Hard

by Lily Harlem

  ‘Good,’ he rasped, breath hot and heavy on my cheek, its scent that of fried onions and stale coffee.

  I suppressed a gag and faced the main court area again, clenching my jaw when he gave my skin another vicious pinch.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ I said, not caring whether I disturbed the proceedings. A little louder, ‘Please stop squeezing my wrist.’

  ‘Quiet in the gallery!’ the judge shouted, pursing his lips and frowning.

  I closed my eyes momentarily then opened them, my vision distorted by tears brought on from pain, humiliation, and the child-like feeling that I had no option but to remain where I was when I just wanted to go home.

  ‘Mrs Knowles,’ the solicitor said, his tone kinder. ‘Did you not say in your statement to the police that a man visited your home just prior to the time when you actually deigned to call the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did this supposed man have to say?’

  Mrs Knowles fiddled with her tissue, creating wrinkled strips that fell to the stand top then glided off as she sighed. ‘He said I’d have to pay for what my son had done.’ She propped her forehead in one hand, her erratic breathing harsh-sounding through the speakers.

  ‘And what had your son done, Mrs Knowles?’ The solicitor stopped in front of her and stared at the top of her head.

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Oh, come now. You said earlier that you and your son shared secrets. How could you not know something of such magnitude? Why would your son fail to tell you a secret as large as this when in the past he’d told you everything?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I swear I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to disappoint me.’

  ‘She’s lying. She knows everything,’ the man beside me whispered.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I thought I might be sick.

  ‘Do you see the man in this courtroom, Mrs Knowles?’ The solicitor swung around to gesture to the gallery, sweeping his arm to encompass everyone in attendance.

  Mrs Knowles lifted her head.

  The man released my arm and stepped behind me, breathing on my neck. ‘Stay where you are. She knows not to say anything, but you can never be too sure of someone’s word.’

  I wanted to retort that I was hardly able to move but remained quiet. Still.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Knowles said.

  ‘Bitch!’ the man behind me breathed.

  She looked directly at me, and I glanced around, thinking she’d shift her gaze elsewhere any second.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ the man whispered in my ear. ‘Here. Right here.’

  His weight left my back, and I felt his presence leave, felt him leave. Listened as the door behind me opened then closed softly.

  ‘He was up there,’ Mrs Knowles said, pointing. ‘Right up there beside that woman!’

  It seemed everyone turned to stare at me then, and my face grew hotter as I wrestled with feeling uncomfortable under their scrutiny.

  ‘Which woman, Mrs Knowles? Could you be specific?’ the solicitor asked, turning his steely gaze my way.

  ‘Her! That woman there. The one with the long brown hair and the red coat.’

  A hand clamped down on my shoulder, and I jumped, letting out a whimper. This could not be happening. Not to me.

  ‘This woman?’ a man said behind me.

  I glanced at the hand, then looked over my shoulder to see a security guard eyeing me. I turned back to Mrs Knowles, blood rising to heat my face.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s the one,’ she said, wafting the remains of her tissue.

  I shook my head, my voice failing to work, and wished that I had never, ever had the mad notion to visit a trial in session. Confused, I frowned and gave the guard a smile, trying to convey that I was no one of interest.

  ‘Come this way,’ he said, jerking his head in the direction of the door. ‘You have a bit of explaining to do.’

  Chapter Three

  Now

  I stared through the peephole of my flat door, heart going like the clappers, my legs weak. The knock had startled me, and I wondered for a second whether it was him again or another tenant. Maybe they wanted sugar, some teabags. Maybe the postman had delivered a parcel at the main door and I just hadn’t heard him ring my buzzer. But then the fear kicked up a fuss, barrelling into me, harsh and unforgiving, and I thought of him, the man in the courtroom.

  People like him, well, they knew how to find someone, didn’t they? He’d done it before and I knew he could do it again.

  I leapt back from the door, stifling a groan, frightened from seeing an eye on the other side. A hazel eye, its shape distorted by the peephole glass, the whites streaked with faint red veins. A hazel eye. I swallowed and fought to combat my pinging nerves. I wanted to run, hide in the corner of my bedroom, me sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, arms around them. I wanted to close my eyes and press myself into that corner until I became invisible. I wanted my life back, me back, to rewind time and start again.

  Whoever was on the other side knocked again and said, ‘Rebecca?’

  Relief then panic poured into me, my legs going even weaker, the urge to throw up strong. It couldn’t be Michael Jacobs, it just couldn’t, because he didn’t live around here and I hadn’t seen him for ages. It was over, all of it, and he had no reason to be visiting me now. He shouldn’t be here. It wasn’t wise for him to be. I hadn’t sacrificed being with him to keep him safe only for him to mess it up now. He really ought to have kept away, because if they were watching, if they knew he was here, they’d expect me to do what they’d instructed.

  I can’t do it. I can’t…

  Back at the peephole, I looked through it to find he’d stepped back and was glancing up and down the landing as though he expected me to come along any second. When I didn’t bustle up the stairs, shopping bags dragging me down, bringing the scent of the crisp air outside with me, he frowned and chewed the inside of his cheek. And there I was, battling with whether to let him in or wait until he left. He’d come a long way, though, and what if he had some important news for me? I shook my head at that. If there were news the police would have called round, telephoned, written to me. There was no explanation for Michael being on my doorstep.

  I swallowed again and quietly cleared my throat. ‘What do you want?’

  He started, came closer. His position gave me the idea he’d raised one hand, had pressed it to the door. I lifted mine, placing it where I thought his might be, and felt stupid that I’d done it. What had I thought, that I’d feel the heat of him through the wood? That some of his strength would pass through and go into me, help me to get better? I’d thought many silly things lately — too much time to think did that — but this had to be the silliest.

  ‘I came to see you,’ he said.

  His voice, God, it made everything bad go away for a few seconds, as though just his cultured tones had the ability to wipe the slate clean, as if none of it had ever happened. But it had, it bloody well had, and I was left dealing with the aftermath.

  ‘I see that,’ I said. ‘And you called me Rebecca.’

  He closed his eyes momentarily, clamping his lips tight. He knew he’d made a mistake. Possibly a fatal one if my home had been bugged. If the landing had been bugged.

  ‘You called me Rebecca, out there on the landing where anyone could hear you.’ I didn’t know why I wanted him to feel bad about that. Why I had the need to make him suffer just as much as I had. Yet if I was horrible to him he’d go away, and that was best for both of us. He’d been kind to me in the past, had done more than anyone with regard to making sure I was all right, and me punishing him for it was warped and mean.

  And he’d made me fall in love with him.

  Seeing him now hurt.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Lisa, let me in.’

  That name still sounded foreign when people said it, like it didn’t belong to me, wasn’t who I was, and Lisa…she wasn’t me. I was Rebecca, a
lways would be, but the new name was a lifesaver, something I had to get used to whether I liked it or not. At least I’d got to choose it myself. I’d wanted something no one would take any notice of, a name that blended with the million others out there. Normal. I just wanted to be normal.

  Normal people would let him in. Normal people would twist the two keys on the mortise locks, draw back the four chains, push up the snib on the Yale and open the door. Normal people would tell him what I was meant to do if I ever saw him again.

  But I wasn’t normal. Not anymore.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said, then bit my bottom lip hard so it hurt, so it brought tears of pain and not self-pity. Or anger.

  ‘Please, just let me in.’ A pause, then, ‘Lisa.’

  I turned and pressed my back to the wall beside the door, whittling my fingers at waist height, grazing over the ragged skin on my thumbs. I felt sick with not knowing what to do. It was Michael, definitely him. I closed my eyes, coaching myself calm, whispering that it would be all right, that it would be nice to have some company on a Saturday morning. Maybe I could make him some lunch, and when he left it would give me something to think about over the coming week while I wasn’t at work.

  ‘Okay, Lisa. I’m going to go away now. Leave you be. I understand.’

  I whipped around to look through the peephole again. He wasn’t meant to have said that, I hadn’t expected him to. He was supposed to have kept on until I’d pulled up enough courage to open the door, until he’d convinced me it was the right thing to do. That he was giving up so easily hurt, and I didn’t understand why. Didn’t want to delve too deep and admit why. That would be going a step too far into territory I’d walked into before and had been left wanting. I’d been a mess of emotions — still was — and hadn’t been thinking clearly as I’d blundered ahead, using Michael as my safety net when all he’d been doing was being a kind person. I’d latched onto him — dangerous, that — and convinced myself he’d been one ship who hadn’t wanted a limpet on his hull.

  He took a step away from the door, and my heart rate skittered.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said.

  He moved back to where he’d been. ‘It will be all right, you know. If you open the door, it will be all right.’

  Of course I believed him, and of course I knew it would be all right to a certain degree. He wouldn’t let anyone hurt me, wouldn’t expect me to open the door if anyone else was around. And who would be apart from the old man next door to the left and the student to the right? Other tenants in the block didn’t bother with this floor, as all three of us tended to keep ourselves to ourselves. Yet fear took hold again, the kind that would reopen the floodgates if I let it, reminding me just how stupid I’d been over Michael. How wrong I’d been. He didn’t know how I’d felt about him — how I still felt — but if he saw me, maybe my secret would be written all over my face. He’d know and then he’d have to rebuff me and my pain would be worse than it was now.

  ‘So will you?’ he asked. ‘There’s no one out here but me, I assure you. And I only came down for a social visit. I wanted to see you. Oxford is so busy, so big, and after we last met I wanted to see how you were and —’

  ‘You could have telephoned to find that out,’ I said, damning myself for saying such a thing.

  ‘I could, you’re right, but it’s hardly the same, is it?’

  No, it wasn’t, but we’d have been safer if he had. He wouldn’t see the longing, my need — my stupid, stupid need.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, knowing full well what he’d meant. I just wanted to know, by his tone or what he said next, whether…whether my need was one-sided. It would be, I was sure of that, but still, I perversely wanted to torture myself some more.

  ‘Well, the telephone is impersonal, isn’t it? I wanted to sit with you. See you.’

  To ease his conscience? To see me one final time so he could put this whole sorry mess to bed and never have to worry about me again? It was an admirable trait he had, worrying, being genuine in that he really did care about people, but I was just a person, someone who’d been shoved into his life without him wanting me there. Someone he’d had to deal with just because I’d been related to his case. The last time we’d seen one another had been an unexpected surprise, too, and I’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome in my life.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘But I am rather busy and —’

  ‘Are you? Too busy to even stop what you’re doing for me?’

  What had he meant by that? My hopes rose, images scooting through my head of him coming in, sweeping me into his arms and telling me he loved me, that he’d loved me from the start but hadn’t been able to act on it. Me laughing, back to being Rebecca again, confident, normal Rebecca, kissing his face and bursting with so much happiness it had me crying.

  Stop it. Stop it.

  ‘Well…’ I tried to think of what to say. ‘I was just about to clean and —’

  ‘I don’t mind mess.’

  ‘I do. I don’t want you to see it.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait until you’ve put some things away if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘But there’s too much to do.’

  ‘I have time. I could maybe take a walk, go and see the monument at St Giles. Have a pot of tea in the Randolf Hotel, come back in an hour.’

  ‘That’s not long enough.’

  I scrunched my eyes shut, hating myself for lying, for pushing him away when all I wanted to do was have him come inside. Why couldn’t I just open the door? Why was everything such a trial?

  ‘Two hours then,’ he said. ‘Will that do you?’

  He wasn’t going to give up, was he? A surge of dread shot up from my stomach, bile flooding the back of my tongue because I’d lied. Lied, lied, lied, and he didn’t deserve that. Before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my eyes and scrabbled at the locks, my hands shaking, my knees jolting. The chains came next, me wrenching them back, the sound of metal on metal seeming too loud, too abrasive. I flipped up the snib then grabbed the Yale knob, twisting, twisting it until, if he pushed on the door, it would open. And I wished he’d do that so it took the final decision out of my hands. Instead, I let the knob go, the keeper falling back into place, and stepped away, my breaths coming out as heavy pants. A panic attack was raising its ugly head, peeping out from wherever the hell it hid until it decided to overcome me.

  ‘No,’ I said, to the attack, not Michael, and sprang forward, turned the knob then stepped back again.

  The door opened a tad, like a disguised yawn, and I reversed into the living room, unable to stand seeing it ajar like that. It was too much, too frightening even though it was only Michael on the other side. I’d seen him, I knew damn well it was him. The visual or his voice hadn’t been enough confirmation, though, and I darted to the door at the back of the room that led to a short hallway. There, I stared at the bathroom door, the kitchen, then my bedroom. Chose the latter because of the corner, my place, the safe haven. I knew it was insane, knew me rushing over there and hunkering down wasn’t right — mental, some would say — but I did it anyway. Fitted my back into the corner, bent my legs and rested my chin on my knees. Hugged my shins. And stared at the doorway, knowing he’d come in, knowing he’d look at me as though I belonged in an institution. And maybe I did. Maybe I bloody did.

  I heard the door close — thank God he’d shut it — and waited for him to find me. I could have stood, could have made out I was straightening the quilt, him none the wiser that I was a complete mess. Him smiling, taking my hand and leading me to the kitchen where he waited for me to boil the kettle and sort out cups for some tea. Telling me it was great to see me again, that he’d missed me, and asking how things were going on the work front.

  It took ages for him to appear, and when he did shame burst inside me and my face heated. Tears burned my eyes, a mixture of relief at seeing him, knowing he was there, that he’d wanted to pay me a visit — me, a visit! — and the utter fear of being seen as a fuc
k up. He filled the doorway as I’d imagined many times he would, his shoulders almost brushing the frame either side. He stared across at me, a look of sorrow on his face — or was that pity, I couldn’t be sure. Raised one hand to jam it into his short dark hair, shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek again.

  ‘Rebecca, stand up,’ he said.

  I’d thought if anyone had ordered me to do something like that now I’d have remained in place, refusing to get up, not being able to through fear. But it didn’t work out like that and I stood, arms dangling at my sides, and lowered my head because I couldn’t look at him, just couldn’t bloody look.

  ‘Your hair,’ he said. ‘I like it that way.’

  I didn’t bother to respond.

  ‘It’s tidy in here,’ he said. ‘Very tidy.’

  ‘I know.’ My face grew hotter. I wanted to cry.

  ‘So you just didn’t want me to come in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, you didn’t want me to come in?’

  ‘No, I wanted you to. I just…’

  ‘Are things still difficult?’

  ‘Yes.’ I swallowed the hard lump in my throat. ‘They always are.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good job I came then, isn’t it.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. Now, we’ll go into the kitchen and I’ll put the kettle on. I’ll make tea, I’m sure you could do with one.’

  I nodded. ‘But you can’t make it. You know you can’t make it.’

  He frowned then lifted his eyebrows, and I knew he was remembering the past. I had to make the tea. I had to know what was in the cup. Tea, sugar, milk and water. Nothing else. No, nothing else…

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I won’t make the tea. You’ll make the tea, and then you’re going to pack a bag.’

  I jerked my head up, frightened at the turn of events, at feeling out of control. I had a job to do here, the perfect opportunity to obey a command from my past, but I knew I couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it. I’d planned for Michael to stay a short while then pack him off again, hoping no one else found out.