The Party

by Lisa Hall

  Clearly, I need to go and see Liz myself, to find out who exactly was at the party. She was the host, after all, so she must have a reasonable idea of who came. Time to take things into my own hands – I can’t sit around and wait for the police. It might be difficult for me to talk about it, but every minute that passes feels like a minute wasted. I need to be doing something, to feel as though I am doing something myself. I don’t want to be a victim, even though the thought of remembering what happened leaves me paralyzed with fear.

  As I reach my front door, hands trembling slightly as I try and get the key in the lock, I catch a glimpse of someone turning into our street. Jiggling the key impatiently, my fingers shaking as adrenaline spikes, I get in and close the door, breath coming in sharp pants. I unclip Thor’s leash, trying to get myself back under control, when I see him, strolling casually past the living room window. He raises a hand to me as I duck behind the curtain, not wanting to see him. Aaron. Why won’t he leave me alone?

  8

  Hands. Hands pushing at me, forcing me backwards. Then over my mouth as I try to scream, crushing down over the bottom half of my face. There is a sharp, tangy scent in the air and I am unsure if it is the smell of him, or the scent of my own fear tainting the air. I want to struggle, to push him off, but I can’t, my limbs are like lead.

  Gasping, I sit up, thrown from sleep and a vivid, toxic dream. Sweat cools on my skin where I have pushed away the duvet in my nocturnal struggle, and I shiver slightly in the chilly air, twisting round to look at the clock. One o’clock in the morning. The other half of the bed is cool and empty, Gareth clearly not having made it up. Not that that is unusual in any way, not lately.

  Lying back on the pillows I take a minute to get my breath back, tucking the duvet under my chin and pushing away the terrifying images that haunted the little sleep I have managed to get tonight. Was that a dream? Or a memory? Forcing its way out of the black hole left by that night? I push the covers back down, shivering again, before swinging my legs out of bed and grabbing my dressing gown.

  As I tiptoe along the landing a strip of light shows under Robbie’s door. I push the door open gently and see him curled up asleep on his bed, headphones clamped to his ears as the overhead light still burns. I sneak in and kiss his forehead, like I used to when he was little, before switching off the light and pulling the door closed again, careful not to wake him.

  I make my way downstairs, intent on warming some milk, maybe with a splash of brandy to help me back into a – hopefully – dreamless sleep. Moonlight streams in through the glass panel in the front door, lighting the hallway, and as I creep along the cold tiles I notice that Gareth’s office door is ajar, a warm yellow glow seeping out into the shadows that the moonlight can’t reach. Without thinking I reach out and push the door open, as Gareth sits slumped at his desk with his head in his hands.

  ‘Gareth? Are you OK?’ At the sound of my voice he starts and sits up straight, shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him.

  ‘What? Yes, I’m fine. What are you doing up? It’s late.’ His eyes are bloodshot and there is a faint fug of alcohol in the air. I sniff, delicately. Whisky, I think.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ I am reluctant to tell him about my nightmare, although I’m not sure why. ‘I thought I’d come down and get some warm milk. What about you? You’re still up.’

  ‘Just finishing up some paperwork.’ He rearranges the papers again, sliding them under an A4 diary stuffed with drawings and loose sheets of paper.

  ‘Carrie came to see me today. The police spoke to Robbie while he was at Sean’s house. I don’t think they realized who he is.’ There is a tissue in the pocket of my dressing gown, and I ball my fist around it, feeling my nails dig into my palm as I squeeze it tightly. ‘So, he knows what happened.’

  ‘Shit.’ Gareth exhales, his stubble rasping as he rubs a hand over his chin. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Angry. Shocked. A bit disbelieving at first, then he wanted to kill someone, but I calmed him down. He was more worried about whether I was OK or not.’

  ‘They came to my office today, too.’ Gareth reaches behind him for the crystal decanter that his parents gave us on our wedding day, and pours himself a measure of good Scotch. He lifts the decanter in my direction and I nod, sliding into the armchair opposite his desk. ‘They wanted to ask me about that night … the party.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sip at the Scotch, relishing the way it burns as it slides down my throat. I don’t know what to say, I just assumed that they didn’t need to speak to Gareth, that they would have asked him anything they wanted to know while I was in the examination room. It never even occurred to me that they might want to speak to him separately about it. I take another sip of Scotch and wonder what he’s told them.

  ‘They asked me what happened … what time I left, who was there, that kind of thing. What I thought when you didn’t come home.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’ I twist in the chair, the seat pressing into the bruises on my thighs.

  ‘The truth … what else?’ Gareth sips at his drink, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘I told them that everything was fine; everyone was having a good time. I left just after midnight, maybe quarter past twelve; you were dancing in the living room.’ There is a muscle twitching under his eye, like a tiny pulse, and I am mesmerized by it, unable to look away.

  ‘What about what you thought when I didn’t come home?’

  ‘I told them that I thought you had gone home with Ted Durand. That you’d had an affair with him back in the summer, and I thought that my leaving and Angela’s absence provided the pair of you with the perfect time to rekindle it. I told them that I waited up for you all night.’

  Tears fill my eyes, spilling over as I shake my head. Gareth slugs back the rest of the whisky in his glass and refills it messily, slopping it over the desk. The whisky leaves an amber stain, glinting under the light of the lamp and I have to drag my eyes away. A question burns at the back of my mind, has done since we left the police station, and reluctantly I force my lips to shape the words. I have to ask him.

  ‘Gareth, do you believe me? Do you believe that I was … raped?’ The word is so ugly, so full of fear and anger that I struggle to force it past my lips every time I have to say it. ‘Do you believe that I don’t remember what happened that night?’ My breath hitches in my chest and I let the tears fall, not caring if Gareth thinks I’m losing control. As I wait for him to reply the time spins out, the silence between us feeling endless, and I think, our entire marriage depends on what he says next. He sighs, running a hand through his hair before getting to his feet and coming round to where I sit. He takes my hands in his, the difference in temperature overwhelming. His hands are warm, clammy and slightly sweaty, while mine still carry that icy feel, as if frozen from my core.

  ‘Yes,’ he says quietly, after a pause, ‘I do believe you. But that’s not what I thought at the time, you understand? I thought you were in love with Ted, I thought you wanted to be with him, not me. I love you, Rachel, you know that?’ His voice cracks on my name.

  ‘Yes.’ I do know that now – at least, I think I do – but I didn’t last summer. ‘I told you; it’s over with Ted. I want to make things right here, but I need to know that you believe me.’ I pull the tissue out of my pocket and blow my nose noisily, the taste of whisky at the back of my throat. ‘Did the police say anything else to you? Has anyone said they saw anything?’ I am desperate to know what others may have seen that night, but nothing seems to be forthcoming. ‘Carrie didn’t tell me anything, only that they would be speaking to the people that attended the party.’

  ‘They just said the same thing to me.’ Gareth pulls me to my feet and kisses the top of my head. ‘Listen, I’m sure as soon as they have any information they’ll let us know. Try not to worry, OK? They’ll find whoever did this.’ I nod, my cheek rubbing against his shirt. Closing my eyes, I try not to think about my dream, the sensation of hands pressing me down. Trapping me.
>
  Panic flutters at the pit of my stomach as I press hard on the doorbell, hearing the familiar tone ring out somewhere towards the back of the house. A few seconds pass and then the door is thrown open to reveal Liz, immaculately made up and dressed to impress as ever, even if she doesn’t have anywhere to be.

  ‘Rachel!’ Her tone is one of surprise, and I nearly take a step backwards, the déjà vu that washes over me leaving me panicky and breathless. It could almost be the night of the party, the way Liz threw open the door. ‘What are you doing here?’ She’s pasted a smile on to her perfectly made-up face but the tiny line between her eyebrows, and the underlying air of tension that surrounds her, tells me that I’m not necessarily welcome.

  ‘I just wanted to chat … about the other night, you know … the party? Is it OK to come in?’ I sound pathetic, vulnerable, and I pull my shoulders back in an attempt to seem more confident. I can’t let her refuse to speak to me, not when it’s taken me half the morning to get my courage up to come here. Liz flounders for a moment, her mouth opening and closing in a way that would be comical if it were under any other circumstances, but she can’t think of an excuse in time. Instead, she forces out another smile and opens the door, gesturing for me to come in.

  ‘Of course. Come in.’

  I follow her over the expensive Italian tiles into the kitchen, batting away the memories of the morning after the party as I do. Liz heads straight for the kitchen counter, filling a stainless steel pot with ground coffee.

  ‘Coffee?’ She raises an eyebrow at me and I nod. She leans across the table to pass me a mug and I see she’s not quite so perfectly made up as I first thought. Her eyeliner is smudged at one end, one wing not quite perfect, and a tiny dot of something orange stains her blouse just below the collar, as though something has splashed up or spilled.

  ‘So,’ she settles into the chair across from me, her red travel mug next to her. She takes a sip, running her tongue over her lips, an action that makes me feel slightly sick. ‘How are you? I mean, are you …?’

  ‘I’m OK, I think. Thank you.’ Cautiously I take a sip of my coffee, the scalding liquid burning the tip of my tongue. ‘I just wanted to …’

  ‘I’m so very sorry, Rachel,’ she blurts out, cutting me off mid-sentence. Fat, wet tears fill Liz’s eyes and she sniffs dramatically, tugging a clean tissue out from her sleeve and dabbing at her face. ‘I feel awful that something like this could have happened – to one of our friends, and in our house, of all places.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ I say. Liz carries on sniffing into her tissue, before swigging from the travel mug again, and I can’t help but feel as though she’s secretly enjoying the drama.

  ‘Did they find out who did it yet?’ She asks, tears miraculously drying up, tucking the tissue back into her sleeve. ‘I mean, I just can’t believe that someone we know, someone we let into our home, could do something as awful as this.’

  ‘That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,’ I shift in my seat, curling my toes up inside my boots, ‘the police came to see you – about a list of guests for the party?’

  ‘Yes. They came a couple of days after the party, quite late in the afternoon. I told them the names of everyone that I could remember seeing, but you know we’d all had quite a lot to drink, and there were a lot of people there. I don’t think anyone turned down the invitation.’ A defensive tone has crept into her voice, as a flush makes its way slowly up over her collarbone, leaving a pink stain across her neck. Unprompted, she carries on and begins reciting a list of party attendees. ‘There was us, obviously, Amy, Katie and that funny little man that she lives with, I can never remember his name.’ The travel mug goes to her mouth again, and she looks up at the ceiling as she tries to recall the other names on the list. ‘Ted – no Angela, obviously, as she’s gone off with that yoga chap. I didn’t think it was appropriate to invite her, seeing as she doesn’t live in the close any more.’ I resist the urge to roll my eyes and hurry her along; Liz just can’t help herself, it seems. The residents of The Vines are destined to be her gossip fodder, and I’ve just provided her with the juiciest gossip of all time. She reels off a few more names.

  ‘Anyone else?’ I prod gently. She’s already given me a couple of people that I wasn’t sure about, I just want to make sure that she tells me as many as she can remember.

  ‘A few people from Neil’s gym, some of his colleagues, I can’t remember all of their names but I’m sure Neil gave them to the police … oh, and the new guy. What’s his name? Quite dishy, he moved here back at the end of the summer?’ My heart starts to thunder in my chest, as I realize who she is talking about. ‘Aaron. That’s his name. He was there too.’

  ‘Aaron? He was definitely at the party?’ I ask, tucking my shaking hands under my thighs, as heat prickles along the back of my neck, the very definition of a cold sweat making me feel clammy. I definitely don’t remember seeing him there. I would have left immediately if I had.

  ‘Oh, not for long – you might not have seen him. He only arrived towards the end of the party; he wasn’t even sure whether he’d be back in time to make it at all, at first. He might have arrived after you went … to bed.’ Waving her hand, her eyes looking anywhere but mine, Liz trails off, a look of horror on her face as she realizes what she’s said. ‘Oh God, Rachel, I’m so sorry. I’m such an oaf. It never even occurred to me.’ Her eyes fill with tears again and I find it’s me reaching for her hand, to comfort her.

  ‘I know you didn’t mean anything by it, really. But I do need to know if there is anyone else you can remember being at the party. The police weren’t really that forthcoming about it, and I just think that if I knew for sure who was there maybe it’ll jog my memory.’

  ‘Can you really not remember anything?’ Liz asks, her wet lashes spidery with mascara. ‘The police asked about drugs … whether anyone was seen with any illegal substances, whether someone could have put something in your drink. Do you think that’s what happened?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Liz. I think maybe it’s likely that someone spiked my drink. I can’t remember anything past coming into the house – I remember the music, dancing as we came in, you asking me if I wanted a drink. That’s it.’ Hands. Hands pushing me backwards, limbs like lead. I blink, and scrub my hands over my trousers.

  ‘Oh, gosh, you poor thing. I feel awful for you – I’m so sorry I can’t be more help.’ Clearly much more together now, Liz gets to her feet and carries her travel mug over to the work surface. Her gaze flicks towards the fridge before her eyes come to rest on my face again, as she leans up against the worktop. ‘I don’t remember a lot about the evening, if I’m honest, and that’s exactly what I told the police. Neil was pretty much in the same boat. We’d all had rather a lot to drink by the end of the night and while I saw Gareth leave, I didn’t see you. Not for the rest of the evening. I assumed you must have left with Gareth and then when you appeared the next morning in the kitchen I guessed you must have just had too much to drink and slept in the spare room. I never dreamed that anything like this would have happened.’ She bites her lip and looks as though she might start to cry again.

  ‘Look, none of this is your fault; I’m not blaming you, or Neil, for what happened. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you this morning, I’m just desperately trying to get things straight in my head, you know? But you’ve been great. Thank you.’ I stand, and tug my cardigan more tightly around my body, eager to get home, to get back to where I know that I’m safe. The atmosphere in this house feels unstable, volatile in some way, but maybe that’s just because of what happened to me here.

  ‘I should go. You’ve been really helpful.’ More helpful than perhaps she realizes. Liz walks to me to the front door, and as she says goodbye she leans in to kiss me on the cheek. She smells of Opium perfume, a scent that makes me think of my mum, with a strange, spicy smell underneath, one that I can’t quite put my finger on. I promise to call her if I need her, and turn to walk down the front pat
h.

  As I walk, a movement catches my eye and I pause, my breath catching in my throat. Seemingly oblivious to the cold Jason, Liz’s gardener, stands in the far corner of her expansive front garden, clippers in one hand, rose in the other, tattoos winding their way down his forearm from the bottom of his T-shirt sleeve. Hearing the sound of my footsteps on the path, he turns to face me, his features blank and expressionless, and I tug my cardigan closer about my body wishing I’d put my winter coat on, as his gaze makes my skin prickle under my clothes. I look away, unnerved by the bland look on his face, and hurry down the path towards home. When I look back he is engrossed in his gardening, with no sign that he even noticed me at all.

  9

  JANUARY – ONE WEEK AFTER THE PARTY

  While my nerves jangle every time I think about leaving the house, the urge to run is even more overwhelming, until I can’t ignore it any longer. I wait until Gareth has left for the office before I quickly shower and pull on my running gear, eager to get out and feel the pounding of the pavement beneath my feet. At the front door I pause, that same panicky feeling washing over me, the thought that whoever did this to me is out there, possibly watching me, making my breath catch in my throat. Anxiously fingering the rape alarm strapped to my wrist (so ironic, it turns out rape alarms are more useful at parties, than out running alone through the West Marsham woods), I force my feet over the threshold holding my breath steady in my chest.

  By the time I have reached the end of the High Street I have settled into a rhythm, my feet thumping against the concrete, the stretch of the muscles in my thighs feeling familiar and welcome. The cold snap that started off the New Year continues – this morning the sun hangs low in the sky, frost glittering on the pavements and swirling icy patterns on to car windscreens, and my breath streaks out ahead of me in huge, smoky plumes.