A footstep behind me. I turn around, surprised. Is Phillip home? No one. I continue walking. Steps behind me again. Arms from behind, pressing like bands of steel, across my chest, across my throat.
‘Don’t fight it, Faye,’ Jonah’s voice says.
I lower my chin, sink my teeth into his arms and bite. I taste the salt of his blood.
‘Stop it, bitch,’ he shrieks and removes his arm from my throat to pull my head back with my hair.
Pain sears through my scalp, and my teeth release his flesh. Pain again. A thud to the back of my head. Dots in front of my eyes. The world turns black.
A room is coming into focus around me. A room with apricot walls, and a painting of golden sunlit mountains. Its familiarity engulfs me. My dining room. My home. My mouth is dry. The back of my head aches. I try to run my hand across my scalp, but I cannot move my arm. Rope is cutting into my wrists. Binding my chest to a chair. Swathed around my ankles. Then I remember Jonah’s voice from behind me, and fear simmers through me.
Jonah is pulling out a chair and sitting across from me at the dining table. A bottle of champagne and two glasses in front of him. I frown, but frowning causes the pain in the back of my head to explode, so I smooth my forehead, again.
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
‘You know what I want, Faye.’
I wriggle to try and make myself more comfortable but pain cascades throughout my body.
‘You can’t have me. I belong to Phillip.’
He taps his fingers on the dining table and smiles. ‘I am going to have you, Faye.’
My heart pounds up towards my throat, pushing the air from my lungs. The pain intensifies.
‘Untie me, Jonah. You don’t want the police involved in what happened between us, do you?’
He lifts his shoulders, and his eyebrows. ‘As long as we’re together, Faye, I don’t care who’s involved.’
‘Phillip will be home soon.’
Another smile. ‘Nice try. Did you really think I hadn’t checked? He’s away at a digital marketing conference. He won’t be back until late.’
178
Erica
At Virginia Water, I find a seat next to a lady of about sixty with grey hair. She is nursing a large, well-worn leather handbag on her knee, and wearing comfortable shoes. A double seat facing backwards. She is the only person who can really see much of me, and she is nonchalant; looking out of the window. Staring at the horizon and daydreaming.
Good. I can relax. I can breathe. The leaden feeling in my limbs begins to lighten. The train journey is only twenty minutes. No one will recognise me. No one can stop me. I flick through the free magazine someone left on the platform, half ignoring the words, half concentrating. Nothing very interesting. A theatre review. Sports teams. The adverts at the back. People selling junk. Threadbare sofas and broken lawn mowers. Out to make a quick buck from things they no longer want.
I turn the page. That’s when I see it. Your face in a large colour advert. That is when my ache to be as attractive as you, which has been dimming, intensifies again. I haven’t seen you for so long I’d forgotten how large your eyes are. Their intense colour of violet had softened in my mind. I’d forgotten how sharp your cheekbones are, how full your lips.
I close the magazine and sit with my head in my hands. I try and pull back to the success of my DBT when I was in prison. I tell myself that life is not a competition. It doesn’t matter that I will never be as attractive as you. Now I have lost weight I am attractive enough, and I’m healthy. I’m on my way to see Mouse. And to check you are OK.
I hear the brakes of the train begin to scrape along the tracks. The train slows down and stops.
The intercom buzzes.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are being held at a red light because of a signalling problem. The engineers are working on it. Sorry for the inconvenience. We will let you know what is happening as soon as possible.’
I sigh inside. Just when the journey was going so well.
‘This is a nuisance, isn’t it? Are you in a hurry?’ the woman sitting next to me asks.
I give her half a smile. Only half, so as not to encourage her to talk to me. ‘No. No problem. It’s fine,’ I say trying to push away the knots in my stomach.
The train is hot and stuffy. I begin to feel mildly sick. I flick through the magazine again, trying to find an article that I actually want to read. Five minutes pass. Ten. I end up staring at the picture of you once again. The woman in the next seat looks across at your photo.
‘Pretty isn’t she? Do you know her?’ she asks.
‘No. Do you?’
‘No. I don’t have any children, so I only know people my age.’
Her eyes shine into mine, brimming with loneliness. So she is talking to me to be friendly, not because she is suspicious of me. I know what loneliness used to feel like. I pity her and relax a little.
‘Do you have plans?’ I ask.
The train begins to move again.
‘I’m just going home. No one is waiting for me.’
She begins to talk. About the last general election. About the weather. As the train continues to pull towards Twickenham. Slowing now, brakes squealing as we pass familiar lines of terraced cottages, on the last few hundred yards before the station.
‘Lovely to meet you, dear. What is your name?’ she asks me.
A name comes to me out of the blue. ‘Jennifer Bugle,’ I lie.
179
Faye
Breathe, breathe. Keep him talking. Like they do in films.
‘Jonah, if we went off together where would we go? To the Caribbean? To the Philippines?’ I ask through the fug of pain.
His eyes are glassy, staring straight ahead. ‘That’s right, Faye. We’re going somewhere special together, that’s why I’ve brought the champagne.’
‘Where, Jonah? Where are you taking me?’
He turns to look at me, eyes sharpening. ‘We were perfect together. You enjoyed my body so much.’
‘Yes I did. So very, very much.’
‘Don’t worry, Faye. You will never need to sleep without me again.’
180
Erica
As soon as the train arrives in Twickenham, I am the first to open the heavy door and jump off it. Relieved to have escaped from the other passenger’s loneliness, which is still clawing at me, pulling me down; making me realise how lucky I am to have Mouse. I think that so many times a day now.
I need to walk from the station to your house. I need to know that you are OK. Loneliness has never been your problem, has it, Faye?
Through the centre of town, past NatWest Bank and Iceland. Turning left at the traffic lights and striding along Cross Deep. Right towards Strawberry Hill, the leafier side of town. Wider pavements. Detached houses. Past Range Rovers. Audis, Volvos and BMWs, neatly parked and shiny.
Into your road. Into your development. Buggy folded at the top of your steps. Around the back to find the gate to the back garden unlocked as usual. I push it open and close it behind me. Slowly, slowly, creeping and lowering my body to hide behind bushes, I step towards the patio windows, keeping to the edge of the garden so that you can’t see me. Hiding my body behind the wall, leaning in to the edge of the window, to take a glimpse.
181
Faye
I scream as loud as I can, air bellowing from the bottom of my chest. A curdled, twisted scream. It pierces the air and makes me feel stronger. Makes me feel there is hope.
But my strength cannot last. He is behind me, hand tightening across my mouth.
‘Shut up,’ he hisses.
I feel the snake of his breath across my cheek, hand so tight I can hardly breathe. His hand slips away. I scream again. This time it takes longer for the sound to build. Rumbling through my throat, slow to reach full throttle. Stopping as he pushes a gag into my mouth so roughly that I begin to choke. Choking and choking. He slaps me on the back.
‘Enough of that,’ he snarls.
<
br /> The gag loosens. My throat relaxes, as he puts tape across my mouth.
He paces up and down, in front of our patio windows. Restless like a caged polar bear, eyes burning and dangerous. I cannot think. I cannot move. He turns and walks towards me. He sits at the table opposite me again, pulls a gun from his pocket and points it at me. I am numb now. I can’t believe this. I have only ever seen guns on the TV. A hand pistol, with a silencer on it.
Phillip. Tamsin, Georgia. My body aches to talk to you. To hold you. To tell you that I’m sorry. I close my eyes and see you moving towards me, taking my hand in yours. ‘Have courage, Faye. Have courage.’
Your image fades. I see Jonah placing the gun on the table and opening the champagne. He pours it into the glasses, which I now see have some sort of powder in them. He pulls a spoon from his pocket and stirs the concoction.
‘Our champagne cocktail. A very special drink,’ he announces.
Champagne fizzing in the glasses, he picks up the gun. I tremble inside. He steps around the table and kneels behind me. He clamps his left arm around my breasts and thrusts the tip of the gun into the soft flesh of my neck, behind the jawbone. Then he raises his left arm and pulls the plaster from my mouth.
‘If you scream again I’ll shoot.’
The tip of the gun pushes harder. He removes the gag, and brings one of the glasses.
‘What are we celebrating?’ I ask, voice blistered and cracked.
‘Our suicide pact.’
His words sear into my heart; his gun pierces into my windpipe. He pulls my hair to hold my head back and forces the liquid into my mouth. I hold it in my mouth for as long as possible.
‘Swallow it or I’ll shoot.’
I swallow it. It tastes bitter. Tears are streaming down my face.
‘If I can’t have you, Faye,’ he whispers in my ear, ‘no one will.’
182
Erica
I am watching, Faye. I see what he is doing to you. Don’t worry. I am here now. I will run for help.
183
Jonah
You look so beautiful. Deathly pale and fragile. Already fast asleep. I untie your bindings and carry you upstairs. Gently I lay your precious body on the bed. I arrange your body so carefully. I brush your hair until it shines. I wash your face to remove the mascara that your tears have smudged around your face. I wish I could have made love to you one last time, but I have been feeling tired. So very tired. We will both be at peace now.
I sit next to you on the bed and hold your hand. ‘For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Congratulations, Faye, we will be together for ever, my love.’
I lift my champagne cocktail to my mouth and gulp it down. For a second its bitterness makes me wince, but I lie next to you on the bed and hold you in my arms. Your breathing is heavy, rhythmic. I hold you. I love you. I close my eyes and drift towards sleep. I love you so much. My treasure.
184
Erica
I creep back through the garden, slowly, carefully, camouflaged behind bushes. I push the gate open and run. Running for your life, Faye. Running for mine. If you die, Faye, I will never forgive myself.
Running. Feet pounding on the pavement. Heartbeat pounding in my ears, in my brain. Breathing slowly trying to stop panic rising. Back to the phone box I passed on the way. I dial 999. Police. Ambulance. Emergency services, quickly, quickly, please help. I sigh inside with relief that I managed not to give in to the urge to use my mobile. Using it to report a crime would have aroused police interest in my identity. My location would have been obvious and I would have been sent back to prison for a very long time. But police, ambulance, emergency services, after the delay of me running to the phone box, please, please, I beg you, don’t waste any more time.
185
Faye
I open my eyes, half awake, half asleep, fear slivering through my body. The fear is sharp-edged, tinged with electricity. I know I am in my bedroom. I see the photograph of Phillip, the girls and me at Thorpe Park, on my dressing table in front of me. We are all laughing, arms around each other, leaning towards the camera. I remember that day so well. We were high on summer sunshine, and artificial entertainment. I put my arm across the bed to feel for you, Phillip. I want you to hold my body against yours to help combat the fear.
Your body feels wrong. Rigid. Solid. I roll over and as I roll my body aches. The fear is burning now. It isn’t you. It is Jonah. My heart seems to stop beating. One look at his face and I know he is dead. Eyes glazed and staring.
Why is he here? What has happened? Why is he lying dead in my bed? I push and push to try and remember, but I cannot. I can’t remember seeing Jonah in my house. I cannot remember getting into bed with him. Where are the girls? Where are you, Phillip? Is this a dream? Is it real?
I try to roll my body away from Jonah’s. I want to reach out and ring for help. For the police. For you. But my body is stiffening too. I cannot roll. I cannot move. The air is closing in around me, becoming solid, pressing against me. Burying me. My eyelids are heavy, so heavy. I cannot think, I cannot move. I can only close my eyes and let sleep engulf me. The sweet, sweet release of sleep.
186
Faye
I cannot move. I cannot speak. I know Jonah is here when I want you, Phillip. I want your warmth. I only feel coldness. I hear sirens. Whispering in the distance to begin with, pulsing in my brain, then wailing and insistent. Surrounding me. Sound and people surrounding me. Lifting my body onto a stretcher. Lifting me out of my bedroom.
Where are you, Phillip? Where is Tamsin? Georgia? I need you, my family. I am lying in a metal casket, surrounded by machines and men in uniform. The sirens are wailing again and still I cannot see you. Still I cannot speak.
187
Phillip
In a seminar, when my mobile vibrates. I step outside to pick up.
‘Twickenham Police here, is that Mr Baker?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, stomach coagulating.
‘I am ringing to inform you that your wife is on the way to the West Middlesex Hospital in an ambulance. It would be a good idea if you got there as soon as possible.’
The world stops.
‘What’s happened?’ I ask, grabbing my coat and walking through the door.
‘She’s been found unconscious.’
Empty. Sickness rising.
‘Where? Has there been an accident?’ I ask.
‘We can talk about the circumstances when you arrive.’
Too shocked to drive, I call an Uber. It seems to take for ever to get to the hospital. Traffic almost at a standstill through St Margarets and Isleworth. The driver tries to talk to me, but I am too worried to make conversation. Forty-five minutes later, I arrive at the A&E Department and race inside. A queue at reception. I cannot cope with this. I push straight to the front, heart racing.
‘My wife has been brought in, in an ambulance. The police rang me. I need to see her immediately.’
‘Name?’
‘Faye Baker.’
Glossy nails are tapped onto a keyboard. Grey eyes pierce into mine. ‘She’s in critical care. Go to the entrance of critical care and a nurse will take you straight there.’
Critical care.
Dying inside, I walk to the entrance to find a nurse in a blue uniform waiting for me, holding the door open for me to walk through.
‘Mr Baker?’
I nod.
‘Come with me,’ she instructs, mouth and shoulders in a line.
‘How’s my wife? What’s happened?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Baker, I don’t know. I haven’t been with her on the ward, I am just here to take you to her.’
We walk past cubicles containing suffering people. I can hardly bear to look as I worry about what has happened to you. Through A&E, into critical care. The nurse leads me to your bedside.
I cannot believe what I see. You are unconscious. Intubated. Attached to a cacophony of machines. You who were so beautiful, so full of life this mor
ning. I pull up a chair and sit next to you. Your face is so still. A puppet being kept alive by machines. Your eyelids flicker and my heart quickens. Are you somewhere inside there, Faye? This cannot be happening. This is a nightmare. I will wake up in a moment. I bite my tongue to see if I am really here. It hurts. It is real.
I cannot take your hand in mine as your arm is attached to too many wires. I lean across and stroke an unencumbered part of you. ‘I love you, Faye,’ I tell you. ‘More than you will ever know.’
Footsteps behind me. I turn around. The doctor is here. He isn’t wearing a uniform but he has a stethoscope dangling from his neck. Tall and thin with a roman nose. Fine head of wavy hair.
‘Can I have a word, Mr Baker?’
‘Of course.’
‘She is stable at the moment. We have washed her stomach out. But most of the drugs have already been absorbed. It’s symptomatic treatment from now on.’
‘What on earth happened? Did she take an overdose?’
‘Have you talked to the police yet?’
I shake my head.
‘They will talk to you about what happened.’
‘But … but … surely you can tell me. What happened must affect her condition?’
‘It’s just speculation at the moment and …’
‘Tell me, will my wife live?’ I interrupt. My voice resonates around the ward, plaintive and desperate.
‘The next few hours are crucial.’ There is a pause. ‘We still don’t know what she took. The lab are testing the contents of her stomach at the moment, and will get back to us as soon as possible.’
‘What she took? Are you saying she took an overdose?’
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