by S. J. Watson
‘Maybe, for now—’ I begin, but he moves abruptly. He grabs my arm, twisting it as he does so. It’s sudden, and brutal. I cry out, a scream of shock and pain, and then I’m silenced.
‘You know,’ he hisses, still holding my arm, still digging in his fingers, ‘I don’t like little tarts like you who come between me and my fun. So, this is what’s going to happen . . .’ He twists my arm further. I struggle, but he holds me. He’s using only one hand yet still it seems easy for him. It feels as if he could snap my arm with hardly any effort at all, as if that’s exactly what he’d like to do. I gasp once more; again I remember his hands on me, how once they’d caressed the very skin that now screams with pain. ‘You’re going to get the fuck out of my life,’ he says. ‘You’re going to leave Anna alone, and you’re not going to interfere. Get it?’
I gather all my strength. I turn to him; finally I manage to wrench my arm from his. ‘Or what? I saw you, you know. Earlier. Getting into the lift. You didn’t look that in love to me. I don’t know what you’re doing, but she doesn’t deserve it. She’s done nothing to you. She really thinks you love her.’
I feel his resolve waver, just slightly. I’ve hit a nerve. But then he speaks. ‘It makes no difference to me what you think you saw.’ His smile is sickly, thin. ‘And you are going to leave us alone.’
He seems so certain. Dread fills me.
‘Or what?’
‘Or I might just make my private archive a little bit more public . . .’
I don’t understand what he’s saying, yet I feel myself tense. It’s as if my body has already worked it out while my mind lags behind.
‘Your what—?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve got some very interesting photos in my collection. Videos, too. Want to see?’
I feel myself falling. He seems so totally confident. I’m no one, nothing. He could destroy me, without even having to try.
I shake my head. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through some screens. ‘Ah. This is a good one.’
He selects a photograph, and the glow from the screen briefly illuminates the dark interior of the car, then he angles the screen so that I can see the picture. It’s a woman, taken from the waist up. She’s naked.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s me.
I gasp. ‘This is . . .’ I begin, but the words catch in my mouth and I can’t get them out.
‘This is from that first time . . .’ he says. ‘The first time you turned your camera on. D’you remember?’
I do. I’d been in my studio, the door locked. I’d angled my camera, stood up. I felt stupid, at first, but then I’d become swept up in it until there was just me, and him, and the rest of the world had faded to nothing.
The betrayal seems absolute. I can’t look at it any more, but neither do I want to look at him.
‘You took it . . . you kept it?’
‘I like having an archive.’ He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. ‘For when I’m bored, you know?’
‘How dare you!’ Fury is rising in my chest, but something else, too. A new fear, cold and hard and piercing. If he has this, I think, then he’ll have more.
He begins to scroll through his phone. ‘I have plenty of others,’ he’s saying. ‘This, for example? Or this?’
He shows me image after image. A rerun of the past few months, the edited highlights. Almost every time I’d stripped for him, because he was bored, or horny, and I missed him and wanted to please him. With each picture I sink lower, until I feel I’m drowning. The water is closing over me, invading me, until I can’t breathe.
‘Oh, and this.’ This one is different, taken in the hotel after we’d had sex. In it I’m standing up, smiling at the camera; he’s caught me as I was dressing. I remember the day he took it. I’d been flattered at the time; he wanted a memento, some reminder of the day.
I’d been glad, yet I remember I’d asked him to delete it. ‘I just feel uncomfortable,’ I’d said. He told me I was beautiful, that he wanted a picture. ‘Please, Lukas,’ I said. ‘Delete it?’
Clearly, he hadn’t. Now, as I look at it, I’m horrified. It’s like one version of me looking at another. Julia, looking at Jayne. I’d thought I could keep them separate, in boxes, locked away, but I was wrong. Things have a habit of escaping.
Another wave of despair hits. None of it was real. From the beginning it was based on a lie, an illusion of love.
‘Anyway, you get the general idea.’
‘You bastard . . .’ I whisper. Even this word feels wholly inadequate, after what he’s taken from me.
‘Oh, come on now. These pictures are great! You should know. It’d be very selfish of me not to share . . .’ His hand goes to his pocket again. When he takes it out he’s holding a memory stick. He holds it up. ‘Here’s your copy, for example.’ I stare at it but refuse to take it from him. ‘No? You might as well have it. There are plenty more . . .’ He smiles, then puts it between us on the dashboard.
‘But you’re in half of these photographs. Why would you share them?’
‘I’m in some of them, yes. But not all. And, in any case, I don’t have a child. I’m not married to a surgeon. I think I’d just about get away with it.’ He smiles. ‘Just think . . .’ He shakes his head, tutting. ‘Imagine what the press would say. The Mail? TOP SURGEON’S WIFE IN SEX SCANDAL? It might even go viral. Don’t you think?’
I don’t reply. He’s right. The future collapses in slow motion. On top of the complaint against Hugh, it would be too much. I see the scandal, our friends turning away from us. Maria, Carla – all of his colleagues. I imagine myself walking down the street, feeling people’s eyes burning into me, not knowing what they’d seen, what gossip they’d believed.
He’s won, I think, and there’s nothing I can do. He has Anna, he will get his hands on my sister’s money, and then he’ll abuse and mistreat Anna the way he has me.
He hasn’t finished, though. ‘There’s Hugh’s boss at the hospital, too. All his colleagues. Can’t be good for business. For his reputation. There’s Connor’s school, all those parents. I can’t imagine it’d be too difficult to get hold of their email addresses. Oh,’ he says, as if something’s just occurred to him, ‘I just remembered. There’s all those porn websites I can upload these to. “Hot amateur.”’ He looks at me, watching for my reaction. ‘“Older woman fucks young stud.”’
It happens suddenly, comes from nowhere. I slap him, as hard as I can. It’s as if all the energy I’ve been clamping down has erupted. I want to kick and scream and fight.
Yet his only response is to laugh quietly, almost under his breath, and I realize he’s pleased.
He looks at me. His eyes are expressionless. I wonder if he’s capable of experiencing pain.
‘So, as I was saying, you’re going to stay away from me and Anna.’
I feel myself begin to cry. I tell myself I won’t let the tears come, I won’t give him the satisfaction, but they burn behind my eyes.
Yet at the same time I’m almost relieved. When everything’s gone, there’s no more pain, nothing else to lose.
Staying away from him and Anna – it migh
t be difficult, but it can be done.
‘Plus,’ he says, ‘why not have a think about how much these pictures might be worth to you. I mean, I know your sister left a bit of money to Anna, but I understand there’s a lot more that’s gone to your son . . .’
‘You bastard,’ I say again.
He turns to open the door. The temperature in the car seems to drop as he moves away from me and the rest of the world rushes in. ‘I ought to be going,’ he says. ‘Anna will be wondering where we are. Plus, I guess you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll tell her you were still upset, you had to get home to Connor. Something.’
I want to give up, to let him go, but then I think again of Kate and I know what I have to do. I’m strong enough; this year has taught me that, if nothing else. I’m stronger than I think.
‘Wait.’
He pulls the catch, but doesn’t step out. He turns to me, instead. ‘What?’
‘Anna trusts me.’ Now I’ve made my decision, my voice is strong, defiant. ‘She’ll never believe you. Not if I tell her what you’re doing.’
He closes the car door.
‘Tell her whatever you like. The truth is, Anna is beginning to think you’re a bit crazy. Sick. She thinks your sister’s death might have sent you off the rails. That perfect life you had . . . and now . . .’ His hand goes to his pocket. ‘She thinks you’re a little bit unpredictable. A tiny bit jealous, perhaps. Which of course you are, though she doesn’t know why.’
I think back to the time I spent with Anna in Paris, to all the conversations we’ve had over the months. He’s wrong.
‘You’re lying. Whatever—?’
‘Makes her think that? I guess this doesn’t help . . .’ He holds his hand up, between us. He’s holding something; it must’ve been in his pocket. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a knife.
I’m overcome with panic. I try to back away but the car is cramped and there’s nowhere for me to go. It happens in an instant. He grabs my hand with both of his, so that he’s holding me tight. The knife is exposed, sticking out towards me, in his hand though it looks as if it’s in mine. I struggle to free myself, thinking he’s trying to stab me, and he begins swinging my hand, left, right, back again. It’s as if we’re struggling, as if he’s trying to get the knife off me, even though he’s the one holding it. I hear a voice, shouting, and at first I think it’s coming from outside the car, but then I realize it’s me and I see it all. It’s as if I’m watching from the street, peering into the car. It looks as though I’m trying to stab him as he tries to hold me off with both hands. He relaxes for a moment, and just as I think he’s about to drop the knife he does it. With sudden ferocity he pulls both hands towards his face and the knife he’s holding catches against the skin of his cheek. ‘Fuck!’ he says, and then a moment later there’s a dull gush of blood.
‘You silly bitch.’ He smiles. He shoves my hands away as if I repulse him and drops the knife. It falls into my lap and I see it’s just a kitchen knife, one I’d use for preparing vegetables, and was never going to do much damage. Yet still it’s sharp, it’s cut him, the blood is beginning to run down his cheek.
‘You tried to stab me!’ He scrabbles, as if he’s trying to get away from me, then he’s stumbling, out of the car. I’m speechless, dumb. There are a couple outside the car, a man and a woman. They peer in, trying to see what’s going on. My mouth opens and closes, pathetic. I can see the wound on his cheek is a scratch more than anything, but still the blood pours. It’s over his mouth now, running off his chin, dripping on his white shirt.
I think of Anna’s reaction when he gets upstairs. There’ll be blood everywhere by then, it’ll look like a frenzied attack. It’ll look like he’s had a lucky escape and she’ll believe whatever he tells her. That I’m jealous, crazy. That I’m trying to split them up out of spite, because I have no one of my own.
‘Still think she’s going to trust you?’ he says, then a moment later he’s gone and I’m alone – even though there are cars and people, I’m alone – and all I can hear is the beating of my heart and a dog, way in the distance, howling into the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I have no choice. I go home.
It’s late; the house is quiet, in darkness. It ought to feel safe, a place of refuge, but it doesn’t. Hugh and Connor are upstairs, asleep. Completely unaware of what’s happening, of where I’ve been. I’m separate from my family. Separate and alone.
I go into the lounge and turn on a table lamp, then sit in its warm glow. I turn the memory stick over and over in my hands. It’s so small, fragile. I could destroy it easily, crush it under foot, melt it over the flame from my lighter. For a moment I think I will, but I know it’s futile. I put it down, pick it up again.
I fetch my computer, switch it on, slide the stick into the port. I know I shouldn’t look, but somehow I can’t help it. Once, maybe even just a few weeks ago, I’d have still been hoping it might all turn out to be a joke, that he’ll have loaded the device with one of those tacky e-cards I used to hate but now send routinely when I’ve forgotten someone’s birthday. I’d have half expected the file to be an animated cartoon. Dancing monkeys, my face superimposed, singing a song. Fooled you!
But not any more. I can’t even pretend to myself now.
There are a dozen or so files, some pictures, some videos. I make sure my machine is muted then choose one at random.
It’s a video. The two of us. On the bed, naked. I’m underneath him, but my face is in the frame. I’m recognizable.
My eyes are closed, my mouth open. I look faintly ridiculous. I can bear it only for a second or two. I feel a sort of detached horror; detached because I could easily believe the woman on the screen has nothing to do with me, horror because this most intimate of acts is here, recorded without my knowledge, preserved for ever.
Exhaustion wipes me. How did he film this? Did he set up his laptop, angle the inbuilt camera towards the bed? I would’ve noticed, surely?
Maybe it was something more sophisticated, then. A hidden camera, disguised as a drinks can, built into the cap of a ballpoint pen. I know they’re available, I’ve even seen them in the department stores – John Lewis, Selfridges – when I’ve been looking at cameras. At the time I wondered why anyone would want one. They were for professionals, surely, private investigators. They belonged in the realm of James Bond. I guess now I know.
I shiver. These videos and pictures go right back to the beginning of our affair; he must have been planning this, all along. A wave of nausea breaks. I breathe as deeply as I can, long, slow breaths that don’t help at all, then slam my machine closed before ripping the memory stick out of the port and throwing it across the room. It bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor at my feet.
I stand up. I can’t leave it here. I imagine Connor picking it up, taking a look. What would he say? What would he think? I find it and go upstairs. I put it in my drawer; tomorrow I’ll take it out, throw it in the canal or under the wheels of a bus. I want a drink, yet am aware it’s the last thing I ought to do. Once I start I might not be able to stop. I run a shower instead, as hot as I can bear it. Still my skin has never felt less alive. It’s only when the water is so hot it nearly scalds that I feel anything at all.
For the next two days I don’t sleep. I call Anna, over and over, but she doesn’t answer. I’m on edge. I startle at every noise, wondering if it’s Lukas. I dread every call or message, every package in the post. I’m not sure what to do. I call Adrienne, but I can’t tell her what’s wrong. I just say I’m not well, I have a virus, I’ll talk to her next week. She’s going to be away for a few days anyway, she says. Bob’s taking her to Florence.
I decide I’ll turn up for lunch with Anna, at her hotel as we arranged. He might be there, of course, or she might not want to speak to me, but I have no other option. In any case, I decide a severance might actually be better; I could go back to my own life, then, concentrate on Connor and Hugh.
Still I can’t settle. I want to leave the house but can think of nowhere to go. I want to switch my phone off, but daren’t in case I miss a call from Anna. By Thursday Hugh has noticed; he tells me I need to get out, to do something to take my mind off Kate. ‘You’ve just taken a step backwards,’ he says. He thinks the grief has returned, and in a way he’s right. There’s the grief he knows about, and also the grief he doesn’t.
I take Connor out for supper. I choose a bun-free burger and a salad, though when I look over at Connor’s meal, all melting cheese and twice-fried chips, I wonder why I’m bothered. My life is falling apart, my affair about to be exposed in the worst possible way. Why do I care what I look like, what I eat?
Perhaps Kate had the right idea. Eat, drink, fuck who you like and never mind the consequences.
And then die.
I reach over and grab a couple of Connor’s fries. He looks up from his phone, his brow furrowed, his face a picture of mock-indignation. ‘Mum!’ he says, but he’s laughing. It’s a tiny moment of pleasure, seeing him happy. I wonder if it’s the first time since we told him they’d caught Kate’s killer.
I nod at his phone. ‘What’re you up to?’ I say.