‘This is the next piece,’ the detective says, and Joe watches more footage, this time of Felicity slumped against a brick wall. The time is 23.28.
‘What happened to her?’ He leans closer. There is a dark stain on the front of her dress. Felicity looks as though she’s been stabbed.
‘We had reports of a young woman running around Cambridge covered in blood,’ Delilah tells him. ‘Miss Lloyd has some visible cuts and grazes but nothing that would cause that.’
‘If it is blood,’ the detective says. ‘It’s really not clear.’
‘She’s not injured?’ Joe asks.
‘She declined medical assistance and doesn’t seem to be,’ his mother tells him. ‘She certainly wouldn’t be up and walking around if she’d taken a wound to her stomach that would cause that amount of blood loss.’
‘Is she still wearing the dress?’ Joe asks.
‘No, it’s in her washing machine,’ the female constable says.
‘And we can’t get it out without a search warrant,’ says Delilah. ‘Which at the moment, we don’t have cause for. The only thing we can possibly charge her with is leaving the scene of an accident. And as no one else was involved, I doubt that will go very far.’
‘So, she’s free to go? I can take her home?’
The last time Joe saw that look on his mother’s face, he’d been suspended from school for smuggling beer into class.
She says, ‘Against my better judgement, Joe. That woman is trouble.’
* * *
Felicity is in jogging trousers and a sweatshirt, trainers on her feet. Her face is pale and all the make-up she wore earlier has been washed away. After apologising several times, she falls silent.
‘Another fugue state?’ he asks, as they head out of the city centre. It will not take long to reach her house.
When she answers she sounds exhausted. ‘I think so. I can’t remember everything. Bits of it, not everything.’
Her remembering even parts of what she did feels like progress, but Joe doesn’t say this. They stop at a red light and its bright colour jogs his memory.
‘Are you hurt?’ he asks, remembering the dark stain on the front of her dress.
‘A few cuts and bruises. Nothing serious.’
‘Do you remember your appointment with me?’ he asks.
‘Yes. And afterwards I walked to Heffers. I had to collect…’
He glances over. ‘What’s up?’
In a small voice she says, ‘I saw Freddie.’
‘Who’s Freddie?’
‘He’s my husband.’
It should be a thunderbolt. It isn’t. Somehow, Joe isn’t surprised. He says nothing more and drives her home. When they reach her house, he parks the car and gets out without asking her permission to come inside. Her handbag has been returned to her and she lets them both in via the back door.
‘You’re married?’ he says, when they are seated at her kitchen island and the kettle is coming to the boil.
She nods.
‘You’re waiting for details, aren’t you?’ she says. ‘You want to know how long I’ve been married, and what went wrong, and where he is now and why the sight of him would send me over the top into La-La Land. And most of all, you’re waiting for me to explain why I didn’t tell you.’
‘You’re telling me when you feel ready,’ Joe says. ‘And that’s OK. I’ve said this before but it’s worth repeating. You don’t owe me anything.’
She won’t look at him.
‘I couldn’t tell you before,’ she says. ‘I only found out when I saw a wedding photograph.’
Abruptly, she leaves the kitchen, returning a minute later with a black-and-white, framed photograph. Joe glances at the handsome groom, the lovely veiled bride. Yep, she’s married. He puts it, face down, on the kitchen counter. He doesn’t want to look at it again.
‘Are you afraid of Freddie?’ he asks.
She nods. ‘Always,’ she says. ‘I’m always afraid.’
Joe gets up, to give her a moment, and makes tea, choosing a herbal blend because whilst he badly needs caffeine he thinks she should probably avoid it. In spite of the late hour he feels excitement tingling through him like electricity. He feels on the verge of something important.
‘Tell me about Freddie,’ he says, when he is once again sitting opposite her.
‘I can’t,’ she says.
‘That’s OK,’ he says. ‘You have to be ready.’
‘No, I mean I can’t. I can’t remember anything about him. I don’t remember meeting him, I don’t remember our wedding day, I can’t remember where we lived, whether he’s ever lived here, where we went on holiday, whether we wanted children.’ She gasps. ‘Oh God, I could have a child somewhere and not know anything about it.’
‘Felicity.’ He grabs both her hands. ‘Look at me. Take it easy. Deep breaths.’
He gives her time.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ he asks. ‘When you saw the photograph, why didn’t you say something then?’
She is very close to tears. ‘Because it makes me sound nuts and I don’t want to be nuts.’
‘Do you remember anything about him?’
She nods. ‘I think so, but it’s all so vague and jumbled up.’
‘What?’
In a small voice that he can barely hear, she says, ‘I remember him hurting me.’
‘Felicity, you’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Can you tell me more about how?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not really, because they’re not proper memories. They’re flashes, glimpses, all jumbled up. I can’t really make sense of them, but in all these flashbacks he’s hurting me.’
‘How? How is he hurting you?’
‘He burns me. And cuts me. I have so many scars, Joe. I tell people I got them working but I know that isn’t true. Also, I think he kept me prisoner. I have these horrible dreams about being locked up in the dark. And, I think I’ve been raped. Many times.’
With a sense of so much falling into place, even if it is a dreadful place, Joe says, ‘We need to go to the police. Tomorrow, if you prefer, but the police need to hear this.’
She stares at him, wide-eyed and fearful. ‘And tell them what? There’s no evidence that he’s doing this, just my word against his and all I can offer is some vague feelings and flashbacks. Who will take me seriously?’
‘Of course they’ll take you seriously.’
She raises her voice and shouts at him. ‘No, they’ll think I’m mad. I can’t be mad, Joe, I just can’t.’
Joe takes a deep breath. ‘Felicity, these amnesic periods you’ve been experiencing could be your way of coping with extremely stressful and frightening situations. If, even on a sub-conscious level, you’re afraid of Freddie, it could explain why you’ve been having problems.’
She blinks away tears.
‘Are there any other periods of your life that you can’t remember?’
‘There’s a gap in my late teens. A couple of years, I think, when I can’t remember anything much.’
‘Will you come back to therapy?’ he asks her. ‘Your Tuesday slots are still open.’
Her eyes fall. ‘OK.’ She reaches out a hand to touch his. ‘Joe, will you hypnotise me?’
‘Of course. We can do it on—’
‘No, I mean now.’
‘Here?’
‘I want to find out what I did tonight. I want to know if it was really Freddie I saw. I want to find out why I’m so afraid of him.’
* * *
Lying on the sofa, her head resting on cushions, Felicity falls into a hypnotic trance very quickly and easily. Joe pulls his mobile phone out of his pocket and switches it to silent, before activating the audio record app. He knows that his mother, at least, will applaud such a safeguard. Last, he finds a small notebook and pencil and opens it to a clean—
‘Hello, Joe.’
Joe stops moving. It is a second, maybe more, before he has the nerve to turn his head to look at t
he woman on the sofa. Felicity lies still, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. She is breathing deeply. He gets to his feet and feels himself shaking.
That was not Felicity’s voice. That was a child. There is a child in the room. He looks behind the sofa, even behind the chair. He finds no one. And yet …
I hear voices.
Heart racing, wishing he hadn’t made the room quite so dark, Joe makes himself sit back down.
‘How are you feeling, Felicity?’ he asks.
The child replies, only this time he sees quite clearly that the child’s voice is coming out of Felicity’s mouth. He should be relieved. Not a ghost then. And yet …
‘I’m not Felicity, silly,’ the child says.
This is not just baby talk, this is the convincing voice of a young child. Joe feels a sweat break out between his shoulder blades.
‘Who are you?’ he asks.
‘I’m Little Bitch.’ Her voice is low, crestfallen, the voice of a child deeply ashamed and unhappy.
Joe checks his phone. He needs this to be recorded. ‘Who calls you that?’ he asks.
‘Everyone. Not Mummy though.’
‘What does Mummy call you?’
The child’s voice flattens, losing all inflexion, as though reciting a learned script. ‘Baby. Oh God, baby. I’m so sorry, baby.’
Joe swallows. ‘How old are you?’ he asks.
‘Three and seven months. My birthday’s in February.’
Felicity’s date of birth is the ninth of February, but they are only five months past her birthday. On his pad Joe writes, patient has regressed to a specific point in time.
‘Do you know where you live?’ he asks.
She recites quickly. ‘Twenty-two Clockhouse Road, Salisbury.’
Joe writes down the address and asks. ‘Who lives there with you?’
A shudder runs through Felicity’s body. ‘Mummy,’ she says. ‘Only Mummy. Not the bad men. The bad men not s’posed to be here.’
Her face clenches as though in pain.
‘What do the bad men do?’ he asks.
In response, she whimpers and pushes herself into a sitting position. Her feet scuttle back until her legs are drawn up and she can wrap her arms around them. She presses herself into the back of the sofa as though trying to escape an imaginary foe. Her eyes are open now, big and scared, but they don’t seem to focus on anything.
‘Fel—’ he stops himself. She does not want to be called Felicity. He cannot call her Little Bitch. ‘Are you frightened?’ he asks.
She nods. Every second or so, her eyes flick his way but don’t settle.
‘Are you frightened of me?’
Her eyes open wider, as though the thought has only just occurred to her.
‘I won’t hurt you,’ he says. ‘I’m Joe, your therapist. Please don’t be afraid of me.’
She looks directly at him now and he has to suppress a shudder. The face is Felicity’s, the eyes are not. ‘Are you my friend?’ she says.
‘Yes, I’m your friend. What are you frightened of?’
‘They hurt me. They hurt Mummy. I hear her screaming when they put me in the cupboard. And then they come and get me and I scream, but they hit me and Mummy says, “So sorry, baby”’
‘Where are you now?’
‘In the cupboard.’ Felicity’s eyes are wide open, staring around the room, but Joe doesn’t think she can see him. ‘In the cupboard under the stairs. It’s where they put me. They’re coming now. I can hear them on the stairs. Eight, nine, ten, coming ready or not. No, no, Mummy, don’t let them, please, make them stop.’
Felicity starts screaming. Moving fast, Joe leaves his chair and kneels by the sofa. He wraps his arms around her, holding her close. ‘Felicity, I want you to come back out of your trance. You’re perfectly safe and nothing can hurt you now.’
She fights him, but weakly, like a child.
‘Come back, Felicity, it’s over now.’
‘He’s opening the door. He’s opening the door. No, no, no, Daddy, don’t give me to the bad men.’
‘Felicity, you’re safe. You’re in your house, with me, Joe, come back now.’
For several long seconds, as she continues to sob and shrink away from him, he thinks she will never come back, that he has sent her over the edge. Then, slowly, her sobbing subsides and stops. She slumps against him and he holds her for long moments. Outside, a milk truck trundles along the road.
‘Are you back?’ he says. ‘Are you Felicity again?’
She eases herself away from him and he resumes his seat. She wipes a hand over her wet face.
‘I remember what I just told you,’ she says. ‘But I don’t remember any of it happening. It’s as though I told you a story, something I made up.’
‘Do you think you made it up?’
She shakes her head. ‘I know it’s true,’ she says. ‘Come with me.’
She gets to her feet and leads him out of the room. Back on the ground floor, she pulls open the door to the under-stairs cupboard, the twin of the one she keeps padlocked in the basement, and stands back to let him see inside. He sees the pillow and the duvet. And a small pink teddy bear, shiny with age.
‘Sometimes I wake in the night and I’m terrified,’ she says to him. ‘For no reason I can think of. When that happens, I come in here. I have to. It’s the only way I can keep from going mad.’
54
Felicity
Felicity sleeps late. When she wakes, she feels like a premature chick, pulled too soon from its shell. The morning light seems to burn her skin as she makes coffee. The grazes on her hands have already scabbed over. In a few days, they’ll be gone, she has always healed quickly. The wounds in her head, though? They are another matter entirely. Her head feels like a country she has never visited.
She knows, beyond any doubt, that everything she told Joe last night was true. Something dreadful happened to her once, to her and to her mother. For what feels like the first time, she wonders what really happened to her parents, and why she has no memories of them. Why her grandmother told her no stories, gave her no photographs.
And the warning voices in her head have been proven right after all. Her fears of a stalker, again revealed by Joe’s hypnotherapy skills, are entirely justified. Freddie is not only real – she knew that of course, she knew it the second she saw the wedding photograph – is not only real but here, in Cambridge. He could knock on her door at any moment.
One problem at a time. She drinks coffee and orange juice and then goes down to her basement. She will have to call a glazier today to get the window fixed. First though, she can make it more secure. She has two strips of wood that she fastens across the empty frame, hammering them corner to corner with carpet tacks.
Window sorted, she empties the white dress and underwear from her washing machine. The stain on the front of her dress has faded to a dull brown but will never come out. She finds a plastic carrier bag and puts all three damp items in it.
When she is dressed, she arranges for a garage to collect her car from the pound. She tells them she wants to sell it and asks them to call her later with an offer. She will use cabs for the rest of her time in Cambridge.
She finds a glazier and then sets off on foot and picks up a bus in town. She gets off a stop early and throws the bag containing her dress and underwear into a bin before walking the rest of the way to her office. She has only a few days left at work and must start clearing out her personal possessions. Fortunately, there aren’t many.
Her desk is as tidy as usual. She never leaves it without putting everything away and locking her cabinet. This morning, though, there is a yellow Post-it note facing her chair. It is dated the previous afternoon.
Man came by asking for you at 17.15. Wouldn’t give his name. Lucy says he’s been in before. Asked if you still live by the common. Thought you should know. Tall, blonde, nice looking.
Suddenly, her legs lose all strength and she is forced to pull out her chair and sit do
wn. Freddie knows where she lives.
55
Joe
Joe knows, before he puts the phone down, that he has made a mistake. He can hear the voices of his mother and his supervisor, loud in his ear, telling him to call Felicity back right now, tell her he can’t meet her that evening after all, that he is more than happy to see her again as a patient, if she makes an appointment in the usual way, but that dinner is inappropriate.
He goes into his bedroom to decide what to wear.
When he arrives at the restaurant by the river – her choice – she is already there and again her appearance surprises him. The cropped jeans she is wearing are spray tight and her vest top clings to her torso. She’s brought a jacket, but for now it is hanging on the back of her chair. She’s wearing make-up again, a lot of it, and brightly coloured costume jewellery. Her hair is pushed back from her face by a pair of huge designer sunglasses that sit on her head like a crown.
She’s a very sick woman, he reminds himself. She needs a doctor, not a boyfriend. Oh, and she’s married.
On the table is a bottle of Peroni and a bottle of pinot gris with two glasses. Judging by the level of wine in the bottle, she is on her second glass.
Seeing him she gets up and in high-heeled wedge sandals is almost his height. She leans in to kiss him on one cheek, to take hold of him lightly on his hip and upper arm, and he stiffens, wondering who might see them, even as her scent is stealing inside his head like a whispered proposition.
‘How did you know I drink Peroni?’ He takes his seat, still conscious of her touch on his hip, his arm, his cheek.
She pours the beer for him. ‘Bottles in your recycling bin.’
He keeps his recycling bin in his kitchen, a room that Felicity has never seen.
‘You put your rubbish out on Tuesday evening,’ she says, correctly interpreting the puzzled look on his face. ‘The day I have my appointments.’
That makes sense. Even so, he doesn’t pick up his beer.
‘Don’t tell me you’re driving.’ She pouts. ‘You live minutes away.’
The Split Page 18