by Sarah Flint
As if sensing his presence, she stirred.
He took a step forward and her eyes flew open wide, her hand automatically flying to her mouth to stifle a scream as she drew the duvet up round her body with the other.
‘Don’t worry, Catherine. It’s just me.’
His voice sounded husky and her eyes widened still further, flicking from where he stood, towards the door and back.
‘Who are you?’ she stammered, her speech hesitant.
He was shocked at her reaction. He leant forward, taking his gloves off, and stroked her forehead gently, sweeping her hair from her face and at the same time noticing how violently her body shook.
‘It’s me, Thomas. Don’t you recognise me?’
She shook her head, shrinking away from his touch, her eyes still wildly searching his face. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just to see you. To be with you. I love you, Catherine.’
She said nothing, but he sensed her fear, exuding from every cell of her body – real, physical, incomprehensible.
He bent down and kissed her forehead.
‘I don’t know you and my name’s not Catherine.’ She could barely speak, burrowing further into the corner of the mattress. ‘You’re mistaken.’
But it was Catherine, he knew it. He had seen her, followed her, watched her and she had smiled at him in the shop, inviting him back into her life. He wouldn’t let her reject him now.
‘I’m not mistaken. Catherine, it’s me. I want you and I know you want me too.’ He reached out towards her and pulled the duvet from her grip, watching in disappointment as she curled her legs up tightly into a foetal position. He tried again to ignore her fear, sitting down next to her and placing a hand on her thigh, but she shrank away from him, clutching her legs even tighter into her body, seeking to end the contact, sever the link between them.
‘Oh my God. Oh my God,’ she muttered shakily. ‘Please help me, God.’
A distant memory stirred at the words. Catherine calling out in distress. Catherine crying, angered at her inability to stand. Catherine’s tears at being returned in the same disabled state from the regular religious ‘healing’ services she’d been taken to by well-meaning neighbours, none of whom witnessed her daily decline. Catherine crying. Always crying.
He looked up from where she lay and saw a heavy golden crucifix hanging on the wall above her bed. It was similar to one that Catherine had owned. A figure was suspended from it, unable to escape. The sight unsettled him. It was somehow connected to what had happened to Catherine. The figure was held aloft, trapped by evil. Catherine had been trapped within her body by evil. The crucifix signified so much that had gone wrong, so much that had caused her distress. The evil had controlled Catherine’s mind and body, and now, the same evil was lurking nearby, ready to come between them as it had before. This time, though, he wouldn’t let it happen. This time, he had a weapon to ward it off. This time, he must keep control.
He slipped the tea towel out from his sleeve and unwound it, gripping the handle of the knife. Nothing would stop him having what he wanted – and at this precise moment he wanted Catherine.
He pulled the duvet off her completely and held the knife above her body, leaning across with his other arm and unfolding her limbs so that she lay outstretched beside him. Slowly he moved the blade downwards until it reached her breasts, hooking it under the fabric of her vest so that it slit through its thin shoulder straps.
‘Please don’t hurt me.’ Her voice was thin and high, little more than a whimper, and just the sound of it stirred him almost to tears. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He would never hurt her. He loved her, and now he wanted to make love to her. He put the knife down on the floor beside the bed. He just needed to ward away the evil, to keep control.
Catherine was still now, not pulling away from him but not responding either. Her eyes were tightly shut, just like they had always been whenever they’d made love. Her breathing was fast and urgent and the scent of her fragrance permeated his nostrils. He looked down and the sight of the naked flesh on her shoulders and neck sent waves of desire through his whole body. He was in control, but he was on fire.
Reaching across, he folded her vest down, taking in the smooth contours of her breasts, the way her nipples grew erect in the cooler air. He pulled at her shorts, revealing the velvety mound of hair he had always so loved. He dropped his head, burying it between her breasts and let his hands explore her body, caressing her skin roughly, urgently, touching, stroking, prodding every inch. Little did he care that she failed to return his passion, that she lay passively, her face pinched, her eyes closed tightly. She was his wife. He needed her and he would have her.
His erection was strong. Pulling a condom from his pocket, he tore off the corner with his teeth, spitting it out on to the carpet next to the bed, before kneeling up astride her and unzipping his jeans. It had always been his responsibility to use birth control, with Catherine being on so many meds, and so he’d come prepared – its use would reinforce to her how much he cared.
He lowered himself down on top of her, his cheek grazing hers, his mouth searching for her lips. He found her mouth and kissed her hard, his tongue probing, but she didn’t respond. He could feel her legs held rigid, motionless, so he brought his knee up between them, forcing them apart. He could wait no longer.
As he entered her, the impulse to come immediately was almost uncontrollable. He stopped, his breath ragged with effort while the urge abated, concerned to make the moment last longer. After a few seconds, he regained control, moving slowly at first, rhythmically, the pleasure mounting steadily, urgently. He had what he wanted and nothing could stop him. The knowledge made him grin with pleasure, and he threw his head back, catching a glimpse of the knife lying on the carpet. The sight seemed to excite him further. His mind was spinning, images popping randomly into his brain. Frightened faces, people crying, feet moving randomly back and forth, grey clothes, white light – and he wanted to laugh.
As his climax exploded from within him, he looked down at Catherine’s face, but all he could see now was death, his wife’s body lying motionless, still amongst folds of satin, her eyes glassy and lifeless.
He pulled away from her, panic-stricken, squinting through the darkness at her silent features. She twitched and relief flooded through his body. She was still alive. He had his Catherine back.
Slumping on the bed next to her, he reached down and retrieved the knife. It had served its purpose and now he could rewrap it and take it away. As he lifted it, he heard a sharp intake of breath and Catherine started to sob.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ she pleaded. ‘Please go now and leave me alone.’
The words came like a hammer blow. Of course he wasn’t going to kill her. He loved her, but maybe he’d upset her in some way. She hadn’t always liked his advances and she clearly didn’t want him there now. He would do as she asked. He would go, but he’d be back. One day soon, he would return to reclaim her as his own. After all, she had smiled at him at the shops, and now she had given her body to him.
He glanced up and saw the crucifix again. It was powerless now because he’d beaten it this time, but the evil would try again, and next time he would be ready. Smiling to himself, he wrapped the knife in the tea towel and slid it back up his sleeve. He still had his jacket on, but his jeans were undone. Quickly, he removed the condom, shoved it into his pocket and stood up, pulling up his zip. He was thinking clearly now.
He was about to leave when he noticed a framed photograph hanging on the wall, above the bedside cabinet. In the gloom, he could just make out the shape of a woman standing on a cliff top. He lifted it off the wall and tilted it into the thin ray of light coming in through the curtains, staring in awe at the image of Catherine, her hair fanned out behind her, blown horizontally by a strong wind. Her neck stretched heavenwards and her face was lit up with that smile, the one that had captivated him from the beginning. There was no question that he had to have it. The
joy shone out from her face, her expression radiating life, love and energy. Slipping it inside his jacket, he checked he had all his belongings and headed out. He would be leaving by the front door now and walking calmly down the driveway. It was of no concern to him if the security light came on or his feet crunched across the gravel. He had done what he had come to do. He had been reunited with Catherine and nothing else mattered.
He stopped momentarily as he got to the bedroom door and turned to gaze back at his wife. She had curled up into a tight ball, her spine outlined through the skin of her back. Very soon she would be asleep, if she wasn’t already.
‘I’m off now,’ he whispered. ‘But remember I love you and I’ll be back soon.’
*
It took Maryanne Hepworth over an hour before she dared summon help. In that time, she had thought of killing herself several times.
For an age after the man left, she hadn’t budged, terrified that he was still there lurking, preparing to rape her again, or kill her for daring to move. If she closed her eyes, she saw him. If she opened them, she saw him. He was everywhere now. Only when her digital alarm clock showed ten minutes had elapsed did she dare move, tying her dressing gown tightly round her aching body and throwing on all the lights. The brightness burnt her retinas, but darkness was not an option. It would never be an option again.
Quickly, she secured the bathroom window, every second bringing with it the terror of seeing his face appear against the frosted glass, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise up her throat at the knowledge that this was how he had been allowed to invade her life. Just to be sure, she hung a towel across the space, not daring to risk the sight of a shadow falling on the glass. Then, out into the hallway, where she heaved a chest of drawers in front of the door, the movement causing a photo frame to topple over. For a second, she stopped to reposition the snapshot, staring down at the image of her nan, her mother and herself – three generations of strong, independent women. They looked so happy, the youngest and oldest family members melded together, the years between them irrelevant.
A small sob escaped from her lips at the thought. Her strength and independence had been stripped from her by the stranger in her bedroom, just as surely as he’d stripped the clothes from her body. She would never feel happy again. Tugging at the drawers a final time, she managed to position them across the exit. He’d gone, and she had to be sure that he couldn’t return.
The bedroom was still in disarray, his brooding presence filling every tiny space. Her eyes were drawn to the lighter patch of wallpaper where her photo had hung and she retched. It made her feel sick to even try to imagine why he wanted it. Quickly, she pulled the covers from the bed and yanked the door shut, shoving the dirty bed sheets into the washing machine and stripping off what was left of her clothing. She set the wash to its hottest cycle and started the machine. Everything needed sterilisation.
The next forty-five minutes were spent in the bathroom, scrubbing every disgusting remnant of the man from her body, the whole flat filling with steam as she turned the temperature of the shower up as high as she could bear; the hotter the water, the better the purification. She used her fingernails, long and well-manicured, to scratch every filthy cell of his off her, scoring deep into her body until her skin was red raw, and her teeth and gums bled from the motion of her toothbrush. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she knew she shouldn’t bathe, that she should leave his fluids, his smell, his evil all over her – but she couldn’t bear it there a second longer.
When her skin felt cleaner, she wrapped herself in a clean dressing gown and curled up on the settee, clutching her legs tight to her chest. She felt more in control now, but for once she had no idea what to do.
Common sense was telling her to call the police. They would come. They would make her secure. They would catch this man… but would they believe her and could she cope with telling anyone what had happened, having to relive the whole ordeal to them, to a judge, to a court full of strangers.
She valued her privacy, but she would have none. Her whole life would be laid bare. Every comment she’d ever made on social media would be scrutinised. Every photo, however innocent, would be inspected. Innuendos would be made on innocent friendships and past relationships dissected. She’d spent a lifetime building a career in her accountancy firm, proving her credentials in a male-dominated business, rising up the ranks to middle-management. Now, all that was in jeopardy. The ‘Me Too’ movement had gone some way in presuming women spoke the truth, but, in her experience, nothing much had changed in big business. The underlying suspicion, particularly within the older generation of alpha males, was still somehow that the woman had asked for it.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she reviewed her options, her mind reliving again and again the last few hours. What kind of man would break into a lone woman’s flat in the middle of the night and assault her in her bed? What kind of sick bastard would laugh, while he held up a knife and committed rape? What sort of crazed rapist would tell his victim that he loved them and then say quite brazenly that he would return? As she recalled the man’s last whispered promise, she was suddenly more petrified than she’d ever been in her life, possibly even more so than when she’d woken to see his silhouette hovering over her.
Her landline was on the table next to the settee. With trembling hands, she picked up the handset, her fingers roaming over the buttons. Danielle, her sister, lived only a few miles away. She was married, but she had three young children and it was almost 3 a.m. in the morning. The sound of the phone ringing would wake up the whole house. A sob shuddered through her as she weighed up again and again what to do. What the hell was wrong with her? Every day at work she was expected to take charge, organise herself and her team, make judgements on thousands, if not millions, of pounds’ worth of assets, yet now she couldn’t even make the easiest decision.
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. What about her job? There was no way she could go to work. What was she supposed to do? Walk through her office door in a few hours’ time and act as if nothing had happened?
Christ, she needed to get a grip. She’d just been raped. Of course she wouldn’t be expected to go to work and of course Danielle wouldn’t mind being woken.
She knew her sister’s number off by heart. Pressing the handset to her ear, she started to dial the number, realising immediately there was no dialling tone. The landline was dead.
Panicking, she ran to the hallway, where she always charged her mobile, almost crying with relief as she saw the phone still there and with a full battery. She keyed in her sister’s number, the few seconds that elapsed seemingly endless before Danielle answered, sounding confused and half-asleep.
‘Maryanne, what’s up? What time is it?’
‘Danielle, it’s me…’ She stifled a sob. She could say nothing further.
‘Maryanne. Are you all right?’ Her sister’s voice was sharp with concern, awake now. ‘What’s happened? Do you need an ambulance? Or the police? Tell me.’
Another sob rose up her throat. ‘Police,’ she could barely say the word, before her throat constricted completely. She’d done what she needed and now her mind was shutting down, whisking her miles from her flat to a place and time when she’d been safe, to the family kitchen with stew bubbling in the oven and her mother fussing over her and Danielle, as vegetables steamed on the hob. These days, it was usually she, Maryanne, who made the decisions, who organised her family and younger sibling, but tonight she needed Danielle to take charge.
‘Right,’ her sister seemed to know instinctively what was required. ‘Stay right where you are, Maryanne. I’ll get the police, and I’m coming over. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.’
*
Dawn was breaking and the birds were in full chorus when Thomas finally climbed the stairs to his bedsit, the last few hours having been spent in his special room at Baytree House luxuriating in memories of his liaison with Catherine, and buoyed up by the
sight of his newly acquired photograph, now propped up in pride of place on an old deserted sideboard.
The building was unusually quiet, but the familiar odours of cooking fumes, cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies seemed even more pungent than usual, locked in, unventilated as they had been overnight. He opened the door to their room and crept in, careful not to disturb his daughter. Emma was lying asleep under the duvet on her sofa bed, her spine tucked up against the backrest. She didn’t stir as he entered, nor when he walked across and stood staring down at her sleeping form.
The sight of his daughter held Thomas spellbound. He watched, captivated at the way the corner of her mouth twitched slightly as she slept, and was reminded once again just how closely she resembled Catherine.
Carefully, he removed his jacket and pushed the duvet to one side, lying down next to his daughter. Her hair spread out across the pillow and he stroked it gently, marvelling at its silky texture. Wafts of the peach shampoo she’d always loved as a child, and still used, drifted into his nostrils, arousing long-dormant paternal instincts.
He closed his eyes and savoured the moment. Now with Catherine restored to health, he would endeavour to forget that she had been the cause of his wife’s illness and try to become the father figure of whom she’d always dreamt. Slowly he would win back her love and trust and they would become a happy family unit. Things would work out. It would just take time.
9
‘We have another possible to investigate,’ Hunter turned towards Charlie as she entered the office, puffing hard at the exertion of a fast run into work.
It was only just gone 6.45 a.m., but already Bet and Sabira had their heads together, reading the night-duty occurrence books for details of the new offence.
‘Give me a minute, guv.’ She gathered her stuff and ran to the washroom. Her shift wasn’t due to start properly until seven and she was a mess. More recently, she’d put on a bit of weight, and it showed in the fact that both her breath and her running trousers were labouring under the excess pounds. Stripping off, she jumped into the shower, rinsing off the morning cobwebs and sloshing a globule of toothpaste around her teeth with her finger.
