by David Mark
When the knock at the door penetrates her consciousness she’s halfway through her first attempt at a blog post for Bipped. She suddenly feels as though she has a lot to say. She needs advice, sure, but she wants to share, too. She wants to hear that the things she is imagining doing, are not an act of self-sabotage. She wants to know that she can trust her feelings. Wants to be told that she should go for it, or believe in herself, or at the very least, have a nasty argument with some dissenting voice who tells her she’s being selfish and cruel and should be grateful for what she has.
‘I think that was the door,’ says Anya, munching her second scone and licking jam off her lips. ‘I can get it, if you …’
Liz fills up with a flood of desperate optimism. Might it be him? Could he have tracked her down? Could he be standing on the doorstep, rain on his shoulders, a shy smile on his face, wondering whether she might be free to go for a walk: an old-fashioned suitor turning his hat in nervous hands. Oh God, what about Anya? How can she buy her silence? What excuse can she make up to be allowed to do what she wants most?
She runs from the sofa as if fleeing an attacker. Smooths herself down in the mirror by the hall, noticing the pink circles on her cheeks. She looks OK. Jeans, a baggy jumper, hair artfully mussed. She yanks at the door handle. Turns it the wrong way, then makes a meal of doing it right. She’s laughing at herself as she pulls open the door and lets in the crisp blue light of the day.
‘Well, hello …’
The man on the doorstep isn’t Jude. He’s taller. There’s a harshness to him; a slab of meaty face scored through with deep lines that drag down the corners of his mouth. His nose, a crooked beak, makes her think of a budgerigar. He’s wearing a dark jacket, a logo on the lapel, with black jeans and boots.
‘You’ll be Elizabeth,’ he says, and his accent doesn’t match his appearance. ‘Zahavi? Am I saying that right?’
Liz grew up in a series of environments where a knock on the door was an augur of bad times ahead. Bailiffs. Coppers. Debt collectors. Social workers. The bad lads from the flats, asking for a little favour or trying to track down Mum. These past years, Liz has managed to persuade herself that not all unexpected guests are after something bad. She routinely answers the door with her best smile, prepared to give generously to charity collectors or door-to-door salesmen (if such a glorious anachronism should find its way to leafy Durham) and each Halloween she makes more of an effort with her costume than most of the kids who come and knock on the glass. But there is something about this man who strips away her more recent experiences and puts her back in that stinking corridor, hiding behind a plywood door, bolted and triple-locked; listening to boot after boot thudding against the wood, her hand over Carly’s mouth, tears stabbing at her eyes as she waits for the return of silence and safety.
‘Zahavi, yes,’ says Liz, and keeps the door open just far enough to see out. He’s standing on the neatly tiled porch, casting a lazy eye over the brickwork, the double-glazed bay window. He’s sizing them up. Pricing them up. Weighing the value of the house and its contents. Behind him, a blue van idles at the kerb. She can’t see its occupants without extending her neck.
‘Thought I had the right place. That’s good. Any chance I can come in?’
Liz pulls a face: confused, an embarrassed Englishwoman frightfully sorry to not be entirely au fait with the particulars of the enquiry. ‘Sorry, what’s it regarding?’
‘Rather not do it on the street, love. Neighbours around here are the sort who get a hard-on over the clarity of their security cameras. Probably some prick buzzing us with a spy-drone as we speak.’
‘Sorry, I’m in the middle of something. My partner should be back in a second …’
‘Will he?’ says the man, and something like a smile pulls at his mouth. ‘Fair enough, I’m just trying to do as I was asked. Your blushes, not mine.’
Liz stiffens as he reaches into the waistband of his jeans. Scenes from a dozen different movies play out in her mind.
‘Here you go,’ says the man, and hands her a square envelope. It’s tied with a length of soft leather, elegantly double-knotted. ‘Go on then, I’ve got places to be.’
Curiosity gets the better of her. She reaches out and takes the package. The envelope has a creamy texture, as if it’s been handled by somebody wearing lotion. ‘What are you giving me? Is it for Jay?’
‘I just do the drop-offs and the pick-ups,’ he says, shrugging. ‘More pick-ups, if I’m honest, and few areas quite so nice. I’ll not keep you any longer – not if you’re expecting the hubby home.’ He gives a nod, an oddly courteous gesture, then walks briskly back down the drive. Liz watches him climb into the passenger side of the van. A moment later it pulls away. Liz retreats inside.
She sits on the bottom step for some time, unusually cautious about opening the package. She keeps glancing at her phone. She realizes she’s missed a call from Jay. Suddenly remembers that she never got round to actually phoning Anya’s school to report her absent. There’s a voicemail from an unknown number. Nothing helpful.
‘Sod it,’ she mutters.
The leather is soft as calfskin. The envelope smells of bergamot and lavender. She unties it, deftly, and opens the flap with one eye closed, braced in case she has somehow been chosen as a target for a group of polite and unambitious letter-bombers.
Inside the envelope, a stack of notes. Four fifties, and the rest in twenties, neatly stacked and wedged together with a silver clip embossed with a flower. Her heart quickens as she slides the money out on to the step. Behind it is a plain white piece of card, the edges embossed with a gold fleur-de-lis.
An apology. Not an acceptance of guilt, you understand, but a way to put a nasty business behind us. If I was at all discourteous following our meeting yesterday then I will ask you to forgive an ageing man with frayed nerves. Yours, CLC.
Liz reads it through twice. Counts the money. An even four thousand pounds. Tries to think of any way it could be from Jude. It’s not. She knows, at once, it’s from Campion Lorton-Cave. It’s a silencer. A bribe. A bung. He’s sobered up, realized what he has to lose, and decided to dip into his deep pockets and fling her a sweetener.
The money feels magnificent in her hands. She rubs it between finger and thumb. Machine fresh. He must have drawn it out specially. But how had he known where to find her? Her full name? She answers the questions as soon as she poses them. She’s very much at home in the digital age. Every bit of personal information can be found online if you just know where to look. He’ll have taken a picture of her licence plate while they were still imperilled on the slick hillside. A close-up of the rear window would have shown the pile of unopened post she routinely flings into the car when leaving the house in a hurry. Name, address, even a postcode if you could get the resolution high enough on the screenshot. It makes sense, she thinks.
‘Are you coming back in, Liz?’
‘Just a moment,’ she yells, startled, in reply to Anya’s question.
‘Dad’s forgotten his laptop, by the way. It’s pinging away under the sofa. Do you think he’ll be mad? He guards it like it’s made of gold.’
It takes a moment for Liz to get a hold of herself. She knows she should call the police at once. Tell them that a strange man has just delivered her some cash, clearly intended to bribe her into staying silent about the alcohol on the breath of the country gent who ran her off the road. But would they believe her? She’s a proven hysteric. She gets paranoid, can’t control her moods; can’t always decipher the truth from the fantasy and is only six weeks removed from a suicide attempt. She has nothing to lose by taking the money. Nothing to lose, and four grand to gain. Four thousand pounds. Not a fortune, but enough for a little car and plenty change left over to keep her head above water for a little while. Would he come looking for her, she wonders? Would Jay actually bother himself to try and track her down?
She tucks the money back in the envelope, re-wraps it with the thong and slips the package into the wa
ist of her jeans, the way she had seen the courier do. It feels rather pleasant, like the palm of a lover pressed softly against her tailbone.
Her phone bleeps as she makes her way to the living room.
I can’t concentrate. Need to see you. Can we meet?
A delightful shiver runs through her, as if her skeleton were suddenly conducting electricity. She knows what the answer will be but she can’t rush her reply. Something else, something even more important, is clanging a big metal bell at the centre of her head, a demented town crier desperate to be acknowledged.
His laptop! He’s forgotten his laptop! And if it’s bleeping, it might be unlocked …
She’s so excited, she wonders if she’ll even be able to type.
Fancies that she will muddle through.
THIRTEEN
A little after four p.m., Carly arrives to take Anya back to her place. Jay’s house is no longer a good environment for a child. Liz had been able to communicate that much, at least, during the last of their stuttering phone calls: crying and wailing and blowing bubbles of snot and tears into the handset. She’d used words that Carly hadn’t heard since they were children. Carly had told her not to do anything rash. Said she’d be there as quickly as she could. Insisted that Anya be put on the line and managed to persuade Liz to promise on an orphan’s eyes that she had no plans to start necking painkillers and vodka. Liz had agreed to the terms of the pact: a curious hangover from a childhood where a promise counted for nought unless somebody’s eyes were at risk.
Liz has done most of this evening’s self-destruction away from prying eyes. Anya has been in the living room most of the day, working her way through box sets and occasionally venturing into the kitchen to make healthy snacks without leaving so much as a crumb or a dirty knife to offend her father’s sense of order.
Liz has been upstairs, tucked away in their bedroom, working her way through Jay’s internet history, his emails, his bank statements and private correspondence. Her phone has rung endlessly. Jay has called more times in the past few hours than during the rest of the year combined. She takes a perverse enjoyment in picturing his face: blushing crimson, a little boy caught out.
Bing
Beep
Brrrr-brrrr: the landline joining in.
She knows that he knows. He’s realized that he’s left his laptop at home. Knows that she will have been unable to help herself from poking around inside: as inviting as an open diary. Knows, too, that she will have peeled away the carapace of what he shows to the world, and feasted her senses on the rotting malignancy beneath. And he knows that there will be a price to pay.
All this time! All this time believing he would come apart if she left him; believing that underneath his meanness and greyness there lurked something like true love; that for all his faults he was a good and reliable man who put up with more than most and who did at least appreciate that, on her good days, she was somebody worth keeping around.
‘Christ, you look like somebody’s taken a hammer to a badger,’ says Carly, cautiously poking her head around the bedroom door. She’s still wearing her work uniform; muddy-blonde hair escaping her ponytail like fronds of seagrass. ‘Come with me. Spend a night or two on the sofa. Let me look after you …’
‘I don’t need looking after,’ hisses Liz, teeth locked. The pain in her neck and shoulders is intense, a dull agony; mean fingers kneading at her skull as if probing for weakness.
‘I know you don’t,’ says Carly, entering the room in increments. She looks around, weighing up the décor. ‘Is this the Passion Palace? It’s a bit, well, Travelodge. Not very you, is it?’
‘He likes it plain.’
‘And you like it loud and chaotic.’
‘I don’t know what I like. But I let him have everything he wanted. I’ve never been a nag to him, never tried to guilt-trip him in to being different and by Christ you know I’m good at playing that game – I learned from the best.’
Carly fully enters the room. She can’t seem to work out what facial expression to pull so she just stands there, distractedly picking at a mole on her forearm. ‘People stray. You’ve strayed.’
‘Not once,’ says Liz, shaking her head. ‘Not properly.’
‘Come on, those text messages you were sharing with the writer bloke you met at the gallery? You may not have done anything physically but you went all the way in your head.’
‘I just needed … something. Something has to be better than nothing, doesn’t it?’
‘And you got proper funny over that girl. Izzy, was it? Moroccan-looking lass? When she started going out with your ex, that soppy prick Ryan? You lost it over that. It’s no wonder Jay smashed up your phone, Liz.’
‘Well, this is so fucking helpful!’ spits Liz, turning away and throwing herself on to the bed, holding the pillow to her face. She doesn’t need to be reminded of her own foolishness. She’s already mortified about the whole shameful debacle with Izzy. She’d set up fake social media profiles, uploaded screen-grabbed images, stalked every aspect of a stranger’s life, just because she had learned that a partner she no longer cared about was ‘blissfully happy’ with his new romantic interest. Liz had posed as a tattooist from Vancouver. Her name was Roy. Into Harley Davidsons and Foo Fighters and brimming over with compliments about Izzy’s tattoos, her eye make-up, the way her eyes glittered like fireflies whenever she sent him pictures last thing at night: her boyfriend’s shoulder in the back of the shot, dozing serenely while his blissful happiness was quietly torn apart. It had all come out in the end. Liz had owned up. By then Izzy was as obsessed with ‘Roy’ as Liz had pretended to be with Izzy. Guilty, Liz had eventually sent all their messages to Ryan: thousands of raunchy texts and photographs. She still feels bad, sometimes. Misses Izzy. Misses being Roy.
‘I’m not judging you, Liz. You’re ill. This is how you are. But this stuff you’ve found, surely it has to be a good thing. You’ve been looking for a way out – you’ve always had one foot out the door.’
‘He’s got six different accounts full of money, Carly! And he makes me live on handouts and then be grateful!’
‘You’ve made mistakes before, Liz. And it’s his money, isn’t it? I mean, he looks after you.’
Liz sits bolt upright, genuinely intent on doing harm. Carly is already braced for the blow. Liz stops herself at the last moment. Sees her phone, buzzing merrily away, at the foot of the bed.
Carly, grateful for the distraction, glances at the screen. ‘Jude,’ she reads. ‘Who’s Jude? Is that your farmer?’
Liz lays back down, her body language stating in no uncertain terms that the conversation is over. Carly waits a moment then lifts herself off, all sighs and long-suffering martyrdom.
‘If you want to talk to me I’m just a phone call away. Whatever you decide, you’re not on your own. You’re my big sister and I love you but for God’s sake try and work out what it is you actually want. It’s not all roses and rainbows, Liz. Real life gets in the way. And you’ve got what so many people would want. You’ve got a roof, and nice things, and all you have to do is keep things tidy. I know it’s not thrilling but every time you try something exciting it’s too much for you and you end up breaking down. You’re trying to get well and I admire that but sometimes do you not think that you’d be better just getting on with it all?’ She pauses, as if trying to decide on a good exit line. ‘Maybe a baby is what you need?’
Liz screams. Scrunches up, foetal. Can’t bring herself to speak. Doesn’t move again until she hears the front door close.
She sips water from the beaker at the side of the bed. The strange jangling sound in her head is getting worse: a weird kind of arcade game beeping sound every time she turns her neck. The phone is ringing again. Jay, this time.
She slides her hand under the pillow and touches the stack of notes.
The latop, the source of so much rage, is on the bottom stair so that it will be the first thing Jay sees when he walks in. When he touches a key or moves
his finger over the mouse he’ll be greeted with the sight that will, she hopes, bring him to his knees. She could have chosen any one of the websites that he has been routinely visiting. Could have called up the details of any one of the camgirls to whom he has been paying handsome sums: dropping digital currency in the slots of blonde Americans with names like Gaby, Kandiss and Allura. Barbie girls: fake tits and big lips, waxed to a level of pink hairlessness that Liz has tried herself, in an effort to tempt him, and which led to nothing more than awkward silences and a painful rash.
She’s found his chain of messages. It’s clear her hard-working partner spends most of his day with his hand in his pants: having explicit chats with men – and women – from all over the world. He’s shared with them what he likes. What he wants to do to girls like Gaby and Kandiss and Allura. What he does to himself while enjoying their attentions. There are pictures, before, during and after. They’re quite artful, in their way.
As much as she would like to make him blush about his sexual hobbies, they are not the source of her rage. Her disgust is entirely down to what he has to say for himself when masquerading as Bluejay_225 – a regular contributor to a social media group set up to support the long-suffering spouses of people diagnosed with BPD.
She can see his words swimming, muzzily, on the air in front of her. Can repeat it almost from memory. One post, among the thousands he has bashed out in a spirit of frothing self-pity and outright fucking lies!
Me again, back to strike a blow for common sense. Does anybody else think that this whole ‘I’ve got a syndrome’ thing is just victim culture taken to the extreme? I’m sick of people behaving like absolute evil bitches and then taking no accountability. I swear she wakes up in the morning and the first thing she asks herself is how she can drive me to the verge of insanity and then play the victim. She’s so clingy and needy it makes my stomach heave, then if I do summon up the courage – and watch enough porn to get myself ready! – then she’ll find something to argue about, or she will have been slobbing around eating crisps and biscuits and turning her jelly-belly into Santa’s Sack. I gave up even trying to please her ages ago. Now I just have to work out how the hell to get her to piss off when my daughter has such a thing for her, as if she’s kooky and bohemian rather than just some common little scrubber off the estates. Apologies if this seems a bit ranty but she has driven me to the point where all I can fantasize about is coming home and finding her gone, but even then I swear she’s so vengeful she’d find a way to say I’d knocked her about or abused my daughter or convince herself I was secretly a rapist and a serial killer! Stick in there gang, I swear, whoever you’re stuck with can’t be as bad as mine!
