by Alison James
I hang back slightly.
‘What?’
‘There’s something else…’ I pick up my iPad and open Facebook, finding Simon’s page. ‘Your brother. He wasn’t in South Africa at Christmas. He was in the North-East.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Frowning, Dominic takes the iPad from me and squints at the photograph on the screen. ‘That’s not my brother! He doesn’t look anything like me, for a start. Must be some other Simon Gill in the Newcastle area.’
‘He was suggested as a contact by LinkedIn.’
‘Probably just because you share a surname. You know how fucked-up those social media algorithms are.’
‘So your brother doesn’t work at Price Waterhouse Cooper?’
He’s shaking his head slowly. ‘He’s a dentist. A dentist who had a stroke in South Africa at Christmas. Jesus! Now will you stop being so paranoid?’
He pulls me towards him, and I wind my arms round his waist. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s okay… but I expect you to make it up to me.’ He’s whispering into my neck, his fingers stroking the soft inside of my bare arm.
‘Let’s go to bed, Dom.’ I start to pull away, but he grabs my wrist and yanks me back. ‘Not yet. We’re not going upstairs until I’ve finished with you.’
‘Dom, I’m tired—’
‘Shhhh!’ He holds a finger to his lips. In the half-light, his pale amber eyes are glittering; their expression unreadable. He twists my arm behind my back, pushing me off balance, then uses his weight to tip me over the back of the sofa, pinning me against it.
‘Dom, no!’
‘I told you to be quiet.’ I can’t see the expression in his eyes, but his voice is thick with arousal. He yanks up my skirt and pulls my knickers down to my ankles, kicking them aside.
The signals from my tired and overwrought brain to my body are not those of arousal, and I give a little yelp of pain as Dominic penetrates me.
‘You like it like this; I know you do, so let’s not pretend.’ His voice is strange, distant.
I twist my head to one side and let my body go limp until he has finished. When he steps back, I stay over the back of the sofa, immobile. I want to move, but my brain and body are no longer connected.
Dom slaps me playfully on my exposed buttock. ‘Come on, babe! Thought you wanted to go upstairs?’
I somehow manage to straighten up and pull down my skirt, snapping off the lights and heading for the staircase without turning round. I can’t look at him.
‘I enjoyed that,’ he whispers into my shoulder once we’re in bed and the lights are turned out. ‘You enjoyed it too, didn’t you?’
I don’t reply.
Fifteen
Alice
Then
For the remainder of the summer, Dominic and I circle one another in a dance of avoidance. He acts as though everything’s normal between us, while I – lacking the courage for yet another confrontation – fall into the habit of going to bed first and either falling asleep or feigning sleep by the time he comes upstairs. Every morning, I wake thinking I can’t let this state of affairs go on, that I must say something about how frightened and helpless he made me feel. And, every evening, tiredness and cowardice prevent me from doing anything about it.
One evening in October, I’m in the kitchen making spaghetti bolognese when he gets back from work. He whistles cheerily as he comes into the room, striding over to the fridge and pouring himself a glass of wine from the bottle I’ve already opened. ‘You know what, babe, I think we should take out a proper life insurance policy. A joint one, obviously.’
I’m surprised. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Well, you know Nickey?’ ‘Nickey’ is Adam Nixon, Dominic’s colleague and our erstwhile best man; married to a petite, excitable woman called Lisa. ‘He’s just found out Lisa’s pregnant. He’s going to be a dad.’ He waves the bottle in my direction.
‘Really?’ I allow him to pour me another glass, not really interested in his office gossip.
‘He’s chuffed to bits. And it got me thinking…’ He looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘Probably time we cracked on with it. Getting you up the duff.’
My eyes widen. ‘Really? You think we should?’
‘Absolutely: why not? Anyway, I thought you were ready ages ago?’
‘Yes,’ I agree, thinking back to discontinuing and restarting my contraception in the spring, when my doubts about his behaviour first arose. ‘Yes, I was.’
‘And obviously if we’re going to be parents, we need to make sure we have financial cover in case something happens to one of us. To make sure we can provide for the little one. Makes sense to think ahead, yes?’
I nod.
‘So what d’you reckon? Shall we go for it?’
I think back over the last nine months. They’ve been up and down, to put it mildly. But at least the Shona Watson thing has been well and truly put to bed. Since my failed attempt to meet with her at the hotel, she’s never attempted to make contact with me. Dom says he told her that we’d reported her to the police, and that it must have scared her enough to make her return to Scotland and stay there.
Nothing ever came of the speeding ticket business either. In fact, Dom’s been scrupulous about telling me where he is at all times. Nor has he forced himself on me again since that night when I told him about finding his brother Simon online.
Who am I kidding, with that Victorian turn of phrase? I can hear my late father’s voice: ‘Call a spade a spade, for heaven’s sake!’ He sexually assaulted me. Except that Dominic wouldn’t think of it that way. He just thinks we were having sex of the non-vanilla variety. I tried saying no, but I didn’t complain about his behaviour afterwards either. I made myself a conspirator with my silence. Because, despite everything, I still want to make things work between us.
Even so, Dominic must be aware that I didn’t enjoy it, because since then he’s been very good about giving me my physical space. He’s not the kind of man who’d want to discuss it, so I tell myself that this is his way of showing me he’s sorry. And we can’t keep putting off starting a family. If not now, then when? A baby could be the magic ingredient that makes everything come right at last.
I smile at him. ‘Yes, okay. Let’s go for it.’
* * *
Six weeks later, I lie with my legs splayed in stirrups, a paper sheet partially covering my modesty, and water-based jelly slathered over my lower abdomen.
An ultrasound probe is withdrawn with an almost comic squelch, and I’m handed a paper towel to wipe off the worst of the wetness.
‘That all looks fine.’ My gynaecologist snaps off her gloves. ‘Your uterus is nice and healthy, your ovarian reserve is above average for your age and your pelvic exam is normal… I’ll need to check your blood tests, of course – once they’re back – but unless your hormone levels are abnormal, I don’t anticipate any problems with conception. Obviously, if that is the case, I’ll call you back in for a further discussion.’ She picks up my notes and reads through the referral letter again. ‘I see there’s a family history of Long QT Syndrome?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘My dad died of it when he was only in his forties. And the same happened to my paternal grandfather.’
‘Okay… well, while that shouldn’t make any difference to your ability to conceive, it does mean you’ll need extra monitoring if you become pregnant. Pregnancy puts extra strain on the heart, so you may need to take beta blockers in your third trimester. So as soon as you think you might be pregnant, it’s important you see your GP, or come back and see me.’
‘Fine.’ I manage a shy smile as I swing my legs off the examination table and grope for my underwear.
‘Of course, you may not get pregnant immediately; it’s completely normal for it to take a few months. If that happens, the important thing is to try and relax and let nature take its course. Stress doesn’t help with conception.’
Once I’ve dressed and paid the consultan
t’s fee at reception, I walk out into Harley Street, pulling out my phone. Dominic’s now so fired up about trying for a baby that I’m sure that he’ll be as excited as I am about the results of my fertility check.
He picks up on the second ring. ‘Hi, sweetie, how did it go? Good news I hope?’
‘Pretty much,’ I list the checks and tests that were carried out. ‘As far as the doctor can tell, there’s no reason we can’t conceive straight away. Or, you know, within the normal time frame. And the genetic heart thing just means I might need to take some drugs down the line.’
‘That’s great, babe. Tell you what: come home right away and we can get to work.’
I look at my watch. The wintry afternoon light is fading, but it’s still only four thirty. ‘I can’t really. I need to go back to the office and work out a couple of quotes… But I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so, tops. Then I’ll head home.’
‘Okay, see you later, babe. And well done today. Love you.’
I smile as I hang up. This, I tell myself is how things ought to be. How they used to be.
* * *
When I get back to the Comida offices in Tower Hill, I discover a request for a third quote in my in-tray. I end up being there longer than I predicted, leaving just before seven. I text Dominic to let him know I’m on my way.
As on any other evening, I walk up to Shadwell and catch the Overground, planning to take it all the way to Kensal Rise and then walk. Just as I always do. Only this evening there’s a signal failure at Dalston Junction, and the line is closed, forcing me and my fellow passengers to leave the train.
I try to phone Dominic to tell him about the disruption to my journey, but my phone battery dies just as the call connects. I switch it off in disgust and toss it back into my bag. Without the GPS, I’m quickly lost in the bone-chilling December dark, taking a wrong turn that leads me into the Mildmay, one of North London’s most notorious council estates. As I turn round and attempt to retrace my steps, I become aware of footsteps behind me. I quicken my pace. The footsteps speed up too.
I know that I should look over my shoulder, but I’m afraid to. Doing it will somehow make the potential threat seem real. I break into a half run, taking a sharp left turn in the hope of reaching the main road but instead quickly realise that I’m on an unlit street that’s leading me further away from it. My heart’s pounding, making the pumping of my own blood sing in my ears, but still I can hear them. Heavy footsteps. They’re even closer now. This is no coincidental falling in step. I’m definitely being followed.
My senses are all heightened, my mind automatically narrowing its focus, noticing details. A child’s glove speared on a railing. A supermarket carrier bag, blowing down the frosty pavement, snagging on the tyres of parked cars. A small tortoiseshell cat, squatting on its haunches in a doorway. The cat darts off to my right, and I see that it has disappeared down a cut-through, which at first I hadn’t picked out in the darkness. I swerve right and follow it, past a row of garages, hoping to throw off my pursuer. But whoever they are, they turn down there too, and ahead is a dead end. There’s no point running: I’m trapped.
Perhaps if I switch on my phone again, the battery will give one final gasp, maybe just enough to make a 999 call. As I grope for it at the bottom of my bag, the footsteps just metres away, my fingers touch an oval plastic object, like a large key fob. JoJo’s rape alarm. Gripping it with my left hand, I tug out the pin with my right, activating the siren. It’s like a car alarm but louder and more high-pitched.
In a block of flats somewhere up ahead of me, a window is flung open and someone calls, ‘Oi! What’s going on?’
The footsteps stop abruptly as the alarm continues its deafening wail. I still can’t look, but I hear a scuffling sound as my pursuer pivots abruptly and runs off. Only then do I dare turn and look. I just glimpse a tall, bulky figure in a black bomber jacket and some sort of black hat covering most of his face. In the dim mid-winter light, it’s impossible to make out any distinguishing features. But I notice the soles of his shoes as he runs off, brownish red under the sodium vapour lighting. I know I’ll be able to remember those.
* * *
I somehow make my way out of the estate and to the main road, this time asking the nearest passer-by for directions to a tube station, which turns out to be Highbury and Islington.
With my heart still pounding in my chest, I catch a train to Piccadilly and change for Queen’s Park. The crowds of rush-hour travellers jostling me with their bags of Christmas shopping would normally be an irritation, but today I’m glad of the casual human contact.
I half run the distance from the station to Waverley Gardens, relieved to see that the lights are on in the house. Dominic is in the kitchen, still in his suit, opening a bottle of Merlot. His eyes widen in surprise as I launch myself into his arms and burst into tears.
After I’ve calmed down sufficiently to tell him about my ordeal, he pats my back and strokes my hair for a few minutes. ‘Thank God for that alarm, eh?’
I nod, spreading tears and snot on the front of his crisp, striped shirt.
‘You need to be careful, babe. There are a lot of nutters out there. Not to mention muggers and rapists.’
I nod again, and break into outright sobbing.
Dominic makes comforting circles on my back with his hand. ‘It’s okay… it’s okay. I’m here. I’m always going to take care of you.’
For the first time in ages, I feel protected by Dominic. And I continue to feel that way until the terrible events of Valentine’s Day.
Sixteen
Alice
Now
14 February 2019
I open the front door and find a large man and a slight woman standing on the doorstep. The woman is wearing police uniform. My hand flies to my mouth in an involuntary movement.
The man holds up a warrant card. ‘Mrs Gill?’
I nod silently.
‘Are you married to Mr Dominic Gill?
‘Yes.’ As if trying instinctively to delay what they have to say, I state the obvious. ‘He’s my husband.’
‘May we come in?’
I open the door wide and they step into the hall. It still smells faintly of the fish I was preparing for the Valentine’s dinner.
The policewoman adopts an expression of professional sympathy, which sets every sort of alarm bell ringing.
‘Mrs Gill, I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
The man speaks, but I can hardly hear him above the ringing in my ears. I simply stare. Eventually I hear someone saying, ‘What kind of accident?’, and I realise that the words are coming from me.
The female police officer ignores this. ‘This is DS Alan Sutherland, and I’m PC Lisa Gillespie.’ The two of them walk past me, their expressions grim. PC Gillespie is looking from side to side, trying to work out the layout of the house. ‘Is there somewhere we can sit down?’
I point mutely to the sitting-room door and follow them in there, sinking down onto one of the sofas, grateful to no longer be supported by my shaking legs.
The police officers position themselves awkwardly on the other sofa, facing me. They glance at one other and PC Gillespie gives the smallest nod, indicating that her colleague should speak.
‘Mrs Gill, your husband was just joining the northbound M11 when his car was involved in a collision with an articulated lorry that failed to stop at a junction.’ He pauses.
‘No,’ I say, ‘That isn’t him. He would have been driving back from work. In London. It must be somebody else’s car.’
DS Sutherland consults his notes. ‘I have the car registration number.’
He reads it out. It’s Dominic’s Audi.
But why? That’s all I can think. Why would he even be there?
‘Is he injured?’ the voice that is me-but-not-me asks. I can still feel my heart thumping in my chest. Bang, bang, bang, bang. There’s something in their manner – their failure to reassure me that Dominic is all right – that i
s all wrong. ‘Can I see him?’
PC Gillespie edges forward and reaches for my hand, as DS Sutherland continues. ‘I’m afraid your husband – Dominic – was killed.’
* * *
The voice speaking to me is far away. It’s the female police officer, asking if there’s someone they can phone; someone who can come over. I sit there like a stone; silent, motionless.
This isn’t happening, the voice in my head says. There’s no way this is happening to me.
Would I like a cup of tea? PC Gillespie enquires. She can go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I don’t know if I want tea or not. I can’t think.
DS Sutherland asks again if I’d like them to phone someone. ‘JoJo Deakin,’ I say, ‘My friend.’ My voice trembles, but I don’t break into tears. There’s a strange ringing sound in my ears.
PC Gillespie goes to fetch my mobile from the kitchen and makes the call in the hallway, keeping her voice low.
‘Your friend’s on her way,’ she says, coming back into the sitting room with my phone. ‘Is there anyone else I should call? Family?’
‘My brother, David.’ I turn to the detective sergeant. ‘What do I need to do now? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’
‘We’ve already organised for a formal identification, so you don’t need to do that. But if you’d like to see him, we can arrange to take you to the hospital.’
‘A formal identification?’ I frown. ‘I don’t understand. Who—’
‘The ambulance crew found a donor card in your husband’s wallet… his brother’s named on it as his emergency contact. Your brother-in-law happened to be in London on business, so he’s on his way to the Royal London now.’
