The Life She Wants

by J. M. Hewitt

  He shrugged and turned his smile up a few watts. ‘You worry too much, dear.’

  She thought, hard and fast. She put a hand on his arm, caressed it gently. ‘You’re a smart man. I never trust banks either. But you can’t just leave it there.’ She smiled winningly at him. ‘Would you like me to keep it safe for you?’

  He flapped his hand at her dismissively. ‘No, it’s okay. I like having it where I can see it.’

  Bored now of his big news, he stumbled over to his bed and sat down, patting the cover with a wrinkled hand. ‘Would you like to lie with me a while, Gemma?’

  She forced a smile, moved over to him and plumped up his pillows. ‘Let me just wash up; give me ten minutes and I’ll come and sit with you.’

  No matter how many times it happened, she always gave the same answer, and she always said ‘sit’ when William had said ‘lie’. Occasionally he would be fast asleep when she had run out of stalling time, and she hoped today would be one of those times.

  ‘Don’t be long,’ he called as she left the room.

  Anna paused at the door, her eyes lingering on the black sports bag. ‘I won’t,’ she promised.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, she drummed her fingers on the table, deep in thought. Eighteen thousand pounds in cash, in a bag on the floor just above her head. Briefly she wondered if William would ever count it, and how much she could sneak out of the bag without him knowing.

  Her eyes lit up at the idea, and once again she thought of the woman in the café. She’d bet Paula didn’t have eighteen grand at her disposal, no matter how much money Tommy made in his big important job in the City.

  She was supposed to be clearing the dishes, and she cocked a head towards the ceiling, listening for sounds from William. All was quiet up there, and she reached for her phone. It opened on Paula’s Facebook page, and there was yet another post from the woman.

  Unexpected present from Tommy! And the accompanying photo: tickets for a cruise to Iceland.

  Anna zoomed in, looked at the date on the ticket. Leaving Southampton in seven days. She placed her phone on the table, careful to avoid the gravy spots from William’s messy meal.

  A thump from upstairs, followed by slow, shuffling footsteps. She sighed, pushed herself up from the table and began stacking the plates.

  ‘Gemma!’ William’s voice came from above.

  ‘I’m coming, just clearing the dinner things,’ she called back.

  As she worked, she caught sight of her reflection in the window. A beautiful girl, an expensive dress, covered by an apron spattered with pieces of the old man’s dinner.

  She turned away and pulled the apron off over her head. Bundling it up and throwing it on the table, she walked slowly up the stairs towards William.

  * * *

  He woke early, like all old people seemed to. Anna hadn’t slept, and at close to midnight she’d tried to slip off the bed, but William had heard her, and his big hand had gripped her upper arm and pulled her head back down to the pillow.

  He didn’t say anything; didn’t need to. Reluctantly, she lay by his side, listening to his snores, smelling his scent, a peculiar combination of talc and cooking fat. His hand rested heavily on her thigh, but inch by inch she finally slid out of his grasp and returned to her own bedroom.

  She removed her clothes, sniffing gingerly at the woollen dress. Annoyed, she realised it would need to go to the dry cleaner’s. William could pay for it, she thought bitterly.

  It was six a.m. and still dark when her door creaked open. Always she slept on tenterhooks, knowing that William was prone to wandering, not wanting him to come any closer towards her tiny single bed.

  ‘William?’ She pushed her hair back, pulled the cover up to conceal her nakedness. ‘It’s early. Go back to bed and I’ll make some tea.’

  In the light from the hallway she looked him up and down. He had dressed – well, half dressed – in a greying vest, navy-blue braces holding up his brown trousers. She looked away, across the room, hoping he didn’t see the disgust on her face.

  He shook his head and looked down at the faded carpet. ‘I have to get on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got so much to do.’

  Her mouth twisted, bitter and resentful. What exactly did he have to do? Nothing. She, Anna, did everything. William had nothing in his life: no chores, no hobbies, no friends.

  ‘You haven’t got to do anything,’ she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. ‘Go back to your room. I’ll get up soon and sort us out some breakfast.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he said, and his words were soft and low; his eyes, when he raised them to look at her, troubled. ‘My son is coming over.’

  * * *

  In the darkened lounge, Anna listened as William told her all about his son’s imminent visit.

  Jason was his name. He lived in Spain, managing some restaurants and bars there. In the time she had been working for William, he had never come to visit. As far as she knew, he didn’t call, or write; in fact, the only sign there was a son at all was a Christmas card each year.

  ‘He wants to open another bar, a café bar,’ explained William. ‘And he wants me to go back to Spain with him.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’d like Spain,’ she said. ‘It’ll be too hot for you; you know you don’t like the sun.’

  His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘It might be nice,’ he said. ‘I’d be useful; I could look after the kids while their parents are at work. Jason says they have bingo games every evening, and take naps every afternoon.’ He looked towards the window, at the bitter rain smacking against the pane. ‘He needs me, anyway.’

  Anna sat deep in thought. Suddenly the pieces clicked together. ‘William, are you going to invest in this bar?’ she asked, thinking of the bag of money sitting upstairs.

  He shrugged, glanced at her. ‘I think he could do with a little help from me on that side of it.’

  Of course he could do with help. He wanted nothing to do with his father all year round, but now that there was money involved…

  ‘When is he coming?’ she asked, her mind racing now.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said William. ‘He’s got some business here and then we’ll probably leave in a week.’

  There was more, but he wasn’t saying it. She took a deep breath and walked over to him, sat on the arm of his chair and touched his shoulder. William took a deep breath and scrubbed at his nose. ‘I don’t think he would agree with you being here.’

  Anna’s body went cold.

  ‘I’m your carer,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Yes, but…’ He offered her a watery smile. ‘You’re more than that, Gemma. So much more.’ He planted his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself unsteadily up. ‘I’ve got something for you. A little going-away bonus.’ He jerked his head at her. ‘Come.’

  Half of the money, she thought. I’ll go quietly for half of the money that’s in that bag up there.

  It took an age for them to make it up to the bedroom, and Anna stood primly in the door as William lowered himself to the floor beside the bag. He unzipped it, plucked at a pile of money. As he counted it carefully, Anna looked at the bald spot on the back of his head, the scalp baby-pink and flaky, the hair surrounding it fine and white.

  Finally, he looked up at her, holding out a thin pile of notes with one hand, his other absently rubbing his chest.

  She reached over and took it.

  A hundred quid.

  One measly hundred fucking pounds.

  She straightened up, pulling her shoulders back, and tucked the money in the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Come on, let’s get you back downstairs and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’ She moved around behind him, hefting him up.

  William staggered to his feet and leaned heavily on her.

  ‘Thank you, Gemma,’ he said, his voice paper-thin.

  She nodded, manoeuvred him in front of her and steered him to the stairs. On the top step, he stopped abruptly and twisted round to look
at her.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Gemma,’ he said.

  She stared into his eyes, pale blue pools now, weaker than they had been yesterday, when he had made her wear the dress and parade in front of him. More faded than they had been last night, when he’d clutched at her, leaving the imprints of his fingers in a blue-grey stain on her skin, and made her lie with him.

  ‘I know,’ she agreed, even though it wasn’t true.

  He kept his eyes on her, and they were leaking now. Why was he crying? she wondered. Was it because he was losing his faithful servant who cooked and cleaned and fussed over him? He wouldn’t be able to have someone like her in Spain, under the watchful eye of his son. He wouldn’t be able to leer at Jason’s wife, or make her model new form-fitting clothes for him, or get her to lie next to him on his bed. Or was he weeping because he knew he had been wrong to ask her to do those things?

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said again, and she raised her hands, planting the palms flat against his chest.

  She leaned into him at the same time as she wedged her hip against the wall at the top of the stairs. Then, using every ounce of her strength, she pushed him as hard as she could.

  * * *

  There was no need to rush. Jason wasn’t coming until tomorrow. She had a full day, and potentially a night too, to ensure every last trace of her was removed from this house. She didn’t want to stay the night, though, not with William crumpled at the bottom of the stairs.

  But she had time, and she reminded herself of this as she hurried back into the bedroom. Don’t rush, take care, don’t leave anything that could tell anyone who you are.

  First things first. She fell to her knees beside the black bag, pulling open the zip and breathing in the scent of the money. It smelled like success and escape. It eclipsed the awful smell of William’s home, and his old-man odour. It was the aroma of a brand-new life.

  She lifted the bag, testing the weight. It was heavy, but she’d been half carrying William around for months. She was used to a dead weight.

  She zipped up the bag, stood and moved into her own bedroom. Carefully she pulled all her clothes out of the wardrobe and laid them on the bed. She thought back to when she had arrived here; the weekender bag was all she had. She would need more suitcases for sure. But she had to be careful. She couldn’t call a taxi from this address; when Jason came tomorrow and found his father’s body, he would no doubt inform the neighbours. They in turn would tell him about her.

  She thought of the guy next door, leering old Mr Henderson. At least he too thought her name was Gemma. Nobody would be searching for Anna Masi. She had ceased to exist a long time ago.

  But regardless of the safety of her fake name, questions would still be asked. If she used a taxi from the house, the driver might come forward, might have CCTV in his cab. No. A taxi firm was out of the question, which meant she would have to take only what she could actually manage to carry to the bus depot or train station.

  Unless…

  She darted out of the room, into William’s bedroom, and pulled open the old-fashioned bureau. In a shoebox he kept blank greetings cards, old now, left over from when he had people to send them to, and the energy and the balance to go out and buy them. She pulled one out, a hare on the front, a relic from a long-ago outing to one of the museums in London. With a faint smile on her lips, she scrawled inside:

  Dearest William,

  Thank you for everything you did, it was a pleasure working for you. I’ll miss you!

  Enjoy your new life in sunny Spain!

  Love, Gemma

  She stood back and scrutinised her work before bending over and adding yesterday’s date. Satisfied, she propped the card up on William’s bedroom mantelpiece. She reached for the rest of the packet of cards and shoved them in her pocket to put in the bin later.

  Perfection. And a brilliant idea.

  But she had to get a move on now. It wouldn’t do for the son to turn up tomorrow and find the farewell card with yesterday’s date on only for nosy old Mr Henderson to catch sight of her today and impart that bit of information to Jason.

  Back in her room, she worked quickly, picking out clothes, discarding some, packing others. No time for neatness. No matter now if she left something behind; time was of the essence and there was no room for sentimentality, even though it caught at her as she pulled out the beautiful clothes she had been sneaking away for months. She glanced at the bag of money and smiled as she tossed a dress onto the pile to be binned. She could buy anything she wanted now, replicas of everything she couldn’t take with her if she so desired.

  The room spun suddenly, and lights floated across her vision. At first she thought it might be excitement, the possibility of potential, until her stomach grumbled loudly and she recognised the feeling as hunger. She sighed, closed the lid of the suitcase. She didn’t have time to eat, but a cup of warm water with a slice of lemon should sort her out for a while.

  She stepped over the bag of money, a smile still lingering as she rounded the corner of the landing and tripped happily down the stairs. At the bottom, she skirted William’s inert body, barely glancing at him as another wave of faintness hit.

  She steadied herself against the wall. Something brushed her foot; there was a split second of confusion, then she let out a piercing scream as William’s hand clamped tight around her bare ankle.

  Chapter 5

  Before

  I so clearly remember the first time I was touched with kindness and affection. I was at primary school, in the playground, and it was midwinter. Snow had fallen; a magical occurrence in my dark, isolated world. I ran around in it, copied the other kids as they scooped it up and patted it into balls. My hands soon turned numb. Gloves like the other children wore were a luxury that I didn’t even know existed. When my fingers became painful, I turned away from the snowballs and sprinted the length of the playground to warm up.

  Even at that young age I had learned survival instincts.

  But at the far end, the drain had overflowed and it was an ice rink. I went down, hard.

  And then, from behind me, a firm pair of arms picked me up, carried me a few yards and set me back down on my feet in the snow.

  ‘Are you okay? You took a tumble there.’

  I looked up into the red, smiling face of one of the dinner ladies. I was fascinated by her expression; she looked so… happy. In my little world, nobody smiled like that.

  She mistook my awe for shock at having fallen, and without hesitating, she pulled me into her arms and squeezed me close to her chest. At first, my own arms hung loosely by my sides. Then nature, or instinct maybe, kicked in and I raised them, put them around her thick middle, mimicking her pose.

  I had never been cuddled before. I had heard about it, seen it, watched other people doing it, but along with comfort and love, I’d never experienced it.

  Once I did, I craved it more than anything in the world.

  * * *

  I began to act clumsy. After that first, precious hug, I caught on. If I was hurt, or sad, or wounded, people offered comfort. I became an expert at tripping, falling, slipping.

  Later, I discovered that if there was visible blood, the comfort I received multiplied.

  I started to cut myself.

  That first time, I sliced the blade of the scissors along the pad of my forefinger. The pain made me hiss; the sight of the bright red blood that drip-drip-dripped onto the desk was fascinating. The sharp pain dulled to a throb. I held my hand up. The red tracked down my arm.

  ‘Miss?’ I called.

  She was efficient, scooping up paper towels as she marched to my desk. She wrapped my finger, gripped it tight, ‘so it clots and stops bleeding,’ she murmured. But I didn’t want it to stop. My eyes swam with tears and she put her free arm around me and pulled me close.

  We stayed there like that for a while, my small hands digging into her shoulders, until the other kids grew impatient and bored.r />
  I walked to and from school on my own, even at five years old. There was only my mum at home, and in the mornings she didn’t function well enough to walk with me. When the final bell rang, it was her busiest time of day, so she didn’t walk with me then either.

  My home was a thin house in a street filled with other thin houses. They were all joined together, with a gaping black hole between every other home that led to an even thinner back yard. When I came home from school, I fitted my key in the lock, shoved the door open (it swelled and stuck most days) and stood in the hallway, staring up towards the top of the stairs.

  There was a room there on the landing, Mummy’s room, and if the door was closed I was to wait in the back yard. Today it was closed – it was most days – so I made my way through the narrow hall and into the tiny kitchen. Reaching up, I unlocked the back door and then sat down on the step, still with my coat on.

  While I waited for my mum to be finished, I pulled off the plaster that Miss Fairfield had so kindly and tenderly put on my cut. I looked closely at it. Miss Fairfield was right: it had stopped bleeding.

  I heard a thump upstairs and looked at the ceiling. She would be done soon. Up on the worktop was a fork left over from last night’s dinner, or maybe even the night before. I grabbed it, and with the prongs I dug at the cut on my finger. Soon, blood was seeping out again.

  There was talk in the hallway now as my mother said goodbye to her friend. The front door closed and I put the fork back, now with blood on it as well as the dried and crusted clumps of potato.

  ‘Mummy,’ I said, as she came into the kitchen.

  She looked down at me as though surprised to see me there, and wrapped her dressing gown around her, tying the belt tight across her middle.

  ‘Look, Mummy,’ I said. I held up my hand, the blood trickling down to my elbow to drip on the lino floor.

  She grabbed it, let it go almost immediately and moved over to the kettle.