The Perfect Victim

by Corrie Jackson

  I stared at him. ‘What, never?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve learned to feel my way in the dark. I don’t need to see the toaster to know how it works. And now I wear slip-ons.’ He gestured towards his brown loafers.

  I blinked a couple of times. ‘So, you’re saying I’ll never get through this.’ I watched Charlie fold the beer mat in half, a muscle working in his jaw. ‘But what about Emily?’

  ‘What about her?’

  The bar flashed in and out of focus and I clutched my stool. ‘Can I let you into a secret, Charlie Swift? I don’t want to get through this.’ And I meant it. Grief was suffocating, but it was addictive. I’d made a pact with myself that I would hold on to the pain. The more it hurt, the closer I was to Tommy’s death, closer to when he was alive. I didn’t want time to pass, or the hurt to ease. I wanted it raw and recent. Recent meant I couldn’t forget him.

  Charlie tossed the beer mat on the bar and faced me, his thick dark fringe swept low over one eye. ‘You think if the pain fades, so will Tommy.’

  ‘Got it in one, buster.’ I gripped the glass so tightly I was amazed it didn’t shatter. I signalled for another drink, but Charlie stopped me.

  ‘Look, I’ve got to get to the airport, but I’m not leaving you here alone. You’re wasted.’

  I ignored him, and lay my head on the bar. It was wet and smelt sour but I didn’t care. ‘How have you done it? How have you found happiness again?’

  ‘Who says I have?’

  All of a sudden I felt the meanness twist inside me like a living, breathing thing. I leaned towards Charlie and whispered, ‘A new wife, a new life. Charlie’s got all the answers. Maybe I’ll take a leaf out of your book and find a new brother.’

  The hurt in Charlie’s eyes sobered me up a fraction.

  ‘Fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t mea— You’re a good husband. You deserve it. All of the happiness.’ I waved my arm around, unbalancing myself.

  Charlie grabbed my arm to stop me sliding off the stool and, as he bent towards me, his voice was harsh and unfamiliar. ‘Can I let you into a little secret, Sophie Kent? I’m not a good husband.’

  I blinked. ‘You’re right. The brown loafers, for one.’

  Charlie rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet. ‘Time you went home.’

  Home. The night narrowed before me like a tunnel.

  Charlie saw the look on my face and sighed. ‘Why don’t you stay at mine tonight?’

  ‘Thanks, but you’re not my type.’

  Charlie’s mouth twitched. ‘Emily’s at a wedding show in Paris. You’ll have the place to yourself. Might do you good to have a change of scene.’

  I sagged against him. ‘Charlie, the bar is spinning.’

  After that, my memory dims. A nauseating taxi ride. Tripping up stairs. A sickly smell of jasmine. Charlie pulling back the duvet. A bitter taste in my mouth. I woke up the next morning with a splintering headache. Something felt off. I stared down at my half-naked body, wondering for one awful moment if Charlie and I had crossed a line. Then I remembered he was in Geneva. The rest of the day was taken up piecing together the night before, praying Charlie would forgive me for the hateful things I said.

  I’m not a good husband. I’d forgotten that comment until now. According to reports, Charlie was already cheating on Emily by then. Two months after that night in the bar, Sabrina would be pregnant. Five months later she’d be dead.

  I rapped on the divider between my desk and Kate’s to get her attention. She looked up and I pressed a finger to my lips, then lowered my voice.

  ‘You know what else happened in 2007? Charlie gave up drinking. He never told me why. Just said that he’d behaved like an arsehole.’

  Kate folded her arms. ‘Hospitalising your wife’s a pretty big sign you’re an arsehole.’

  I shook my head as the teeth of a headache started to bite. I forced myself to look at the computer screen. At Lizzie’s head wound. ‘I just can’t imagine Charlie doing this. It doesn’t fit with the friend I know.’

  Kate eyed me carefully. ‘You know, years ago I interviewed a woman called Daisy Brent. A total pop tart, all hair extensions and silicone implants. Daisy was married to that Z-list reality-TV star. Jez something. Good-looking but the sort of guy you want out of the gene pool.’

  Kate stood up and stretched her arms over her head.

  ‘Anyway, the TV network held their Christmas party at the Randall Hotel but Daisy was struck down with flu so Jez went alone. By midnight, he’d taken so many drugs he was bouncing off the ceiling, trying his luck with anything with a pulse. When no one gave the loser the time of day, he spiked a camera assistant’s wine with Rohypnol.’ Kate pulled her curls back into a ponytail, the memory hardening her eyes. ‘Except Jez wasn’t even a competent rapist. He doubled the dose for luck. By the time he dragged his victim into the disabled toilet, she was foaming at the mouth. Instead of calling for an ambulance, Jez unbuckled his belt. She slipped into a coma. Was brain-dead for months.’

  I stared at Kate in horror. ‘I hope they chopped off his nuts.’

  ‘He’s holed up at Pentonville and a pretty little thing like him is bound to be in demand. But listen, after Jez’s conviction, Daisy told me that even with the stack of evidence against Jez, her mum didn’t believe he was guilty. Her mum was a former porn star, a regular in the trashy magazine party pages. A famous son-in-law was good for business so she chose to see what she wanted to see.’

  Kate’s words sunk in and I arched an eyebrow. ‘Am I Porno Mum in this scenario?’

  Kate sighed. ‘All I’m saying is: keep an open mind.’

  I spun back round to my computer, wishing people would stop telling me that. I’m not a good husband. I picked up my phone and dialled Emily, cursing as it went to voicemail. I left a message, then logged onto her blog, Something Borrowed.

  ‘Er, guys?’ I glanced over at Spencer and Mack who were still arguing and raised my voice. ‘Guys, take a look at this.’

  Emily’s latest post was called My Husband. She’d uploaded it thirty minutes ago.

  Dear friends,

  I can call you friends, can’t I? And friends tell each other stuff, right? Well, I’ve thought long and hard about what I’m going to do, and I’ve decided I can’t bottle it up any longer.

  If you haven’t heard the news, my husband Charlie has been accused of murder. I feel like I’m stuck in a bad movie. The police think Charlie had an affair with a woman called Sabrina, got her pregnant, and then murdered her. For Christ’s sake!!!

  My heart is so full of . . . everything. I can’t unpack my feelings. Would Charlie cheat on me? Regular readers of Something Borrowed know Charlie as PC. Prince Charming. Prince Charmings don’t cheat, right? They also don’t murder helpless women. I don’t buy it. And he got her pregnant? I don’t think so.

  You see, Charlie wouldn’t do that to me. *deep breath* We’ve been struggling to have a baby. I’ve kept this buried because, you know: emotional wreck. But this feels too relevant not to share. I’ve had three miscarriages in the past year. That’s three times our hearts have been smashed to pieces.

  What is one of the things I harp on about in this blog? Marriage takes WORK. You can’t throw in the towel just because life gets hard. So, until Charlie gives me his side of the story, I’m standing by my PC. Innocent until proven guilty, right?

  Judging by the number of offers I’ve had from media outlets, you’re interested in my story. But I’m not going to let my words get twisted. What’s the point of having a blog if you can’t talk directly to your readers? I’ve decided instead to blog daily about my experiences, thoughts and emotions.

  This will be my story, in my own words.

  Keep checking in for updates. And thank you soooooo much for your support and kind words. It means a lot.

  Love,

  Em xx

  P.S. By the way, the Post’s article claiming that Charlie assaulted his first wife, Lizzie? Charlie was a different guy back then. He wa
s an alcoholic and did many things he wasn’t proud of. Not that it excuses his actions, I know. For what it’s worth, I’ve never known Charlie to touch a drop of alcohol, nor has he ever been violent towards me.

  I leaned back in my chair and whistled. ‘Put away the chequebook, folks. Emily’s just blown us all out of the water.’

  11

  Emily: 28 weeks before the murder

  A rustling noise wakes her up. Emily rubs her eyes and sees Charlie pulling on his jeans through the gloom.

  ‘What time is it?’ Her voice is thick with sleep.

  He whips his head round. ‘Shhh, go back to sleep. It’s early.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I . . . uh. Bournemouth.’ He glances round as if searching for something.

  Emily sits up sharply. ‘What? Why?’

  Charlie’s face is in shadow. ‘It’s – complicated. Vanessa. She left a voicemail. I need to . . .’ Charlie pulls a burgundy jumper over his head and ruffles his fringe.

  Emily sighs. Since the wedding, there has been a steady stream of phone calls. Vanessa doesn’t keep to normal hours. She often rings in the middle of the night, leaving endless messages. Sometimes telling Charlie she loves him, or that she wishes he’d never been born, depending on how much booze she’s sunk. Lately she’s been begging Charlie to help her find something. ‘Charlie Charlie Charlie don’t let me down this is so important I need your help find him find it.’ What or who she wants Charlie to find, Emily has no idea, Vanessa never says. And Charlie brushes off her questions with an impatient flick of his hand. All this time Charlie has never rung back; he’s certainly never paid her a visit.

  ‘What did Vanessa’s voicemail say?’ she asks. When Charlie doesn’t answer she sighs. ‘Baby, she’s drunk. By the time you get there she probably won’t remember she called.’

  Charlie mumbles something then moments later Emily hears the tap running in the bathroom. She swings her legs over the side of the bed. Cold air swirls around her ankles. She hits the light and looks at the clock: 5.46 a.m.

  Emily pulls on her leggings, fighting down the nausea in her stomach. She’s learned to embrace the sickness, welcome it. If I’m sick, the baby is still in there. She puts a protective hand over her stomach, Hi, peanut, and slides a grey hoody over her head.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Charlie is in the doorway, frowning. There’s a smudge of toothpaste on his lip.

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Charlie’s face darkens. ‘Em, you need to rest. Like you say, it’s a fool’s errand.’

  ‘So we can be fools together.’ She lightens her voice, but Charlie doesn’t smile. ‘Baby, you can’t deal with Vanessa on your own. You know what happens.’

  Charlie sighs, then sits beside her on the bed, far enough away so that their legs don’t touch. ‘This isn’t a good idea.’

  Emily stares at the space between them and her skin tingles. Then she shifts round to face him, her gaze direct, challenging. ‘I’m coming.’

  Charlie gives her a curt nod and thunders to the door.

  *

  Emily rests her head against the rain-streaked window of the car. The road runs parallel to the beach and she watches the wind whip the waves into a frenzy.

  Charlie takes a hard right turn and Emily grips the door handle. ‘So, are you going to tell her?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The baby.’

  Charlie rips the gearstick into a lower gear and puts his foot down. The car shoots forward, leaving Emily’s stomach behind. ‘Vanessa is having nothing to do with this baby.’

  ‘But she’s going to be a grandmother. Maybe it will give her an incentive to . . .’ Her words trail off and she tears her eyes away from the waves skidding across the sand. Emily draws the letters ‘C’ and ‘E’ in the condensation on the window, wondering what their lives would look like without Vanessa in it. Hatred binds Charlie to his mum in a way Emily can’t understand. Since Vanessa reappeared in their lives, there’s a hardness to Charlie she doesn’t recognise. The more he pulls away from her, the worse Vanessa’s drinking gets.

  Emily’s phone vibrates in her bag. She fishes it out and glances at the screen. A shot of adrenaline spikes through her. She thrusts it back in her bag, her knuckles white.

  The car rolls to a stop at some traffic lights and Charlie flicks the radio on. A perky pop song fills the car and Emily switches it off.

  ‘It’s time I saw her,’ she says, quietly. ‘It’s been seven months since the wedding.’ Emily closes her eyes as she remembers the low point of their big day. Her dad was making a speech and had just reached the anecdote about Emily’s career rock-bottom working in a pet food factory aged fifteen, when there was a clatter from the back of the room. Everyone turned to see Vanessa trip over a flower display. Her cheeks were crimson and she had the wine-glazed look of a woman who’d been drinking since breakfast. Charlie, who’d been on edge all day, half-rose from his chair but Emily put a firm hand on his thigh. Not now, not during the speeches. She wouldn’t let anything ruin their day. Instead she flung a desperate look at her bridesmaid, Sinead.

  Moments later a screech rang through the banquet room. ‘Don’t touch me! How dare you. Who do you think you are?’

  Emily’s dad laughed nervously. ‘Is everything OK back there?’

  She could see Sinead trying to steer Vanessa out the door. Then Vanessa lashed out and caught Sinead’s chin, her words loose and slurred.

  ‘Don’t shush me, you slut. Charlie, are you going to let her treat me like this?’

  Horrified, Emily jabbed Charlie in the ribs. He leaped up and propelled his mum towards the door but Vanessa was on a roll.

  ‘This wedding is a farce. My son is already married. Why should we celebrate her?’ She thrust a finger at Emily before Charlie managed to bundle her out.

  No one spoke. Emily’s cheeks burned. As her dad soldiered on with his speech, Emily felt the weight of the empty seat beside her. Later that day she saw Charlie and Vanessa fighting outside the restaurant. The hatred on Charlie’s face had turned her stomach.

  ‘Why are we bombing down here at the crack of dawn?’ She hears the pleading note in her voice and wishes she could stop. Charlie opens the window and a blast of cold, salty air drowns out her words. ‘ ‘Baby, I’m your wife. You shouldn’t have to deal with this on your ow—’

  ‘Just STOP.’ Charlie slams his fist against the steering wheel making her jump. She feels his anger down to her bones. Charlie glances at her, his eyes softening a fraction. ‘Christ, you make things ten times worse for yourself.’

  Emily puts a hand on her stomach, blinking back the tears. After the miscarriage, things briefly improved between them and Charlie became more like his old self. He researched which foods boosted fertility and stocked the fridge with homemade smoothies filled with weird things like Maca Root and wheat grass. ‘Consider me the fertility fairy,’ he laughed when he caught her eyeing the green gloop. And, when she clung to him at night, her body wracked with sobs, Charlie stroked her back until she fell asleep. But she knew it was over the morning she woke to find Charlie’s side of the bed cold. He only ran at dawn after a nightmare. And the nightmares meant one thing: he would slip through her fingers again. Things crashed quickly after that. For the first time she can see the effort it’s taking Charlie to stay sober. Before their wedding, he was going to one AA meeting a week, two tops. But now it’s daily, sometimes twice daily. Last week, when they argued, Charlie called her Lizzie by mistake. She slapped him, then shut herself in the bathroom and sliced the skin on her thigh until her breathing evened out.

  The car reaches the end of a dirt-track and pulls up outside a shabby cottage called The Ridings. The windows are crusted with salt; paint is peeling off the exterior walls in a way that makes it look as if the house is shedding its skin. On the front patch of lawn, beneath the Horse Chestnut tree, is a sculpture of a boy sitting on a swing and gazing up at the heavens.

  C
harlie pauses for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel, looking lost.

  Emily is about to put a hand on his leg when he clears his throat. ‘I think you should stay in the car.’

  ‘But–’

  Charlie leans his head against the steering wheel and for an awful moment she thinks he’s going to cry.

  ‘So I’m just supposed to sit here and wait? After driving all that way?’

  ‘I never asked you to come.’ Charlie’s voice is soft but final.

  Emily watches Charlie scorch up the garden path and disappear through the front door. The car still smells of him. Emily breathes him in as she watches a flock of seagulls land in a line on the thatched roof.

  Emily’s phone beeps again and she slides it out of her bag. Tinder is already open on her phone. Emily scrolls through endless faces and her breathing quickens. Charlie loves me. Swipe. He loves me not. She knows it’s a dangerous game to play. Emily closes her eyes, remembering all those times in the past when the hot, furious touch of a stranger took her to a white space in her head. A space that didn’t hurt. She thought that was all behind her. But Charlie is giving her no choice.

  The noise in her head grows louder, and her skin starts to buzz. A loud screech pierces the air and she jumps, wondering for a moment if it’s inside her head. Above, the seagulls sail through the air and vanish. It’s enough to break the spell. Emily shoves her phone in her bag, feeling guilty. She hesitates, then opens the car door. The wind howls around her ears, throwing a briny scent into her face. She pulls her hair into a bun and creeps towards the cottage. What could Vanessa have possibly said in her voicemail to make Charlie drive all the way here?

  Emily peeps in at the sitting room window, careful to keep her face from view. She can see Vanessa’s pink slipper dangling off the sofa; the rest of her is obscured by Charlie. His back is to the window and he’s waving a piece of paper in the air. He’s shouting but she can’t hear what he’s saying over the wind.

  Then Charlie moves to the fireplace and she gets a view of Vanessa lying on the sofa. Her dark hair is fanned out across the cushion; her face bloated and washed-out. She’s wearing grey tracksuit bottoms and a black fleece and Emily can tell she’s drunk. Her head lolls to the side and her eyes struggle to follow Charlie round the room. There are wine bottles around her feet, an overflowing ashtray on the side table.