Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

‘Oh, I’m surprised his wife hasn’t got him out yet. As you probably know, she’s accusing Michael’s boyfriend of causing Tom Actual Bodily Harm.’

  ‘Yes.’ She dismisses it with the slightest of shrugs. ‘Anna, what I’m going to tell you isn’t official yet. But I think you deserve to know.’

  She pauses and I hold my breath. Her phone blips, but she ignores it.

  ‘We’ve sent Tom’s DNA sample for analysis to Forensic Science Service. They can process urgent samples in eight hours. We’ve just had the results back.’

  She pauses again and I wait for her to continue, unsure where she’s going with it.

  ‘It’s a match, Anna. A match with the Heath rapes.’

  I stare at her, speechless. This can’t be true.

  ‘This is serious, Anna. We’re checking his alibis for all the dates but it looks like he might be the Heath attacker.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. He’s got a wife and kids . . . He’s a dentist . . .’ As soon as it comes out of my mouth I know how ridiculous it sounds.

  ‘I know.’ DCI Jones smiles sadly. ‘Most rapists appear ordinary and innocuous. Until they attack.’

  ‘Is he – Has he—’ I can’t bring myself to ask whether he’s responsible for the murders as well, but Vic guesses my question.

  ‘We don’t know at this stage, but it’s likely.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ A wave of extreme exhaustion washes over me. I don’t feel shocked or angry, just desperately sad. ‘If only I’d known . . . I could’ve stopped him.’

  ‘No, Anna.’ Vic puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘You couldn’t have. Don’t blame yourself.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why do people commit violent acts?’ She sighs. ‘There are a thousand answers. Because that’s human nature?’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘The usual process: he’ll be charged and kept in custody until the court hearing.’

  ‘He won’t come out on bail?’

  ‘Unlikely, given the seriousness of the crimes.’

  ‘Do you really think he did it?’ I still can’t get my head round what she’s just told me.

  ‘That’s what the evidence is telling us.’ Her phone blips again and she looks at it this time. ‘I’m afraid I have to go. It’s a busy day for us.’

  I close the door behind her and go back to the kitchen. Tom is the Heath rapist. This is not what I’d expected, even after his strange break-in yesterday. I don’t know whether I should allow myself to feel relieved. So much has happened within these last couple of months. Will anything good ever come out of this period of my life? I doubt it.

  I unlock the door to the garden and step out onto the stone-paved patio. The garden looks peaceful, though slightly unkempt. If not for the pieces of broken guttering someone’s put in a neat pile by the fence, there are hardly any signs of yesterday’s struggle. It’s as if nothing has happened here. This is life, I think, erasing any traces of turmoil, growing scar tissue over the wounds, self-healing. I remember Pia is due tomorrow for her gardening blitz. After her visit the garden will look even more tranquil and immaculate, a blank canvas, ready to be painted over with my moods. But it’s not blank, I realize. Even though it looks almost perfect, it carries the memory of yesterday’s fight, the anger and aggression of it. I go back to the kitchen and close the door behind me, but the feeling persists. The house seems claustrophobic and cold, full of menacing vibes, as if some stranger who hates me has moved in, unbeknown to me. I crank the heating up and turn on my Bose sound system. The smooth jazzy sound of Hidden Orchestra fills the rooms, but it’s unable to shift the gloom. I need to get out, clear my head, get some positive energy from other people. I grab my car keys and head out through the door, unsure why I’m doing this or where I’m going. Wispa follows me closely and I have no heart to leave her behind. We both get into my car, one of the rare occasions Wispa’s allowed on the front passenger seat, the place she loves. I drive off, nearly hitting another car that has to brake suddenly to let me out. We go down Highgate Hill, meander around the Archway Gyratory then continue along Holloway Road. Surprisingly for a Saturday afternoon there is very little traffic and we breeze through Highbury Corner, Islington and Shoreditch, and soon reach my improvised destination, Brick Lane. This is where I used to come when I was a fresh-faced and eager freelance producer with no money but plenty of time and ideas that were supposed to lead me onto the red carpet at the Cannes Festival. The red carpet never happened; the dreams of youth got stifled by the pragmatism of comfortable, corporate life.

  I leave the car in a side street, just outside a derelict building decorated with beautiful street art, a combination of paste-up, spray-painting and tags. With Wispa on a short leash, we walk past newly refurbished arty shops and merge with the pedestrian traffic of Brick Lane. It’s busy here, the colourful locals mixing with awestruck tourists, snapping photographs of London life at its most vibrant and genuine. I head straight for the bagel shop at the top of the street and get their salt-beef special with a large dollop of mustard, which I eat outside on a small bench, next to an old man in a bowler hat, who’s been a permanent fixture outside the shop for as long as I remember. It’s Wispa’s lucky day – she gets a big chunk of the beef, which she swallows in one greedy gulp. Our hunger dealt with, we walk back down Brick Lane at a leisurely pace, window shopping. I stop at a quirky clothes shop run by two Italian guys who sell dropcrotch trousers of their own design. Encouraged by the moustachioed Marco, I impulsively buy three pairs of different fabric and design. It’s time I ditched the corporate look and regained some of my past cool street fair. Then it’s time for two stunning jackets in the shop opposite. My retail therapy complete, I head for the cafe at the Vintage Emporium in Bacon Street, a Victorian-style tea room and one of the few places in the area that welcomes dogs. Wispa immediately befriends the resident shaggy greyhound, while I order a cappuccino and a piece of scrumptious-looking coffee and walnut cake. As I soak in the bohemian atmosphere of the place, refusing to look at my iPhone, I feel the stress that has held my body in a vice for the last couple of days is beginning to ease off. This is what I’ve missed all these years stuck behind the corporate desk. And this is what I’m going to regain now. I’ll start an art gallery, I decide. There are still plenty of vacant places for rent in the area. I’ll look for artists who defy pigeonholing and curate exhibitions of urban art, graffiti, paste-up, stencil, spray-paintings, installations. I’ll organize workshops, create a space where artists will be able to work and hang out. That’s what I’m going to do. Perhaps I can rope Michael into my project. Maybe Sue will be tempted as well, although I doubt she’d want to abandon the security of a full-time job because of Olive. As the sugar rush provided by the cake hits me, I feel I’m ready to face the new life head-on.

  By the time Wispa and I emerge from the Vintage Emporium the weather has turned and it’s beginning to rain. We trot back to the car, getting completely soaked in the process. I turn the heating on full blast, enjoying the warmth emanating from the driver’s seat. London traffic follows the changes in the weather, and the rain means instant traffic jams. We crawl back towards Old Street, the car smelling of wet dog.

  An epic hour later we reach Highgate, with an average speed for the whole trip of six miles per hour, the car’s computer tells me. I love weekends in London, but the amount of time one wastes in traffic almost kills the joy of being out and about. Because it’s wet and miserable outside, there isn’t a single parking space free in my street. I drive out to the High Street and do a small loop, returning to my street. Still nothing. I make a bigger loop and suddenly find myself in Tom and Samantha’s street. I cast a glance at their house as I’m passing it. It looks dark and abandoned. Perhaps Samantha has taken the kids to some relative in the countryside, I wonder. That’s what wives of disgraced men do in crime novels, don’t they? There is a car coming in the opposite direction and it means one of us will have to reverse all the way to the end of the street to let the
other one pass. I hate reversing, so I just stop, hoping the other driver is more accommodating. The other car stops too and turns on its headlights. This doesn’t bode well. I’m checking my rear-view mirror to see if I can reverse after all, when the car in front jerks forward and stops, inches from my front bumper. I can see the driver’s face, pale and twisted in anger. It’s Samantha. She glares at me with hatred and I stare back, unsure what to do. Then she opens her door and gets out of her car. I instinctively check if all my car doors are locked. Wispa lets out a warning bark as Samantha approaches my car. She pulls at my door handle, then hits the window with an open palm.

  ‘Are you happy now?’ she shouts at me through the window. ‘Have you come here to gloat?’ I jump as she hits the window again. ‘It’s all your fault, you evil, manipulative bitch! You destroyed him!’

  I sit, paralysed, as Wispa barks madly at Samantha, trying to get to the window, climbing over me.

  ‘He’s not your first, is he? It’s your usual pattern, isn’t it? You play with decent men, you goad them, until they can’t take it any more! I bet it wasn’t your first time at the clinic either!’ Her spit lands on the window, inches from my face. ‘How I wish you never walked into our lives! How I wish you were dead! You malignant, dirty whore!’

  I put the car in reverse and start driving frantically backwards, trying to get away from Samantha. She follows me, hitting the car’s bonnet with her fists. I press on the accelerator pedal, the car veers to the left and the left-hand side mirror catches one of the parked cars. Crystals of broken glass and bits of plastic crunch under the wheels as I keep going back, until I reach the end of the street. As I glance ahead I catch a glimpse of Samantha, standing motionlessly in the middle of the street. Someone’s running towards her, pointing at my car. I reverse into the main street and drive off, wheels screeching on the asphalt. It takes me a while to gather my senses. I find myself driving down Hampstead Lane way above the speed limit, both hands on the wheel, knuckles white. When I try to loosen my grip I realize I’m shaking. Wispa stares at me from her seat, whimpering quietly. I slow down, pull over and switch the engine off. Why on earth did I drive down their street? I want to believe it was a genuine mistake and not some nasty trick of my subconscious. No, I really didn’t think where I was going, I was just looking for a parking space. What a mess. I bet Samantha is going to report it to the police; God only knows what story she’s going to invent about it. That’s all I need now. It’s not enough she blames me for Tom’s behaviour, now she can add a tale of Anna Wright, the deranged stalker, to her list of accusations. I need to call DCI Jones to give her my side of the story before Samantha files her complaint. She’s probably on the phone right now. I’d better act fast. As I turn the engine on, I remember the car I hit while reversing. I should go back and sort it out. I don’t want to set foot again in Samantha’s territory, but it has to be done. I park a few streets away, scribble a note of apology with my phone number on an old postcard I’ve found in the glove compartment, leave Wispa in the car and make a dash for it. At least it’s stopped raining. I tentatively peer into Tom and Samantha’s street. It looks empty. I trot along the parked cars until I see the pieces of broken side mirror on the road. Thankfully, the damaged car is still there. I quickly stick my note behind one of its wipers and run back. I don’t stop until I’m back at my car, where Wispa greets me ecstatically.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I tell her and she seems to agree.

  This time I manage to find a parking spot right in front of my house. Without inspecting the damage to my car I head straight for the door.

  The house feels cold and damp. I lock the front door and put the safety chain on. That’s it, I’m done with the outside world for the day. I turn the heating on and, as the radiators begin to tick with a promise of warmth, I bury myself under the blankets on the sofa, a generous glass of Aberlour in my hand. I know I should call DCI Jones, but I can’t be bothered. The comforting heat of the whisky spreads in my stomach, relaxing my body. As I take another sip, my eyelids start to droop, the shapes of the furniture in the room become blurred and I fall asleep.

  Through the haze of sleep I can hear my phone ring, but my body feels almost paralysed, my limbs too heavy to move. I try to open my eyes, but that too seems like too much of an effort. I float away again, to be woken up by Wispa’s warning bark. She hasn’t moved from her place by the sofa, but her ears are pricked up, her wise eyes alert.

  ‘What is it?’ I want to ask her, but barely manage a mumble. My head is spinning and my body is still too heavy to move. Wispa lets out a low growl, looking at the open door to the hallway. I try to focus, but it’s too dark to see clearly. My heart begins to pound, I push myself up, but my legs fold when I attempt to stand. I fall back on the sofa, panting. Something is wrong with me – food poisoning or maybe I’m having a stroke. Whatever it is, I need help. I frantically search for my phone and find it on the floor by Wispa’s front paws. It takes me a while to focus on the screen, but eventually I manage to dial 999. As the operator enquires which emergency service I need all I manage is a long wail. In desperation I awkwardly stab the ‘end’ button. I put the phone down and try to speak. After a while I succeed in saying a few words and sound just about intelligible. Wispa watches me, ears pricked, curious and uncomprehending. When I can focus on my phone, I clumsily scroll through my contacts and find DCI Jones’s number. She answers immediately and listens patiently to my slow and rambling account of what is happening. Then she tells me DS Kapoor and DC Montgomery are on their way. I put my phone down, relieved I’ve managed to express myself clearly enough for her to understand. Wispa’s lain down by my feet again. I pull the blanket over me and close my eyes. After what seems like a second or two my doorbell rings, its fierce sound cutting through my stupor. My heart is pounding again. Wispa rushes to the hallway, barking. What to do now? I’m picking up my phone, when I hear someone shouting through the letter box.

  ‘Ms Wright? Anna? It’s DS Kapoor!’

  DS Kapoor, what is he doing here?

  ‘Hello,’ I manage to squeak.

  ‘Anna, do let us in!’

  I try to get up, but the whole room sways and spins. I hold on to the sofa until the spinning slows down, then shuffle towards the hallway, my legs heavy and numb.

  ‘Anna!’ DS Kapoor pounds on the door.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I mumble.

  I reach the hallway and move slowly along the wall towards the front door. I can see a blurred shape behind the glass, Wispa barking at it, wagging her tail. It takes me ages to undo the chain and open the door. There is a policewoman standing behind DS Kapoor. She’s tall and blonde, her long hair tied back in a severe ponytail.

  ‘Hello, Anna, this is DC Montgomery. Is it all right if we come in?’

  I nod because it’s too much effort to speak. They gently lead me to the kitchen and sit me down in one of the chairs.

  ‘Can you try telling us what happened?’

  This is hard, because I don’t really know.

  ‘Have you been drinking, Anna?’ asks DC Montgomery. ‘Have you taken anything?’

  I look at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘OK, not to worry.’ DS Kapoor puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘We’d like you to come with us, Anna.’

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘No,’ he smiles. ‘I’d like a doctor to have a look at you.’ He speaks slowly and loudly. Too loudly. ‘Nothing to worry about. But it would be good if you could come with us now. Can you do it for me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say because I like him. ‘But Wispa—’

  ‘I’ll look after her, don’t worry. Can you stand?’

  As I lean on the table and try get up the world spins again and fades to black.

  I wake up feeling uncomfortable. I’m slouched on a hard, blue chair, DS Kapoor and DC Montgomery flanking me on both sides. We’re in a hot and stuffy room, filled with people sitting in rows on blue chairs. There is a p
lasma screen on the wall in front of me, showing what appears to be a commercial for double glazing.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘A&E at the Whittington.’ DS Kapoor smiles at me reassuringly.

  ‘Have I had an accident?’

  ‘You’re OK. We just need a doctor to have a look at you.’

  ‘Why?’

  Before he answers, a swing door on the right opens and a nurse in blue uniform appears, saying my name. DS Kapoor and DC Montgomery hoist me up and I’m being led along a corridor to a small cubicle. There is a bed in it, I notice with relief. The nurse busies herself checking my pulse and blood pressure, then she puts a thermometer in my ear. It feels nice to be lying down.

  I must’ve dozed off because I’m being woken up by someone new. He’s tall and has the crumpled look of someone who hasn’t slept for days.

  ‘Hello, Anna, I’m Doctor Duval and I’m going to have a look at you.’ He speaks with a strong French accent.

  ‘Why am I here? Am I ill?’

  ‘The two nice police officers who brought you here are a bit concerned about you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘We’ll do some tests and then we’ll know more. Nothing to worry about, Anna.’

  He takes my face in his hands and looks at my eyes. It seems extremely strange, but I let him do it. Then he turns towards the nurse and speaks to her in a quiet voice. I feel overwhelmed by tiredness and close my eyes.

  I wake up in a different room and on a different bed. It’s quiet and the lights are dimmed. There is a drip attached to my arm, a bag dangling on a metal pole above my head, translucent liquid travelling down the IV line. I’m in hospital. In the semi-darkness I can see other beds; there are five of us in the room. The woman by the window is snoring loudly. Next to me there is an old, shrivelled lady, her face lined and tired, the shape of her tiny body barely visible under the sheets. I doze off again and am woken up by a loud voice. It’s coming from the bed next to mine.

  ‘And I shall be driving off in my Ferrari,’ says the old lady.