I poked my head into the room. The bed was made, the curtains were pulled, and everything looked normal apart from…I stepped closer to the dressing table. Margaret’s mother-of-pearl-handled brush was missing. So was the brown leather case that contained her manicure set and the tiny silver jewelry box that contained her wedding and engagement rings. Where had she gone? She couldn’t drive, she was terrified of leaving the house, and when she met up with her friends—which was so rare I could only remember it happening twice in all the months I’d lived with her—they came to her.
I shrugged as I made my way to my sewing room. If James and Mrs. Evans were both out of the house, what better excuse to start sorting through my fabric? Everything was still boxed up, and I knew for a fact my silks would need attacking with a cool iron before I hung them up, never mind the lin—
“Oh my god.” My hands flew to my mouth as I pushed open the door to the spare room. My sewing table was lying on the floor on its side. Half a meter away was my machine, a dark footprint staining the body, the delicate thread guides, tension regulators, and spool pins snapped and bent, the foot control ripped away, lying on the other side of the room. My boxes of material that I’d so neatly stacked in the corner were upended and crushed, the material spilling out—ripped, mangled, and smeared with what looked like red paint. My mannequin leaned drunkenly against the back wall, black-handled sewing scissors plunged into its chest. The floor was a riot of color—thread, ribbons, buttons, bindings, cords, elastics, and tapes, all splattered with the same red gloss paint. The curtains were ripped from the window, the mirror smashed, and the upholstery on the chair I’d so lovingly covered before I moved in was slashed open, the white stuffing bursting out like a puff mushroom, the elegant wooden legs snapped clean off.
I backed out of the room, my hands pressed to my mouth, certain we’d been robbed and the burglar was still in the house. Why else would my room be trashed and Margaret’s things missing? But where was she? An image of James’s mum, tied up and terrified, flashed into my mind, and a cold shiver pulsed through my body. I stepped across the landing as softly as I could—heel, toe, heel, toe—trying to avoid the creaky floorboards. The blood pounded in my ears as I stepped past mine and James’s bedroom door. Did they have her in there? I paused midstride one heel pressed into the floorboard, the ball of my foot raised. All my senses prickled with anticipation as I listened, then, as a floorboard creaked behind me, I sprinted across the landing, took the stairs two at a time, and ran across the hallway. I vaulted my suitcase and sped past my shoes. I had one hand on the front door handle when it flew open and I was grabbed around the neck.
“No!” I slapped at my attacker as I was forced backward, away from the light of escape and back into the dark hallway.
“Bitch.”
I recognized the voice immediately.
“James, stop.” I tripped over my suitcase as he powered toward me and fell to the floor. “It’s me. It’s Suzy.” I reached my hands up toward him, certain he’d help me up when he realized his mistake. “James, it’s Suzy.”
He bent down and peered at me, his pupils dark pools in the gloom. His fingers made contact with my head and he stroked my hair back from my forehead.
“James.” I reached up and touched his face. “Something terrible has happened. My sewing room…it’s awful. Everything I worked so hard for has been destroyed. Why would someone do that?”
The pressure of James’s hand on my head changed and he began raking his hand through my hair, pressing the tips of his fingers into my skull.
“Ow.” I wrapped my hand around his and tried to relieve the pressure. “Could you be a bit more gentle?”
“I don’t know. Could you be a bit more truthful?” He stood up suddenly, yanking me up by the hair.
It was as though my scalp was being ripped clean from my skull. I screamed and lashed out, but I barely had time to find my feet before James set off, striding toward the living room, dragging me, still screaming, along the hallway behind him. Each step made my head burn like it was on fire. Just when I thought I’d pass out from the pain, James released his grip and threw me across the room. I raised my arms to cover my face as I flew toward the glass cabinet, then there was a crash, I hit the floor, and a thousand shards of glass rained down on me. I lay still, too dazed to move, and then James was on me again.
“Lying down on the job again, are you, you slut?”
He grabbed me by the ankle and dragged me across the room, back toward the door, then yanked me to my feet.
“Tell me the truth,” he bellowed in my face, then CRACK! His fist made contact with my cheekbone, and I fell back to the floor.
“Please.” I tried to scrabble up, my fingers pressed to my cheek. “Please, James, just tell me what I’ve done wrong. Let’s talk about it, let’s—”
CRACK! His boot made contact with my shoulder. He towered above me, his face a mask of anger, his eyes black, glittering holes, and he raised his boot as if to kick me again when—
Ring-ring, ring-ring.
James glanced toward the living room door.
Ring-ring, ring-ring.
He looked back at me.
Ring-ring, ring-ring.
Beep! This is 0207 4563 2983. Please leave a message after the tone.
The phone went to the answering machine.
“Hello? Susan, this is Jake from the Abberley Players. Sorry to call you again, but I really need to talk to you. There’s been a fight between Steve and James. Steve’s in the hospital, but we don’t know where James is. We’re worried about him. And you. He was saying some…um…unusual things. Could you give me a ring when you get this please? My number is 0208 9823 7456. Thanks.”
I looked at James. There was a bruise on his cheek I hadn’t noticed in the dark hallway, and the edge of his mouth was split, caked with blood. There was blood on his neck too, and on his fists. I didn’t know if it was Steve’s or mine.
He caught me looking at him, and the look of worry on his face morphed into disgust.
“Stand up.”
I slowly picked myself up from the ground.
“Take off your clothes.”
I did as I was told, slowly, painfully, undoing the buttons of my shirt before slipping it off—I winced as it caught on my swollen right shoulder—then let it slip to the floor. I undid my jeans, pushed them past my hips, and stepped out of them.
“And your underwear.”
“James, please. We weren’t going out together when Steve and I…when we…it was all a terrible mistake. I didn’t enjoy it and I didn’t feel anything. In fact, it just made me miss you more and—”
“Your underwear.”
I pushed my underwear to the ground first, then reached around to unclip my bra. My shoulder twisted sharply and I gasped in pain, but I was more scared by what James would do if I didn’t comply, so I undid my bra and dropped that to the floor too.
I flinched as he took a step toward me, but instead of hitting me, he sidestepped me and walked up to the window, threw open the curtains, and opened the window.
“Stand here, Susan.”
I hesitated. There was a row of houses opposite. They were separated from us by the busy road below, but just as we could see into their illuminated homes on a dark night, so they could see into ours.
“The window, Suzy.”
I walked forward like I was sleepwalking through my worst nightmare.
“That’s it, walk right up to the window. I want everyone to see what a disgusting, fat, dirty whore you really are.”
I gripped the sill and looked out at the cars below. Maybe if one of them saw me, they’d realize something was wrong and call the police. I dismissed the thought almost as soon as it crossed my mind. No, they wouldn’t. This was London. No one cared enough to call the police. I heard a noise behind me and spun around, sure James was about to push me to my death, and came face to face with a lamp, the bright bulb pointed upward, blinding me.
“Turn back around,” James said. “I want the world to see how ugly and flawed you are. I want them to see how riddled with flab and cellulite and stretch marks and saddlebags. I want them to look at your saggy breasts and your enormous thighs and I want them to wonder how anyone could ever have stomached making love to you. How anyone could have loved this.” And he prodded me in the side.
I fought back tears but said nothing. If this was James’s punishment for me sleeping with Steve, then so be it. There were worse things than public humiliation, far worse.
“Ever wonder why I stopped sleeping with you, Suzy?” He paused for a reaction then continued anyway. “When this is how you look? Do you have any idea how much of a turn-off men find a body like yours?”
A tear dribbled down my cheek. Fucking bastard. When this was over, when he finally ended my ordeal, I’d run so far away from him, he’d never find me again.
“And to think I felt guilty for going back to prostitutes!” He stifled a laugh and I realized I must have stiffened in surprise. “I just couldn’t bear making love to a fat, lardy lump anymore. And you were never very good at sucking dick.
“Right.” The sofa creaked as he stood up, and the room suddenly dimmed. He must have turned the lamp off. “Enough entertainment. I want to know why you fucked Steve, how many times you fucked Steve, how you fucked him, and whether”—he grabbed hold of my hair and yanked me backward—“you laughed at me the whole fucking time.”
“James, no!” I twisted and fought, hitting him, scratching him, and kicking him as he dragged me across the room and bent me over the glass table in the corner of the room. “Just let me go. Please.”
“Let you go?” I heard the zip of his fly opening and then the weight of his chest on my back as he hissed in my ear. “Suzy, I’m never going to let you go. Never. You’re a filthy whore, but you’re my whore. And besides”—he lifted my head from the glass then smashed it back down again—“I want you to apologize to Mother. She had a heart attack when she saw what I’d done to your room, what you made me do. I want you to spend the rest of your life apologizing, to both of us. Now then”—he kicked my legs apart and pressed his penis against my anus—“did Steve fuck you here?”
I stared across at the batik wall hanging and let the wide white eyes hypnotize me. My mind went blank as I slipped into the gaping dark mouth and disappeared.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
“Sue, get in.”
I look around, expecting to stare into the cold gray eyes of my ex-bo
yfriend, but there’s no one behind me.
“Sue Jackson?”
A black Mercedes with tinted windows draws up alongside me, and a man beckons from one of the passenger windows. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place—
“Steve Torrance.” He flashes me an electric smile and I recognize the dazzling white teeth. Alex Henri’s agent. I saw his picture on the Internet. He disappears back into the car and the door opens. “Get in.”
I glance behind me again, but there’s no one there. The alley is empty too. I can’t have imagined James running behind me. He was there; I saw his face. Where’s he gone? Did Steve’s car startle him into the shadows? Is he waiting for him to leave before he makes his move?
“Look, Sue.” Steve’s face appears next to the open door. “I’m a very busy man. Get in or tell me to fuck off, but just hurry the fuck up.”
I falter. Try and flag a taxi to Victoria and risk James reappearing or get in a car with a man I’ve never met before?
Steve’s smile widens as I open the door. He moves across into the other passenger seat, leaving the one nearest me empty. I look around one last time—the street is still empty—then slip into the car and lock the door behind me. A shadow crosses my window, and I jerk away from the door. “Can we just go now, please? Drive!”
The driver, an older man wearing a peaked cap pulled low over his eyes, twists around. “Who d’you think you are—Robert de Niro? This is the West End, love, not New Bloody York.”
He glances at Steve Torrance, who raises an eyebrow then turns to look at me, the smile still fixed firmly in place. “Where would you like to go, Sue?”
“Victoria.” I pull my handbag close, one eye still on the street. I keep expecting James to yank open the door and pull me into the street.
The driver shrugs, taps his indicator, and we pull away. The road is gridlocked with traffic, and it takes an age to get to the end of the street. It’s only when we hit a pedestrian-free road that I allow myself to relax.