by Amy Cross
“But if -”
“I'm certain,” I say again, this time a little more firmly. “Please don't make me pull out the notebooks and show you the proof. I can, though, if it's absolutely necessary.”
Again, we sit in silence.
“So who do you think it is?” she asks.
“That's the point,” I continue, “I don't know. I've just narrowed it down to the five of you so far. My five closest friends in the whole world.”
She sighs. “But Victoria, we all love you. None of us would -”
“Bitch,” I reply, interrupting her. “Whore. Slut. The c-word. Those are just some of the things my mystery admirer has called me over the past year. My reputation has been trashed, my sanity has been put in jeopardy, even my marriage...” I take a deep breath. There's a tear in my left eye now, trying to escape and run down my face. I refuse to let that happen. “I have been subjected to a sustained campaign of cruelty and torture, for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom. Let me ask you, Lynn... Have I ever done anything to deserve such treatment?”
“No,” she replies quickly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Of course not, Victoria. Everyone here loves you!”
“Clearly someone doesn't,” I point out, still struggling to keep that tear held back.
“But Victoria -”
“Or do you think maybe I'm being tormented by a ghost?”
That shuts her up immediately. She looks startled, as if she can't quite believe those words came from my mouth. We have been friends for so long, and she clearly understands to whom I'm referring.
“You've seen some of the awful things that have been sent to me, haven't you?” I ask. When she doesn't immediately reply, I get to my feet and hurry to the dresser, where I open a drawer and pull out the box I've been using to keep all these hideous items together. “I'm sure you've read some of the messages that have been posted about me online.”
“Nick showed me a few, but only because -”
“That's just the tip of the iceberg,” I continue, opening the box and setting it on the bed next to her. “Items have been delivered to my home, Lynn.”
She opens her mouth to reply, probably to spout some more useless encouragement, but suddenly her attention is caught by the sight of a pair of bloody knickers in a plastic bag.
“I think it's probably rat blood,” I explain, “or some other vermin. At least, I hope so. More alarmingly, whoever sent those foul things to me clearly knows the type of underwear I prefer. The brand, the mark, even the size. I have a pair just like it.”
She stares at the box for a moment, before turning to me with an expression of pure shock. I can't help studying her face, trying to determine whether her reaction is genuine or merely a studied deception. I hate the idea of suspecting Lynn, but then again I hate the idea of suspecting any of my friends.
“And don't miss this delight,” I continue, moving the bag aside and taking out a glossy photo showing me walking along the street. “Evidently someone has been hiding in the bushes, snapping pictures of me. I suppose he or she wants me to know that they're close.”
“Jesus,” she whispers, staring in shock at the picture.
“And there have been letters,” I add, “describing in excruciating detail exactly what this monster wants to do to me. Honestly, I must admit, the individual is extremely imaginative. He discusses how he'd like to break into the apartment one night when Jonathan is away and do awful things to me. He uses the most lurid detail.”
I hesitate for a moment, before taking some of the letters from the box and holding them out for her.
“Would you like to see?”
She shakes her head.
“It's quite alright,” I continue. “At first they're shocking, but after two or three one becomes almost numb to the obscenity.”
I wait for her to reply, or to take me up on the offer, but finally I slip the letters back into the box.
“I no longer bother reporting these things to the police,” I explain. “I gave up on that avenue several months ago. They were worse than useless, they were exhausting and they made me feel as if it was my fault. I don't want that level of humiliation, and it was quite clear that I wasn't being taken seriously.”
“Go back to them,” she replies. “Ask to speak to a female detective this time.”
“It was a female detective I spoke to before.”
That seems to shut her up for a moment.
“Oh Victoria,” she says finally, getting to her feet and stepping closer, before putting her arms around me. There are tears in her eyes now. “I knew it was bad, but I didn't know it was like this! You poor thing! You're so strong, stronger than I could ever be! I'd be a mess if I was going through all of this.”
I swallow hard. My throat feels so dry.
Pulling back, she stares at me while tears run down her face. Either her reaction is genuine, or she's an extremely good actress. Then again, she might have practiced hard for this moment.
“I can't trust anyone right now,” I tell her, before gently easing her hands away from my shoulders. “Not even you.”
“But -”
“Please don't take this personally,” I add, “but until I identify the culprit, I merely know that it is either you, or Nick, or Elliot or Sophie or...” I pause, not wanting to say the next words. “Or possibly even my own husband.”
“But you can't suspect Jonathan of all -”
“I can't be naive, either!” I say firmly. “He would not be the first husband on the planet who ever -”
Suddenly we both turn and look over at the door, as it creaks open to reveal Nick's concerned face.
“Hi,” he says, evidently barely able to look me in the eye. He quickly turns to Lynn. “I was thinking it might be time to head off,” he explains, “and you said you wanted a lift back to your place, so...”
She turns to me.
“It's fine,” I tell her. “Please, think nothing of it. I hope... I hope this can all be resolved quickly, and I hope we can have a nice dinner together some time soon.”
She seems too shocked to reply, but finally she leans closer and kisses me on the cheek. I flinch, but I don't pull back. What would be the point?
“I'm always available to talk,” she tells me as she heads over to the door. “Any time, day or night. Just call, or text and we can meet up. If there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to let me know. You can't keep on like this forever, Victoria. You really need to find a way to chill.”
“You're very kind,” I reply, still unable to determine whether or not she's being genuine. After a moment, I catch Nick's eye and see that he's extremely uncomfortable. Either he's the culprit and he's worried about getting caught, or he's offended by my announcement.
“See you soon,” he mutters with barely concealed disgust, before turning and heading away, followed a moment later by Lynn.
“How's your treatment coming, by the way?” I call after her. “I'm so sorry, in all the confusion I didn't get a chance to ask.”
She glances back at me. “I'm in remission right now,” she says, with a hint of fear in her eyes. “Again. I have some more tests on Monday.”
“Good luck.”
She mutters something under her breath, most likely “Thank you”, and then she goes through to join the others in the hallway.
Left alone, I head back to the bed and place the lid on the box, before returning it to its place in the drawer. I still feel a tear in my left eye, but as God is my witness I refuse to let such awful emotion show when there's a chance of anyone seeing. Instead, I head to the mirror and check to make sure that I'm presentable, and then I realize I have no choice but to go out into the hallway and say goodnight to the others. After all, one of them is my stalker, but the other four are my friends. And some day, this nightmare will be over.
I just wish I didn't feel so alone.
Hearing a faint buzzing sound, I see that a message has arrived on my phone. I head over and pick it up, but my he
art immediately jolts as I see that I've received something from another anonymous device. Even before I open the message, I know who it must be.
“Nice stunt at dinner,” the message reads, “but do you really think that'll stop me? You're such a dumb bitch, aren't you? And you just made things a million times worse for yourself.”
Chapter Four
“Oh, did Lynn and Nick leave already?”
As I reach the hallway, Jonathan turns to me. He looks tired, exhausted even, but I suppose that's just how he'd want to look if he was trying to hide the truth. People can be so complicated as they try to bluff, double-bluff and triple-bluff their way through life. Right now, I can't even trust my own husband.
“I think Nick has an early start tomorrow morning,” Sophie says with a faint smile, “so he couldn't stay late. And Lynn needed -”
“It's okay,” I reply, interrupting her, “I know why they left. It's barely ten, our dinner parties usually run well past midnight. Honestly, I think we've barely even touched the wine Jonathan ordered.” I turn to him. “It was a case of that Spanish red, wasn't it? The rioja, the one you said was -”
“It doesn't matter now,” he mutters.
“But you were so excited,” I continue. “You said the vineyard -”
“It doesn't matter,” he says again, interrupting me. “It's just wine.”
That's not like him at all. Wine is almost a religion to him.
“We're getting older,” Sophie points out. “We're all pushing thirty, so I guess maybe our crazy party nights are in the past.” She pauses, clearly uncomfortable, before turning to Elliot. “Remember when we could each drink two bottles of wine and feel great the next morning?” she continues, clearly trying to pretend that everything's okay. “These days, two glasses are enough to leave me with a hangover. I'm becoming a total lightweight. Of course, right now I'm not drinking at all.”
Elliot smiles, but it's a weak, uncertain smile. Like Nick, he seems keen to get out of here.
“I'm sorry dinner didn't go quite as planned,” Jonathan tells them stiffly. “We should reschedule for some time next month, when...”
His voice trails off.
“When I've resolved my little problem?” I ask pointedly.
He glances at me, and I can tell he's annoyed. Then again, I didn't exactly expect him to be dancing for joy.
“I know I ruined things tonight,” I continue, turning to Sophie and Elliot, “but I hope you'll understand that I had to get all of that off my chest. If it makes any difference, I received another message just now, proving beyond any doubt that my stalker was indeed among us tonight. I realize that I should -”
“Perhaps that's enough for now,” Jonathan whispers, placing a hand on my arm.
“But I don't want to hide, darling,” I tell him, trying to affect an air of breezy calm even though I'm hurting inside. “I'm sure that's exactly what my tormentor wants. Women are supposed to fall apart when they're threatened, I know that, but I simply refuse to crumple.” I force a smile, even though I'm sure it doesn't seem entirely genuine. “Business as usual is my motto, even in a tough situation, and I'm not going to let some nasty little monster bring me down. That's why I wanted to confront the matter head-on tonight. To show that whatever this awful person wants to achieve, they won't manage it.”
I wait for a reply, but everyone simply seems rather uncomfortable.
“I should really get to the tube station,” Elliot says finally, turning to Sophie. “Do you want to walk together?”
“Totally,” she replies, before turning to me. “And Victoria, I'm sure this'll all be over soon. You should reconsider going to the police, though. Ask to speak to someone different, I'm sure they'll take it more seriously if you just explain the situation. They can't leave you to deal with this alone.”
“I'll think about it,” I tell her. “But for now, I have a rather different approach in mind.”
She frowns. “And what's that?”
“Well, I think it'll have to be my little secret for now,” I continue. “Let's just say that my tormentor is soon going to find that the tables have been turned.”
Another uncomfortable silence falls, before Elliot finally opens the front door.
It takes a few more minutes for them to leave. As usual Elliot fusses around Sophie, and I swear she must be the only person on the planet who doesn't see how he feels about her. There's plenty of small-talk, and it's clear that nobody really knows what to say. I'd anticipated such a reaction, but in truth my only concern is to study each of my friends and try to spot the tell-tale slips that might give away the identify of my stalker. I've always considered myself to be a rather keen student of human nature, and I feel certain that if I apply enough pressure and act in a manner that subverts expectation, my tormentor will soon start to make mistakes.
Still, as the apartment's front door clicks shut to mark the end of the rather abrupt dinner party, I'm no closer to an answer.
I wait for Jonathan to say something now that we're alone, but instead he simply turns and makes his way silently through to the lounge. A moment later, I hear him starting to clear the table. Usually everyone helps out with that task, but I suppose tonight they were all in too much of a hurry to leave.
I head over to the doorway and watch as he carries plates and cups to the kitchen. He doesn't look at me, doesn't say a word, and this wretched silence lasts for several minutes until I feel as if I might burst.
“You're annoyed,” I say finally.
No reply. He simply collects some more plates and takes them through.
I wait until he returns for the bowls.
“Should I not have said anything?” I ask. “Would you have preferred it if I'd kept quiet and continued to suffer in silence?”
This time he glances at me, and he seems to be on the verge of telling me what he really thinks. After a moment, however, he turns and carries the bowls to the kitchen.
The table is clear now, and I can hear him loading the dishwasher. I hesitate, before making my way to the next doorway and stopping once again to watch him.
“I had to force the issue,” I explain. “Now my tormentor knows that I'm onto him. Or her. Now, perhaps, he or she will be more prone to make a mistake, and I can catch them in the act. You always say that I'm a strong woman. Well, now I'm proving it, aren't I? If I were to remain silent and -”
“When the hell do you ever remain silent?” he snaps suddenly, turning to me. “This isn't a game, Victoria! What in God's name do you think you were doing tonight?”
I flinch. I'd expected him to be angry, but not to raise his voice. Jonathan never raises his voice. The acoustics in our apartment were designed for quiet conversation, not for arguments.
“I just -”
“Did you think someone would just stand up and admit that they're responsible?” he asks.
“Of course not, but -”
“Did you want sympathy?”
I bristle at that suggestion. “Don't be foolish, Jonathan. I merely -”
“Or was your plan just to insult our best friends?” he continues. “Was that it? You invited them here tonight so you could tell them all that you suspect them of being some kind of monster?”
“I explained perfectly well that I -”
“You accused them of stalking you!” he shouts, his eyes wide with fury. “You stood there and told all of them that you think they're capable of doing something so completely dreadful! We'll be lucky if we ever have another guest over for dinner again! As soon as word spreads about your little performance tonight, we'll be blackballed by every half-decent house in London!”
“I didn't exactly say -”
“That's exactly what you did!” he hisses, stepping around the breakfast bar and coming closer. “Am I included in your little list of potential suspects, Victoria? I wasn't entirely clear earlier, but I think I might be on the list.” He pauses, waiting for me to answer. “I'm right, aren't I?” he continues, with a hint of shock
. “You really think it's possible that I might be the one who's writing those awful things about you, and sending all that stuff in the mail.”
I take a deep breath, struggling more than ever to keep from crying. “Jonathan, please...”
“You think I could do something like that,” he continues, and suddenly it's as if the color has drained from his face. “My own wife, the woman I've been married to for five years, the woman who should know me better than anyone else in the world... And you have me on your list of suspects. Don't even try to deny it, Victoria, because I can see it in your eyes.”
I open my mouth to explain why I have to include him, but somehow I can't quite get the words out.
“You have no idea,” he continues, his voice trembling with anger or pain or some awful mix of the two, “how much it hurts to know how little faith you have in me.”
He hesitates for a moment, before stepping past me and hurrying through to the lounge. A moment later I hear the bedroom door swinging shut, and I'm left standing alone in the messy kitchen. It's so very cold in here.
Chapter Five
Jonathan is long gone by the time I wake the following morning. I was late to bed last night, and he rose early as usual to get to the office by eight, and it's absolutely clear that he's still upset. Still wearing my nightgown, I make my way through to the lounge, where morning sunlight is streaming through the windows. Somehow, my husband's anger seems to be hanging in the air all around, as if he left a trace before he headed out the door.
Did I make a mistake?
As I prepare my morning coffee, that question goes round and round in my head. I was so sure yesterday that I was right to make an announcement at dinner, I thought that it would be good to show my tormentor that I refuse to hide away, but now in the cold light of morning I'm once more filled with doubt. Perhaps I could have been more subtle, perhaps I could have found some other way to let the others know that I'd narrowed down the list of suspects. Still, I've always prided myself on being bold, and I knew that this path would be difficult.