by Luana Lewis
‘I’m a GP,’ he said. ‘As you well know. I have access to the centralized database. I’ve had a look at your medical records. All of them. Going right back.’
‘That’s unethical. You don’t have permission to do that.’
He gave her a scornful smile. ‘Quite an interesting life you’ve had.’
‘My life is not under scrutiny here.’ She wondered how much he knew. Everything. He must know everything. It was all in her records. ‘What’s your point?’
‘I think you know,’ he said. ‘If anybody needs a shrink, surely it’s you?’
He stood up, taking his time. He took a step towards her. And then another.
His eyes frightened her. They narrowed and glinted. She was looking at a viper.
Run, her gut screamed. She was paralysed.
And then it was too late. He moved quickly. And he stood with his back to the closed door, blocking the exit.
‘When you agreed to this appointment,’ he said, ‘you already knew I didn’t have any chance of getting custody. So, basically, you wanted to fuck with me.’
His solicitor must have told him there was no hope.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I wanted to make sure my report was comprehensive. I believe that’s in everybody’s best interests – yours and your daughter’s – no matter what the judge decides.’
His eyes did not change, did not soften. He didn’t believe her. There was no way to get through to him. He turned, locked the door.
‘What are you doing?’ She would not show her fear, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She could hear the frantic beating of her heart.
He had his back to the door, feet planted slightly apart, hands at his sides.
‘Unlock the door, please,’ she said.
He pulled at his tie, loosening it. His forehead was shiny with sweat; a drop trickled down the side of his face. If she wrote this up in the report, his chances of ever getting custody would be finished. He must know that.
He wasn’t planning to leave her in any state to write anything.
His ex-wife had said he would choke her, his hands around her throat. He would strangle her, long enough for her to lose consciousness but not long enough for her to die. He was a sadist, he enjoyed torturing her, she said. But no one wanted to believe her.
Stella had told no one about this last-minute appointment.
‘You wanted to humiliate me,’ he said.
‘That’s not true. You begged me to give you this appointment.’ She shouldn’t have used the word begged. He blinked, and in the split-second shift of his expression she thought he would rush at her, lash out at her.
She stayed very still.
His fingers flexed; opening and closing. Warming up. She was terrified that she was about to find out how his ex-wife had suffered.
There was a panic button on the wall behind the desk, she could lunge for it – but it would not help. It activated an alarm behind Anne’s desk and Anne was not there. The clinic did not offer after-hours appointments.
She could tell Simpson she would write whatever he wanted her to in the court report, but she wasn’t under the illusion that he was stupid enough to believe her.
Stay calm. She tried to slow her racing thoughts, her heartbeat, she tried to push down the panic. Breathe. Think. If locking the door was an impulsive act, she still had a chance. But if it was premeditated, she had no chance at all of getting out of the consulting room unharmed. She thought back to their meeting on the street corner. She didn’t believe he had asked her to meet him in order to murder her. She could have told anyone they were meeting, it was too risky. In his own twisted way, Simpson loved his daughter and he wouldn’t want to destroy his chances of having some sort of relationship with her.
Her best chance was to convince him that there was still time to get out of the situation without incurring too much damage.
‘Dr Simpson,’ she said, ‘if you open the door right now, I can accept that locking it was an impulsive mistake that you immediately regretted. That you had no pre meditated intention to intimidate me. I know you’re under tremendous stress, and that your solicitor has given you some very bad news. You’re not yourself.’
She hoped she had given him a way out.
His pale blue eyes had turned to black. They were filled with hatred. ‘Don’t talk down to me as if I’m a moron.’
He wasn’t listening to her. He wasn’t rational.
‘Even if you can’t get custody, don’t do something stupid that will cost you your chances of having contact with your daughter and building up a relationship over time. You told me you’ve never done anything wrong as a parent. But if this door stays locked, you’re keeping me in here against my will and it won’t matter how good a parent you’ve been up until now.’
He didn’t move. If she tried to go towards the door, she would have to go closer and she did not want to be within striking distance. She backed away. She retreated to the desk, packed her interview schedule and clipboard into her tote and slung it over her shoulder.
She walked towards him. ‘Please move out of the way,’ she said.
His backhand caught her, across the jaw. She stumbled, holding her face. The shock was worse than the pain.
‘I used an open hand that time,’ he said. ‘But I can hurt you more.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to cooperate.’
She pressed her hand harder against her jaw, which had begun to sting.
‘Men used to look at my ex all the time. You’re an attractive girl too, attractive enough to get any man you want. I can change that.’ The right side of his mouth curled upwards again, into a twisted smile of fury and of anticipation.
Blame the victim. That’s what they had all been doing to his ex-wife.
‘I can smash up your face until it’s so fucking crooked no man will ever look at you, let alone touch you. You’re young, so you’ll live that way a long time. They can help with plastic surgery these days, but it never quite looks the same. Or – if you behave yourself – I can hurt you in places it won’t show.’
She wouldn’t beg for mercy because it wouldn’t help. He was a man with no soul, no conscience. But she had found out too late.
‘Would hurting me be worth the sacrifice? You would lose contact with your daughter and you’d go to jail. There’d be no chance of a second family with your girlfriend. Why would you do that to yourself?’
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you’re absolutely right. But I’m not going to lose any more than I already have. I’m just going to do something for myself, a reward for what I’ve had to put up with. And I know you won’t tell a soul. I told you, I’ve seen your medical records. You’ll do exactly what I tell you. And you won’t talk.’
She didn’t back away, she faced him full on, squaring her shoulders. She reminded herself to breathe.
He was so sure of himself. But then he had been abusing his ex-wife for years and he had got away with it.
‘You’re going to see what it’s like to be fucked over,’ he said. ‘Literally. If you behave it won’t hurt as much.’
He would hurt her for pleasure as much as revenge.
She didn’t want to be scarred. She didn’t want to feel pain. She wanted out, with the least possible damage.
She coughed. She almost choked on her own spit. She couldn’t hide her fear any longer. He had promised he would not hurt her too badly if she did not resist. He might be lying. He might change his mind. But whatever else happened, she wanted to live. She was thirty years old and she had already managed to stay sane ten years longer than her mother. She was going to make it out of this room. Whatever it took, she was going to make it out alive.
Simpson was dangerous. He was in control.
‘I’ll cooperate,’ she said.
Once she had decided to do whatever he told her to, she felt slightly calmer. He could do anything to her body, but he couldn’t get inside her mind. And after him, she p
romised herself, no one would ever have this kind of power over her again.
He pushed his face against hers. He grabbed at her breast, pinching and twisting. ‘What’s your first name, Doctor?’
She tried not to pull away.
‘Stella.’
He let her go.
‘Take off your clothes, Stella.’
Stella was still in her suit: linen jacket and trousers, a white shirt underneath. She blocked her real self off inside, behind a high brick wall, and she undressed. She took off her shoes first, and placed them neatly beside her chair. She folded her jacket, balanced it over the back of the chair. She had to lean against it for support because her legs had turned to jelly. She removed her shirt and her trousers. She hesitated a moment in her underwear. He waited, his face impassive. She took off her bra, her knickers.
Bastard. She wanted to take hold of something blunt and heavy and batter his face to a pulp. For some reason, she pictured a hockey stick with pale wood and a pink handle – perhaps it was one she’d used at school. In her mind’s eye, she bashed his face, over and over again, taking pleasure in the taste of blood that splattered against her cheeks and her mouth. The rage kept her upright as she waited for him to tell her what to do.
‘Lie down on the examining bed,’ he said.
He took photographs of her, naked, her legs spread. ‘I will always have these. You never know when or where they’ll pop up on the internet.’
So what? One female body looks much like any other. It doesn’t matter. It’s only a body.
‘Turn over. All of your future clients will be delighted to know you so intimately as I do. On your hands and knees.’
What a way to find out that everything his ex-wife said about him was absolutely true. His abuse was premeditated and cruel. Simpson was a sadistic psychopath.
She did not move, did not protest, did not try to run, or to escape. Was that wrong? She didn’t know. She believed him capable of anything. Capable of killing her if she ignited his murderous rage. Time moved slowly, each second dragged itself out longer than the last. She was cold, she could feel goosebumps along the exposed skin of her arms and legs and along her spine.
‘Don’t move. You’re doing very well. Being obedient suits you so much better.’ She heard fumbling, a soft tearing. Please let that be a condom packet, she thought. She knew what would come next.
Hilltop, 1.20 a.m.
Shards of glass lay at her feet and the living room was flooded with wet, cold air. Peter was running, the thick soles of his boots trampling over sharp edges, grinding glass into her golden Chinese rug.
‘She smashed the window,’ Stella said. ‘And ran out.’
‘Why?’
‘I frightened her. I threatened her.’
Peter gave her a look she didn’t like. She deserved it, she knew.
‘How big is this garden?’ he asked.
‘Huge. An acre.’ Stella fumbled with the stiff key, unlocked the patio doors and pushed them open. ‘We have to find her. She’ll freeze out there. I think she’s hurt.’
There was more glass on the ground outside, and a trail of shallow footprints. Red droplets were scattered across the snow.
Peter seemed to be responding ever more slowly as her own urgency grew.
‘What’s behind those trees?’ He pointed to the back of the garden.
‘Nothing,’ Stella said. ‘I mean – a fence runs along the back of the woods and along the sides, between us and the neighbours. I don’t think she can get out.’
She remembered she had wanted to cause the girl pain; she saw her fingers wrenching at Blue’s long hair, forcing her head back. Something terrible was going to happen to Blue and it was her fault.
‘There’s a pool,’ Stella said. ‘An old, empty swimming pool. She won’t know it’s there. If she’s running, if she doesn’t see it—’
They stood shoulder to shoulder at the shattered window. The lights only illuminated a few metres of white, after that, everything was blanketed in silvery-grey darkness.
‘Find a torch and a first-aid kit,’ Peter said. ‘Which direction is the pool?’
‘Behind the trees, on your left.’
He walked out on to the patio, testing the slippery ground.
‘Don’t leave me alone.’
‘Then come with me.’
But she was paralysed in the doorway and she did not move a muscle.
‘And blankets. Get some blankets,’ he said. And he turned and left.
She was at the open threshold, exposed. Anyone could get at her. She pressed her fingertips along the edges of the broken window pane, against the small, pointed spikes.
The garden was silent as the snow dampened all sound.
If Simpson wanted to get to her, he would have come for her last night, when she was alone with Blue. Why wait until Peter’s car was standing in the driveway? She wouldn’t give in to paranoia. Simpson had finished with her eighteen months ago. She had not heard from him since. It was over.
The living-room temperature had dropped and the radiators were scalding hot, useless, as they battled the freezing air. English goddamn Heritage. If those windows had been double-glazed, Blue would never have been able to smash the glass. And that stupid Buddha – so ugly and so heavy. It had belonged to Max’s mother and it was the one thing he had insisted they bring with them when they moved to Hilltop. The statue lay, fat and intact, on the frozen patio.
Stella felt a tingling across her skin, a nervous energy. It was becoming harder to stay still. She moved away from the window. She found a torch and the first-aid kit in the kitchen. She found her coat and pulled on her trainers. Then she went back, to wait at the open doors.
She trusted Peter to find Blue, to bring her back in one piece. Please, let her be in one piece.
The pool was large, six metres by four metres. She and Max had talked about restoring it, or at least covering it over to make it safe, but there had been no need. Stella never ventured into the garden.
She had let her temper and her bitterness get the better of her. She had failed a child.
She should have kept Blue safe. The girl was as much a victim of Lawrence Simpson as she herself had been.
Stella forced herself to take one step over the threshold. And then another.
The patio was frozen and slippery and she couldn’t keep her balance; her feet slid out from underneath her. She tried to catch her breath as she hit the ground, the small of her back slamming against the bottom of the step and winding her.
She started to shake. Her heart raced, so fast it might break. Her breathing became shallow and she began to pant as the muscles in her chest seized up. She was alone, exposed. Helpless. She was going to die.
She pressed her hands against the freezing cold ground and managed to get her balance. She struggled to her feet. Blue’s bright red blood formed a trail in the pristine snow. She could make out two sets of shallow footprints on the white-carpeted ground, leading towards the semicircle of trees.
There was no way she could make it across the open garden.
Her heart was still thundering. She forced herself to breathe. Slower. Deeper. She looked back towards the house, at the safe, bright lights of the living room.
She heard a scream.
Please let Blue not be lying at the bottom of the pool, broken.
Then silence. A terrible stillness.
She could see terrible things. Blue, mangled on a cushion of white, her limbs bent at odd angles.
Tiny icicles pricked Stella’s face, it was snowing again. The cold was bracing, so intense it became all she was aware of. Her palms stung where they had pushed against the ice. The skin under her nails was on fire. Her toes were numb.
Another scream slashed the still, white garden.
Stella oriented herself towards the sound. A figure emerged from the line of trees. It was too far, there were too many shadows, she couldn’t see who it was.
‘Peter?’
She took
a step backwards, towards the house.
Grove Road Clinic, May 2009
‘That wasn’t so bad?’ His voice was saturated with pleasure.
She was on her hands and knees looking at the magnolia-painted wall of the consulting room. The muscles in her arms and hands ached from holding herself up, her knees hurt where they pushed against the hard bed. She was too scared to move until he gave his permission.
‘I’d guess you haven’t done that before,’ he said.
She thought she might be bleeding because a raw, sharp pain pierced from back to front. She imagined that behind her he was smiling. Seconds ticked past. She guessed he was carefully removing the condom and he would take it with him.
‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘You didn’t scream. Hardly made a sound. There’s K-Y Jelly here on the doctor’s stand but I didn’t think you deserved any.’
At least she didn’t have to look at him.
‘Get up.’
She stood. She didn’t dare go for her clothes. Her mouth was so dry she did not think she would be able to speak, there was a disgusting taste on her tongue, her throat ached. Her legs were unsteady, they didn’t want to hold her up. She would not let him see her cry.
He unlocked the door, his back to her. She scanned the room, the desk, for something heavy – anything she could use against him. There was nothing, and even if there had been, she had no strength. She leaned against the edge of the medical couch, closing her eyes for just a second. Standing up had made her dizzy. But she was still in one piece. Just about. She held on to the hope that her ordeal might soon be over, that he would be satisfied with his revenge. But she didn’t believe he would simply let her go.
He waited for her at the open doorway, relaxed. He had all the time he wanted, he knew they would not be disturbed. He had no weapon, no gun and no knife. And still, she was terrified of him. She was confused; whipped and subdued and sore. He took hold of her upper arm, gripping hard as he pulled her towards the bathroom. He held on to her while he pulled the shower curtain aside.
‘Get in,’ he said.
She was shaking, but she managed to lift both legs over the edge of the bath, not to fall.
