by Sibel Hodge
‘Well, I might stop at the supermarket to get a few bits, too.’
He puts thirty pounds on the table next to the key and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’
‘Of course not,’ I say, although his idea of stupid and mine are probably vastly different now.
‘Come straight back after the hairdressers. You’re probably still quite weak. You need to get plenty of rest.’
Weak. Yes. I’ve been weak for much too long.
I nod and smile to placate him. He kisses me on the cheek, picks up his briefcase, and leaves. I exhale a trembling breath and call Sara. I tried her at least fifty times yesterday with no luck. Again, it just rings persistently in my ear, but she doesn’t pick up.
I slam the phone back in the base unit and go into the dining room. Sitting at the computer desk, I switch on the laptop. It makes a whirring, beeping sound as it springs into action, and while I’m waiting, I search through the desk drawers. The first one holds folders of insurance documents, our mortgage details, instruction booklets, receipts, utility bills, bank statements. I rifle through the banks statements, looking for more credit card transactions from Liam. I don’t usually get to see these, since Liam insists on dealing with everything financial.
‘You’ll only mess things up if you get involved,’ he told me as soon as we were married and insisted I close my personal bank account and open a joint one with him. At first, I thought it was wonderful that he would deal with the responsibility of paying the mortgage and other bills so I didn’t have to, but now I have to tell him every penny I spend.
The statements go back two years, and for the last year there have been regular payments every month or so to the Royal Lodge Hotel. I don’t find any more payments to jewellers. I put them back and go through the second drawer. It contains a couple of local phone directories and a Yellow Pages. Nothing much in the third, except packets of printing paper, envelopes, sellotape, and a box of paperclips. On top of the desk, a blue ceramic pot holds pens. One of Liam’s ex-girlfriends gave it to him a long time ago. What was her name? Katy, Katya, something like that. He told me she came to England from Moldova to work, but when she went back after a couple of years, he kept this memento from their relationship because he thought it was beautifully made.
He’s right. It is beautiful. A kaleidoscope of indigo, turquoise, baby blue, and azure. It’s like all the colours of the sea mixed together. I tip it upside down onto the desk. Five biros fall out, along with a small rubber and two paperclips, which I must’ve put in there since Liam would hate to get the paperclips mixed in with everything else. God forbid.
I don’t even know exactly what I’m looking for. Something that proves my husband has tried to kill me? I open Google and bring up my email account then type in the email address and password.
‘Error. Password incorrect. Your account has been locked,’ the screen flashes at me.
I frown and try again.
‘Error. Password incorrect. Your account has been locked.’
What? I try again. Third time lucky.
‘Error. Password incorrect. Your account has been locked.’
I scroll down the page and read how to unlock my account.
‘If you receive the above message, your password has been entered incorrectly three times and your account has been locked for your security. To reinstate your account, fill in the details below:’
It asks for my alternative security word that I added when I set up the account. I type in Jordan’s name and hit Enter.
‘We will now send a new password to the mobile phone number attached to this email account.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I throw my hands in the air. ‘That would be great if I could bloody well find it!’ I jig my legs up and down in frustration, wondering what to do next. Chewing on my thumbnail, I click on the History tab at the top of the screen to see if that can give me any clues to what Liam or I have been looking at. It brings up a list of websites that have been browsed recently: my email account, Liam’s email account, The Diamond Store, the Royal Lodge Hotel, our online banking account, Discount Wine Cellar, Amazon, Zolafaxine Side Effects, and Devon Pharmaceutical.
I click on the Zolafaxine page and read the list of side effects.
More common:
Hives
Inability to sit still
Itching
Restlessness
Rash
Less common:
Chills or fever
Joint or muscle pain
Rare:
Anxiety
Cold sweats
Confusion
Convulsions
Diarrhoea
Difficulty with concentration
Drowsiness
Dryness of the mouth
Excessive hunger
Fast or irregular heartbeat
Hallucinations
Headache
Increased sweating
Increased thirst
Lack of energy
Mood or behaviour changes
Overactive reflexes
Purple or red spots on the skin
Psychosis
Suicidal thoughts
Racing heartbeat
Shivering or shaking
Talking, feeling, and acting with excitement and activity you cannot control
Trouble with breathing
I click on Hallucinations, and it brings up another page of information:
The chemical in the brain that antidepressant medications like selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) affect is the same brain chemical that LSD, PCP, and various psychedelic drugs mimic to create their hallucinogenic affects.
SSRIs prevent serotonin from being reabsorbed into the brain, which leaves behind an excess of serotonin. This allows continued stimulation of the brain and may produce depression, violent moods, suicidal thoughts, psychosis, and mania.
Jesus! How can they even prescribe this stuff? My skin grows clammy, and an icy shudder shoots up my spine when I reach the bottom of the page.
Manufactured by Devon Pharmaceutical.
I have to remind myself to breathe again, and I wipe my palms on my jeans as I think what this could mean. It could mean nothing, of course. It could be a gigantic coincidence. But Liam is responsible for manufacturing their drugs. He has unrestricted access to them. Yes, the information says hallucinogenic and psychosis-like reactions are possible, although rare, but maybe he had somehow tampered with them. Put something in them that would ensure I’d have psychosis-like symptoms.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles as I stare at the page with growing terror. I search the side effects of Silepine sleeping tablets and read through.
Common:
Blurred vision
Constipation
Dizziness
Double vision
Drooling or dry mouth
Drowsiness
Feeling restless or irritable
Loss of libido
Memory problems
Muscle weakness
Nausea
Skin rash
Slurred speech
Rare:
Agitation
Aggression
Amnesia/Memory loss
Black outs
Confusion
Decreased inhibitions/No fear of danger
Depression
Feeling like you might pass out
Hallucinations
Hostility
Hyperactivity
Muscle tremors
Psychosis
Seizures
Thoughts of suicide or hurting yourself
Unusual thoughts or behaviour
Weak or shallow breathing
The reasons why everyone thinks I tried to kill myself then had some bizarre reaction to the Silepine are all there in black and white. I go to the next page, and it tells me a company called Ashe Pharma manufactures Silepine. Not Liam’s company, then.
A loud bang
ing at the front door makes me jump off my chair. I freeze, half-standing, half-crouching, heart pounding.
Bang, bang, bang!
Slowly, I inch my way out of the dining room and into the lounge at the front of the house. I stand along the back wall of the room and look through the net curtains out the bay window. There’s a van parked in front of the house with Flowers for All Occasions written on the side.
I’m not opening the door. How do I know they’re a genuine company? I can’t be sure it’s not some trap. This could have happened last time, for all I know. It would be a good ruse. Deliver flowers to some poor unsuspecting woman then kidnap her when she opens the door.
I tremble as I watch a young man retreat down our path with a big bouquet of flowers in his hand. He gives one last look at the house before getting back in the van. I don’t recognize him, but that’s not saying much. I could’ve met him before and just don’t remember.
As I turn to walk out of the room, a bookshelf in the corner adorned with framed photos catches my eye. I pick one up of Liam and me outside the register office. He wanted a simple, private wedding, just the two of us. We didn’t even have any witnesses that we knew. He thought it would be fun and spontaneous to ask two people off the street.
The photo was taken by one of the witnesses, an elderly man who actually cried when he watched us get married, even though he’d never seen us before in his life. It’s blurry and slightly wonky, but the smiles on our faces are blissful. My cheeks are pink, flushed with excitement and happiness. I don’t look like that woman anymore. After it was taken, Liam held me close and whispered, ‘You belong to me now. Don’t ever leave me. I don’t think I could bear it.’ I thought it was romantic. That it showed a vulnerable side of him he didn’t share with the rest of the world. Something reserved only for me because I was special. Because he loved me so much. Now I think it wasn’t that at all. It was just an early warning sign.
I put it back down, and my gaze halts on another photo. My scalp tingles as I reach out and pick it up. It’s a photo of Liam encased in a silver frame. It looks recent. A huge banner in the background reads Exalin. Devon Pharmaceutical are always hosting media events when they’re about to launch a new drug, and this one is for diabetes. It’s what Liam’s been working so hard on lately. Family members of employees aren’t invited. It’s purely for advertising purposes. The woman standing next to him with a wide smile is Julianne Day, Liam’s boss. She’s only a few years older than him, but you’d never guess. Her skin is smooth and youthful, no signs of wrinkles or crow’s feet. She always looks exemplary. Hair perfectly sleek in a shiny, bouncy shoulder length bob. Makeup always looking like she’s stepped out of a TV makeover programme. Eyebrows plucked in symmetrical arches. It’s not strange, I suppose, for them to be photographed together at work. What is strange, though, is the jewellery hanging round her neck.
A white gold and diamond heart-shaped locket.
17
I should’ve known, or at least guessed. I remember at Liam’s birthday party, I made a jokey comment to him that he was spending a lot of time with Julianne and neglecting his other guests. He pulled me very close and whispered in my ear, ‘She’s my boss, for fuck’s sake! Of course, I’m going to be attentive. She signs my bonus cheques! Honestly, sometimes you’re just so clueless. Half the time, I don’t even know how you even managed to get a degree. You need to grow up and stop being so neurotic and jealous.’
It looked to anyone watching as if he was cradling me in a loving hug, but I could feel the tension coming off him in waves, and I didn’t want to make a scene in front of all his friends. I found myself wondering, What the hell are you thinking, Chloe, this is crazy. You can’t keep doing this. It was one rule for me and another for Liam. As soon as I talked to a man, he was by my side in an instant, and he watched me like a hawk.
But nothing was going to spoil my euphoric happiness about the baby. The little life inside me was all that mattered. Didn’t Liam deserve the chance to change for the baby’s sake?
So maybe deep down I did know, but at the same time, I denied it, as I’ve tried to deny many things. I put the photo back in exactly the same spot so it doesn’t look like I've moved it.
I need to get out of the house. Get away from everything that’s staring me in the face. The lounge feels impossibly small, as if it’s squashing the life right out of me. I snatch the money and key from the table where Liam left them and head for the stairs, when I notice a card poking out of the letterbox. It’s from the flower company, telling me they tried to deliver to the address and I should call the number listed on the front to rearrange another suitable time.
I find the Yellow Pages in the office drawer and look up Flowers for All Occasions. The telephone number on the card matches.
Liam couldn’t have sent the flowers. He only gives me flowers after he’s lost his temper about something, and he’d just bring them home with him, not have them delivered. Jordan? No. He wouldn’t go that far. Sara wouldn’t have sent them, since she’s not here. Which really only leaves Theresa, my boss.
I toss the card on the office desk and put on my disguise of sunglasses and sunhat. Then I rush out the front door, slamming it behind me. If Liam were here, he’d go mental at that. He hates the sound of slamming doors. But I don’t care anymore. I want to kick the door, actually. Kick anything. Especially him.
I’m out of breath, hot and sweaty by the time I’ve walked to the town centre, on high alert for any suspicious people following me. I swing open the door to the first hairdresser I find, and the smell of perm lotion hits the back of my throat.
‘Hi, can I help you?’ A chirpy young receptionist who has short, blonde spiky hair with streaks of purple in it smiles at me. When she notices the scratches on my face, her smile wavers a little.
‘Yes.’ I smile back, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing, but I want to appear normal. ‘Do you have any appointments today?’ I remove the sunglasses and hat and stuff them in my bag.
She chews on the end of her pen and looks up at my long, wavy dark hair that’s now cascading over my shoulders. ‘What do you want done?’
‘Um…’ I trail off, thinking. The thing is, even though it’s obvious Liam has been having an affair, was he really the one who left me underground? After what I’ve found out so far, it seems possible, but what if he wasn’t? What if the lies he’s told me are all unconnected to what happened to me? In which case, whoever did take me knows what I look like. So I need to change. Drastically.
‘I want it cut short and coloured. Something lighter.’
She taps the pen against her lips and looks down at a diary on the counter. ‘Well, if you can wait half an hour, Denise will be able to do that.’ She looks up expectantly.
‘That’s perfect, thank you.’
She swings an arm towards a rattan sofa behind me. ‘Have a seat. Do you want a tea or coffee?’
I think about asking her for something stronger, but it’s only eleven a.m. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ I sit down, and the sofa squeaks under my weight. Two other women come in and sit opposite me. I avoid looking at them and pick up a celebrity magazine, flicking through it but not seeing the pages. Everything’s a blur, like the world is spinning and my vision can’t keep up.
What to do, what to do?
I should just leave Liam. Now. Today. Except then I’ll never know for sure if he’s been trying to kill me, or if it was someone else. But if I stay, my life could be in danger.
No. I need to stay in the house and see what other clues I can find. There must be something that will help me piece things together. Yes. I’ll stay. Just until I can find out more and tell Summers.
The two women laugh to each other, and I look up. Their eyes are on me, and I realize I’ve been muttering my thoughts aloud like a crazy, homeless person.
I stare out the window to avoid them, watching ordinary people going about their daily lives making stupid, mundane plans—wondering what to
cook for dinner tonight, what they’re going to watch on TV, did they remember to feed the cat before they left for work, which dress should they buy in the sale, when’s the gas bill due? They all seem so far removed from me now, in a different world a million miles away. They’re all in the sunlight, and I’ve been abandoned in a dark place, trying to constantly kick my legs to keep my head above water before I drown.
I think about Liam and Julianne and wonder how long it’s been going on and how I left him. Did I simply write that letter for him to say I was ending it all (our relationship not my life!) when he went to Scotland, then pack a few things and move into Sara’s? Or did we fight about it? Did he hit me? Knock me unconscious and try to get rid of the body? Did he drug me with sleeping pills then hit me over the head?
No, of course not. What am I thinking? Liam isn’t capable of doing something like that to me. Which can only mean my kidnapper is someone I don’t know.
I wish I could remember, but all I feel is a scratching inside my head, as if maggots are gnawing on my brain. I’m so lost in thought I don’t hear someone talking to me at first.
‘…this way.’
I snap my head up, and a woman with a short, choppy caramel-coloured bob is standing in front of me. ‘Sorry?’ I say.
‘I’m ready for you now, if you’d like to come this way.’ She walks past reception and stands behind a chair in the middle of a row along one wall. I sit down and stare at myself in the mirror. I’ve lost more weight, even in the last few days. I look like a woman twice my age. I feel it, too. ‘Are you OK?’ She narrows her eyes at my scratches.
I make a mental note to wear some thick foundation the next time I go out. If people keep asking me whether I’m OK, I’ll probably break down into a gibbering wreck. I muster up a convincing smile. ‘Yes. I’m fine, thanks. I fell off my bicycle into a bush, that’s all.’
She nods. ‘So, you want a complete change, then?’ She tilts her head, lifting up my hair. ‘Shame. Your hair’s gorgeous. In good condition, too. What do you fancy?’
