by Jo Jakeman
I turned the key and the click echoed about the hallway. I deflated as I began to turn the doorknob. Once I let him out, I would no longer have the upper hand, but it was nice while it lasted.
I saw Phillip’s hands dart out at me before I’d even noticed he was standing up. I yelped with surprise and fell. His hand scraped my face, fingernails connecting with my ear and ripping my earring out. I banged my head against the wall and he used the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes were cold and his teeth clenched. I brought my knees up to my chest and kicked out at him. My heels struck his stomach and he folded in half. His clawed hand slid off the wooden frame. There was a brief, gravity-defying moment where he fluttered at the top of the steps. Arms flapping, circling, and then he stumbled. His shoulder brushed against the wall and spun him round. Phillip doubled over himself, contorting his body into shapes that didn’t seem possible. He fell step by step by step with a force that couldn’t be stopped.
* * *
• • •
“Shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
“Mummy?”
Alistair’s sleep-heavy voice came from upstairs.
I slammed the door and pulled the bolt home. I backed away until I was against the wall. My ear throbbed, but I felt no pain, only the aftermath of fear and confrontation. My limbs fizzed with fatigue and my chest was raw. My fingertips were bloodied where they’d stroked my damaged earlobe.
“Back to bed, sweetie. Mummy just knocked the vacuum cleaner down the stairs. I’ll be up to check on you in a minute, okay?” My voice was high and panicked.
“Night-night,” Alistair murmured.
“Night, sweetie.”
I waited for the sound of his soft steps to cross the landing and then turned the key in the lock.
I walked into the kitchen and back out again, wondering about calling Rachel, an ambulance, the police. It was an accident, Officer. I only meant to lock him up. I never meant to . . . What? Kill him? Dear God, what had I done? I pictured him lying at the bottom of the stairs in a heap, his neck broken. I leaned on the back of a kitchen chair working on slowing my breathing. People fall downstairs all the time, I told myself. He’ll be hurt but not dead.
“Idiot,” I said aloud.
I shouldn’t have trusted him, shouldn’t have opened the door. But the police wouldn’t see it that way. I shouldn’t have locked him up in the first place. Panic crushed the air from my lungs. I picked up the phone but hung up before I could decide whom to call. I drained a glass of wine without remembering pouring it. I closed curtains and locked doors. I prayed and I swore. I moved swiftly and silently up the stairs and looked in on Alistair’s sleeping form. I closed the door behind me and found myself back outside the cellar.
The moment of truth.
I had to see what I’d done but didn’t know—couldn’t know—if Phillip would be lying in wait for me behind the door. I pressed my good ear to the wood and leaned on it but couldn’t hear anything. I counted in twos all the way to eighty and unlocked the door. I listened. I counted again to eighty and slid back the bolt. I opened it in a rush, my body shielded by the door.
Nothing.
I glanced around the corner quickly and pulled my head back again.
Still nothing.
I cautiously peered around the corner. The steps, the cellar, being exposed inch by inch. I could see the bottom of Phillip’s shoe. Then his leg. In the weak-tea-colored light, I saw that he was lying on his back with his arms out to his sides like he had been crucified. One leg was folded underneath him and his face was turned away from me.
I couldn’t tell if he was breathing, couldn’t tell if it was a trap, but I had to know if he was still alive. I entered the cellar one silent step at a time, sliding my back against the smooth, cold wall to steady myself. Phillip’s rib cage didn’t appear to be moving; there was no sign that he was still breathing, that I hadn’t done the unthinkable. Suddenly, he exhaled loudly and I froze. I reversed two steps and sat down. I was relieved that he was still alive. And then I was scared that he wasn’t dead.
I hadn’t meant to hurt him. Not like that. When he came around, he would be furious with me and I would have more than a torn earlobe and barbed comments to worry about. I had to buy time. I had to keep us safe until he’d calmed down, until I knew he could be trusted, until I knew he couldn’t go back on his promises.
I rushed back up the stairs and out to the shed. I didn’t know how long he would be unconscious for. I found a climbing rope, an old set of Phillip’s handcuffs with the key taped to the cuff, and a bike lock. I ran back to the cellar.
His outstretched leg reached up the bottom three steps. I clicked one cuff around his ankle. It wasn’t long enough for me to attach his leg to the radiator without me lifting or dragging all thirteen unresponsive stones of him. I uncoiled the bike lock. It was heavy in my hand and long enough to chain all three of our bikes together on the few times we’d been out as a family. I threaded it through the cuff that wasn’t on Phillip’s ankle and strained to make it click shut behind the radiator. I rattled the radiator to check it wasn’t going to come off the wall. Solid. I was beginning to be thankful that Phillip had spent so much on remodeling the cinema room.
I tied Phillip’s wrists together using the blue climbing rope and covered him with a blanket from the sofa. When he woke up, he would see that I wasn’t being cruel, just practical. I nudged him with my foot and he groaned lightly. I walked around him and pushed him with a bit more force.
“Phillip?”
His breathing was steady but he still wasn’t conscious. I patted him down as if in an American cop film. I found his mobile, wallet, and the keys to my house and held them to my chest.
“Can you hear me? I didn’t plan this. You were meant to stick to your end of the bargain and then leave. But now look what’s happened. You wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t attacked me, and I wouldn’t have shut you in here in the first place if you hadn’t attacked Naomi. I hope you can hear me, Phillip—” I crouched over his body and touched his face where the slightest hint of stubble grazed his chin.
“Because you are about to find out that your actions have consequences.”
CHAPTER 9
11 days before the funeral
Panic, like an arrow in my chest, woke me before Alistair stirred. I couldn’t remember falling asleep. I was on the sofa and the early-morning light was pushing its way between wooden shutters, casting piano keys across the floor. I could see the cellar door from where I lay. Still closed. Still locked.
Still silent.
The clock ticked loudly, providing the beat for the day. Hands jerked past five a.m. Scant sounds of life from outside: a door slamming, an engine starting, a dog barking. Someone dragging bins out to the side of the road. Ordinary people just starting their ordinary day. But no sound came from the cellar.
My neck ached and my cheek was wet with drool. I was wearing yesterday’s clothes and could smell my own breath. I sat up and reached for the wineglass on the table, which still held an inch of ruby liquid. There was a small black fly floating on the surface. I prodded at it until it stuck to my finger. I flicked the black body away and downed the wine in one gulp. Waste not, want not.
I called work early so that I would have the benefit of only lying to an answering machine. I borrowed Naomi’s migraine for the day and it fit me perfectly. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans that were hanging on to their knees by a thread, and a baggy black jumper which I’d always hated. I fussed Alistair into his uniform and out of the house without even passing the cellar door.
“But, Mummy, I haven’t had any breakfast.”
“Just do as I say for once,” I snapped.
His eyes watered, the hurt pooling into thick tears, and I pulled him into me and kissed his messed-up hair.
“Sorry, sweetie. Mummy’s tired. We’re having a special treat, ok
ay?”
With over an hour to fill, we took the long route through the park. Rowers were already out on the river, slicing the water and making us feel cumbersome in comparison. We nodded to the runners and the dog walkers while the cathedral bells rolled over the morning to softly cuff our ears. Trees clung to the last of their blossoms, sprinkling confetti as we walked by.
We stopped at Bakin’ and Eggs for beans, sausage, and toast. It was too early in the year to brave an outdoor table, but we did it anyway. I buttoned up my yellow jacket and sipped my extra-large coffee with the extra shot of caffeine and the extra sugar hit of caramel syrup. Alistair drank milky sweet tea and swung his legs in time to a song in his head.
I scanned the park for anyone looking at me like I was a crazy woman who had a man tied up in her cellar, but everyone was all intent on stirring their teas and eating their breakfast or power walking and petting their dogs.
Alistair talked about the everythings of life, the when-I-grow-ups and the big picture he was yet to paint. It was up to me to make sure that the future was as open to him as any dream had a right to be. Pave the way. Remove obstacles. Suddenly school seemed trivial, play much more important.
This new version of me, the one who locked her ex in the cellar, considered letting Alistair stay off school and have a day of building dens and telling stories, but the old me gave us one of her looks and I returned our plates to the café and skipped him off to school. I hugged and held him until he wriggled free of me and left me with nothing else to do except return home.
The sun, which had dominated the sky not an hour before, was smothered by a smooth cloud blanket. I had to tighten my eyes against the gray glare to look toward home. My house was the same shade of noncolor as the sky, but the front door was dangerous red. There were no swirling storm clouds gathering overhead, nor a murder of crows screeching out, He’s here, he’s here! It still looked like an ordinary house on an ordinary street owned by a subordinary woman, and a passerby would be forgiven for not noticing the dungeonlike qualities of the lower floor.
I pretended to fumble in my bag for my keys, listening for a sound from within. Through the glass panel I peered into the hallway. As far as I could tell, the cellar door was still closed. I glanced behind me and saw Mary, my neighbor, with her hand on the net curtain. I waved my keys at her and unlocked the door, closing it softly behind me.
The morning sun hadn’t penetrated the cool hallway, so I kept my hated-by-Phillip jacket on as I shuffled to the cellar door.
I leaned my forehead and palm against it, trying to picture Phillip. There was still no sound. He was breathing when I left him. I knew he was.
It was self-defense, I swear.
I opened the cellar door, slowly took a deep breath, and stepped inside. I thought I heard a rustling like someone scratching their head.
“Phillip?”
He grunted.
Thank God.
My shoulders relaxed and my breathing slowed.
“Would you like a drink?”
His voice, when it came, was calm and quiet, but his words leaned against each other lazily.
“Ifsnot too much trouble, I’d like a cupperty.”
I found the polite self-control more alarming than if he had shouted and sworn.
“Sure. One minute.”
I made him coffee instead.
I took it down on a tray with aspirin, a bottle of water laced with sleeping tablets, and two slices of toast topped with his least favorite spread.
He was lying on the sofa with his head on the cushions and his cuffed leg on the arm closest to me. The handcuffs were still on his ankle with the other end threaded through a bike lock, which in turn was attached to the radiator, but his wrists were untied and the rope was coiled at the floor by his side.
“Oh,” I said.
“You never could tie knots.”
His voice was still calm, as if this were a normal situation.
I put the tray on the small white table, just out of his reach. It was colder in the cellar than upstairs. The small radiator hadn’t been used in months. I could do something about that if I wanted to, but I didn’t. Phillip had spent thousands turning our small dank cellar into the cinema room of his dreams. A projector was trained against one smooth white wall, and there was a sofa and one armchair. The walls were white, the furniture tan leather with blue cushions. Minimalist and male. At one time, he’d had shelves lined with action figures, though he told me these were limited-edition collector’s items, not toys. They’d gone with him to The Barn along with some of his films and the rest of his paraphernalia that I could never get excited about.
“Is that Marmite?” he asked, sitting up and shuffling to the edge of his seat.
“Yep.”
“I hate Marmite.”
“Do you? I must’ve forgotten.”
He was sleepy, eyes still half closed, hair sticking up on one side, the shadow of a bruise on the left side of his face. It was fresh, a few hours old, and must have happened when he fell down the stairs. His stubble came high up on his cheeks, dark and thick, out of place on his usually smooth face.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked.
“Like I drank a bottle of cheap wine and fell down the stairs.”
He lurched at me without warning, but I stepped backward and his fingers only brushed my hip. I was on my guard.
“Now, then . . .” I said.
I gave a quiet nasal laugh that betrayed my nerves, but Phillip didn’t smile.
“You do remember, don’t you, that there’s the camping toilet behind the wall? The bike lock should be long enough to—”
“Jesus, Imogen. I can’t believe you’ve chained me up.”
“I know. No one’s more surprised than me,” I said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
I sat down in the armchair and crossed my legs, forcing myself to loosen up.
“You could have not chained me up,” he said, and then added, “Like a normal person.”
“Normal,” I said. “Not a word I’d apply to either of us. Sometimes you have to think outside the box.”
“There’s a difference between outside the box and outside the boundaries of sanity.”
He grimaced as he reached for the aspirin and swallowed two down without water. I looked at the water bottle, wondering whether he knew what I’d done to it, whether he could tell.
“You should drink the water,” I said. “Keep hydrated.”
“I’m touched that you should care,” he said with a sneer.
The overhead light was unflattering, casting his face into shadows as dark as the look in his eyes.
“Why the hell have you cuffed me?”
“I didn’t fancy being attacked again. I’ll let you go as soon as you agree to my terms.”
“Assault,” he said. “Unlawful imprisonment.”
“What are you doing?”
“Attempted murder, kidnap.”
“Phillip . . .”
“Just thinking about what they’ll charge you with.”
“You’re not making me want to let you go,” I said.
His bonds were only physical. I knew he could still reach me with his words if he wanted to. He used them as others would use a knife. A thousand small surface cuts to weaken you, an unbearably painful lattice hidden beneath an outfit of normality, chafing when you moved.
“You’ve made your point,” he said. “Unchain me and I’ll give you an extra month in the house.”
“It’s not about the house, Phillip.”
He rolled his eyes at me.
“And you can keep custody of Alistair, of course,” he said.
“I’ll need that in writing.”
“You can take my word,” he said.
“I won’t fall for that again.”
Creased puffy bags hung beneath husky-blue eyes. They were dusted gray and purple. The whites of his eyes reminded me of the beige paint on the walls of the hallway. Something was eating away at him and I didn’t think it was just because he was locked in the cellar.
I clenched and unclenched my toes. Concentrated on the rug beneath my feet. Made myself calm.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
“Why do you want me out of the house?” I asked.
He shook his head and looked away.
“Fine,” I said as I stood up. “I know you’re up to something, Phillip. I’m not letting you go until you agree to my terms. And if I’m going to let you see more of Alistair, I’m going to need assurances that you won’t hurt him.”
“I’ve never laid a finger on that boy, and you know it.”
“The things you say wound as much as the things you do. You’ve hurt him in ways that he will never recover from. Remember that time you shouted at him until he wet himself?”
“Bloody delusional, you are.”
Phillip had a way of making me doubt myself, but I knew the truth.
Alistair had been four years old. He had done something. A something that may as well have been a nothing. Crayoned on the wall maybe, or—I don’t know—forgotten to wash his hands before dinner. It didn’t warrant the strength of the reaction from his father. Phillip was furious. Shouting so much that spittle formed at the sides of his mouth and his cheeks were rage reddened. He stood Alistair on the table so that they were eye to eye and he bellowed. He yelled at him until Alistair cried and called out for me. I stood on the fringes, wanting to go to him, but Phillip stretched out his arm and kept me back. He roared and shouted vile things about disappointment and embarrassment, told him how everyone laughed at him for his babyish ways and his pathetic attempts to join in with the grown-ups.
I watched a dark line thicken Alistair’s trouser leg. Phillip curled his lip and told him he was a disgusting little baby, a pathetic little boy, he was ashamed to call him his son. I shouldered him aside, scooped Alistair up, and ran with him to the toilet. I felt warm liquid on my side and I loathed my husband at that moment. I remember the rush of earnest, handcrafted hatred and the liberation of being able to feel anything at all. I had been so unhappy for so long that it had been preferable to feel nothing at all than to be wounded anew every day. This new brand of hatred demolished the wall and I could see a light shining some way off. Little did I know that light was called Naomi.