The Stalker

by Sarah Alderson

  The memory carves its way into my consciousness, slowly, painfully and meeting huge resistance. Will.

  A sob rises up in my chest, the pressure of it building. When I let it out the pain ratchets to another level and blackness, comforting as a blanket, descends.

  I don’t know how long I’m unconscious for but when I wake the pain is still there, duller in some places and sharper in others. My hands, feet, and face are numb. My head pounds, and my chest feels as if a rock is pressing down on it; but it’s my arm that hurts the most, burning as though it’s on fire.

  Will. The memory is sharper now. I see his face, the look of terror in his eyes, the awful frustration as he tried to wrestle free of the tape I’d been forced to wrap around his legs and feet.

  I did this to him. Another sob rises up, accompanied by a scream. I don’t black out this time. I remember the blood – so much of it. I remember his head, hanging down limply on his chest, the dullness in his eyes. I remember running because Will told me to, and I thought I could get help for him. I failed. There was the car, coming after me, chasing me down the lane. I remember looking back, seeing the headlights glowing, gaining on me, blinding me, before I was hit from behind, thrown into the air.

  What if it’s not too late? What if Will is still alive? What if I can save him?

  I crack open my eyes and see a sliver of white sky above me. I try to move my hand and though it hurts – every muscle alive with its own excruciating sensation – I’m relieved that this arm at least doesn’t feel broken. When I try to move my other one, however, I almost pass out. My shoulder must be dislocated, or maybe the bone is fractured. It takes me several minutes to breathe through it, to fight off the dizziness, before I can move again.

  Finally, I manage to clear away the leaves, snow and dirt covering my face, enough that I can make out tree branches overhead, caked in snow, and a white frosted hedgerow. I must be in a ditch somewhere along the side of the lane. A branch lies on top of me. That’s the weight on my chest. I push on it with my one good arm, closing my eyes and thinking of Will when my strength ebbs, pushing me towards a cliff of blackness. Powdery snow lands on my face, startling me awake.

  I push more on the branch and it shifts and suddenly I’m able to breathe again. I gasp, drawing in breath after breath, each one clearing away more of the fog so that the soreness of my body is blotted by the ache of recalling everything that Ethan did to Will, how he hurt him, how he made me watch as ‘punishment’. I almost give up, but the thought that Will might still be alive, might still be being tortured, drives me on. With renewed determination I force myself to sit up, and then to slowly drag myself one-handed, out of the snow-filled ditch.

  I crawl onto the road, and then collapse, lying face down in the mud-splattered slush, tears rolling down my cheeks, until I catch my breath and haul myself onward. I’m shivering hard and when I finally manage to make it from my knees, to my feet, swaying and dizzy with the effort, I look down and see my feet are ragged and blue from cold. My jeans are ripped and bloody and when I look at my left arm, I see it’s hanging uselessly by my side. My whole body is shaking – from cold or from shock I don’t know.

  I try to take a step and my legs buckle. I drop down onto one knee, a bolt of pain shooting through me like electricity. My eyes water, blackness pressing in at the edges of my vision. Up ahead I can see a blizzard of lights. I try to get my bearings. It’s the cottage. I need to get there. Will. He’s waiting for me.

  Step by step, trying to push the pain into a far part of my consciousness where I can ignore it, I make my way up the lane. My brain struggles to process any more than the thought that I have to make it home. I have to reach Will in time. But as I get closer, another thought pushes its way to the forefront; what if Ethan is still there? He must have left me in the ditch, thinking I was dead. He covered me over with branches. But what if he’s returned to the cottage? Should I turn around and head in the other direction, the three quarters of a mile to my nearest neighbour?

  I halt, in the middle of the lane, taking in the frozen sky and a single blackbird flying across it. There’s nothing but hedgerows and fields; it’s as if all the colour in the world has been bleached out. But then my eyes land on a sprig of holly with its green leaves and red berries. It’s Christmas, I remember. Christmas morning.

  I keep going, knowing it’s my only option, but I approach the house carefully, biting my lips to stop from howling out my grief, suppressing it all, using it to fuel my progress. I have one aim, and that’s saving Will.

  I crouch down low and sneak, panting, almost faint from the effort of dragging myself this far, to the window of the living room. I peer in, but I can’t see anything through the crack in the curtain. I press on to the back door. It opens. I walk inside and cock my head for a moment to listen. The house hums with silence. But what if Ethan’s upstairs? I pick up a carving knife from the block in the kitchen and then heave myself forward, stumbling into the living room.

  I pause in the doorway, my arm and the knife falling limp to my side, a scream tearing out of my throat like a monster and then I fall forwards, tumbling to my knees and sobbing.

  ‘No … No … No …’

  *

  Hours later I wake, my cheek pressed to the floorboards in front of the fire. It’s dark out. My head still throbs; everything hurts, the pain radiating from not one single source but dozens. I remember why and try to slip back into the comforting depths of unconsciousness, but it doesn’t work; my mind keeps pushing images to the surface, urging me to wake up and face things.

  I open my eyes. The scent of bleach is strong in my nostrils. I stare around the room taking it in. The tree lights flash brightly. The presents sit beneath it, still unwrapped. There is no sign of a crime – that’s what brought me to my knees before. Will isn’t here. Neither is the chair he was in, nor the rug his blood had leaked onto. Ethan has wiped the place clean. He must have come back here and bleached everything. He’s done a thorough job, from the eye-watering smell of things. Of course he has. He’s an expert in covering up his crimes.

  Did he carry Will’s body out to his truck? I wonder. Did he wrap him in bin liners and dig a shallow grave somewhere in a wood, or pile him into another ditch, like he did me?

  Earlier I thought about calling the police, I even picked up the phone, but then I put it down again. What good are the police to me? Will is dead. I know he is. I think he was dead when I ran. There was so much blood. If I called the police and told them what happened, then what? If they even catch Ethan and charge him it will go to trial. And even if they lock him away for twenty-five years for murder, all it will be is a temporary reprieve. Eventually he’ll get out and then he’ll come after me again and he’ll finish the job. And if they don’t catch him, but he finds out that they’re looking for him, he’ll know I’m still alive, and I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

  A strangled sob erupts out of me. Will. I let this happen to him. ‘I’m sorry,’ I wail. It’s then that I notice the engagement ring has gone from my hand. Where did it go? I look around in panic, but I know in my heart that Ethan will have taken it when I was lying in the ditch, unconscious. The bastard. White-hot hatred courses through my veins, filling up the spaces that were only yesterday filled with love.

  I lie there on the ground for I don’t know how long, until I can’t physically cry any longer, and then I drift in and out for an endless time. I wonder if I can lie here forever, if maybe eventually I’ll die too. I think that’s I want, but then something slowly starts to stir inside me, awakening with the next day’s sunrise.

  I sit up. I am not ready to die, I decide. I am not ready to let Ethan win.

  It takes an enormous effort to heave myself to my feet and to drag myself into the kitchen, ignoring the searing pain in my shoulder that threatens to make me faint and the awful sharp stabbing in my feet from where the glass is still embedded, but I do it because I know I must. I let the hate flow freely, and
I use it as fuel.

  I manage, one-handed, to make a cup of tea and collapse down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I force myself to eat some leftover mince pies because my body craves fuel, choking them down without tasting them, and when I’m done, I haul myself upstairs and into the shower. I don’t let myself cry any more. I don’t let myself think about Will. I don’t let the voice in my head try to talk me out of what I’m about to do or throw logic bombs at my plan. I push aside thoughts of Jet and what might have happened to her because if I let myself think about that on top of everything else, I’ll go mad. I’ll break down. I won’t be able to do what I’ve decided. I’ve already made up my mind and now it’s just a case of making it happen, figuring out my immediate next steps. I can’t think about anything else right now.

  I don’t need to make an entire plan, I tell myself. Not for the moment. I just need to focus on getting out of here, making myself disappear again, making the whole world think I’ve been kidnapped and most likely murdered, and making Ethan believe I’m still lying in a shallow grave, dead. I’ve had practice, at least.

  Refusing to meet my own eye in the mirror in case it causes me to waver any more, I examine my face for cuts, dispassionately noticing the gruesomeness of my injuries. I wipe at the congealed blood the shower failed to wash from my nose and ear and examine the deep laceration to my palm, the fierce stinging helping to focus me.

  I have a swollen cheek, a long slash down my cheekbone which I think probably needs stitches and which will leave a scar, and one of my eyes is puffy – all from the beating he gave me before he made me watch as he tortured Will. I bandage my hand, put a plaster on the cut on my cheek and dab antiseptic on the grazes on my arms and legs, before beginning to dig the glass out of my feet. It’s a long process and I’m shuddering and gritting my teeth so hard I think I might have cracked my jaw. But finally, I get the last piece out and am able to stand.

  It takes an age to get dressed and I almost pass out from the pain. I can’t lift my arm and so I have to make do with doing up one of Will’s shirts without threading my arm through the sleeve, and then putting on a cardigan the same way.

  Next, I move around the room. I can’t carry much, only a small bag, so I throw in some clothes and then I pause by the bedside table looking at the photograph of Will and me, emotion choking me. Focus, I warn. You’ve got this far. You can keep going. But I can’t leave the photograph, so I pack it in my bag. I need something to remind me of what I’m doing this for. I find my jewellery box is missing. The bastard. He took my engagement ring, as well as a bracelet and a Celtic cross necklace that Will gave me. I wish I’d killed him now when I had the chance, back when we were married. I wish I’d stabbed him in his sleep. Or poisoned him. A life sentence in prison would be better than this. But it’s too late for regrets.

  An hour later I’m ready. I’ve gone through the house, every room except the living room, trying to figure out what to leave and what to take. In the end I can’t take much because I can only take what I can carry, and I can’t carry much as I’m too weak. At the back door, I pause briefly. This is my home; but it was my home with Will, and I can’t stay here now, not without him. I wonder when someone will come by to look for us. Probably tomorrow when Will doesn’t show up at work. I wonder what they’ll think has happened here. Will they open a missing persons enquiry? Or will they know a crime was committed? Or maybe they’ll think we’ve packed our bags and left for some mysterious reason.

  People will tell the police my name – Mia Smith – but of course there will be no official record of me. No identity or birth certificate. They’ll try to figure out who I really am and they’ll fail, because in my old life I’m already dead. They will study the house and wonder what happened, and they will never solve it because Ethan has covered his tracks. I’m the only witness and I am not coming forward. I am going to take the law into my own hands. I’ll show him justice.

  When I step outside the door, I must cast aside the old me and become someone new. I must harden my resolve and stick to my guns. There won’t be any turning back. But it’s easier the second time. And it’s easier now I have something to avenge. I will make Ethan pay. But before I make him pay, I will make him suffer. I swear this to Will and to myself. And then I leave the house.

  I plot my route carefully, making sure that no one will see me. Luckily, it’s Boxing Day – at least I think it is – and no one will be out in this weather. I can cut across the fields, circumnavigate the village and walk the five miles to Kirkby Stephen, where I’ll catch a bus to Kendal and then take a train from there. I need to disappear without trace.

  I’ll head north, to Scotland, I think. Then I’ll go to the hospital and get my arm treated. I’ll need to give them a fake name and make up a story; nothing too suspicious in case they think I’ve been the victim of domestic violence and call the police. I’ll tell them I fell off a ladder taking down Christmas decorations, that I hit the edge of a table when I fell, which caused the cut on my cheek.

  I’ve fled my life and started another before; I can do it again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Day Seven

  Laura

  The ghost in the wood is a woman. And even at this distance, with her hood up and the lashing rain creating black and white static between us, I can make out her blonde hair. It’s Mia.

  She strides towards Liam, laid out on the ground, a high-pitched keening sound escaping from his lips as he tries in vain to pull apart the steel jaws clamped around his leg, and she crouches down beside him.

  He looks at her and his mouth falls open. He stops screaming and falls silent. It’s not as though he’s seeing a ghost, but like he’s staring at an avenging angel.

  ‘Hi, Ethan,’ she says to him. ‘You should have made sure I was dead.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Mia

  Ethan stares up at me like he cannot fathom that I’m real, his expression racing between disbelief, confusion and horror.

  ‘Surprised to see me?’ I ask.

  His face twists into a grimace of pain. ‘How …?’ he pants, clutching his leg.

  ‘How am I alive?’ I help him finish. ‘A miracle. The police and the papers reported me and Will missing, as you know. They never found either of us,’ I tell him. ‘But in my case, that’s because there was no body to be found.’

  I notice then that one of his hands is scratching in the muddy leaves. He’s searching for the shotgun, which he dropped when the trap snapped shut. I reach over and snatch it from his fingertips just as he grasps it. ‘You won’t be needing that,’ I tell him with a smile.

  He bangs his head back into the ground in frustration, letting out a roar.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ I ask him, nodding at his leg. ‘It looks painful.’

  ‘Help!’ he gasps, looking around. ‘Laura!’

  The rain is lashing down, pasting his hair to his skull. I can feel the droplets sliding down the back of my coat and along my spine, but I don’t feel cold; I feel invigorated, alive with victory. I am free, finally, after all these months, years even, of fear. To see him here, at my feet, no longer the predator but the prey, is what I’ve been dreaming of. It’s why I’ve done everything that I’ve done.

  Still clutching his leg, he wheezes and tries to look around for Laura.

  ‘You killed the person I loved,’ I tell him. ‘You made him suffer and you made me watch. And then you stole his identity, you piece of shit.’

  ‘Laura!’ he shouts again, his voice hoarse with effort.

  I glance up and look at Laura, standing paralysed against a tree, shining the torch on us. She’s a silhouette and I can’t make out her expression.

  ‘Laura! Where are you?’ Ethan is desperate now.

  She doesn’t move.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Eight Months Earlier

  Laura

  The door dings and I look up. A man barges in, carrying a large black Labrador
cross in his arms. I rush around the reception desk to help him. The poor dog looks to be in a terrible state: it’s panting, its head is lolling, and one of its hind legs is bloody and mangled.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask as I lead him straight through into a back examination room.

  ‘I think it was a hit by a car. No collar. I found it lying in an alley.’

  After the vet looks the dog over and confirms she’ll need an operation to reset the leg, the man offers to pay for it. I take him out into the waiting room to prepare the paperwork and when I look up from the desk, I find him staring at me in such a way that immediately I feel flutters in my stomach. He’s incredibly good-looking and my cheeks start to burn under the intensity of his gaze.

  ‘Hi,’ he says before pausing a moment. ‘I’m Liam. William really, but I go by Liam.’

  I swallow nervously, always a little flustered by male attention, but even more so when it comes from someone so attractive. ‘I’m Laura,’ I tell him.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Laura.’ He smiles and my heart flips. He’s tall, dark, handsome. He looks like he’s stepped straight out of the pages of one of my romance novels.

  I start to fill in the paperwork, my skin still warm beneath his gaze. ‘Dog’s name?’ I ask, glancing up at him.

  He shrugs. ‘How about Isis?’ he suggests.

  *

  ‘Where did you grow up?’ I ask Liam on our first date.

  His gaze, so direct up until now, wanders for a moment. He looks around at the other customers and then at the table. ‘Kent,’ he says. ‘A small town. I got out as soon as I could. But my roots are Scottish.’

  ‘I’d love to visit Scotland,’ I say, slightly wistfully. I’m addicted to the Outlander books, but I don’t tell him that’s the reason. ‘Do you still have family in Kent?’ I ask instead.