The Regret

by Dan Malakin

  She tried to pull the bare metal over her ankle, the edge scraping her skin, but although it was much looser now, she still couldn’t quite bend her foot flat enough for it to come off. Was it enough to reach him? She got herself into position, breathing hard, muscles tensed, preparing herself to leap.

  Three, two, one – go!

  She propelled herself off the bed, arm stretched so hard it felt as though her shoulder might pop from the socket. She hit the floor with a thud. When she looked at where her hand landed, disappointment flooded through her so fast she burst into sobs.

  He was still a couple of centimetres away.

  No matter how hard she stretched, her fingertips were just short.

  She pulled herself back onto the bed and picked up the shard of glass she’d used to cut away the padding. She didn’t have to find much. A few centimetres…

  She cut the arm off a jumper, tied it below her knee, tight enough for her calf to throb, then held the glass with a shred of fur.

  Don’t think. Just do it.

  Rachel straightened her foot, pulled the restraint taut, then stabbed the glass into the top of the heel. She screamed as it tore into the thin flesh. Pain lit up her leg, going like an electric shock up her torso, to her brain. Don’t think. She ripped at the skin, going all round her foot, blood slicking her hand, screaming with every new wound, her mind wild, her fingers sliced open, and the stain of blood on the mattress growing larger. She pulled at the manacle, twisting it this way and that, feeling the skin tear, gouging with the glass when it got stuck, her whole body shaking, sweat streaming into her eyes. Was that enough? Was that enough? She looked at the gory mess where her foot had been. Most of her heel was gone. Her ankle was wedged deep in the manacle. She couldn’t move her foot, it felt dead. She dropped the glass and fell off the bed, crawling arm over arm to Spence, her breath sounding ragged and alien.

  She didn’t have to stretch far to reach him. A pinch of skin was enough to bring his arm close enough to grab. Rigor mortis had made his body heavy and unwieldy, but the euphoria that she’d done it, that she’d reached him, gave her the adrenaline shot she needed to pull him close enough to grab the trousers clenched in his other hand.

  The key was still in the pocket.

  Next time she flopped onto the floor, she was free of the manacles. The tourniquet was doing its job in keeping her alive, but blood still spilled from the wound, too much for her to lose, and she was barely out of the bedroom before her body shuddered, and all of a sudden her energy went to zero.

  This couldn’t be happening. Everything she’d done to stay alive, to get free – she had to at least get out the front door! She threw an arm, dragged herself into the kitchen, her leg a dead weight trailing behind. Every time she thought there was nothing left, she managed to fling her hand forward, pull herself a little closer. Her head was pounding and a cold sweat covered her skin. It was only when she got to the lounge that she realised – what if he’d locked the front door? Well, if that was it, then she was done. She was too spent to hunt for the keys.

  She was whimpering already as she grabbed the handle, expecting the door to stay fast to the frame, and was too shocked to react when it fell open and she collapsed on the concrete walkway. She’d done it. She was free! But she had nothing left, she couldn’t move. Apartments lined the walkway, so all she had to do was wait for someone to come home, see her and call an ambulance.

  By evening, that hope had evaporated. She’d been lying there all day, drifting in and out of consciousness, waiting for the moment when someone rushed over, checked that she was still alive. It was only as night fell, and Rachel shivered in the cold air, that she realised the truth. No-one was coming, because no-one lived here. In the whole time she’d been staying at the apartment, she’d never seen a shadow pass the curtains from the walkway. Spence probably owned all the apartments on the floor, or even in the block. With a woman chained to the bed in each one!

  Soon it was too cold to stay outside. Somehow Rachel dragged herself back in and pulled the duvet that was thankfully still on the sofa, over herself. She lay curled by the door, keeping her breaths shallow, each one letting in a thin wisp of air that barely grazed her throat on its way to her lungs.

  When she felt the need to pee and no urine came out, she knew it was nearly the end.

  At least she wasn’t going to die chained to that bed.

  It was light, then it wasn’t, and repeat. She chased the dreams, because when she was dreaming she was still alive. Events from her past, reimagined in bizarre ways; lucid delusions where she was walking around the apartment, looking for the way out, as real as being awake; Lily’s birth, but without the pain, just being there for it again, and holding her when she came out. Rachel grabbed onto the tail end of that one and wouldn’t let go, forcing her mind to imagine over and over the weight of her baby daughter in her arms. With every dream, she worried that what would replace it was nothing. Soon that worry went as well, and she became just the sense of something, a feeling of resistance, like she was pulling with her mind. Not quite letting go.

  Hold on… Just hold on – come on, hold on – and clear! No response. Recharge and let’s go, and – clear! No response. Recharge one more time. Come on, come on, I know you’re there. And – clear! Got a pulse. Start a line! I need an ABG, stat!

  Epilogue

  ‘If you don’t eat your lunch,’ Rachel said, leaning into Lily with a silly face. ‘Then I will.’

  Lily twisted her mouth, clearly deciding whether ownership of the toast was more important than not being hungry anymore.

  Rachel snaked out a hand and in one move snatched the slice off Lily’s plate, folded it in half, and shoved it in her mouth. ‘Snooze you lose,’ she spluttered between chews.

  ‘Give me toast back!’

  ‘Come here, little bird.’ Rachel leaned towards her, mouth open.

  ‘No, Mummy! Stop, Mummy!’

  Konrad popped his head into the kitchen. ‘This sounds suspiciously like fun, when you could be in here with me and your dad, putting up the decorations.’

  ‘I’m going to have chocolates,’ Lily declared, sliding from her chair and marching purposefully out.

  Konrad gave Rachel a questioning but amused look, and in reply she shrugged.

  ‘I’ll have to bounce her to bed tonight,’ she said, lifting a hand for him to help her. ‘But it’s a party.’

  Konrad pulled her up with ridiculous care, pausing every other moment to check if she was okay, like she was a stop-motion animation, and it was getting worse as she became bigger and less mobile. Everyone told her she was so much larger than with Lily because she was expecting a boy, but Rachel knew the reason was much simpler than that: food. Perhaps unsurprisingly, she’d developed a pathological hatred of hunger. She still didn’t like how the extra weight looked on her, especially at the rate she was currently inflating, but she loathed being hungry more.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ she said, knuckling the small of her back. He kissed her cheek, said to take her time.

  She paused with her hand on the chair, and looked out the kitchen window. Somehow, London always seemed like a different city in the spring, with the bees lazily floating around the leafy bushes, the sunlight lifting the dull yellow of the bricks, the people going around without their winter coats, smiling and laughing like they were on holiday.

  Even now, nearly a year and a half later, she moved slowly, always with a limp even after she got her body going, and accompanied, on good days as well as bad, with a low hum of pain. After being found, she’d spent months in and out of hospital. The physiotherapy had been gruelling – she’d severed a number of the tendons in her foot – but she knew what to expect, had done lots of the training herself, so tried to see the time as a chance to reflect before she somehow rejoined the real world. Her dad came to see her every day, and they talked at length about his past, his life. He told her for the first time about his own dad, also an alcoholic, and how he’d died in hi
s arms, because back then there was no phone in the house to call an ambulance. Rachel cried about that for hours after he left.

  Konrad came most days as well, first as a friend, but quickly as something more. When she was discharged the last time, he picked her up, they went back to hers, and, well, this happened. At her first scan, everyone declared it a miracle, although she preferred the term fucking disaster. Physically, she didn’t know how she’d cope. She couldn’t even pick Lily up anymore, those days were gone forever.

  Knowing that her body was so destroyed that she couldn’t even lift her own daughter made her so sad, tears appeared thinking about it, every time, until she reminded herself, be gentle, be grateful, be proud. Only words, but they always made a difference. So, she guessed, mentally she was probably doing better than could be hoped for, or than anyone expected when they found her.

  It was her dad who discovered Spence’s apartment. Along with Konrad, he went round every black cab rank in London, talking to the drivers, showing them pictures of her and Spence. One of the drivers they met at Euston said he might have picked them up, and allowed Mark to check his GPS history. He found they’d been dropped off at a parade of shops in Tottenham.

  They went to the police, begging them to go door-to-door, but they refused. There were three hundred thousand people living in over seventy thousand properties in the same area. Besides, new evidence – romantic e-mails saved to her laptop, ferry bookings for two to France – suggested that she and Spence may have simply fled the country together.

  If the police weren’t going to search, they would. Her dad found her on the eighth day of looking. It turned out Rachel wasn’t far wrong. Spence owned all the apartments on the top floor. Rowena’s remains were found two doors down.

  Rachel’s dad came into the kitchen, wincing at the pain in his knee. Walking the pavement for twelve hours a day had ruined it. He was going to need an operation but kept putting it off, saying he wanted to be there to help with the baby. He took her hand and rubbed the back of it. ‘We’re nearly done in there. Why don’t you head up and get yourself ready?’

  Rachel leaned forward and gave him a hug. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  She hadn’t wanted this baby shower, or any of the other excuses for mass celebration that had been foisted on her since she’d got out of hospital; she hated being the centre of attention, and the inevitable questions about her recovery. But to be fair, they’d made the living room look nice. Paper chain bunting looped around the walls, and balloons of every colour were scattered over the floor. Mark had even dropped off a cute banner saying, “Hello World”, which apparently was some kind of IT joke. Maybe it was. It was about as funny as the other IT jokes he’d told her.

  Mark was the first to arrive, laden with presents for both her and Lily. ‘Couldn’t do one lady without the other,’ he said, warmly squeezing her shoulders.

  Rachel held a finger up for him to wait, taking her time to chew and swallow a mouthful of cupcake. ‘Is that a come on?’

  Mark backed away from her like he’d just realised she was infected. ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘Where’s Ella?’

  He pretended to smooth his hair in a mirror. ‘I didn’t want her to cramp my style.’

  ‘You need to have style for it to be cramped.’

  ‘Uh-uh, uh-uh,’ he said, nodding sarcastically. ‘I’ll have to remember that one. She’s coming later – she loves to par-tay.’

  Deciding to let that one go, Rachel nudged him in the ribs. ‘Sooooo?’

  Ella wasn’t the first of Mark’s girlfriends. Since Qui disappeared from his life, not so coincidently on the same day the news of the kidnapping broke, he’d had quite the run, hopping from girl to girl like a geeky Lothario. But the way he was about this new one seemed different.

  Mark shrugged. He broke into a shy but illicit smile. ‘We did some coding together last night. It was sensational.’

  ‘You clearly belong together. Maybe in some secure facility for the terminally sad.’

  ‘How about we come by for a visit? You can show us around.’ He plucked the rest of the cupcake from Rachel’s hand. ‘Anyway,’ he said, taking a bite. ‘More important… What about you? You know, the question?’

  Rachel caught herself mid-eye roll. She’d thought about little else for days. It’s not that she didn’t want to marry Konrad, or that she couldn’t see themselves together in twenty years. She kind of did, and she definitely could, but she was worried it’d be for the wrong reason, for the sake of the baby rather than because of her. Although a more calculating part of her mind told her just to say yes. What did it matter if it was rushed, if it was more for the baby, because wasn’t that all she wanted, for her and Lily to be part of a family?

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Mark said. ‘I think you should go for it.’

  ‘I forgot. You’re hardcore bros these days.’

  Mark grinned. ‘He’s got me pounding my abs, working my protein shakes. Oh wait, I think that’s the other way round.’

  ‘You’re funny. One day I’ll be as funny as you.’

  He dug his fingers into her ribs so she yelped and jumped back. ‘You’ll never be as funny as me.’

  ‘Watch it,’ she said, slapping his hand away. ‘You’ll make the baby come early.’

  Konrad sauntered over, Lily dangling from his hand, her party hat skewed and eyes sparkling from sugar. He jerked a thumb at Mark. ‘This guy bothering you?’

  ‘Yeah, throw him out,’ Rachel replied.

  Lily swung from Konrad’s arm, chanting, ‘Throw him out! Throw him out!’

  Mark looked hurt. ‘Hey! I’m your daddy. You can’t throw me out. Mummy, tell Lily she can’t throw her daddy out.’

  Before Rachel could answer, the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Becca.’

  ‘She’d better have some fizz,’ Mark said. ‘If I’ve got to deal with you in this funny mood.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she replied, ‘I think Becca’s fizz free these days.’ She patted him on the chest. ‘I’ll leave the door open for you.’

  When Rachel got back, her dad was there with his phone attached to his new toy, a selfie stick. ‘Come on,’ he said, opening his arm for her. ‘Come in.’

  She didn’t bother holding back her groan, but moved into her dad’s waiting arm anyway. Konrad came round the other side, lifting Lily higher so she’d be in the shot. As they smiled, waiting for the lens to focus, Rachel tried not to think about the people who might see this, people she didn’t know, but who might know her, who might follow her, who might be waiting in the shadows to ruin her life again.

  She tried not to, but she thought about them anyway.

  Click.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was hard to write. It deals with some dark issues, and I had to go to some dark places to get to the heart of them. There were many times when I thought I couldn't finish it, and even when it was finished, the last of many drafts complete, I still had my doubts as to whether I'd done Rachel and her story justice. This makes it all the more special to find a publisher like Bloodhound Books willing to take it on. So I want to thank them first of all for making this happen – to Fred, who listened to my stumbling pitch at Harrogate and told me to send it in (even though he probably only said that to be polite), Betsy for picking it out and taking a punt on an unpublished novelist, and all the rest of the design and editorial team for doing such a fantastic job on making The Regret the best book it could be.

  Next, I'd like to thank my great friends/early readers/punishment gluttons who gave me such incredible feedback on the early drafts. Val, who read the original short story and suggested it might make a good novel; Jilly, who made me realise I had to rethink the main character's name; Jonny, for insisting I made the ending more gruesome; Tashy, for really warming to Dimitri's character; to my dear brother Adam, who told me what I didn't want to hear, and for being right about all of it.

  Special mention to a few people who gave thoughtful, incisive opinions
on the opening chapters at just the right times – Liz Barnsley, Kate Burke, and especially Marie Henderson, who also dragged me to Harrogate, where I pitched the book to Fred.

  Most importantly, my family. My mum and dad, who worked hard to make me the person I am today, and provided all the chicken soup to make that happen. My hairy best friend Boddington, and my magical daughter Amelie, whose greatest trick is to bring me joy every moment of every day. Finally, and most important of all, my fabulous wife Delia. Thank you for reading pretty much everything I've ever written (and it's a lot!), no matter how confused, depraved, or downright terrible. You mean everything to me. I couldn't have done this without you.

  About the Author

  When not writing, Dan works as a data security consultant, demonstrating to corporations that should know better just how easy it is for hackers to access their most sensitive information. As a writer, his short stories have been widely published both in print and online, and he has twice been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize. In 2013 he completed a Masters in Creative Writing at Brunel University. He lives in North London with his wife, daughter, and very, very hairy dog.

  Come say hi on Twitter @danmalakin, or visit www.danmalakin.com to sign up for his newsletter and read some short stories.