by John Marrs
I took the car, drove to his village and slowly approached the house. Locking the car doors, I tried to steady my shaking hands. There was no police presence or tape sealing off the area. The front door that I’d propped open with a chair had been closed and the light in the front bedroom had been switched off, so something had happened after I’d left. Suddenly the door opened and a man appeared. He was much older than Steven. I watched as he picked up a pair of garden shears and began hacking away at a hedge. If Steven’s body had been in that house, he’d have been discovered by now. There was no doubt in my mind that Steven was still alive.
But that in itself brought more problems. Where was he?
I was constantly on edge in the weeks that followed. Every couple of hours, I’d cautiously peek through the bedroom window blinds, first scanning each parked car, then each bush and neighbour’s window, looking for a person or a shadow. I kept the curtains closed and, every morning and night, I’d check every window lock.
The radio remained unplugged, the slightest creak of a floorboard or the sound of the cat stirring would startle me. When Tony wasn’t with me, sometimes I’d lock myself away from the world, turn on the burglar alarm and hide in the bedroom. I only left the house for doctors’ appointments, and it was Tony who drove me to them.
The mornings melted into afternoons and the days into weeks. All the time, I tortured myself by allowing Steven to dominate everything, waiting for him to make another appearance. He was in the food I ate, the wine I drank to get me to sleep, the face of every stranger who passed the house. That’s what scared me the most: that he knew so much about me, yet all I knew about him was his appearance.
The freedom I took for granted had been taken away from me. My actions had also placed Henry in harm’s way, as Steven knew where he lived. I was scared to visit him again and risk putting him in danger. I called the care home every day, and they’d hold the phone to his ear so he could hear Mummy’s voice, but it wasn’t even close to being the same.
Without my anchor, I was adrift and lacked purpose. One morning as I bathed, I wondered how it might have felt if I – instead of Charlotte – had been with David the day he’d stepped off the cliff. What had it been like for him to drown in the sea?
I held my head under the water and tried to imagine what it must have felt like to have had no control over anything: over the temperature of the water, the current dragging him deeper and further away from shore and the pain his body felt from the impact. I inhaled water through my nose and mouth and it hurt so badly and so quickly that I pulled myself out. But it felt like the only control I’d had over my life since before that night in his house. And unless I took charge of myself again, that was how it would remain.
This is not who you are. You’re a survivor. You need to pull yourself together.
I began thinking about all the people who were suffering without me to guide them. I thought about how Tony, the girls and Henry were coping as I hid from the world, and how Steven was winning.
I couldn’t let that happen any longer. I climbed out of the bath, took some deep breaths and felt the warmth of the sun on my face through the window. It was time for Laura’s return.
On the morning of my first day back at End of the Line, I took one last, lingering look at myself in the hallway mirror, adjusting my blouse and tweaking tendrils of hair to ensure they framed my face correctly. I’d chosen my wardrobe carefully: a smart pantsuit that said ‘survivor’ not ‘victim’.
Despite it being only thirty minutes to the office by foot, I took the car, emphasising to everyone – but without saying as such – my lingering fear of walking alone. I gathered myself when I arrived and opened the office door to Janine.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ she began, and offered me a lukewarm handshake.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, as those colleagues not on the phone made their way towards me. As twitchy as each hug and peck on the cheek made me feel, I accepted them. I reassured them I was doing better and better by the day, and handling what had happened as best I could.
I hadn’t been allowed to go back to the charity immediately. Our job takes so much emotional strength that we all need to be at the top of our game to do our callers justice. But I’d persuaded the powers that be that what hadn’t killed me that night had made me stronger. And eventually, like when I’d returned from my cancer treatment, I’d been allowed to sit with Mary and listen in on her calls to help re-acclimatise myself to End of the Line’s environment.
Within a month I was back up to speed, and I began with three shifts a week. My confidence had returned – if Steven wanted me, I was ready for him. I’d brought myself out of hiding and hoped I could lure him out into the open. He had put so much effort into unmasking me, it was my turn to do the same to him.
I was living for his next call.
CHAPTER TWO
RYAN
It felt peculiar not speaking to Laura any more.
The time on the car stereo read 7.40 a.m., and at this time a few months ago I’d be putting together some notes ready for our conversation later in the day. Three times a week, ‘Steven’ had called her and I’d talk about his life in detail like she’d asked me to. There were some elements I’d made up and scribbled inside a notebook or typed into my phone as and when I thought of them. But when I spoke of his feelings of despair and hopelessness, they were more my words than his. I’d spent more time opening up to Laura than I had to my family and friends. It was like Stockholm syndrome, only I’d developed a psychological alliance with someone who wasn’t even holding me captive.
I was her project and she was mine; she wanted me dead and I wanted to stop her from ruining other people’s lives. And while I’d never let myself forget she had an evil streak in her a mile wide, I came close to understanding what my wife had seen in her. Laura was easy to talk to and we’d given each other a purpose of sorts. We’d developed a fucked-up, co-dependent relationship based on my lies and her sickness. Marriages have been built and survived on less.
But now there was nothing between us but silence. It was as if someone else in my life I’d relied on had died.
I parked in my allocated spot at work, grabbed my bag and an armful of folders from the back of the car, and made my way into the building. One folder slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor. I felt a twinge in my stomach as I went to pick it up. Having spent so long away from my job, and mostly in the company of my family or a handful of friends, I had to get used to being surrounded by a lot of people. But as the months passed, it gradually became easier.
My parents and Johnny were relieved that I’d turned a corner. I’d begun meeting friends for nights out, I was planning on rejoining my Sunday-league football team and I’d started going to the gym again. To them, I was returning to my old self. But they had no idea I’d buried the man they knew alongside Charlotte.
I walked the corridors with a fixed grin and nodded hello to familiar faces as I headed for my pigeonhole. Inside was a note from Bruce Atkinson requesting a catch-up before my working day began.
‘Sit, sit,’ he ushered, and pointed to the empty chair in front of the desk in his office.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
‘No, no, not at all, Ryan,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to check how things have been since your return. You’re in, what, your third month now?’
‘Fourth, but yes, it’s going well, I think. It’s nice to be back . . . It takes my mind off things.’
‘Yes, um, I’m sure after, um, what . . . happened with . . . your, um . . . wife . . . well, yes, I’m sure it has.’ Ebony in Human Resources must have told him to check up on me, because this conversation was way too awkward for him to have instigated off his own bat. But a little part of me was amused watching him squirm.
‘And how is everyone treating you?’ Bruce continued.
‘Again, good, good.’
He nodded his head, relieved that I wasn’t carrying with me any problem
s for him to deal with. He blew his nose into a cloth handkerchief. ‘Just so long as you know that if, you know . . . um . . . if you need more time to . . . um . . . or if there’s anything I can do to help, then you only have to ask.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, and quietly shook my head as he led me out of his office. He’d be the last person I’d ask for help.
I made my way along the corridor knowing he wasn’t alone in not having the first clue what to say to me. If it was cancer or a heart condition that had killed Charlotte, people might have related to me better, because many people have lost someone to one of those illnesses. But when it’s an invisible problem like mental health or suicide, people aren’t sure how to talk about it. They’d rather say nothing than end up saying something insensitive, stupid or becoming tongue-tied. It made for a lonelier life for me, though.
I again felt a pinch in my stomach where the skin was still healing from the knife wound. It wasn’t enough to make me wince, but I was aware of it all the same. I’d delayed my return to work by two weeks by telling them I needed a hernia operation, not the fact I’d been stabbed and left for dead. It would explain the scar the blade left if anyone ever noticed it.
I recalled how when Laura had fled the house that night, I’d remained bent double on the floor feeling like my whole body was on fire from the burning pain of the open wound.
Soon after I heard her drive away, I knew I needed to seek help. I couldn’t phone for an ambulance and I contemplated calling my parents, but I’d have too much explaining to do. I had no choice but to deal with it myself.
Each step I took, down the stairs, along the path and towards my car, was agonising, and once inside I held a handkerchief to the wound to stem the bleeding. The journey to Northampton General Hospital’s accident and emergency department took fifteen minutes but felt hours longer. And after dumping the car in a disabled space and dragging myself through the entrance and to the reception desk, a nurse saw me clutching my belly and a circle of blood on my shirt and whisked me straight into a cubicle.
The rest of the night was a blur. I was probed by doctors assessing and stabilising me. They checked my circulation, gave me an oxygen mask, an IV and an X-ray, and cleaned me up. While I’d lost blood, it wasn’t enough to require a transfusion, and thankfully the blade hadn’t penetrated any vital organs or the stomach itself, so only stitches were required. When they asked for next of kin, I claimed to be estranged from them.
The following morning, a woman in a white medical jacket and smart suit introduced herself as a psychiatric nurse and quietly questioned me on how I came to be injured. I told her it was the result of a botched attempt at ripping up some rotting floorboards but she didn’t seem convinced.
‘It’s our policy to report wounds that we judge to be suspicious to the police,’ she replied.
‘No, don’t do that,’ I replied, feeling the panic rising inside me. ‘It was an honest mistake. I’m clumsy and wanted to save some money instead of calling professionals in. Seriously, send someone around to my house to see the mess I’ve made of it if you don’t believe me.’
I hoped she wouldn’t call my bluff. She went on to ask me all kinds of questions, to see if I had mental health issues and the wound was self-inflicted. Eventually she left and another nurse said I could be discharged later that day, as long as I had antibiotics and someone to escort me home.
When I saw Johnny speaking to the psychiatric nurse shortly before collecting me, she knew I’d been lying about my ‘estranged’ family. Now I’d have to start lying to him, too.
‘So you stabbed yourself doing some DIY to the house,’ he began sternly as he drove my car. ‘Since when have you done home improvements?’
‘I thought I’d give it a go. Maybe not the best idea, eh?’ I gave a forced laugh.
‘At eight o’clock in the evening, you tried to repair some floorboards with a knife. On your own.’ He was trying to pick holes in my story.
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing and I know I should’ve left it for Dad to do. You haven’t told him about this, have you?’
‘If I had, he’d be here right now with me. I don’t like keeping secrets from him or Mum.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.’
‘Yeah, you are.’ He hesitated before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words carefully. ‘Tell me you didn’t do this on purpose. And that despite all the crap that’s happened to you, you’re strong enough to keep fighting. Don’t let what happened to Charlotte define you or swallow you up. You’re better than that.’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ I replied. When he failed to reply, I knew he didn’t believe me.
We spent the rest of the journey in an awkward silence, my hand pressed on the padding over my sutures.
At this point, I knew I should have called it quits. I’d got what I wanted, in that I’d scared the hell out of Laura Morris. And she’d been lucky to escape before I’d finished what I’d planned, even leaving me for dead. So, it would have been the time to approach her boss at End of the Line, tell them my story and play them my recordings. Then I could vanish from Laura’s life, knowing she wouldn’t be harming anyone else who called in need of a sympathetic ear.
But a week or so recuperating at home gave me time to dwell on what had happened. Yes, I’d quite obviously terrified her, but now it wasn’t enough just to take her job away from her. People like Laura are slaves to their compulsions. They do what they want to and they don’t give a damn about who gets hurt. I’d bet my life’s savings the Freer of Lost Souls would be back trawling Internet message boards searching for more potential victims within days of being sacked.
Taking her down had brought out something unexpected in me, some joyous, vindictive feeling. I needed to find another way to get at her.
Laura had taken away the person I loved the most, and she needed to know how that felt. I opened the Facebook app on my phone. I vowed to get to her in another way.
And now I was back at work and in a routine again, I had the means at my disposal to begin.
CHAPTER THREE
LAURA
I examined my reflection in all three mirrors in the unattended changing rooms.
Standing there in my bra and knickers, I turned to my left and was pleased to see how flat my stomach had become. I rubbed my fingers up and down it, and tried to pinch excess weight from my sides but there was very little left. The stress diet had been much more effective than the amphetamines in my slimming tablets.
One after the other, I slipped on each of the five dresses I’d picked from the shop’s rails, and was over the moon that I could now comfortably fit into a size eight. I removed the pliers from my pocket, snapped the security label from the one I favoured and wrapped the dress in a bag, then placed it in my handbag. I handed the unwanted ones to the clueless shop assistant who’d now appeared, thanked her and left.
I walked along the second floor of the shopping centre, down an escalator, across the ground floor and then back up the stairs, before returning down the escalator again. All the time, I kept checking the reflection in the shop windows and glass doors to ensure no one was following me. Reassured I was alone, I began to relax and made my way back to the car. I’d waited twenty minutes in Abington Street for a place to park, because being in an open space was wiser than a multistorey car park where it’s easy to hide between vehicles. I would never allow Steven to corner me in an enclosed space again.
Whenever I visited the town centre, I kept an eye out for Nate. Sometimes he’d hung around outside the office in the hope he’d catch me; other times I’d go and find him in his regular haunts near the bus station. But since he’d discharged himself from hospital, I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him, and I began to fear the worst.
I forced myself to think about something happier, and smiled for a moment as I drove, pleased with my new outfit. The dress was going to say everything I needed it to. It was sensible but not too mumsy, and revealed just enough of my legs
and toned arms to convince me that Tony would notice the effort I’d made for a meeting with Effie’s head of year.
Since my ‘attack’, Tony had shown more interest in my well-being than for as long as I could remember. He’d been seeing me as I wanted him to see me – a vulnerable woman who still needed the security he’d given me when we first met as teenagers. If only I’d thought about falsifying an attack a couple of years earlier, maybe I’d have no gap to bridge at all. Still, what was done was done, and although he hadn’t returned to our bedroom yet, it would only be a matter of time.
For the first couple of weeks, he’d arranged for the girls to stay with his parents so they weren’t scared by my injuries. Then he’d spent time alone with them to give me space to heal, mentally and physically.
However, I was surprised he hadn’t mentioned us going together to the school. The email reminder they’d sent had arrived in my account – the first time they’d contacted me. But Tony had said nothing about it. Maybe he didn’t want to put any undue pressure on me after what I’d been through.
Alice was an easy child to look after, obedient and eager to please. However, Effie was, by all accounts, proving to be a handful at school. Again, I only found out through emailed summaries of meetings Tony had attended with her teachers, none of which I’d been invited to.
Tony had insisted she be transferred to St Giles Upper School for reasons never fully explained to me. At the time, I’d been preoccupied with my cancer treatment, so I left it to his best judgement. However, her grades had slipped dramatically over the last few months. She’d dropped from solid As to Cs and Ds, and apparently her attitude had deteriorated, too. She’d grown more argumentative and moodier with teachers. She was no longer participating in after-school activities like hockey or drama, and she’d become distant from the friends she’d made.
