The Regret

by Dan Malakin

  There was no point in putting it off. She put his plate down, perched on the edge of the sofa, loaded her fork and lifted it to her lips. Start with one mouthful, she thought. See how you get on.

  Although the cheese was a mistake, the texture too claggy, the heat of the eggs was welcome on her tongue. On the screen, Sergeant Sorbet had been replaced by a hipster chick with a pierced bottom lip, whipping a bowl of luminous pink frosting for a tray of cupcakes. Utter garbage, but Spence was watching like it was his favourite programme and didn’t want to be disturbed. Rachel took another bite, more confident now. The food felt warm as embers going down her throat.

  ‘Look, Spence,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you, okay? I didn’t mean to doubt your… feelings for Andreas.’ She wanted to cross the sofa, to sit next to him, but something about the stiff way he was sitting, like a bird on a wire, told her that if she did then he’d get up. ‘And even if I did decide to go to Australia, an idea which, I might add, I concocted after being out of it on painkillers for the last week, it won’t be for ages yet. I just need to get my head around stuff at home. But I’ll be here for you, like you were for me. I promise.’

  Still not looking at her, he asked, ‘How’re the eggs?’

  ‘They’re going,’ she replied, tipping her half-finished plate at him.

  She waited for him to reply, but instead he remained transfixed to the stupid cupcakes. What was with him? At best, he’d been ambivalent about her watching cooking shows – usually when she put them on, he fiddled on his phone. Did he think it was healthy for her to watch them? Did he think it helped her in any way? She forced herself to calm down. This was her fault, not his. She’d brought her crazy into his house, and now he didn’t know which way was sideways. Perhaps he thought she found staring at food and starving herself relaxing? How was he to know the screwed-up machinations of an anorexic?

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I just… I think I need to go. Can I use your phone now? Or maybe better, can you book me an Uber? I’ve got an emergency twenty in my wash bag, so take that. Okay?’

  He flipped off the television and threw down the remote. ‘Fine,’ he said, shoving off the sofa.

  She watched him slouch away with all the endeavour of a teenager told to clean his room. Why was he being like this? If she needed one final clear indication that she had to leave to salvage their friendship, then this was it.

  She scooped the last of the egg into her mouth, pushed her plate aside, and stood up – then sat down again, her hand going to her middle. The food seemed to be expanding by the second, like someone was inflating a balloon in her belly.

  Spence rushed to her side. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I think I ate too much.’

  He helped her to the bedroom. ‘Take five, let it digest. You don’t have to rush off this minute, do you?’

  She felt better lying down. A quick rest, then she’d be up and out of there. As soon as the pain passed.

  ‘I’m sorry for being such a prick,’ Spence said, tucking her in. ‘This thing with Andreas has really knocked me.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I’m a long way from perfect.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘Let me get you a glass of warm milk to sip,’ he said, getting up.

  The thought of ingesting anything else sent waves of nausea through her. But also she’d not eaten that much, the food was just a shock to the body, and warm milk did always settle her stomach…

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘If it’s not too much hassle.’

  He headed out the room.

  Moments later, he leaned back in. ‘I fancy a coffee as well, and there’s not enough milk,’ he said. ‘I’ll nip to the garage, be back in ten. Don’t go anywhere!’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  News

  Less than a minute after Spence left the apartment, Rachel broke wind like you can only do on your own. Straight away the pressure in her stomach eased, and she sent thanks down to her bowels. She’d worried this was some new rebellion, another subconscious stranglehold on her sanity, but no, she just had gas.

  She paused with her hand on the corner of her duvet. Would it be so terrible if she left? She had that twenty, enough to get her home, even in a black cab at morning rush hour. It was a pretty shitty thing to do to Spence when he was this upset about Andreas, especially as he’d gone to get her milk, but she was either going to put herself first to get her life together, or she wasn’t. And besides, it would save another round of discussions about it. He made some compelling arguments for why she should stay, and she could see herself being swayed. It wouldn’t take much to pull the lid off her doubts and set them free. She dredged an image from last night – the teenage Lily greeting her emaciated mother with disdain – and threw back the covers. No way would she let that happen.

  She limped around the room, stuffing her bag, then headed to the kitchen. She grabbed a notepad and biro from beside the kettle. What to say? Thanks for dropping everything, including the guy you were super keen on, who probably only cheated on you because you left him in the lurch, to look after me. To repay you I’m going to do a runner while you’re at the shops buying me milk. Cheers!

  She needed to stop stalling – he’d be back in a minute. She settled for a scrawled sorry and a load of kisses. As soon as she got home, she’d call.

  She shouldered her bag, went to the front door, and took one last look around. One day she’d make it up to Spence. He’d really saved her. When she was at the bottom, with nowhere else to go, he was there for her in a way that no-one else in her life was, not even Mark. Spence never once doubted her, never once questioned her sanity. He was a better friend than she could have ever expected.

  She went to open the front door, preparing to step outside, to feel fresh air in her lungs for the first time in a week. Except, the door didn’t open. She tried the handle over and over, twisting the latch as well, the realisation frothing in her that, yes, he really had locked her in – again! No way. That wasn’t possible. Not after what she’d said to him that morning. She slapped the door, wondering for a crazy moment if she could charge it, but saw herself crumpled on the floor, her collarbone shattered, and thought better of it.

  She ducked her head under the curtain, looking past the walkway that ran along the front of the apartments, leading to the lifts. She looked to the car park, and further on to the gates, but couldn’t see him. The twenty-four-hour Esso was outside the estate. He was probably in there now.

  Clearly the cosmos was telling her something. Yes, she wanted to get home, to see her daughter, to find the help she needed, but that didn’t mean she could be so rude to someone who’d been so kind to her.

  She dropped onto the sofa. He’d been gone five minutes, and at most he’d be five more, so she’d wait. Not even mention the locked door. When he got back, she’d say she was feeling better, that she still had to go, but she’d give him a call later on. See, was that so hard?

  Rachel clicked on the television with the remote. The sorbet dude was jabbering about adding glucose powder instead of sugar for a dessert that could be used as part of a fitness regime. She flicked to BBC News, needing to reconnect with the world. Live footage from Afghanistan showed buildings bombed to rubble. Rebels had been hiding in schools, using children as human shields. Now, there were people with real problems!

  The note on the kitchen table. She considered leaving it there, maybe having a laugh with Spence about him locking her in again, but didn’t want to risk upsetting him, not after how he was acting before, so she pushed off the sofa to get it. As she was ripping the page from the pad, the Afghanistan report ended.

  And now back to our main story, the suspected kidnapping of twenty-seven-year-old nurse Rachel Stone.

  Rachel looked at the television. Her photo filled the screen, the same one as on her hospital ID badge, hair scraped back, lips tugged on the left side into a slight smile. Couldn’t they have found something
a little more flattering? Not one that made her look like a serial killer remembering her favourite joke. Right, because that was the important thing here. The quality of the picture, not the fact that her kidnapping was the lead story on the BBC. That’s what it said in the caption – London nurse kidnapped – even if she had, somehow, misheard the newscaster.

  The picture changed to St Pancras hospital. Was she hallucinating? Dreaming? Lying in bed trapped in a lucid fucking coma? A male voiceover started.

  He said his name was Spencer Borrowman. He said he was a nurse from Coventry. Neither of these things were true. But what is true is he worked alongside Rachel Stone at this North London hospital, in the psychotherapy recovery ward. What is also true, is both they – and another nurse, fifty-five-year-old Rowena Feldman – are now considered missing.

  Rachel felt around for a chair. This couldn’t be happening. The image cut to a ward. She recognised the nurses’ station, the leaning tower of folders listing against the ancient Dell desktop, the whiteboard with their phone numbers on, written in Linda’s neat curved letters, the filing cabinets with the peeling sticky labels, the TV card vending machine. That was her ward. That was Oakwood!

  When Rowena Feldman made the spur of the minute decision to take a sabbatical from St Pancras Hospital, no-one questioned it. When she got to Australia and updated her social media with pictures of her new life, friends back home were happy for her. But investigations have uncovered an increasingly sinister situation. The Australian government have now confirmed she did not even enter the country, and early signs show none of these updates were, in fact, posted by her.

  Rowena wasn’t in Australia? But they’d swapped messages. Rachel had seen photos. Except when she thought about it, hadn’t most of the photos been of landmarks? Or other people, new friends she’d made out there. So who was sending her messages? Griffin? No, that was ridiculous. Alan Griffin had no way of knowing Rowena. And how could he possibly stop her from going to Australia?

  This whole thing had to be a mistake, a misunderstanding. There had to be a rational explanation. Griffin was behind it, somehow…

  But what about Mark? He knew she was here. He’d been in touch; she’d seen his texts. Why hadn’t he told them where they were? Linda too. Spence had spoken to her. Why hadn’t she told the police they were safe?

  The screen cut to a shot of Spence, his slender features and bleached hair, again from his nurse’s ID badge. The same face she’d seen almost every day, for how long? Eleven months?

  Spencer Borrowman began working at St Pancras hospital after Rowena Feldman left for her sabbatical. As described by Linda Green, the ward manager, he was a hard-working conscientious nurse. Well loved by the patients. Except, he wasn’t a nurse at all. University records were faked, as was the scan of his passport on NHS files.

  But he hadn’t kidnapped her. She’d come of her own accord. This had to be a mistake.

  The screen changed again, this time showing a picture of the two of them from last year’s Christmas party, one of the few times she’d been drunk enough to allow someone to take a photo of her on their phone. They were by the roster, wearing Santa hats and toasting mince pies. She’d been so drunk that he’d bundled her into a black cab and shoved money in the driver’s hand to get her home. If he was really a kidnapper, then why not take advantage of her then? Or any of the other times they’d gone out? They’d been alone together a hundred times.

  Mr Borrowman worked at the hospital for nearly a year, becoming especially close with the second nurse, Rachel Stone, a single mother from Hornsey, North London. Ms Stone was last seen on Thursday the fifteenth of October, heading back to her house, where it is presumed Mr Borrowman was waiting.

  The screen cut to her house – her house. Cordoned off with blue and white Police Line Do Not Cross tape. The window had been properly boarded.

  What happened after, no-one can say. A window was broken in the night. Some residents of this peaceful street remember looking out, but saw nothing. Police found signs of a struggle, traces of blood, but no clues as to where they are. And nothing, yet, that suggests… murder. One thing is for sure, something happened here, and all three people involved are still missing. Back to you–

  Rachel turned off the television. A high-pitch whine filled her head, like she’d been standing next to loud speakers for too long. She checked the front door again, opening the latch and pulling. It wouldn’t budge. He’d locked the mortise. Why would Spence do that if he was nipping to the shops? No-one would be able to open the door from the outside, so why do that? She dragged open the curtains. The window to the walkway was also locked, the keys not there.

  If he hadn’t kidnapped her, why could she not get out? She looked around again, a cold sensation spreading through her.

  This wasn’t an apartment. It was a prison.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Milk

  His phone. He’d been about to get it when she started feeling sick. He helped her to bed, went to get a glass of milk, came back to say he was going to the shop, and that was it. So it should still be charging. She raced to his room, fumbling the handle, her breath becoming a whimper as she thought that it too was locked, but it turned out to be just her inability to work a bloody door. At the second attempt it flew back, banging against the wall.

  Rachel paused. Before she violated his privacy, shouldn’t she be sure it was him? Was it such a stretch to imagine Spence was being framed, like Konrad? And she was buying it, without question.

  After everything she’d been through, shouldn’t she be giving him the benefit of the doubt?

  But what if it was him, and this was her one chance to get away?

  She stepped uneasily into the room and stood by his bed, scanning for the plug sockets. Just find the phone. It’d be locked, but she’d be able to call the emergency services. What other choice did she have? If Spence were being framed, it would clear his name.

  But why don’t they know where he lives? Won’t the hospital have it on file? Or his bank?

  Nothing in the plug sockets, so she pulled open the drawers of his bedside cabinet, looking for spare keys, he must have spare keys, everyone had spare keys, but they were empty. She went next to his dresser, expecting it to be full – she’d assumed he’d moved his things out of his room those first catatonic days – but the top drawer aside, which held his folded clothes from the last week, the rest contained nothing, not even lint. He needed to have more stuff than this. It was all wrong.

  The windows. They were on the top floor, but maybe she could bang and get someone’s attention. She ran out of his bedroom, swinging around in the kitchen and going back to close his door. He didn’t know that she knew. That was her only advantage. If she couldn’t get out before he got back, she didn’t want him thinking she’d snooped around.

  No sign of Spence in the car park, or further out by the gates. Maybe he’d seen the news, got scared, and bolted. Maybe that was the real reason he’d locked her in the room. She gave the glass a tentative slap, but the sound was muted and echoed back. She examined the window – her spine chilled. It was triple glazed. She could run an airplane in here and you wouldn’t hear more than a hum outside. The way the apartment was set back, the chance of someone seeing her from the car park was minuscule. That didn’t stop her banging the glass and screaming for help.

  She wheeled away, sobbing, the initial shock of the truth, that it was Spence, Spence, that he’d done all of this to her, finally subsiding, leaving only the terrifying reality that she was trapped. He was going to be back any minute. To do what? Kill her. Not Spence! Or he wasn’t coming back at all, at which point, once the food was gone, she’d starve to death. Oh, great. Fuck you, irony.

  She needed to find a weapon. The chopping knives weren’t attached to the magnetic strip beside the fridge. He must have taken them. She pulled out the drawers under the kettle. At home, hers were crammed with bills, batteries, Post-it notes, copper change, half-finished packets of para
cetamol, and a million other bits of assorted crap, the detritus of everyday life, stuffed in there when there was no more logical place for them to go, but aside from four sets of cutlery in the top one, they were as empty as the ones in his bedroom. She checked the cupboards next. Any packaged food, like pasta or rice, had been barely used. Same for the cleaning products under the sink. On a whim, she wedged her shoulder behind the fridge and pushed it out a few inches. She dropped to her knees and ran her hand on the laminate underneath. Not a crumb. Spence was tidy, but no-one was this clean. Especially as she hadn’t seen him do more than load the dishwasher in the last week. Did he even live here? No wonder no-one knew where they were.

  Rachel gripped her head. It was too much. She couldn’t take it all in. He did live here – she couldn’t clear her mind of that fact. But why did she think that? Because he said so? Because he had a couple of photos of himself on the shelves? Because he owned some books? She remembered thinking how they had such similar tastes. And right then, she saw it, all of it. They always had so much in common. Not just books, but music, and food, and television. They bitched about the same celebrities, swooned over the same soap stars, but they were all lies, every one. Same as this place. This wasn’t someone’s home. It was an approximation of a home, no more real than background scenery on a stage. And she’d been locked in it by a lunatic.

  She checked the window again – he must have been gone twenty minutes – and caught her breath. He was walking fast across the car park, hood up and coat zipped high to cover his face, clutching a brown holdall by the straps over his shoulder. What the hell was in there? They didn’t give you brown holdalls at the garage to carry your milk home.

  She wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. He’d be here in minutes.

  She pulled the curtains back and scanned the room for evidence that she’d been looking around. She had to pretend she knew nothing, that she’d been too ill to get out of bed, let alone leave the room, switch on the television, and see she was the subject of a national manhunt. Everything looked the same as after breakfast, tidy but for a few plates and glasses. Oh, shit. The fridge was still pulled out. Stupid, stupid, stupid! She rushed to it, pushing it back, but without the wall for leverage it wouldn’t move. She pressed her shoulder to the door and jerked her body forward, her heart stopping for two whole beats when it tipped back on its legs, but she got a hand round to steady it, and used the momentum to swing it towards the wall. She jumped back, sweating, shaking, trying to assess if the fridge was straight, realising that if she couldn’t tell then it was probably okay, and dashed for her room, hearing the front door opening and clunking closed, kicking off her shoes and diving under the duvet and trying to steady her breath as she heard him step into her bedroom.