I listened to the echoing voices coming up from the hallway below:
‘Lovely dinner, Stuart, really first class – thank you so much for inviting me…’
‘Great to have you, honestly…’
‘And,’ his voice dropped but not enough for me to be spared what came next, ‘I see what you mean about Cathy – she’s a real treasure, isn’t she? What a corker. Much better than Hannah. You’ve done well there, matey. Good on you. Right, better brave the rain…’
Then the sound of the door, the latch slotting home, and a moment later I heard him coming up the steps two at a time.
I stood there frozen, my heart thumping.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked.
‘I feel a bit – I don’t know – a bit drunk, I guess.’
He was eyeing me doubtfully. ‘You look very pale all of a sudden. Come and sit down.’
‘No,’ I said, resisting. ‘I’m going home.’
‘You’re sure? Stay for a bit.’
‘No.’
‘Cathy? what is it? I thought…’
‘No!’
I made for the door, my feet slipping on the laminate floor in the hallway, pulling open the door. I made it down the stairs, holding on to the banister, fumbling for the key and forcing open the door, slamming it behind me, my heart thumping.
Hours later, the flat checked, exhausted, freshly showered and sitting curled into the sofa, I sent Stuart a text:
Sorry about earlier. Thank you for dinner. C x
I waited and waited for the reply. Nearly half an hour later, it came. Just three words, more than I deserved, but even so, my heart sank.
It’s fine. Whatever
Friday 30 January 2004
I called Sylvia in January, the week after she started her new job. The first time I called it went to answering machine. I was going to send a text, but couldn’t find the right words or put them in the right order. I chose a bad day to do it; my head was splitting and I was clearly suffering a bout of hormones because I couldn’t stop crying.
That evening I tried again, and this time I got through. I was half-expecting the noise of a bar in the background but it was quiet. ‘Hi, Sylv, it’s me.’
‘Catherine, how are you?’
‘I’m okay, honey. How’s it all going? I’m dying to hear. Is the job fab? Is it a good time for a chat?’
‘It’s fine. I’m going out in an hour or so, but I was just sitting here pretending to read through some bits and pieces. It’s going well. Very bloody busy, though, manic in fact. Feels like the Lancaster Guardian’s a long way away.’
‘And the flat?’
‘Well, that’s a whole other story. I’m sandwiched between someone who loves the Carpenters at top volume all bloody day, and a couple who switch between arguing loudly and fucking loudly. I found myself bloody humming along to ‘We’ve Only Just Begun’ all day today. So, I’m flat-hunting.’
‘I miss you, Sylv.’
‘I know, lovie, I miss you too. How’s Lancaster?’
‘Raining.’
‘And work?’
‘Tiring, busy, stressful.’
‘And the girls?’
‘Haven’t seen them for a while.’
‘What? You been poorly or summat? Not been out?’
‘Well, I’ve been out with Lee. But not seen the girls for ages.’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I could hear her rooting through what sounded like a pile of shoes.
‘I’m worried, Sylv. It’s all going wrong.’
‘What is?’ she said. I could still hear noises and then a muttered expletive.
‘With Lee. I’m just – sometimes I’m just a bit scared.’
At last she stopped what she was doing. ‘Why are you scared? You’re not scared of Lee, surely – he’s lovely. Are you scared of losing him, somehow?’
I paused while I tried to find the right words. ‘He’s not always lovely.’
‘You been having rows?’
‘Sort of, I guess. I don’t know – I’ve been tired, he’s been working a lot. When I do see him it always seems to be on his terms, and he doesn’t like me going out without him any more.’
Sylvia sighed. ‘To be fair, though, honey, he’s kind of got a point. Look at the way you were – the way we all were – when he met you. You were going out every night you could with the sole intention of flirting. No wonder he’s nervous about letting you out.’
I didn’t say anything, so she went on, ‘You’re in a relationship now, hon. It’s a whole different ball game.’
Her voice softened a little.
‘Lee’s a good man, Catherine. Don’t forget some of the complete shits you’ve been out with. I’m sure he’s just being protective of you. And not only is he totally fucking gorgeous, but he loves you, he really does. Everyone said that, after the dinner party. He’s so obviously completely and totally in love with you. That’s what we’re all waiting for. I wish I had that. I wish I had what you had.’
‘I know.’ I was trying not to let her hear my tears.
‘Look, honey, I’ve got to shoot. Give me a ring at the weekend, yeah?’
‘I will. You have fun. And take care, okay?’
‘I’ll be good! Ciao for now. Ciao, baby,’ and she was gone.
Wednesday 26 December 2007
Whatever
I’d checked the flat so many times in the past twenty-four hours that I was too tired to carry on. The relief it usually brought didn’t come, but the panic didn’t come back either. I was thinking about Stuart and wondering if I’d blown it. Wondering if the only friend I had here was ever going to speak to me again.
He didn’t understand. How could he? He hadn’t a clue.
In any case, I was doing him a favour. He’d been hurt too, he’d been betrayed by Hannah. He didn’t need another screwed-up relationship with someone like me.
This morning I heard voices from somewhere inside the house. I crept to the door and listened, straining to hear. It was Stuart and Mrs Mackenzie, downstairs.
‘…keeping warm?’
I couldn’t hear exactly what she said in reply. It seemed to go on and on, as though she was not pausing between one sentence and the next. I thought about opening the door so I could hear, but then I’d have to go through all the checks again.
Then I heard her laugh, and his laugh too. ‘Things have come a long way since then, haven’t they?’ he said.
Then Mrs Mackenzie again – odd words, here and there, phrases I recognised from our brief conversations by the door: ‘mustn’t keep you… things to do…’
And Stuart: ‘if you ever need anything, just let me know, okay? Just shout…’
Then the sounds of him coming up the stairs. I pressed against the door, breathless, my eye to the peephole. Was I checking that it was definitely him? Or was I just that desperate to see him, to see if he was alright?
His shape came into view, distorted by the lens in the peephole. He was carrying a bag with a loaf of bread sticking out of the top. I wanted him to pause, to hesitate, to glance in the direction of my door, but he did none of these things. He carried on up to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time.
Monday 2 February 2004
My happiness came and went like a ghostly breath. Throughout January I went from looking forward to Lee working, to missing him, to looking forward to him going back to work again.
When I opened the door my first thought was that Lee had been in the house again, moving my things around. There was a smell, a draught from somewhere. The house felt chilly, strange. I shouted ‘Hello? Lee?’ although I knew he was working, he’d sent me some texts earlier. I wouldn’t have put it past him to come home early to surprise me, though, so I was cautious going into the lounge in case he was hiding in there and was going to jump out at me.
It wasn’t messy, the way you’d expect a burgled house to look. It was only when I realised my laptop had gone, complete with the chargi
ng lead, that I looked across to the patio doors and saw that they were slightly open, the lock damaged outside as though someone had drilled through it.
I reached in my bag for my phone and dialled Lee’s number.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I think someone’s been in my house,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The back door’s open. My laptop’s gone.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘In the kitchen, why?’
‘Don’t touch anything, go and wait in the car, okay? I’m on my way back.’
‘Should I ring the police?’
‘I’ll do it. I’ll be there in a minute. Alright? Catherine?’
‘Yes – yes. I’m okay.’
Sitting in my car outside I started shaking and crying. It wasn’t the laptop. It was the thought that someone had been in there, had broken into the house and been through my things. He might even still be in there.
The patrol car arrived a few minutes before Lee did, and even though I was halfway through explaining what had happened, Lee shook the officer’s hand and they both went inside, leaving me outside by the car. And half an hour later, a white van with a crime scene investigator who told me her name even though I forgot what it was seconds later. I went into the house with her and showed her the lock and the dining table where my laptop had been.
Soon after that, Lee and the uniformed police officer came down from upstairs. There was a lot of handshaking and laughing and then the officer left.
I made the crime scene woman a cup of tea while she dusted for fingerprints and swabbed a few surfaces. It all looked quite random to me.
When she left, I started crying again.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, as Lee took me in his arms and held me.
‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘You’re safe. I’m here.’
‘I can’t stand the thought that someone’s been in here,’ I said.
‘I’ve called someone about the locks,’ he said. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. Don’t worry. Do you want me to stay tonight?’
‘You’re supposed to be working, aren’t you?’
‘I can get out of it. I’ll just have to keep my phone on in case something kicks off, alright?’
I nodded.
Later, hours later, the back door secured with a new lock, Lee was making love to me in my bed, gentle this time, taking it slowly. I was thinking about whoever it was, wondering if he’d been in here, in our bedroom. Wondering what else he’d touched.
He was so tender with me, so loving, that finally something he did distracted me away from the thought of the intruder, and I lost myself in the sensations of Lee’s fingers and mouth.
When I finally opened my eyes he was watching my face, a smile on his lips. ‘You should do that more often,’ he murmured.
‘Do what?’
‘Let go.’
‘Lee, don’t go anywhere, will you?’
‘I’m staying here. You can sleep if you want to.’ He ran his fingers over my temple, down my cheek. ‘Have you thought about what I asked you?’
I wondered if it was worth pretending not to know what he was talking about. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ I said. ‘And?’
I opened my eyes and looked at him sleepily. ‘Keep asking,’ I said. ‘One day I’ll surprise you and I’ll say yes.’
He smiled, and reached out and stroked my cheek, a long, soft touch that started with my face and ended on the side of my thigh. He told me he loved me, his voice barely a whisper. I loved him when he was like this, gentle, calm, happy.
Friday 28 December 2007
I was sick when I woke up this morning. I just about made it to the bathroom. I spent a few minutes beside the toilet, wondering if I’d eaten anything that had disagreed with me, or whether it was a delayed reaction to the amount of alcohol I’d drunk on Christmas Day.
It was when I was sitting there on the tiled floor, shivering, that I remembered. He was getting out today.
It was just past five, still dark outside. When I was able to get up I brushed my teeth and tried to get back into bed, but I didn’t quite make it. My feet veered towards the door to the flat.
I knew it was locked, but I had to check nevertheless. As I checked it, six times, one-two-three-four-five-six, I told myself it was locked. I locked it last night. I remember locking it. I remember checking it. I remember checking it for fucking hours. Even so, it might not be locked, I might have made a mistake. What if I’d unlocked it again, without realising? What if something went wrong with the checking, and I wasn’t paying attention.
Again. Start again from the beginning.
The feeling of him is strong today. I can smell him, feel him in the air. I remember how it felt, waiting for him to come back, knowing there was nothing at all I could do to get away, no point in running, no point in fighting. It was easier just to give up.
And now?
I finished the door, but it still felt wrong.
I’d have to start again. My feet were freezing, my skin goosebumps all over. I should have gone to get a jumper, some socks. It wasn’t right, though. The door might as well have been standing wide open, with him on the other side of it, waiting. Waiting for me to make a mistake.
I checked again, concentrating, my breathing already starting to quicken, my heart thudding in my chest. I couldn’t get beyond the image of him standing just on the other side of the door, waiting for me to stop checking, waiting for me to step away from it so he could take advantage of it.
This was bad, very bad. My phone was in the kitchen, Stuart was at work, and in any case I still hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since that text… I couldn’t leave the door, I couldn’t even get as far as the bedroom.
Just once, I told myself sternly. Once more, and it will be fine. Once more and it will be safe to leave the door. I tried deep breathing, tried to snatch more than just gasps, tried to hold it, tried to think of Stuart’s voice.
I finished one lot of checks and stopped.
I was starting to feel calmer, my breathing slowing. While I had the chance I went back to the bedroom, not looking at the curtains, crawling straight back into bed. My stomach was churning and I was shivering with the cold. My bedside clock said it was twenty past seven. Two hours, just on the door.
I got out of bed again and found some socks and my hooded fleece top, then went to the kitchen to put the heating back on.
I found my phone and rang the office. I’d not taken a day off sick since I’d started working there, but today was going to have to be the exception. There was no way I was going to be able to leave the house.
I managed to hold off the checking for half an hour, then I decided I needed to open the curtains and that started me off again. Fortunately I had to stop at eight to make the obligatory cup of tea.
I sat on the sofa with my cup of tea and picked up the book I’d been reading. It was one of the OCD books Stuart had recommended for me. One of the chapters recommended identifying all the compulsions, all the rules, and listing them in order of importance. I reached for my organiser and found a piece of paper and a pen.
It took a long time, a lot of careful thought, a lot of crossing out and starting again, but in the end my list looked like this:
Compulsions
Checking the front door
Checking the windows and curtains
Checking the flat door
Checking the kitchen drawer
Avoidance
Red clothes
The police
Crowded places
Ordering
Tea times
Shopping on even days
Counting steps
The front door was to be the top one, without a doubt. It occurred to me that, since Stuart had moved in, it felt as if I’d managed to abdicate responsibility for the front door to him, somehow. I wondered if I could gradually work my way out of this pit by passing some of it onto his shoulders, and if that was som
ehow unfair.
I looked at the clock – half-past eight.
What time did prison releases happen? Would he be out by now? What would he look like? Would he still have money? Where would he go?
I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else.
How long would it be? How long until he found me? I tried to picture him coming out of prison, going somewhere, to a friend’s house, maybe, Lord knows he probably still had plenty of them. Maybe he would find someone else, some other girl. Maybe he had been changed by his time inside. Maybe he wouldn’t come looking for me at all.
Now I was just lying to myself.
He was going to come for me, it was only a question of time.
I only just made it to the bathroom in time, sick again. Nothing left in there but pain.
Tuesday 24 February 2004
The burglary changed a lot of things, for me. I never felt safe after that, even when Lee was with me. When he wasn’t there, when I was out in town, or at work, or even just driving from home to work or back again, I kept feeling as though I was being watched. When I was at home, alone, it felt as though someone was in the house.
It didn’t help that I kept finding more and more of my things missing. If it hadn’t been for the burglary I might think I’d just mislaid them, but they were things I didn’t use often and I was fairly sure where I’d left them: my passport, for one. It had been in an old satchel at the back of the wardrobe, along with a wallet containing euros, which was also missing. An old diary. I couldn’t begin to think why that had been taken, but it had. My old mobile phone, which didn’t even work – that had been on the bookshelf in the living room.
Each time felt almost like being burgled all over again.
Lee said it was common in burglaries like this. It was a tidy search, he said. Quite often people had no idea what had been taken. He said there had been several burglaries in my area over the past few months, and some people had been targeted more than once.
Into the Darkest Corner Page 18
