Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘Tell them about your 3D video projection mapping,’ Michael chips in again.

  Giorgio smiles shyly. ‘I have to warn you, once I start talking about it I won’t be able to stop.’

  ‘Oh, go on, give it to us in a nutshell.’

  ‘All right, but I think I need a smoke first.’

  ‘Go out to the garden through the kitchen back door. The ashtray’s on the windowsill,’ instructs Michael, well versed in the rules of my house. Once Giorgio is out of the room, Michael continues. ‘He creates 3D animation on his computer and then maps the visual onto the chosen building. He’s shown me a video of the projection he did in Shoreditch a couple of weeks ago, it’s absolutely amazing.’

  ‘It looks like you’ve fallen for him, hook, line and sinker.’ Sue sounds just like my aunt Janet, the scourge of my teenage years.

  ‘I think I have, darling . . . Isn’t he the cutest thing?’

  ‘He is,’ both Sue and I agree.

  Suddenly there is a shout outside, followed by the sound of something falling and breaking. Wispa barks sharply and runs out of the room.

  ‘In the garden!’ shouts Michael, jumping to his feet.

  I follow him to the kitchen. The back door is wide open, the whole garden flooded by the cold light of a security lamp. There are two men swaying in a clinching hold on the lawn. Wispa jumps around them, barking fiercely, her sickness long forgotten. I recognize Giorgio, who is just swinging a punch at the other man’s chin. The other man staggers backwards and Giorgio moves swiftly forward and catches him in a shoulder lock. I call Wispa, who comes to me wagging her tail excitedly, and I grab her by the collar.

  ‘A burglar! I caught him red-handed!’ Giorgio shouts triumphantly, turning towards us. The other man is clearly in pain in his tight lock, blood streaming from his nose.

  ‘Tom?’ I look at him in disbelief.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Michael takes a step forward as Tom tries to pull out of Giorgio’s grip.

  ‘You know him?’ Giorgio doesn’t seem willing to release his shoulder lock. ‘He was trying to climb either in or out of your first-floor window.’ He points at my bedroom window with his head. ‘I caught him by the ankles. I think part of the guttering came down with him.’ Indeed, there are some broken bits of black plastic guttering lying on the ground.

  ‘Tom! What the fuck is going on?!’ I shout, anger building inside me.

  ‘I’m calling the police.’ Michael pulls out his mobile.

  ‘Wait!’ I grab his hand. ‘Tom! Answer me!’

  Tom tries to pull out of Giorgio’s grip again, his face contorted with rage and smeared with blood.

  ‘Maybe call an ambulance as well.’ I hear Sue’s voice behind me.

  Michael doesn’t answer, dialling a number.

  I stare at the two men on my lawn, unable to comprehend the situation.

  ‘Anna, you’re all shaking, come inside.’ I feel Sue’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘But . . .’ I point at Giorgio and Tom.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve got it under control.’ Giorgio flashes a smile at me.

  ‘He’s a black belt,’ whispers Michael, interrupting for a moment his conversation with the 999 operator.

  Sue and I go inside, followed by Wispa, who carries her rawhide bone around excitedly.

  ‘Who is that guy?’ asks Sue as I reach for Giorgio’s bottle of Barolo.

  ‘Want some?’

  She nods.

  ‘He’s my neighbour.’ I pour wine for both of us.

  ‘Your neighbour? What was he doing out there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I sit heavily at the kitchen table.

  ‘Maybe he’s locked himself out and was climbing over the fence to get—’

  ‘No, Sue, he doesn’t live next door. He doesn’t even live in my street.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Sue takes a gulp of her wine.

  ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’ I start sobbing uncontrollably.

  Sue comes over and puts her arm round me. She hushes me like a mother would her baby. We sit at the kitchen table until the shrill sound of the doorbell breaks the silence. Sue rushes to the front door and lets two policemen in. One of them is the Gary Sinise sound-alike who came to my house a few days ago. He seems nicer now, almost friendly. The other policeman looks shockingly young, with a clean baby face and blond, almost white, short hair. They stop briefly in the kitchen, then Sue leads them to the garden. I can hear raised voices and sounds of struggle. Then everything goes quiet, the silence interrupted by the squawking of the police radios. After what seems like an eternity Michael and Giorgio appear at the back door, followed by the two policemen who lead Tom between them. He is wearing handcuffs.

  ‘He’s refusing to say anything,’ says Gary Sinise.

  ‘Even to confirm his name,’ adds Michael.

  ‘His name is Tom Collins. And I can give you his address—’

  ‘No!’ Tom interrupts me and tries to pull himself free.

  ‘Easy, mate.’ The baby-faced policeman holds him tightly.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He lives a few streets down from here. He found my dog once in the street and brought her home. I’ve met him casually a few times since then. And I’ve been to his house for a party and met his wife Samantha—’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouts Tom.

  ‘Oi, move it.’ Baby Face pushes him out of the kitchen and into the hallway.

  ‘Do you know what he was doing in your garden?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ I’m beginning to sound like a broken record.

  ‘You haven’t invited him over?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘He definitely hasn’t been invited.’

  ‘OK.’ Gary Sinise smiles at me reassuringly. ‘We’ll take him to the station and process him. You are pressing charges, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Michael says firmly. ‘The guy was trying to get into her house.’

  He looks at me and I nod.

  ‘How long will you keep him in custody? I mean . . . he’s not going to come back here tonight?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ he laughs. ‘No need to worry about that, madam. He won’t be coming back.’

  The front door closes behind the policemen and Tom. The guests gathered in the kitchen stare at me with concern. I feel suffocated by their attention.

  ‘Sorry, guys, I just need to go to the bathroom.’ I get up shakily.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Thanks, Sue, I’m fine. Back in a flick.’ I try to sound as light-hearted as I can.

  In the bathroom I stare at my face in the mirror. What the hell is going on? Why would a man who seemed so friendly, so normal, want to break into my house all of a sudden? What was he trying to do? This is all too much. I can feel another wave of tears welling up inside me and I splash cold water on my face to stop myself from crying. When I look up again my make-up is all smeared, mascara running down my cheeks. I wipe all the smears off, not bothering to reapply make-up.

  As I walk back into the kitchen the smell of burnt cheese hits me. My guests are gathered around the remains of the Parmigiana di Melanzane, which looks charred and inedible.

  ‘OK, guys,’ says Michael cheerfully. ‘Why don’t I take you all out to dinner at the Spaniards Inn tonight?’

  ‘Actually, I was just about to suggest the same thing. Can I invite you all to celebrate meeting the lovely friends of this amazing, charming and sexy man?’ Giorgio puts his arm round Michael, who is radiating happiness.

  ‘Sounds like a great idea,’ I say with relief, glad no one has mentioned Tom again.

  Twenty-one Days Later

  It’s still dark outside when I wake up, my Siberian-duck-down duvet stiflingly heavy, my heart pounding. I’m convinced I’ve been woken up by a noise in the garden and I lie in bed, petrified and sweating, listening out for any sign of an intruder. But the house is quiet and Wispa is snoring peacefully on her bed by the bedroom door. I look at my iPhone. It’s five o’c
lock. I read somewhere that this is the ‘fearful hour’, when our cortisol levels are at their highest and the blood sugar at its lowest. The fight or flight hormone makes our mind produce anxious and negative thoughts that exacerbate the feeling of restlessness and panic. As the memories of yesterday begin to flood in, the feeling of stress and anxiety intensifies. I must speak to DCI Jones, try to find out what’s going on. But it’s too early to speak to anyone. I feel painfully lonely and helpless. What has happened to my usual buoyancy, my fighting spirit that has served me so well all these years? It may have served me well, but look where it has got me, I think bitterly. I’m jobless, unimportant, single and stalked by a dentist. My ex-boyfriend might be missing, my best friend has been murdered and my illicit Heath lover is dead. And I can’t get rid of the feeling that I am somehow at the very centre of all these tragedies. But why and how? My bed doesn’t feel like a safe sanctuary any more. I get up and shuffle through the dark house to the kitchen, where I’m greeted by the burnt remains of the Parmigiana di Melanzane. The baking tray it’s in is beyond salvaging. I wrap the whole thing in a plastic bag and put it in the bin. Then I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to percolate. Why isn’t DCI Jones calling me, I think, staring at my phone. But it’s not even six o’clock and my phone will remain silent for a few more hours. So this is what it has come down to: I’m waiting for a phone call from a woman I hardly know, a woman who cares about me only in her professional capacity. Is this where I turn for comfort now? How pitiful and alone I’ve become.

  The coffee is ready and I take the first sip of my daily caffeine ration. As it burns my stomach and jerks at my nerves I feel my body slowly waking up. I need to shake off this feeling of gloom, try to think rationally about my situation. In my present state of mind I consider myself unemployable. Or, at least, unable to find a job that would sustain my present lifestyle. I have to consider selling my house, moving out to affordable suburbia, somewhere in Finchley or Southgate perhaps, swapping my BMW for something cheaper, a Ford or a Vauxhall. I must, to use the hateful Americanism, downsize. Moving house may not be such a bad idea; perhaps it’ll break the madness my personal life has become lately. Yes, the anonymity of suburbia is what I need, I decide, and open my laptop. A quick look at what’s on offer on Zoopla and Rightmove cools my enthusiasm for the move out of Highgate. I remember all the reasons I moved here for three years ago, taking out a mortgage for a ridiculously high sum of money. Nothing has changed since then. If you’re on a tight budget, you can buy a studio flat in Erith or ‘purchase an exciting development opportunity’ in Purfleet. I shiver at the thought, then realize I’m frozen to the bone. The heating, set to the later weekend hours, hasn’t kicked in yet and the house is freezing. I shuffle back to bed and crawl under the duvet. As my body begins to warm up, I fall asleep, dreaming about estate agents and car salesmen from hell.

  I’m woken up by the Piano Riff ringtone of my iPhone. It’s Michael. He asks how I am and then we move on to last night’s bizarre incident.

  ‘There’s been a development,’ says Michael lightly. ‘Tom is pressing charges.’

  ‘What!’ I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  ‘He’s accusing Giorgio of causing ABH. Actual Bodily Harm.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘Well, it’s true. It’s a step up from Common Assault and it carries a maximum penalty of five years’ imprisonment or a fine, on indictment of course.’

  ‘But that’s absurd! OK, he ended up with a bloody nose, but it was justifiable.’

  ‘I know, it’s quite mad, but he claims Giorgio’s actions have given him whiplash. And, wait for this, he’s caused him psychological harm.’

  ‘God, the man is crazy. What was he doing in my house anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know what his excuse is. I’m sure his wife has come up with something plausible. Apparently she’s firmly standing by her man. And they do have a good lawyer.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Michael, I feel awful. None of this would’ve happened if—’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, it’s all right. I’m sure we’ll have a good laugh about it once it’s over.’

  ‘I really don’t feel like laughing now.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. Listen, do you fancy coming over tonight? Giorgio and I are having a small party.’

  ‘Thanks so much, honey, but I think I need some time to myself. To count my sheep . . .’

  ‘. . . instead of your blessings. Or was it the other way round in the song?’ Michael chuckles. ‘I totally understand. But do come if you change your mind.’

  ‘I will, thank you.’

  Before I put my phone down I check the time. Good grief, it’s nearly 11 a.m. I’ve slept for five hours. I’m surprised Wispa didn’t come to wake me up, demanding her morning walk. I jump out of bed, driven by a feeling of guilt. Before I take Wispa for a run I dial DCI Jones’s number. My call goes straight to her voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. I’m actually not sure what to say to her.

  It’s a glorious autumn day outside and Wispa and I are heading for the Heath. As we trot down Fitzroy Park, my mind begins to clear and I’m able to focus on the events of the last twenty-four hours. Why was Tom trying to break into my house? He’d always seemed like a nice and friendly guy. And then there is Samantha, the quiet powerhouse of the Collins household, standing by her man, for better or worse. The woman who knows my secret. Except it’s not a secret any more, since I spilled my guts to DCI Jones. I have a feeling all these elements are somehow connected, that there is some devious logic to everything that’s been happening to me recently but, whatever it is, it eludes me.

  As we enter the Heath, its autumnal beauty takes my breath away. The pond shimmers in the warm sunshine, black coots dotting its surface. There are a lot of people milling around, dog walkers, joggers, families with kids, all grabbing the last rays of sun before the winter gloom descends on the scene. I run up the hill at full speed, then slow down before turning off into the woods. It’s much darker here and almost empty, most of the walkers staying out in the sunshine. A shiver runs through me and I stop abruptly. The damp chill smells of rotting leaves, decaying matter, mouldy earth. The smell of death. Somewhere in these woods the Dior Man spent his last moments, fighting for his life, gasping for breath, slipping into unconsciousness, darkness closing in around him. I don’t know how he died; the details have been kept confidential by the police and I haven’t asked DCI Jones. I don’t want to know. I want to remember him alive. I suddenly feel cold, despite my heart pounding furiously. I can’t shake off the feeling there is someone lurking in the shadows of the bushes, watching me, following my every step. I know there is a rapist and a murderer still out there somewhere, and yet I’m drawn to the place, unable to resist its pull. I whistle quietly at Wispa, who’s rummaging in the damp leaves ahead of me. She comes back instantly, her tail wagging. Whatever I feel must be a product of my imagination then, I tell myself, but the sense of danger persists. I cast a quick glance behind me and start walking backwards towards the brightness of the open space. I keep my eye on the dark bushes, listening for any noise, bracing myself for something terrible I’m convinced is just about to happen. A branch cracks under my foot, I slip in the mud and fall backwards, landing hard on the ground. I’m back on my feet instantly, breathless and shaking. The safety of the open meadow with other people in it is only a few steps away. I turn and run towards it, followed by a bouncing Wispa. The brightness and warmth of the sunshine hits me, but I keep running at full speed until I see other people – a teenager with a kite, a female runner in a pink outfit, an elderly couple with an elderly dog, a family with screaming kids. I run towards noise and movement, towards safety and life.

  I don’t stop until I’m back by the ponds, where a small crowd has gathered by an RSPB tent. I walk towards the display board, purely to feel the proximity of other people. I surround myself with the comforting fraternity of birdwatchers and stare at the display board, not see
ing any detail, concentrating on my breathing and heartbeat. Once my pulse slows down I continue up Merton Lane, careful to have other people in my line of vision all the time.

  When I get home I look up the number for the local locksmith and request an emergency visit to change the locks. They seem very busy, but when I say I don’t mind paying double the call-out charge to have it done as soon as possible, they agree to send someone straight away. I must also call Dennis, my handyman, to have a look at the guttering damaged in last night’s scuffle. I’ll have him check the garden fence and maybe install some barbed wire in the most vulnerable spots. I know that if an intruder wants to break into my house he’ll find a way anyway, but having done something about the security of my home makes me feel better.

  The locksmith is the same guy who came to my house before. If he is surprised by the frequency with which I change my locks, he doesn’t show it, just gets on with the job. Twenty minutes later he hands me a new set of keys, takes my cheque and tells me with a grin that he’ll see me again soon. I lock the door behind him, check if the garden doors are locked as well, and get into the shower. I stand under the hot stream of water until all the mirrors are steamed up and the bathroom feels like a sauna. The rest of the house seems cold compared with it. I go to the kitchen and make scrambled eggs with chorizo and mushrooms. As the comfort food settles in my stomach I begin to relax at last. I’m determined to have a normal Saturday, catch up on calling friends, cook a simple dinner, watch a movie on iPlayer.

  The doorbell sets my heartbeat racing again. Wispa rushes to the hallway, barking, but with her tail wagging. It’s someone she knows. I put the chain on and crack the door open. It’s DCI Jones, in her fleecy weekend attire. When I open the door for her I catch a glimpse of her red Mini parked behind my car. She apologizes for calling in unannounced, but I assure her it’s fine. I offer her a coffee, which she accepts, and settles at my kitchen table.

  ‘We’ve got Tom Collins in custody,’ she says without preamble.