After He Killed Me

by Natalie Barelli

  We collapse to the deck from exhaustion. Carol lies back, and I watch Jim’s body, face down, bob and float on the surface of the water. The light is almost gone. I check my watch, it’s almost seven thirty. I look around us: there’s nothing. No one in sight. We are completely and utterly alone.

  Carol has stood up. She grabs hold of a cable and looks out.

  “Can we go, please?” I ask.

  She doesn’t reply. Finally, she pulls up the anchor, with some difficulty.

  “You’re sure you can sail?” I joke.

  “Just give me a minute, please.” She’s panting from the effort. “Okay, help me. Here, pull this,” she says, and I am more relieved than I can say.

  I look out to where we dropped him. I can just make him out in the darkness, or maybe I’m imagining it. The boat lurches a bit as we reset the sails, the wind working to increase the distance between us and Jim.

  Bye bye, I think.

  I can’t say I’m upset.

  21

  “Let’s stop,” I tell Carol.

  It’s completely dark now. We’re far enough. I’m not a great sailor, and I’m anxious that we should be able to make our way back.

  We take down the sails again, drop the anchor, and the boat quickly stops with just a bobbing motion. There’s little wind anyway. Carol peers over the side of the boat.

  “I’m going to change,” I tell her.

  “Okay.”

  I go downstairs, taking Jim’s clothes with me. I open the seat and pull out my backpack. There’s a small bed at the back of the cabin. Just big enough for two people. I lie on top of it, flat on my back, my head on the pillow, and I close my eyes, just for a moment.

  When Carol wakes me up, I don’t know where I am. It’s pitch black, except for the small red light above the door.

  “Emma, wake up.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three o’clock in the morning.”

  I’ve been asleep for hours. I peer at her, try and make out her face in the darkness.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  “It’s fine, everything’s fine.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

  “What was the point? You may as well get some sleep.”

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, feel the floor with my feet.

  “I want to wash my face, get changed.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn on the lights and look at myself in the mirror. I pull the wig from the backpack and put it on, careful to tuck my ponytail into it.

  I resist the urge to take a shower. I remove my clothes and step into Jim’s cargo pants and his polo shirt. The pants are too big, of course, especially around the waist, and I secure them with the belt I brought along. I have some additional padding in my bag, but that can wait.

  I go back upstairs. Carol is standing on the bow, looking into the distance.

  “It’s me,” I say, then add, “I’ve changed,” to warn her.

  She turns and gasps at the sight of me in Jim’s clothes.

  “You gave me a fright.”

  “I tried to warn you.”

  She looks me up and down, then cocks her head to one side. “I don’t know.”

  “What?” I ask, looking down at myself.

  “They’re too big on you, his clothes. It looks odd.”

  I let out a frustrated sigh, pulling at the polo shirt that’s at least three sizes too large. “You’re not helping, Carol. It’s not as if I can do anything about it now.”

  “Give me a second.” She moves quickly to the back of the boat and returns with a bright blue windbreaker. “Put this on.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s Jim’s.”

  I don’t recognize it, but that means nothing. She helps me put it on. It’s light, and it helps hide the ill-fitting clothes as well as the obviously female contours of my upper body.

  “Thanks,” I say. “It does feel better.” We sit together, watching the black water that surrounds us; she keeps peering out over the side.

  “Stop doing that, please,” I implore.

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking for him.”

  “I’m not, I wasn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you. He’s not there, okay? He’s at least five miles that way.” I point.

  “I know.”

  “Just don’t go weird on me. You should get some sleep. I’ll stay here.”

  “Okay.”

  She pads downstairs, careful in the moonlight. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. I stare out to sea. I’m not looking out for Jim; he’s gone. But I see her, just like I knew I would—a fleeting image, like a ghost in the mist.

  Get lost, Beatrice. Leave me alone.

  It’s almost three o’clock the following afternoon by the time we get back to the marina. I’ve been up since 3 a.m. I feel nauseous with anxiety, sitting on the small bed in the cabin while Carol is outside, securing the boat to the dock. I offered to help but she said it was best for me to stay down here until we’re ready to leave. No need to let people take too close a look at me. I suppose she’s right. I just want to get out of here.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Carol is standing in the doorway to the cabin. She’s biting the side of her thumbnail. My stomach clenches.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s the guy from the boat rental office. He’s right outside, on the dock. Talking to someone.”

  “Shit.” I close my eyes, willing myself not to panic. “The guy you hired the boat from?”

  “The guy we hired the boat from, Jim and I. And they had a nice long conversation, the two of them.”

  “Okay.” She doesn’t need to point out that he’ll know I’m not Jim if we run into him out there and he starts chatting to us. “We’ll have to stay put for a while.”

  She looks back toward the dock. “Wait. He’s leaving. No, he’s stepped onto a boat. Two down from us.” She cranes her neck. “He’s gone inside the cabin.” She turns to me. “You need to go. Now.” I stand up quickly, grab my backpack from the floor. She pulls me by the elbow. “Hurry up. And put your hat on. You can take it off later.”

  I rummage through my bag and pull out the hat. Then I put the sunglasses on. Carol is pushing me out onto the deck and I almost stumble. There are a few people out there coming and going. No one is paying attention to me.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I ask as I’m about to step off the boat.

  “I’ll be there in a minute. I want to make sure we haven’t left anything behind. Wait for me at the end of the dock.” I hesitate. Then I hear her whisper behind me, “Please, Emma. Hurry up, he’s going to come back, he’ll see you and come over and talk to you if you don’t get a move on. Please.”

  The urgency in her voice propels me forward and I jump onto the dock. I put my hands in my pockets to stop them from shaking. Seeing all these people from the corner of my eye, I’m scared that I’m not going to be able to pull this off.

  When I get to the main pier, I stop and turn back, looking for her. There’s a wooden barrier along the edge and I lean against it, keeping my head down.

  Five minutes go by. I don’t understand what’s taking her so long. Maybe the guy she saw earlier is talking to her now. How was your trip? Catch anything? I hope not. It would be odd for Jim not be there with her. We want as many people as possible to see Jim and Carol return together. That’s the whole point.

  I keep glancing up to check for her, but after ten minutes she still hasn’t returned. I don’t understand how I could possibly have missed her. Or her me.

  I keep looking at Jim’s watch on my wrist. Twenty minutes. I can’t stay here. Should I go back to the boat? I decide against it. I walk toward the parking lot, past the rental company’s office, where I stop and glance through the glass frontage, but she’s not there either. I want to wait for her here, but there’s nowhere obvious for me to do so, and everyone around me i
s walking, so I keep going.

  When I get to the parking lot, she’s already there, standing beside the white Buick Verano. I join her in great strides.

  “Where the fuck have you been, Emma?” she snaps. She’s frowning at me, her eyes narrowed.

  “Me?” I ask through clenched teeth. “And where the fuck were you? I’ve been waiting exactly where you told me!”

  “No you haven’t! You weren’t there. I looked for you everywhere, Emma!”

  “I was on the pier, at the end of the dock, you should have seen me!”

  “Well, I didn’t, because you weren’t there!”

  “I looked for you everywhere too! Oh, stop this, Carol, we’re here now, okay?”

  I’m sweating a little, the wig is too hot for this weather, and I can’t wait to get this windbreaker off me. I note that she’s already removed her baseball cap. We need to get out of here.

  “Let’s just go,” I say. She opens the passenger door for me. I slide into the seat, drop my bag on the floor.

  “Is this new?” I ask, hoping to release the tension.

  “I’ve had it about a year,” she says, a little surly.

  “You sure look after it.” The dashboard is dust-free. The whole car smells clean. “I’m impressed.”

  Carol checks things in the back while I wait. She puts the cooler away. There’s a screaming child just outside my window. I turn to look at the woman pulling him by the hand, looking frustrated as he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. He abruptly pulls his hand away and flings himself on the ground, fists thumping. His mother crouches, and after a fair amount of begging and cajoling, the child gets up and she takes his hand again. She throws me a quick apologetic glance. I give her a small nod in return and open the glove compartment, just for something to do; something that would justify me not looking at her. I pretend to look for a map. I fiddle around with my backpack at my feet. Inside the front pocket I spot Carol’s cell phone, so I pull it out, drop it in the compartment, and close the door, fiddling with the latch. By the time I look up again, the woman and child have gone and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Carol returns and gets into the driver’s seat.

  “Let’s go,” she says, “it’s over.”

  It’s over, I repeat to myself.

  It’s over.

  Carol is surprisingly calm, calmer than I expected, whereas I’m vibrating with anxiety.

  “What did they say? When you returned the key?”

  “They said, ‘Thank you. Did you enjoy yourselves?’ That sort of thing. Perfectly normal.”

  “Okay, good.”

  She glances my way. “You’re okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it. You look anxious, Emma.”

  “I’m not anxious. I’m hot and I want to get out of this fucking getup.”

  I tug at my wig, but she puts a hand on my arm. “Don’t. Wait. We’re almost there.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I tell her where to drop me off. It’s a block away from the shopping mall where I spent a few hours the day before yesterday mapping out my escape route, looking for the blind spots where the CCTV won’t catch me, if anyone comes looking, which would be highly unlikely.

  I’m not taking any chances though. When I went there, I wore the other wig, the black bob, and I picked clothes I don’t usually wear, from the less expensive section of my wardrobe.

  Carol stops the car. We quickly go over the rest of our plan. We expect Terry will call when Jim doesn’t show up. If not, I’ll prompt it somehow. Something like, Hey, have you heard anything from Jim? I got a disturbing message, etc. “I hope he’s okay. I’m really worried about his state of mind,” I’ll say.

  Meanwhile, Carol will call the cops and report Jim missing the day after tomorrow. We discussed it, and agreed that if he’d really disappeared, she wouldn’t have thought to contact the police before then.

  We think his body will wash up ashore eventually. A clear case of suicide if there ever was one. Carol never would have agreed to go on this boat trip with him if she’d known he’d use it to plan his suicide. She’ll tell them that, when they drove back after the boat trip, he asked to be let out of the car. He wanted to walk. He needed to think about the work situation. He seemed okay when he left her, but now she thinks maybe he was faking it for her benefit. That was the last time she saw him. She should never have let him go.

  And even if his body doesn’t bob its way to shore somewhere, then that’s fine too. He’s gone. He’s been planning his escape. Have a look in Tunisia.

  We go over it one more time. We’ll probably never see each other again.

  “Good luck to you, Carol,” I say. “Have a good life. I mean that.”

  She gives me a small smile. “You too, Emma.” She puts her hand on my arm. “And thank you.”

  I put my hat back on, pull it low. Between that and the sunglasses, as long as I keep my head down, you can barely see my face.

  She lets me out. I lean in, kiss her on the lips.

  “See you soon, sweetheart,” I say, nice and loud, and leave, closing the car door after me.

  I walk inside the shopping center, then to the main department store and straight to the public toilets. The door leads into a short corridor. There’s no one there. I open the door to the ladies’ room, ready to make my apologies if I need to—sorry, wrong one—but it’s almost empty, with someone in one of the cubicles, but no one at the sinks. I step inside the other cubicle and change back into my own clothes, and remove the wig. I store it all in the backpack and go to the mirror to check myself. It’s fine. I look fine. I look like myself again. A very tired, sunburned version of myself.

  I throw water on my face. I hear a toilet flush and a woman comes out to the sink area. She smiles at me in the mirror. I give her a quick smile in return and rinse my hands. After I’ve dried them, I look in my bag for some makeup. While I apply lipstick, the woman leaves. I purse my lips and make a mock kiss in the mirror.

  So, here we are, Jim.

  No, wait, you’re not here anymore, that’s right. How could I forget?

  You really underestimated me, you little piece of shit, didn’t you? Not for the first time either. And look how that turned out for you.

  I apply a little eyeshadow, congratulating myself on a job well done. I feel fantastic.

  Does three make me a serial killer?

  22

  I woke up this morning infused with a lightness I have not felt in years. I’m free, and I’m strong, and I want a new life. I want friends and loved ones around me. I want laughter and good food, friendships, and confidences, and I want to fill the void with people.

  I slept surprisingly well last night. No ghosts, no nightmares, just the sleep of the just. I go for a run, and all the time I am running, I have images flashing through my mind, snapshots of Jim and me at dinners, birthdays, vacations, celebrations, of us making love, and all I can think is: What was I thinking?

  Why did I stay so long with this psychopath? What on earth did I see in him? Flipping through the slideshow of my memories from this new vantage point, all I can see is a pompous narcissist, and then there’s me, looking up, prepared to do anything to please him. It makes me run faster. I see a man who was so self-deluded that even after he committed major fraud, he still thought he had come up with the magic formula to solve the world’s problems. No, Jim, you faked it, remember?

  I used to think he was so smart. Now I realize he just enjoyed putting me down to raise himself up. His behavior toward me was bordering on abuse, frankly, and I should have my head examined.

  But that was then, and today is a new day, and good riddance to you, Jim.

  I change out of my running gear, have a shower, and dress in nice clothes. I look much better now. I feel great. My running routine and healthy diet are paying off. That drab, sad face, those ugly dark circles under my eyes, that sallow look are all gone.

  How is Carol faring? Did she sleep? O
r did she stay up all night wondering whether it was all a bad dream. Is she relieved? She must be relieved. There’s something to be said for not having to look over your shoulder all the time, convinced that the psychopath over there, in your bed, the one who professes to love you and only you, is trying to kill you.

  A few months ago, I never thought I would say this, but I quite like Carol now. I thought she showed some guts yesterday. I hardly know this woman. We spent a little bit of social time together way back when, and then she moved away. But she surprised me. Considering what we’ve shared, I find myself almost regretting that we will never see each other again.

  Almost, but not quite.

  I don’t want to stay in that dreary empty apartment, so I decide to go and buy myself a juicer. Now that the new me has emerged, and the new me is getting fit, healthy, happy, eats lots of vegetables, and does not drink so much. I read somewhere that fresh juice every morning does wonders for the skin, and what’s not to like about that? So I take myself off to Williams-Sonoma, one of my favorite stores in the city.

  I’m wandering around the Homewares department, and I’m looking at a shelving display of dinnerware—very beautiful pieces, in fact—when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to find an elderly woman I do not recognize looking at me expectantly, a thin smile on her face.

  “Would you? Please?” she starts to say.

  She’s short, significantly shorter than me, although not quite a midget. She must be in her seventies I think, maybe late sixties. I sigh internally, rearrange my features into a question and a smile, because it makes me look benevolent—and, I hope, kind. It’s usually women of her age that have particularly connected with my novel, although, as has often been said, Long Grass Running transcends generations. Considering I’ve been complaining that people don’t recognize me anymore, I should be pleased. But then from the corner of my eye I catch sight of “Nick the Prick,” some distance away and walking in my direction. He’s checking various items in a desultory fashion. Why, if it isn’t the “Most Promising Writer of his Generation.” What perfect timing. He hasn’t noticed me yet, but he will any moment now, since I’m more or less right in his path.