The Truth

by Naomi Joy

  We stagger through to the kitchen together and he drags out a chair for me to sit on, then flits from cupboard to cupboard, simpering, eventually delivering me a carefully portioned plate of food and a small glass of water. I feel like his favourite lab rat. I watch his eyes glow as I start to eat, one tiny bite at a time, sitting opposite one another in feverish silence.

  ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this,’ he says when we’re finished eating, breaking the deadlock between us.

  ‘And then what?’ I blub, dejected.

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ he replies. ‘Whatever’s next we’ll deal with together.’

  He looks at me and takes my hand. His eyes are tired and there are little grey hairs either side of his temples that I haven’t noticed before. He smiles encouragingly and I start to cry, hot tears tracing my cheeks and splashing down to my dry, scaly hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I weep.

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling, I understand. I just want to help.’

  We break apart and he clears up, taking our plates and putting them in the dishwasher, removing the two pans from the hob and placing them carefully in the sink.

  It’s funny that it’s this perfectly innocuous act that hits me first.

  Two pans.

  One for him and one for me.

  I rewind this evening: me sitting at the dinner table, him over the hob spooning out our portions. He takes mine from the saucepan on the front right burner and, though I didn’t consciously realise it at the time, he takes his own dinner from a different pan: the one sitting back left.

  All this time I’ve thought nothing of the way he makes us the same dinner, separately, but now a seed has been planted. Why does he do that? Is he tampering with my food? Feeding me something he doesn’t want to feed himself? Swapping the chestnut mushrooms for magic?

  Is he making me sick?

  It is then that a realisation dawns, so searing and urgent that it makes my eyes water. Because now I know, I think, what the problem is with my marriage, why Anthony enjoys doting on me so much, why he loves it when I fall and fade and detests it when I recover. I rewind to a memory, playing loud and bright in my mind’s eye, of telling Anthony when we first met about my heart problems. We’d spoken about it a few times in those early days and, looking back now, his reaction hadn’t been at all what I’d thought it would be. I’d thought he’d react, eventually, like the others. My ex-partners were perfectly happy, at first, to pretend kids didn’t matter, that a would-be wife with a worrying sell-by date wasn’t an issue, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, what’s the difference? That they could handle it, that they weren’t interested in having kids anyway. Then, soon after, they’d change their minds. They’d always change their minds. ‘It’s just my mum, you know, she really wants grandkids…’ But, like I said, Anthony had been different, his reaction the total opposite to the men before him. I’ll never forget the smile he hadn’t tried very hard to suppress, the way that the corners of his hard lips had flickered below his moustache, happy creases erupting from the edges of his eyes and across his brow as I’d told him that it was quite possible I’d need caring for in the latter stages of my life, and that I wasn’t sure how long I had before the ‘latter stages’ would begin.

  Something in my brain clicks then, a whirring and re-ordering of cogs, slotting into position, awakening a new connection, showing me something I hadn’t seen before. Where was he standing when I fell at the excavation? There’d been someone behind me, I’d felt their presence. The thought flickers like an ember, not quite a flame, burning blue at the tips of my fingers. Did he push me?

  *

  Later, I’m tossing in the bedsheets, my skin flushing red, fire in my veins. Anthony shushes me like I’m his pet and he wipes my forehead with a damp flannel.

  His eyes come back into view, watery and red behind his glasses, and he rocks me in his arms as he soothes me to sleep. ‘You’ll feel better in the morning, darling. I’m sure of it.’

  He tips back my head and pulls my chin down with his thumb. He angles a glass of water against my lips and I am powerless to stop the fluid from slipping down my throat. Its cloudy, chalky taste stings the inside of my cheeks and froths in the pit of my stomach. It’s water, laced with sleeping pills, I am sure of it.

  As I fall into forced sleep, a clarity washes over me and a thought crystallises, one I should have had weeks ago, months, even. I have to get away from my husband.

  I feel stupid, in a way, because there have been clues I have wilfully ignored, wrapped too tight in the belief my life was about to change for the better, caught up in a dream that’s nothing but a living nightmare.

  I slip off into the depths of discontented slumber, a new truth ringing loud in my ears: Anthony’s never loved me alive, but he’d love me dead.

  Part 2

  Blog Entry

  25th October, 6.10 a.m.

  The bedroom feels altered, somehow. Unfamiliar. I don’t remember coming to bed and I still feel tired, as though I’ve been knocked out overnight rather than asleep. My skin crawls and I race my nails across it, from spine to stomach to legs, an insatiable itch that runs from each spot I go to scratch. My shoulder feels different, pained, flat against the bed rather than soft and I try to move it but the surface is unrelenting and hard. Wooden. It is then that I realise I’m on the floor, my body rigid against the planks, my nose full of dust and debris, my eyes sore. No wonder I am so itchy. I twist to reach my nails towards the middle of my back, too tired to lift myself up. How did I get here?

  My eyes flicker and I cast them over the shapes in the room. A sea of dark hair and pale skin lies in the bed above me, bedcovers tucked neatly under his back.

  Anthony.

  I listen to the rhythm of his breathing as it flows in and out. It’s louder than usual, but steady and sleepy, so I know he isn’t awake yet. I relax with that knowledge and try to lift myself to seated. It is then that I become aware of a bruise on my forehead, a dull throb soaring to something sharper. I move my hand towards it, feeling the rise and fall of a bump, a golf ball sized growth that sits perfectly above my left eyebrow.

  I think back, then, to last night, trying to remember exactly what happened. I try to conjure an image, a memory, a reflection, anything, but come up empty. What happened? Still on the floor, I pinch my laptop from beneath the bed and, with monumental effort, push myself up, a variety of aches and pains and swellings crying out as I do so. I’m in a bad way this morning but I have no idea why. Something doesn’t feel right and I power through to the lounge, one arm wrapped round my middle, limping as I go.

  Out of sight, I log on to my computer to re-read yesterday’s entry but find, to my horror, it’s not just yesterday that’s missing, but the last four days.

  Where have I been?

  I stare out of the lounge window and escape into the view, into the endless expanse of blue sky, imagining the possibilities, my thoughts looping round the tops of the autumnal trees in the distance, leaves browning as they shed their skins for winter. Then I hear a loud intake of air behind me and I start, aware that I’m no longer alone.

  I turn to face him. He’s in pyjama bottoms, but his thin chest is bare, aside from a few wriggling worms of hair that curl and coil into one another. I sit as still as possible, maintaining eye contact, then I close my laptop’s lid slowly.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asks, not unkindly. ‘You’re up very early.’

  ‘I had an idea for a piece.’

  ‘You’re writing again?’

  ‘Just an idea, not a commission.’

  ‘Huh,’ he tuts, backing out of the lounge, no longer interested. ‘I’m making coffee.’

  My ears prick. ‘I’ll help,’ I say, slipping my laptop to the floor, pushing it under the sofa and hurrying to join him in the kitchen.

  I watch with eagle eyes as he picks the pods from the same container and puts them, one after the other, into the machine, rumbling into action with a series of loud whirrs and c
licks. When they’re ready, he pours the milk from the same carton and stirs our drinks with the same spoon. Satisfied, I take a mug from him and cup my hands round it.

  ‘How’s your appetite this morning?’ he asks conversationally, but I glimpse behind the mask. He wants to see if I flinch in response, he wants to determine how much I know about him poisoning me, he wants to know if I’ve figured it out.

  I keep my expression entirely neutral, but the lump above my eye fires again and I wince. ‘How did this happen?’ I ask, changing the subject, touching the tender spot with tentative fingertips.

  ‘You knocked it the other day,’ he says, but I notice his eyes skate to the hallway and it’s clear that he’s lying to me.

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You whacked it quite hard, darling, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were suffering from a bit of amnesia.’

  ‘I did?’

  He takes a step towards me, drawing close, his hand raised. I cower, worried for a second that he’s going to hit me, but his touch is soft and he caresses my forehead, concerned eyes focused on my injury.

  I don’t know exactly what it is about the way he strokes me, about the way he’s speaking, but I don’t entirely trust it, and fear curls up from my feet like runs of poison ivy.

  After breakfast, I retrieve my laptop from the lounge and hurry back into the bedroom. It is then, when I’m pushing it back into its hiding place that I feel something touch the tip of my fingers. A piece of paper. I duck my head beneath the valance and lift it high so I can get more of my arm under the bed to better reach it. When I make contact with the corner again I shuffle it in a pincer movement towards me and then, finally, it is in my hands.

  There’s one word on the front, written in looping letters.

  Emelia.

  I open it.

  Please listen.

  You have to get out.

  You have to run, Emelia!

  Something comes screaming back, then. A flashback, a memory, a dream. I don’t know immediately which it is, because it’s hazy and distant, almost as though it didn’t happen to me but to someone else altogether.

  It’s late evening, the air is misty and the flat is cooler than usual. If I take a sharp breath in then blow out, frozen puffs will surround me. This must be a dream, I think, because I can see myself – a ghostly figure, floating as I pack a bag, hands shaking – but, as I focus on what I’d been thinking at the time, I realise I’m wrong and this really happened.

  I’ve just made a big decision that I won’t be able to go back on. I’ve just decided I want to leave Anthony.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asks, his words harsh against the dozy dreamworld I’m floating through. I squeeze the cool handle of my suitcase and take another step towards the front door away from him. I’d been trying to leave quietly.

  ‘I can’t do this any more, Anthony,’ I say, turning to face him, trembling, dewdrops tumbling from my eyes. ‘I’m falling apart.’

  I wait for him to say something to reassure me. To prove that I’m horribly wrong about all of this, about us, about leaving.

  ‘What?’ he mouths, disbelieving.

  ‘This isn’t working,’ I splutter.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He moves towards me rapidly and, in a moment of weakness, I am desperate to wrap myself round him, to cling onto his body like a weed. But he doesn’t envelop me. Instead he grabs me by the arms and shakes me, hard, a streak of spit running down my chin, a drop landing on the floor.

  ‘What’s got into you? Why are you doing this?’

  I curl my shoulders inwards, waiting for the blow that’s about to hit.

  ‘Look,’ he says, then lets out a whoosh of air, still gripping my arms. ‘I’m worried about you.’ He takes a step back, holding me at arm’s length so I have to look at him. ‘I really am.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I reply, finding some strength. ‘It’s you that’s the problem.’

  I hear the breath catch in his throat. He wasn’t expecting me to say that.

  ‘If you want to go, then go. I’m not stopping you.’

  He releases me from his grip and I turn towards the door, my hand on the lock, about to leave, when he speaks again.

  ‘Look, the truth is…’

  I angle my neck back in his direction as he bends his arm at the elbow and scratches his head. ‘That maybe you’re right – maybe we do need to take a break.’

  I watch something dark flicker across his face.

  ‘OK,’ I agree, uncertain.

  ‘But where are you feasibly going to go tonight?’ he asks quietly. ‘It’s dark already.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can I at least order you a car?’ His voice is meek and part of me starts to doubt myself.

  We stand opposite each other in the hallway, heads low. I drop my hand from the lock.

  ‘Come here,’ he begins, tone changing, his arms wide again, inviting me in. ‘Why don’t you stay one more night? Sleep on it.’

  We hug, the smells I’m so used to whipping round me, his musky hair, his peppery skin. A voice inside me cries out: You’re making a terrible mistake.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ he whispers, gripping me tight. My suitcase is by my side, my willpower evaporating by the second, doubt covering my decision to leave from head to toe. How do I know he’s been poisoning me? I don’t have any actual proof, do I?

  I feel his breath against my neck as he speaks and it sends chills down my spine. I reason with myself in the misty world that surrounds me. Go, Emelia. You can always change your mind and come back. Nothing is ever beyond a heartfelt apology. A gust flies between us, a warning from a nearby window, sending bumps over my arms, changing the atmosphere.

  His breathing hardens and he starts to make a sound and, though I don’t recognise it at first, I soon realise he’s laughing. I go to take a step back but he holds me firm.

  At that moment, I feel something sharp and metallic plunge deep into my neck and I’m reminded of the day at the excavation, that same feeling of burning liquid cutting and carving through my veins. I feel immediately woozy and my body melts in his grasp. I try to resist it, try to force myself forwards with the rest of my strength but it knocks me off balance against his grip and I fall, banging my head against the side of the console table, the solid thwack of my skull splintering playing loud in my ears. I come to a stop on the floor, black dots floating like holes in my line of sight.

  Thick bands of tension hang in the air; Anthony standing still, me lying flat, part of my head smashed inwards.

  ‘Look what you did,’ he purrs, leaning over me, my eye bruised and fat and forced closed.

  He thinks I’m unconscious, but I’m not, I can hear him.

  I feel a strange rush, a wild flicker, a sudden need to bare my bloodied teeth, but only a red bubble emerges from my lips when I try to speak. My frozen face fires in response, sinew and flesh hardening, and I try to roar, try to suck in angry gulps of air through the pain that beats against my skull, try to lash out but there’s something almost sad about my attempts. My body is slow, underwater-like, and struggles to contend with gravity let alone Anthony.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ he says, stroking the hair off my face, mocking me.

  He waits for the tranquiliser, or whatever it is he’s given me, to completely take hold, waits for my body to stop twitching, then stands up. He double locks the front door. Quiet. Calm. Composed. He licks his fingers and rubs at a spot of blood that’s landed on his T-shirt.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let you die. It’s never been about killing you, just containing you. Not that you’ll remember any of this, of course.’

  I float up then, watching the scene, aware that I’m in it but entirely detached from my body. I watch him tug at my feet then pull me out of the hallway, my hair trailing behind me in thin ribbons.

  My head bounces over the threshold into the bedroom and he drops my legs. I hear his feet strike the floor, feel the
thuds as they move from my feet and stop halfway up my body. He bends down next to me and holds my arm still for a moment, then injects me with something new.

  I look down on the scene as he waits for me to fall unconscious. He smiles when I turn ghost-white, then strokes my hair back off my face and puts me in the recovery position.

  ‘Just in case you’re sick, darling,’ he tells my unresponsive body.

  He disappears for a moment then returns with an ice pack and a selection of ointments. He holds the compress against my head and cradles me in his arms.

  ‘That’s it,’ he coos, rocking me. ‘Everything will be better in the morning.’

  Blog Entry

  26th October, 2.45 p.m.

  It is the morning after the revelation the day before: My husband is trying to kill me.

  I wander the busy streets of Notting Hill, mulling over my predicament, the presence of normal people filling me with the hope that I could, one day, get back to that. I look up at the busy office blocks in the near distance and have a thought – Heather. She works round here and, though she despises me, perhaps she could help.

  The wind picks up and blows cool against my hand as I take off my glove and pick my phone from my jacket pocket.

  Shall I just text her? She’ll probably have an aneurysm from the shock.

  Would that be manslaughter?

  I dither over the sentences I want to send, weighing up the pros and cons, finally arriving at a decision: I need to understand more about the man I married. I need to figure out what happened last night, and who knows him better than her?

  Hi Heather.

  I send another straightaway.

  Quick one. I’m near your office and wondered if you had time to grab a coffee? I need to pick your brains about something…

  I look up, breathing in the city air, my lungs filling with it and, when she doesn’t reply immediately, I add a third.

  It’s urgent.

  I walk fast towards her building, mind made up, the shell of my thin anorak not doing much to combat the cool headwind. Though I am not waiting for a reply, it is a relief when one arrives.