by Ellis, T. W.
‘I’m … I’m okay. I’m just tired.’
‘Huh. You seemed pretty perky when I left. Are you sure you’re okay?’
I’m not sure Wilks has blinked once. I can feel her rage bubbling under the surface, waiting to erupt in my direction. She terrifies me.
And just like that I know exactly what to say to Leo.
‘I didn’t sleep too well.’
There’s a pause, a silence, and Wilks’ barely contained rage worsens. I hold my nerve because this is going to work.
Leo says, ‘Didn’t you tell me you’d slept like a baby?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you before you left.’
‘Ah, babe,’ he says. ‘You should have told me you were feeling down.’
Yes, I don’t say. You should have told me about the money laundering too but I guess we keep secrets from each other now.
‘I’m much better,’ I tell him. ‘I just need a nap to catch up and everything will work itself out.’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better.’
Wilks is nodding along, now pleased with my act as she hears Leo’s tone relax.
‘Have you eaten?’ Leo asks.
‘Made some more avocado on toast since you stole half of my breakfast.’
This makes him laugh. ‘You snooze you lose.’
Wilks mouths something at me but I don’t quite get it. I’m no lip reader. I have to shake my head at her and she urges Messer closer and hands him the phone.
‘Am I on speaker?’ Leo asks.
‘I’m too lazy to hold the phone to my ear.’
‘That’s because you burn too much energy at yoga. Maybe save some for your husband, okay?’
Wilks has dug out a notebook and pen and written Coming home?
I swallow. I clear my throat again. I don’t want to ask this because I don’t want to hear the answer because I don’t want Wilks and Messer to know.
Wilks thrusts the notebook at me. She stabs at the words with a finger, the rage returning. I can’t resist it any longer.
I say, and I hate myself for saying it, ‘Are you coming home?’
Wilks and Messer are listening intently for the answer.
Leo exhales. He clicks his tongue. ‘I’ve been here for hours because I was told I would be on the next flight and now I’m kind of committed to the cause. If I come back the whole day will have been wasted and I’ll only have to come back tomorrow. Jennifer – why are ticket agents always named Jennifer? – has promised me she’s doing everything she can, but who knows if she is? They just want you to keep calm, don’t they? They’ll tell you anything if they think it will avoid a scene. I might stick it out here a little longer or I might call it quits and get a refund and make that scene Jennifer is trying to avoid. Maybe I’ll swim to England instead. I could use the exercise. What do you think? Should I go for the open-water butterfly record?’
‘Good idea,’ I say, too distracted by the threat posed by Wilks and Messer to realise Leo is joking.
He, in turn, knows something is wrong. ‘What’s with you, Jem? You’re not just tired, are you?’
Wilks is staring at me hard, so much menace in her gaze I can’t speak to give Leo the reassurance Wilks wants me to provide. Messer steps closer.
Leo says, ‘Jem?’
I swallow. There’s no saliva in my mouth. I’m trying to speak but my larynx isn’t working.
Wilks mouths Tell him you’re fine.
‘Jem?’ Leo says again. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, clearing my throat and able to speak again. ‘I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.’
‘Take that nap. What are you waiting for?’
I can hear the frustration creeping into his voice.
Wilks mouths Tell him to come home.
My eyes widen. My pulse races. My breathing quickens. I shake my head. I’m not doing that. I’m not luring Leo here.
Without making a sound, Wilks growls Tell him.
She inches closer to me. Messer does the same, and I’m flanked by these two scary people with so much danger in their eyes promising retribution if I refuse.
‘Leo,’ I say. ‘Come home.’
I’m so ashamed of myself. I’ve betrayed Leo to save myself.
I’m a coward.
He says, ‘Does someone miss her husband?’
Wilks is nodding for me to agree.
‘Yeah,’ is all I can say. It doesn’t sound convincing. I’m too frightened to sound genuine.
‘Jem, are you absolutely sure you’re okay? In fact, I don’t know why I’m asking. I can hear that something is wrong so please tell me what’s going on. Have you taken something? Is that why you’re so distracted? If so, has something happened? What’s triggered this? We can talk it through. I don’t want you hiding these moments from me. I keep telling you that. It’s not healthy. It doesn’t help you.’
Wilks and Messer couldn’t be any closer to me.
My eyes are moist. ‘I promise I’m fine. I’m just tired. I was drifting off when you called.’
Somehow it sounds genuine. A plausible excuse.
Leo exhales, relieved. ‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to put pressure on you. It’s just because I know you bottle things up. Do you promise me you’re okay?’
‘Yes,’ I say, blinking tears.
‘Good. Great. I’m glad. And while normally I would wait it out here for a while in the hope Jennifer works her magic, I’m going to come home right now. No, don’t say anything. Even if you’re fine, even if you’re only tired, I want to see you. I want to be with you. Take that nap and I’ll wake you up with a green tea and a kiss. How does that sound?’
‘Perfect,’ I say, wiping my eyes.
Wilks and Messer are relieved. They’re pleased that Leo is coming to them. Messer hands me the phone and they step away from me to whisper among themselves. I can’t hear them and nor can I read their lips but I know what they’re saying, what they’re doing.
They’re working out how best to ambush Leo when he comes home.
For a moment, neither Wilks nor Messer is looking at me.
‘Don’t come home,’ I yell at Leo. ‘There are two people here who say they’re FBI but I don’t believe them.’ I turn away as I say this, presenting my back to Wilks and Messer and making it harder for Wilks to snatch the phone from my hand, which she rushes to do. ‘They want you to come here. They’re after something. I’m scared, Leo. I’m—’ Wilks can’t get to the phone as I bend over the table so she grabs my arms to pull them away from the protection of my torso – ‘Get off me’ – so that Messer can tear the phone free from my grip – ‘Help me, Leo, help—’
Messer hangs up the phone.
For an instant all three of us are frozen in a chaotic tableau of bent limbs and contorted torsos.
Then my phone starts buzzing.
Leo calling back.
Wilks untangles herself and takes the phone from Messer, throws it on the kitchen floor, and smashes it beneath her heel.
Wilks roars in a primal display of the rage that’s been building up.
I’m silent. Terrified. Cowering.
‘You don’t know what you’ve done,’ Wilks hisses at me.
One of Messer’s hands shoots out and grabs my upper arm. His hands are so big his fingers almost reach his thumb. I try and pull away but he’s so strong. I’m helpless.
‘This could have been so easy,’ Wilks continues. ‘This could all have been over by now. I’ve tried my best. I’ve tried to keep this civil despite your frequent provocations. And this is how you repay the decency I’ve shown you?’
I manage to say, ‘Who are you?’
Wilks sighs. She pinches the skin between her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? Nothing matters for you any more.’
What does that mean?
She looks to Messer, who shrugs back at her.
Wilks nods and tells him,
‘Take her upstairs.’
‘Why?’ I demand, voice breaking. ‘What’s upstairs?’
Wilks says, ‘What’s upstairs, Mrs – Jem – is the inevitable conclusion of your interference.’
Messer says to me, ‘Let’s go.’
‘No, I’m not going anywhere.’
Messer is still holding on to my arm and he squeezes me tighter, applying so much pressure to his grip I can feel the circulation cut off and pins and needles in my fingers.
I hit him. It makes no difference. He drags me out of the kitchen with almost no effort.
‘Try not to make a mess,’ Wilks tells him.
4:23 p.m.
I fight the entire way.
I scream. I struggle. I punch and kick Messer with everything I have, not caring about hurting myself in the process, and he barely reacts. He doesn’t even try to defend himself because there’s no need. I do everything I can to slow him but he’s relentless. Slow and unstoppable. I grab the living-room doorframe as we pass, clutching hard with my free hand, digging what little nails I possess into the wood. It works for all of a second. Messer tightens his grip on me and heaves me away. One of my nails catches and rips in half.
The pain is horrific. Blood patters the flooring.
For all Messer’s unconquerable strength, getting me up the stairs is far from easy. I let myself become a deadweight. I grab every banister post. I try to wrap my legs around them. I’m not heavy enough, not strong enough, to stop him but I slow him. I make him tired.
Messer is breathing hard trying to carry up an uncompliant mass of moving weight. He’s red-faced and sweating. A strong man but not a fit one.
At the top of the stairs, he pulls me to my feet and I hit him in the face while he’s concentrating on controlling me. It’s a solid punch to his cheek that must hurt him more than the others, must have an effect, because he responds by punching me back.
His free fist collides with my abdomen, sending a shockwave of pain through my insides. My eyes fill with water. I gasp, breathless, all of my fight emptying out of me in a sudden, agonising moment.
I collapse to my knees and have no strength to resist as he drags me across the landing to the bathroom.
He flings me inside and I fall flat on my stomach, unable to push myself up. I’m gasping for air, my mouth hanging open, tears wetting my cheeks, my vision a blur. I’m in so much pain I can barely think.
Messer says, ‘You brought this on yourself.’
I manage to roll on to my back in a monumental effort. I see a distorted image of Messer in the doorway, removing his jacket and tie. He has sweat stains under his armpits and at his sternum. His face is shimmering.
Without his jacket, I see the leather shoulder rig he’s wearing and the pistol holstered under his left arm.
I’m dead.
I know I’m dead.
He’s going to shoot me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
He lays his jacket and tie over the washbasin. He doesn’t unfasten the strap securing the gun in the holster, he doesn’t draw the weapon and kill me. He unbuttons his collar and then his cuffs. He rolls up his sleeves.
I’m still writhing and can only watch but I can breathe again in short, painful wheezes as my paralysed diaphragm slowly relaxes.
Messer peers down at me, a groove of consideration between his eyebrows. He purses his lips and looks around the room. I follow his eyes, trying to decipher his intentions. His gaze fixes on the towel rail. He steps over me to fetch a bath towel, then stands over me with one big foot either side of my waist.
He holds opposite corners of the towel and twists it into a thick rope.
Now I understand his intentions.
He’s going to strangle me to death.
He leans down over me to hook the towel behind my head but I’m not going to lie here and let him. I’ve recovered enough from the punch to the guts to thrash, to grab at the towel, to wriggle out of the way.
Messer is big and clumsy, awkward in the small space with me taking up most of the floor. He loses his balance trying to maintain his position over me and stumbles. He has to grab the washbasin to stop himself from falling.
It’s enough of a window of opportunity for me to slither out from under him, start to rise.
He’s spun round by the time I’m on my feet and snatches my ponytail in a fist as I make a break for the doorway.
A tug on my hair is enough to pull me right off my feet and I go back down, hairs ripping from my scalp as my ass strikes the floor first and Messer loses his grip. But that grip slows my fall enough so the back of my skull doesn’t whip against the tiles.
Above me is Messer’s fist, many strands of my hair protruding through the gaps between his fingers, coming straight down at my face.
I jerk my head to one side and his downward punch misses me and hits the floor tiles instead.
Bones crack.
Messer cries out.
His exclamation of pain energises me, giving me hope, switching my mind-set from flight to fight.
I roll on to my side, grab his foot and shin and sink my teeth into his calf.
Messer wails.
He tries to pull me away with his one good hand. It’s his left, and I’m biting his left calf. He can’t get the leverage to shift me.
Instead, he kicks me, driving his right foot into the small of my back.
I spit out Messer’s blood as I slither between his legs, avoiding another kick, then a stomp he aims at my ankle.
I scramble away from him as much as I can until I’m blocked by the toilet and push myself up to my butt. I’m breathing as hard as him now. My heart has never beat so hard.
I’m exhausted. The run through the woods has nothing on this.
Messer’s chest heaves. His shirt is soaked with sweat. His right hand is swollen. I expect he’s broken several bones by punching the floor. He’s looking down at his calf, pulling up his trouser hem to see the damage my teeth have done. When he looks back at me his face is red with pain and rage.
‘You want me to use the gun?’ he says. ‘Fine, I’ll use the gun.’
‘Can’t beat a ninety-pound girl without it?’
I’m not ninety pounds. I’m nowhere near ninety, but it’s provocation. It works. His ego can’t take the insult, the implicit emasculation.
‘I don’t need the gun,’ he says.
He picks up the towel, once again twisting it into a rope, but it takes him longer this time with his broken right hand. Messer grips both ends of the twisted towel in his left fist so it becomes something between a whip and a club.
‘But you’re going to wish I did.’
4:27 p.m.
I have nowhere to go. The cool ceramic toilet bowl is pressed against my spine. To my left is the walk-in shower, the bathtub next to it along the wall. To my right is the pedestal washbasin. I’m trapped with Messer’s giant form between me and the exit.
I look around the room. I need a weapon. Please, let me find a weapon.
Messer has two. The gun in the shoulder rig and his towel in his left hand. At least I only need contend with the latter.
He takes a step closer. The knuckles of his good hand are almost as white as the towel he’s gripping. He raises it above his head.
I’m out of options. All I can do is cover my face with my arms as the towel races down, thumping against me, the energy of the blow as sudden and frightening as it is painful.
My teeth slam together. I don’t feel pain so much as dizziness and nausea. My whole head is buzzing. My ears ring with an incessant whine yet other sounds seem distant.
I feel like I’m separating. I feel as if the whole that is me is reverting back to component parts, physical and mental. Those distant sounds fade to nothingness. Colours leach to grey.
I’m curled up into a ball, foetal, instinctual.
Another hit and I’ll be unconscious.
I can do nothing to stop it. I’m too dazed.
All I can do is lie on
the cool tiles and wait for it to be over.
I wait.
I keep waiting.
For an instant, I think I’m already unconscious. I think I’m dying.
Then I blink the ocean from my eyes and peer between my fingers to see Messer is not standing over me but in the doorway, looking outwards. At what, I don’t know. I’m aware of his voice, shouting maybe, but he’s so far away it’s like he’s whispering in a storm.
Whatever he’s doing, whomever he’s whispering at, is taking up all of his attention. For how long, I don’t know.
I’m too weak to move. Too scared. Yet I’m no quitter. My body is unresponsive. My senses are scrambled. But my mind is still there, still me, at the centre of it all. I need to fight my way out of this prison.
Move, Jem, I will myself. Move.
Live.
Messer steps out of the bathroom, shouting more whispers into the unseen tempest.
The doorway is clear, open. Calling out to me with promises of escape, of freedom.
False promises, because I’ll never make it. Messer is outside that doorway, whether on the landing or the stairs or even downstairs. I can only escape this bathroom, which is no escape at all.
I can’t run from this when I can’t stand.
Here, in this bathroom, is where I live or where I die.
Where I fight.
I uncoil myself out of the foetal ball, dragging the unresponsive shell in which I exist along with my fingertips. My ripped nail is bloody and raw yet I feel no pain from it because there’s too much pain elsewhere, too many other priorities.
But seeing the tiny wound gives me an idea.
I swivel my head and see where a little waterproof pouch sits on a shelf of the dainty unit that stands next to the washbasin. I bought the unit from a thrift store in town because it is a tacky piece of furniture to accent the otherwise clinical bathroom. It holds cosmetics, spare hand towels, the first aid kit I used earlier, and has space for the shaving kit Leo has taken with him.
I crawl towards the unit, towards that little waterproof bag.
A slow, painful crawl. Each inch is hell.
But I make it.
I lift one hand to reach for the bag and get nowhere close to it. I’m too dazed, too uncoordinated to extend my arm fully.
