‘Stag nights,’ I repeat vaguely, feeling cold and numb. The word ‘acorn’ rings in my head. I close my eyes and see bedposts with wooden acorns at the top. I feel light-headed, as if I might faint.
‘I knew you’d understand,’ says the man. ‘You’ve got a business head on your shoulders, just like I have, just like my dear mama had. She made a fortune simply by being her slutty self—the woman was quite brilliant. I do admire successful women.’ He begins to cut my trousers, starting with a hole at the knee. ‘Peekaboo,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘Hello, Mr Knee.’
‘You’ve got to untie me,’ I tell him. ‘I feel as if my back’s going to break.’
‘My mum was the one who told me your big secret.’
‘What secret?’
‘Yours plural, not singular. Women. You all have forced-sex fantasies. I enable you to act out those fantasies. I give you what you daren’t admit to wanting. Not that I’m any kind of altruist; I won’t pretend I am. I’m lucky. Not many people enjoy their work like I do. Though it’s been a hard slog too, mainly thanks to Robert. After our Welsh waitress, when it came to setting up on a more professional basis, it was hard to persuade him to pull his weight. I became the male lead, permanently. It’s a bugger persuading my brother to do something if his heart’s not in it. He’s forever getting on his high horse about one thing or another. All he’d agree to do was give our leading ladies a lift home after they’d performed. He drove you home.’ Watching my face, he begins to smile. ‘You didn’t know that, did you? Yes, it was Robert who drove you safely back to your car. Course, you wouldn’t have seen him because you had a mask over your eyes.’
‘You wanted him to play more of a role, so you forced him to rape Prue Kelvey. Did you blackmail him, was that it?’
Angilley smiles, shaking his head. ‘You seem to have me down as some kind of tyrant,’ he says. ‘I’m a mild old soul, me. Robert didn’t enjoy his night with Ms Kelvey, and I regretted facilitating it. Since that night, he and I haven’t exchanged a word.’ He shakes his head. ‘Robert insisted on Prue-dential wearing her eye mask throughout the performance, which was no good for the punters. Some of them complained, including the groom-to-be, and I had to give them some money back. They all like to see the eyes—windows to the soul and all that.’
‘Why did he make her keep the mask on?’ I ask, testing him.
‘Who the fuck knows?’ He cuts a larger hole in the other leg of my trousers, at the knee. ‘That’s usually the answer where Robert’s concerned. Scared of her recognising him, maybe? Robert’s a pessimist. He might have panicked about bumping into her again one day.’
I nod, satisfied that your brother knows nothing. ‘Why choose women with websites? Why not take random women off the street?’
‘Because, my dear nosey Naomi, it’s so much more frightening for the women if they feel they’ve been chosen. Didn’t you wonder why you? And how I knew all those things about you? Sinister; much worse than being plucked off the street, anonymous. No, it’s the personal angle that puts the fear in the eyes, and the fear in the eyes, as my punters constantly tell me, is crucial.’
I smile coldly at him. ‘The personal angle. Sounds good. And you’re right, it does make it worse. I bet you wish you’d thought of it yourself, don’t you?’
Angilley stiffens. ‘Enough talking,’ he says. He crouches down by the side of my chair and begins to cut the leg of my trousers, from the bottom up.
‘Bit low, isn’t it? To plagiarise other people’s ideas and pass them off as your own?’
‘If you say so. Now, we mustn’t forget the long conical object you so kindly brought, and all its possible uses . . . There!’ One leg of my trousers has gone, is in pieces on the floor. Sharp fear silences me. I can’t breathe.
‘Whatever Robert’s told you, he doesn’t love you or care about you.’ Angilley looks pleased with himself. ‘I’m the one he cares about. Why do you think he goes out of his way to meet my leading ladies after the show and make them fall in love with him?’
‘Why do you think he does?’ I manage to ask.
‘Simple: one-upmanship. I’m a success, Robert’s a failure. ’Twas ever thus, as they say in corny BBC adaptations. Our mum gave him a hard time after our dad fucked off. Dad never really took to Robert, and Mum treated him like the bogeyman once Dad had gone. Whereas I could do no wrong; I was Golden Boy. Robert’s always wanted, secretly, to beat me. To prove he’s better. That’s how he does it: he seeks out the women who were, shall we say, reluctant to do the deed with me, and charms them or manipulates them until they’re gagging to do it with him.’
I stare at him, stunned and horrified by his arrogance. ‘You can’t honestly believe that,’ I say.
He smiles, and begins to cut downward from the waistband of my trousers. ‘If you’re not lying, if Juliet really did try to kill Robert, I’m afraid you don’t stand a chance. If he didn’t prefer her before, he will now. My little bro’s a masochist. He’s always had a pash for women who treat him like crud. Dear Mama’s legacy, I fear. The more she punished him, the more devoted he was. He cut her off eventually—manly pride and all. And he’s been looking for a replacement ever since, though I don’t think he realises it. I only know all this from reading my wife’s bubble-head magazines.’
I feel the scissors inside my underwear, smooth and cool against my skin. My mind goes blank and instinct takes over. With all my strength, I propel my body to the left, unbalancing the chair. It’s a matter of four or five seconds, no more. How can so few seconds contain so many distinct incidents? Your brother looks up as the chair and I fall towards him, as his wrist is bent back. He pulls his arm free and it jerks towards his body, almost as a reflex. As the chair crashes down on him, I see him staring at the open scissors in his hand. I feel the sickening thud as the chair hits his arm, pushing his hand towards his face.
He screams. Blood is spurting, splashing my face, but I can’t see where it comes from. The chair crashes down on Graham Angilley. Instead of being upright, I’m now on a slant, the slope of his prone, shaking body. I hear him wailing, groaning, but I cannot see his face, even when I turn my head as far as I can. I try to shout for help, but I’m panting too hard to make myself heard.
I couldn’t see blood before, but now I can. The red creeps across the blue checked linoleum. I take a deep breath and scream for help, drawing out the sound for as long as I can. At first it’s words, then it turns into pure howling, the high-pitched release of pain.
I hear a loud crash, feet pounding down the hall. I carry on screaming. I see Simon Waterhouse and a bald man behind him, and I carry on screaming. Because no one will ever help me properly, or enough. Not these men who’ve burst in, not Yvon, not Charlie, not anyone. I will never escape. That’s why I have to keep making this noise.
31
Monday, April 10
I WILL NOT go away. I will never leave you alone. I’m standing outside the door to the intensive care unit, and I sense your presence, like something heavy in the air. I could almost believe, if I didn’t know better, that the hushed, solemn atmosphere in the hospital today is on account of us. Staff, visitors and outpatients walk past me with their heads bowed.
I was here yesterday, but I couldn’t come and see you then. Simon Waterhouse insisted on staying with me the whole time. While the doctors checked me over, he waited outside the examination room. I think you’d approve of his patience and thoroughness; they’re two qualities you also have. He drove me home, once he’d satisfied himself that the experts thought I was fit to leave. There was nothing physically wrong with me, I kept telling him, apart from the pain in my legs and arms from being tied up.
Yesterday I was nowhere near the intensive care unit. Which is lucky. It makes today easier.
I type the code into the keypad, the one I have just watched a doctor use: CY1789. The trick that worked for your brother has worked for me as well. The door buzzes, and when I push it, it opens easily. I am on your ward. Straight aw
ay, I realise that physically getting into the unit is only part of the challenge. I now need to look as if I belong here, as if I take for granted my presence on this corridor. Graham must have done this too, must have been aware that to look as if he was sneaking around would have been fatal.
Holding my head high, I walk quickly and confidently past the nurses’ station towards your room, glad I had the presence of mind this morning to put on my only smart suit. I left my handbag at home; instead, I’m carrying a brown leather zipped case that I hope makes me look official. I smile at everybody I pass—a warm, busy smile that says, ‘I’m sure you all know who I am. I belong here; I’ve been before and will come again.’ And I will, Robert, whether you want me to or not. I won’t be able to keep away.
The wooden door to your room has a square window. When I came here with Charlie, the curtain was open, but it’s closed now. I reach for the door handle and walk into the room without looking around to see who’s watching me. Without hesitation.
Two young nurses are in your room. One is washing your face and neck with a sponge. Shit. Shock wipes the smile off my face. ‘Sorry,’ says the other nurse, who is putting some fluid in a bag attached to one of the machines. She has mistaken my fear for anger. I am older than her and expensively dressed; she assumes I’m senior hospital personnel.
Her colleague, the one with the sponge in her hand, is less deferential. She says, ‘Who are you?’
This is easier now that you’re in front of me. You’re a man in a bed, immobile. Your eyes are closed, your skin pale. I stare at your face and realise how separate we are. We could so easily be nothing to do with one another. Everything about you—your thoughts, feelings, the network of internal organs that keeps your body going—it’s all packed inside your skin.
For a moment it strikes me as odd that another person, sealed and self-contained as you are in your casing of flesh, has got under my skin to such an extent. If a surgeon cut you open, he would find all the different parts of you. If he cut me open, he’d find the same thing. You have almost replaced me, Robert, inside my own self. How did I allow that to happen?
‘This is Robert Haworth, is that right?’ I say, aiming to sound like someone who has every right not to be patient but is being patient nonetheless.
‘Yes. Are you from CID?’
‘Not quite,’ I say. I hold up my leather case, to suggest it contains important documents. ‘I’m the family liaison officer. I’m working with the police. Sergeant Zailer said it’d be okay to come and see Robert now.’ Thank God for Simon Waterhouse. He mentioned the possibility of engaging a family liaison officer to look after me, on the way back from the hospital yesterday. It’s a bit late for that, I felt like saying.
The nurses nod. ‘We’re finished anyway,’ one says.
‘Great.’ I flash her a busy, efficient smile. Neither of them questions why a family liaison officer would need to spend time with an unconscious man. The title I gave myself was enough for them. It sounded right, suggested procedures in place and guidelines diligently drawn up, clear aims and objectives. No need for the nurses to be on their guard.
Once they’re gone, I walk over to you and stroke your forehead, which is still damp from the sponge. Touching you now is an odd experience. Your skin is just skin, like mine, like anybody else’s. What makes you so special? I know your heart is still beating, but I’m more interested in what your brain is doing. That’s the bit of you that makes you different from other people.
Robert Angilley.
The scream is still there, the one that started yesterday. But at the moment I’m making sure no one can hear it apart from me.
‘Hello, Robert. I’m back.’
It’s crazy, but I wait for a response, watch your face for signs of movement.
‘Your brother’s lost an eye. Graham. I’ve seen him again. It wasn’t as bad as the first time.’ There’s too much to say. I don’t know where to start. ‘He’s in hospital too. Not this one. Another one. It was because of me that he was hurt. I didn’t do it deliberately. It just happened.’
I imagine that I see your eyelids flicker. Probably because I’ve been staring so intently. We see what we want to see.
‘I know everything, Robert. Nobody told me. Well, some things I found out, from the police, from talking to Juliet. But I worked out the most important bits on my own. And ever since, all I’ve been able to think about is coming here to tell you. You might live or you might die, but either way, I want you to know I’ve beaten you. I have, Robert, though you had the advantage over me for so long. You were the one with all the information, who could decide whether to reveal it or not.’
I bend to kiss your lips. I expect them to be cold, but they’re not. They’re warm. I back away. ‘I can do and say whatever I want to you now, can’t I? You’ve got no control. It’s all up to me. I’m the one with the information, and all the power. I’m the one who’s going to be doing the revealing, and you’ve got no choice but to lie there and listen to me. It’s the opposite of how it was with Juliet.’
Another flicker of your eyelid, barely noticeable.
‘I know Graham raped her too. And you found her and looked after her, married her, made her trust you and need you. Just like you did with me. It must be easy to make a woman fall for you when you know so much about her, so much she doesn’t know you know. Easy to say all the right things. It worked so well with Juliet, didn’t it? And then you wanted to see if it would again. With Sandy Freeguard.’
My legs start to shake. I sit down in the chair beside your bed. ‘Sandy wasn’t quite as good as Juliet, though. For your purposes. You must have been disappointed, after such a good start—her falling for your knight-in-shining-armour act. Why wouldn’t she? You know how to make us feel safe and looked after. But Sandy wasn’t like Juliet, or me. She didn’t shrink into herself and make it her life’s work to hide her sordid little secret. She told the police, joined support groups, dealt with the rape better than anyone could have expected. It didn’t occur to her to feel ashamed, or try to conceal anything. Your brother’s the one who should be ashamed. Sandy Freeguard realised that long before I did, long before Juliet did.’
The anger I feel is unlike any I’ve known before. It’s cold, meticulous. I wonder if this sort of icy fury, the sort you can control and mould, is the same thing as evil. If it is, then there’s evil inside me for the first time in my life.
‘How much did Sandy Freeguard talk to you about what your brother did to her? A lot, probably. It must have been the main thing on her mind. She was a talker, and you were her loving, caring boyfriend.’
I lean in closer. ‘How infuriating for you. What a waste of all your efforts. Your sick little game only worked with women who buried the experience, went into hiding. People like me and Juliet, who were terrified of anybody knowing, because of what the world might think about us. That was the kick you got, wasn’t it? Marrying Juliet, knowing she had no idea that you knew. Watching her make a fool of herself day after day, loving and trusting the brother of the man who’d raped her, who’d profited from raping her. Thinking that, however awful she felt, however shattered she was inside, at least she’d succeeded in concealing her defeat from the world, and now she had you, and things were starting to improve. You must have known all that was in her mind. You relished your secret knowledge, didn’t you? Gloated privately about how wrong she was, how far from the real truth. I can see the two of you at home, in your lounge, watching television, eating dinner. Fucking. And all the time, every second you were together, you knew you could destroy her entire world at any moment, if you chose to, by telling her you knew about the rape, that it was the only reason you were ever interested in her. And it wasn’t only Graham who’d made money out of it. You did too. You were in business together. You knew you could tell Juliet that any time you wanted. The ultimate power trip.’
I stand up, walk over to the window. A man in a green boiler suit and protective goggles is trimming the small round bushe
s in the courtyard outside your room, using a motorised blade. The droning sound stops every so often, then starts again.
‘It’s one of the most effective ways of ruining someone’s life—showing them, suddenly, that their interpretation of the world, everything they think they understand and believe to be true, everything that matters to them, is based on a lie, a cruel, sadistic trick. Maybe it’s the most effective way to destroy another human being. You must have thought so. I know what you’re like, Robert; only the best will do.’
You say nothing. I am trying to provoke somebody who’s unconscious.
‘I hope you’re impressed,’ I say. ‘You might have misled me successfully, but there were side effects that you didn’t foresee. You can’t give someone a year of your life and let them love you in the way I did without giving some of yourself to that other person. And you gave me enough to be sure I’m right about this. Now I’m the one who knows things about you, things you’d never have imagined I’d be able to figure out. But I have, because our relationship was real as well as fake.’
Your eyelids twitch; this time I know I haven’t imagined it. The phrase ‘rapid eye movement’ comes to mind. Doesn’t it happen when you’re deeply asleep? Perhaps you’re having a bad dream. What would that mean, for someone like you, whose chosen way of life is more horrific than most people’s nightmares?
The Truth-Teller's Lie Page 34
