The Stalker

by Sarah Alderson

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say, surprising myself with the strength in my voice. There’s no trace of the terror I’m feeling.

  I lock eyes with Ethan, trying to get a grip on the reins before I gallop off into a full panic. I need to think clearly. I need to stay calm. Where’s my phone? I think it’s in the living room.

  My glance skitters over the kitchen counters and lands on the knife block, which is just too far out of reach. I contemplate turning and sprinting for the front door. It would be a risk to leave Will, but it’s me Ethan wants, so I expect that if I ran, he would come after me. But then I realise I’m completely naked, barring the blanket wrapped around me. I’m not wearing shoes either. And where would I run to in the snow? I weigh everything up, but it’s too much of a gamble.

  ‘Let him go,’ I say calmly to Ethan, nodding towards Will.

  Ethan smirks at me then shakes his head. His gaze drifts down my body and his expression darkens with fury. I grip the covering tighter around myself and think back to Jet barking at the window. I feel sick; Ethan was there outside in the dark, watching Will and me make love.

  Will winces sharply and my eyes fly to the knife. Ethan’s dug it further into Will’s back.

  ‘Please—’ I start to stay, then stop myself. If I beg he’ll only see it as an invitation to hurt him more. That’s what he does. When he used to beat me, the more I begged him to stop the more it would egg him on. It was only when I fell still and compliant that he’d cease.

  ‘Come into the living room,’ I say, finishing my sentence. ‘We should talk.’

  Will looks at me, flabbergasted. His mouth falls open in shock, but I ignore him, focusing only on Ethan and willing myself not to show even a sliver of fear. He feeds on it. Even if I am so terrified that I can feel the pressure of a hysterical scream building in my chest, I need to push it down and stay calm. I need to focus on getting us out of this situation that I’ve got us into. Ethan narrows his eyes at me, and I know he’s wondering why the sudden shift; he’s thrown by it.

  I smile back at him, amazed at how easy it is to slip back into the role I played for years: the obedient, submissive wife. My teeth threaten to start chattering and I grit them to make it stop, the whole time keeping the smile fixed in place. I remind myself that I am not that person from three years ago. I left that version of me behind, slipping out of it like an old skin, ripping it off when I fled for a new life, and a new identity as far from Ethan as I could get. And now I am a new, stronger, braver version of that old me, I tell myself. I fought so hard – gave up so much – to break free of him, and I am not letting Ethan take this from me. He doesn’t get to destroy this life too.

  What does he want? I wonder, as he continues to eye me with suspicion. Does he want me back? Or is he only here to punish me? The punishment will come either way, I know, but if there’s a chance he still has feelings for me then perhaps there’s a way I can get us out of this. Perhaps I can convince him I’m sorry, beg him to forgive me, tell him that I’ve missed him. He’ll still punish me but perhaps he won’t hurt Will.

  I remember Ethan’s punishments and as I do my resolve wavers and I’m not so sure I have it in me to go along with this. For a split second I contemplate the knife he’s holding, and I imagine myself leaping for it, grabbing it, twisting it out of his hand and plunging it into his neck. But I know I wouldn’t have a chance of success; he’s bigger than me, stronger too. And what if Will got hurt in the process? If it was me here alone, I’d fight. Or would I?

  Ethan finally nods. ‘OK. Let’s talk. That’s why I’m here after all,’ he tells me. ‘Partly, at least. I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a very long time. But you were very hard to find, Mia.’ His lips purse in anger.

  I don’t say anything, but I wonder how he found me. Did I make a mistake? Should I have changed my first name as well as my last? I kept it because I wanted to keep something – just one thing – of my old self. I changed my last name, moved hundreds of miles, cut my hair, dyed it brown, threw away every remnant of my old life: my family, friends, job, credit cards, driver’s license, birth certificate, social media, my national insurance number – anything that could be used to trace me. My parents died when I was a teenager so it wasn’t as hard as it might have been to walk away. I have one half-sister who lives in Australia and who thinks I’m missing, likely dead by suicide, which is the way I set it up to look, leaving a note to that effect.

  All my friends – those that were left, which wasn’t many – assume the same. The police do too. That was the price for my freedom. Though I was never completely free from fear; I always wondered if he’d believe that I was dead, or if he’d come looking for me.

  As the months passed and I stopped glancing over my shoulder every moment and started to feel more secure that he hadn’t been able to trace my circuitous escape, the pressure lifted, but the dread never completely went away. It was always there, like a shadow chasing me. I used to think all the time about this moment, wondering what would happen if he did track me down. But I never let myself imagine it in detail because I knew that if he found me, it would only mean one thing: he would kill me.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask, unable to bear it any longer.

  Ethan smiles slyly. He loves any chance to show off what he considers to be his superior intelligence. ‘You applied for a master’s in psychology.’

  I frown. How the hell does he know that?

  ‘You put your undergrad degree on the application form. They followed up with the alumni department at Bristol to verify your degree,’ he continues, smirking at my bewildered expression. ‘The administrator there is a very helpful woman.’

  My heart stutters. Such a stupid, awful mistake. How could I have been such an idiot? I look at Will, tears bubbling up. I wanted something and so I let myself believe enough time had passed and that the risk was so low that it was worth it. I could kick myself.

  ‘Come on, move!’ Ethan says, nodding towards the living room. ‘You want to talk, let’s talk.’

  I nod but pause before I turn around, looking briefly at Will. He seems frozen, eyes still set wide, not sure what the hell to make of what’s happening – or of my compliance. I try to silently communicate to him to go along with it and I pray he won’t try to tackle Ethan, who is much stronger than he looks. But Will is not that kind of man: he’s gentle; not a fighter, a communicator.

  ‘Look,’ he says now, turning towards Ethan. ‘Why don’t you put the knife down—’

  ‘Shhh,’ Ethan warns him with a savage look in his eye.

  Will falls silent, and Ethan pushes him forward. We walk into the living room, me leading the way. I glance around for my phone, my eyes scanning my clothes which are scattered on the floor in front of the fire.

  ‘Get dressed, you slut,’ Ethan says to me, the words coming out with a spray of spittle that lands on my cheek.

  Without looking at either him or Will I gather my clothes and turn my back, slipping on my underwear with shaking hands and then discarding the blanket and quickly pulling on my clothes. The whole time I am looking for my phone but I can’t see it and the landline is in the kitchen, too far to reach.

  ‘You’ve put on weight,’ Ethan comments.

  My face burns with fury and shame, and I hate myself even more for letting him get to me. I worked so hard to get his voice out of my head – to purge the constant critiques which played on a loop even once I left him. After I escaped Ethan, I wanted to gorge myself on all the food he used to forbid me from eating – cakes and chocolate – and have second helpings of everything. I was emaciated then. Now, I’m normal weight and healthy.

  When I’m dressed, I turn around to face him, straightening my shoulders and back.

  ‘Come here,’ he orders.

  My defiance immediately falters. I walk slowly in his direction, heart thumping. ‘Get the duct tape from my bag,’ he tells me. His face is cold and hard, and his eyes flicker dangerously. He’s enjoying this. He likes
having power over me. He always did.

  He tosses his bag to the floor and I kneel and unzip it, a whimper rising up my throat when I discover a roll of thick plastic bin liners, as well as two rolls of duct tape.

  ‘Hurry up!’ he snaps.

  I glance up and see he’s resting the knife against Will’s throat and blood is beading along the edge of it. My stomach folds over on itself; I need to do something now, before it’s too late. But what?

  Ethan pushes Will into the armchair and then he forces me to duct tape him to it, overseeing everything to make sure it’s tight enough, before placing a strip over Will’s mouth, gagging him. I glance at Will, my bottom lip trembling. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mouth to him. He stares back in disbelief.

  I lunge for the fire poker, my fingers closing around it. I turn, swinging at Ethan, but he grabs it, wrestles it from me, and tosses it aside. Shit. Very calmly I watch him turn back and jab the knife into Will’s side, not all the way, but several inches.

  Will lets out a muffled bellow of pain. I throw myself on Ethan, gripping his arm and trying to pull him away, but he seizes me by the throat, holding me at arm’s length. I see that this is fuel to his fire, so I stop struggling and fall still. I know if I fight back, he will become more violent. I’ll unleash the monster within.

  He smiles at me, recognising his power to control me. I look at Will. Blood is seeping through his sweater and he’s bent over, panting. Oh my god. How hurt is he? He looks up at me, pale-faced, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Please,’ I beg Ethan. ‘Please don’t hurt him.’

  I hate myself for begging, but what else can I do?

  Ethan ignores me and turns to Will. ‘You know she’s married to me?’

  Will, still hunched over and gasping, glares up at Ethan. He knows I was married to Ethan, and he knows, too, that we never divorced. When Will proposed to me earlier he knew that our marriage was, on paper, impossible. He knows my identity, Mia Smith, isn’t real; that my real name is Mia Watkins. He’s the only person who does know the truth.

  He asked me once, after I’d told him all about Ethan, why I never went to the police and reported him. Why I never told anyone. I explained that I had never told anyone about Ethan and what he did to me because he was a policeman. Who do you complain to when your husband is one of the people you’re supposed to turn to for help? One of the people sworn to protect you and keep you safe? There is no one. But, truthfully, a part of me was also too ashamed. I tried once to get help; I called a domestic violence hotline. But Ethan had a tracker on my phone and the beating he gave me almost killed me.

  Even if I’d gone to the police and they had listened to me, even if they’d arrested Ethan, and he’d been charged and refused bail and found guilty and sentenced to jail – all big ifs – I knew one day he’d find me and get revenge. I’d spend the rest of my life waiting for the axe to fall. And if the police didn’t listen to me, if they didn’t arrest him, didn’t charge him or if he didn’t get found guilty in a court of law, I knew I was as good as dead. So, I did the only thing I could; I fled.

  ‘You know what the punishment is for adultery?’ Ethan asks now, looking between us.

  A sob is trapped in my throat, but I refuse to let it out.

  ‘If a man be found lying with a woman married to an husband,’ Ethan intones, ‘then they shall both of them die, both the man that lay with the woman, and the woman: so shalt thou put away evil from Israel.’ Ethan looks between Will and me. ‘Deuteronomy chapter 22, verse 22.’

  I wince. He’s channelling his mother. He would only ever quote the Bible when he was about to unleash violence; just like she used to do to him.

  ‘Punish me, not him,’ I beg. ‘He didn’t know about you.’

  Liam studies me with a piercing look. Can he tell I’m lying?

  ‘The Romans, the Greeks, the ancient Celts,’ he goes on, ‘they all punished adultery the same way. Death for both parties.’

  I draw in a shuddering breath and my knees threaten to give way. Will grunts something angrily through his gag.

  Ethan turns to me. ‘You betrayed me,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, hating myself for saying it.

  ‘There’s something else in the bag,’ he tells me. ‘Get it. It’s a present.’

  I scramble to my knees. Sobs rack my body as I look though the backpack again, and the tears I’ve been holding back begin slipping down my cheeks. I pull out a gift wrapped in Santa Claus paper.

  ‘Open it,’ Ethan instructs me.

  It’s a box. And inside the box is a glass angel. I hold it with shaking hands.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he whispers. ‘I bought it for you the Christmas you disappeared. I’ve kept it all this time hoping I’d eventually be able to give it to you.’

  I give a quivering smile in response, wiping away the tears with the back of my arm. Ethan used to call me his angel. He had some messed-up logic; his mother – a religious fanatic – raised him to believe he was no good; she convinced him that he had the devil inside him. She would beat him, lock him up in the basement, starve him.

  ‘You’ve saved me,’ he’d tell me. ‘You’re my angel.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I assure him now. ‘Thank you.’ I weigh it in my palm.

  ‘Why did you run away?’ he asks, and there’s a plaintive note in his voice that surprises me. I spy a chink of light in the darkness, a way out of the nightmare, and I grab it with both hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again, reaching out a hand, and touch his cheek, fighting revulsion. He doesn’t pull away. Emboldened, I let my fingers trace his face and I try to gaze at him with adoration. He loves adoration, craves it. He needs to be worshipped.

  ‘Forgive me?’ I plead.

  He narrows his eyes.

  I repress a shudder. Every cell in my body is screaming in panic.

  ‘Maybe we can work things out,’ I add with forced enthusiasm. ‘You and me. We can be together again if you want. I’ll go with you now.’ I let my hand linger on his cheek and I stare at him with what I hope is tenderness, though inside I’m a quivering mess. ‘I promise you I’ll do whatever you want from now on. I’ll be good. I’ll obey. I’ll be the perfect wife.’

  Ethan’s eyes widen just a little. Is he buying it? His hand comes up and I flinch, but all he does is stroke my hair, gently, like I’m made of gossamer. Then suddenly he pushes me backwards, down onto the sofa so I’m lying on my side. He lies down beside me, spooning me, one arm wrapped snugly around my waist.

  I hear a growling from Will but one look in his direction from Ethan and he falls silent again. Ethan strokes my hair some more and then he nuzzles my neck. His arms lock around me. I am rigid as stone; it’s like being held by a scorpion, and I fully expect the sting to come at any second. But instead of a knife to the chest, he kisses me, first on my temple, and then on my cheek and then the back of my neck, and I’m not sure what’s worse; the knife blade or his lips against my skin.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try not to let out a cry. He breathes in deeply, sighing, then kisses me just below the ear. ‘It’s too late,’ he murmurs.

  I’m still holding the angel. It’s heavy like a paperweight. Ethan reaches for the knife on the arm of the chair. As he turns, I smash the angel into the side of his head. He falls off the sofa, yelling, glass shattering over him.

  I leap across him, stretching for the knife that has flown across the room. Just as I get hold of it his hand closes around my ankle and I’m dragged down, slamming my chin into the floor, glass embedding in my feet.

  Next thing I know he’s on top of me. He smashes my head into the corner of the table.

  He heaves me to a sitting position. ‘That was silly,’ he says.

  Dazed, I fight the descending darkness.

  *

  Barefoot, I sprint through the snow, a burning in my lungs, a heaving pain in my chest. Sobs rack me as I run. I left Will; I left him behind. The image of Ethan bringing the knife up and pl
unging it down brings a fresh wail up my throat. I hack up tears and snot as I move, stumbling and bleeding into the snow. I’m dizzy from hitting my head.

  Blood screams in my ears. I sob Will’s name. I need to get help. I need to save him. Maybe it’s still possible. That’s what’s driving me on. That’s what gave me the strength to stagger up and dive for the back door. It’s what keeps me running now, ignoring the pain in my head and the stinging fire in my feet.

  A louder roar suddenly fills my ears and for a moment I think it’s someone coming to help, but then I glance over my shoulder and see two bright white lights heading towards me.

  He’s in a car. He’s following me! Shit. I look left and right trying to find an escape, but impenetrable hedges form barriers on both sides of the narrow lane. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

  I press on, slipping in the snow, picking myself up. I look back over my shoulder as I run. He’s gaining on me – the headlights are bearing down, dazzling me.

  I dart left and hear the engine rev, getting louder and louder until it feels as if it’s on top of me, and then pain explodes through my body. It’s like being hit by lightning, and it forks down my limbs, splintering bone and burning flesh as I’m tossed into the air like a leaf. I hang suspended for what feels like eternity, before I land with a soft thud in the snow.

  Brilliant white light fades to black.

  *

  A weight lands on my chest and I gasp for air, breathing in a mouthful of dirt. Pain sears through me. My body feels broken, each new breath sending shockwaves of agony down each limb, and my head throbs. I try to open my eyes but there’s only a hazy darkness and one eye feels glued shut. Memories jostle sharply but I can’t seem to grab hold of any of them. All I can hear are screams, but I don’t know where they’re coming from. It takes me a while to figure out they’re my own.

  Where am I? Sensations help me to remember: the wet cold seeping into my bones is snow; that starchy scratchiness under my finger is a leaf; the smell in my nostrils is earth and leaves and the crisp frost of winter; that taste in my mouth is dirt and something else – blood.