Stalker

by Gemma Rogers

  When he finally arrived, I was folding up the towels, all fluffy from the industrial sized tumble dryer. He came in to help and I gave him a rundown of the day so far, including what the plumber had charged. The figure made him wince.

  ‘How’s Ben? I haven’t seen him in a while,’ he asked, when I’d finished my update.

  ‘Fine, he’s all loved up with Amy.’

  ‘Who’s Amy?’ Jason stopped folding to stare at me. Ben obviously hadn’t told him about her.

  ‘A girl from work he met on a training course.’

  ‘I thought you two had a thing?’

  I shook my head, not unless you could call one kiss ‘a thing’.

  ‘Oh, I must have got it wrong then. I thought you were his girlfriend.’

  ‘Really? No. We didn’t have a thing,’ I mumbled. Jason’s words made my stomach flutter. It was too late now anyway.

  Jason and I finished the pile and put them in the cubbyholes by the door.

  ‘Right, I’ll let you get on. See you tomorrow,’ I said, hurrying out of the club and towards the library, so I could search the internet without Susie peeking over my shoulder.

  When I arrived, I was frustrated to find all the machines upstairs full. Bloody jobseekers and students doing their coursework. I wandered back downstairs to look at the thrillers until someone came down. I nipped back up to find a computer now free. An hour later, I had a printed list of all the care homes in Oxford. There were over twenty of them. I would be spending the rest of the day on the phone, but that I could do in the privacy of my room.

  Sunday 28 January 2018

  I’m back in the interview room again. Collected from my cell without warning. I’ve been waiting for five minutes, but no sign of Hicks or Becker yet. What are they going to ask me now?

  I’ve just caught my solicitor playing Candy Crush on his mobile phone out of the corner of my eye. I’m going to prison for sure. At least I’m not hungry. They delivered a microwave bolognaise pasta dinner, still in its beige tray fifteen minutes ago. It was lukewarm and I’m sure it contained as much meat as a tofu salad. I’m not one to complain though. I’ve been a waitress; I’ve seen what happens when food is sent back to the kitchen. I had counted one hundred laps of my cell when Jamie brought it in. I had no idea it was even dinner time.

  He seems nice, a friendly face, a bit of blond bumfluff on his chin. He’s younger than me I think, early twenties. But he doesn’t speak, just smiles. He must be part of the custodial officers, perhaps a junior? Tasked with moving people around, delivering food and the like. Making sure none of us are tempted to escape.

  The door opens, and Becker comes into the room, followed by Hicks, who won’t meet my gaze. Will he interview me? He should be reprimanded for his interrogation methods. I can’t understand what he’s so angry about. I’ve done the world a favour. It’s a safer place now. He’s the one that’s supposed to catch the criminals. He looks like he couldn’t even catch a cold.

  ‘Eve, we wanted to give you one last opportunity to tell us anything you may have overlooked from last night,’ Becker says, once she has set the recorder. She doesn’t look quite so immaculate now. Her hair is starting to frizz out of the bun, the hairspray no longer holding, and there’s a coffee stain on the cuff of her blue shirt. I bet they can’t wait to get me out of here.

  ‘I’ve told you everything.’

  ‘We’ve had some more information come in and that’s not quite true is it.’ Hicks speaks this time. It isn’t a question.

  I remain silent. My solicitor gives me a sideways glance. Perhaps this is the time to start exercising my right not to speak?

  ‘This will be your last chance to get on record what happened. Because changing your story later will not be viewed favourably in court,’ Becker continues, emphasising the ‘not’.

  I will myself to keep still, any fidgeting will give me away. What do they know? Is she bluffing? I can’t be sure. Now is the time to hold my nerve. I briefly glance at the door. I can’t help it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to seek an escape route; and I see him, fleetingly, passing the door.

  I feel a numbness cascade through my fingers. Why is Ben here?

  46

  Monday 22 January 2018

  Finding Ian’s dad had been a mission. I called seventeen care homes before I had any success. In the beginning, I was told they weren’t allowed to give out any information, but then I began claiming I was David Shaw’s niece. By the eighteenth call, to Nuthatch House, I was more than a little bored but had my patter perfected.

  ‘Hi. I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for my uncle, David Shaw. Is he a resident here?’

  A gruff man with an Eastern European accent answered and he didn’t sound particularly friendly. ‘Yeah. Why, do you want to come and see him? Visits are by appointment only.’

  I was so surprised I’d finally found him that I hesitated in my reply.

  ‘Yes, yes I do want to come and see him. Is he okay, I heard he’d had an accident?’

  The man snorted. ‘Listen, love, he’s ten feet away from me, watching television in the communal room. He’s fine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied, feeling oddly relieved for the man I’d never met. The father of a monster. Now I knew Ian was lying. Where was he? Laying low at home waiting for his knuckles to heal or did he really go to Oxford?

  ‘Hang on. Who did you say you were? You must know Ian? Does he know you’re coming to visit?’

  Fuck. Whoever he was, he knew Ian. If he found out someone was falsely identifying herself as David’s niece, he might know it was me. I ended the call. My fingers trembling as they slid across the screen. Shit. What an idiot. He wouldn’t call Ian, would he? I was glad I’d withheld my number. I prayed it would be forgotten when he next contacted them or that someone else would answer the phone if he called to check in on his father. It didn’t sound like the most welcoming place.

  My eyes darted around the room, turning the call over in my mind. Why could you only visit by appointment? That was odd. I had no experience of care homes, but I’d assumed they would have visiting hours, the same as a hospital? Booking an appointment to see your loved one sounded strange, suspicious even. Why couldn’t you just drop in unannounced? I had to use the internet again but didn’t dare use my home Wi-Fi or laptop for any of these searches. Especially now I knew what I was looking for.

  I slipped on my trainers and headed back to the library. At the café I treated myself to a coffee and a flapjack as there had been no time for lunch at home. Most of the computers were free when I arrived this time. The whole library was quieter. Armed with my refreshments, I slid into the chair in the corner unnoticed. When the search engine opened, I typed in Nuthatch House. The computer whirred for a few seconds, the small circle spinning endlessly in the centre of the screen. Then a message, ‘Firefox is not responding’. God these were ancient, the yellowing plastic and boxy monitors were relics. The library could do with an injection of funding to update its equipment. Finally, a long list of results loaded. At the top were two from national newspapers. I clicked on the first link, drumming my fingers on the desk. It was slow to load, and I bit into my flapjack. The sweet oats clogging my dry mouth until I washed them down with coffee. Wincing as the molten liquid burnt my tongue.

  ‘Nuthatch House of Horrors’ in bold black letters filled the screen, followed by the tagline ‘Care Home from Hell’. I read quickly, devouring the words and scrolling down as fast as the prehistoric machine would allow. At least Susie had computers from this decade. I consumed the information in parts as the page loaded. There had been an investigation into the methods used by the staff. Their lack of training questioned after a patient died of dehydration. Further down the page there were reports of patients being left in their beds, soiled, for days. In later findings it was concluded that residents were only being given one meal a day. When journalists infiltrated the care home to record these incidences undercover, they found an elderly Alzheimer sufferer cha
ined to her bed as she was prone to wandering.

  It was horrific reading and I couldn’t believe the level of cruelty inflicted on these vulnerable people. How could Ian allow his father to be homed there? Surely, he must have read these reports? Investigated, before charging them with his father’s care? I would have. Ian was heinous, that was certain, but what did his father do to him?

  I clicked on the second link and it was much the same as the first. Infected bed sores, and physical punishments handed out when patients did not do as they were told. I sat back and stared, open mouthed, at the screen, unable to believe what I was reading. The news reports were from only two years ago. How long had David been there? Was Ian from Oxford originally? Why was he housed so far away?

  Another idea hit me, and I searched for Oxford and sexual assault. The fourth link began ‘Thames Valley Police are appealing for witnesses following a violent sexual assault on a university student on the way home from a Christmas party on Tuesday 22 December.’ The details were sketchy; the psychology student had been jumped from behind. Could it have been Ian? A different hunting ground but he was in Oxford over Christmas, or so he said. I shuddered, wanting to shake the feeling of discomfort that had attached itself to me. I went back to Google and typed in Nuthatch.

  The care home itself had a nice bright website with a well turned out elderly gentleman in a wheelchair with a gorgeous young nurse beside him on the homepage. It was too perfect, a stock photo for sure. Apparently, Nuthatch had been refurbished and all staff trained to Level 3 NVQ in Health & Social Care. Somehow, I didn’t believe that. The man I’d spoken to sounded more like a nightclub bouncer. I’d be surprised if they ever recovered from the damage to their reputation.

  Leaning back in my chair, I tried my coffee again, which had cooled. I frowned at the screen; it might be worth a try. I opened a new tab and this time typed David Shaw in the search engine. Again, the machine whirred, and I used the waiting time to finish my snack. Lots of results came up for Facebook and I scrolled past them. Nothing jumped out at me. There was an accountant in the Isle of Wight and a solicitor in London that both had web pages linked to their names, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for. David Shaw was a common name, there would be hundreds, maybe thousands.

  I typed Oxford next to the name and hit enter again. On page three of the results another news report caught my eye. This one published in 1992 by the Oxford Times. I clicked the link and rubbed my eyes as it loaded. They were sore from straining at the dimly lit screen.

  Another headline filled the space, this one made me queasy: ‘Boy found locked in cupboard’.

  A man by the name of David Shaw had been arrested in Donnington after neighbours heard the cries of his son through the walls. The boy was six, according to the report, and was found malnourished whilst his father was at work. The mother had died of cancer and no other siblings were mentioned in the article. I shook my head. It was disgusting.

  Clicking back and scrolling further down, I saw a later report from the same year stating David had been sentenced to five years imprisonment. It wasn’t enough. Sentencing never seemed to fit the crime. Always either too lenient or too severe. The boy wasn’t named for obvious reasons. Could he have been Ian? Could Ian have been locked up and starved?

  I rubbed at my temples and lowered my head to stretch the crick in my neck. It must be a coincidence. There were lots of David Shaw’s, Oxford was a big place. I got up, pushed my chair back and stretched my legs, in search of a bin. I found one by the stairs and took a slow walk back to the computer section. The top floor of the library was empty apart from one librarian stacking shelves. Deciding to call it a day, I began to close the tabs on the computer one by one. As I lingered on the care home website and the fake smile of the blonde model; it dawned on me. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. It was no mistake that David was at Nuthatch. Ian had put him there on purpose. As punishment.

  47

  Him

  I lost control, I admit it. By the third blow, the girl had lost consciousness, but I couldn’t stop. Rage propelled me on until I could no longer feel my hands. She wasn’t so pretty by the time I finished. All the time picturing Eve’s sweet face, her full lips, split and bloody. Still the frustration lingers, even after I used that girl as a punchbag. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to control myself. No matter, she’ll be worth waiting for.

  Once I’ve spent my weekend with Eve, I’ll take a few days off. I know my father will love to hear a detailed account of how I spent my weekend. He’ll twitch and moan and maybe even cry, but I know deep down he’ll enjoy it, almost as much as I will reliving it. I’ll tell him how perfect Eve was, just as he told my mother all those years ago.

  I just have to figure out what to do with her. I cannot let her go. This time I’m going to take more than her body. She will be perfect.

  48

  Monday 22 January 2018

  Left reeling by Ian’s possible motive to entrust his dad to Nuthatch, I walked home, mind racing. Images of him tipping staff with banknotes each time he visited flooded my thoughts. Ensuring his father was neglected or abused at every opportunity. A cruel smile and sly wink alongside a commissioning handshake to the Care Home Manager.

  There was no concrete proof; I was assuming he knew about Nuthatch. Guessing that the boy in the cupboard was him. I could be putting two and two together and making five. My ‘evidence’ was circumstantial at best, but deep down I knew it was him. Everything added up. His controlling nature, the violent porn and aggression. I’d always known. As soon as I saw his unfeeling blue eyes in the gym and the physical effect he had on me. I was frightened of him. My entire body tensed when he was near, reacting for me. It knew before I did.

  In a few days Ian and I would have dinner. He would invite me back to his flat. For what purpose, I wasn’t sure? What were his motives? To rape me again? To beat me? To make love? I had so many questions and I knew the answers to none. But I would be going back to his flat. I needed to prepare.

  Plucking my phone from my bag, I dialled as I walked home.

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Eve.’

  ‘Hiya, you all right?’

  ‘Yeah fine. I meant to ask you earlier. You don’t know anyone that runs self-defence classes for women, do you?’

  ‘No, not offhand, but I can always show you a few moves if you like.’

  I smiled, I was hoping he’d say that. ‘Brilliant, thanks. Just half an hour or something.’

  ‘Sure, I’ll come in earlier tomorrow, before you finish. We can do it then.’

  ‘Perfect. Thanks Jason. See you tomorrow.’

  My Tuesday was filling up fast. Work in the morning and Doctor Almara in the afternoon. I had to try and squeeze a workout in too. Just four days until Saturday, the thought made my insides squirm.

  At home we were starting to run out of food again, but shopping would have to wait until later in the week. I ran a bath and lowered myself into the hot water, Was Ian with his father now? Or had that been a lie? Maybe I shouldn’t have deleted the PetCam app and the window it gave me into Ian’s life, but I had a plan and I had to stick to it. Deviation would be foolish, and I had to be smart.

  I spent the evening waiting for the sound of Ben’s key in the door, but it never came. I had no idea if he was on shift this week or whether he was with Amy, but I missed his company. Jane called me in her break, she was on lates this week and her shifts didn’t finish until ten. I could tell she was running on empty.

  ‘Only a few more days to go now, chicken,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, I can’t wait. I meant to say, everyone’s been asking about my fob watch, they can’t believe I have such amazing friends.’

  ‘Just you remember that when you’re travelling halfway around the world. Don’t forget what I look like, will you.’

  ‘How could I! We’ll FaceTime, and I’ll write, it won’t feel like I’m so far away, I promise.’ Her br
eak was ending so we said goodbye. I knew I’d be lost without her when she left. Where would I be when she returned? Knowing what was coming I couldn’t help but wonder whether I’d be alive or dead.

  49

  Tuesday 23 January 2018

  Sleep came easily for once and the next morning I rose later than planned, rushing around to get ready for work. Starting so early was beginning to wear me down. I busied myself with cleaning chores and did some sparring with Louise, the young girl on probation. She was lovely, if a bit rough around the edges, and she had a cracking right hook.

  Jason came in mid-morning and moved some mats onto a large space on the floor, as enthusiastic as ever. I could tell teaching was what he loved the most.

  ‘I’ve been looking at some bits on the internet to refresh my memory. We covered a module of it in one of the personal training certificates a year or so ago. I’m looking forward to you throwing me around.’ He loomed above me and I laughed, looking him from head to foot.

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to be happening any time soon.’ Although if I could hold my own against Jason, I might stand a chance with Ian. I had to learn as much as I could.

  ‘We’ll see. Let’s do some stretches, a bit of warming up to loosen the muscles.’

  I followed the exercises Jason demonstrated. Rolling my shoulders and stretching my arms and hamstrings. Then we faced each other a few feet apart, like we were about to wrestle, and I tried not to giggle. Jason towered over me and although it was silly, I felt slightly intimidated. Ian was smaller in stature, but I’d seen first-hand what he was capable of with Sophie.