by Emma Curtis
If it was an act of malice, how long had he been playing games with my head before he struck, how many times had he seen me on public transport, passed me in the street, been behind me in the queue at the local grocery? If he admits to having sex with me, he will lie and tell them that I initiated it, that I knew who he was. A knowledge of face-blindness isn’t proof.
There is Bettina’s statement. She saw me with Elliot and knew how drunk I was and has agreed to testify that in her opinion I was in no condition to make a sound judgement. We both know it’s weak, that at best it’s moral support. Some people will say I brought it on myself.
I can’t think about it for long because it brings back memories that are upsetting and my confidence is at an all-time low as it is. I will have my say, whatever the result. I was raped. He knew what he was doing. He raped me. It was him.
The only niggle I have is my later physical response to Elliot. My body should have reacted, my subconscious should have alerted me. None of that happened, and, in the spirit of full disclosure, I admit that I found him attractive that night after the GZ party. I’m ashamed of it and will never tell Phoebe. She’s moving anyway, and soon there’ll be someone else living beneath me, someone else who I won’t recognize when I meet them in the local supermarket or stand next to them as the train pulls into Kentish Town station.
My nephews keep me distracted. Milo has been practising the three-cup shuffle and is a master of the skill, irritating his brother no end. I sit at the table and stare at the cups as he switches them, his hands moving like lightning, as though he’s plaiting hair. Every time I think I’ve got it, I turn out to be wrong. Somehow, he keeps his eye on the ball. Somehow, he is in control. Eyes, hands, brain. I try it myself, but I don’t have the knack.
One nice thing. Jamie rang. We had one of those daft, meaningless conversations where nothing gets said, but there’s a smile behind every word, because we just know.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me.’
‘I know it’s you.’
It turns out Bettina wasn’t interested in him; she was trying to make Finn jealous. It worked apparently. When I mention it, Jamie says it’s news to him, he didn’t notice her efforts because he only had eyes for me.
I laugh. ‘So you say.’
‘I swear it’s true.’
I am unsettled when I get back to London and that feeling decides me. I’m going to put the flat on the market and start afresh. The agent gives me a ball-park figure that makes my jaw drop and I sign with a flourish. I’ll move south of the river. Cross another line.
I have lunch with Rebecca. Her idea. She’s decided on names: Pax for a boy, Aurora for a girl. She tells me she’s refused to press charges for David’s assault on her, and I’m surprised by how hard she works to find excuses for him. He’s in a tricky situation though, having realized that Broadmoor is quite possibly a far worse option than prison. He hasn’t been assessed yet, but when he is, he needs to prove that although he wasn’t of sound mind when he pushed his wife down the stairs or when he abducted me, he is now. He has admitted to the hit-and-run. His trial will begin in January. A year after Guy’s death.
Rebecca blames herself for putting pressure on him, but she expects me to carry some of that blame too. I should have gone straight to the police instead of taking matters into my own hands and blundering around like a blind man in a crowded room. If the police had been involved at an early stage, none of this would have happened.
It’s unlikely I’ll ever see her again, so I tell her what I think. That if David hadn’t decided to get into his car that night, Guy would be alive. That if he hadn’t driven away from the scene, Guy would have had a chance and I wouldn’t have considered David as a candidate for my rape; that if she hadn’t been screwing her boss, his wife wouldn’t have chucked him out. She would be alive too.
‘So, let’s not play the blame game,’ I say. ‘Can we just put this behind us.’
It’s a Saturday afternoon, late March, and it has been raining all day. I’ve been sorting through drawers and cupboards, throwing things out and filling bags for the local charity shops. It seems to me, that in the three years I’ve been here, I’ve managed to accumulate a decade’s worth of stuff that I don’t need.
Before four the rain stops, the clouds clear and what sun there is left washes the sky in milky blues and pinks. The streets glisten invitingly. I change into running gear and let myself out of my flat. I’m normally careful to avoid bumping into Phoebe, listening for movement, but today either I’m unlucky, or she has been listening for me.
She appears just as I get to the bottom of the stairs. There’s no getting away.
‘I don’t know how you live with yourself,’ she says.
I don’t know how to respond, so I just look at her helplessly. She slams back into her flat.
I run to the bus stop and hop on the number 46 to Hampstead Heath. Despite the bad weather earlier, or perhaps because of it, there are still a reassuring number of dog-walkers and runners around, and I set off at a gentle jog, taking the path up to the ponds, crossing them and heading up the hill. I smile when I pass joggers, I smile when I become entangled in a dog lead and I smile when a child on a scooter nearly collides with me. The more I practise, the easier the smiles will come.
I spot a group of teenagers up ahead: all boys, young and sharp with attitude. Two on bikes, circling, one trying to restrain his powerfully built Staffordshire bull terrier, another two messaging on their phones. Even though I don’t recognize their faces, I recognize the shape of them and their presence, and I certainly remember the dog and its spiked collar. I will myself to go on. I won’t be frightened or intimidated. They’re just bored. As I approach, their dynamic changes, their backs straightening as they anticipate me. I’m over-aware of my breasts moving under my stretch-top, the shape of my bottom in my skin-tight running trousers, my pink cheeks and sweating forehead.
As I close in, one of them breaks ranks, looking to his mates for approval. He makes a tch tch noise with a quick, upward lift of his chin, that sends a bolt through me. As I put distance between us, my feet eating the track, he calls after me.
‘Seen you round here before, yeah?’
‘She’s too old for you, bruv.’
‘Cougar, innit? Hey, don’t run away. We won’t do nuffink to you.’
Their voices sound threatening as they carry in the twilight, even though they’re only posturing, trying to prove something to each other. I tell myself they are harmless, but I am only happy once I’m out of their sight.
I focus on my breathing and settle in, enjoying the rhythm. The air is brisk and clean up here, the sounds of the city muted, though not absent. A rustling noise in the copse startles me, but it turns out to be a blackbird. There are squirrels too, scooting up tree trunks as I approach, and glossy crows fight over a sandwich packet that they have cleverly managed to extricate from the bin. They barely react as I pass close to them, the repetitive thud of my shoes no doubt as familiar and unthreatening as their own cries.
I have been running for fifteen minutes when another runner’s steps start to echo mine. The light is fading and it’s time I turned back, but I’m stubborn and I don’t, I keep going, as if not doing so would be to admit that I am uneasy. This is public land and other people have every right to run here, even to choose the same path as me. It’s probably a woman anyway, feeling nervous too and reassured by my presence. A young mum, I tell myself. She’s left the baby with her husband, snuggled up in front of the telly, a bottle of formula and a beer between them. I picture it and keep running. I come to a break in the path, one going up to the west – I can see the lights of Primrose Hill – the other to the east. I choose east, hoping to work my way round and back the way I came, but it’s the wrong choice because suddenly there are trees on either side of me, and the light has been blotted out. The footsteps keep coming, and I try and count mine to stop myself from focusing on those other
s. One Two, buckle my shoe, Three Four, open the door.
I keep it up, whispering the words in time with my steps, but the runner is getting closer. I try to gauge, from the weight of their tread, whether they are male or female. I pick up speed and branch off to the left, on to another path, but within seconds they have caught up enough for me to hear their breathing. His breathing.
Our breathing.
It’s out of sync, like our feet. The sounds overlap as though we are singing a round of ‘Kookaburra’. I loved that when I was little. I hum the song, keeping fear at bay. Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree-ee. Merry Merry King of—’
‘Laura, wait up.’
My mind does its thing, cogs whirring. Who do I know who runs here? I can’t think of anyone. Brown hair, medium build, normal. He passes me as if he’s intending to keep going, but then he stops and turns, leaning over to splay his hands on his thighs and blocking my path. I wait, my arms crossed protectively round my breasts.
I swallow hard and say it. Because after my difficulties inevitably became public knowledge in the fanfare of publicity surrounding the case, this is what I’ve told myself I’ll do from now on, to avoid misunderstandings.
‘I don’t know who you are.’
55
Laura
HE LOOKS UP at me, cocking his head to one side. ‘It’s Graham.’
‘Oh. Sorry, men in running gear all look the same to me.’
‘It’s OK. I’m not offended.’
He straightens up and starts walking. Without being rude, there is nothing I can do but fall in with him. I check the time on my phone.
‘I was about to head back,’ I say, hoping that he hasn’t finished his run.
‘I’ll keep you company. I’ve had enough. How’ve you been?’
I resign myself. ‘Oh, fine. I’m starting work again in a week, so I’m making the most of my freedom while I can.’
‘Good on you. I heard you got a job at S&C.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Lucky girl.’
Something about the way he says it gives me pause. I am not used to interacting with him anywhere except at work and it feels wrong somehow. He feels wrong. He shouldn’t be here. I’m sure he lives in west London; somewhere out beyond Ealing.
‘So how is everyone?’ I say in desperation. ‘I suppose GZ must be in post-production by now.’
‘Yeah. It’s going well, considering. It isn’t the same without David though. Rebecca’s doing her best, but she’s pregnant, so …’ He leaves it hanging there, probably expecting me to make understanding noises.
‘So what?’
He turns and looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘So, her mind’s on something else. She’s going to be a single mother and the father’s going to be locked up. Gunner Munro might not be her first priority.’
‘I’m sure she’ll cope,’ I say, between my teeth.
‘Let’s hope so.’ He pauses. ‘You’re missed as well. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, haven’t you?’
His glance tells me that he’s expecting me to confide in him, to tell him how scared I was, what it was like being trussed to a bed for four days, convinced that every time I heard someone coming upstairs, I was going to die. I don’t bother answering.
‘So, what have you been doing with yourself?’ he says.
If it had been Rebecca or Eddie doing the asking, I’d have replied that I was recovering. Taking one day at a time. Reminding myself to eat. Packing up my life. Speaking to my lawyer. But something about Graham makes the words stick in my throat.
His voice has changed, an element of frustration in there now. He never did like me much, and who can blame him. I didn’t exactly put myself out to get to know him.
‘Nothing much, just fiddling. You know.’
‘I suppose it must be hard to move on from something like that.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Graham.’
‘Understood.’
We walk on, then he stops to retie his lace. I wait, conditioned in childhood not to offend.
‘So, you really didn’t know it was your neighbour that night? That’s mind-blowing. How does it work then, the face-blind thing? Do you not recognize anyone at all?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I say, irritated, but prepared to explain, to be patient. ‘It isn’t that simple. If people are where I expect them to be, like they’re at their desk, or in their house, of course I know who they are. But meeting someone unexpectedly in the park, then no. It’s difficult. I use other strategies, but these can be compromised if …’ I attempt a shrug.
‘If you’re pissed out of your head.’ He laughs. ‘But you must have remembered something. About his body? I understand it’s only faces that give you a problem.’
‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about it.’
I begin to walk faster. I thought I’d been paying attention to which way we were headed but I now realize we are not going back towards the station, but deeper into the Heath, and it’s dark.
‘And the way he smelled—’
‘So, do you often run up here?’ I ask. ‘Only I haven’t seen you before.’
‘Well you wouldn’t, would you? I used to feel a bit of an idiot, when I passed you and you didn’t acknowledge me. It made me feel invisible. Daft, eh? I should have just waved in your face. But then I happened to catch a radio interview with a celebrity who had written about their face-blindness in their memoir, and he could have been describing you. I was intrigued by the possibilities. I tested it out a couple of times. I wanted to know what it took for you to get to know a person well enough to recognize them.’
He’s been following me. How often?
‘Why didn’t you just say?’ I ask, trying to keep the unease out of my voice.
Beside me, he shrugs. ‘Because, it was obvious you didn’t want anyone to know.’
I shudder. ‘Listen, Graham, don’t be offended, but I think I’ll run the rest of the way. I need the exercise.’
‘I’ll run with you. You know, now that you’re not working at GM, there’s no reason why we can’t meet for a drink some time.’
I keep my eyes firmly on the path ahead. ‘I’m with Jamie now.’
It feels good to say that, even though it isn’t precisely true, because all we’ve done is chat on the phone. But I’m meeting him tomorrow. We have a date.
He keeps pace with me, so close that his arm brushes mine. I edge to the side and he closes in again. He’s beginning to scare me. No, that’s wrong. I’ve been scared since I heard him running up behind me.
‘Does Jamie like your hair like that?’ he asks.
I whip my head round with a gasp. ‘What?’
He holds up his hands. ‘Nothing. All I mean is, I prefer women with long hair. A lot of men do. It’s a primitive thing, hardwired into our DNA.’
My blood freezes; I dart him a quick look and run faster. I can feel a static energy developing between us. I keep my eyes glued to the path ahead, trying to work out where I am, but I’ve never run on the Heath after dark before, I’ve always been careful.
‘It’s spooky, isn’t it?’ he says, altering his voice to mock-Hollywood shtick. ‘Nobody can hear you scream.’
My legs are beginning to feel weighted down, my ribs to squeeze my lungs. All the things I didn’t sense with David or Elliot, I’m sensing now. His proximity, his voice, the smell of his sweat; they are making my nerves prickle, making my thoughts return to that night in a rush, to the dark interior of the cab, to my front hall, to my bed. Clothes being shed piece by piece. My body entangled with his.
‘You knew who it was, didn’t you?’ he says between breaths. ‘Don’t deny it. You were embarrassed because you’d behaved like a slut.’
Don’t react, I tell myself. Focus on getting to the edge of the Heath. Focus on getting somewhere safe.
‘I’m not judging you,’ he says. ‘I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I don’t believe that you spent the entire night with
a man without having a clue who he was. I think you’re probably kidding yourself because it’s convenient. I hear you passed up on hypnotherapy. That tells its own tale.’
I get a flash of his body looming over mine and this time I can’t help myself. I stop in my tracks. ‘You inadequate piece of shit.’
‘You’ve got me wrong, Laura. I didn’t say it was me. I was only speculating, trying to help you process it.’
‘Get away from me.’ My voice shakes.
He smiles, satisfied, as if he’s finally got the reaction he wanted. ‘We made love.’
‘So you’re admitting it now.’
He holds his hands up and smirks.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I say. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing, or who with. I thought you were Jamie.’
‘No, you didn’t. You’re just trying to justify yourself. You knew it was me, so stop fighting it, Laura. Stop pretending nothing happened.’
‘Why did you do it? Why did you think it was OK?’ I yell the questions in his face, and he recoils.
My heart is racing, so I take a moment to breathe. I need to calm down, stop riling him and play for time. Someone will come. ‘What about your shirt? I checked everyone on Facebook. You were wearing something different.’
‘Some idiot spilt GZ all over me. I had a shirt in my bag – I always keep spare gear at work, and I was taking it home to wash. I changed, but then I decided to go. I’d had enough. Jamie was getting on my tits. He wouldn’t let anyone else near you. I went upstairs and sat at the bar. No one bothered me. I expect I drank too much, but I was in control; I can hold my beer. I kept out of sight when everyone left the building, and I saw Jamie run back into the club and this other bloke take your hand. I recognized your neighbour and guessed what he was up to.’