by Alex Lake
I love you all, Ben. Make sure the kids know that, as they grow up. Make sure they know their mom loved them every minute of every day. Make sure they know I would have stuck around, if there was any way I could have done.
But there isn’t. I’m tired, and sad, and I’ve had enough. It’s such a struggle, Ben. Everything. Even waking up and getting dressed is a monumental effort. And it’s not getting easier.
I’m sorry, but I’m not strong enough to carry on. After writing this I’m going to take sleeping pills – strong ones – and then I’m going to sleep. Forever. It’s
That was as far as Jean had got. Sarah lowered the paper – the suicide note – and looked up at Jean.
But Jean had moved.
26
Sarah heard a shuffling noise behind her – feet on carpet, she thought, then wondered why she was noticing that and not the important stuff, like why was Jean behind her in the first place, a question which was answered when, before she could turn around, Jean clamped an arm around her neck, the hard bone of her forearm pressing painfully against Sarah’s throat.
The pressure grew and she gasped for breath; it felt like the air was not able to get past her neck. She tried again, but Jean was tightening her grip and all she could take was the shallowest of breaths.
She knew what was happening, could picture her trachea being compressed, understood limited air was making it to her lungs so they could transfer the oxygen it contained to her blood, blood which would flow to her brain where it would unload its precious cargo, a cargo which was necessary for life.
She knew it would not take long to extinguish that life if it was denied the oxygen it needed.
She knew all those things. It was basic medical knowledge.
What she didn’t know was what she could do about it.
‘Jean,’ she said, but all that came out was a croak. Jean didn’t reply; she increased the pressure. Sarah’s vision was starting to blur; she lowered her chin, digging it into the muscle in Jean’s forearm in an attempt to relieve the pressure.
It worked, a little. By tilting her head down she had pulled her neck back from the pressure of Jean’s forearm, leaving a small gap. She raised her hands and tried to work her fingers into it.
The pressure lessened, slightly. Sarah breathed in; she could feel the air flow into her lungs. She pulled again, and then dug her fingernails into Jean’s skin.
Jean grunted, then lifted her free hand to Sarah’s face, and pushed the hard bone at the side of her wrist into the angle where the base of her nose met the top of her lip.
The pain shot through Sarah’s nose and jaw. It was incredibly intense and Sarah remembered one of the professors at medical school telling the class the base of the nose was a pressure point; he had been a cop and explained how, if you could get to it, you could force anyone to submit. No one could stand the pain.
Sarah pulled her head back to try and escape it, but in doing so she pushed her throat into Jean’s forearm. Sarah tried to lower her chin, but that meant pushing her nose into Jean’s wrist, which was an agony she could not bear.
As the pressure grew, her breaths became shallower and her vision started to dim. As it did questions swirled in her mind.
Where had Jean learned to do this? And the forgery? Where has she learned that? And why the fuck was she doing all this in the first place?
Her last thought, though, was none of these. Her last thought was the realization she would never find out.
And then, only darkness.
PART THREE
Ten Years Earlier
The body never showed up.
They looked for it, at length, after they found out what Karen had done, but they didn’t find it.
It wasn’t a surprise; the ocean rarely gave up its secrets and there was no reason why it should be different this time. She had left a note tucked into one of her New Balance sneakers about how she didn’t think she could carry on, about the deep depression and crippling anxiety she had been struggling with for months. She had tried to cope with it but couldn’t, simply couldn’t, and she had nowhere to turn, and she was sorry, so sorry, for Jack, but even more for Daniel and Paul, her two boys who she loved with all her heart, she really, truly did, but love wasn’t enough.
And so she had committed herself to the ocean. Drunk a bottle of vodka – pretty much enough to kill her on its own – and gone for a night swim on an outgoing tide.
The coastguard, local lobstermen, owners of pleasure boats: all kept an eye out for her body, but nothing showed up. She could have been carried miles offshore by the tide, left hundreds of feet deep, food for the lobsters and crabs which adorned the plates of Maine’s myriad vacationers.
Some still suspected her boyfriend, Jack. It was too neat: two weeks after her disappearance, a suicide note was found with her clothes. They were in a remote spot, but people still wondered why it had taken so long to find them. It was very convenient for Jack, and he could easily have planted them there.
But with no body, what could the cops do? No body, no crime.
There was hope a body might show up. They sometimes did, weeks or months after a fisherman fell overboard.
But what nobody knew was that this would never happen.
Because the body was not in the ocean. It never had been.
It was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere no one could ever have imagined.
1
Ben knew it was early when he woke up; the curtains in the hotel room were only partially drawn – they were on the fifteenth floor of a hotel in downtown Boston, and the night before Miles and Faye had been fascinated by the lights of the city far below – and it was still dark outside.
He lifted his head from the pillow and looked at the red digits of the alarm clock: 4.50 a.m.
Next to him, Kim slept. Miles and Faye had fallen asleep on the sofa bed but Kim had refused to be put down and so he had eventually let her fall asleep on his chest.
There had been a lot of questions about where Mom was. He had avoided answering directly – what could he say? – contenting himself with a vague muttering that she was working this weekend and they would see her in a day or two. The kids seemed to accept it, but he knew at some point he was going to have to come clean.
Mum’s struggling, he’d say. She needs some space. We’re going to live without her for a while.
Which may or may not be true. This whole situation was ridiculous; he had no idea what was going on but he knew she needed help. Whatever was happening, the idea that someone was doing all of this to her was becoming harder and harder to swallow. There was simply no evidence for it, whereas there was plenty to support the idea she was doing it in a fugue state to call attention to her problems.
But Sarah wouldn’t accept it.
Or, at least, she hadn’t, until now.
The note she had left him suggested she was coming to terms with it, gave him hope she had accepted the fact she needed help and was getting ready to seek it. Of course, if he asked her outright she might deny having written it, which was part of the reason he had not called her or answered the messages she’d sent him. He didn’t want to hear her say it wasn’t her; he wanted to cling to the hope she might finally be on the road to some kind of recovery.
Part of the reason.
The other part was that he was so fucking angry at her.
First there was the affair with the guy from the practice. The fact she’d done it was bad enough; that she’d only come clean because she’d been forced to was worse; but worst of all was how it made him think of her: as some desperate housewife unable to resist the advances of a younger man. It was pathetic; she was pathetic. It was like a rich, older man marrying a much younger woman and convincing himself it was because she loved him. What did Sarah think? This younger guy found her irresistible? No – he wanted a cheap screw, and she’d given it to him.
He might forgive her, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever respect her again.
Then there was
the rest of it. He didn’t blame her, as such. She was clearly mentally ill, so it was hardly her fault, but Jesus, it was hard to take. Emails and letters and books were one thing; the Craigslist stuff, the random hook-ups were another entirely.
They were humiliating, for him and her, and, for that matter, the kids.
So no, he hadn’t wanted to speak to her. He’d fumed his way through the evening and eventually fallen asleep.
I’ll deal with this in the morning, he told himself.
Well, it was morning now, and his anger had faded, a little. He picked up his phone and listened to the voicemail Sarah had left.
Ben. I think I know what’s going on now. It’s all going to be fine. Please come home so I can explain. I love you and I think you love me. It’s time to put this behind us. I know you’re mad at me, but trust me, OK?
There was a more upbeat tone in her voice than he had heard for a while – not exactly happy and relaxed, but an improvement – but it didn’t fill him with joy. It had the opposite effect: he was pretty sure when she said she knew what was going on it she meant that she had some new theory about how this was all Rachel Little. He doubted she had accepted she needed professional help.
Which was ridiculous. Of course she needed help. And how could it be Rachel? It made no sense. The idea that it all went back to some high-school thing was all the proof he needed that Sarah was paranoid.
Either way, though, he needed to go home. She’d told him to stay away, but there was no point. It was only putting off the inevitable. It was time for a final reckoning between them.
He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to get a glass of water. It was warm; he swilled his mouth out with it then spat it out. There was a phone by the sink; he called reception.
‘Is it too early for coffee?’ he said.
‘No, sir,’ the receptionist replied. ‘We can send up some breakfast, if you’d like? Cheese Danish, maybe?’
Cheese Danish. He had no idea what a cheese Danish was. He’d lived here for a decade but there were still things he didn’t understand.
Whatever. It was never too late to learn something new.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sounds lovely. Thank you.’
‘Thank you. They’ll be right up.’
He should let Sarah know he was coming. He picked up his cell phone and dialed her number.
It rang through to her voicemail; she was probably asleep. A small smile played on his lips at the irony it was now him who could not get in touch with her.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m coming home. I’ll be back mid-morning. See you then.’
So, the die was cast. Coffee. A first-ever Cheese Danish. And then, once the kids were up, back to Barrow to see his wife and figure out what to do with what was left of his marriage.
2
At first, all she knew was that she had woken up.
There were no physical sensations, not yet. Her eyes were still closed, and her body was still numb. But her mind was active.
It was like waking up after a night when you had drunk far too much: a slow climb from a deep pit, a climb that started with nothing other than the dim, groggy awareness of your mind switching back on, of a cursor blinking on an otherwise black screen.
And then there was the beginning of pain. The rasp of each breath. The tenderness of the muscles in her neck. The ache in her left shoulder where it lay on a hard floor.
A hard, cold floor.
She placed her hand on it. It was dry and dusty and rough.
And then the memories came.
The middle of the night.
Jean in her bedroom, with a headlight, comical and demonic at the same time.
The suicide letter.
Jean – no longer comical – choking her out.
The suicide letter.
Jesus. Where the fuck was she?
She opened her eyes.
Nothing. Total, pitch-black darkness. No lights, no windows, no patches of shadow.
Just her, lying on her side on a hard floor, her head throbbing, her throat raw.
She pushed herself up into a sitting position. The ache in her shoulder subsided and she felt around herself for a wall. There was nothing; she had no idea of the size of the place she was in. She would need to walk around to figure it out.
She stood up, and yelped in pain.
3
She is awake.
From the sound of her cry, she has hurt herself.
No matter. It won’t be the last time. And, as she will soon learn, a little pain is the least of her worries.
A lot of pain is the least of her worries.
Because her worries are many. They extend well beyond pain and fear and panic. She will come to understand this.
She will also come to understand that they extend beyond anything she can imagine.
The worst she can imagine is a slow, painful, drawn-out death in her dark cell.
Which is only the start.
The legacy of this will extend to her children and her children’s children and – hopefully – to her children’s children’s children.
But more of that later.
Right now she will be wondering where she is. Right now she will be filled with panic.
Panic. Let’s consider panic for a moment.
It is a word with which she is familiar. She has panic attacks, the poor little flower. Despite not having a fucking care in the world, she has panic attacks. She suffers from anxiety.
Pathetic. But at least now she has a reason to panic. Her heart will be fluttering away as she waves her arms around, feeling for the walls of her cage.
She will not find them. Not yet.
She will start to ask questions: Where am I? What is happening? What is Jean – for she knows it is me now – thinking?
She will not get answers.
Not yet.
4
The pain.
Sarah slumped to the floor, clutching her throat.
When she’d tried to stand up it felt like someone had grabbed her by the neck and yanked her back down. There was a sharp pain, like a muscle tearing.
She raised her hands to her neck. There was a metal collar around it. She ran her fingers along the collar to the back, where there was a chain, cold and hard and about the thickness of her finger. She followed it until it reached a wall. The wall was rough – concrete, she thought – and the chain was attached to a link which was embedded in it. She grabbed it and tried to move it.
It was stuck fast.
She ran her hands over her sides and hips and down to her ankles, feeling for any other restraints. There were none. Only the collar around her neck.
She started to shake, her eyes blinking. Panic took over her; she wanted to attack the chain, tear it from the wall, beat her fists against the floor and scream for help.
She sat still and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes – although it made no difference – and exhaled slowly, con-centrating on the air passing her lips.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
Her heart slowed, and the feeling of panic subsided enough for her to think.
This was a basement, she was sure of it. It had the dank, musty smell of a basement, of a room under the level of the earth.
But whose basement? Jean’s presumably, but she had been in Jean’s basement many times and never seen a chain embedded in a wall.
But if not Jean’s then whose was it? It was Jean who had attacked her, but perhaps she was not doing this alone. That would make sense.
But she was left with the same question. Who else was involved? And what the hell was going on?
The panic started to rise. Heart, stomach, head: all malfunctioning. But this was not an anxiety attack, this was not her body fight-or-flight mechanism responding disproportionately to an imagined threat.
This was the real thing.
She breathed in and out, deeply and slowly. Gradually she got control of her thoughts. When she did she tried to lay out all the
pieces of the puzzle.
None of it made sense. She could see – dimly – what Jean was trying to do, but she had no idea to what end. Had she not been chained to a wall in a dark basement with a throbbing head – which must be from some kind of drug – and a crushed throat she would not have believed it was Jean who was behind all of this. Even so, it was a struggle.
She took another deep breath, then she started to shout.
‘Jean!’ she called. ‘Jean! Where are you? Jean! We need to talk!’
There was silence.
She tried again. Again, nothing.
Sarah leaned back against the wall.
And then she heard the click of a lock.
A door opened directly opposite her. A dim light came from it – she could tell there was no light source close to the door, which made her think it was at the end of a tunnel or corridor. Either way, the light was enough for her to see that the room she was in was a concrete box, about eight feet from side to side and from top to bottom.
She looked around. There was a hatch high in the corner. It was secured with a heavy padlock.
Below it a chain was fixed to a metal plate in the wall. It had a collar on one end, a collar that was clearly a companion to the one around Sarah’s neck.
What – and where – was this place?
Jean walked into the room. She stood, motionless, silhouetted against the light coming from the open door. Eventually, she bent down and reached for something on the floor. She picked up a small plastic device – a baby monitor, it looked like – and a packet of Chesterfield cigarettes. She opened it and took out a cigarette and a lighter. She struck a flame and lit the cigarette.
Seeing her friend – former friend – smoke was almost the most shocking thing about the whole situation. They had all experimented with smoking – cigarettes and dope – in their teen years but Sarah had assumed it was long behind them now. She didn’t know anyone who smoked anymore, but then, it seemed, she knew less than she had thought about her friends.
