The Sunday Girl

by Pip Drysdale

I took a sip of my drink and weighed my words. ‘Honey, I don’t want to make it any worse,’ I said. ‘I just want to never see him again.’

  That was when my phone beeped. I reached across to pull it from my bag and my throat grew tight.

  ‘I knew something like this would happen,’ she said, her face scrunched up. ‘I actually thought it already had.’

  I was staring at my phone screen.

  ‘Is that him?’ asked Charlotte.

  I showed her the screen: Where the fuck are you?

  ‘Well, at least he doesn’t know where you are,’ she said.

  And as I looked up at her I could feel my eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Oh darling, it will be okay,’ she said, her eyes maternal as she hugged me. ‘Just don’t reply to him.’ Then she headed back into the kitchen with her drink in her hand.

  My phone beeped again: Get the fuck back here now.

  I could feel my heartbeat at the base of my throat.

  I had been expecting those messages and knew I would have to manage him; I just didn’t expect it to be so hard. I was sitting on the same mustard leather sofa Charlotte and I had bought back when we lived together, when London was new and anything was possible. The day we left that first flat she took the sofa and I took the fridge. But time had changed things. I could no longer feel the excitement of possibility propping me up. Possibility was now an abstract concept – a small pinprick of light in the distance. It was just a matter of time before it was snuffed out.

  But ignoring him wasn’t an option, not yet. I had to answer. Charlotte didn’t understand the stakes.

  Me: I’ll be back tomorrow, I just need some space.

  Beep: No. Come back now.

  ‘Pizza or Thai?’ Charlotte called to me from the kitchen.

  ‘Pizza?’ I said, my ears buzzing. My reply to Angus had to placate him. It had to buy time. My mind ran through response options … but then he texted first.

  Beep: Okay. Well, you have 24 hours to be back here or I’ll be sending a little something to your mother. And your boss And maybe even …

  Beep: David Turner.

  David. Caz’s comment about looking for dirt on David came spiralling back; I needed to warn him. If anything else happened it would all be my fault.

  Me: You realise I could just go to the police, right? He didn’t need to know I’d already been.

  Beep: Why would you go to the police? It should be me doing that, not you.

  Me: ???

  Beep: Well, darling, you’re the one who was stealing from me to pay for your weed and god knows what else. Not vice versa.

  Me: What are you talking about? I never stole from you!

  Beep: Really? You didn’t go to my apartment when I wasn’t there, take my bank card and PIN that I keep in my underwear drawer for emergencies and then go to an ATM and withdraw 1000 pounds? How high did you get that you don’t even remember?

  The edges of my vision became white.

  Beep: The security camera at the ATM you went to will have footage of you doing it if you don’t remember …

  Beep: Or ask the doorman, he would have seen you come, go and then come back to return the card.

  My pulse sped up. And the texts kept coming.

  Beep: I mean, I do appreciate that you paid me back … but you shouldn’t steal in the first place. You can always ask me. Always.

  My forehead crinkled: what was he talking about? And then I knew: the £984 he had taken from my account. He was covering his tracks. Creating backstory. Making me seem like the unreliable, crazy one. Anyone reading those messages would think it was me who had done the wrong thing – not him. I was the drug-addict girlfriend breaking into his apartment to take his bank card to draw money for drugs while he was at work. And he was the concerned and loving victim. The money that had been transferred out of my account to his, by him, was now just me paying him back …

  I could finally see through him, but it would do me no good.

  Beep: Nor should you have broken into my home while I was away skiing …

  My breath caught in my throat. There was no way he could know that.

  Beep: Cat got your tongue?

  Beep: Be silent then 24 hours.

  Me: Okay. I will be back soon. I promise. xx

  Beep: Goodnight, darling.

  ‘Pizza will be here in twenty. I got half-mushroom, half-meat-lovers,’ Charlotte announced. ‘All about balance. Shit, are you okay?’

  That’s when I realised I was crying.

  That mustard-yellow sofa was my bed that night. Ben set it up for me when he got home, stuffing extra cushions into the bits that sagged and jamming folded pieces of paper under the support to make sure it didn’t wobble. And as I lay there, the old springs digging into my middle back, my mind swung from thought to thought. Chiara. My flat. Val: what would she would think of me if Angus sent her those tapes? Cameron: Caz007. Sophie Reed. Angus’s shoebox. RedTube. The videos. My mother. The green thumb drive. What Angus would do if he knew I’d found it. The gun in my suitcase. Hayley. Jake. The other phone. Alison’s fake chest. Jamie. Cigars. Angus. The version I loved. The version I hated. Yellow ribbons. Prostitutes. Felicia. The lingerie. Kim: why had she messaged me? Should I have messaged her back? Ski slopes. David. Ed. ‘Happy birthday, sir.’ My purple notebook. Master Sun Tzu. A lemon-yellow pillowcase. Cigarettes and spiced lime.

  Yes, I thought of a million things that night. And yet I really only thought of one: my alibi.

  thursday

  Master Sun said: ‘Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.’

  23 FEBRUARY

  Beep: What the fuck did you do? Joe from next door just came over and said I sent a dick pic to his fiancée! Are you insane?

  That was the first text of the day. It arrived just before 9am. I was only halfway into my first cup of coffee, looking through Charlotte’s kitchen drawers for loose coins to supplement the £9 I had until Friday. She would have lent me money if I’d asked, but I was running out of plausible explanations.

  Me: What?

  I stared at my phone and my stomach contracted. I’d hoped Felicia would only think to consult Jake’s laminated list of contact numbers and tie the dick pic to Angus after I was gone. The printout from the day before was to help her piece it together.

  Beep: Don’t you dare lie to me.

  Me: I really don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Then the phone started to ring: his name and a smiling photograph I’d assigned to his contact information back when things were good flashed back at me from the screen.

  Fuck.

  ‘Hello,’ I answered sweetly, focusing on my breath just like he’d taught me. I needed him to believe that I really was returning that evening as promised.

  ‘What have you done?’ he seethed into the phone.

  ‘Nothing –’ I started, but he cut me off.

  ‘I could get evicted! This is fucking serious … and Candice said you haven’t called her. I want the prostitute saga dealt with today,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  ‘Can we talk about it later?’ I asked softly, closing the kitchen drawer. There was no money in there – £9 would have to do – but I had found duct tape under the sink and a pair of nail scissors in the bathroom. The two things I’d need, according to the YouTube video I’d watched that morning.

  ‘I have a late meeting, I’ll be home at eight. But I expect you to be there when I get back.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I will be.’

  And then we hung up.

  My throat felt thick, like a bathroom drain clogged with hair. I wouldn’t be there at eight when he got back, and I was frightened of the aftermath. But I would have an alibi. I would be able to tell him to call the yoga studio. Then I would tell him I was too frightened of him to return. And he would harshly, then gently, try to coax me back. I knew the choreography. I could predict the steps. And that would buy me wiggle room: by the time
he figured out that the videos had been deleted and his second phone was missing, I would know what was on it; I would already be using it against him.

  It was a Thursday. And I had two remaining yoga classes on a pre-paid pack of ten. That meant there was a 6.45pm class I could register for and not actually attend, in the same way Charlotte and I used to do.

  I arrived at the studio at 6.38pm, at the height of the post-work rush, so it was easy to go unnoticed. Then I stood in line, booked myself in, paid a £5 deposit and took my locker key: number 31. I was now electronically logged as having attended, and I had until 8pm to get back.

  Then I followed the crowd into the change room and put on black yoga pants and an oversized grey pullover. I opened the locker door and left my belongings inside: handbag, jeans, phone, gloves, coat, baseball cap, crumpled piece of paper, duct tape, nail scissors, silencer and gun.

  Then I zipped the key into the front pocket of my yoga pants and went into one of the loos. I stayed perched there on that porcelain seat until the room fell silent. When I was sure it was empty I crept out, unlocked the locker, put on my gloves and stuffed the hat into the waistband of my lycra pants. Then the gun went into one pocket of my fleece pullover and the silencer – together with the crumpled piece of paper I planned on dropping onto Mrs Clifton’s balcony to help Felicia with her case – went into the other. I glanced at myself in the mirror: everything was concealed.

  I grabbed for the duct tape, used the nail scissors to cut off a piece the length of my hand and then shut everything back inside the locker.

  It was 6.47pm when I exited through the emergency door and closed it gently behind me, the duct tape secured over the latch to ensure it wouldn’t deadlock.

  And by 6.56pm I could see Angus’s building on the corner. It had been raining earlier and streetlights were reflected on the mirrored streets as I jogged towards it. I couldn’t afford a cab, after paying the locker deposit I only had £4 left.

  I entered through the side entrance of the garage, using the key I’d taken from the terracotta bowl above Angus’s fridge, back when I thought a leak constituted revenge. As the door closed behind me, the light that had been thrown in from the outside was eclipsed, and I was shrouded in a veil of pitch black. But I knew that garage well and could navigate my way through the dark.

  My gloved hands guided me along the rough wall, through the CCTV’s blind spot, past the assembly of rubbish bins awaiting collection, and towards the heavy door to the stairwell. The CCTV wouldn’t have switched on yet, so I was less likely to be seen if I took the stairs rather than the lift. I pushed the door open and, holding on to the banister, I started my upward climb.

  It was 7.06pm as I walked towards his door. I put my key into the lock. Turned it. And it opened. I was hit by the smell of furniture polish and green apple cleaning fluid: Elena. I closed it quietly behind me and took off my shoes, then ran through to his computer.

  Sitting on the chair, I jiggled the mouse and brought his screen to life. Then I navigated to the home movies tab on his iTunes. And there they were, in plain sight. A snake of shame twisted in my stomach at the thought of my mother seeing those videos. I recognised the four of me immediately – they’d been branded on my psyche – but scattered amid mine were many others. Other women. One was entitled ‘Kim3Valentine’. It was sitting near the top, so I clicked on it and checked when it had been added: the day after Valentine’s Day. While I’d been imagining him in an NA meeting, sharing heartfelt stories with strangers, he’d been in bed with Kim. That was the night I went past and got that money for him – I must have just missed them in the elevator.

  That’s probably why Kim wrote to me two days later. And why Angus had me block her …

  There were twelve in all. I dragged every last one of them into the trash, pressed empty, and then pulled up a browser window. Then I logged into Angus’s emails and scrolled through them until I found the one from Caz.

  Two words: Sophie Reed.

  I forwarded it to a new email and typed ‘I’m sorry’ into the body of the message. I left ‘FW: Sophie Reed’ in the subject field. I copied the email address for Justin and Lorraine Reed I’d taken from that newspaper article the day before into the addressee field.

  I took a deep breath, and pressed send. Then I deleted both the original and forwarded emails.

  I stared back at his empty home movies pane. He would know it was me who deleted them, and he would be angry. And so he would call me in a rage and tell me that of course he had back-ups, and exactly how he was going to use them.

  And when he did, I would calmly mention that I had his second phone.

  That I was happy to use that in retaliation.

  My heart thumped against my ribs as I reached across and opened his drawers, one by one, searching for the key to the storage cupboard. First the top one. Nothing. Then the second. Towards the back lay my favourite little green thumb drive, so I took it and slipped it into my pocket. Then the third. Nothing.

  Swivelling around, I checked the bookcase. It was sparse and it didn’t take long to search, and while I didn’t find a key, I did find my purple notebook hidden behind an old encyclopaedia. I left the notebook where it was and moved through to the living room.

  A shuffle. Jumper cable to the heart. Ed. I stared at his cage, a silhouette against the window.

  Where the fuck would he hide that key?

  I was running out of ideas: I’d searched the cupboards in the bedroom and bathroom just two days before. And it wasn’t in his office or on top of the fridge.

  Does he keep it with him?

  That was when I heard the jangling. The sound of his key fitting into the front door lock.

  I will never forget that sound.

  I ran into the bedroom and hid.

  My watch said 7.21pm. He had said 8pm.

  I heard his footsteps as he entered. The flick of the light switch. Him putting down his briefcase by the front door. Then he took off his shoes, and his pace became lighter as he moved towards his booze cabinet. I couldn’t hear the Scotch pour, but I knew him well enough to know that’s what he would be doing: two Scotches out on the balcony.

  My breath was shallow and my heart wild as I reached into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the gun. I pulled the silencer from the other pocket and screwed it on. Then I waited. Soon I would hear the rusty key turn and the creak of the balcony door opening. And the moment he walked out, I would make a run for it.

  Three-quarters of my plan had been accomplished: hard drive, email and videos. But I still didn’t have the phone, and a thick danger swirled around me. What was going to happen when he saw I’d deleted the videos? If he noticed the thumb drive was gone? That I wasn’t back there when I said I would be? What would he do? I clenched my eyes shut. There was no telling how long it might take for Sophie’s parents to read the email I’d just sent – for the police to act on it – and anything could have happened by then. I needed that phone as collateral. Something that linked him to Caz and Sophie and Stepanovich and the information on that green drive; something I could hide away, in case. Because the only thing that would stop Angus coming after me – hurting me – was knowing I could hurt him more. I would have to come back for it.

  I looked towards the front door and my ears strained against the silence, searching for his movements. His location.

  I swallowed, hard. And it echoed through the room. But then came the sound I’d been waiting for: the familiar creak of the balcony door. I counted to five, calculating that he would be outside by then, standing by the railing looking out at the view. And then, with my hand clenched around the cold handle of the gun, my finger carefully avoiding the trigger, I took a deep breath and I ran.

  But the moment I moved out from my hiding place, a strong arm reached around my waist. He had been waiting for me. The gun flew out of my hands. I heard it bounce across the floor. He was behind me. He was so strong.

  The arm that wasn’t around my waist pinned my
arms to my sides.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ he whispered in my ear as he swung me away from the front door. ‘Did you really think you could outsmart me?’

  We were moving towards the balcony. I reached back with my hand and grabbed hold of his crotch. I squeezed with everything I had: hand, gloved nails, everything. He crumpled. I went to punch him in the head but I fumbled and he grabbed for me. I could see him recovering almost immediately. My mouth was dry. My throat was tight.

  I ran outside, through that balcony door.

  I will scream. The neighbours will hear me.

  But he was right behind me. I opened my mouth to scream. To bite. And his hand reached around in front of my face to stop me. He could read my every thought. He knew what I was going to do before I did.

  I turned my head quickly and ducked out of his grasp. His forward motion propelled him towards the balcony wall. He hit it hard and I turned to run. But he grabbed for me before I was out of range. Before I was free. He caught my wrist with a cold, harsh hand and he pulled me towards him with a force I couldn’t fight. Only the sleeve of my pullover stood between his hand and my skin. I pulled away with all my might, but he was stronger. He was drawing me towards him. I ripped frantically at his shirt with my free arm and let out a yelp when he pulled harder. When he pulled harder, so did I.

  And then, somehow, I slipped free. He tumbled backwards, his feet wrestling with the rain-streaked slats. His feet won. He was leaning against the railing. Grinning. And I could have run, I could have left, I could have taken my chances.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead I ran towards him. And with everything I had, every ounce of my weight, I pushed. I pushed that heavy torso of his and as it toppled over the balcony wall it dragged his legs with it like an iron weight. One swift movement. One single moment. One decision. And he was gone.

  My lungs drew in a deep frozen breath. My eyes were pinned open, and I stared at the slice of moon that stood in his place.

  What have I done?

  My pulse was quick as I turned my head: left then right. Did anyone see me? A heavy layer of soot settled on my conscience and the weight cemented my feet in place.