RACHEL

THURSDAY, AUGUST 15, 2013
MORNING
Cathy has got me a job interview. A friend of hershas set up her own public relations firm and sheneeds an assistant. It’s basically a glorified secretarialjob and it pays next to nothing, but I don’t care.
This woman is prepared to see me withoutreferences—Cathy’s told her some story about myhaving a breakdown but being fully recovered now.
The interview’s tomorrow afternoon at this woman’shome—she runs her business from one of thoseoffice sheds in the back garden—which just happensto be in Witney. So I was supposed to be spendingthe day polishing up my CV and my interviewingskills. I was—only Scott phoned me.
“I was hoping we could talk,” he said.
“We don’t need?.?.?. I mean, you don’t need to sayanything. It was?.?.?. We both know it was a mistake.”
“I know,” he said, and he sounded so sad, not likethe angry Scott of my nightmares, more the brokenone that sat on my bed and told me about his deadchild. “But I really want to talk to you.”
“Of course,” I said. “Of course we can talk.”
“In person?”
“Oh,” I said. The last thing I wanted was to have togo back to that house. “I’m sorry, I can’t today.”
“Please, Rachel? It’s important.” He soundeddesperate and, despite myself, I felt bad for him. Iwas trying to think of an excuse when he said itagain. “Please?” So I said yes, and I regretted it thesecond the word came out of my mouth.
There’s a story about Megan’s child—her first deadchild—in the newspapers. Well, it’s about the child’sfather, actually. They tracked him down. His name’sCraig McKenzie, and he died of a heroin overdose inSpain four years ago. So that rules him out. It neversounded to me like a likely motive in any case—ifsomeone wanted to punish her for what she’d doneback then, they’d have done it years ago.
So who does that leave? It leaves the usualsuspects: the husband, the lover. Scott, Kamal. Orsome random man who snatched her from thestreet—a serial killer just starting out? Will she be thefirst of a series, a Wilma McCann, a Pauline Reade?
And who said, after all, that the killer had to be aman? She was a small woman, Megan Hipwell. Tiny,birdlike. It wouldn’t take much force to take herdown.
AFTERNOON
The first thing I notice when he opens the door isthe smell. Sweat and beer, rank and sour, and underthat something else, something worse. Somethingrotting. He’s wearing tracksuit bottoms and a stainedgrey T-shirt, his hair is greasy, his skin slick, asthough with fever.
“Are you all right?” I ask him, and he grins at me.
He’s been drinking.
“I’m fine, come in, come in.” I don’t want to, but Ido.
The curtains on the street side of the house areclosed, and the living room is cast in a reddish huethat seems to suit the heat and the smell.
Scott wanders into the kitchen, opens the fridge andtakes a beer out.
“Come and sit down,” he says. “Have a drink.” Thegrin on his face is fixed, joyless, grim. There’ssomething unkind about the set of his face. Thecontempt that I saw on Saturday morning, after weslept together, it’s still there.
“I can’t stay long,” I tell him. “I have a jobinterview tomorrow, I need to prepare.”
“Really?” He raises his eyebrows. He sits down andkicks a chair out towards me. “Sit down and have adrink,” he says, an order, not an invitation. I sitdown opposite him and he pushes the beer bottletowards me. I pick it up and take a sip. Outside, Ican hear shrieking—children playing in a back gardensomewhere—and beyond that, the faint and familiarrumble of the train.
“They got the DNA results yesterday,” Scott says tome. “Detective Riley came to see me last night.” Hewaits for me to say something, but I’m frightened ofsaying the wrong thing, so I stay silent. “It’s notmine. It wasn’t mine. The funny thing is, it wasn’tKamal’s, either.” He laughs. “So she had someoneelse on the go. Can you believe it?” He’s smiling thathorrible smile. “You didn’t know anything about that,did you? About another bloke? She didn’t confide inyou about another man, did she?” The smile isslipping from his face and I’m getting a bad feelingabout this, a very bad feeling. I get to my feet andtake a step towards the door, but he’s there in frontof me, his hands gripping my arms, and he pushesme back into the chair.
“Sit the fuck down.” He grabs my handbag frommy shoulder and throws it into the corner of theroom.
“Scott, I don’t know what’s going on—”
“Come on!” he shouts, leaning over me. “You andMegan were such good friends! You must haveknown about all her lovers!”
He knows. And as the thought comes to me, hemust see it in my face because he leans in closer, hisbreath rancid in my face, and says, “Come on,Rachel. Tell me.”
I shake my head and he swings a hand out,catching the beer bottle in front of me. It rolls off thetable and smashes on the tiled floor.
“You never even fucking met her!” he yells.
“Everything you said to me—everything was a lie.”
Ducking my head, I get to my feet, mumbling, “I’msorry, I’m sorry.” I’m trying to get round the table,to retrieve my handbag, my phone, but he grabs myarm again.
“Why did you do this?” he asks. “What made youdo this? What is wrong with you?”
He’s looking at me, his eyes locked on mine, andI’m terrified of him, but at the same time I knowthat his question isn’t unreasonable. I owe him anexplanation. So I don’t pull my arm away, I let hisfingers dig into my flesh and I try to speak clearlyand calmly. I try not to cry. I try not to panic.
“I wanted you to know about Kamal,” I tell him. “Isaw them together, like I told you, but you wouldn’thave taken me seriously if I’d just been some girl onthe train. I needed—”
“You needed!” He lets go of me, turning away.
“You’re telling me what you needed?.?.?.” His voice issofter, he’s calming down. I breathe deeply, trying toslow my heart.
“I wanted to help you,” I say. “I knew that thepolice always suspect the husband, and I wanted youto know—to know there was someone else?.?.?.”
“So you made up a story about knowing my wife?
Do you have any idea how insane you sound?”
“I do.”
I walk over to the kitchen counter to pick up adishcloth, then get down on my hands and kneesand clean up the spilled beer. Scott sits, elbows onknees, head hanging down. “She wasn’t who Ithought she was,” he says. “I have no idea who shewas.”
I wring the cloth out over the sink and run coldwater over my hands. My handbag is a couple offeet away, in the corner of the room. I make a movetowards it, but Scott looks up at me, so I stop. Istand there, my back to the counter, my handsgripping the edge for stability. For comfort.
“Detective Riley told me,” he says. “She was askingme about you. Whether I was in a relationship withyou.” He laughs. “A relationship with you! Jesus. Iasked her, ‘Have you seen what my wife looked like?
Standards haven’t fallen that fast.’” My face is hot,there is cold sweat under my armpits and at thebase of my spine. “Apparently Anna’s beencomplaining about you. She’s seen you hangingaround. So that’s how it all came out. I said, ‘We’renot in a relationship, she’s just an old friend ofMegan’s, she’s helping me out.’” He laughs again, lowand mirthless. “She said, ‘She doesn’t know Megan.
She’s just a sad little liar with no life.’” The smilefaded from his face. “You’re all liars. Every last oneof you.”
My phone beeps. I take a step towards the bag, butScott gets there before me.
“Hang on a minute,” he says, picking it up. “We’renot finished yet.” He tips the contents of myhandbag onto the table: phone, purse, keys, lipstick,Tampax, credit card receipts. “I want to know exactlyhow much of what you told me was total bullshit.”
Idly, he picks up the phone and looks at the screen.
He raises his eyes to mine and they are suddenlycold. He reads aloud: “This is to confirm yourappointment with Dr. Abdic at four thirty P.M. onMonday, nineteen August. If you are unable to makethis appointment, please be advised that we requiretwenty-four hours’ notice.”
“Scott—”
“What the hell is going on?” he asks, his voice littlemore than a rasp. “What have you been doing?
What have you been saying to him?”
“I haven’t been saying anything?.?.?.” He’s droppedthe phone on the table and is coming towards me,his hands balled into fists. I’m backing away into thecorner of the room, pressing myself between the walland the glass door. “I was trying to find out?.?.?. Iwas trying to help.” He raises his hand and I cringe,ducking my head, waiting for the pain, and in thatmoment I know that I’ve done this before, felt thisbefore, but I can’t remember when and I don’t havetime to think about it now, because although hehasn’t hit me, he’s placed his hands on my shouldersand he’s gripping them tightly, his thumbs digginginto my clavicles, and it hurts so much I cry out.
“All this time,” he says through gritted teeth, “all thistime I thought you were on my side, but you wereworking against me. You were giving him information,weren’t you? Telling him things about me, aboutMegs. It was you, trying to make the police comeafter me. It was you—”
“No. Please don’t. It wasn’t like that. I wanted tohelp you.” His right hand slides up, he grabs hold ofmy hair at the nape of my neck and he twists.
“Scott, please don’t. Please. You’re hurting me.
Please.” He’s dragging me now, towards the frontdoor. I’m flooded with relief. He’s going to throw meout into the street. Thank God.
Only he doesn’t throw me out, he keeps draggingme, spitting and cursing. He’s taking me upstairs andI’m trying to resist, but he’s so strong, I can’t. I’mcrying, “Please don’t. Please,” and I know thatsomething terrible is about to happen. I try toscream, but I can’t, the noise won’t come.
I’m blind with tears and terror. He shoves me intoa room and slams the door behind me. The keytwists in the lock. Hot bile rises to my throat and Ithrow up onto the carpet. I wait, I listen. Nothinghappens, and no one comes.
I’m in the spare room. In my house, this roomused to be Tom’s study. Now it’s their baby’snursery, the room with the soft pink blind. Here, it’sa box room, filled with papers and files, a fold-uptreadmill and an ancient Apple Mac. There is a boxof papers lined with figures—accounts, perhaps fromScott’s business—and another filled with oldpostcards—blank ones, with bits of Blu-Tack on theback, as though they were once stuck onto a wall:
the roofs of Paris, children skateboarding in an alley,old railway sleepers covered in moss, a view of thesea from inside a cave. I delve through thepostcards—I don’t know why or what I’m looking for,I’m just trying to keep panic at bay. I’m trying notto think about that news report, Megan’s body beingdragged out of the mud. I’m trying not to think ofher injuries, of how frightened she must have beenwhen she saw it coming.
I’m scrabbling around in the postcards, and thensomething bites me and I rock back on my heelswith a yelp. The tip of my forefinger is sliced neatlyacross the top, and blood is dripping onto my jeans.
I stop the blood with the hem of my T-shirt andsort more carefully through the cards. I spot theculprit immediately: a framed picture, smashed, with apiece of glass missing from the top, the exposed edgesmeared with my blood.
It’s not a photo I’ve seen before. It’s a picture ofMegan and Scott together, their faces close to thecamera. She’s laughing, and he’s looking at heradoringly. Jealously? The glass is shattered in a starradiating from the corner of Scott’s eye, so it’sdifficult to read his expression. I sit there on the floorwith the picture in front of me and think about howthings get broken all the time by accident, and howsometimes you just don’t get round to getting themfixed. I think about all the plates that were smashedwhen I fought with Tom, about that hole in theplaster in the corridor upstairs.
Somewhere on the other side of the locked door, Ican hear Scott laughing, and my entire body goescold. I scrabble to my feet and go to the window,open it and lean right out, then with just the verytips of my toes on the ground, I cry out for help. Icall out for Tom. It’s hopeless. Pathetic. Even if hewas, by some chance, out in the garden a few doorsdown, he wouldn’t hear me, it’s too far away. I lookdown and lose my balance, then pull myself backinside, bowels loosening, sobs catching in my throat.
“Please, Scott!” I call out. “Please?.?.?.” I hate thesound of my voice, the wheedling note, thedesperation. I look down at my blood-soaked T-shirtand I’m reminded that I am not without options. Ipick up the photo frame and tip it over onto thecarpet. I select the longest of the glass shards andslip it carefully into my back pocket.
I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs. I backmyself up against the wall opposite the door. The keyturns in the lock.
Scott has my handbag in one hand and tosses it atmy feet. In the other hand he is holding a scrap ofpaper. “Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew!” he says with asmile. He puts on a girly voice and reads aloud:
“Megan has run off with her boyfriend, who fromhere on in, I shall refer to as B.” He snickers. “Bhas harmed her?.?.?. Scott has harmed her?.?.?.” Hecrumples up the paper and throws it at my feet.
“Jesus Christ. You really are pathetic, aren’t you?”
He looks around, taking in the puke on the floor, theblood on my T-shirt. “Fucking hell, what have youbeen doing? Trying to top yourself? Going to do myjob for me?” He laughs again. “I should break yourfucking neck, but you know what, you’re just notworth the hassle.” He stands to one side. “Get out ofmy house.”
I grab my bag and make for the door, but just asI do, he steps out in front of me with a boxer’sfeint, and for a moment I think he’s going to stopme, put his hands on me again. There must beterror in my eyes because he starts to laugh, heroars with laughter. I can still hear him when I slamthe front door behind me.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 2013
MORNING
I’ve barely slept. I drank a bottle and a half of winein an attempt to get off to sleep, to stop my handsshaking, to quieten my startle reflex, but it didn’treally work. Every time I started to drop off, I’d joltawake. I felt sure I could feel him in the room withme. I turned the light on and sat there, listening tothe sounds of the street outside, to people movingaround in the building. It was only when it started toget light that I relaxed enough to sleep. I dreamed Iwas in the woods again. Tom was with me, but still Ifelt afraid.
I left Tom a note last night. After I left Scott’s, Iran down to number twenty-three and banged onthe door. I was in such a panic, I didn’t even carewhether Anna was there, whether she’d be pissed offwith me for showing up. No one came to the door,so I scribbled a note on a scrap of paper andshoved it through the letter box. I don’t care if shesees it—I think a part of me actually wants her tosee it. I kept the note vague—I told him we neededto talk about the other day. I didn’t mention Scott byname, because I didn’t want Tom to go round thereand confront him—God knows what might happen.
I rang the police almost as soon as I got home. Ihad a couple of glasses of wine first, to calm medown. I asked to speak to Detective Inspector Gaskill,but they said he wasn’t available, so I ended uptalking to Riley. It wasn’t what I wanted—I knowGaskill would have been kinder.
“He imprisoned me in his home,” I told her. “Hethreatened me.”
She asked how long I was “imprisoned” for. I couldhear the air quotes over the line.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Half an hour, maybe.”
There was a long silence.
“And he threatened you. Can you tell me the exactnature of the threat?”
“He said he’d break my neck. He said?.?.?. he saidhe ought to break my neck?.?.?.”
“He ought to break your neck?”
“He said that he would if he could be bothered.”
Silence. Then, “Did he hit you? Did he injure you inany way?”
“Bruising. Just bruising.”
“He hit you?”
“No, he grabbed me.”
More silence.
Then: “Ms. Watson, why were you in Scott Hipwell’shouse?”
“He asked me to go to see him. He said he neededto talk to me.”
She gave a long sigh. “You were warned to stay outof this. You’ve been lying to him, telling him youwere a friend of his wife’s, you’ve been telling allsorts of stories and—let me finish—this is a personwho, at best, is under a great deal of strain and isextremely distressed. At best. At worst, he might bedangerous.”
“He is dangerous, that’s what I’m telling you, forGod’s sake.”
“This is not helpful—you going round there, lying tohim, provoking him. We’re in the middle of a murderinvestigation here. You need to understand that. Youcould jeopardize our progress, you could—”
“What progress?” I snapped. “You haven’t madeany bloody progress. He killed his wife, I’m tellingyou. There’s a picture, a photograph of the two ofthem—it’s smashed. He’s angry, he’s unstable—”
“Yes, we saw the photograph. The house has beensearched. It’s hardly evidence of murder.”
“So you’re not going to arrest him?”
She gave a long sigh. “Come to the stationtomorrow. Make a statement. We’ll take it from there.
And Ms. Watson? Stay away from Scott Hipwell.”
Cathy came home and found me drinking. Shewasn’t happy. What could I tell her? There was noway to explain it. I just said I was sorry and wentupstairs to my room, like a teenager in a sulk. Andthen I lay awake, trying to sleep, waiting for Tom tocall. He didn’t.
I wake early, check my phone (no calls), wash myhair and dress for my interview, hands trembling,stomach in knots. I’m leaving early because I have tostop off at the police station first, to give them mystatement. Not that I’m expecting it to do any good.
They never took me seriously and they certainlyaren’t going to start now. I wonder what it wouldtake for them to see me as anything other than afantasist.
On the way to the station I can’t stop looking overmy shoulder; the sudden scream of a police sirenhas me literally leaping into the air in fright. On thestation platform I walk as close to the railings as Ican, my fingers trailing against the iron fence, just incase I need to hold on tight. I realize it’s ridiculous,but I feel so horribly vulnerable now that I’ve seenwhat he is; now that there are no secrets betweenus.
AFTERNOON
The matter should be closed for me now. All thistime, I’ve been thinking that there was something toremember, something I was missing. But there isn’t. Ididn’t see anything important or do anything terrible.
I just happened to be on the same street. I knowthis now, courtesy of the red-haired man. And yetthere’s an itch at the back of my brain that I justcan’t scratch.
Neither Gaskill nor Riley were at the police station; Igave my statement to a bored-looking uniformedofficer. It will be filed and forgotten about, I assume,unless I turn up dead in a ditch somewhere. Myinterview was on the opposite side of town fromwhere Scott lives, but I took a taxi from the policestation. I’m not taking any chances. It went as wellas it could: the job itself is utterly beneath me, butthen I seem to have become beneath me over thepast year or two. I need to reset the scale. The bigdrawback (other than the crappy pay and thelowliness of the job itself) will be having to come toWitney all the time, to walk these streets and riskrunning into Scott or Anna and her child.
Because bumping into people is all I seem to do inthis neck of the woods. It’s one of the things I usedto like about the place: thevillage-on-the-edge-of-London feel. You might notknow everyone, but faces are familiar.
I’m almost at the station, just passing the Crown,when I feel a hand on my arm and I wheel around,slipping off the pavement and into the road.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It’s him again, thered-haired man, pint in one hand, the other raised insupplication. “You’re jumpy, aren’t you?” He grins. Imust look really frightened, because the grin fades.
“Are you all right? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He’s knocked off early, he says, and invites me tohave a drink with him. I say no, and then I changemy mind.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, when he—Andy, asit turns out—brings me my gin and tonic, “for theway I behaved on the train. Last time, I mean. I washaving a bad day.”
“S’all right,” Andy says. His smile is slow and lazy, Idon’t think this is his first pint. We’re sitting oppositeeach other in the beer garden at the back of thepub; it feels safer here than on the street side.
Perhaps it’s the safe feeling that emboldens me. Itake my chance.
“I wanted to ask you about what happened,” I say.
“The night that I met you. The night that Meg—Thenight that woman disappeared.”
“Oh. Right. Why? What d’you mean?”
I take a deep breath. I can feel my face reddening.
No matter how many times you have to admit this,it’s always embarrassing, it always makes you cringe.
“I was very drunk and I don’t remember. There aresome things I need to sort out. I just want to knowif you saw anything, if you saw me talking to anyoneelse, anything like that?.?.?.” I’m staring down at thetable, I can’t meet his eye.
He nudges my foot with his. “It’s all right, youdidn’t do anything bad.” I look up and he’s smiling.
“I was pissed, too. We had a bit of a chat on thetrain, I can’t remember what about. Then we bothgot off here, at Witney, and you were a bit unsteadyon your feet. You slipped on the steps. Youremember? I helped you up and you were allembarrassed, blushing like you are now.” He laughs.
“We walked out together, and I asked you if youwanted to go to the pub. But you said you had togo and meet your husband.”
“That’s it?”
“No. Do you really not remember? It was a whilelater—I don’t know, half an hour, maybe? I’d been tothe Crown, but a mate rang and said he wasdrinking in a bar over on the other side of therailway track, so I was heading down to theunderpass. You’d fallen over. You were in a bit of amess then. You’d cut yourself. I was a bit worried, Isaid I’d see you home if you wanted, but youwouldn’t hear of it. You were?.?.?. well, you were veryupset. I think there’d been a row with your bloke.
He was heading off down the street, and I said I’dgo after him if you wanted me to, but you said notto. He drove off somewhere after that. He was?.?.?.
er?.?.?. he was with someone.”
“A woman?”
He nods, ducks his head a bit. “Yeah, they got intoa car together. I assumed that was what theargument was about.”
“And then?”
“Then you walked off. You seemed a little?.?.?.
confused or something, and you walked off. You keptsaying you didn’t need any help. As I said, I was abit wasted myself, so I just left it. I went downthrough the underpass and met my mate in the pub.
That was it.”
Climbing the stairs to the apartment, I feel sure thatI can see shadows above me, hear footsteps ahead.
Someone waiting on the landing above. There’s noone there, of course, and the flat is empty, too: itfeels untouched, it smells empty, but that doesn’t stopme checking every room—under my bed and underCathy’s, in the wardrobes and the closet in thekitchen that couldn’t conceal a child.
Finally, after about three tours of the flat, I canstop. I go upstairs and sit on the bed and thinkabout the conversation I had with Andy, the fact thatit tallies with what I remember. There is no greatrevelation: Tom and I argued in the street, I slippedand hurt myself, he stormed off and got into his carwith Anna. Later he came back looking for me, butI’d already gone. I got into a taxi, I assume, or backonto the train.
I sit on my bed looking out of the window andwonder why I don’t feel better. Perhaps it’s simplybecause I still don’t have any answers. Perhaps it’sbecause, although what I remember tallies with whatother people remember, something still feels off. Thenit strikes me: Anna. It’s not just that Tom nevermentioned going anywhere in the car with her, it’sthe fact that when I saw her, walking away, gettinginto the car, she wasn’t carrying the baby. Wherewas Evie while all this was going on?
SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 2013
EVENING
I need to speak to Tom, to get things straight in myhead, because the more I go over it, the less sense itmakes, and I can’t stop going over it. I’m worried, inany case, because it’s two days since I left him thatnote and he hasn’t got back to me. He didn’tanswer his phone last night, he’s not been answeringit all day. Something’s not right, and I can’t shakethe feeling that it has to do with Anna.
I know that he’ll want to talk to me, too, after hehears about what happened with Scott. I know thathe’ll want to help. I can’t stop thinking about theway he was that day in the car, about how thingsfelt between us. So I pick up the phone and dial hisnumber, butterflies in my stomach, just the way italways used to be, the anticipation of hearing hisvoice as acute now as it was years ago.
“Yeah?”
“Tom, it’s me.”
“Yes.”
Anna must be there with him, he doesn’t want tosay my name. I wait for a moment, to give him timeto move to another room, to get away from her. Ihear him sigh. “What is it?”
“Um, I wanted to talk to you?.?.?. As I said in mynote, I—”
“What?” He sounds irritated.
“I left you a note a couple of days ago. I thoughtwe should talk—”
“I didn’t get a note.” Another, heavier sigh. “Fuck’ssake. That’s why she’s pissed off with me.” Annamust have taken it, she didn’t give it to him. “Whatdo you need?”
I want to hang up, dial again, start over. Tell himhow good it was to see him on Monday, when wewent to the woods.
“I just wanted to ask you something.”
“What?” he snaps. He sounds really annoyed.
“Is everything OK?”
“What do you want, Rachel?” It’s gone, all thetenderness that was there a week ago. I curse myselffor leaving that note, I’ve obviously got him intotrouble at home.
“I wanted to ask you about that night—the nightMegan Hipwell went missing.”
“Oh, Jesus. We’ve talked about this—you can’t haveforgotten already.”
“I just—”
“You were drunk,” he says, his voice loud, harsh. “Itold you to go home. You wouldn’t listen. Youwandered off. I drove around looking for you, but Icouldn’t find you.”
“Where was Anna?”
“She was at home.”
“With the baby?”
“With Evie, yes.”
“She wasn’t in the car with you?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Oh for God’s sake. She was supposed to be goingout, I was going to babysit. Then you came along, soshe came and cancelled her plans. And I wasted yetmore hours of my life running around after you.”
I wish I hadn’t called. To have my hopes raisedand dashed again, it’s like cold steel twisting in mygut.
“OK,” I say. “It’s just, I remember it differently?.?.?.
Tom, when you saw me, was I hurt? Was I?.?.?. Did Ihave a cut on my head?”
Another heavy sigh. “I’m surprised you rememberanything at all, Rachel. You were blind drunk. Filthy,stinking drunk. Staggering all over the place.” Mythroat starts to close up, hearing him say thesewords. I’ve heard him say these sorts of thingsbefore, in the bad old days, the very worst days,when he was tired of me, sick of me, disgusted byme. Wearily, he goes on. “You’d fallen over in thestreet, you were crying, you were a total mess. Whyis this important?” I can’t find the words right away,I take too long to answer. He goes on: “Look, Ihave to go. Don’t call anymore, please. We’ve beenthrough this. How many times do I have to askyou? Don’t call, don’t leave notes, don’t come here. Itupsets Anna. All right?”
The phone goes dead.
SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
EARLY MORNING
I’ve been downstairs in the living room all night, withthe television on for company, fear ebbing andflowing. Strength ebbing and flowing. It feels a bit likeI’ve gone back in time, the wound he made yearsago ripped open again, new and fresh. It’s silly, Iknow. I was an idiot to think that I had a chancewith him again, just on the basis of one conversation,a few moments that I took for tenderness and thatwere probably nothing more than sentimentality andguilt. Still, it hurts. And I’ve just got to let myself feelthe pain, because if I don’t, if I keep numbing it, it’llnever really go away.
And I was an idiot to let myself think that therewas a connection between me and Scott, that I couldhelp him. So, I’m an idiot. I’m used to that. I don’thave to continue to be one, do I? Not any longer. Ilay here all night and I promised myself that I’ll geta handle on things. I’ll move away from here, faraway. I’ll get a new job. I’ll go back to my maidenname, sever ties with Tom, make it hard for anyoneto find me. Should anyone come looking.
I haven’t had much sleep. Lying here on the sofa,making plans, every time I started drifting off to sleepI heard Tom’s voice in my head, as clear as if hewere right there, right next to me, his lips against myear—You were blind drunk. Filthy, stinking drunk—and I jolted awake, shame washing over me like awave. Shame, but also the strongest sense of déjàvu, because I’ve heard those words before, thoseexact words.
And then I couldn’t stop running the scenesthrough my head: waking with blood on the pillow,the inside of my mouth hurting, as though I’d bittenmy cheek, fingernails dirty, terrible headache, Tomcoming out of the bathroom, that expression hewore—half hurt, half angry—dread rising in me likefloodwater.
“What happened?”
Tom, showing me the bruises on his arm, on hischest, where I’d hit him.
“I don’t believe it, Tom. I’d never hit you. I’ve neverhit anyone in my life.”
“You were blind drunk, Rachel. Do you rememberanything you did last night? Anything you said?” Andthen he’d tell me, and I still couldn’t believe it,because nothing he said sounded like me, none of it.
And the thing with the golf club, that hole in theplaster, grey and blank like a blinded eye trained onme every time I passed it, and I couldn’t reconcilethe violence that he talked about with the fear that Iremembered.
Or thought that I remembered. After a while Ilearned not to ask what I had done, or to arguewhen he volunteered the information, because I didn’twant to know the details, I didn’t want to hear theworst of it, the things I said and did when I was likethat, filthy, stinking drunk. Sometimes he threatenedto record me, he told me he’d play it back for me.
He never did. Small mercies.
After a while, I learned that when you wake up likethat, you don’t ask what happened, you just say thatyou’re sorry: you’re sorry for what you did and whoyou are and you’re never, ever going to behave likethat again.
And now I’m not, I’m really not. I can be thankfulto Scott for this: I’m too afraid, now, to go out inthe middle of the night to buy booze. I’m too afraidto let myself slip, because that’s when I make myselfvulnerable.
I’m going to have to be strong, that’s all there is toit.
My eyelids start to feel heavy again and my headnods against my chest. I turn the TV down sothere’s almost no sound at all, roll over so that I’mfacing the sofa back, snuggle down and pull theduvet over me, and I’m drifting off, I can feel it, I’mgoing to sleep, and then—bang, the ground is rushingup at me and I jerk upright, my heart in my throat.
I saw it. I saw it.
I was in the underpass and he was coming towardsme, one slap across the mouth and then his fistraised, keys in his hand, searing pain as the serratedmetal smashed down against my skull.