by Adele Parks
Try as I might, I can’t remember anything after that. Maybe someone attacked me from behind. The park is generally pretty empty at that time of the morning; the dog walkers have been and gone, as have the school kids trailing into school but it’s too early for the young mums with their designer buggies to be heading off to baby yoga or baby music classes. It is possible I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when this psychopath struck, hit me, dragged me into his car. You do read about such things. I’m more aware than most that life is strange. Have I just been unlucky?
My gaze falls onto the water bottle, it is a supermarket own brand, sparkling. I then pick up the notes and reread them.
I am not the villain here.
Who will come for you? Your husband?
The words make me glance down at my left hand. How have I not noticed before? I’m not wearing any rings. I normally change my rings over just after I leave Fiona. Routine is very important in my world. Is it possible that I was attacked as I slipped off Mark’s ring before I put on Daan’s? Was I robbed? Daan’s rings are particularly valuable. I’m always vaguely nervous when I wear them. The engagement ring is three enormous diamonds jostling for space on a platinum band, the wedding ring is also studded with diamonds. Mark’s rings are more modest. A plain gold band for the wedding ring, a small solitaire for the engagement. I always wear my rings.
One set or the other.
The only time I have gone a day not wearing rings was the day I met Daan. My rings were at the jeweller’s, because the stone in my engagement ring had come loose and whilst it was being fixed the jeweller suggested he give them both a clean. They were only supposed to be there for an hour, but the day didn’t turn out as expected. I sometimes wonder how different my life might be if I’d been wearing my rings that day.
Something occurs to me. Understanding seeps in. It is like icy water being slowly poured over my head, shoulders, arms. It pools around my feet, engulfs me. I might drown.
I am left-handed. If I were restraining someone, anyone, I would chain them up by their dominant hand. Generally speaking, that is a person’s right hand, but I’ve been tied by my left. My captor knows I am left-handed. He knows I prefer to drink sparkling water over still. The realisation is horrifying.
I was not robbed. I was not attacked by a random psychopath.
I know my captor.
Who will come for you? Your husband?
‘Mark?’ Silence. ‘Daan?’ Nothing.
I feel sick. Weak. My body turns to liquid and shivers crawl through my soul like spiders disturbed, scampering from a dusty corner. I have thought about this moment a thousand times and every time I have thought about it, I’ve closed my eyes, batted away the inevitable shame, pain, horror. I knew it could not last forever, the life I have constructed.
The lives.
I have always thought I would get found out. Confronted. No matter how much care I took. I assumed one day one of them would find the spare phone, or trail me, that I’d lose track of my supposed whereabouts, slip up when giving an ordinary day-to-day account of what I’d been doing with myself.
I thought I might call out the wrong name during sex.
I imagined that when it happened, I would be screamed at, thrown out, exposed, vilified. I have always been so terrified that Mark would tell the boys, and that I would lose them completely because they’d be utterly disgusted by me. That they would feel betrayed. I have braced myself to face anger, recriminations, hurt. I suppose some part of my brain knew I would one day have to throw myself on their mercy, beg for forgiveness. Forgiveness that most likely would not come. I expected them to hurl abuse, ask me to leave, or to leave me. I didn’t think I’d win. Not really, not in the long term.
But I did not expect this.
I shake my head in disbelief. My mind is a mess, mushed and oozing thoughts when usually I am able to be clear and to divide my thoughts into discrete sections.
Could one of my husbands have brought me here?
Neither of my husbands is a violent man.
But they both like their own way.
I have seen both inwardly rage. Outwardly rage too, on rare occasions. Mark when he feels the boys have been mistreated or cheated, Daan because of work stuff. I have seen gritted teeth, clenched fists bang down on tables, fogs of fury, sprays of saliva shower, expletives spat out. But ultimately, both men regain control of their tempers before things ever go too far. They are not thugs. I have never seen either strike flesh. Neither of them would do this to me – bind me, imprison me, practically starve me. Would they?
Honestly, do I know what either is capable of? They have not known what I am capable of.
My body flashes with heat, shame or panic, as I begin to understand what this means. My sweat almost instantly freezes on my skin and I feel both hot and chilled to the bone, an expression that is bandied about but, for the first time in my life, I understand it. I feel so cold, I could be dead. It might be better if I were. I am exposed, stripped. The lack of food is making it difficult for me to think straight. My stomach grumbles and I drop my head into my hands. I wish he’d give me some food. He. Him. Which one?
Which one of my husbands brought me here?
Mark teases me about getting hangry, says that I behave worse than the boys if I am not fed regularly. Whenever we set off for a long walk or drive, he always asks if I have enough snacks with me, commenting that I’ll be a bitch when reading the map or that I’ll fall out with the satnav, if I am peckish. He sometimes grabs an extra bag of crisps out of the treat drawer and tosses them my way as I fasten my seatbelt. ‘Just in case.’
Daan teases me too. He identified that if I am hungry, I lose concentration, that I don’t operate at my optimal. Something he exploits, he will sometimes challenge me to a game of chess or cards when I’m waiting for supper. He does so as a joke but also because he likes to win and doesn’t have any qualms about utilising an advantage.
They are both right. Same me, different identifiable consequence. Anger. Lack of concentration. Both debilitating. I force myself to stay calm, to concentrate. I need to try to make a plan. I should appeal, say I am sorry. But which one am I talking to? Both men are so different. Not knowing who I am dealing with stops me knowing what to say. Who should I be? The sensible mum that solves everything, looks after everyone, always knows where the lost football shorts are? Or the sexy, cool, independent wife, who has to meet few demands or expectations other than to be interested, interesting, adorable and adoring. I don’t know how to start my apologies, my explanations. I don’t know who to be. I don’t know who I am.
Frustrated, frightened, I begin to shake so hard I think he might be able to hear my bones rattle. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I whisper through the door, through the walls. That is true. Whoever I am talking to, that much is true.
Rat-tat-tat. The typewriter keys spring into action. I listen as the paper is pulled from the machine, there’s shuffling as it is pushed under the door.
You are going to be.
The words punch me. My tears seem to dry instantly on my cheeks, no more fresh ones fall as terror surges through my body, great waves like passion but spiteful. So brutal, so raw. This is more than a threat; it is a promise. Of course. What did I expect? I never thought it could last forever. That would require infinite luck. I should have listened to my mother, who always told me I am not a lucky person. But I wanted my father to be right. He held the opposite view. He dismissed that acceptance of one’s lot with a bored impatience. He declared that you could make your own luck, and you should. All it took, he said, was courage, determination and resilience. My dad pleased himself. My mum pleased no one. My dad was untouchable. My mum was described by nosy neighbours and exasperated distant relatives as ‘touched’. An old-fashioned word for mentally ill.
So, I tried my father’s way. I tried to make my own luck.
I think my mother was right.
I suppose some people might believe I deserve to be
locked up, and maybe I do because what I’ve done is a criminal offence but not like this. Not chained, not starved.
Which one of them hates me so much he would do this to me?
Which one of them loves me so much?
‘Take me to the police!’ I yell. ‘I’ll face it, I’ll admit everything. I won’t tell them you brought me here.’ I listen carefully, but the typewriter stays silent. All I hear is the sound of footsteps, someone walking away.
I am alone.
18
DC Clements
Friday 20th March
‘Did I wake you?’ Detective Constable Clements asks as the doors of the lift gently swoosh open and she is faced with Daan Janssen bare-chested, wearing nothing other than tracker bottoms. He yawns, stretches, raises his arms above his head, treating her to a flash of blond thatches of pit hair. Other than those, and a gentle trail that disappears down from his navel, he is smooth. Her preference is for smooth men. She can smell his pheromones, it disconcerts her.
‘I haven’t slept. Coffee?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer but walks through to the kitchen. She follows. She already has the sense that this man leads, others follow. She mentally adds it to the profile she is drawing of him. ‘I haven’t slept well for days,’ he tells her as he starts to move around the kitchen preparing coffee in a big, shiny, no doubt top-of-the-range Nespresso machine. ‘Normally when my wife is away visiting her mother, I throw myself into my work, take the overseas meetings, visit the gym, catch up with one or two people to keep myself busy. But this week it has been different. I’ve been agitated. First, because I thought Pam was ill and then because I became increasingly certain something was off. I am not wrong, am I? That’s why you are back here.’
Clements chooses not to answer the question straight away, instead she asks one of her own. ‘So, Kai is regularly away from home?’
‘Yes. Most weeks she’s away for half the week, looking after her mother.’
‘How do you both manage? Her being away so much? It must affect your relationship.’
‘You know, our friends occasionally ask the same question. I am quite used to it, normally I even enjoy it. Truthfully, I guess we’re a little smug about it.’
‘Smug?’
‘We’re secretly convinced that somehow we are in a better place than couples who need to live in one another’s pockets. You know? Cooler than people who do not respect each other’s independence.’ He grins, almost apologetically, probably for using a word like ‘cooler’, thinks Clements harshly. ‘The space between us works well for us.’
He hands Clements a coffee. He hasn’t asked her how she takes it. She likes an Americano. She sees that is what he has prepared for her. She takes one sugar. She sips. It is sweetened. She doesn’t know how he guessed. Is she that predictable? Or is he that brilliant? There is something about him that makes you believe he knows you, understands you – which is always seductive. This power is both flattering and bewildering. Clements is glad she has clocked it, armed herself against it. Could he perhaps be drawing a profile on her, the way she is on him? Clever people do that with one another: assess, surmise, in order to stay in control, stay a step ahead. It’s a talent. A skill.
A problem?
Clements watches him very carefully as she explains how much his charming skill of knowing a person – staying a step ahead – failed when it came to his own wife, the person he should be most intimate with. She breaks it to him that it is not just a matter of him not knowing where Kai is, it is a matter of him not knowing who she is.
His wife’s name is not Kai Janssen. She is Leigh Fletcher. Formally Kylie Gillingham. Daughter of Pamela Gillingham who does exist but does not live in the north of England and is not beleaguered with Alzheimer’s. She lives in Perth, Australia – moved back there two years ago – and is in hail health. Clements tells him, as gently as is possible, that rather than tending her mother Kai, Leigh, Kylie – whatever you want to call her – was living just a few miles away, for half the week, every week with her other husband, Mark Fletcher. Clements concludes, ‘But she is missing from that home too.’ And as she is revealing this information, Clements is carefully studying Daan Janssen as though he is a cell under a microscope. Because Clements wants to know, is this news to him? Or was he already aware of his wife’s treachery?
He doesn’t react. He doesn’t move or break eye contact, he doesn’t swear, punch a wall, or cry. Clements notes his remarkable self-control. When Clements stops speaking there is a silence that stretches for two or three minutes. He breaks it. ‘I see. Another coffee?’ Clements nods. Not because she wants another coffee but because she recognises his human need to do something, occupy himself. When his back is to her and he’s putting water into the machine he asks, ‘Are there any children?’
‘Two stepsons. She adopted them when she married Mark Fletcher as their birth mother is deceased.’
He turns to her. Excited? Relieved? ‘You see, that can’t be right. Kai has never wanted kids.’ Clements waits a beat. Doesn’t have to add, she didn’t want them with you. She didn’t want any more so as to avoid complicating things further. He is a clever enough guy to work it out. She watches his face as he takes just a fraction of a moment to reach the realisation.
‘You’re sure about all this you are telling me?’
‘After you showed me Kai’s photo last night, I went back to the station to do some digging. We’ve checked phone records, employment records, birth and marriage certificates, National Insurance numbers. There is no room for doubt. Kai and Leigh are one and the same woman.’
He nods, draws himself up a little taller. Other men might have collapsed, deflated. Daan grows.
‘Why do you think she did this?’ he asks.
Clements doesn’t know the answer. She doesn’t even think it’s the relevant question. ‘I’m more interested in where she is now.’
‘Well, isn’t it obvious?’ His mouth twitches in irritation. Clements gets the feeling this man thinks everyone is a little slow for him. His pride must be deeply wounded to know he has been the slow one, he will want to reassert himself. ‘She’s found the whole thing too stressful, so she’s thrown in the towel on us both. Most likely moved on to someone new altogether.’
Clements nods. ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘A probability,’ Daan Janssen asserts. He passes the DC her second coffee, which she sips hurriedly even though it is too hot and scalds her mouth. ‘I suppose, as the second husband I’m not a husband at all so this matter no longer concerns me.’
‘Well, it’s not as simple as all that.’ Clements remembers how Janssen presented himself on their first meeting, he was distraught. She doesn’t feel comfortable with his ability – real or feigned – to file this away so neatly and quickly.
‘I’ll consult a lawyer, but I imagine it is. I was with a woman, she has gone. A grown adult walking away from a duplicitous relationship can’t be a police matter.’
‘A crime has been committed.’
‘I have no interest in pressing charges. Anyway, how can we? She has vanished.’
‘Yes, she has.’
Daan Janssen picks up DC Clements’ cup, it is still half-full. He throws the coffee in the sink, rinses the cup, places it carefully upside down on the drainer. ‘I’ll walk you to the door.’
The police officer is not used to being ejected from buildings; it is usually her job to move people on. She tries to reassert herself as they wait at the lift. ‘You will contact us if you hear from her?’
‘Of course.’ The lift arrives, the doors swish open. Then Daan says, ‘And be sure to let me know if a body turns up.’
19
Kylie
Wednesday 18th March
I doze off and when I wake up – bleary-eyed, still woozy, scared – there is food and more water. The relief is prodigious even though this time the water is still, and the tray is laden with all the food I like least. Liver pâté, cucumber batons (I note they actually came i
n a pack with carrots, which I do like, but the carrots have been removed), cheese and onion crisps (which are the only crisps I don’t like to eat) and three cold, tinned hot dogs. I stare at the tray for a nanosecond, surprised by the petty cruelty. This meal has been selected to bring me the least possible comfort or pleasure. These are foods both men know I actively dislike. Which of my husbands would go to the effort of shopping for food that I hate? Then I wonder at myself for being surprised. Whichever it is, he has locked me up; clearly, we’re not friends.
I am starving. My best guess is that it’s Wednesday lunchtime but it’s hard to be sure. The room is really dark, some light comes from around the boarded window and from under the door. There are two small, recessed ceiling lights, but I can’t reach the switch. I last ate on Monday morning; I didn’t even finish the entire slice of cake then. I hungrily bite the hot dogs. There is no cutlery. I’m not sure if I’m being denied cutlery because I might make a weapon of a fork, or to dehumanise me. I feel filthy using my fingers to eat as I’ve been forced to pee in the bucket and there is obviously no place to wash my hands. I use the cucumber to spoon the pâté into my mouth and although the taste makes me want to gag the hunger is stronger than either preference or fastidiousness.
‘Thank you for lunch,’ I yell at the door. I try to sound pleasant, at best I achieve neutral. I can’t let anger or fear leak into my voice. ‘Who am I talking to?’ My question sounds reedy, needy, pathetic but it does at least get a response. I hear the keys of the typewriter being struck.
