by Nicci French
I do remember a conversation I had with Meg and Trish, because it was about Deborah. I heard myself saying, in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to me, that maybe I’d been too hasty and did they think she needed a second chance, and Trish replying firmly that our solicitor had now been through all the documents and seemed satisfied that we had behaved perfectly correctly in the circumstances. It was an open-and-shut case, and there were no second chances.
‘So that’s that,’ said Meg. ‘Don’t think about Deborah any more.’
‘Don’t think about her,’ I repeated bleakly.
Later, I remember that Meg put her hand on my shoulder and said my name over and over again, asking me if I was all right. I told her I was fine, but it was hard to concentrate on anything. I kept picturing the youth last night, Dean, smelling of glue and sweat, giggling as he told me to pay up, sauntering out of the house as Charlie came in. And recalling Stuart’s face, which I’d thought of as pleasant and amiable but this morning had been wrenched with hostility and disgust. And then there was Rees. Was it only yesterday that he’d ripped my dress, slapped my face? I heard the rap of my head against the stone wall. It was all like a dream, a horrible dream where all bad things come at you at once, all the terrible things you’ve done return to haunt you and you know you can’t escape. Everything you do, fighting or fleeing or crying out for help, is futile. Risible.
‘You’re crying,’ said a voice by my side. Meg, who seemed to have come out of nowhere. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘I can’t stop.’
I sat there for a while, staring at the blank screen and hearing phones ringing, and she returned with Lola. She said there was a cab outside and that Lola would go back with me to see me to my house. That sounded an odd idea but sensible as well. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to remember the way if the cab driver needed instructions. I told Meg I just needed to batten down the hatches to survive the storm and then I’d be back to normal. She told me to take as long as I needed. I said that was all I’d been asking for. She said that tomorrow we had to talk about how I should take precautions against Rees. And against Deborah, I didn’t say. And the debt collector’s off-the-wall messenger. And me. How was I going to take precautions against myself?
We seemed to arrive home in just a couple of minutes. Lola let me inside with my own key. As she undressed me, I told her it was the first time I had been undressed by a woman since my mother. A few men, I said, but no women. I apologized to Lola. I should be helping her. That was my job. She tucked me into bed, the cover pulled right up to my chin. I wriggled inside, warming myself. I heard the door close. The house was quiet. I was alone. A few noises leaked in, hisses and squeals and toots from the traffic. Outside there were people who hated me, for good reasons and bad reasons and no reasons at all. They were everywhere. I pulled my head under the cover. I pulled my knees up under my chin; I pressed them against my weeping, scalding eyes.
20
It was afternoon, then it was evening, and then it was an early winter night. The sky darkened outside the window; the air chilled; the green numbers on the clock clicked round, from five, to six, to six thirty… Charlie didn’t come home. Where was he? He always used to be at home, waiting for me.
At last I made myself get out of bed and, wrapped in my dressing-gown, I went downstairs and phoned Charlie’s mobile.
‘Yes?’
‘Charlie, are you coming back soon? I feel a bit odd.’
‘Do you? Do you want me to come back now?’
‘Where are you?’
‘With friends.’
I strained to make out sounds in the background. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said at last. ‘I’m being ridiculous. Don’t rush back. I’ll be fine.’
‘I won’t be long,’ he promised. ‘Back by eight or so, all right?’
‘Yes,’ I said finally. ‘That’s fine.’
I called Meg.
‘It’s me,’ I said, when she answered.
‘Holly.’ She sounded flustered. ‘Are you feeling any better?’
‘Sorry about earlier.’
‘Don’t worry about that. But listen, can I phone you back later? It’s not such a good time…’
I heard a man’s voice calling her name.
‘Who are you with?’ I asked. ‘Meg, who are you with?’
‘Listen, we’ll talk tomorrow, if you’re in. Not now, not on the phone. Get some rest, take care of yourself, get well.’
‘Meg,’ I said. But she’d gone. There was no one there, and all I could hear as I pressed the receiver to my ear was the sound of my own frantic breathing.
I trudged back up the stairs and climbed into bed once more. I watched the clock tick.
When I heard the sound of someone ringing, then banging at the door, banging so hard it sounded as if the door would break, I thought it was part of a dream in which someone was coming for me. But then I woke and sat up and the noise continued, and then I heard the sound of glass breaking. I didn’t do anything at all. I just lay down again on my bed. A weariness came over me, so profound it felt as if I was rolled up in a fire blanket and didn’t have the strength to throw it off. I knew something bad was going to happen, but I didn’t have the energy to feel frightened. My legs were logs, my chest a boulder. I lay still, hugging the pillow to my breast. I heard the sound of a door banging, a chair being violently scraped along the kitchen floor.
I heard footsteps and at last hot terror swept through me, pumping round my body, leaving me breathless, prickling my skin, a thick snake in my throat.
The footsteps reached the stairs, paused, then began a heavy ascent.
‘Get up, Holly,’ I said to myself. ‘Get the fuck up.’
I lurched out of bed, half falling as my feet hit the floor. A small part of me was aware of my throbbing cheek, my hurting head, the grain of the floorboards beneath my soles, the glittering darkness of the clear night sky, the sounds of the world going on out there.
Phone, I thought. That was it – call the police. I crouched on the floor, grabbed the phone from the bedside table, and tried to jab 999, but the room was dark and my fingers were thick as sausages and I got it wrong. I heard the beep of a misdialled number, then footsteps outside the bedroom door. It was kicked open, banging against the wall. From my position on the floor I could just see black shoes and grey trousers.
In the light spilling in from the hallway, I made out the numbers on the phone and jabbed again, whimpering as I did so.
‘There you are. Hiding, are you?’
At his voice, fear ebbed away and I was suddenly gloriously calm and steady, as if a gritty wind had died away and I could see clearly again. I stood up, still holding the phone.
‘Stuart? What are you doing?’
‘What d’ya think I’m doing? I’ve come to have a talk, that’s all.’
His words slurred together, and he swayed as he spoke.
‘You’re drunk. Hello? Hello? Yes? Is that the emergency service? Yes. My name’s Holly Krauss and there’s an intruder in my–’
He surged across the bed, and smashed the receiver from my hand. It bounced on the floor and he kicked it away from both of us, then wrenched the cord from the wall. ‘There,’ he panted. His face was a mottled red.
‘Get out of here at once.’
‘Not till we’ve talked.’
‘There’s nothing left to say.’
‘Holly Krauss. Think you’re so clever, don’t you? Think you’re so gorgeous.’
‘I’m going downstairs. Stand aside.’
‘We spoke to your fucking lawyer this afternoon, after you and I’d talked. You didn’t listen to what I said, did you? You never listen.’
‘It was our lawyer’s recommen–’
‘Shut the fuck up and listen for once. She’s not even going to get a reference, is she?’ His voice was getting louder as he spoke, his face redder. ‘You’re just kicking her when she’s down. Enjoy it, do you? Last bit of power. Like you enjoyed humiliating me, sneerin
g at me in front of everyone. How do you think it felt? Get off on it, do you?’
‘Just because you’re having some kind of thing with Deborah doesn’t mean that–’
‘Are you fucking insane?’ he said. ‘Can’t you get it into your fucked-up head that there is nothing between me and Deborah? I’m just – I’m just trying… and you’re sitting there making fun of me.’
‘I’ll make us coffee,’ I said. ‘I never meant to make fun of anyone.’
I made for the bedroom door but his hand was on my shoulder, spinning me round to face him. There was spittle on his chin and the sour-sweet reek of alcohol on his breath as he brought his face towards me. ‘You’re going nowhere.’
‘Get your hand off me.’
‘You’re going nowhere until I say so.’
He pushed me up against the wall. I shoved him hard and he stumbled backwards. From the chest of drawers, I picked up a mirror that my grandmother had given me and, holding it by its handle like a tennis racquet, whacked it into his face, hearing him howl in pain and fury. I was through the door and thought I was free, but he caught me by my dressing-gown and held me back, then hit me a glancing blow across my face, jerking back my head, sending shooting pains down my neck.
He still had his hands on my shoulders but his face took on an expression of horror and puzzlement. ‘Holly, I didn’t mean it,’ he said, ‘but you just went on and on. I had to stop you.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’
He tightened his grip. I brought up my hand and hit out blindly at him, and as he reeled back, I ran for it, out of the room and to the top of the stairs. I thought I could hear him behind me when all of a sudden I was falling, feet catching on the steps, arms reaching out to save myself, and scraping fu-tilely against the wall, head bumping against the banisters, the floor below coming up towards me in slow motion, so that everything was very clear: the plaster on the walls that I’d never got round to painting; the threadbare carpet under my shins; the heavy breathing behind me; the shoes in the hall, laces trailing.
And then my head was bouncing on the hard floor. Lights fizzing inside my skull. Pain exploding round my body. I heard someone whimpering and knew it must be me. I opened my eyes and saw both hands spread in front of me, as if I was a diver entering water. One leg was still half-way up the stairs. I couldn’t feel the other, until I tried to move and realized it was bent under me, the ankle twisted and sending out little pulses of agony.
‘Holly,’ a voice said. ‘Oh, God, Holly.’
There was the sound of wailing inside my head. No, not inside my head, outside. Someone banging on the door, the door swinging open, and once more I saw shoes in front of my face, blunt black shoes. I raised my head and saw a man, two men in uniform, and behind me Stuart was saying, ‘It was an accident, I didn’t push her, it was an accident, I didn’t mean, I never meant…’
‘Hello,’ I said, and laid my face on the cool, dusty floor, closed my eyes. I felt very peaceful, almost happy. ‘I’m glad you came.’
They took Stuart away in handcuffs although I kept saying it wasn’t his fault, really. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t blame anyone. I felt far off now from all the ugly, roiling passions of the day. What a day. A day full of hatred and nastiness and spasms of violence; of gargoyle faces and foul words and groping hands.
Now I lay on a stretcher and a soft blanket was put over me and a woman held my hand as I was slid into the ambulance. They all knew what they were doing and I didn’t have to think any more; didn’t have to feel or fear. There were people gathered on the street, watching, nudging each other, pointing, a rising chatter of excitement. I heard someone say my name and it was repeated like a rustle of wind in rushes. Holly Krauss, Holly Krauss, Holly Krauss… But nothing really mattered.
Then someone else was beside me, a figure pushing its way through the open doors of the ambulance, kneeling down beside me.
‘Holly?’
‘Hi, Charlie. You came home, then.’
‘What have you gone and done?’
‘More like what was done to her,’ said the woman who had held my hand. ‘She’s lucky.’
‘You smell nice,’ I said sleepily. ‘Vanilla.’
‘Who did it?’
‘Stuart. But he didn’t mean to hurt me. He was drunk, that’s all.’
‘Your face…’
‘I’m all right, really.’
‘It’s all…’
‘Do I look awful? Never mind.’
There had been a hurricane, I thought, but it had only lashed us with its tail. ‘The weather’s inside me,’ I murmured.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. Will you hold my hand?’
He took it, but almost absentmindedly, patting it gently, like a man in a daze.
‘We have to talk,’ I said. I seemed to have been saying the same four syllables for weeks now. Charlie didn’t reply. The doors closed and the ambulance moved forward into the darkness.
There wasn’t much wrong with me, although they kept me in overnight just to make sure. A bruised face from earlier, a new gash on the back of my head, which needed a couple of stitches; an ankle that had swollen; a sore neck; scuffed shins from my slither down the carpeted stairs. The police officer who came to talk to me the next morning said that Stuart’s face looked worse than mine. Poor Stuart. I told her what had happened and she wrote it all down, and read it back to me before I signed the sheet of paper. I asked what would happen to him now and she shrugged. I turned my face to the wall and waited for her to leave.
The peace of the previous night had turned into something more like sadness. I thought about Charlie and me. I thought about Meg and me. And I thought about Charlie and Meg. They were the two people I loved most in the world. Perhaps they were the only people I really loved at all – except my mother maybe, whom I loved only because she was my mother. If you took away Meg and Charlie, who would I have left? A great crowd of bright acquaintances who knew nothing about me except that I was a party animal: fun to have around but could get a bit out of hand. I limped to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. Greasy hair and one side of my face a dirty yellow, chapped lips, great rings beneath my eyes. If they could only see me now, perhaps they’d think again.
21
On the way home I felt like a hideous messy parody of a new mother being collected from hospital by her loving husband. Except there was no baby. And no rapture. On my lap I clutched a carrier-bag stuffed with my torn, stained clothes. We hardly spoke until Charlie pulled up outside our house. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have been there. I should have protected you.’
‘The forces of law and order arrived just in time,’ I said. ‘Who told them?’
‘You did, apparently.’
‘I didn’t have time to give them our address.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘How clever,’ I said.
‘I thought he was a friend,’ said Charlie.
‘He was,’ I said. ‘Now my friends hate me even more than my enemies do.’
We got out of the car and walked up the steps to the front door.
‘Don’t say that,’ said Charlie.
We stepped inside. I started to say I was sorry at the same time that Charlie started to say something and then we both apologized and both said that the other should go first. I insisted that Charlie go first.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ he said.
‘Is that what you wanted to say?’
‘No. I wanted to apologize. I ought to stay and look after you, but I’ve got a meeting. It’s about a job.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Who with?’
‘It’s on a design magazine. You wouldn’t know them.’
‘I’m so pleased. When is it?’
‘Now, I’m afraid. You don’t mind?’
I touched his arm. ‘Go. I’m just going to have a rest.’
‘It feels wrong to be leaving you.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘
It’s no problem. This was the crisis everything was building up to. Now the boil has been lanced. The nettle has been grasped. And I’m going to collapse.’
He smiled, then looked quizzical. ‘I interrupted you,’ he said. ‘What were you going to say?’
‘I was going to say sorry. Again.’
‘What for?’ said Charlie. ‘You were the one who was attacked.’
‘The repetition,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘It happens over and over again. But each time it’s worse. It’s like a ratchet. Do I mean that? What’s a ratchet?’
‘Are you serious?’ Charlie said. ‘It’s the bar that goes through the notches on a wheel, so that it can moveforward but notback. Like the wheelsinaclock.’
‘See?’ I said. ‘You know these things. That’s exactly what I meant. When this is over, when we’re through this, we’ll talk.’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘But meanwhile…’ H e ran upstairs and came back down in a smarter jacket.
‘You look great,’ I said. ‘I’d hire you.’
His expression darkened. ‘You know I’d never ask you for work.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ I said, stammering.
‘I’d better go.’
‘You’ve forgotten your portfolio.’
Charlie looked at me and paused for just a beat too long. ‘He knows my work,’ he said. ‘I don’t need it.’
‘Good luck, then,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said. ‘I had a key cut for you.’ He chucked it on to the table.
‘Thanks. But I was thinking, what if someone took the other one?’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind.’
He left. I just stood where I was. I was trying to remember a poem I’d read at school. ‘I lie to her and she lies to me and by these lies de dum de dum de dum.’ And possibly ‘de dum’. There was a knock at the door and I smiled in anticipation. Charlie. He’d changed his mind. I prepared myself to hug him and have the talk now that we had been putting off for too long.
