So, for now, he can watch me all he wants; my time in Lancaster is limited.
Soon I will be free.
Sunday 17 February 2008
I heard Stuart on the stairs, dragging his backpack, bumping it against the wall. I was sitting on my sofa, my socked feet tucked under me, my nerves singing like an electric fence. When I heard him I wondered whether to leave him to go all the way up to the top floor with his bag, get home, get settled in, have a shower, make a drink, whatever else people do when they get home after a journey. I wondered whether he might have forgotten about coming to see me, even though we’d talked about it on Friday night, even though he’d mentioned it again last night, even though he’d sent me a text from Heathrow to say his plane had landed and he was on his way home.
Then I remembered his shoulder, and before I had time to think about it any more I ran over to the door, unbolted everything and unlocked it and opened it.
He’d just about made it to the landing.
He was a bit out of breath, his backpack lying at his feet like some kind of hunted beast, his hand looped through the strap as though he was going to drag it back to his lair. ‘God,’ he said, ‘this thing is fucking heavy.’
‘What’s in it?’
‘Shitloads of books. I don’t know what I thought I was doing, bringing them back. They were in Rachel’s garage.’
I stared at him for a moment. ‘Do you want me to give you a hand taking it upstairs?’
He didn’t reply at first. He looked as though he’d forgotten where he was and what he was doing. He looked lost.
‘Can I come in?’ he said at last.
I nodded and stood to one side. He left the bag where it was, stranded on its back on the landing.
I pushed the door shut as soon as he was inside, started the process of locking and checking, counting as quickly as I possibly could without making any mistakes, all the while Stuart standing there behind me, waiting.
At last he said, ‘Cathy, for fuck’s sake. This is torture.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can.’
‘Seriously. Please. Leave it now, it’s locked.’
‘The more you talk, the longer it’ll take, so shut up, okay?’
He waited. He must have been counting with me, because just as I finished, before I could start again, he came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist. I didn’t flinch. He rested his head against mine, his breath warm against my hair. I looked down at his forearms around my middle. I turned slowly and raised my head so that I could look at him, the expression in his eyes difficult to determine.
‘You’re nervous,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘That obvious, huh?’
‘It’s okay,’ I said, and kissed him.
After that first kiss, it got easier. I took him into my bedroom. He started undressing me and then we got tangled up and so I took over and stripped off.
The bedroom was dark, the only light coming into the room from the living room, but even so I was conscious of the scars. He must have felt the scars, in the dark, as he ran his hands over my skin. But he didn’t say anything. He must have felt them with his mouth when he kissed me, with his tongue. He didn’t say a word.
The strangest thing was that I felt it, I felt everything. Normally I feel nothing but itching, discomfort, tightness, soreness. The surface of my skin is dulled by the scars, lots of it is numb – nerve damage, apparently. When he touched me, I felt everything. It was like having new skin.
Tuesday 25 May 2004
Jonathan rang me on my mobile yesterday; thankfully nobody was in my office at the time. It was supposed to be an interview of sorts, but I could tell straight away that it was just a formality. I tried to picture him, but I couldn’t put the voice to the face. I was nervous in any case, trying not to let it show in my voice. Slightly exaggerating my management consultancy experience – whatever, it did the trick. He said he would employ me on a three-month temporary contract, just to get things started. If I liked it and he liked my work, he would extend it. He booked my flights and emailed me the times – I will have to pick up the tickets at the airport.
I saw my boss at the end of the day and handed in my notice. With annual leave owing, I’ve only got just over two weeks left with the company. She wasn’t happy. I made a pretence at apologising for leaving her to find a new HR manager but in reality my heart was singing.
So, today I made one of my rare trips out in public. Although I wanted to go to the post office to get some US dollars, I was reluctant to head straight there in case Lee was watching. He was supposed to be off working somewhere, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t busy following me. He’d done it before; he’d done it so often that I saw his face everywhere I went. Probably most of the time I was imagining it, but not always.
I strolled around Boots for a while, pretending to look at the pregnancy tests – that ought to get him going, I thought, if he’s watching – and then the make-up.
My flight was booked for 4pm on Friday 11th June – my last day at work in the UK would be the Thursday, the day before. I decided to buy a suitcase and leave it at work, sneak important things out of the house, clothing, one or two items at a time, more when he wasn’t there to see. I could hide the suitcase in my storeroom at work – fortunately I was the only person who ever went in there. It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t a way I’d ever packed before, but it would have to do. I’d take the minimum amount of clothes and buy new stuff when I got to New York.
There was still a lot of stuff in the house, though. I couldn’t just pretend I was suddenly deciding to de-clutter – it wasn’t worth the risk. With my New York salary I could afford to keep up the rent on the Lancaster house, for now. Maybe in a few months’ time I could come back and hand the keys back to the landlady, and clear out my stuff. All I needed was a few months, just long enough for him to forget about me and move on.
I chanced a look up, over the top of the display counter, and there he was – right over the other side of the store, by the entrance, to one side – wearing his suit, today, I noticed – maybe he’d had some kind of a meeting with the management.
I had to pretend I hadn’t seen him, although I’d have loved to have given him a wave. It put paid to my plans to visit the post office, though. I would try again tomorrow – I’d tell him I needed to collect a parcel for a friend, or something.
Friday 22 February 2008
I woke up suddenly, going from deep, dark sleep to wide awake, heart thumping, in a matter of a few seconds.
I was in Stuart’s bed, and it was perfectly dark. No sound except him breathing next to me. I listened with my whole body, straining to hear whatever it was that had woken me.
Silence.
I looked down at Stuart, the shape of him illuminated in the half-light from the window, his shoulder a pale curve. I was still getting used to sleeping with him, even though we’d spent every spare minute together since he’d come back from Aberdeen. Every time I woke up and he was there, it took me a few moments to calm down and remember.
I’d been dreaming about Sylvia. Stuart was there with me, and we were naked, making love in bed as though we were all alone, just as we had been doing just a few hours ago. In my dream I’d looked up and she’d been there, in the doorway, the red beret set firmly on her blonde hair, her mouth thin, a mean smile.
There it was again, a sound. Not in the flat, though – outside. I got out of bed and crept round to the other side, to the window, pulling Stuart’s shirt off the hook on the back of the door on the way past and putting it on, wrapping it over my front.
It wasn’t quite dawn, still perfectly dark, the sky just beginning to turn grey. I looked out from the side of the window over the back garden, the wall a rectangle of darkness, a regular shape, the grass grey tussocks underneath. I couldn’t see the shed from here, my balcony below was in the way. I leaned over the windowsill and peered down into the darkness, starting to relax, when suddenly – something moved.
&n
bsp; At the same moment Stuart spoke from the bed and made me jump out of my skin. ‘What are you doing? Come back to bed.’
‘There’s someone outside,’ I said, an urgent whisper.
‘What?’ He swung his legs out of the bed and stretched for a moment before coming to stand next to me. ‘Where?’
‘Down there,’ I whispered. ‘Near the shed.’
I stood back from the window a little, not wanting to obscure his view.
‘I can’t see anything.’ He put his arm around my shoulders and yawned. ‘You’re cold, come back to bed.’
He saw my expression and looked out of the window again, then to my horror lifted the sash. It made a noise like the door to Hell creaking open. ‘Look,’ he said suddenly, pointing.
A shape darted across the lawn and under the gap between the gate and the lawn, a dark shape, but definitely not a human. ‘A fox,’ he said. ‘It was a fox. Now come here.’
He pushed the sash window back down, peeled his shirt away from my shoulders and drew me back into the warm bed. My skin was cold against his but he warmed me quickly enough, with his tongue and his hands and his whole naked body against mine, until I forgot all about the shape I’d seen; forgot how it was actually nothing like a fox, but bigger and darker and bulkier; how it seemed to be on my balcony, on the floor below; and how I’d seen the reflection of the grey sky against something shiny, something long and thin and shiny, like a long knife.
Thursday 10 June 2004
It was too much to hope that Lee would be working on the day I was planning my escape. In a way, though, having him at home with me was better. If he was here watching me, I knew exactly where he was. And if I managed to leave early enough, I might even get a head start.
Last night he let himself into the house, late, when I was watching a film on the sofa. My mind was fizzing with it all, the thought of getting away from him, the fear of it all going horribly wrong. When I heard his key in the door I forced myself to smile, stay calm, not give anything away.
He was in a suit today. He hung his jacket over the back of the chair in the dining room and came to give me a kiss.
‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked.
‘A beer would be good,’ he said. He looked tired.
I got him a bottle from the fridge and brought it through.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘we should go on holiday. What do you think? Get away from it all for a bit, just you and me.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Have you sent off those passport forms yet?’
I looked at him, hoping he hadn’t seen me jump. ‘I sent them off. Not had anything back. Takes ages, doesn’t it?’
Lee raised his eyebrows and took a swig from the bottle. ‘I’ve always fancied going to the States. Never been. Have you been?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe Vegas. Or New York. What do you think?’
My heart was thumping so loudly he must surely be able to hear it. ‘Mm.’
‘You know I love you, Catherine?’
I smiled at him, ‘Of course.’
‘I think it’s important that we’re honest with each other. You love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘We could get married. In Vegas. What do you think?’
Right at that moment, I would have agreed to anything, just to shut him up. I only needed another few hours.
‘I think it sounds fabulous,’ I said. And I kissed him.
Thursday 28 February 2008
I had another panic attack today.
It wasn’t nearly as bad as the others I’ve had, and I don’t think any panic attack is ever going to be as bad as the one I had on Christmas Eve when I first spoke to Sam Hollands, but, just when I was starting to think that those tablets were kicking in and I was getting better as far as the anxiety was concerned, something happened to upset the balance.
I stayed on the bus all the way to Park Grove, just around the corner from the flat. I took my regular detour through the back alleyway and spent a moment looking up at my curtains, checking each square of glass in the balcony doors to make sure the curtains were hanging properly. I looked at the gate, hanging off its hinges. There was no doubt that some animal was using this as a route: the grass was trodden into a pathway, with tufts of some greyish fur caught on the rough wood. The gate didn’t look as though it had been disturbed. If someone had been on my balcony, they must have come over the wall. I looked up at it. It was well over six feet, solidly built, with no easy way over.
I was thinking about Mrs Mackenzie again, and what she’d said to me about seeing something outside. Maybe she’d meant something outside had made her jump, and that had caused her to fall.
I had a good look over the gate at the ground floor windows, at her patio doors. They all looked fine to me. The flat downstairs was in darkness, just as we’d left it.
Stuart was already home, upstairs preparing dinner. I was going to get changed from my work clothes and bring some clean clothes for tomorrow.
Checking felt like a chore tonight, especially because Stuart was upstairs and every minute I spent down here fiddling with my doors and windows was a minute wasted.
I got all the way to the bedroom before the checking went wrong. It took me a moment to notice, even.
The curtains were open.
Initially the shock was like a bucket of icy water. I felt my heart start to thump in my chest, so loud I could hear it behind the roaring of blood in my ears. I couldn’t breathe for a moment, and then I was breathing fast and hard. I got as far as feeling the headswim before I kicked in with the focus – breathe deeply. Slow it down. In – hold it – and out.
I’m good at this now. And the rationalising. Nobody has been here. You are safe. Nobody has been here – you just left the curtains open last time you were here. And breathe. Breathe deeply.
It was getting to be daylight in the mornings when I got up. I opened the curtains in Stuart’s bedroom this morning, letting the light flood in. Last time I’d been in my flat was – when? Monday evening? It had been still broad daylight when I’d left the flat, when I’d gone upstairs to get the dinner on before he got in from work. What about when I’d been standing outside in the alleyway, looking up at the windows, just a few minutes ago. Had they been open then? I tried to picture it, but I couldn’t say for sure – I was looking at the balcony, and then at Mrs Mackenzie’s flat. I couldn’t even remember looking at the bedroom window. Surely I would have noticed if I’d left them open – wouldn’t I?
I’d left them open. Nobody had been in here, I’d just left them open. It was the only possible explanation.
I could just about have accepted this, that it had been light, so I wouldn’t have closed the curtains, except for the fact that all the other curtains in the flat – other than the balcony curtains, which were open exactly the right amount – were closed.
Maybe I’d not even been in my bedroom on Monday evening? Had I checked the flat properly on Monday? Or had I been in such a rush that I’d missed the bedroom out altogether and left the curtains open from the previous time I’d been in here? I tried to fish out the memory of Monday, what I’d done, but it blurred into last Wednesday and the Monday before.
I kept up the breathing until I started to feel as if I could move. I got to the curtains and stood for a moment looking out at the garden, seeing if anything was different; daffodils were growing haphazardly out of the borders, the grass overgrown. There was no sign of anything being different or out of order in the garden. Nothing to worry about.
I checked the window, feeling all around it. Nothing wrong there either. I closed the curtains and got changed, telling myself all the while that I was a fool, I was stupid. My jeans were on my bed, folded exactly as I’d left them. I slipped them on, finding a clean T-shirt. From the wardrobe I got a clean blouse for tomorrow, a long skirt and the navy blue heels that went with it, folded them into a neat pile with the shoes balanced on top.
I put the clothes in
to a carrier bag and put it by the front door of the flat before I started going round the flat again, checking everything was secure. This time I did it properly. Left the curtains closed, all the curtains closed except for the dining room, the room I could see from the back alleyway. I left these open exactly halfway, letting the fabric fall back in the precise way that I knew I would recognise.
I was actually feeling okay as I headed up the stairs to Stuart’s flat. I was feeling okay as we had dinner, telling him about how I’d nearly freaked out and lost it in my bedroom just because I’d forgotten that I’d left the curtains open this week. We laughed about it and I was fine about that; I was fine all the way until we were snuggled up on the sofa in Stuart’s living room, watching a comedy and laughing until the tears rolled down my cheeks.
I was fine right up until the moment I shoved my hands into my jeans pocket, searching for a tissue, and instead pulled out a button, a tiny button covered in red satin, a scrap of red satin fabric behind it, screwed up tightly as though someone had twisted and twisted it around until it had finally torn off.
And I wasn’t fine at all after that.
Friday 11 June 2004
At four o’clock this afternoon, I will be free.
My eyes opened this morning and Lee was fast asleep beside me, his eyelashes fanned out across his cheek like a bird’s wing. He looked beautiful, peaceful, as though he wasn’t capable of hurting anybody.
It was ridiculously early, but I wasn’t tired any more – my head was buzzing with nervous energy. I felt as if I was about to go on stage at the Royal Albert Hall, or pull off a mind-blowingly cunning jewel heist. I’d planned today in excruciating detail, with contingency plans in case anything went wrong. In case he was suspicious; in case something unexpected happened.
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