The Perfect Life

by Nuala Ellwood

  ‘Iris, what are you doing?’ he cries, appearing in front of me in the corridor. ‘Surely you remember that Angus’s room has two exits?’

  I step backwards, my heart hammering madly.

  ‘Please,’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm though my whole body is trembling. ‘Please just let me go home. I won’t tell anyone what happened here, I promise you.’

  ‘But you are home,’ he says, frowning. ‘You know that as well as I do. When I heard you say your name was Iris when you arrived for the viewing I knew you were giving me a sign, that you remembered me, that you wanted us to be together, that what we have is special. This is why I brought you here – now that Geoffrey has gone, we can live here together. You were in shock last time, that’s why you ran away. This is your second chance. Oh, Iris, we can be so happy. It would be the fairy tale you’ve always dreamed about. It’s what you’ve always wanted. I know that. I know everything about you.’

  He grabs my arms and pulls me down to the floor. His grip is more forceful this time and I have no chance of breaking free. I need to keep him talking, stall for my chance.

  ‘How do you know everything about me?’ I say breathlessly, his arms tightening round my chest.

  ‘It wasn’t hard,’ he says, fixing me with those strange eyes. ‘After all, in this modern world, everyone puts their lives on display for all to see, don’t they? I eventually found you on one of those fan pages for the book. “The Holly Mazers”, I think it was called.’

  I feel sick as I recall joining that group on Facebook one drunken, idle evening years earlier. I hadn’t given it a second thought, hadn’t imagined that by doing so I was making myself visible, vulnerable.

  ‘It took no time to find you on there, as there weren’t very many members,’ he says. ‘Once Harry Potter came along, people forgot all about poor old Geoffrey and his ghostly friends.’

  ‘But how did you recognize me?’ I say, thinking of my polished Facebook profile photo, taken by Anne for the Luna London website. She’d filtered it so much I barely even recognized myself when I first saw it. ‘You hadn’t seen me since I was a kid.’

  ‘I knew it was you the moment I saw your photo,’ he says, smiling to himself. ‘You had the same kind eyes. Eyes tell you everything you need to know about a person and yours were the loveliest ones I’ve ever seen. They haven’t changed.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just send me a message?’ I say. ‘Once you’d found me.’

  ‘I was scared,’ he says, exhaling deeply. ‘I’m not the most social of people. After what happened to me that night, I hid away from the world.’

  ‘The night of the party?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says angrily. ‘My father destroyed my life that night.’

  My head starts to throb. I try to wriggle free of his arms but this only makes him pull me tighter towards him.

  ‘Finding you was the best thing that ever happened to me,’ he says, his voice softening. ‘After all that longing, all that searching, I’d finally found you. My Iris.’

  He’s not well, I think to myself. I need to use this, convince him to stop.

  ‘All those pages you were on,’ he says, his voice getting louder suddenly. ‘They were like little chapters all contributing to the bigger story. They told me everything I needed to know about you. Facebook told me who your friends were, what music you liked, the restaurants you rated. It told me where you lived, what hotels you’d checked in to, the name of your boyfriend.’ He pauses when he says this and his face darkens.

  ‘World building,’ he says, nodding his head. ‘That’s how Geoffrey used to describe the writing process. Creating a world from the things that make up a character. I was able to build a picture of you and your world from the information you’d put out there yourself. It was like magic. Twitter was very much your work and business life. It was there I found out all about Luna London. Wow, that seemed like the perfect place for little Iris to work. All that glitter and sparkle, helping people become the best versions of themselves – you said that yourself in one of your tweets. It was wonderful. Your boss, Anne, seemed perfect for you too. I liked her profile picture – the one where she’s holding up the pot of powder over one eye so she looks like some glamorous pirate. She has kind eyes too. I wanted to poke them out.’

  As he speaks, my body goes rigid with fear. All pity flees.

  ‘But it was Instagram where I found the real you,’ he says, looking into my eyes and smiling. ‘Gosh, there was just so much. I was spoiled for choice. There were all those photos of your holidays – mostly with that friend of yours, the tall woman with the lovely red hair. All those places you visited. I was so envious. I was stuck here, too scared to leave the house, and there you were, little Iris travelling the world. I loved that photo of you in Prague, all buttoned up in your black winter coat, your eyes shining against the twinkly lights of the Charles Bridge. Now, all authentic characters have to eat, don’t they? And those photos of your meals were just amazing, so well lit they looked like they’d been taken by a professional. You loved that Italian restaurant on the King’s Road, didn’t you? Rossi’s. Though I notice you don’t go there any more. I liked it too, particularly that evening when I got to watch my little Iris enjoying her Chianti, though you weren’t keen on that vongole, were you? I didn’t think much of that bloke of yours. He likes telling you what to do, doesn’t he? It hurt me to see you with someone else, Iris. Particularly someone as horrible as him. It should have been us sitting at that table. I would have made sure you had the food you really wanted. I would give you anything.’

  I think back to that evening, sitting outside with Connor, the night everything changed. I’d got so drunk I have little memory of it, but this man had been there, he had been watching.

  ‘And the boxing match,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I could tell my lovely little Iris wouldn’t want to see such violence but that man wouldn’t listen, would he? It got so bad you had to run out. That’s when I knew I needed to step in and ask you if you were okay. Poor little lamb, you were so pale and your hands were shaking when I touched you.’

  I go cold as I recall the man in the red baseball cap, the scar across his face. I had thought he was a beaten-up boxing fan but it was this man and he had followed me there. I feel sick with fear and disgust.

  ‘But best of all were your stories,’ he says, his voice light as though addressing a child. ‘Isn’t that just the best thing about social media? The fact that we don’t need books and stupid authors any more because now we can make up our own stories, and we’re in control, not them. Yours were just wonderful. But the one I liked the best was the one of you and your sister going for a walk on Wimbledon Common. You both looked so happy. It was like something from a dream. That’s how I found the lovely house you live in with your sister, the one you fled to when it all went wrong with your boyfriend. I helped you along the way, of course …’

  ‘What … what are you talking about?’

  ‘Those abortion pamphlets you threw in the bin outside your flat,’ he says manically. ‘I felt that boyfriend of yours needed to know what pain he’d put you through and, hopefully, you’d break up. So I fished them out and put them on the doorstep.’

  My body goes cold. This man has followed me everywhere. I think back to that afternoon when I woke to find Connor standing over me, the appointment card in his hand.

  ‘But even then, after all of my work, you still couldn’t see me,’ he says, an edge to his voice now. ‘In fact, you looked right through me every time our paths crossed. That’s when I realized I was nothing more than a story in a book.’

  ‘No,’ I whimper as he presses tighter on my neck. ‘That’s not true. You’re a real person, a good person who had bad things happen to him. You don’t have to do this. You can stop it now and go on to have a normal life, be happy.’

  He loosens his grip. I try to get up but his hand is still pressed into the base of my back.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says, his voice cr
acking. ‘You mean, we could … we could make a life together? You and me?’

  He pulls my face towards him and for one horrible moment I think he’s going to kiss me, but then the sound of a siren fills the corridor and he freezes.

  ‘No, Iris,’ he hisses, his eyes blazing. ‘Tell me you haven’t been so stupid?’

  38. Now

  I try to scream but his hand is pressed over my mouth as he drags me down the stairs. The sirens stop and I hear the thud of car doors slamming and heavy boots on the gravel drive.

  The police are here. Only seconds away. But now he’s dragging me into the garden and his arm is around my neck so I can’t shout.

  I have to escape and to do that I must summon every bit of strength I have left. He falters a little as we enter the tall, ragged maze and I take advantage of this and bite down hard on his hand. He yelps and releases his grip.

  I run on ahead, disorientated and scared. Behind me I can hear him shouting, his voice ringing out into the air.

  ‘Iris, don’t do this,’ he cries. ‘Stay with me. I’ll look after you. I’m the only person who can protect you.’

  I take a left turn but go tumbling into a wall of sharp holly, a dead end. Pain shoots up my leg as the spikes puncture my skin. It’s my recurring nightmare made real. I turn round, my breath catching in my throat, desperate to find a way out.

  Then, miraculously, the sun comes out from behind a towering black cloud. It illuminates my way and I take a right, then a left, then right again. I’m almost there. I can sense it. But as I stumble forward I feel a thump on the back of my head then a weight pressing down on me, pinning me to the ground.

  ‘Look what you’ve done, Iris,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘You’ve ruined the story.’

  He pulls my head back and points west. I see plumes of smoke rising above the spiky hedge from the direction of the house, then orange flames bursting into the sky, like the torches on the night of the party.

  ‘Please,’ I say. ‘Please just let me –’

  But before I can get the words out I hear the sound of faint voices and the crackle of a radio. It’s coming from behind, from the entrance to the maze. The police are in here, trying to find me. He hears it too. He stares at me with unblinking eyes then twists me round to face him.

  Fear, like nothing I have ever felt before, grips my body, paralysing me. I try to scream but nothing happens. It’s like I’ve been immobilized by some invisible force.

  ‘This is it, Iris,’ he hisses, placing his hands round my throat. ‘This is where it ends.’

  I try to yank him off me but he’s too strong. White spots appear in front of my eyes and my chest constricts. I’m going. I can feel it.

  Then I hear a loud cracking sound and a female voice calling my name. I feel the weight of him lift away, hear the crunch of his shoes on the uneven ground. Yet I stay where I am, too terrified to move.

  Then I hear the noise of many feet running towards me. I lift my head and see a stream of uniformed police officers. And at the back of them, her red hair wild and dishevelled, her face twisted with fright, Lottie.

  39. Now

  Six hours later

  Georgie clutches my hand as I sit in the living room listening to DS Bains. When the police found me they tried to make me go to hospital to be checked over but I assured them that the man hadn’t hurt me.

  He’d run away as the police had closed in on the maze. They are searching for him but so far there has been no sign.

  ‘We were completely unaware that Mr Rivers’s son was living with him,’ says Bains, cradling a mug of tea in his hands. ‘In fact, those who came into contact with Geoffrey said that he made no mention of having a son. It was so many years ago that he disappeared from public record that our investigation didn’t unearth anything – then today my colleague, DS Lindsay, discovered a death notice for Mr Rivers’s wife, which mentioned a “beloved son, Gabriel”.’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard his real name.

  ‘When we searched the upper floor of the house we found his phone,’ says Bains, placing his empty mug on the table. ‘It contained graphic images of Geoffrey Rivers’s dead body as well as many, many images of you, Miss Adams, which had been taken from your social media pages. It seems he was rather obsessed with you.’

  I have already told Bains about the childhood connection with Gabriel, the party, the letters, his subsequent stalking campaign.

  ‘The call log shows a call made to your mobile last night,’ he continues. ‘Did you speak to him, Vanessa?’

  ‘He … he told me he was a police officer,’ I say, recalling the West Country accent on the other end of the line. ‘And that I was to attend West Hampstead police station at 1 p.m. today.’

  Bains nods his head and writes something in his notepad. Beside me, Georgie squeezes my hand tightly.

  ‘We also found a collection of journals,’ says Bains, looking up, ‘in which Gabriel Rivers wrote about ways to kill his father. It’s clear that Gabriel had serious mental health problems.’

  I sit in a daze while Bains gets up from the chair. I hear him say something about getting some rest and how I must still be in shock, but I don’t answer. All I can think about is Gabriel and his silent, sad life. Though he nearly killed me, there’s a part of me that still sees the small boy he must’ve been. The boy that rescued me that night at the party.

  ‘I’ll see you out, DS Bains,’ says Georgie, ushering him to the door.

  I hear her, out in the hallway, telling him that she will keep an eye on me, that it’s all been such a terrible shock.

  ‘Is it safe to come in?’

  I look up and see Lottie. She and Jack had been sidelined to the kitchen while Bains spoke to me and Georgie.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, patting the sofa next to me. ‘Oh, Lottie, I’ve missed you so much. It’s been hell without you.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispers, hugging me. ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve been through being stalked like that.’

  I pull away from her and put my head in my hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lottie,’ I murmur, tears blinding me. ‘About everything. I messed up. I know I did. I let you down but … why were you with Connor this morning when you’d asked me to meet you? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I didn’t ask to meet you,’ she says, grabbing a tissue from the box on Georgie’s coffee table and handing it to me. ‘You texted me to meet you at that cafe. You said it was really urgent. When I turned up and saw Connor I thought the two of you were up to something.’

  ‘A message from me?’

  ‘I thought it was a bit strange,’ she says, brushing her hair from her face. ‘Because it was through Messenger but the name came up as Vanessa Iris Adams and I knew that wasn’t your middle name. The profile photo was different too. But then I clicked on the page and it looked like you’d just set up a new account. All your friends were on there and all your holiday photos. So I replied and said, okay, I’d be there.’

  ‘Gabriel,’ I whisper, remembering how he talked about my online life, how he could build a world around what I had put out there. ‘But Connor?’ I say, my head throbbing. ‘Why was he there?’

  ‘Same as me,’ says Lottie. ‘He said you’d messaged him asking to meet at that coffee shop at the same time.’

  What was Gabriel doing? What was he trying to achieve? I wonder just how much he had discovered through the information I had put out. He obviously had some plan for bringing Lottie and Connor together and to have me see them. Then I realize: he was trying to make me think they were together, that the two people I had been closest to were not to be trusted. That way he could have me all to himself.

  ‘You know I’ve never really liked Connor. But I thought you’d come soon, so I was making awkward small talk with him,’ she says, her voice shaking. ‘Then he said that you two had split up, that you’d gone crazy and basically had a nervous breakdown. He said he’d almost called the police on you because you slapped his mother.
He told me I should leave too, that you were unstable, dangerous. It was crazy, Nessa. I didn’t know what to think. It didn’t sound like you at all but then I hadn’t seen you for so long … Maybe you’d … I don’t know, changed.’

  I feel light-headed as I listen to her. I went crazy? No, Connor, you tried to make me think I was.

  ‘But then he said something,’ says Lottie, shuffling in closer. ‘And it made me go cold. He was about to leave and I asked him what had made you go crazy, what had happened. I had to ask. You were such a steady, calm person, Nessa. It didn’t make any sense. And then … then he told me.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘He said that you’d got really drunk one night at a club and that when you got back to the flat you’d jumped on him,’ she says, clutching my hand in hers. ‘He said that the next day you accused him of forcing himself on to you. He said you were mentally ill and needed help.’

  My eyes brim with tears as I listen to her, remembering that night and the horrors that followed. Remembering his mother jumping to his defence, telling me that I was harming her son, remembering those pills, the blood, my life slowly falling apart.

  ‘He’s lying,’ I say, my voice barely audible. ‘I swear to you, Lottie.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, and with those words I feel my whole body go limp. She believes me. My best friend.

  ‘How did you know I was at Holly Maze House?’ I say, remembering the relief I felt when I saw her running out of the maze.

  ‘We were waiting outside the cafe,’ she says. ‘Connor had just told me all that bullshit and I didn’t know what to think. Then we saw you. Connor got up straight away and ran after you, but I was in shock for a minute. Next thing, this big black Range Rover comes out of nowhere. A man in a balaclava jumped out of it and grabbed you from behind. I was yelling at Connor to do something, but he was just standing there, frozen to the spot. It all happened in seconds. Once I caught up, the man had bundled you into the car and driven off. I told Connor to ring the police, but he just shoved past me, said he wanted nothing to do with it, and ran off. Then this woman came over to me, she’d taken a photo of the licence plate. We called the police and … well, you know the rest.’