4 Riverside Close

by Diana Wilkinson

  Once inside the sumptuous bedroom, my senses become weirdly over-heightened. I bounce ridiculously up and down on the bed. I’m waiting, unsure of what to do next, while Vince locks the door behind us.

  ‘Come here, you.’ He stretches out his arms and pulls me off the bed towards him. The waiting is over. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he moans as he gently unbuttons my blouse, slowly unpeeling the silk from my shoulders and slipping his strong fingers under the flimsy strap of my camisole. I can hear his heavy breathing, but perhaps it’s my own. We are moving to become one.

  He tells me again I am beautiful and I choose to believe him. When he lifts his own shirt off over his head, his muscles ripple. His body is smooth and tanned, and I’m so desperate for him to be inside me that I pull him down onto the bed so that he’s on top of me.

  I cry out and in the distance can hear the gentle rhythm of the headboard beating in time to our lovemaking. Vince clings on to the bedstead, steadying himself, moving with measured thrusts until he shudders and falls spent beside me. My own cries shriek above the silence.

  I can hear a trolley being wheeled along outside in the corridor; room service or the cleaners. The faint creaking sound breaks the trance. Vince lies very still, spent from the exertions, and lets his arm flail loosely across my body.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Tea or coffee?’ He asks turning to look at me. ‘There’s a kettle over there.’

  ‘No thanks.’ I then blurt out, ‘That was ten thousand pounds well spent.’ My voice sounds vicious and aggressive although my intention is only to put some levity into the situation.

  ‘Hey. What’s up?’

  It’s as if someone has poured ice-cold water over me. It must be the shock realisation of what we’ve done. I gingerly get up.

  ‘Come here.’ Vince holds out his arms, smiling, reassuring, and tries to coax me back down beside him. He watches as I gather my clothes together before he stands up also. I sense him hovering behind me.

  ‘I need to go,’ I say, not daring to look at him.

  ‘Susan.’ The one word, however, gets my attention. When I turn round, he looks downcast and forlorn and for a minute, I regret the quip about the money. For some kooky reason, Vince seems to have fallen for me. I need to bury the niggling self-doubt that his charm offensive has increased since he received the payments.

  He waits a moment before he asks, ‘When will I see you again?’

  I desperately try to unravel my blouse; the sleeves have become tangled inside out, and I’m suddenly embarrassed by my pale freckly skin. I manage to pull the blouse over my head before zipping up and straightening my skirt. I don’t know what to say but I know I need to leave.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vince. I can’t see you again.’ I clutch my handbag and coat and slip my feet into my shoes. ‘I’m sorry.’ The tears well up as I try to open the door. Vince leans across and releases the catch but doesn’t speak.

  He understands. He knows what my problem is. He has no doubts about his prowess but will have concluded that I’m married.

  ‘Kiss me,’ he says, ‘even if it is goodbye.’ He waits a moment and adds, ‘I’ll call you.’

  I hurry along the corridor and take the stairs again rather than wait for the lift. I run, pounding downwards over the echoing fire well. In the foyer I look left and right. The concierge smiles.

  ‘Good day, madam.’ I ignore the plastic grin and hurry out into the street, tears streaming down my cheeks as I head towards the station. I will the throng of faceless people to swallow me up.

  The train back up to Hampstead is busier than it was earlier and as it chugs out of King’s Cross for the return journey north, darkness is drawing its cloak over the drab north London landscape. Hazy lamplights flicker on and off in the concrete tower blocks. I stare out the window, imagining the small claustrophobic lives within but nothing appears to have changed since earlier. A tiny ray of hope pricks through the doubts.

  As the miles pass and the minutes tick by, I dare to let myself think that maybe it doesn’t matter so much after all. Roger need never find out and life will carry on as usual, as it does everywhere. I won’t ever see Vince again. If he persists in contacting me, I’ll tell him the truth. The time for games is over. When I tell him I’m happily married, he’ll understand.

  I alight from the train and stroll along the platform, up the stairs to the High Street and home. Home. It’s where Roger and the children are. I realise I’m looking forward to getting back; suddenly normality is welcoming.

  As I walk up Church Street towards Riverside Close, I plan to forget this afternoon ever happened. I need to bury my dark little secret. I must be meticulous in this regard.

  18

  Alexis

  Perhaps we don’t really know anyone until they are pushed. I’m in the bathroom, breathing deeply, playing for time. The door is locked, offering illusory safety. There is no noise from the bedroom but I’m sure Adam hasn’t gone back downstairs. I pin my ear to the door and listen, not daring to breathe. The silence scares me and I’m sweating in my tight dress. Something stops me from taking it off; undressing would leave me more vulnerable and perhaps taunt him one step too far. I need to stay calm, remember that I’m not the one in the wrong. Adam will twist things.

  After Olive left, Adam fell dangerously silent. He stopped talking, narrowed his eyes and watched me. I knew better than to carry on speaking but decided to go up and change.

  ‘Not so fast. Where do you think you’re going?’ he hissed.

  I made the top of the stairs before he had time to register where I’d headed. I managed to run through our bedroom and make it into the bathroom before he appeared.

  I had heard his feet pound up the stairs, two at a time and I only managed to lock the door before he rattled and rattled at the handle. ‘Come out, you bitch.’

  It’s only now I remember the severity of the black-eye incident, the endlessly recounted tales of walking into a glass door. Silly me! I hadn’t seen it, there were no markers announcing its presence. It was an invisible danger; like Adam. I now wonder if I have used the Debbie affair as my way out. She has provided me with a good reason to leave when I should have done so long ago.

  Half an hour must have passed. There’s still no noise and I think Adam must have gone downstairs again. I creep to the door and try to unlock it as quietly as possible, tentatively sliding open the tiny bolt. Adam never locks doors in the house; that is not what marriage is about. He has always been so confident in assuring me that he is trustworthy, open and solid.

  The black eye and the glass door incident have lain dormant, buried in my memories. Adam carefully covered up the event with wine and roses, a trip to Paris and a gold necklace. He spent freely to buy back my trust and silence, and he thinks he was successful in dispelling any doubts I might have harboured in thinking it more than a one-off aberration. I must admit, while he clasped the gold necklace round my neck, I believed it wouldn’t happen again. I lied to myself.

  The bedroom is in darkness. I thought I’d left the light on but instead I tentatively make my way, keeping close to the wall, towards the switch. Instantly a hand is round my throat, constricting my windpipe. The other hand is pushing my body, face forward, into the wall. He’s hissing words of venom and the wet spittle is closing in on my ear.

  ‘Fucking bitch,’ is all he says as he squeezes tighter. I try desperately to kick up with my feet which are now free from the patent heels but he knows that he’s in control. This is all that’ll ease his battered psyche.

  ‘Why?’ his dark voice snaps. ‘How did you find out? If you’ve sent photos to Debbie, I’ll kill you.’ Her name fuels my determination but I don’t answer. My anger is as great as his but not my strength. I need to be careful.

  ‘How did you find out?’ he repeats, spitting his words. ‘I’m listening.’ The menace in his tone has escalated and he turns me round to face him. I’m not ready for it. I think that by facing him he’ll not seem so savage, that his face
will become familiar, respectful and safe. I am wrong. He hasn’t turned the light on so I can’t see the intent in his eyes, but I sense it.

  His left hand is too quick. It slaps me on one cheek, then the other and back again. My head flails from side to side and through a thick fog, I feel the sting of the black eye. I won’t lose consciousness. Not this time.

  When he has finished with me, I’m lying on the floor unable to get up, barely conscious. He gives me a final kick in the thighs, one blow to each side, before rampaging down the stairs and out the front door. The neighbours will hear the bang echoing in the night air.

  I’m not sure how long I have been lying here but I think I might have passed out for a few minutes. It’s already gone midnight. I manage to haul myself up onto the bed. Adam will not come back tonight, I’m almost certain but a doubt lingers.

  I somehow drag myself down the stairs, gripping the banister rods to stop me from tumbling and eventually reach the front door. I double lock the mortise and pull the safety chain across. I leave my keys in the door so that I’ll hear any warning of his return, enough time to call 999. My mobile is gripped in my hand.

  There is an eerie silence in the house as I crawl from room to room, fearful that Adam might jump out from behind a door. Dark shadows filter through the open curtains and I freeze when I hear a rattle outside. I think it might be Adam. I stay very still and look out through the dining room window, too scared to move. I watch the neighbour’s dog, who has escaped from its own claustrophobic confines, bound across the close. It’s running wildly from side to side, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds to see if its owner is following. Although the dog is free, it’s dependent.

  I now know I need to break free and become independent. I stay where I am for at least ten minutes until I’m certain Adam hasn’t come home and finally inch myself, step by step, up the stairs to bed.

  Without daring to turn on the lights, I fall into an exhausted sleep.

  19

  Alexis

  There is an incessant banging from somewhere far off but I can’t wake up. I feel as if I’ve been drugged. I glance at my phone. It is 8am and light outside. I can’t move but hear small sharp raps at the window; as if a ricochet of bullets is hitting the pane. The curtains are still open. There had been no need for Adam to close them last night as the lights had been off and the room in darkness the whole time. For a moment I can’t remember exactly what happened until the memories filter through.

  ‘Alexis.’ I can hear someone calling my name from outside. Adam has returned. Perhaps he’s managed to locate a florist in the middle of the night, or perhaps he’s bringing chocolates, planning a grovelling apology. I lie still, close my eyes and will him to leave. Someone’s talking to him.

  The neighbours will be embarrassed, unwilling to get involved but Adam will tell them he has forgotten his keys and has been operating late into the night. That’s why he’s throwing small pebbles up at the window. Another emergency, he will be saying. He probably slept in the car. Debbie’s husband will be sharing her bed and panic has propelled my husband back to his senses.

  I can hear a muffled conversation and am glad that I didn’t give the Harpers a spare key. Their aloofness made me hesitate. I manage to crawl to the window, my body feeling as if a lump of concrete has been dropped on it, and tap on the windowpane. Adam is talking to Olive. She has wandered out in her dressing gown and is standing beside him. She knows what’s going on and for once I’m grateful for our little cul-de-sac whose homes share the intimate space. Olive, with her arthritic little hands and wizened face, appears like a talisman in the street below. She smiles up at me.

  ‘I’ll be down,’ I mouth through the glass. She is my witness. She will see the bruises and will log them in her diary. The date will be important, and as I make my way slowly down the stairs, I wonder if she remembers any other battered wives in the close.

  I don’t want to let Adam in but I know he’ll otherwise stand and keep knocking, assuring the neighbours that I have become an increasingly heavy sleeper. He’ll be assuming that I haven’t called the police and in the cold light of day also assume I will realise we had nothing more than a domestic tiff. The absence of a police presence will confirm I’ve taken the matter no further.

  I go to pull back the chain. Perhaps I should call the police but I’m sure Adam will play the apologetic contrite card rather than resume the violence. He knows the neighbours are watching, so cautiously I open the door. I don’t feel strong enough, mentally or physically, to confront him yet or to plan the exit from our marriage but the latter will need all my strength.

  Adam is in quickly, panning Olive off with bright and breezy platitudes, and closes the door behind him. He stares at me, trying to work out how I can look so battered. He reaches for my hands but I ignore him and instead begin the painful walk towards the lounge.

  ‘Let me bathe those wounds,’ he says. The doctor’s caring façade makes him feel better. He wants to soothe my injuries as if they were inflicted by someone else.

  ‘They’re not as bad as they look,’ I lie. I need to get rid of him. I pretend my injuries don’t matter that they were a deserved result of my subterfuge. He will naively believe that one bad deed led to another and now we’re all square. He doesn’t know I have photographed the bruises, noting down the date and time. This is my detective brain thinking ahead, gathering the evidence for the right moment. I would prefer a more amicable separation, two adults accepting the marriage is over, rather than dragging our dirty linen through the courts. I might still have to reveal his true nature but for now I’ll go through the motions and hope that Adam’s desperation to avoid public or professional humiliation will simplify a divorce. However, I’ve saved the pictures in case.

  He thinks everything is as it was before and he will, of course, tell me that he’ll never see Debbie again. That is the least he can do. What he has conveniently forgotten is that his physical attack is the only unlawful deed that has been carried out. His affair, my confrontation with the facts and sadistic birthday pantomime will not warrant prison sentences. He seems to think I won’t realise this but in my fragile state, my fear doesn’t let me voice such knowledge. Silence is my best weapon for now.

  I can hear him put the kettle on in the kitchen, take down a couple of mugs from the cupboard and then make a phone call. He tells the hospital that he has had a minor family crisis and will be delayed in getting to work but he should be there by ten. I am a minor family crisis. If he had used the word major I wouldn’t have mellowed but might have at least talked to him. The word has become the final nail in his coffin.

  ‘Here.’ He hands me a mug of sweet strong tea. He’s put sugar in to help with the shock and sweeten the blow. I see Olive through the window and Bob is by her side.

  ‘Bloody snoop,’ Adam snaps, pulling the curtains across. He has to curtail his anger which is still simmering near to the surface. I think for the first time he is questioning the wisdom of moving to Riverside Close. It was his choice but might turn out to be my saviour in the end.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ is meant to make it all right, together with the sweet tea. He needs to get to the hospital, it’s a life-or-death thing, but he can’t go until he knows I’m okay and he’s forgiven. I don’t say that we are long past forgiveness but the only way I can get rid of him is to pretend.

  ‘Go to work. I’ll be fine.’ I sip the warm tea and don’t look up. I feel so cold, shivering in my red dress which I still haven’t taken off. He runs upstairs. He’s late for work, and comes down again holding up one of his large woollen jumpers. It makes him feel better as he watches me pull it over my head. He thinks we’re still together, a team, helping and sharing items, and assumes we’ll move on from this, like other couples who have had marital contretemps. Adam is desperate to nurture the world’s view of him as a successful respected physician. Divorce wouldn’t suit his image. His untarnished reputation is crucial to his survival.

  He lean
s over and kisses me on top of my head and repeats, ‘I’m really sorry. We’ll talk this evening.’ Then he’ll give me his diagnosis. He’s desperate for forgiveness so we can carry on as before. He doesn’t yet know that this won’t happen and he’s had his last chance. I need patience. I will him to leave but he hovers as if trying to decide what else he can do.

  ‘Go on,’ I repeat, smiling through gritted teeth. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’ I pretend for now that I don’t feel too bad and that the day will carry on as normal, as it does every day. He seems satisfied. He slips me a couple of strong painkillers from a half-full plastic bottle, assuring me they’ll help ease the worst of the pain, then lifts his briefcase and puts his fingers to his lips and blows me a farewell kiss.

  ‘Take a couple every four hours and you’ll not feel a thing. I won’t be late. Promise.’ With that, he’s off back to his godlike role of saving lives.

  Olive appears at the front door once Adam has gone and his car has disappeared from view. I hobble over and let her in. She hugs me but doesn’t speak. There’s no need. She feels my body shake.

  ‘Olive, I need to get the locks changed; straightaway. Maybe you can help.’ I frantically begin to search for local locksmiths on my phone. Filled with purpose, Olive starts to jot down possible contact numbers in a small black notebook which she has produced from her pocket. She touches my arm in a comforting gesture of support.

  ‘Leave it to me, love. I’ll take care of it.’