The Fear

by C. L. Taylor

  Wendy has completed a lap of the house and is now standing in the garden. It could be a beautiful space. There’s a weeping willow on the right and several apple trees on the left, but that’s all that’s attractive. The beds and borders are overgrown and riddled with weeds and there are piles of rubbish everywhere. Anger burns in Wendy’s stomach as she surveys the huge space. If this were her garden she’d turn it into a magical, restful place. She’d order chairs and tables from John Lewis, maybe install a water feature or a pond and plant rose bushes. She’d sit outside with a nice G & T and read the papers at the weekend. Monty would love it too.

  She wanders to the far end of the garden and peers over the gate. There’s a bloody enormous yard beyond it, with a barn ripe for conversion. She glances back towards the house. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek inside, would it? If Lou discovered her creeping about she’d say she’d been looking for her. She does still have the flowers in her hands after all. She reaches for the latch, then freezes as the sound of car tyres on gravel travels up the garden towards her.

  It has to be Lou.

  Wendy’s heart double beats in her chest as she touches a hand to her hair, smoothing it down. The barn will have to wait.

  ‘Wendy Harrison,’ she tells herself as she turns and marches back towards the house, ‘you can do this. You’ve waited long enough.’ But as she gets closer to the gap it’s not Lou she sees walking up to the side door. It’s the bloody postman with a clutch of letters in his hand and a parcel under his arm. Wendy waits, out of sight, until the letter box clatters, the van’s engine starts up and she can no longer hear the sound of wheels on gravel, then she steps through the gap between the house and the garage. She looks from the house to the track and sighs. She could sit in her car and wait, but Lou might not be back for hours. And there’s always the possibility she might bring someone back with her. If Lou had been in, then Wendy would have been the one in control, with the element of surprise on her side. Waiting around will strip her of control and she can’t deal with that. Not again. Maybe she’ll come back again tomorrow, after checking she is home. Gary was quick enough to give her Lou’s address, he’s bound to give her her phone number if she asks for it.

  Wendy lays the flowers down on the doorstep and reaches into her bag for a pen and the blank card the florist gave her. She puts the pen in her mouth and pulls off the cap. What should she write? Should she let Lou know she’d popped round? No. It would look odd when she returns for a second time. What then?

  She smiles as she plucks the pen from her mouth and scribbles on the card, then she carefully places it between the cellophane wrapper and the flowers and walks away.

  Chapter 23

  Lou

  Mike wanted to pack up our stuff this morning and drive to another city but I convinced him to stay.

  ‘You’ll have the same problem communicating wherever we go,’ I said. ‘And my French is quite good. I’ve been predicted an A star.’

  ‘I don’t know, Lou.’

  I could tell he was wrestling with himself. He was nervous about leaving me alone in the hotel room again, but he couldn’t find an apartment without my help. He knew I was trying to escape last night. I could hear it in his voice when I came out of the bathroom and he called me a good girl. He meant, ‘good girl, you didn’t try and leave’.

  Finally, after a lot of pacing and several visits to the window to look outside, Mike relented. We would stay in Rouen and try to find an apartment together.

  ‘Voilà! Le chambre,’ the letting agent says now, casting an arm wide as we walk into the tiny room.

  ‘This is the bedroom,’ I say, glancing at Mike.

  ‘Yes,’ he hisses from between his teeth. ‘I worked that out when I saw the bed. You should have a GCSE in stating the fucking obvious.’

  His mood has been darkening since we left the letting office. He held my hand very tightly as we sat across the desk from Jean-Pierre and I explained, in faltering French, that we were looking for somewhere to live. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mike squinting in concentration, his gaze flicking from the older man to me as he read our expressions. For someone who goes on so much about trust he doesn’t trust me at all.

  ‘C’est très jolie,’ I say to Jean-Pierre, who raises his eyebrows.

  ‘What did you say?’ Mike hisses, tightening his grip on my shoulder.

  ‘That it’s a pretty bedroom.’

  ‘Don’t lie, it’s a dump.’

  Jean-Pierre responds but he speaks so quickly I have to ask him to repeat himself. I don’t understand everything he says but I catch the gist of it. He’s asking if we want to see the next place. Maybe his English isn’t quite as non-existent as he made out. Or he can read the unimpressed look on Mike’s face.

  ‘He wants to know if we want to go on to the next place,’ I tell Mike.

  He sighs and clicks his neck to the left, then the right. ‘I need a piss first.’

  I point my finger. ‘The bathroom’s over—’

  ‘There are four fucking rooms. I don’t think I’ll get lost.’

  I wait for the bathroom door to click shut, then hurry across the room to Jean-Pierre who’s standing by the window.

  ‘Aidez-moi,’ I say desperately. ‘Je suis … Je m’appelle Louise Wandsworth. J’habite en Malvern, Angleterre. Je dois returner. Mike Hughes,’ I point towards the bathroom. ‘Ca … cette homme. Il me …’ I pause. I don’t know the word for kidnapped. ‘Je suis prisoner. Je dois … escape.’ I make a pumping motion with my arms. What’s the word for run? ‘Courir! Je dois courir. Je dois appeller ma maman. Aidez-moi! S’il vous plaît!’

  I can’t tell from the way the letting agent is staring at me whether he’s confused or horrified. I pull on his arm. ‘Aidez-moi.’ Help me, I say again. ‘J’ai peur.’ I’m afraid.

  Jean-Pierre touches my shoulder and speaks rapidly. I don’t catch much but I do hear him say the word ‘police’ and rapidly nod my head. Yes, take me to the police. Ring the police. But please, please help—

  ‘Who’s ringing the police?’

  Mike’s at the door, his thick arms crossed over his chest. His eyes swivel towards Jean-Pierre’s hand, resting on my shoulder.

  ‘Get your fucking hands off my girlfriend.’

  ‘Monsieur.’ The letting agent holds up both hands as Mike steps towards us. ‘Nous ne discutons que—’

  Mike swings at him before he can finish his sentence, smashing his fist against his jaw. Jean-Pierre stumbles backwards but, before he can recover, Mike hits him again.

  ‘No!’ I grab Mike’s arm but he swats me away with a backhander that knocks me off my feet and onto the bed.

  I scream as Mike grabs Jean-Pierre by the hair and smashes his knee into his face, then lifts him up and slams the back of his head into the windowsill. The attack seems to last forever and there is blood everywhere – on the walls, the carpet, the bed. When it finally ends, with a kick to the stomach, Jean-Pierre is unrecognisable. His face is a bloody mess: his nose shattered, his lip cut and his eyes – two swollen red eggs – blackened and shut. Mike shoves him away from him and he falls to the floor, unconscious. Mike looks at me, curled in terror on the bed.

  ‘We’re going.’

  Thursday 3rd May 2007

  It’s risky, driving past Mike’s house. He’s officially a missing person now. I heard the news report on the radio this morning, after I’d visited the barn to check he hadn’t escaped and to throw a bottle of water and a couple of ham sandwiches into the cage. The reporter said he was vulnerable as a result of several different health conditions. Vulnerable? I almost laughed as I filled a vase with water and cut the ends off my flowers. My heart leapt when I got back from seeing Chloe yesterday afternoon and saw a bouquet of germini, gypsophila and white roses on the doorstep. I had no idea who they were from. I hadn’t been off sick long enough for my boss to send them. And they definitely weren’t from Ben, much as I hoped they might be. He still hadn’t replied to my text. Al
ice then? It was just the kind of thoughtful thing she’d do. I plucked out the card.

  In Deepest Sympathy.

  In Deepest Sympathy? Dad died nearly three months ago and none of his friends had called at the house since I’d moved in. I wasn’t even sure if they knew I’d moved in. Dad’s solicitor then? But there was no name on the handwritten card. Maybe they’d been delivered by mistake? I took them inside anyway; they’d cheer the house up a bit.

  I slow the car as I turn onto Mike’s road. Not so much that I look suspicious but enough that I can get a good look at his house. I’m not sure what I expected – a police car outside perhaps and people streaming in and out the front door – but everything looks normal. All the doors and windows are closed and the curtains are pulled back. Somewhere, beyond that front door, is evidence that Mike’s been grooming Chloe. Yesterday, before I gave her my diary, I finally worked up the courage to read it. Most of the entries were so raw and painful I couldn’t do more than flick through them, but there was one that stood out. It was a conversation I’d had with Mike about secrets. Mum had come close to discovering my diary when she’d cleaned my room. I knew Mike would be angry with me if I admitted to keeping a diary about our relationship so I told him a white lie. I said I had some precious possessions that I didn’t want anyone else to find. Where would you hide them, I asked. If you were me? He’d laughed and said, in a shoebox under a pile of clothes in the wardrobe. That’s where he kept everything he didn’t want his wife to find. Or I could just buy myself a box with a lock on it.

  Mike’s second phone is hidden in his house. I’m sure of it. Getting in is going to be difficult, but not as difficult as getting the key.

  Before I drive back to the farmhouse I pull into a parking space in Ledbury town centre and check my phone. There’s an email from Ian at work saying he hopes I feel better soon and a couple of messages on Facebook asking how I’ve settled in and whether I fancy meeting up the next time I’m in London. I tap out replies – I’m fine, busy with work, cleaning the house is hard work, I’m definitely up for a night out in London once life has calmed down a bit. There are no messages from Ben. For days I’ve been trying to push him out of my mind but, after what Mike said yesterday about hoping I was happy and being cared for, I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about him. I’m pretty certain Ben had nothing to do with the flowers but it gives me a good excuse to contact him again.

  I tap out a message quickly.

  Hello! I don’t suppose you sent me a bouquet of flowers yesterday? The florist included a ‘In Deepest Sympathy’ card which was unsettling. Anyway, I hope you’re ok. Take care. X

  I press send before I can change my mind, drop the phone back onto the passenger seat then start the engine.

  The lake has crept further up the field over the last couple of days, thanks to all the rain, and leaves, twigs and insects are floating on the surface. The van. That’s where Mike’s house keys are. I remember seeing keys dangling from the ignition and in the glove compartment. I’d be able to grab them in a flash if it weren’t for the fact that the van is two feet below water. I could kick myself for not taking everything out before I pushed it in the lake. Especially now, when water is spilling over the top of my wellies and soaking my jeans.

  I slip several times, wheeling backwards into the water, then scramble up again, painted with thin brown mud. It’s everywhere – on my arms, my chest, my face. I can taste soil in the back of my throat: dark, bitter and gritty. I want to give up, to go back to the house, strip off my clothes and step into the shower, but I continue onwards, arms outstretched, moving gingerly. The water is deeper now and each step sucks at my boots, anchoring them to the muddy field. I bend at the waist and grab each boot top to stop them from being pulled clear off my feet, but it doesn’t take more than a couple of steps before the water level is too high and the suction is too strong. I’m going to have to leave the boots behind. I pull my feet out, then launch myself, chest first, into the water. The cold makes me gasp and my hoody billows out around me like a life jacket, rising up under my chin, forcing me to tip my head back and stare up at the cloudy, grey sky. I kick out with my legs and curve my hands through the water. Swimming fully clothed through a muddy lake is exhausting and I tip to the side several times but, somehow, I move through the water.

  I feel like I’ve been swimming for hours when, finally, my right hand connects with something solid. The top of the van. I grip the trim with one hand and reach down with the other. Slowly, slowly I inch my way forward, feeling for the ridge of the driver side door. When I touch it, I stop, then slide my hand down. The solid surface of the van disappears and my fingers curl through the water. It’s the open window. I could try swimming through it but if I got stuck in the cab I might never find my way out. I need to open the door. I stretch my hand further down the side of the van, pressing my right ear into the water to extend my reach, but I can’t find the handle. I’m going to have to go under the water to open the door.

  My first attempt ends in failure. I panic the second my head is under the water and break through the surface, coughing and retching. On my second attempt I get lower. I keep my eyes screwed shut as I feel along the side of the van. My fingers graze the handle but my lungs are burning, so I kick for the surface. On my third attempt, I grab the handle and brace my feet against the side of the van to give me leverage but I’ve got too much air in my lungs and I keep bobbing upwards.

  ‘Come on.’ I slap at the water as I surface. ‘Come on!’

  I breathe out, emptying my lungs, then push myself back down into the water. My fingers latch onto the handle, my socked feet press against the side of the van and I pull. The door opens and I reel to one side. A second later my head breaks through the surface and I suck in a lungful of air. I reach for the rim of the van but my fingers are so cold I can’t extend them. My teeth are chattering, my chest is tight and every breath hurts. If I stay here much longer I’ll get hypothermia and I still need to swim back. But I have to get those keys.

  I kick out with my legs, pushing myself away from the van, then I dip my head into the water and pull with my arms. I open my eyes, to check I’m heading for the open doorway but all I can see is a brown swirling mist. Then the pain starts, a stinging sensation around my eyeballs that makes me want to claw them out of my face. Closing them makes no difference and I grit my teeth against the pain as I drag myself forwards, into the cab.

  My lungs ache as I wave my hands through the water. I can’t feel anything. Not the passenger seat, not the seating and definitely not the glovebox. Where is it? I open my eyes again and regret it immediately. It stings so much I lash out with my left hand, then quickly snatch it back as it scrapes against something sharp. The speed of the movement makes me whirl in the water and I reach for the doorway to steady myself. But the doorway’s not there. How can I have lost all sense of direction in a matter of seconds? Fear floods through me. I’m not going to get out. I’m going to run out of air.

  No. I have to get out. I have to.

  I reach one arm above my head and the other to my side. Both of my hands make contact with something solid but my right hand touches something softer than the left. A seat back? I reach my left hand in front of me. Nothing. I move the hand up and down. First the back of my hand, then the palm, hits something hard and smooth. It’s the closed passenger side window. In my panic I’ve moved across the cab. Keeping my chin tucked low I twist round and push myself back across the cab. I grit my teeth, bracing myself for impact but none comes. I slip through the open driver side window back out into the lake. As I pull myself up through the water my lungs start to burn. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold my breath. The urge to inhale is unbearable.

  Just when I think I can’t stand it a second longer, I break through the water.

  And breathe.

  Three hours have passed since I dragged myself out of the lake, gasping, shivering and crying. I didn’t so much as glance at the barn as I passed it.
Instead I headed straight for the house. I peeled off my clothes in the kitchen, wrapped myself in a dusty blanket from the back of the sofa and walked up the stairs to the bathroom on heavy legs. I stayed in the bath for what felt like hours, then crawled into bed in the spare room and shivered beneath a single duvet that smelled of damp and mildew. I started to cry then, not the tears of relief I’d shed as I’d crossed the field, but tears of rage and frustration. It was over. Without the keys and the phone I had no way of proving that Mike had groomed Chloe. For a brief moment, when I locked him in the cage, I felt like I finally had control over my life, but it was all an illusion. I’d have to let him out and pray that the courts would give me a lenient sentence or …

  I could kill him.

  I dismissed the thought almost as soon as it crossed my mind. I might have taken him prisoner but that was accidental. And hosing him down with cold water wasn’t torture, no matter what he might think. Murder was something else though. That would be premeditated. I’d spend years in prison. When … if … I got out, I’d be in my late fifties. I wouldn’t have children or a family. I’d be completely alone.

  And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take someone else’s life and live with myself afterwards. I wasn’t that sort of person.

  But I never thought I’d be the sort of person to imprison someone either. If Mike died I wouldn’t have to worry about him grooming Chloe – or anyone else – ever again. But what about his van? Even if I could get rid of Mike’s body, how the hell would I get a huge water-logged transit out of the lake? If the police got a warrant to search the farm it wouldn’t take them long to find it.

  No, it was a ridiculous thought. Even if I could do it and live with myself afterwards it was too risky. Mike didn’t deserve to die for what he’d done. Return to jail? Yes. With any luck he’d get a stricter sentence second time around and this time he would end up on the sex offenders list.