‘I’ve been thinking,’ Carrie interrupts, ‘it’s best if I leave Tynemouth today, alone, because if Andy is trailing me then it needs to be just me in his firing line.’
‘That’s not what we discussed. We stick together.’
‘Alex, it’s safer this way. I’m used to evading him. It’s far easier for me to move alone. Then we meet up at Heathrow, as planned, buy our tickets there and then in cash, and board the plane together to start our brand spanking new life.’
Every part of me wants to scream an argument, but instead I agree. ‘You’ve got a point. You’re used to life on the run, I’m not. The last thing I want to do is give the game away, not when the stakes are so high. Still… Surely if Andy finds you, together we stand more of a chance?’
‘Alex, there’s more chance of him finding me if you’re with me. I’ll be safer without you.’
I know what she’s doing: using reverse psychology on me. She knows damn well that if she argues about it being safer for me, I won’t listen, but I’ll never do anything to put her in jeopardy.
‘Okay, I give up!’
That telltale line appears between her eyebrows. ‘Ah, I’ve just thought, I might need some money, in case it’s a while before I can shake him.’
‘Makes sense. If you’re going it alone then you need to have all the money. I’ll make the transfer of compensation funds to you, and give you all the cash, too.’
‘Don’t be daft! I can’t clean out all your money! What if something happens to me? If you could lend me just enough to get to Heathrow, I’d be grateful.’
‘Take the lot. Isn’t the whole point that you need it to start a new life?’ I ask in a sing-song voice. ‘Look, it’s nothing more than I offered last night, anyway. I’m happy to give you all of my money to escape this monster. You’re the one who’s thrown the lifeline to me by inviting me along.’
‘If you’re absolutely certain. At least you know we’re in this together now – I’ve shared all my secrets with you, and you could easily turn me in to the police if you wanted to.’
‘Like I said last night, anyone hearing your story would happily hand over their money to give you a life away from torture and pain.’
There’s a war being fought internally. Various muscles twitch as her expressions shift.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she admits.
‘No more talk. We need to save our energy for Andy and whatever trick he may have up his sleeve next. He’s been so clever, trailing our movements without us noticing, taking pictures of us. I’ll see you back at your place between ten and ten thirty, okay?’
She hesitates. This is the riskiest part of her plan. I reach out and rub her arm, reassuring.
‘Get into the house, grab your bags and sit tight. Make sure the place is locked up and that you’re safe. I’ll be there as soon as I can, promise.’
I stand on my step and wave her off. A cocktail of emotions churning my stomach as she leaves me. Everything that’s been happening is all too much for me. I should be getting ready to go to the clinic for my usual weigh-in and counselling, and instead I’m dealing with all this. My brain is in knots tighter than a ligature. No sleep, emotionally exhausted, walking a tightrope that could kill me if I fall off. The ground wavers beneath me. Feeling dizzy with fatigue, I make my way to the living room, blink…
Darkness swallows me whole.
Forty-Seven
Eyes open slowly. Head floating and heavy all at once. Sleepless nights and lack of food have well and truly taken their toll. Fighting the inky world that wants to drag me back, I struggle into a sitting position against the coffee table I’d fainted beside. Wipe a mark from it absently, then shake my head, tell myself to get it together. There are places I need to be. Check the time.
Damn it! Muscles too weak to do what they’re told are bullied into submission until I stand on jelly legs, holding the sofa for support. One step turns into several, until I’ve wobbled like a drunkard over to the mirror, rubbing at my eyes.
The state of me! For a second I can only stare at my dishevelled condition, then I’m pulling a hat over my crazy hair, yanking on my coat and scarf, grabbing paperwork I’ll need for the bank and running out of the door. Almost send my neighbour, Mrs Bridges, flying.
‘Sorry! Can’t stop!’ I shout.
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ she mutters.
Her grumpy comments are left far behind me as I race to the high street.
* * *
By the time I burst through the bank’s doors, I’m so out of breath I can barely speak. Cashiers and customers throw curious looks my way, especially as I can hardly keep still while waiting in line. Finally, I reach the front. Lean over the counter, glance over my shoulder and then say in a quiet voice: ‘I’d like to empty this account, please.’
‘I’m sorry?’ The cashier doesn’t bend closer to catch my words, and I’m loath to talk any louder about such a large amount. I look around again, worried someone might overhear me. Pull my coat a little closer around me.
‘I, er, said I want to empty this account. The paperwork’s all here, it shouldn’t be a problem – please don’t tell me there’s going to be a problem.’ My voice becomes a low moan.
A sidelong glance, and then she is tapping away at her computer. Seconds later she is looking at me again, studying me intently. ‘Are you certain you want to withdraw the whole balance of £19,450?’
‘Yes! How many times must I say it!’ My hands leave sweaty palm prints on the countertop.
‘In cash?’
A nod. The heating in the bank is on full blast. Sweat trickles down my face. I push back my hood, pull off my hat and scarf. People are staring, nudging, whispering. The more I urge the cashier to hurry, the more glacial her movements become.
‘Just one moment and I’ll arrange for a personal banker to speak to you in private.’
‘I don’t want—’
Too late, she’s already on the phone to somebody, a murmured conversation that I can’t quite make out. Almost instantly someone appears by her side. Straight back, confident gaze, firm voice, clearly a woman in charge. She asks me to follow her, and my knees feel weak as water as we go into a side room and she closes the door behind me.
‘I understand from my colleague that you wish to withdraw a large amount of funds in cash, and to close an account. Is that correct?’
‘What’s all the fuss about? It’s my account, and the paperwork’s here. I gave twenty-four hours’ notice, like I’m supposed to.’
‘You seem a little agitated, so I’m going to ask a question and need you to know that you’re safe to give me an honest answer. Whatever you say will be treated in strictest confidence. Are you under some form of duress to hand over this money?’
‘What? No, of course not! The money was raised for somebody else, and now I’m just giving it to that person. Everything is fine.’
There is an edge of hysteria to my voice that makes me shift uncomfortably, even though I’m telling the truth.
It takes another half an hour before the cash finally appears, and I don’t sit still for a minute of it.
* * *
By the time I finally make it out of the bank with nearly twenty thousand pounds stuffed into my handbag, I’m running horribly late. At least the wind is behind me, pushing me along. I’m bundled up against the cold, hood up, its fur trim cocooning me, but still I’ve got a woollen hat on under it, pulled down to my eyebrows for further protection, scarf over my nose and mouth. Everyone is similarly attired – the few people around, that is. The sea rages beside me, a white, mercurial fury that urges me on ever faster.
Am I doing the right thing? Is everything in place? Will I be safe?
These are questions no one has the answers to. No knocking on wood, or tossing of salt over my shoulder, not even starvation will influence the outcome one way or another. Life can’t be controlled or planned; if anyone understands that, it’s me. It should make me feel insignificant, but em
bracing that knowledge fills me with power. At last, I’m strong enough.
I reach Carrie’s cul-de-sac. Knock on the door, then bend down and call through the letterbox.
‘Don’t worry, it’s only me!’
Footsteps. The door opens on Carrie’s relieved face. ‘I was starting to think something had happened.’
I push past her, closing the door quickly behind us. Shoot the bolt across.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Forty-Eight
Then
The bonds of fear refused to give, no matter how hard I strained. No one could hear my screams, because they echoed only in my head. The single most terrifying thing that Andy had done to me during our one-year marriage was turn me into a version of my helpless mother.
All those years I had colluded with her, feeling sorry for her but also slightly superior, and now here I was in exactly the same situation. I’d fallen for a man identical to my father. Years of terror stretched in front of me like a rope with which I would hang myself.
But there was another rope I could grab. A lifeline tossed my way the last time I went to hospital after Andy had broken my arm pushing me down the stairs. My grip on it became stronger than steel.
The doctor had been suspicious on that visit, but with my husband by my side I hadn’t been able to tell the truth.
‘I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and took a tumble because I was being dozy,’ I’d lied.
‘She’s always dozy,’ Andy had laughed.
The doctor had written a prescription for a short course of sleeping tablets as well as painkillers.
Now I stood in the relative privacy of my kitchen and stared at the sleeping tablets. Was I really going to do this? Wrapping them in foil, I picked up the rolling pin and bashed them until there was nothing left but a fine powder. That should make them easier to swallow all at once.
Andy would be home soon, so it was now or never. I’d reached the point of no return, couldn’t take another day of pain.
A nod to make me feel stronger.
This way it would be over for good.
Andy gave me a kiss. Soft, tender, loving. He was in a good mood, teasing me with a glimpse of the man I fell in love with. It seemed particularly poignant as this would be our farewell meal. Peace enveloped me, lifted me up and let me float free.
‘Good day at work, love?’
‘Yeah, the boss is on about giving me a rise if this job comes off.’
‘That’s great news! You really deserve it. I’ve done your favourite tonight, sausage and mash with onion gravy. It can be your celebration meal.’
‘Great, I’m starving.’
He flopped onto the sofa, turned on the telly and started channel-surfing for something to watch as we ate. Settled on You’ve Been Framed. I could hear him chuckling away as I disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with his loaded plate on a tray.
He was already tucking in by the time I sat beside him with my own food. On-screen, someone somersaulted off their out-of-control motorbike and landed in a bush. Andy guffawed, sending a bit of mash flying from his mouth. He wiped his chin.
‘Potatoes are a bit grainy,’ he complained.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘You can’t get anything right, can you, you stupid cow.’
I held my breath. If he beat me now, he wouldn’t finish his food. He reached across the table towards me.
‘Pass the gravy, then,’ he scowled. Poured more onto his potatoes, then kept shovelling, eyes glued to the television.
It wasn’t long until the plate was clean.
He sat back with a satisfied groan, undoing the top button of his jeans, just as another episode started. By the time Harry Hill was telling viewers where to send their home videos if they wanted to appear in the programme, Andy’s head had dropped back, mouth wide open and drool slithering, slug-like, from it.
So far my plan was working like a dream. Time to put the rest of it into action.
It was hard work stripping him off. The dead weight of him flopped around and was hard to control, but eventually I managed it.
Posing him was much easier. He snored peacefully as I took picture after picture of him with various sex toys. My particular favourite was a close-up of him with his mouth wrapped around a massive dildo covered in realistic-looking veins. To a macho man like Andy, people thinking he was gay would be a fate worse than death. He was well known at work and down the pub for his vile homophobic comments – he often said that it was the most disgusting thing in the world, and that given half a chance he’d like ‘to kick the gay out of them’. If people saw these photographs, he’d be completely vilified by the nasty little friends who shared his views.
Moving quickly, unsure of how long Andy would be out for, I packed the few belongings I would be taking with me, then waited for him to stir. Played Call of Duty to pass the time. There was no fear. I wasn’t Mum any more; I’d rediscovered my true self: the girl who could survive anything.
A small groan. The smacking of lips. Andy yawned, stretched. Eyes still out of focus finally found mine.
‘Hello, sleepyhead. Do you see this photograph?’
He blinked slowly, still too sluggish to react properly. Finally, he seemed to focus on my phone’s screen. Lethargic face wrinkled with dumb confusion, various expressions moving across it with the speed of plate tectonics.
‘I’m leaving you now, Andy, and if you try to stop me, this photograph and all of these others,’ I paused, scrolling through the private peepshow I had created, ‘will be sent to your friends and family via email, social media and text message.’
Leaden realisation and horror were starting to make themselves known on his face. He tried to sit up, but fell back, too weak from the effects of the sleeping tablets still.
‘If you come after me, the same thing will happen. If anything ever happens to me, a friend will make sure that these photographs are spread far and wide. You’ll be a laughing stock. Do you hear me?’
He swiped at my phone, sluggish as a sloth. It was an easy blow to dodge. He floundered on the sofa, trying to stand, trying to sit, but falling back prostrate.
‘Don’t be stupid, Andy. Even if you destroyed this phone, all of the photographs are backed up.’ I’d sent them to a second emergency pay-as-you-go phone I also had, that he didn’t ever need to know about. Two phones made me feel safer, in case I ever got into trouble and was forced to hand one over.
‘So, are you going to let me go and leave me alone?’
A slow nod.
‘Oh, and if this little bit of blackmail isn’t enough to keep you away from me, just remember: this time it was sleeping tablets that I put in your food, next time it could be poison. Let me walk out of this house and never follow me, and our lives will both be better for it. Make me stay, and I’ll make your life as hellish as you’ve made mine.’
Sleep seemed to be taking him again. Just in case he was too out of it to remember this conversation properly, I sent him my favourite snap. That dildo really did look realistic – and Andy appeared to be deeply happy about it. That would give him something to remember me by when he woke properly.
Eyelids fluttering against slumber, he watched me helplessly while I slung my bag over my shoulder and started to walk out. Suddenly I stopped. Went back, unplugged his PlayStation and stuffed it into my bag. Ideally, I’d be able to keep it myself and play it. It was the least I deserved. Failing that, I might be able to flog it; and if I couldn’t do that, at least I’d have the satisfaction of knowing that Andy didn’t have it any more.
Forty-Nine
Then
The house I’d grown up in looked like a ghost of itself. It had never been particularly well looked after, despite Mum’s best efforts, but now it seemed to sag inward apologetically, the windows soulless as well as curtain-less. The living room window had chipboard nailed over it, and a local joker had graffiti-sprayed a generously proportioned penis on it.
My feet shift
ed from side to side, making up their mind whether to walk away or walk on in. My brain wasn’t involved in the decision; if it had been I wouldn’t be anywhere near my childhood home.
I was just about to turn away when the door opened. At least it didn’t creak. Dad shuffled out. Clothes baggy on his spare frame, sunken cheeks, grey stubble on pasty skin, a double whammy of bags and dark circles under his eyes. He saw me on the pavement and stopped. Even from this distance I could hear the rasp of his nails scratching across his chin. As he did so, he opened his mouth, like a dog enjoying an ear scratch. Feral. He’d lost two front teeth in the two years since I’d last seen him.
What on earth had I been thinking, going there? Had I imagined he’d have changed for the better after losing Mum? Of course he hadn’t; he was even worse, if anything. But despite everything, I’d gone back to that house rather than become homeless – just like Mum had been isolated from friends by Dad, one by one mates had dropped away as Andy’s influence had grown over me. For all my big talk in front of my husband, I had nowhere left to go and nobody to turn to.
Dad stepped closer.
‘Come to see your old man, eh?’ He rubbed his hands on his legs, anxious, distracted. Leaned closer, a smile conning its way on to his face and pulling his wrinkles. My dad was only forty-eight but looked two decades older. ‘Don’t, er, don’t suppose you’ve got any money? Just a few quid for a drink?’
I could have got drunk on the fumes from his breath.
Anger barrelled through me. Why couldn’t I have had a normal dad, like other people? Why couldn’t he have been more like the dad of my imagination?
‘Look at you. It’s 11 a.m. and you’re desperate for booze,’ I snapped. ‘Your hands are shaking! I used to be so scared of you, but you’re pathetic. You’ve picked on people all your life, to make yourself feel big and brave and strong, because deep down inside you know you’re none of those things. Because of you, I spent years hating Mum, blaming her for not protecting me, when all the time I should have been angry with you.’
The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Page 22