The One That Got Away

by Annabel Kantaria

  ‘George?’ she calls.

  I run into the en suite and shove the door closed. All my body wants to do is put space between us but, in the bathroom, I’m trapped. I stand, helpless, at the sink. The footsteps get closer. Step, limp, step, limp.

  ‘George? Are you there? Are you all right?’

  I can’t speak.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, the door swings open. My throat’s so tight my breath rasps. I lean on the sink for support and watch until there she is, standing in the doorway, her stone Buddha statue in her hands. She’s breathing hard, too. She stares at me and I stare at her, but behind her I see in the periphery my bag on the bed and I know at once that she’s seen it; that she’s seen I’m packing; she knows that I know. She raises the statue with both hands, and I jerk backwards, scattering towards the toilet like a terrified kitten.

  She smiles. ‘Take it, George! It’s heavy! I thought it would look better in the bathroom.’ I realise she’s holding out the statue and I come forward and grasp its cold weight in my hands. Do I have it in me to whack her over the head with it? To put an end to this?

  But, as I hesitate, Stell turns and leaves the bathroom. Her eyes sweep over the packing on the bed as she leaves the room. I hear the click of the lock; the rasp as she withdraws the key, the chink of her dropping it elsewhere, then her footsteps receding.

  She’s locked me in. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, my breath still rasping. Think, George. Think, think, think.

  But it’s hard to think. My entire landscape has changed. Sitting here on the bed that Stella chose, locked in the bedroom that Stella decorated, in the house that Stella tricked me into buying, I realise I’m shaking uncontrollably. I’ve been a marionette whose strings she’s jerking and now I’m trapped with a monster, left at her mercy. I get up and pace the room. At the window, I look out at the top of the garden, the fields and hedges beyond; over to the left, the woods. Could I feasibly jump and run? Just go and never come back? I imagine lowering myself down from the sill, then taking the six-foot drop. The bedroom is above the living room. What if she saw me? Would she chase me?

  What have we become?

  Then from downstairs, I hear a sound: the opening of the front door followed by its closing with a click. For a second I think she’s left the house, then I recalibrate that information knowing what I now know: maybe she’s tricking me into thinking she’s left. If I break out, will she be waiting outside the bedroom door for me? With what in her hand? An image of her bludgeoning me to death springs to mind and I see crime scene tape outside the house; news reporters in the lane outside. Then I give myself a shake: Get a grip, George. Surely she wouldn’t kill you. Surely!

  With my ear pressed to the bedroom door, I strain to hear the sound of the garage door raising, of the car starting, but there’s nothing, just silence and that infernal greasy blackbird chirping its annoying little lungs out. I cross the room and look again at the familiar garden; at its friendly coloured flowers and the grass still slightly depressed where the marquee had sat for the party, but now it’s enemy territory: a branch in the hedge moves and suddenly I’m seized by the fear that she’s out there, watching me from outside, plotting, planning – planning what? To burn the house down with me inside? I whack the shutters closed, bang, bang, bang, panel by panel, then I sink onto the floor, my head below the level of the window.

  Think, George. Think.

  I crawl to the bed, where my phone is, and dial Harry, still sitting on the floor, as if she’s going to shoot me (with what?) through the window. My words tumble out as soon as he picks up.

  ‘You’re right! She’s been gas-lighting me. I just looked it up. She’s a psycho! She had this statue in her hand and I thought… Oh God.’ I pause. ‘I’m scared, Harry. I don’t know what she’s going to do next.’ Tears spring from nowhere and I see myself – a middle-aged man crying on the bedroom floor – and I have no shame.

  ‘OK, OK,’ says Harry. ‘What’s happening now? Where’s she? Where are you?’

  ‘She’s locked me in the bedroom and left the house. I think.’ I wipe at the snot that’s running down my face.

  ‘Does she know you know?’

  ‘I think so. I was packing. She saw my bag. What shall I do? Tell me what to do!’ I’m sobbing. Self-loathing chokes me.

  ‘This is the most dangerous time. If she knows you know. The stakes are way higher now. You’ve got to get out. Break the door down.’ Harry’s voice is urgent.

  ‘What if she’s still here? What if she’s waiting behind the door?’

  Harry exhales. ‘It’s a risk you’ve got to take. What’s the alternative? You wait there till she chooses to let you out? Who knows what she’s planning. Who knows how long that’ll be. Better you break out now. She could leave you for days, till you’re starving and weak. She loves to control you, remember? It’s her modus operandi. You need to take back control.’

  I realise the whimpering I can hear is coming from me.

  ‘George!’ Harry shouts. ‘Get a grip! Come on! Get your shoulder against that door, or use that statue, and break it down. Go on, do it! Do it now! I’ll stay on the line.’

  I try. I throw myself at the door once, twice, three, four, five times, but it won’t budge. From the phone I hear Harry’s tinny voice.

  ‘George! George!’

  I pick it up again, panting. ‘I can’t do it! I can’t get out! She’s going to kill me!’

  ‘Calm down. Come on, let’s think. Do you have your house keys with you?’

  I scan the room fast, not taking in anything, then again more slowly. I see them on the dresser.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘OK. I’m coming over. Sit tight. Don’t do anything. Just wait. I’m coming now.’

  EIGHTEEN

  George

  I don’t know how long it is till Harry calls again. It feels like for ever. I sit on the floor, below the height of the window, leaning against the bedroom wall and every fibre of my being is tensed, listening for the slightest sound: the strike of a match, the crackle of a flame, the click of a lock. My scalp prickles with the effort. I jump when the phone rings.

  ‘I’m here,’ says Harry. ‘Where’s your bedroom? Front or back?’

  ‘Back.’

  ‘OK, I’m coming round. Open the window and throw me the keys.’

  ‘Ring the doorbell first. What if she’s here? Hiding?’

  ‘OK. But throw me the keys now.’

  I open the shutters and there’s Harry outside in the garden looking so bizarrely normal in his jeans and jacket. I fiddle with the window, wrench it open and chuck the keys down. Harry disappears down the side path and then the doorbell rings. I run to the bedroom door and listen for any movement in the house; any stirring but there’s nothing. The doorbell rings again. Faintly, I hear Harry’s voice.

  ‘Yoo-hoo! Anyone home?’

  A fist bangs on the door – bam-bam-bam – then I hear the key sliding into the lock and the door opening.

  ‘George? Stella?’ he calls, then suddenly he’s on the landing and at the door.

  ‘George. The key’s not in the door!’ There’s a pause, then footsteps. Oh hang on, got it.’

  As he slides the key into the lock I leap into the bathroom and peer out, ready to slam that door in his face – what if it’s a trick? What if Stella’s with him? But it’s only Harry who steps into the room.

  ‘She’s definitely not here?’ I ask. I’m shaking.

  ‘I didn’t see her. Come on, get your things and let’s go.’

  I grab my bag, take one last look at my marital bedroom – at the place where I was supposed to be so happy. Harry follows me out. On the landing, I freeze.

  ‘Ssh. I heard something.’

  We both stand stock-still, listening, then I creep towards the nursery. From inside comes the faintest sound. I strain to hear: a song, a lullaby… ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’. With my foot, I give the door a gentle nudge. It swings open. The room’
s empty, the lullaby coming from a battery-operated toy: the plastic sheep night light on the cot. Once I’m sure that the room’s empty, I step across to the cot and click off the switch. The silence then is deafening.

  ‘Come on.’

  Harry and I clatter downstairs and straight out of the front door. I slam it hard behind me. Harry jingles his car keys.

  ‘Right. Where to? You want to come back to mine?’

  I shake my head. ‘Thanks but no. It’s the first place Stell will look for me. Can you take me to Richmond? To Ness.’

  She’ll understand. She’ll take care of me.

  NINETEEN

  George

  It’s a long journey down to Richmond, but Harry doesn’t say much. I spend the bulk of the journey telling him every single little thing that Stella did during our short marriage, from the diet she put me on to encouraging me to take the money. He nods along, unsurprised.

  ‘And you were right,’ I say. ‘I’m sure she was drugging me. She had sleeping tablets. There were only four left and she never takes them.’

  ‘What? She was putting them in your food?’

  ‘No. She switched them with my cholesterol meds. She used to leave them out for me with a glass of water if I was out late. And it was always those times that I lost my memory of the night before. I never questioned it.’ I feel physically sick when I think about this.

  ‘Whoah. Mixing sedatives with alcohol?’ Harry shakes his head. ‘It’s a dangerous game. Shit, George. But the main thing is you’re out of it now. We’ve got to come up with a plan for you going forward. How you’re going to get her claws out of you.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I lapse into silence and rehearse what I’m going to say to Ness. I’ll apologise, of course. In my mind’s eye, I see myself on my knees in front of her, clutching her hands and begging for forgiveness, though I know it won’t happen like that. But I need to apologise for the way I treated her when we were married. I can see it all so clearly now. How could I have been so cruel? I took her for granted, cheated on her, kept her down where I wanted her and didn’t even let her pursue her own career.

  And, while I’m thinking about all this, I remember that chaste little kiss we had on Richmond Green – how erotic it had been – and I wonder if there could ever be a day when Ness might even take me back; when I might be able to put right all that’s gone wrong since the day I met Stella.

  My body physically relaxes when we reach Richmond, and I exhale all my stress in several deep breaths. This is where I belong. This is my place. Whatever happens, I’m going to move back here; get a place on my own – whatever. As Harry drives us through town, I feel like it’s a homecoming; like the shopfronts are my friends. I’m looking out for people I know. It’s a sunny day and, as we reach the crest of Richmond Hill, I catch sight of the river sliding through the city like a ribbon of silver light. God, how I’ve missed it, stuck out in the country – trapped in Stella’s country dream. I’ve been brainwashed. I see that now. How could I have been so stupid?

  Harry turns into the driveway and stops the engine.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ he says. I get out, rake my fingers through my hair, check my breath, then I walk up the drive and ring the doorbell, almost surprised that the sound of my heart banging doesn’t bring her to the door. Like a schoolboy calling for his first date, I shift from foot to foot, and then the lock clicks and the door opens.

  ‘George!’ Ness does a double-take. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She’s barefoot, in shorts and a vest, and there’s classical music coming from inside the house. Haydn. The track makes my insides contract. Sunday mornings with Ness: music, coffee and the papers.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  ‘Are you OK?’ She looks at me in concern and we lock eyes for a moment. Her eyes. I’d forgotten how blue they are: ‘irises like irises’ I used to say. It’s Ness who breaks the eye contact to nod at my backpack.

  ‘What’s up? Has something happened?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Can I come in?’

  She motions me into the hallway and closes the front door behind me as I breathe in the smell of home. Pepper comes running, tail wagging, mad as a bag of frogs as usual, and I bend to pet her. It kills me that all this is no longer mine.

  ‘Sit!’ says Ness. ‘Stay!’ And Pepper does as she’s told, cocking her head to look at me.

  ‘You’ve trained her?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I drop my bag and Ness looks at me expectantly. I swallow, suddenly shy.

  ‘So… the news is, I’ve left Stella.’

  ‘Okaay,’ Ness says slowly. ‘And… ?’ She holds her hand out, palm up.

  ‘Oh God. I don’t know where to start,’ I say. ‘You won’t believe what I’ve been through; what she’s done. But the first thing I want to do is apologise to you.’ I pause. ‘I’m so sorry. For everything. I see now what an arse I was when we were married. You have no idea how sorry I am.’

  ‘George. I…’ Ness opens her mouth to speak but outside the front door, there’s a commotion. A man’s voice shouting; the sound of running footsteps; a thud against the front door; and then someone banging on the door. Ness and I look at each other, eyes wide.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ness pulls the door open and I know on a primal level before my eyes fully process what they’re seeing, exactly who it is who’s outside; who it is who’s struggling with Harry: Stella.

  ‘I’m sorry! I couldn’t stop her!’ Harry’s out of breath.

  ‘So this is what you’ve been up to!’ Stella spits at me. ‘I knew it! I knew I’d find you here! I knew if I left you, this is where you’d run!’

  For a moment, I stare at her. I stand stock-still and stare, taking in the full horror of what Stella is; at last fully comprehending all the ways in which she’s tried to manipulate and destroy me, and it’s only then that I realise what the missing part of the puzzle was.

  Hatred. Stella Simons actually hates me.

  She lurches towards me, but I shove past her and I run. Away from the madness. Away from the monster. I run down the steps. Down the driveway. As if demons possess me, I bolt straight into the road – straight into the path of a speeding white van.

  ‘George!’ Ness screams.

  But Harry’s there behind me and his weight slams into me, trying to push me away from the van.

  Screeching brakes. Screaming. Blackness.

  TWENTY

  Stella

  George doesn’t die.

  It’s touch and go for a while. Internal injuries, a brain injury and bones broken in so many places they resemble putty. But I don’t know that at the time. When I see his body fly up in the air, spinning in an arc against the bright, bright blue of the sky, and when I see him fall, shattered, onto the road with a crunch that still haunts me; when I arrive at his side and see the stillness that hangs over him among the chaos all around; when I see the snake of blood oozing from his mouth and the odd angles of his limbs, I think he surely can’t survive. No human can survive such an impact. His brother, with his brain matter spilling on the tarmac, clearly hasn’t.

  But then I rally: this is George – my George! – he always bounces back.

  Yes, he always bounces back.

  And so, while a passer-by respectfully covers the remains of Harry’s crushed head with her coat and while Ness falls to her knees over George, unable to do anything but scream his name, it is I who springs into action.

  It’s I who calls the ambulance; who speaks to the controller, gives the right address, stops passers-by from moving him. It’s I who checks his airway and covers him with a blanket. And it’s I who feels for a pulse, who looks up at Ness and nods, before she turns and vomits on the pavement. They say the first few moments after an accident are the most critical.

  So, yes, it is I who saves his life.

  I sleep in ICU with him until he’s out of danger, the beep of his heart monitor lulling me to sleep. I lose track of time; the ICU becomes my underwater world o
f semi-darkness and whirring machines, and then, days later, he wakes from his coma, and I discover the most ironic thing of all: I discover that George has lost his memory.

  TWENTY-ONE

  George

  ‘And this is the village doctor – Dr Grant,’ says Stell.

  I’m in hospital for weeks. Every day Stell brings in photos to try to spark my memory. Thankfully, the long-term stuff is fine: my childhood, family, and so on. Stell’s told me that Harry died trying to save me and I find it hard to imagine how or why because we never were that close.

  I even remember being married to Ness and running Wolsey Associates. It seems to be pretty much the last year that’s been wiped. Stell’s brought pictures of our wedding, our house and the village we live in but nothing’s firing the synapses; it’s like looking at someone else’s photos. I take the picture she’s holding today and examine it: it’s an older man, nicely dressed, wearing small, silver glasses. While I don’t recognise him, I can see that being a doctor might suit him.

  ‘He looks nice.’

  ‘Yes. He’s a good bloke. Sends his regards, by the way.’ Stell holds out another photo. ‘And this is Derek – the pub landlord.’

  She watches me like a hawk while I scrutinise the picture. I want desperately to recognise something; I can see how much it means to her and I really want to please her.