In Her Image

by Adam Croft

  If there’s going to be any evidence of some sort, it’ll be in that room. Where else would he keep business cards? Or printed photographs? As I look in through the window, my heart starts racing even more as I think about what I might find in there, if only I could find a way in. What if there are other pictures? Not just of me, but of other girls too? This isn’t just about finding justice for myself now, but for the other girl Darryl was talking about and for any other women who’ve had to live through the sort of hell that Toby Sheridan has put me through recently.

  I’m not the sort of person who willingly or readily breaks the law. I don’t do confrontation. Even the act of coming here, of being here, isn’t me. But then I wonder if I ever really knew me. Because I know I need to be here. I need to find out the truth. I need something that will end all this, whether that’s damning evidence from inside his house or the large, sharp knife from inside my jacket pocket.

  I pull the zip down on my jacket a little further, giving me ready access to the knife should I need it.

  The front door’s not an option. That’ll be in full view of the street if I head over in that direction. Instead, I carry on round the right-hand-side of the house, putting my hand through the not-very-secure wrought iron gate and unlatching it, before walking through and pushing it closed again behind me, the gate creaking on its hinges as I do so.

  A few steps further along, there’s another window, this one on the side of the house. I stand with my back against the wall before leaning over and peering through the very edge of the window. It’s a kitchen. A large kitchen. But there’s nobody in it. I keep my eyes very much on the window as I begin to walk past, keeping my gaze on the room inside to make sure there’s no movement or signs of life. My hand is hovering near my now-open jacket, the knife tantalisingly just centimetres away from my fingertips, the cold winter air diving inside and chilling my torso.

  Until something stops me.

  I pause and hold my breath, and I swear for a moment my heart stops beating as I narrow my eyes and look closely at what I’m seeing inside the kitchen.

  The back door is open. Not just unlocked. It’s open. In December. That can mean only one thing. This house isn’t as empty as I thought it was.

  Panicking, I step back from the window and turn back towards the gate. Before I can move in that direction, though, a large hand clamps over my mouth as an arm comes around my chest from the other side, lifting me off my feet.

  67

  Hallelujah, it worked!

  I knew you’d come to me eventually. I knew you’d come back. You just needed a little help finding your way, didn’t you?

  We’ve still got a long way to go yet. I know that. I wouldn’t be so foolish as to think otherwise, but this is a huge step. The biggest step. Everything now is just detail.

  You’ve proven yourself to me in a way I thought I could only ever dream of. I knew it was there. I could see it right from the very start, and now so can you.

  I knew you hadn’t left me. I knew you’d be back. Because we know each other so well, don’t we? No-one has an understanding or a connection quite like we do. You can’t beat that bond. It’s unbreakable. We’re unbreakable. Which is why I knew you’d be back, and it’s why you knew you’d be back too. You just needed a way, didn’t you? And when you found that way you needed my help. Just a little nudge in the right direction.

  Because if you’d come back with full knowledge, it would’ve been doomed from the very beginning. It had to be this way. I know that now. And I know I was impatient at the start, but I just wanted you back here with me. You should never have left in the first place.

  I don’t blame you for that. Of course I don’t. It wasn’t your fault. There’s no way you could have prevented the cruel hand of fate throwing the dice in that way. Snakes eyes. And there are plenty of snakes in the world, believe me.

  I still remember when you first told me, like it was yesterday. It took me a while to believe it was real. Things like that just don’t happen to people like us. Another sign of the injustice in the world, I remember you saying. Whatever we do, it’s all stacked against us. People like us. The chemical imbalance of the world means we have to fight harder, have to push to make our voices heard. But shouting isn’t always the best way to make your voice heard. Not if everyone else is deaf.

  What’s the use in yelling at a deaf person? You can’t. You have to show them instead. And when the whole world’s deaf by choice, you can not only show them the truth but enable them to hear again. And that’s a gift that not everyone can give. That’s something special. Extra special.

  I’m not going to lie: it’s been hard doing it on my own. I’ve had to live a different life. One you wouldn’t recognise. But I needed the stability. I needed the cover. I know you’re going to forgive me. I did it all for the greater good. That was what you always said. The Greater Good. It’s allowed me to stay under the radar, too. I’ve been a great actor. You would’ve been proud of me. You will be proud of me.

  Because you’re back. You’re here with me again. And this time I’m going to make sure no-one — absolutely no-one — takes you away from me.

  I’ve learned a lot since you went away. I come into contact with every far-flung corner of human nature every single day. I’ve seen it all. And every day, every hour, every minute, I’ve seen just how right you were. I’ve seen the greed, I’ve seen the jealousy, I’ve seen the complete contempt for the fellow human. And it makes me sick as much as it did you.

  It’s not that I didn’t know it then — I did — but this has just reconfirmed everything for me. It’s made me realise that you were wiser than I thought. And I thought you were the wisest person I’d ever met. I adored you. I never stopped adoring you. But now I can adore you all over again.

  Because you’re back.

  You’re with me.

  You returned.

  Welcome home, Mum.

  68

  My neck hurts like hell as I pull my head upwards. It feels like I’ve slept on it funny, and it creaks slightly as I move. I wince with the pain.

  I roll my head and try to open my eyes, the light searing through my eyelids as I try to focus on what’s around me.

  The first thing I see is the clothes I’m wearing. I’ve got loose-fitting trousers on, grey, with huge flared legs. They look like some sort of soft cloth, the sort of thing display boards in schools are backed with. Or a grey snooker table.

  My feet are uncovered, but I can see that my toenails have been painted. I never paint my toenails.

  I groan and look down at my arms, but they aren’t there. They’re tied behind my back, attached to the chair I’m sitting on. I’m wearing what looks like an orange blouse with a flower pattern on it. It’s not an item of clothing I recognise, and for a moment I wonder if I’m even looking at myself or at someone else.

  I can’t make any sense of what’s going on.

  I hear footsteps on the floor shortly before I see the feet that make them. A pair of black, heavy duty, steel-toecap boots. I look up as I hear his voice.

  ‘You’re awake.’

  I grunt in response. I can’t yet force any words out. But it’s him. It’s Toby Sheridan.

  ‘Don’t try to talk. It’s okay. You’ll be groggy. But I had to do it. I had to make sure you couldn’t go anywhere. Not until we’re completely there. Not until I know you’re fully here again. We need to make sure every part of you has returned.’

  I have no idea what he’s saying, what any of this means, but he’s speaking calmly, as if he knows me. There’s not a hint of malice in his voice whatsoever. It’s almost as if he’s helping me. Helping me by knocking me out, tying me to a chair and dressing me in strange clothes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say, forcing out a hoarse whisper.

  He bends down in front of me and smiles.

  ‘Exactly. There’s still some of Alice in there that we need to expunge. That’ll happen naturally, over time. But meanwhile I’m going t
o need to keep you where you are. We’ve got so far, we can’t possibly be taking any backward steps now. You understand that, don’t you?’

  I look at him and nod. It seems like the sensible thing to do. Just until I’ve worked out what he’s going on about, at least.

  ‘Do you like what I’ve done with the kitchen?’ he asks. ‘I noticed the look on your face when you peered in through the window. I could see what was going through your mind. “What happened to my cupboard fronts!”’ he says, chuckling to himself as he waves his arms in the air in mock shock. ‘Looks good, though, doesn’t it?’

  I nod again.

  ‘My head hurts,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t worry. That’ll clear soon. It’s a side effect of the sedatives.’

  ‘Sedatives?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Like I said, I need to make sure you’re fully back with me first. I couldn’t risk you disappearing and everything going back to square one.’

  He leans in and takes my face in his hands. They feel like ice, and I shudder as he touches me. This man who’s made my life hell, who’s been in my house, who’s been taking photos of me. ‘You forgive me, don’t you Mum?’

  I understand the words he’s saying, but the meanings of them make no sense.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say, my voice still hoarse. ‘I’m not your mum.’

  His face drops immediately. The friendly smile has disappeared, almost as if those words have jolted him into another personality altogether. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch.

  Slowly, he pushes himself back to his feet as he takes his eyes off me, and walks over to the other side of the kitchen, rubbing his chin with one hand, the other planted on his hip as he walks. When he gets to the other side of the room, he leans on the counter, his head bowed, before turning back towards me, leaning back against the counter with his arms folded.

  When he speaks again, his voice is low and serious.

  ‘I had worried you might say that. Don’t get me wrong, I hoped you wouldn’t. Because that makes things very difficult. Very difficult indeed.’

  There’s a look in his eyes that tells me things are about to get a whole lot worse. It’s like the calm before the storm.

  ‘I should have seen the signs,’ he says, before pushing himself away from the sideboard and walking back towards me, slowly. ‘I should have known.’

  He’s now barely a foot or two away from me. I try to stay calm but it’s difficult. He leans over me, reaching behind me, and I hear the sound of something scraping against a wooden surface.

  ‘I should have realised when you turned up with this.’

  He waves the knife in front of my face. I recognise it immediately as the one I brought from my kitchen earlier.

  He nods. ‘Yes. I should have known that meant we still had work to do.’ He walks back away from me. ‘Although what we’re going to do, I don’t know. I really don’t know. I don’t want to have to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?’ he says, turning back towards me, waving the knife just inches from my face.

  I nod vigorously, even though I’m not at all sure he doesn’t want to hurt me. The evidence appears to show otherwise. For some reason, my response appears to anger him further.

  ‘Then why did you bring this with you?’ he says, his voice raised. Then he begins yelling, his face pressed up against mine so our noses are almost touching. ‘Why did you say you weren’t my mum? What is wrong with you? Why would you say that? Why?’

  I’m desperately trying to think of something to say, feeling as if my life is only seconds away from ending.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I was confused. This is difficult for me too. It’s a lot to take in. But I’m here. I’m here for you. I’m back.’

  His face seems to settle slightly.

  ‘Say that again.’

  I swallow. ‘I’m back.’

  ‘The other bit.’

  ‘I’m here for you,’ I say, my voice choking — solely because I’m certain I’m about to die, but hopeful that it might sound like it’s because I mean it.

  He cocks his head slightly, as if watching my face and eyes for signs.

  ‘It’s the sedatives,’ I say. ‘They confused me. I’m sorry. I didn’t know where I was. And I don’t like being tied up. I don’t like being restrained.’ I hope to God this is the right thing to say.

  ‘You never did,’ he says eventually. ‘You were always a free spirit.’

  I latch onto this. ‘Yes. Yes, I still am. I’m not myself when I’m tied up like this. I can’t be.’

  He nods. ‘I’ve locked the doors.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  He raises the knife slightly, just to show me that he’s got that, too. He looks at me for understanding, and I nod.

  He walks behind me to untie me from the chair, and a shiver of terror runs through me. I can’t see him, I don’t know what he’s doing. For all I know, that knife could be running across my throat within half a second, with me bleeding out here on his kitchen floor. This’d be the last sight I’d see. Toby Sheridan’s formica worktops.

  A few seconds later, I feel the bounds around my arms begin to loosen, and I move my hands, the blood rushing back into them painfully.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, as he comes back into view. ‘You’ve always been good to me.’

  I feel sick saying this, but I know I need to. Playing along is the only way I’m going to be able to survive. I need to go with it, just until I get the opportunity I need. Until then, I’m going to need to suck it up and make him think I’m on his side. Make him think I’m his mum.

  I can see tears starting to well up in his eyes. He believes it. He truly believes I’m his mum.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he says, through his tears, his voice breaking.

  I take his face in my hands, every fibre of my being trying to swallow down the bile that’s rising in my throat as I do so. I look him in the eyes, and force myself to mean every word I say.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  He pulls me in for a hug, and I let him. I have to. If he feels any sort of resistance or tension in me, it’ll be game over. He holds me for a good twenty seconds or so, and sobs on my shoulder.

  His next words take me by surprise.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  I’m not sure whether this is a trick question or not. Did his mum have a particular aversion to tea? But I look in his eyes and I can see that this is just a regular, normal question. He’s actually asking me if I’d like a cup of tea. Like nothing had just happened. As if this is all completely ordinary.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say.

  He puts the kettle on, leans against the sideboard and looks at me, smiling. I smile back.

  He takes two cups out of the cupboard above the kettle, puts a teabag in each of them, then takes a milk bottle from the fridge and a bag of sugar from another cupboard, putting them both on the sideboard.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ I say, thinking I’ve spotted a chance to get myself out of this. ‘Do you have a spoon?’

  Without saying a word, he opens a drawer, takes a teaspoon out and hands it to me. I deliberately fumble, and drop it.

  There’s a moment where I think he’s not going to do it. Where I actually think he’s going to stand there and look at me, forcing me to bend down and pick it up. It’s probably only a fraction of a second, but it feels like an age. But, finally, he bends over and reaches for the spoon.

  I take my chance, pull my leg back and deliver a solid roundhouse kick to the side of his head.

  He grunts and falls backwards, the spoon clattering to the floor, and I have a split second to make a decision: Deliver another kick or get the hell out of here.

  I opt for the latter, and make a dash for the door, fumbling for the handle before I remember it’s locked. I run back past him, groaning on the tiled floor, and head in the direction of the front door. When I get there, that’s locked too. I look around for keys — there must be keys somewh
ere — but I can’t find anything.

  I head to my left, into the study room at the front of the house. Maybe I can get out of the window. I tug at the handle, but it’s not shifting. It’s locked. It’s only one of those silly little window locks, with the keys that are as tiny and flimsy as anything, but it’s stuck fast, and feels like trying to break into a bank vault.

  I scour the windowsill for any sign of the key. No. Of course not. He’s a police officer. He’s not going to leave a window key lying around near the window.

  I pull the desk drawers open and rifle through, feeling inside the corners, desperate to hunt for this key.

  I look down into the drawer and see the photos. One of me catches my eye at first.

  It’s one I’ve not seen before — one of me sleeping soundly in my bed. I’ve never seen myself sleeping before — of course I haven’t — but I recognise myself immediately.

  He’s watched me sleeping.

  There are photos of other women in here, too. There must be a dozen different people. All shots taken seemingly without their knowledge. One woman walking her dog, another putting shopping into the boot of her car. All taken with a long lens.

  I force myself not to look at any more, and instead pull them all out of the drawer and dump them on the desk. I pull the whole drawer out, struggling with its weight, before turning it upside down on the floor.

  I hear the clatter of the small key bouncing on the exposed floorboards.

  I bend down to pick it up, and that’s when I see the black boots.

  69

  I retch and gag continually at the pair of dirty socks stuffed in my mouth as Toby Sheridan manhandles me towards the bottom of the stairs. When we get there, he takes a huge handful of my hair and tries to drag me up the stairs by it.

  I go to scream, but I can’t. It’s muffled by the socks.

  I scrabble to my feet and try to walk myself up the stairs but I keep slipping, feeling an agonising jolt of my scalp tearing away from my skull every time I do so.