The Fear

by C. L. Taylor

  ‘What happened?’ I ask as he pulls on his trousers.

  He touches his scar. ‘This? Car crash. Well, articulated lorry. My first job after I got out. I fell asleep at the wheel and careered off the motorway.’

  ‘You could have killed someone.’

  ‘Yeah, me. When the doctors said they didn’t think I’d walk again I wished I had died.’ He does up the trousers. They’re too big and drop to his hip bones. He looks across at me as he reaches for Dad’s T-shirt and jumper. ‘You know I was beaten up in prison?’

  ‘And?’

  He crouches down in the cage and rubs his hands over his face. He looks pitiful, draped in the folds of my father’s oversized clothes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he rubs his hands back and forth over his face, ‘if I hurt you earlier. I can’t live like this, shitting in a bucket and eating scraps of food.’

  ‘Well—’

  He holds up a hand. ‘Just hear me out. Please. I’ve done a lot of thinking, trying to work out why you’d do this to me. It’s revenge, isn’t it? You think I ruined your life. Am I right? Do you hate me, Lou?’

  I meet his gaze, but only for a second. Hate is such a powerful, all-consuming word. What was that quote I read? Hate is like a poison you make for your enemy that you end up swallowing yourself. Hating him gives him too much power, too much control over the way I live my life. And I’ve spent far too many years doing that.

  ‘Was it so awful?’ he says softly. ‘What we had? It must have been for you to hate me this much. I was rough with you when I shouldn’t have been. I was hot-headed and angry, frustrated that you couldn’t – or wouldn’t – understand all the wonderful things I had planned for us. I never meant to hurt you, Lou.’

  ‘You revolt me.’

  To my horror he starts to cry. I turn away as fat, dirty tears spill down his cheek. I can’t watch this.

  ‘Look at me,’ he begs. ‘I loved you. I really did. You were my whole world, my greatest love. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.’

  ‘Mike, don’t—’

  ‘Being with you was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. You made the world a better place. You made me feel optimistic and hopeful, like anything could happen. Since I lost you I’ve stumbled through life lurching from one disaster to another. I’ve lost jobs, homes and relationships. Some women ran as soon as they found out who I was, they wouldn’t have anything to do with me. And the women who stayed … they either saw me as some kind of lost cause they wanted to fix or they wanted to dress up as schoolgirls and shit.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear—’

  ‘I’m sorry. That’s all I’m trying to say. I’m sorry, Lou. What I did was wrong. I see that now. I was the adult. I never should have let it happen.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘I just …’ He stands up and grips hold of the bars, his eyes damp with regret and self-pity. At least, that’s what I think he’s feeling. I’ve got no idea anymore. He’s such a manipulative bastard. ‘I just hope that you’re happy, Lou. I only ever wanted the best for you. I wanted you to feel safe and looked after. Is someone doing that for you now? Do you have someone who loves you? Someone to take care of you?’

  This is where I tell him how screwed up my life is. How many failed relationships I’ve left in my wake. How I feel like permanently broken. But I can’t. I can’t let him know how much damage he’s done. I can’t give him that much power. Instead I turn my back on him and walk towards the door. He’s never going to change. He’s never going to take responsibility for what he did. His apology, his attempt at remorse, it’s all lies. I might not be able to make Mike see what a monster he is but I haven’t given up on Chloe. Not yet.

  ‘Lou, wait!’ Mike shouts. ‘I … I’ve probably got no right to ask you this but …’

  I don’t stop walking.

  ‘Did you love me? At all? Or did you say that because it was something you thought I wanted to hear?’

  I turn to look at him, the first man I ever loved. ‘This isn’t about me anymore.’

  Chapter 21

  Chloe

  Chloe stands on the pavement outside school with her head down and her arms crossed over her chest as the other kids mill around her, laughing, chatting and nudging each other. When her he dad dropped her off before school he told her wouldn’t be able to pick her up until after four but she was to stand outside the gates and not move a muscle until he turned up. She didn’t reply, she just nodded, then swiftly said, ‘Yes, Dad. I promise I won’t go anywhere,’ when she saw the look on his face.

  Tomorrow she has to skip school so she can go on holiday to Majorca for a long weekend to celebrate her dad’s birthday. When her dad first mentioned it she’d tried to get out of going. She was thirteen, she’d insisted, and she didn’t want to miss any school. She was sure Granny and Grandad wouldn’t mind if she stayed with them. She was hoping her parents would jump at the opportunity to get rid of her for a couple of days – days she could spend with Mike – but her dad insisted she come. If it was bad before, it would be hell on earth now. She’ll have to share a room with her brat of a brother and her dad wouldn’t let her out of his sight. She’ll be forced to wear a swimsuit and play with Jamie in the pool before being dragged along to hideous evening entertainment events.

  The numb, dead feeling inside hasn’t abated since she returned home. If anything it’s got worse. Yesterday hope flickered inside her when she heard a car pull up outside her house. It was Mike. He’d turned up under the pretence of seeing her dad but secretly he wanted to check that she was okay. But it wasn’t Mike’s black 4x4 parked up beneath her bedroom window. It was an Amazon delivery driver in a white van. It was ages since she’d last spoken to Mike, even longer since she’d seen him. At first she’d made excuses for his silence – he’d lost his phone, or his voice, he’d got caught up at work – but the longer the silence stretched, the more she feared the worst. He’d dumped her without even bothering to tell her. He’d met someone else. He was involved in a terrible accident and couldn’t get a message to her. He was dead. Out of those options only the accident was acceptable but death was preferable to the idea that Mike had gone off with someone else. He’d told her so many times how special she was, how he’d never met anyone like her and how he’d never felt so much love for another person. And she’d believed him. She’d tucked his precious words away in her heart and cherished them. He was the only person in the world who loved her completely.

  Now she turns at the sound of her name, fully expecting it to be Misty Engles, asking if she can copy her homework again. But it’s not Misty that runs down the street towards her, her cheeks flushed, arms pumping at her sides, her long fair hair streaming behind her. It’s the weird woman again. The one who stopped her on the way to school the other day. The one she rang Mike about.

  Chloe’s hands twitch at her sides. She wants to run but if her dad turns up and she’s not outside the school he’ll kill her.

  ‘Leave me alone.’ She holds out a hand towards the woman and turns away. ‘I’m not interested in anything you have to say.’

  ‘I know. And I totally understand.’ The woman has a soft, calm voice. It reminds Chloe of the policewoman who asked her about Mike. ‘I just want to give you something, that’s all.’

  Curious, Chloe turns to look at her.

  ‘Here,’ the woman holds out a white plastic bag.

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Something you need to read.’

  ‘I don’t read books.’

  ‘It’s not a book. It’s a diary.’

  A diary? Chloe’s gaze flicks towards the pink shape in the bottom of the bag. ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘It belonged …’ The woman suddenly seems lost for words. ‘It belonged to a girl who was in exactly the same situation as you.’

  ‘What, stalked by some random woman?’

  The woman laughs. ‘No, someone who fell in love with an older man. I think you should read it, Chloe
. I think it might help you.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’ Chloe turns away again and crosses her arms over her chest.

  ‘I think you do. And if you ever need to talk I’m here for you. I’ve written my number in the front of the book. Give me a call.’

  Chloe’s heart quickens as a green estate car turns into the road. Her dad is behind the wheel.

  ‘Whose diary is it?’ She turns to look at the older woman but she’s already halfway down the street, getting into a red Mini, and doesn’t look around. At Chloe’s feet is the white plastic bag. ‘Freak,’ Chloe says under her breath as she picks up the bag and shoves it into her school bag.

  ‘Who’s a freak?’ her dad says from behind her.

  ‘No one,’ Chloe breathes. ‘Just me.’

  Chapter 22

  Wendy

  Wendy can feel Ted standing at her shoulder, breathing heavily. She can smell him too, the obnoxious scent of aftershave layered over cigarette smoke and sweat. Every single one of his white shirts is yellowed under the armpits. She’s never asked about his marital situation but she’s pretty certain there’s never been a Mrs Ted Barton.

  ‘Everything okay?’ she asks.

  Ted leans over her and prods a stubby finger at the screen. ‘I think you’ve made a mistake there.’

  She leans away from his armpit. ‘What mistake?’

  ‘You’ve got the VAT incomings and outgoings in the wrong columns. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

  He laughs, the low, chesty gurgle of a smoker. The sound makes Wendy want to clear her throat.

  ‘What?’ She bends closer to the screen. He’s being ridiculous. Of course she hasn’t—

  Her heart sinks as she looks from the screen to the ledger on the desk and back again. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Aha!’ Ted looks victorious. ‘I’m right aren’t I? I did my own returns for twenty-five years you know. Not much gets past me.’

  But you employed me to start doing them for you, Wendy thinks, how about you just let me get on with them? Or better still, let me take the ledgers home so I can do this in peace and quiet. She doesn’t say that though. Instead she says, ‘Sorry Ted. You’re right. It’s my mistake. I won’t charge you for the time to correct it.’

  ‘I’d hope not.’ He crosses his arms over his thick chest. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it. I need to go into the factory.’

  Wendy keeps the smile fixed to her face until the door closes and Ted’s rotund profile passes the window. It vanishes the second he disappears.

  ‘Patronising arsehole.’

  She reaches down for her handbag, lifts it onto her lap, and pulls out her phone. It’s been an hour and a half since she last checked Facebook and her concentration level has been shot for at least forty minutes.

  This is getting ridiculous, she thinks as she taps on the app icon. The amount of times I log onto Facebook each day. I can’t even walk Monty without checking it. She clicks on the Facebook message icon. She sent a message to Ben yesterday and she can tell that he’s read it but he still hasn’t replied. He hasn’t updated his page either. Neither has Lou.

  I’m going to delete this stupid app, Wendy decides as she drops her phone back into her bag. Just as soon as I’m done with all this. Only she isn’t entirely sure what ‘done with all this’ means. She still wakes up each morning with a strange gnawing sensation beneath her ribs and she gets the most terrible indigestion whenever she so much as pictures Lou Wandsworth’s face. Dr Google says it’s anxiety, but she’s not so sure. It’s acid, the ache she feels inside. It’s been gnawing away at her for years. For a couple of days after she visited Lou at work the pain dissipated – probably because she felt in control for the first time in her life – but now it’s back, and it’s worse than ever.

  She gets up from her desk, glances down the corridor to check that Ted isn’t on his way back, then snatches up her phone again. She waited in the café until well after 10 a.m. this morning. She’d run through what would happen dozens of times. She’d spot Lou from the window of the café, hurry to the door and shout her name. Lou would stop, turn around, smile – maybe in surprise – then raise a hand in greeting. Wendy would run across the road and tell her that she really needed to talk to her. She’d suggest a chat – perhaps as they walked around Priory Park (it was important they weren’t overheard). Only Lou hadn’t shown up today, had she? Or yesterday. Last night Wendy hadn’t been able to sleep for worrying. What if Lou had jacked in the job and started somewhere else? Even worse, what if she’d moved back to London? The woman had literally been within Wendy’s grasp and she’d let her slip away like a thief in the night. She should have acted while she had the chance instead of skipping around like an awkward teenager. She’d cursed herself for her cowardice over and over again before finally, she fell into a broken sleep.

  ‘Hello, yes,’ Wendy says now. ‘I’d like to talk to Lou Wandsworth please. It’s Dr Wendy Harrison from the University of Worcester.’

  The receptionist makes a sad little sighing sound. ‘I’m afraid Lou’s off sick.’

  ‘Off sick?’ She feigns surprise. ‘I do hope there’s nothing seriously wrong.’

  ‘No, no,’ the receptionist says quickly. ‘I think it’s just a tummy bug. Although she has been off for a couple of days now so maybe it’s a little more serious than she originally thought.’

  You are the soul of discretion, Wendy thinks as she pretends to sigh sympathetically. At the same time the knot in her stomach untwists. So Lou hasn’t left. That’s excellent news.

  ‘Could I have her address, do you think?’ she asks. ‘So I could send her some get well flowers.’

  The receptionist pauses. ‘I’m … I’m not sure I can …’

  ‘If you’re not sure what you can and can’t do, I suggest you need a little more training,’ Wendy snaps. ‘Could you put me through to Gary Lambley please?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Straight away.’

  Madam. Wendy smiles to herself. Bet she said that between gritted teeth.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ a bombastic voice says a couple of seconds later. ‘Wendy Harrison! Great to hear from you.’

  ‘Hello, Gary,’ Wendy attempts to put what she hopes is a seductive purr into her voice. ‘Are you well?’

  ‘I’m great. What can I do you for, Wend?’

  She tenses at the shortening of her name but forces a smile. ‘Actually I’m after Lou’s home address. I hear she’s ill and I’d like to send her some flowers.’

  ‘Flowers?’ There’s a question mark in Gary’s voice. Why would a prospective client want to send flowers to her potential account manager? Surely it would be the other way round. Wendy holds her breath. It’s a long shot but worth a try. Gary makes a clicking sound with his tongue as though he’s made up his mind. ‘That’s very kind of you. Just give me a sec, Wend.’

  She hears the clunk of a phone being placed on a desk, a couple of seconds of background chatter then, ‘I’ve got it. It’s …’

  Her forced smile melts into a real one as she scribbles down Lou’s address on the back of a notepad.

  ‘Thank you so much, Gary. You’ve been incredibly helpful.’

  ‘No problem. I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to fill out a pro forma yet have—’

  Wendy puts the phone down before he can finish his sentence.

  The house is much, much bigger than Wendy was expecting. From the address she’d imagined a little cottage crammed in the centre of a terrace with a mess of roses growing up the outside and a roof in need of attention. She didn’t imagine an enormous detached house with a sprawling driveway and its own private lane. The house is so isolated she drove past it several times before she finally spotted the track, almost hidden between overgrown apple trees and bramble bushes.

  It’s late afternoon and, with the sun still high in the sky, Wendy tucks the car well into the trees to avoid being seen. Not that it would matter if Lou does see her. She’s carrying an armful of flowers and wea
ring an expression of concern. If Lou asks why she’s there she’ll say she was in the area and thought she’d drop a small gift by to cheer up the ailing patient. It’s a little unusual, admittedly – a home visit from a new work acquaintance – and Lou might raise an eyebrow, but it’s certainly nothing Wendy could be locked up for.

  That house though. Wendy sighs deeply. It’s enormous. It must have at least five bedrooms and four receptions. If not more. So much space – inside and out – and no other houses for miles. Unlike her and her hideous excuse for a neighbour. She caught him throwing snails over the fence into her back garden the day before and stood on a bucket and shouted at him to stop. And what was his excuse? ‘Sorry, I didn’t think you were in.’ Absolute imbecile! Lou doesn’t have to deal with obnoxious neighbours inflicting their music and throes of passion on her. Oh no, she’s landed on her feet nicely: a huge house, a handsome boyfriend, friends who adore her and a good job. And what’s Wendy got? A tiny two-up two-down with thin walls, a couple of friends who routinely moan about their husbands/children/ailments, a job that barely makes ends meet and a permanent cold patch on the right side of the bed. It’s so unfair. All her life Wendy prided herself on being warm, loyal and fair and where had it got her? At the bottom of society’s heap, that’s where. At least Lou hasn’t got children. If she’d waltzed back to Malvern with small brood or a swollen stomach …

  Wendy briskly wipes away the tear that’s appeared in the corner of her right eye. Now is not the time for self-pity and regret. Now is the time for confronting Lou Wandsworth and telling her exactly what she thinks of her. There’s a tired-looking Volvo parked up outside the house. Wendy takes a steadying breath, steps back out onto the path and heads for the door.

  There’s no one in. Wendy knocked, hard, several times on the front door and then the side door. When there was no answer, she peered in at the windows. All the lights were off and the inner doors were closed. She tried shouting out Lou’s name but none of the curtains in the upstairs windows so much as flickered. Even an ill person wouldn’t be able to sleep through the racket she’s made. Despite the car, Lou is definitely not at home.