Deliver Me

by Karen Cole

  Leave me alone, she thinks angrily. She hesitates, torn between curiosity and the urge to delete the message without opening it. Curiosity wins. She reads the first sentence and suddenly she can’t breathe:

  Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath . . .

  Abby tries to breathe in and out slowly, but her breath comes in short, shallow gasps. She feels dizzy and deeply afraid. She steadies herself by leaning against the wall and forces herself to read the rest of the message.

  Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away. How true that is. And how precious those moments are. The first time I saw you, Abigail, you took my breath away. When I made love to you, I knew we were meant to be.

  Her heart is racing and she sinks onto her bed, blackness curling at the edges of her mind. Her hands tremble as she scrolls through the message again. Alex was right. The texts are clearly not from Bethany. She’s suspected as much for a while, but this is the first time she’s been forced to fully acknowledge the truth. She presses her eyes shut. Everything is closing in on her. There can be no doubt now. The text messages and the flowers are from the same man.

  The man who raped her.

  Nineteen

  Because he did rape her. She’s certain of that now. This was no accidental drunken fling between consenting adults. Why else would he withhold his number? Why else would he be taunting her like this?

  Revulsion and outrage twist inside her as she thinks of this man using her the way he did. She places a hand on her belly and the creature inside jabs savagely.

  He put this parasite inside me, she thinks, feeling a wave of hatred. And just for a moment, she wants to tear it out with her bare hands. Suddenly furiously angry, she digs viciously into her skin with her nails, creating long red scratches. And as if in answer, the thing inside her wriggles frantically.

  What are you doing, Abby? she reproaches herself, staring at her stomach appalled. It’s just a baby, an innocent baby. And just as quickly as it appeared, the anger evaporates and a wave of despair and shame washes over her. She sinks to the floor and curls up, sobbing hopelessly.

  She replays her memories of New Year’s Eve again and again in her head – arriving at the party, drinking with Mark in the kitchen, talking to Alex on the stairs. She thinks about what she was wearing, that red dress, with the lowcut back. Was she sending out the wrong signals? According to both Danny and Alex, she was flirting a lot that night. Has she brought this on herself? Logically she knows this is nonsense. Even if she was wearing a short dress, even if she was flirting, so what? Why shouldn’t she? It’s no excuse for what he’s done. But the shame spreads through her anyway, like poison in her veins.

  *

  It’s already dark outside when Abby is finally all cried out, and she’s stiff from being curled up on the floor. She wipes her nose, sniffs, and glances at the clock on her bedside table. It’s eleven o’clock. She’s been lying here for hours.

  Get a grip, Abby, she tells herself sharply. You’re not helping anything by falling apart like this. With an effort of will, she gets up shakily and picks up her phone. She needs to try to think about this whole thing calmly and rationally. She reads the message through again, the phone trembling in her hand.

  When I made love to you . . .

  Love had nothing to do with it, she thinks bitterly. Is it possible her stalker really believes it was an act of love in his twisted mind? Or maybe it’s his way of letting her know he still has power over her?

  . . . I knew we were meant to be.

  He really is completely delusional. It’s obvious he’s got some kind of sick obsession with her. She shudders with fear as the full implications sink in. This man, whoever he is, is dangerously insane and it’s clear that he’s not going to leave her alone. Perhaps he’ll even try to hurt her again.

  At that moment a loud rap on the door makes her jump and her heart leap out of her chest.

  But it’s only Ellie. ‘Abby? Rob said you never came down for dinner,’ she calls. ‘Are you alright?’

  Shit. She can’t face seeing anyone in this state. She sniffs and wipes her eyes, trying to make her voice sound as normal as possible.

  ‘Um . . . I’m fine,’ she manages. ‘I’m just not feeling very well.’

  ‘You sound awful. Can I come in?’ Ellie rattles the door handle. ‘Why’ve you locked the door? Are you okay?’

  ‘I’ll be okay in a bit.’

  ‘Do you need anything before I go to bed? Some water? Painkillers?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I just need to be on my own for a while.’

  There’s a pause. Then Ellie sighs. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  She listens to the sound of Ellie’s footsteps on the stairs. Abby wishes she could call out to Ellie and confide in her. They used to be so close. They used to share everything, but ever since Abby found out she was pregnant there’s a distance between them that seems impossible to bridge.

  Abby pulls off her clothes and crawls into bed, burying her face in the pillow. She has never felt so alone.

  Twenty

  Abby is cold when she wakes up the next morning, still curled up in her towel on top of her covers, after only a couple of hours of troubled sleep. She swings her feet over the edge of the bed. As she does so, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She looks terrible. Her mascara has run, her face is haggard, and her nose and eyes are red from crying. This is not you, she thinks angrily. This is who he wants you to be. He wants you to be afraid because that makes him feel powerful. She stands up, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Well, she’s not going to let him make her afraid. She refuses to be a victim.

  She stands in front of the mirror and brushes her hair, scraping it back tightly in a ponytail. Then she rubs off the mascara and squares her shoulders. You’re not going to let him get away with this, Abby Brooke, she tells herself. Tomorrow you’re going to go to the police. But first you have to get through this meal with Dad.

  *

  Dad is already waiting in a booth in the Little Chef when they get there. And Sue is sitting next to him. Great. Abby’s heart sinks. That’s all she needs. It’s bad enough having to talk to Dad about this pregnancy, let alone Sue, who is practically a stranger. And not a stranger she particularly likes, from the little she knows of her.

  Dad stands up and pats Ellie and Abby awkwardly on the arm. ‘Good to see you both,’ he says. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  He turns to Abby, his eyes sliding down to her belly, and does a double take, but he says nothing. Then Sue stands up and pecks them on the cheeks. She steps back and stares blatantly at Abby’s baby bump.

  ‘Oh my God, Brian!’ she says. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to be a granddaddy! How exciting.’

  Abby slides into the seat next to Ellie, being careful not to bump her belly against the edge of the table. She raises her chin defiantly. ‘Yes, so . . . as you can see, I’m pregnant.’

  Dad clears his throat. ‘I suppose congratulations are in order,’ he offers cautiously.

  Congratulations. The word feels like a slap in the face, under the circumstances. Abby fights off a wave of nausea, the blackness encroaching. Stay calm, she tells herself. Stay calm.

  ‘Thanks,’ she manages to say.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Ellie asks, glancing at her anxiously. ‘Abby wasn’t feeling too well last night,’ she explains to Dad and Sue.

  ‘It’s no walk in the park, is it, having a baby?’ says Sue. ‘I remember when I was pregnant with my first son I was sick as a dog all the time, morning, noon and night. They call it morning sickness, don’t they? But I wasn’t just sick in the morning. I was sick all day long.’ She pats her short, blonde hair and pauses for breath.

  ‘So, how . . . ?’ Dad tries to interject. But Sue hasn’t finished talki
ng.

  ‘And then there was the birth. Oh my God. Nothing can prepare you for that. It’s the worst pain you’ll ever feel in your life. My Max was a whopper too – ten pounds, five ounces, he was . . .’

  Sue carries on her monologue as the food arrives and throughout the meal, sharing long stories of her first marriage, her children, and horrific tales of childbirth gone wrong. She’s clearly forgotten that Ellie lost her own baby only a couple of years ago.

  Abby glances over at Ellie a few times during the meal but her sister is staring down at her food, her lips pressed firmly together, as if she’s trying to stop herself speaking. It’s probably just as well, Abby reflects. Ellie has quite a temper, and if she lets Sue know what she really thinks, it won’t be pretty. ‘Of course, Maxwell’s father wasn’t a very nice man . . .’ Sue says, chewing a mouthful of chicken. ‘Not like your dad here.’ She turns to Abby and gestures towards her belly. ‘Where’s the father of this wee one today? I hope you’ve chosen a better man than I did.’

  Abby grips the table. For a moment she is unable to speak.

  ‘Er . . . the father is not in the picture,’ Ellie says quickly, glancing with concern at Abby.

  Dad looks alarmed. ‘But how will you—’

  ‘So, you’re going to be a single parent,’ Sue interrupts. ‘Well, it’s more and more common nowadays, I suppose. I’m old-fashioned of course. But I do think a child is better off with a mother and a father.’ She purses her lips. ‘You know, I saw a programme the other day about how gay couples get sperm donors. It’s not natural, if you ask me. Disgusting.’ Ellie and Abby exchange a look. Abby is surprised that Ellie doesn’t answer. She’s usually not slow to stand up for what she believes, but she’s clearly making a big effort to get along with Sue today.

  The meal drags on for what seems like forever. Abby forces herself to eat one mouthful after another, trying not to gag as the food slides down her throat, trying to nod and smile politely at Sue and Dad. All the time she’s fighting the urge to run back home and hide away. She feels so exposed, as if her skin has been ripped off. And she’s tormented by the thought that her rapist might be in the room somewhere, watching her, enjoying her fear. The relief when the waitress finally comes and clears away their plates is intense.

  ‘How are you going to manage for money, Abby?’ Dad asks as he pays the bill. ‘Childcare is expensive these days, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ Abby shrugs helplessly. She won’t be needing childcare, of course. But they don’t know that yet.

  As they’re leaving the restaurant, Dad reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He thrusts some notes into Abby’s hand ‘That’s just to tide you over, love,’ he mutters. ‘I’ll put something in your bank account later.’

  ‘It’s okay – really,’ protests Abby, but he won’t take no for an answer, and she feels too weak and tired to argue, so she slips the money into her handbag. She’ll give it back later when she tells them about the adoption.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve got enough money, Brian?’ Sue says as they’re leaving, looking at Abby with narrowed eyes. ‘You know we’ve still got to pay for that cruise.’

  *

  ‘Oh well, I suppose they’re made for each other in a way,’ Ellie says with a sigh, once Dad and Sue are gone and they’re driving home. ‘He never speaks, and she never stops talking.’

  Abby smiles wanly. Sue is the least of her worries right now. All the shock and emotion of the last twenty-four hours is catching up with her, and she feels drained and exhausted. The thought of talking to the police tomorrow terrifies her. But she has to stay strong. She can’t lose courage now.

  Twenty-One

  ‘So, how can I help you, Abigail?’

  She’s at the police station talking to a policeman who’s introduced himself as PC David Whittaker. He’s a chubby, middle-aged man with a large, round face and a facetious smile. He’s made Abby wait for him while he finishes a pastry and he’s currently sitting opposite her, brushing the crumbs from his uniform.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I think someone is stalking me,’ she says.

  ‘You think someone is stalking you?’ he repeats, raising his eyebrows. Abby guesses it’s not the kind of problem he’s used to encountering in this sleepy little police station. Probably the most he ever deals with is lost wallets, missing pets or confused pensioners.

  ‘Yes,’ she says firmly.

  He looks her up and down sceptically, evidently trying to decide if she’s a lunatic. Abby didn’t sleep much last night, and she’s suddenly aware that she forgot to brush her hair and that the T-shirt that she put on in a hurry this morning has dog hairs all over it.

  ‘Okay then,’ he says slowly. ‘I’ll have to log a report.’ He pulls out a phone and taps the screen with a stylus.

  Abby looks around. On the walls are various public information posters and an appeal for information about a spate of recent burglaries in Swindon.

  ‘Bear with me a minute,’ says PC Whittaker. ‘Bloody thing’s acting up again. It was easier when we had pen and paper.’ He clears his throat. ‘Ah yes, here we are. Now then, what exactly is the nature of this harassment?’

  ‘Well, I keep getting flowers and weird text messages.’

  PC Whittaker taps his phone. ‘Did any message come with the flowers?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m afraid I left them at home.’

  ‘And the name of the offender? What’s the name of the person sending you these?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He puts down his stylus and stares at her. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. The messages and the gifts, they’re all anonymous. The texts too.’

  She opens the message she received at Alex’s and hands him her phone. His eyes flick over the screen. ‘Hmm,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Who’s Alex Taylor?’

  ‘This guy I’ve been seeing. It’s nothing serious. But each time I see him I get a message like that.’

  ‘And you have no idea who this could be? Because this sounds to me like they could come from a jealous lover, an ex-boyfriend maybe?’

  Abby thinks of Ben and shakes her head. ‘My ex lives in London. He couldn’t know that I’ve been seeing Alex. Anyway, it was him who broke off our relationship, not the other way around.’

  ‘Someone else then, someone who’s asked you out and you’ve rejected?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No, he sent me another message last night claiming we had . . . been together.’

  PC Whittaker sighs and flicks through her phone again. He reads the messages, slowly, aloud, pausing and reddening over, ‘when I made love to you’. Abby feels the heat rising in her cheeks, too, and she squirms uncomfortably in her chair.

  ‘It certainly seems like this is a person you’ve been intimate with. Are you sure you don’t know who it could be?’

  Abby closes her eyes. She feels sick and dizzy. ‘I’m sure,’ she says, opening her eyes and looking directly at the police officer. ‘There’s something else I haven’t told you yet.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She hesitates. She knows the story sounds bizarre, unbelievable even, and she badly needs him to take her seriously. But she also needs him to understand why she feels so threatened, and this is the only way to convince him.

  ‘I think the person sending me the messages is the father of this baby.’ She places a hand on her belly, feeling the taut skin. The baby inside stays very still.

  PC Whittaker looks confused. ‘I don’t quite follow . . . If he’s the father, then . . .’

  Abby takes a deep breath. ‘About three and a half months ago I discovered I was pregnant. The baby was conceived at a New Year’s party, but I have no memory of the conception.’

  PC Whittaker blushes slightly. ‘You have no memory of having sex?’

  ‘That’s right. I think I might have been
drugged.’

  He clears his throat. ‘So . . . are you saying you’ve been raped?’

  ‘Yes.’ Abby wraps her arms around herself. Hearing the words out loud makes all those feelings of revulsion, shame and anger come flooding back, and she’s fighting to maintain control.

  PC Whittaker frowns in consternation. ‘That’s a very serious allegation, Abigail. Why didn’t you report it at the time?’

  ‘I didn’t realize it had happened until I discovered I was pregnant two months later. By then, any trace of the drug would have disappeared.’

  He scratches his head. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask, but . . . were you drinking at the party?’

  ‘Yes,’ Abby admits reluctantly. ‘But I don’t think I drank enough to black out like that.’ It’s a lie, but she worries she’ll lose his sympathy and that he won’t believe her if she tells him the whole truth.

  ‘I see. Well, in any case, it would still be rape if you were unable to give your consent, but that might be difficult to prove unless there were witnesses.’

  The phone rings and he picks it up. ‘Yes, hiya, Steve. I’m in an interview at the moment.’ He chuckles at something, ‘I’ll call you back in a minute, mate.’

  He’s still grinning as he hangs up. But he quickly wipes the grin from his face as he turns to Abby. ‘Sorry about that. Now, where were we? Yes, so, Abigail, if you like, I can refer you to the Rape and Serious Sexual Offences Unit, where a detective can work on your case. They can give you an examination, though I have to tell you, without you actually having a suspect in mind, and given the time that’s elapsed since the alleged offence, I think it might be problematic. In the meantime, about the harassment – there are some things we can do.’ He picks up Abby’s phone and scrolls through the messages. ‘We may be able to trace the caller if they have a contract.’

  ‘Good.’ The thought of tracing her rapist and confronting him fills her with dread, but it’s what needs to happen, she reminds herself. It’s the reason she came here.