The Fear

by C. L. Taylor

  She stared around her small kitchen, desperate to find something – anything – she could destroy, but everything she saw held sentimental value. She’d been living on a budget for years and she’d saved hard for all the beautiful things in her home, or spent hours sifting through tat in charity shops or car-boot sales.

  Jam. Her eyes fell on a on a small glass jar on the kitchen counter. It had been a gift from a client but it was the most revolting home-made jam she’d ever tasted – too runny and with a horrible bitter aftertaste. She lifted the jar to head height. Monty, at her feet, looked up expectantly and Wendy paused. If she threw the jar at the floor there was a very real risk that Monty would end up with tiny shards of glass in his paws, even if she did send him out into the garden first and then cleaned up diligently. Then there would be the mess she’d have to sort out. Not to mention the potential damage to her kitchen tiles.

  ‘Damn it!’ she shouted as she slammed the jar against the kitchen surface. ‘Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!’

  As her neighbour’s music continues to pound the wall behind her bedhead, Wendy reaches for her laptop, on the bedside table, pulls her headphones over her ears and selects a playlist of eighties hits from iTunes. She tries to sing along as Madonna warbles about keeping her baby, but she can’t block out the memory of her neighbour’s friend calling her a dried-up prune.

  I’ve had sex, Wendy wants to scream at the shaking wall behind her. You didn’t invent it you know. And I’m only fifty-nine. How dare you call me old, how dare you, you drunken little slut!

  But she doesn’t. Instead she grits her teeth and logs onto Lou Wandsworth’s Facebook page. Yesterday she’d visited that little madam in her cushy job on Church Street. Other than the small amount of satisfaction she’d gained from the other woman sucking up to her in a professional capacity and her evident discomfort when faced with questions about her personal life, she’d left the office none the wiser about who Lou Wandsworth actually was. And to think she’d been so excited at the prospect of infiltrating her life. It had come to nothing really. After the meeting she’d received an email from Lou saying how nice it had been to meet her and that she was attaching a breakdown of their fees and a pro forma invoice for payment if they were successful in winning the bid. And that was it.

  There was no way of taking the matter forward. The pro forma alone was for several thousand pounds and, even if Wendy could afford to pay it, it would look very strange to pay it from her personal account rather than from the University of Worcester. So what next? She’s put it off long enough. She needs to confront Louise Wandsworth and tell her some home truths. It might not change Wendy’s situation. She won’t be magically whisked out of her damp two-up, two-down and into a lovely warm home. She won’t wake up each morning in the arms of a loving husband. She won’t have a clutch of children running around her feet or, at her age, calling her from university. She won’t have any of those things. But she might find peace. Or, at the very least, the opportunity to get a few things off her chest.

  There is nothing exciting on Lou’s Facebook page. She hasn’t updated since she lived in London and, although there are a couple of ‘how are you doing?’ ‘long time stranger!’ type posts from friends and acquaintances, the only one that catches Wendy’s eye is from someone called Alice.

  I hope you took my advice. It’s better to regret the things you do than the things you don’t (if you know what I mean). Love you xx

  Advice? Wendy raises an eyebrow. That suggests Lou has some kind of problem. But what? She has no way of knowing. A number of people have liked the comment and someone has written Hello, Vague Book! Spill or don’t post. To which someone else has replied Hey, it’s not your conversation. Keep your nose out. It then degenerates into an argument about the correct Facebook etiquette. Wendy isn’t interested in the argument but is curious about Ben Feltham, the only man to like Alice’s original post.

  When she clicks on his name she isn’t surprised to see that they are already friends. Over the last couple of months she’s gradually friend requested each and every one of Lou’s friends in an effort to get to know more about her. She vaguely remembers Ben’s page but, as he hadn’t posted any photos of Lou or any posts to her page, she’d dismissed him as an acquaintance rather than someone who meant something to her. But what’s this? Eight weeks ago he posted a photo of himself lying under a red Mini, seemingly changing a wheel. Underneath he’s written: The things you do for some people.

  The red car looks familiar. She’s definitely seen it before.

  Wendy clicks back to Lou’s page. Yes, there it is. A photo of the same Mini about a year earlier with Lou sprawled on the bonnet, giving it a kiss.

  My new car, Lou has written beneath it.

  Her heart beating faster Wendy clicks back to Ben’s page. Before the photo of the Mini he’s written Anyone recommend a good musical in the West End? (Don’t laugh!) :D

  Musicals? She clicks back to Lou’s page. Three days after Ben’s request, Lou posted a photo of them both standing outside Wicked in the West End. Ben Feltham is Lou Wandsworth’s boyfriend. But she’d told Wendy that she lived alone.

  Ben’s most recent Facebook post is a meme. She’d scrolled past it originally (believing that memes are for people who are too stupid or lazy to express themselves with their own words) but it’s a lot more interesting now she’s worked out the connection between Lou and Ben. The background image is of a man sitting alone in an American-style diner. Overlaid are the words If you are not scared then you’re not taking a chance. If you are not taking a chance then what the hell are you doing? Wendy snorts softly. How very fey. Obviously Ben’s friends thought the same as several of the comments beneath the meme seem to be taking the mickey.

  U ok, hon? says one.

  Stop being such a maudlin bastard and go for a beer says another.

  You are so GAY says another (that comment started an argument about homophobia).

  Did Ben post the meme because he was planning on moving to Malvern to be with Lou? Wendy’s stomach tightens as she clicks back to Lou’s photo albums. The Clark Gable alike that she’s kissing in the fancy dress photo is obviously Ben. How lovely for them both, moving back to Lou’s home town to make a new life for themselves. As a child Wendy was taught that good people are rewarded in life, whilst bad people get their due. It’s total bullshit of course. Murderers live out long lives in prison, whilst innocent souls die in childhood. Horrible, abusive women get to have children, whilst kind, loving women don’t. There’s no such thing as karma and no higher power meting out reward and punishment. The world is a very unfair place. You just have to turn on the TV to see the extent of the devastation wrought on people who don’t deserve it. And Wendy hasn’t watched the news in years.

  She moves her cursor away from Lou’s photo and clicks instead on Ben’s profile picture. He’s a nice-looking man, late twenties possibly with a thick head of dark hair, warm, brown eyes and nice teeth. He looks approachable and friendly, like the type of man who wouldn’t allow anyone to sit on their own at a party.

  If she messages him what’s the worst that could happen? He could tell her to sod off or he could ignore her completely. She has a feeling he won’t do either – not when she’s pretending to be an attractive blonde with a very enticing smile.

  Chapter 17

  Lou

  I thought Mike was joking yesterday when he said we weren’t going back to England, but he was deadly serious. He was serious about marrying me too. I was shocked when he opened the ring box and proposed. I know we’ve talked about spending the rest of our lives together, but I’m fourteen. And Mike’s already married – legally anyway (he’s told me he doesn’t love her and they never have sex). I mean, obviously I was pleased and when I said yes he pulled me into his arms and kissed me, then he looked into my eyes and stroked my face, and said I’d made him the happiest man alive. It was amazing, seeing him so happy, and I love him and everything but he makes me nervous too. He’s chan
ged since we got to France. I don’t know if he’s going to kiss me, shout at me, ignore me or have sex with me.

  From the way Mike kept kissing me after we got engaged, I thought he’d want to have sex again but he didn’t. Instead he shooed me towards the shower and told me that we were going to spend the whole day celebrating.

  And we did. We walked along the river hand in hand, we dared each other to try the stinkiest cheese at the market and we had lunch in a posh bistro with haughty waiters. I even tried snails (gross) and champagne (amazing!) for the first time. After that we went shopping and Mike bought me a new dress (I didn’t really like it – it was really tight with horrible glittery stuff on the front – but I didn’t tell him that). Everything was brilliant until I asked if we could find a phone box.

  ‘What do you want a phone box for?’

  ‘To ring Mum. We were supposed to go back today and she’ll be worried.’

  He shrugged and tugged me up the steps of an old cathedral. ‘She’ll be fine.’

  ‘She won’t, Mike. She’ll call the police.’

  ‘Let her. We’re together. That’s all that matters.’

  He pulled me close and wrapped his arm round my shoulders. His fingers dug into the top of my arm.

  I wake with a start and reach for my mobile phone. 4.55 a.m., Tuesday morning. There’s no light creeping from between the closed curtains and the living room is still wrapped in shadows. I sit up and rub my left shoulder. I’ve spent every night on the sofa since I got here – there are too many memories in my old room and I’d feel weird sleeping in Dad’s bed – and my body feels old, tired and cramped. I reach for the glass on the table beside me and take a swig. Urgh. It’s gin, not water. I must have drunk half a bottle before I finally passed out.

  I went back to the barn at around 10.45 p.m. to see if Mike had changed his mind about giving me the code. He screamed abuse at me as I opened the door, replied ‘fuck off, fuck off, fuck off,’ to every question I asked him, then hurled himself at the bars as I threw a bottle of water, a packet of biscuits and a blanket at the cage. I sprinted all the way back to the house and burst into tears the second I set foot in the kitchen. When I finally stopped crying I opened the gin. My teenaged memory box was on the counter where I’d left it earlier. I tried to ignore it. I even went into the living room and turned on the TV but, after my third gin, I admitted defeat. I had to open it.

  It took me a while to get the lock off. The hacksaw blade kept slipping and I couldn’t get the teeth to bite into the metal. I tried unscrewing the hinges instead. They were rusty and I sweated, swore and broke two screwdrivers, but two screws in each hinge came free, then I jemmied the others off.

  The contents of the box spilled onto the table as I tipped it to one side. My diary, once a rainbow of pink, blue, yellow and orange butterflies, was faded with age. There was a blackened silver bracelet in there too – a gift from Mike – a couple of cinema tickets, my karate licence, and a tiny teddy bear holding a heart (also from Mike). The police seized the box, and pretty much everything else in my room, when Mike and I disappeared. That’s why they knew to look for us in France. I’d diarised all of it, even down to the time and place that Mike would be picking me up. After it was returned to me I screamed at the police that they’d invaded my privacy. It wasn’t Mike who’d violated me, it was them.

  I examined everything but I couldn’t bring myself to open the diary. Just holding it in my hands made me feel sordid, so I dropped everything back into the box and closed the lid. It’s still there now, on the kitchen table, a terrifying portal to the past.

  I put the glass of gin back on the side table and stand up. I need water.

  A loud creaking noise makes me turn sharply as I step into the hallway. It’s coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Hello?’ I stand very still.

  I hold my breath as I listen. Is it Mike? Has he managed to get out of the barn?

  ‘Mike?’ His name is a soft squeak at the back of my throat.

  The house has never been burgled as far as I know, but thieves broke into the garage when I was a child. They stole Dad’s ride-on mower and some power tools.

  I reach for the landline and rest my thumb on the number nine button. ‘I know you’re in here. Leave now or I’ll call the police.’

  Nothing.

  If there is someone else in the house they’re standing very, very still. Unless it wasn’t a person. Old houses creak and moan all the time.

  ‘I’m coming into the kitchen now.’

  I step towards the dining room that connects the hallway with the kitchen. The floorboards creak beneath my weight and the grandfather clock, its face pale and spectral in the half light, watches me from across the room. The floor-length velvet curtains that hang at the window look more bulbous than normal. As a child they were my favourite hiding place.

  ‘Hello?’ I clutch the phone tighter. I could turn around and run out of the front door. But then what? Jump in my car and wait? Run to the barn and see if Mike is still there? Ring the police and hide? Since that first creak I haven’t heard a thing. And if it’s not Mike, if he’s still shivering beneath his rough blanket, the last thing I need is the police turning up on my doorstep.

  It was nothing, I tell myself as I walk through the dining room and touch a hand to the kitchen door. My imagination’s gone into overdrive. I’m bound to be jumpy, given what I’ve done.

  Then there it is, as I open the kitchen door, another noise. A high scraping sound like something being dragged across the floor.

  ‘Get out!’ I shout. ‘The police are on their way.’

  But the scraping sound continues.

  I don’t know if it’s idiocy or bravery that propels me across the kitchen, but one second I’m standing at the kitchen door and the next I’m pulling at the handle to the porch. And there he is … staring up at me with amber eyes, top lip rolled back and teeth bared – a fox with its front paws on one of my recycling bins. Behind him the side door is wide open.

  ‘Out!’ I shout, kicking at the recycling bin, my foot only inches from the fox’s open mouth. ‘Out! Out! Get out!’

  For one terrifying second I think it’s going to launch itself at me. The next it’s turned tail and is sprinting across the driveway. As it continues to run, I step around the recycling bin, slam the side door closed and turn the key in the lock.

  I keep an eye out for the fox as I traipse through the garden a little after six o’clock, but there’s no sign of it. I can’t believe I left the side door open. I must have forgotten to shut it last night, with all the toing and froing to the garage to get tools.

  ‘Idiot,’ I say under my breath as I open the garden gate and step into the yard.

  It rained heavily while I was asleep last night. The soles of my wellies are caked in mud and, beyond the barn, the lake has risen part way up the field. It’s drizzling and my jacket is misted with rain. I’ve got Mike’s mobile in my pocket. When I looked at it earlier there was a missed call from a Malvern number on the locked screen. But no more texts from Chloe. I was surprised. Most teenaged girls would have reacted badly to hours of silence, I know I would, but maybe Chloe’s made of sterner stuff. Still feels odd though.

  Mike is already awake and standing in the centre of the cage. The lid of the cage only clears the top of his head by an inch or so and he looks huge in such a small space. He regards me silently as I approach him.

  ‘I brought you this,’ I reach into my pocket and pull out a bacon sandwich wrapped in silver foil.

  Mike looks at it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t poison it.’

  Still Mike doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move an inch. But his eyes flick from the foil-wrapped parcel to my face. They’re so blank and expressionless, I look away.

  ‘It’s there if you want it.’ I crouch down and slide the sandwich through the bars then snatch my hand back quickly. ‘And two more bottles of water.’

  I push those through too, then ret
reat to the wall opposite the cage and sit down, resting my back against the rough wood.

  ‘Silent treatment is it today?’

  Mike continues to stare at me.

  ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours, Mike.’

  I sound more confident than I feel. There are moments where I feel like I’m caught up in a dream and none of this is real. Several times last night I woke up drenched in sweat with my heart pounding. What if Mike continues to refuse to give me the code to his phone? I can’t keep him locked up forever. He was given a five-year sentence for battery, abduction and unlawful sexual intercourse with a child under sixteen. How much would I get for kidnapping? The same? More? If I let him out now – assuming I can buy a bolt cutter somewhere and run to safety before he gets out – he’ll go straight to the police. He’ll say I have a grudge against him (a grudge the police might possibly understand, but then again, who knows) and I fabricated reports about him grooming a child, then lured him to my house so I could imprison him. If I’m arrested, he’s free to keep grooming Chloe. She says she hasn’t slept with him yet. But she will if I don’t keep them apart and, if that happens, she really will be in danger.

  ‘Mike, give me the code to your phone and I’ll let you go. I promise.’

  He continues to stare at me but his blue eyes are no longer expressionless, there’s an unnerving coldness behind his fixed gaze.

  ‘Mike.’ I get to my feet. ‘Staying silent isn’t going to make me magically open the door.’

  As I speak a memory flashes up in my mind – of Mike, ignoring me after an argument. It was the first time he mentioned us running off to France. I wasn’t keen on the idea, despite being good at French (my teacher told me that I could easily get an A* in my GCSEs if I kept working hard). I told Mike that going to France would feel too much like homework and I’d rather spend our romantic weekend away in the UK or Ireland. He told me I was being ridiculous. That I’d enjoy practising my French. I bit back, saying he sounded like my dad. He went quiet then. We were at the cinema in Kidderminster, on the pretext that I was taking part in a karate tournament, and Mike ignored me throughout the film. When I placed a hand on his knee, he moved it off. When I told him to talk to me, he shook his head and folded his arms. Only when I burst into desperate tears did he turn to look at me.