Into the Darkest Corner

by Elizabeth Haynes

  I gave him a little shove, then got his arm back around me for support as quickly as I could. ‘No. I mean, I used to be a real party animal. Out every night. Drinking a lot. I was never in. Stupid, really.’

  ‘Why stupid?’

  ‘Well, I put myself at risk all the time. I used to get drunk, and then end up in strangers’ houses, or I’d invite people back to mine. Sometimes I’d wake up somewhere with no memory at all of where I was or what I’d done. When I look back on that now, I can’t believe I’m still here.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re still here.’

  ‘Bet you wish you’d met me back then, huh?’ I said jokingly.

  He gave me a squeeze. ‘I’m just glad I met you at all.’

  Oh, God, I thought, please stop being so bloody nice to me, I can’t take it, I don’t deserve it.

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I got sectioned. Twice. I thought you should know.’

  ‘After you were attacked?’

  ‘First time was immediately after. They let me out of the hospital after I’d recovered from the physical injuries. I don’t think they really thought about what was going on in my head. I wasn’t really looking after myself, anyway. So I ended up making a scene in some all-night pharmacy and the men in white coats came. Or whoever they were.’

  ‘Probably paramedics, maybe with some help from the police,’ he said helpfully.

  ‘After that it was about a year until the case went to court. Then I had a bit of a relapse; that was the second time.’

  ‘Did you get proper help – therapy?’

  I shrugged. ‘Whatever. I’m here now, at least. I’ve come a long way, you know. A long way.’

  He nodded. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ I said, ‘in case.’

  ‘In case what?’

  ‘In case it makes a difference.’

  We were back outside the house. He opened the door for me and stood aside to let me in. In the hallway, he stood back and said to me, calmly, ‘Check it once. Just once.’

  I gave him a look which said I’ll check the door however many times I fucking want to, thanks all the same, but I checked it once. And once felt enough, because he was there.

  He went up the stairs first, and outside the door of my flat he paused, waiting on the other side of the door so he wasn’t blocking my way. ‘Thanks for coming out,’ he said.

  I stood still for a moment looking at him, feeling the gulf between us like a void and wanting to cross it.

  I don’t know who moved first, whether it was him or me, but suddenly he’d got me, my arms were around him, inside his jacket, holding him as tight as I could. One of his big hands was cradling my head, and the oddest thought came into my head about how strange it felt, and I realised my hair was short now and not long. It was like a realisation that I wasn’t that person any more. Suddenly I wanted to grow my hair long again, just so I could feel what it would be like to have his fingers through it, holding my head.

  He let out a breath, like a sigh, and I lifted my head and kissed him. At first he didn’t kiss me back – he froze, just for a moment. Then the hand that had been cradling my head came round to my cheek, his fingers cool against my burning skin, and then he was kissing me too. He tasted faintly like Guinness. I felt my knees start to give, and his hold around my waist tightened a little. He felt so strong, despite his injured shoulder.

  I should be panicking. I should be fucking terrified, I thought. But I wasn’t. I didn’t want him to let me go.

  He pulled away from me to look at me, one of his hands supporting me at my back, the other at my cheek. Perhaps he’s trying to see just how pissed I am, I thought, curiously. But it wasn’t that. There was anxiety in those green eyes. He was checking I was okay.

  Clearly I was fine, because he kissed me again, then, and I think it was a bit more forceful than he meant it to be – the day’s worth of stubble grazing my mouth.

  Gradually he began to release me, and my hand slipped reluctantly from the skin of his lower back, which it had found by somehow getting up inside his shirt. He took a step backwards so he could look at me.

  I thought, don’t you dare apologise for what just happened. Don’t you fucking dare say sorry.

  ‘Will you come inside?’ I asked, casting a glance at the door of the flat. I wanted to take his clothes off, and I wanted him to screw me. Right then, right at that moment, I think I might even have paid him to do it.

  There was a long pause, which grew more terrible with every moment. Then he shook his head. He looked as though he was debating with himself over what to do next, and some sort of internal battle was suddenly won, because he took a step forward and kissed me again, quickly, on my hot cheek this time, and whispered, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ before turning and taking the stairs up to his flat two at a time. I heard the key in the lock, the door opening, and closing, and then it was silent and I was all alone outside my flat as though I’d just got in from work.

  Except I was swaying a little as though there was a strong wind, and I was desperate for a wee.

  Thursday 25 December 2003

  My mobile rang while we were still tangled up in each other. I found it easy to tune out the sound, concentrating on Lee’s body and the rhythm of it. He grimaced and I felt him tense, distracted. ‘Fucking phone,’ he muttered, running a hand across his forehead.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Leave it. Don’t stop.’

  It changed the mood. He pushed me off roughly, took a handful of my hair and turned me onto my front. I yelped with the sudden pain but he took no notice, forcing himself into me from behind. I struggled against him but he pulled my head back and carried on, harder.

  It only took a minute longer. I heard the noise he made when he came, then he pulled out of me and got off the bed immediately, went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him with such force that the window rattled.

  My scalp was tingling from where he’d pulled my hair as I lay still, listening to my heart pounding in my chest. What the hell was that all about? I heard the shower starting.

  When the phone rang again I answered it.

  ‘Darling! Happy Christmas.’ It was Sylvia.

  ‘Hello, love, how are you?’

  ‘Not drunk enough. You?’

  ‘It’s only half-past twelve,’ I said, checking the clock. ‘You’ve started already?’

  ‘Course. Don’t tell me you’re still in bed.’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Well,’ she said huffily, ‘I probably would be too if I had Lee to keep me company.’

  ‘You’re welcome to him,’ I said, ‘he’s got a right cob on this morning.’

  ‘Hm,’ she said. ‘Want me to come over and kick him into shape?’

  ‘No, you’re alright,’ I said, laughing at the thought of it. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘You know, stuff… Mother wants me to help her cook lunch, I want to go out in my new clothes. Same old.’

  I finished the call a few minutes later and got dressed, scruffy jeans and a sweater, warm socks. Downstairs the kitchen was a mess, toast crumbs and used teabags in the sink. I was halfway through the washing-up, singing along to Christmas carols on the radio, when Lee came downstairs. He was wearing jeans, nothing else. His upper body was taut, his skin damp. He grabbed me, arms around my waist, and made me jump.

  ‘You alright?’ I said.

  He buried his face in my neck. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Apart from that fucking phone. Who was it?’

  ‘Sylvia.’

  ‘Might’ve known.’

  ‘You hurt me, you know.’ I turned in the circle of his arms to face him.

  ‘Hurt you how?’

  ‘You pulled my hair and it really hurt.’

  He gave an odd smile and rubbed the top of my head. ‘Sorry ’bout that. Don’t you like it rough?’

  I considered. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘Not rough like that.’

  He let me go, took a step back. ‘Al
l women like it rough,’ he said. ‘Those that say they don’t are just lying.’

  ‘Lee!’

  But he just laughed, and went into the living room. Maybe he was joking after all, I thought, maybe he didn’t mean it. I ran my fingers through my hair from the roots to the ends. Long strands of it came away. I looked at the hair and shook it off my hand into the kitchen bin.

  Sunday 23 December 2007

  Sunday again, and it’s cloudy, so technically it should be a good day. I might go for a run later.

  Just at the moment, though, everything feels completely and utterly shit.

  After he’d left me standing outside my flat and gone upstairs, I felt just as though I’d made a total fool of myself. It was a kind of a dull awareness, still feeling a bit warm and fuzzy due to having two glasses of wine (two glasses! My God), but now – in the cold light of a dull and windy December morning, all I can think of is how I told him happily that I’d been sectioned, not once but twice, and how he froze when I kissed him, how he extricated himself from my clutching fingers and then ran as fast as his legs would carry him up the stairs.

  What on earth did I think I was doing? He must have sensed the desperation coming out of me. No wonder I’m a complete nutcase. No wonder I can’t get out of the flat without checking everything forty times. Now I’m not just a nutcase, I’m a desperate nutcase who needs a shag so badly she practically has to pounce on the only male who’s shown any interest in the last year. And as if it couldn’t get any worse, this man was a psychologist – if anyone knew what madness looked like, he did.

  When I got through my door, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My face was wet with tears, which I must have been shedding without realising, whilst he’d been kissing me. Under the tears, my cheeks were fiery red. I didn’t look as if I’d just been kissed to within an inch of a heartbeat, I looked as if I’d been dumped.

  Which, in a way, I had.

  On a more positive note, however, all this provided such a great distraction from my normal woes that I managed to get away with only checking the flat once last night. Once.

  I didn’t sleep, though. I lay awake for hours, going over everything he’d said, and everything I’d said, trying to analyse the bits where I thought he’d been trying to tell me he fancied me, and all I could come up with sounded lame, could be interpreted differently: that he wasn’t ready for a relationship (which he’d actually said) and nor was I (which he’d said as well) and that he’d had a shit time with his fiancée. The subtext of it all seemed to be that he needed my company and enjoyed being with me because, clearly, if neither of us wanted a relationship, then he was perfectly safe spending time with me, without me pouncing on him. All of which he’d said, right before I fucking pounced on him.

  Shit.

  At about three in the morning, I got out of bed, turned the heating on and sat shivering in my dressing gown for ten minutes with a cup of tea. When the warmth started to seep through, I decided to have a go at the deep breathing thing. Why not, after all? I had fuck all else to do.

  This time I tried hard to do it without thinking about Stuart. Thinking about him now might make things worse, not better. Of course, the harder I tried not to think about him, the more impossible it became. I looked up to the ceiling, listened to the roaring silence inside my own ears, wondering if he was having trouble sleeping too. If he was, it was because he was lying there wondering what on earth he was going to say to me the next time he saw me. ‘Um, hello, yes, I know I kissed you back, but really I’d rather shave my own eyebrows off than kiss you again. Would you mind not pouncing on me again? Thanks awfully.’

  I even tried giving myself a severe talking-to. I am not going to let this hold me back. I am recovering from my OCD. I am going to get better, every day. I am recovering because I can do it. All he did was point it out; he’s not making me better, I’m making myself better.

  After that, I had another go at the deep breathing, and this time I managed it. Just for three minutes, and it was a relief when the timer went off. I did feel calmer after that, crawled back into bed, and, as it started to get light outside, finally managed to sleep.

  This morning I woke up and for a moment I could only remember the feeling of being kissed, how delicious he tasted, how strong and warm and safe he felt, and then I remembered the context of it all and I felt sick. After my eight o’clock cup of tea, I decided to be brave and go for a run. I got kitted out in tracksuit and trainers, eyeing the clouds through the window, daring it to rain. That would just about finish me off, I thought, and would be no more than I deserved; half an hour running through rain, or better yet sleet, would just about serve me right.

  I checked the flat three times, which wasn’t bad, but not good either for a weekend. I used a big safety-pin to clip my door key inside the pocket of my tracksuit, checked it was secure, then at last I could set off.

  It was windier than I’d realised, and my route to the park meant I was running into the wind most of the way. By the time I made it to the park gates I couldn’t feel my face any more. Inside the park, I managed a sprint all the way up the hill, breathing until my chest hurt and then catching my breath at the top, gazing out across the view, all the way down towards the river, Canary Wharf and the Dome. The clouds were scudding across the sky, getting darker and stormier by the minute.

  I headed off back down the hill, completing a circuit of the park, getting back to the gates just as the clouds broke and big droplets of icy rain began to fall. I thought about sheltering under the awning of the café, which was closed, but I don’t like hanging around in the park any longer than I need to, particularly in this sort of half-light when you can’t see who might be approaching. So I ran on.

  And, of course, by the time I got back to Talbot Street the rain was easing off to a light drizzle. I was soaked, my hair spiked up in all directions by the rain and my own sweat, my cheeks stinging from the cold.

  Just as I got to the house, the front door opened and Stuart came out. He was so busy checking that the door was properly closed behind him that he didn’t see me at first, and for a moment I contemplated diving behind next door’s gate.

  Too late.

  ‘Hi!’ he said, and his voice was so bright and friendly that I was taken aback by it.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, breathing hard, wishing I could have run just a little bit faster and made it home before he’d come out.

  ‘I’m just going to go and buy some things for breakfast. Do you want some?’

  ‘Um – I need to get changed,’ I said, lamely.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said, eyeing my soaking wet tracksuit. ‘You go and get some dry clothes on. When you’re done, come up to the flat. Bacon and eggs alright?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said.

  He gave me a grin and went to pass me.

  ‘Stuart,’ I said.

  He turned back to me, keys in his hand.

  ‘I just wanted to say – er – thanks. For last night. For – you know. Not coming in. For turning me down. I’m sorry, I think the wine went to my head a bit.’

  He looked confused. ‘I didn’t turn you down.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you?’

  He took a step towards me, and put one hand on my upper arm, the way he’d done that night to calm me down. ‘No, I didn’t. I just didn’t take advantage of you.’

  ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

  ‘No, it’s not the same thing at all. I wouldn’t have turned you down.’

  He gave me a smile whilst my heart pounded, and not from the running. Then he said, ‘See you in a minute,’ and set off towards the High Street. I stood and held my breath and watched him until he turned the corner.

  Thursday 25 December 2003

  We ate dinner in a silence that I thought was uncomfortable. Lee had cooked it – slices of turkey, roast potatoes, gravy, even a jar of cranberry sauce. He was wearing a paper hat pulled from a cracker and watching me steadily while he drank.

&n
bsp; I felt angry without really knowing why. I’d looked forward to this, to Christmas Day, thinking about how lovely it would be to have someone to share it with, and yet now I was half-wishing he wasn’t here at all. I wondered if there was anything I could say that would get him to leave, without it provoking an argument.

  Was it what he’d said, about women liking it rough? I tested the thought, but it didn’t provoke the spark of anger. He might even be right. I hadn’t particularly enjoyed it, that was true, but under other circumstances I might feel differently about that.

  No, it wasn’t that. It was the feeling that Lee was taking over.

  I’d gone upstairs to get dressed and came down to find he’d shut me out of the kitchen. He’d told me that we would open our presents to each other after dinner and not before. I just had to sit on the sofa with my glass of champagne and be patient, he’d said. I ended up feeling like a guest in my own home.

  My solution to this discomfort was going to be to get as drunk as I possibly could, and I was making good progress towards that aim.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ I said at last, more to break the crushing silence than anything else.

  Lee nodded. ‘Glad you liked it.’ He topped up my glass.

  ‘Can I open my presents now, please?’ I said as soon as he finished eating.

  I was so unsteady on my feet that he had to take my hand to help me up from the table. I collapsed into a giggling heap on the floor by the tree and he sat next to me.

  ‘I’m going to have to help you, aren’t I?’ he said, handing me a small, rectangular present, beautifully wrapped.

  ‘No,’ I said, gripping it a little more forcefully than I needed to. ‘I can manage, thank you very much.’

  It took ages, in between more glasses of wine, opening them – a couple of CDs by people I’d never heard of, a bracelet that sparkled on my wrist, a new leather purse and a silver fountain pen with my name engraved on the side – and Lee lit some candles in the fireplace and drank his wine more slowly than I did, and opened his presents too. He had fewer, mainly because I had presents from the girls to open as well. I watched him as he opened them – clothes, mainly, some aftershave, and a new phone. He looked pleased with them, really pleased… or maybe it was the wine, my judgment clouded by it.