Into the Darkest Corner

by Elizabeth Haynes

  It all looked perfectly fine, just as I’d left it.

  I walked to the end of the alleyway and turned the corner, heading back to the street. As I came out of the gloom a figure passed me, walking on the other side of the street, away from the house. Something about his shape made me stop and shrink back into the shadows.

  It was Lee.

  In the same way it was always Lee, every time I saw a big man, that purposeful stride, fair hair, broad shoulders. I caught my breath and forced myself to look, just as the man rounded the corner at the end of the road and crossed over into the High Street. Not long enough for me to be sure. It’s not him, I told myself. It’s just your mind playing tricks again. It’s not him, it’s never him. It’s just imagination.

  I walked back along Talbot Street towards the house, trying to get the feeling off my shoulders, trying to get back to the way I’d been just a few moments ago, looking forward to having something to eat, a shower, watching a film or something, listening out for Stuart’s footsteps on the stairs outside, going to sleep.

  I got in the house, shut the door behind me and checked it, running my fingers along the edge of the door, feeling it flush with the frame, checking the lock had shot home, checking the handle, one, two, three, four, five. Checking it again, turning it.

  I finished the check and waited. Something was wrong. Something was badly wrong. I started again, all the way from the beginning, checking the door, checking the lock.

  What was it? What was wrong?

  It wasn’t the door…

  I stared at it for a moment, all my senses alive, listening. Then I turned my head, slowly.

  I looked back to the doorway of Flat 1.

  Silence.

  My feet didn’t want to move, but I forced them. I went to the doorway and knocked, something I’d never done before, never even contemplated doing.

  ‘Mrs Mackenzie? Are you there?’

  Silence, complete echoing silence. No EastEnders, no sound of the news or anything else for that matter. I looked behind me, back to the door, the table in the hallway, messy with piles of post. Nothing wrong. The door was still closed.

  I knocked again, harder. Maybe she’d gone out. Maybe she’d gone somewhere, gone away on holiday or something; I was thinking that thought at the same moment as knowing for a fact that something had happened to her.

  I swallowed, suddenly terrified. I put my hand on the door handle, then pulled it back again. I felt in my pocket for my mobile phone.

  This was bloody silly. What was I going to say? ‘Oh, hi, Stuart, please can you come home? Mrs Mackenzie’s turned her telly down.’

  I put my hand back on the door handle and turned it. The door opened and swung open before I had a chance to stop it, swinging back on the wall with a loud bang that echoed all the way up to the top floor.

  The lights were on inside, a gust of warm air, smell of cooked food, stale.

  ‘Hello?’

  I wasn’t expecting a reply. I stepped over the threshold, just a step forward. Her flat matched mine, upstairs: the living room straight ahead, kitchen at the end on the right, overlooking the garden; bathroom and then bedroom to my right. I couldn’t see her from where I was standing so I took another step. The carpet under my feet was wildly patterned, threadbare.

  I could see through to the living room, the television – a huge one, no wonder it was so bloody loud. But it was turned off, just a big expanse of dark grey.

  I was level with the bedroom door now. I looked to my right – I could see into the bedroom, lights on, but it was empty. I looked behind me to the open door, the staircase leading up to my flat and Stuart’s flat beyond it.

  ‘Mrs Mackenzie?’ My voice sounded odd to me, off-key. I wanted to hear it for reassurance but the quaver in it made me even more afraid.

  I took another step inside. The room opened up here, the windows to the front to my left, the curtains drawn. Ahead of me, to the right, the kitchen area. Next to me on the right, a small dining table, a neat white lace tablecloth, an African violet in a pot in the centre of it. The curtains to the back open, just blackness beyond.

  She was in the kitchen. All I could see was a slippered foot.

  I ran to her. ‘Mrs Mackenzie! Can you hear me? Are you alright?’

  She was on her side, blood on the side of her face, but she was breathing, barely; I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, dialled 999.

  ‘Emergency, which service do you require?’

  ‘Ambulance,’ I said.

  I told them where to come, I told them that Mrs Mackenzie was unconscious, hardly breathing, blood on her head.

  I held her hand. ‘It’s okay, Mrs Mackenzie. The ambulance is coming, they’ll be here soon. Can you hear me? It’s alright now, you’re going to be alright.’

  She made a sound. The skin around her mouth was crusty. I found a tea towel on the counter, ran it under the tap, squeezed it so it was damp, dabbed it around her mouth.

  ‘It’s alright, it’s alright,’ I said softly. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Cath…’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. Don’t worry, the ambulance is coming.’

  ‘Oh…’ She had tears in her eyes. ‘My – head…’

  ‘You must have had a fall,’ I said. ‘Try to stay still, they’ll be here in a minute.’

  Her hand was cold. I went into her bedroom, looking for something warm. On the bed, a crocheted bedspread, handmade by the look of it – I pulled it clear of the bed and took it back to the figure lying on the kitchen floor, laid it over her.

  Outside I could hear a siren, a long way away, getting closer. I would need to go and get the door open but for the moment I couldn’t move.

  ‘The door…’ she said. Her voice was faint.

  ‘It’s alright, Mrs Mackenzie. I’ll let them in. Don’t worry.’

  ‘The door – it was… it was… I saw… outside – ’

  The siren stopped, right outside.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment, Mrs Mackenzie…’ I ran for the front door, my hands shaking.

  Green uniforms. A tall man and a short woman.

  ‘It’s this way. She’s on the floor.’

  I stood back and let them do what they needed to do.

  ‘Do you know what happened?’ She only looked young, the paramedic, smaller than me, dark hair cut short.

  ‘No, I found her like this. She must have had a fall or something. I live in the flat upstairs. She normally comes out to say hello, I can hear her telly on. I thought it was odd when she didn’t come out, so I knocked on the door…’

  I was aware that I was gabbling like a mad person.

  ‘Alright, try to take it easy,’ she said. ‘She’ll be fine, we’ll look after her. You’re shaking. Are you feeling faint or anything?’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine. Just – be careful with her, won’t you?’

  By the time they got her out to the ambulance I’d started to calm down a little. I stood in the doorway watching them putting the trolley, stretcher, whatever they called it, into the back of the ambulance.

  I heard the sound of someone running along the pavement and looked across to see Stuart pounding up the road towards the house. ‘Cathy – oh, God, I thought – ’ He was out of breath, put his hands on his knees. ‘I saw the ambulance, I thought…’

  ‘It’s Mrs Mackenzie. When I came in I suddenly realised I couldn’t hear her television. Her door was unlocked, I went in and there she was, on the kitchen floor.’

  ‘Is she in a bad way?’

  They were shutting the back doors of the ambulance. ‘She had blood on her head. She must have hit it on something.’

  Finally, the ambulance drove away up Talbot Street.

  ‘Come on,’ Stuart said. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  He let me check the door while he went into Mrs Mackenzie’s flat to turn off the lights. When I’d finished I stood in the doorway waiting for him.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Lo
oking for a key. Don’t worry, I’ve found it.’

  He turned off the last remaining lights in the flat and joined me at the door. He locked it behind us, putting the key in his pocket.

  ‘Has she got any family? Friends?’

  ‘Not that I’ve ever seen.’

  On the first floor landing we both paused. ‘Come up for a drink?’ he said.

  ‘Alright.’

  I made the tea in Stuart’s kitchen while he went to have a shower.

  I felt unsettled, sitting at his kitchen table cradling my mug. I thought of Mrs Mackenzie on the floor, trying to speak, trying to tell me something. The door… Something about the door.

  She’d seen something outside.

  I wondered if it was the same thing I’d seen: the shape, the dark figure of a man. I remembered the figure I’d seen walking away, the figure who looked like Lee. Had he called at the flat? Had she seen him at the door, been startled by it?

  ‘Try not to worry,’ Stuart said, coming into the kitchen. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine. We can go and visit her tomorrow, if you like.’

  He was warm and smelled of shower gel, dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The sight of him made all thoughts of evil shapes and shadowy figures evaporate from my mind. Every time I’d imagined seeing Lee these past few weeks, it had turned out to be my imagination. Why should it be him this time?

  I handed him his mug of tea. It was getting cold already. I wouldn’t have been able to drink it like that.

  ‘Thanks.’ He sat down opposite me and before I had time to look away he’d caught me in those eyes.

  ‘I’m going to Aberdeen on Thursday,’ he said at last.

  ‘To see your folks?’

  Stuart nodded. ‘Dad’s birthday. I usually go up there this time of year.’ He put his mug down carefully on the table. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me.’

  I felt hot all of a sudden.

  ‘But I guess it’s too short notice.’

  ‘Yes, I think it is.’ As well as being completely out of the fucking blue, I thought. Why ask me when it’s too late for me to do anything about it? Assuming I had wanted to go with him, even. ‘Besides, my first appointment’s on Friday.’

  ‘Oh – of course it is. I forgot.’

  You didn’t forget, I thought, because I didn’t actually tell you. And I somehow doubt that Alistair told you when it was – why would he? It was pointless second-guessing him. I was pissed off again, for no good reason.

  ‘I wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about what you told me.’

  I didn’t answer, draining my mug of tea to hide my discomfort. I felt tense and itchy, like a jumper that was two sizes too small.

  ‘I think we should take it slowly,’ he said. ‘I want to make sure you get better first.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very good of you,’ I snapped.

  ‘Cathy – ’

  ‘How about we take it slowly like we’re doing now?’ I said, standing up so quickly that the chair rocked on the tiled floor. ‘Or how about we take it even slower than that, and give up on it completely?’

  ‘I don’t want to do that.’

  ‘Good for you. What about what I want?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want… I just want to feel normal. Just for a fucking change. I want to feel like a normal person again.’

  I couldn’t stand to look at him any more, sitting there all relaxed and sure of himself, so I turned and made for the door.

  ‘Cathy, wait. Please.’

  I turned to face him. ‘I don’t know how you really feel about anything,’ I said.

  ‘When I think you’re in the right frame of mind to listen, I’ll tell you what I feel.’

  ‘You can be really fucking patronising sometimes, Stuart.’

  ‘Alright,’ he said, taking a step towards me, and then another. ‘You want to know how I feel.’

  I nodded, stood my ground, chin up, angry enough to take it, whatever ammunition he had left, whatever he had for me, verbal or physical.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  I nodded. ‘Go for it.’

  And then he kissed me.

  It took me completely by surprise. He kissed me, leaning me back against the wall in his draughty hallway, his hand cupping my cheek. Every time I thought it was over he came back for more. His body was warm and solid against me, the pressure of him holding me there against the wall. He was so much taller than me, taller than Lee had been, his physique more athletic. I should have been terrified. I should have reacted the same way as I had when Robin had done more or less the same thing, out on the High Street, two months ago. But instead I felt myself unfurling, stretching out, tensed limbs relaxing and chilled fingers warming up.

  After several long moments Stuart took an abrupt step back and regarded me with one raised eyebrow, challenging.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  He took another step back, towards the kitchen, giving me space.

  ‘That’s how I feel,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’

  He smiled then, a broad, happy smile.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Well, I think we’d better talk about this some more – another time, maybe.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe when you get back from your trip to Scotland.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘I’m going home now.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you next week.’

  Monday 5 April 2004

  Today would have been my mother’s sixty-fifth birthday. I often wondered what she would have been like if she’d lived – whether we’d be going out for a meal, or whether I’d treat her to a pampering session. Or maybe a weekend away somewhere. I wondered if we’d be good friends, whether I could call her up on a whim, wanting a chat, wanting comfort, wanting to hear a friendly voice.

  I missed her.

  If she’d lived, my life might have been different altogether. If they’d not both died in my final year of university, I might not have behaved the way I did. I might not have got drunk every night, slept around, done drugs, woken up in strange houses wondering where I was and what I’d done the night before. I might have got a better degree; I might be some CEO now, running a global organisation, instead of running a personnel office in a plastics manufacturing plant.

  I might not have been going to the River that first night, Hallowe’en, wearing a red satin dress, with my heart wide open and ready to be broken. I might not have worn that jacket, with the receipt for the last time I’d bought a tea in the gym’s café, in the pocket. I might not have left the receipt in the pocket, where he could have searched and found it, and discovered a way of finding me again. I might have got away without ever seeing him again.

  I might have escaped.

  And even now, maybe if my mum and dad were still alive, maybe they would have been able to counsel me away from him. They would have recognised him as dangerous. Would I have listened? Maybe not.

  If Mum had lived, maybe I would have married someone by now, someone kind, stable, honest; maybe I’d have a child, maybe two, maybe three.

  No point in thinking about what might have been. Today is going to be the start of my fight back, I decided – the way I decided every day, until he turned up at my house, let himself in, and turned it back round until it was nicely under his control.

  Today was different, though.

  I had an email from Jonathan Baldwin. I remembered him, although not immediately. We were on a month-long training course together, four years ago, in Manchester. He appeared outgoing, enthusiastic, we had a laugh together and I seemed to remember promising to keep in touch, although we never had. He emailed me at work out of the blue, to see how I was doing. He said he was setting up a branch of his management consultancy business in New York and asked if I’d worked with anyone I could recommend. I emailed back and said I would give it some thought and let him know. It felt a bit like a sign, for me. I wondered if New York could be the an
swer.

  Lee was waiting for me when I got home from work.

  Not on the doorstep, as he used to once upon a time – no, inside, in the kitchen, busy making us some dinner. He used to do that, before, and I would be pleased. Today, when I opened the door and smelled the cooking smells, I just wanted to run. But running didn’t get me anywhere.

  He would let himself in whenever he felt like it, come and go as he pleased. I remembered when this was such a big deal for me, not so long ago. I’d wanted my own space, my front door that I could lock behind me and know for sure that nobody was going to be inside there without me. I remembered telling him that I wanted that space back. I remembered asking him for the key, and him walking away from me. I remembered him simply walking away and leaving, without so much as an argument.

  When I thought back to that time, I couldn’t believe that he’d let me go so easily, and that I was such a fool, such a stupid fool, as to go looking for him. I could have got away. If I’d left him alone, avoided him completely, started going out with my friends again, I could have been free.

  But I didn’t.

  Wednesday 13 February 2008

  Stuart phoned me at half-past one. I was sitting in my office with Caroline at the time, discussing the applications for the warehousing jobs. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, it’s me. Are you free to talk?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’ve just been to see Mrs Downstairs.’

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘Not too good. She hasn’t been conscious since she came in, apparently. They’ve done various scans. Seems like she might have hit her head harder than first thought when she went down.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘They were asking me if we knew who her next of kin is.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  Caroline gave me a questioning look to ask if I wanted her to go. I waved her back into her seat.

  ‘Maybe we could try the management company. They might have someone on file – I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll give them a ring this afternoon if I get a chance,’ Stuart said.

  ‘If not, I could ring them.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’