The Fear

by C. L. Taylor

  ‘I can be quiet,’ I say as he pulls a pair of socks and a roll of thick black tape out of his bag.

  He smiles tightly. ‘Sadly, not as quiet as I’d like.’

  ‘Mike,’ I say as he tears a strip of tape off with his teeth. ‘Please, please don’t do this. Mike, please, if you loved me you wouldn’t do this. Please, Mike.’

  ‘I’m doing it because I love you,’ he says as he shoves a sock into my mouth, presses the tape over the top and ties my wrists to the bedposts. ‘Sometimes I think I love you too much.’

  Friday 4th May 2007

  I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about what Mike said. Could the Wendy who came to my office actually be Dee? Wendy Harrison isn’t an unusual name. There have to be a ton of them in the UK, maybe even in Worcestershire. Just because Mike’s ex-wife is called Wendy Harrison that doesn’t mean she’s the same woman who sat in a meeting with me.

  And yet …

  There was something about her that made me feel uncomfortable. As soon as Gary left the room to make tea she started asking personal questions. Nothing too weird about that per se, no one likes to talk about business all the time, but she leaned a little too far forward in her seat as I spoke, peering at me over the top of her reading glasses. While I ummed and ahhed she splurged her life history at me, telling me how old she was, what her hobbies were and how she lived alone with her little dog. And all the while she was fiddling with the biro in her hands.

  Could it be a coincidence, Mike’s ex-wife ringing the eLearning company where I work? We’re the only one in Malvern, but the University of Worcester would have its pick of the bunch with a project that size. It wouldn’t be unusual for them to use a company in London or Brighton. Maybe she found out I was working at Consol and wanted to check me out? But how would she find out? I’m not even listed on their website. If that was the Wendy Harrison, then she had to be as clueless about my identity as I was about hers. Otherwise she would have reacted more strongly. She can’t be Mike’s ex-wife. But I need to make sure.

  I flip open my laptop, log onto the café’s Wi-Fi and start up the browser, then type into the Google search box.

  Wendy Harrison University of Worcester.

  A Janet Harrison is listed. And a Dr Wendy Messenger. Beneath their names is a link to the University of Worcester.

  I click on the link and enter Wendy Harrison into the search box.

  Zero results.

  I didn’t think it was strange when Wendy contacted me via her personal email address. University VPN networks can be unstable and she wouldn’t be the first academic to get in touch via a Hotmail or yahoo account whilst working from home, but this is worrying.

  I navigate to the contact page and tap on the number for the main switchboard. A couple of seconds later a recorded voice tells me to tap 1 for the Humanities and Creative Arts department, 2 for Science and Environment, 3 for Health and Society – I press 3.

  ‘Hello,’ says a female voice. ‘Institute of Heath and Society, Mary speaking.’

  ‘Hello, I’d like to speak to Wendy Harrison please. She works in the nursing department.’

  ‘Please hold.’

  Tinkling music plays in my right ear then, ‘Hello, can I just check. Was it Wendy Harrison you said?’

  ‘That’s right, yes. She’s responsible for organising distance and blended learning. I forget her job title.’

  ‘Okay, please hold.’

  This time several seconds pass before the music stops abruptly.

  ‘Hello, sorry to keep you but Wendy Harrison doesn’t work in the nursing department. There’s a Diana Harrison who works in midwifery if that’s who you’re after.’

  ‘No, it’s definitely Wendy. I don’t suppose you could put me through to someone in charge of learning could you?’

  ‘That would be Fiona Hillier. One moment please.’

  I reach for my coffee and take a sip. This isn’t looking go—

  ‘Fiona Hillier speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s Lou. I work for Consol eLearning in Malvern. A lady called Wendy Harrison visited us recently to request a quote for a blended learning solution for the nursing department, but I’m having trouble getting in touch with her.’

  There’s a pause then, ‘I’m … I’m not sure who it was that you spoke to, but there’s no Wendy Harrison on my team. As for blended learning, well, our students are taught via a combination of in-house training and clinical practice. We use the web to deliver some of our assignments, but we don’t use eLearning for teaching purposes and have no plans to do so.’ She laughs lightly. ‘Nursing is very much a hands-on degree, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘Maybe you’re thinking of a different department? Is there someone I can put you through to?’

  ‘No, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.’

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here staring into space but my coffee is cold and I’ve got pins and needles in my thighs. My laptop is still on the table in front of me but the lid is shut. I didn’t find anything when I searched for Wendy Harrison, Malvern or Wendy Harrison, Worcester. Nothing when I entered her email address WHarrison5353@hotmail.com either. Or Wendy Hughes. Or Mike and Wendy Hughes. I’ve searched for Mike a lot over the years but I’ve only ever found one article, about famous child abduction cases in the UK, and it didn’t include any photos. The internet was still in its infancy when we ran away together. Google didn’t even exist.

  There aren’t any photos of any of us online. Not me, not Mike and not Wendy. But I know it’s her, the overly friendly, nervy woman who sat at a table with me. It has to be; the University of Worcester has never heard of her. Her phone number is in the initial enquiry email she sent. I could call her and ask her all the questions that have been going round and round my head since I found out her lie. Why come to my office and pretend to be someone you’re not? Why didn’t you confront me when you had the chance? Why didn’t you tell me who you are?

  But I’m too scared to make the call. For so many years she wasn’t a real person to me. She was the caricature Mike painted – a dour-faced woman who existed rather than lived. Now I’ve shaken her hand, inhaled her sickly-sweet perfume and looked her in the eye. I can’t pretend she doesn’t exist anymore. Any conversation we have is going to be painful and I’m not sure I can deal with that right now.

  I sit back in my chair and rub my hands over my face. She must hate me. I’m the reason her husband was sent to jail. I feel guilty, but I shouldn’t. I’m as much of a victim as she is. Mike groomed me. He made me fall in love with him, he orchestrated those feelings. Wendy must realise that. Mike said she was his ex-wife, which means she divorced him at some point. Maybe it was curiosity that drove her to my office? Maybe she wanted to say something, to find closure, and then bottled it at the last minute? God knows I can relate to that feeling.

  Scared or not, I have to ring her. She’s the only one who can help me put Mike away. They were married for a long time. Even if she doesn’t have a spare set of keys to his house she might know where he keeps them, or how best to break in.

  My phone bleeps as I get up to go. It’s a text from Ben.

  Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Life has been a bit hectic since I got back to London. Are you okay?

  I text him back.

  I’ve been better. Can’t talk right now. X

  I delete the kiss at the end and press send.

  Chapter 28

  Chloe

  Footsteps outside the apartment force Chloe up from the sofa and out to the balcony. For the last three hours she’s had the place to herself and now her family is back from their trip to the beach. Her dad’s booming voice and Jamie’s high-pitched whine explode into the apartment as her mum opens the door. Chloe presses a hand to the side of her head. She’s had two paracetamol and countless glasses of water and she still feels as though a small creature is sharpening its claws on her brain
. She’d fully expected to see her dad pacing the room when she crept in just after midnight but everyone was asleep. After puking all over her shoes in front of Sam and Ed she’d run off, tripping and weaving her way through the theatre as the sound of the boys’ laughter followed her. She puked again when she got outside and then again, into a bush, as she stumbled towards her apartment block. Once inside she’d thrown herself onto the small uncomfortable sofa in the living area and burst into tears. She pressed a musty-smelling cushion to her mouth to stifle the sound but the tears continued to fall for a long time. How could she have been so stupid, believing she stood a chance with Sam? It was the vodka. It had stripped away her inhibitions and self-doubt and made her believe that maybe she wasn’t a fat loser after all, that she was as desirable as Katie, Charlie and Leticia. What a stupid bitch. Of course Sam wouldn’t want her. Even a forty-nine-year-old man with deep crow’s feet and a bit of a gut had lost interest. Everything her dad said about her was true. She was useless, worthless and a waste of space. And that was never going to change.

  ‘Chloe?’ her mum says now, making her jump. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Chloe, holding on to the balcony railing to steady herself, looks over her shoulder. ‘Horrible.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Her mum’s sunburned forehead creases with concern above her big, black shades. ‘Do you think a bit of lunch would help? We thought we’d try that burger place further down the strip.’

  ‘No thanks, Mum. I’d rather just stay here.’ She turns away and stares down into the pool below. The girls she met last night are screeching and squawking as the boys dive-bomb and splash them. They haven’t even noticed that I’m missing, she thinks. None of them care.

  ‘If you’re sure?’ There’s a pause, then, ‘Chloe, is everything okay?’

  She doesn’t turn round. She doesn’t want her mum to see the tears welling in her eyes. ‘I’m fine, Mum.’

  ‘Okay then. Well, if you’re sure.’ The doubt in her mother’s voice tears at her heart.

  Just go, she thinks. Just leave me alone.

  ‘Jamie, no. Don’t take your shoes off. We’re going out again.’ Her mother’s voice fades as she chases her brother into the bedroom.

  ‘Julie!’ Her dad shouts from another room. ‘Did you pack my Police sunglasses? I can’t find them anywhere. These ones from the airport are shit.’

  Chloe glances behind her. The living area is empty. Down by the pool Sam strides along the side, chest out and shoulders back. Katie’s in the water, sitting on Ed’s shoulders. Her hands are interlinked with Charlie’s who’s on Callum’s shoulders. They’re trying to wrestle each other into the pool. Several feet away from them a mum is chasing her toddler son round a sun lounger, waving a bottle of suntan lotion at him. Next to them an older woman is trying to read a book as her husband leans over and waves a hand in her face, trying to get her attention. The pain in Chloe’s chest eases as she continues to watch the holiday scene below her balcony play out. She feels as though she’s watching a documentary on the TV. Life doesn’t feel real anymore. She doesn’t feel real anymore. It’s as though a pane of glass has descended, separating her from the world.

  She feels dead inside again. She’d been hoping the feeling would come back. But it won’t last for long. Sooner or later she’ll start to feel again.

  She steps closer to the balcony, pressing her thighs against the metal bars. She spreads her hands wide and bends at the waist. Directly beneath her, seven floors down, is a wide patch of concrete. Normally the steep drop would make her feel dizzy, overwhelmed and scared but today she feels … nothing.

  She moves almost in slow motion, tightening her grip on the balcony and raising her right knee. A mobile phone rings in her parents’ bedroom but Chloe ignores it. She can’t get her knee over the railings. She’s too short, even if she stands on tiptoes. But there’s a small table beside her. She drags it closer to the railings and jumps her bottom onto it. It wobbles, but doesn’t fall over, as she shifts her weight into the centre. She grips the sides of the table with both hands and twists over onto her knees then shuffles up to the railings. Now she’s on the table there’s only six inches of metal separating her from a vertiginous drop. All she has to do is tip forwards.

  She takes a deep breath, fixes her eyes on the stripe of blue sea on the horizon and loosens her grip on the balcony. As she does, the table wobbles violently beneath her and she snatches at the railings, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She pauses for a moment; her forehead, slick with sweat, resting against the hot metal then she pushes herself back onto her knees. She just has to be brave. In a couple of seconds it will all be over. She has to be—

  ‘Jesus Christ! Julie! Julie!’ her father’s booming voice – almost directly behind her – makes her jump so violently the table tips to one side and she lands with a thump on the cold concrete floor of the balcony, the table clattering on top of her.

  ‘Julie!’ her dad shouts again. ‘That was the police. Mike Hughes has gone missing! He hasn’t been to work since Monday and no one knows where he is.’

  ‘He’s always disappearing off without telling anyone where he is,’ her mum shouts back.

  ‘This is different! They’ve put out an appeal on the radio and everything. He’s properly vanished.’

  Chloe raises her head from the ground. Her lips part and her eyes grow wide and round. She pushes the table away and sits up. Mike’s missing? That changes everything.

  Chapter 29

  Wendy

  Wendy parks up her car, gets out and strides across the business park to Unit 9. Normally her energy levels would be flagging after such a short and broken night’s sleep, but she’s been fizzing with intrigue and excitement ever since she woke up. Monty must have thought it was his lucky day, leaving the house a little after 6.30 a.m. and taking three turns around Priory Park rather than his normal one, but Wendy couldn’t keep still. Sitting would make time drag. She had to keep moving. With every step she was another second closer to finding out what had happened to Mike.

  Her initial reaction, when PC Bray turned up on her doorstep the night before and told her that her ex-husband had disappeared, was to go on the defensive.

  ‘Well it’s nothing to do with me.’

  The police officer had smiled tightly and asked to come in. Wendy’s wariness of the police had been superseded by her curiosity, so she’d opened the door wider and invited the pair into her living room. They hadn’t stayed long, maybe half an hour tops. They didn’t give her much information; just that Mike hadn’t been to work since Monday, he wasn’t at home and he wasn’t answering his phone. They asked her a lot of questions. When had she last seen him or spoken to him? Did she know the names of any friends or acquaintances he might have gone to visit? Where were his favourite places? Did she know of any routines he had? Did she know how he was feeling? Had he ever suffered from depression?

  Wendy answered ‘no’ or ‘don’t know’ to most of the questions. She’d actually laughed after the first question – the one asking her when she’d last seen him.

  ‘Approximately thirteen years ago.’

  PC Bray raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘Perfectly. PC Bray, you know as well as I do that there’s a restraining order in place that prohibits me from going anywhere near my ex-husband or his property. I haven’t breached that order, not once.’

  ‘And phone contact?’

  ‘About thirteen years ago.’

  ‘So you’ve had no contact with your ex-husband recently – not in any form, email, social media etc?’

  ‘Not for thirteen years, no.’

  ‘And if we checked your phone and computer …’

  ‘You’d discover that I am telling the truth. Look, I have no idea where Michael is or why he’s disappeared. My ex-husband and I had an acrimonious split – I’m sure you know that – but we’ve both moved on.’

  She said the last part of the sentence through gritted teeth.
Physically she’d moved on – to a smaller house several miles away – and she didn’t spend as much time thinking about him and obsessing over the details of their marriage as she used to, but emotionally a kernel of anger was still buried deep within her heart.

  When the officers left they told her they’d be in touch. She’d nodded and said, ‘please do.’ She wasn’t Mike’s next of kin anymore. The only reason they’d be in touch was if they suspected she was behind his disappearance. Which she wasn’t, obviously, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been treated unfairly by the police.

  She stayed up for hours after they left, re-running the conversation in her head. It was all so fascinating. Why would Mike disappear, now of all times? She would have understood if he’d done a runner straight after he was released from jail, or even after their divorce. But now?

  She hadn’t actually been completely honest with the police. Whilst she hadn’t spoken to Mike in the last thirteen years, she had instructed her solicitor to contact Mike’s when he defaulted on his maintenance payment eleven years earlier. Her solicitor had informed her that Mike was in the process of setting up his own company and he’d had a temporary cash flow issue which had caused the delay. The next month Wendy received twice the normal payment in her bank account and didn’t bring it up again. She did turn detective however, which is how she discovered that Mike owned a removal company.

  Now, she pushes open the door to Unit 9 and walks up to the counter.

  ‘Morning,’ says a woman of a similar age, her dark hair, streaked with grey, pulled up into a scraggy bun. There’s a name badge – Joy – attached to her navy polo shirt. ‘How can I help?’

  Wendy touches her own hair even though not a strand is out of place. ‘I’m concerned about Michael Hughes.’

  Joy blanches. ‘The police said I wasn’t to talk to journalists.’