When I Find You

by Emma Curtis

  ‘You did this to me,’ he hisses. ‘This is all your fault.’

  I blink open my eyes. My chin is on my chest. I must have slept. How much time has passed?

  ‘I didn’t …’ I slur.

  My words are falling back down my throat, my body relaxing again, my head sinking deeper and deeper into the damp pillow. Blackness descends and the next time I open my eyes David is still sitting on the edge of the bed, still watching me. I slide my gaze to the window. It’s raining.

  ‘Why the hell don’t you pick up your phone!’

  The shouting brings me up again, groggy with drugs, my mind fumbling. Is it his wife? It must be. He wouldn’t have let a carer in. I try and picture Felicity Gunner at Guy’s funeral. She has fine blonde hair and wears hippyish clothes.

  Steps on the stairs. Not David’s. A door closes. I recognize the sound of the bolt to the bathroom door being driven across its slot. Is there evidence that I’ve been there? A stray blonde hair on the carpet? Will she see it and frown, pick it up and inspect it, wonder who it belongs to? David calls up to ask if she’s all right and she calls back that she’s fine. The bathroom door opens on the sound of the flush. I make some noise, rocking back and forth and moaning through the gag, as loud as I can. I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Then the spindle moves, wobbling in its socket before clattering to the floor as the door flies open. She stops in her tracks, her mouth an ‘O’ of surprise.

  ‘Laura?’

  My head is too heavy for my neck, flopping when I try to raise it. I peer at her through my fringe, blink again to sharpen the picture. Blonde hair tied messily back, jeans, brown boots, suede coat.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she says.

  After her initial shocked hesitation, she runs forward and starts to work at the tape binding my wrists, her hands shaking, her warm breath against my head as she leans over me. She smells of baby lotion and soap. She keeps swearing, a note of panic in her voice.

  There is no time though. David is already running upstairs. Felicity makes a whimpering noise – or was that me? But one moment she’s tearing at the tape, the next she’s flying backwards, her head hitting the wall with a crack before she drops to the floor. There’s a weird, almost deathly stillness before she starts moving, dragging herself up by the door frame and out on to the landing. David goes after her and I watch in despair as he catches her round the waist. She struggles, squirming in his arms, clawing at him and screaming that she’s calling the police. Then suddenly it’s over, he pushes, and she pitches, toppling over the stairs. There is a sickening crack followed by silence, before he charges down after her.

  ‘Lissy! Lissy! Oh fuck, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Jesus Christ.’

  I listen to the shuffles and thuds, picturing him pulling her into his arms, weeping into her hair, struggling down the rest of the stairs with her. At least he’s forgotten about me for the moment. I pull at my hands; there’s more give now that Felicity has made a start. The pain sears like hot pokers through my shoulders, arms and wrists, but I grit my teeth and keep on jerking until the binding round my wrists splits. I sit back, gasping, the room swimming, then free my ankles.

  I can see something in the corner, and although it’s time I can’t afford to spare, I crawl across the carpet and stretch my hands out, my fingers closing round a crumpled ball of cotton. My knickers. I wrestle them on and feel so much better for it. I move my body round and examine the empty spindle, my fingers more reliable than my eyes. I need some sort of lever. David’s collection of figurines swims in and out of focus. I drag myself over and choose a warrior brandishing a sword, then stumble with my prize back to the door. The sword fits the hole with a bit of help. I wait for a moment to test the silence, then force it round like I’m fighting with an overtightened stopcock. It works, and I’m out, reeling but free. I clutch the banister and peer down the stairs. It’s a long way down and there’s blood on the wall, but I have to move.

  On the half-landing I pause, listening to David moving around, to my heartbeat, to the rain. Ahead of me is the front door and I debate leaving through it, but decide not to, because he’ll hear me and there’s no way I’ll be able to run in this state. I take the last stairs carefully, hugging the wall to avoid any creaking treads. There’s a room to the left. I go in and quietly close the door. A desk sits under the sash window, cluttered with papers and a collection of antique paperweights. There is no phone. I push everything to one side, then climb up and undo the brass fastenings. My shoulder muscles scream in protest but after a couple of shoves the sash window jerks up. I hold my breath, but he doesn’t come. I slide out of the window feet first, land in a bed of wet lavender and stand still, listening, trying to detect anything besides the pouring rain. Then I set off at a clumsy trot, and immediately trip over my own feet. I lie in the gravel beside the back wheel of David’s car, stunned, then get to my feet and head for the gate. The cold helps to reduce the smothering effect of the drugs, but my gait is slow and ungainly. Torrential rain slicks my fringe to my forehead and splashes up from the tarmac on to my legs. God knows what I look like. Someone’s nightmare. I’m torn between leaving Felicity on her own and getting away from this hellhole, but I make up my mind to stagger on. If I go back, neither of us stands a chance.

  52

  Rebecca

  REBECCA MAKES THE driver wait round the bend from the house. He switches the engine off and the wipers go still. She wrinkles her nose at all the wet green, the heavy clouds, the rain-slicked lane with its muddy verge and hazardous ditch. A miserable-looking bird perches on a bare branch. She finds the countryside profoundly uninviting.

  The sight of Felicity’s car parked next to David’s gave her a shock. Rebecca hadn’t expected her to be here, but then, why wouldn’t she be? They must have so many things to work out.

  This is a mistake. She imagines David opening the door, Felicity behind him, telling her to go away, to leave them alone. Or maybe asking her to come in, putting on the kettle and them all sitting round the table, awkward and not knowing what to say to each other. She came because she thought he needed her and because, even though she dismissed it, what Jamie had said worried her. Now it seems Felicity may have had the same thought.

  She sits up straight, drops her shoulders and lifts her chin, opens herself out so that her breathing is unrestricted. She centres herself while the driver stares out at the rain. She is grateful for his silence and apparent lack of interest.

  ‘OK,’ she says, more to herself than to him.

  He turns to her. ‘You’re going in?’

  ‘Yes. No. No, take me home.’

  ‘OK, Miss Munro.’ He glances at her again. ‘You sure?’

  ‘No, I am not sure,’ she snaps. ‘Stop!’

  The car had started moving but he breaks with a jolt that flings her forward against the passenger seat. She ignores his apology and, cradling her bag under her arm, opens the door.

  ‘Go and get yourself a coffee and come back in an hour and a half.’

  She walks along the lane, brolly up, feeling like Mary Poppins, waiting on the verge as the car sweeps past. She almost runs after him, and as he disappears, beyond the reach of her voice, she feels a wave of loneliness descend on her.

  It’s quiet, so they’re not having a blistering row. If she interrupts, what will she be interrupting? Still, she can’t stand here for the next hour and a half. She has no option but to walk between the two cars, up to the porch.

  David wrenches the door open and stares at her in shock. She moves forward, but he pushes her out and pulls the door to behind him.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  She ignores him. It’s just the way he is. ‘I need to talk to you and you’re not answering your phone.’

  ‘I thought I made it clear that it’s over. Get in your car and go back to London.’

  ‘It’s too late. I’ve already sent it away.’

  His face clouds. ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Are you going t
o let me in?’ What is she? A vampire to be refused entry in case she sucks the life out of him? ‘I’m cold.’ This is not the outcome she had expected.

  ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘Where is Felicity?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She loses patience and explodes. ‘What do you think I mean? Her car’s right there.’

  He stares at her, that nerve still flickering under the surface of the skin beneath his eye. And then the penny drops. Why Felicity isn’t at the door. Why he’s blocking her way. She’s upstairs. They were in bed together. She’s interrupted a reconciliation. She blurts out the first thing that comes into her mind.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He rocks. In fact, he rocks so far, that she is forced to brace her hand on his shoulder to stop him collapsing against her. She pushes him away from her and steps into the house.

  ‘Felicity!’ she shouts. ‘Come downstairs and talk to me. I know you’re there.’

  ‘Get out!’ David screams.

  It’s that, more than anything else, that convinces her that Jamie was right. It doesn’t sound like David, it sounds insane. And simultaneously she knows that she shouldn’t be here, that something bad has happened.

  ‘Felicity!’ She wouldn’t be hiding; she would confront her. ‘What have you done with her?’

  And that is when she notices the blood-red smears on his shirt, in the dip between his collarbone and his shoulder, as if a head has rested there, on his hands and even on her own coat. She catches her breath. Felicity’s bobble hat is lying on the floor and, behind the kitchen door, there is something covered in clear plastic; a booted foot, cocked to one side at an unnatural angle. There’s blood on the door frame too.

  ‘What …’

  But her reaction isn’t swift enough. He swivels her round and rams her against the wall. The back of her head hits a picture, cracking the glass and sending tiny shards down the collar of her coat. She fights back, trying to scratch him, but he’s too strong, forcing her down on to her knees. For a second it feels as though they are making love. But only for a second.

  53

  Laura

  I KEEP TELLING myself that the next bend will reveal a farm or an approaching car, but it doesn’t. Frustratingly, I can hear a busy road in the distance. I pretend this is Hampstead Heath, and that if I can keep putting one foot in front of the other, sooner or later I will come across someone who can help me.

  The rain bounces off the tarmac and batters the hedgerows, making the verge muddy. I skid on the wet grass, land on my bottom, sit in bewildered shock for a second or two, before forcing myself to get up and keep moving. I hear a car somewhere close by, and stop to listen, but it’s gone. Sound carries differently in the countryside. I think about Felicity losing her battle for life, and fear refuels me. Help can’t be far away. This is Buckinghamshire, not Dartmoor.

  I hear the car again and this time I know I’m not mistaken. I lurch into the middle of the lane, my arms stretched out, palms up. Because of the effect of the drugs, I’ve grossly misjudged, forgotten about wet roads and braking times, and he’s driven round a bend and hasn’t seen me, and suddenly he’s swerving, his wheels locking and sliding, the bonnet hitting my thigh, throwing me into the ditch. I lie face down, my arms splayed, brambles and nettles catching at my skin. The car door opens, and the driver runs over.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I’m OK,’ I lie, as he pulls me out of the ditch. I feel bruised all over. ‘Nothing broken,’ I add, seeing the colour drain from his face.

  ‘I nearly killed you. Why did you run into the road like that?’ His voice booms, his accent possibly Polish.

  I pick grass from my mouth, spitting mud. ‘Call the police. They need help back there. There’s a man and he’s already hurt someone. I think he might have killed her. He’s mad.’

  He takes my arm and supports me to the car, opening the back door. But I refuse and get into the front. He looks round for his phone. I spot it in the footwell where it must have slipped when he braked. The interior is warm, and there is a familiar perfume in the air. I lean forward and wipe the misted windows with my palm while he calls the emergency services.

  ‘What house?’ he asks.

  ‘There’s only one. I don’t know what it’s called.’

  My knee is bouncing. I press it down with my fist. I wish he would hurry up, but everything this man does is slow and ponderous. He is staring at me, his mouth hanging open.

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘But I left my passenger there … Hello, yes. Police please.’

  ‘And an ambulance,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. Ambulance too. People hurt. One, maybe two. Heron’s Brook, Box Lane.’

  He drops the phone on to his lap, starts the engine and backs gingerly towards the ditch, then he turns the steering wheel hard round, the windscreen wipers on full speed.

  ‘What do you mean, you left a passenger there?’ Something tells me I know the answer, because I recognized that perfume.

  ‘Miss Munro.’ He reverses again, and finally makes the turn. ‘She is an important account customer.’

  I stare at him in disbelief. ‘Rebecca Munro? You left Rebecca Munro there?’

  ‘She told me to come back for her later,’ he says with a quick, defensive glance in my direction.

  ‘Oh my God. Can’t you go any faster?’

  ‘Do you want to be in the ditch again?’

  He leans forward, large beringed hands gripping the steering wheel, looking for the gate. I do the same, unbuckling my seat belt as soon as I see it.

  ‘You should wait for the police,’ he says.

  I ignore him.

  Bare tree branches bend against the rain, twigs breaking off and spinning across the road. The tattered remains of my grey chiffon dress cling to my legs, soaked with blood, and I realize I must have cut myself when the car hit me. Bizarrely, I don’t feel any pain. The house swims in and out of focus. I concentrate hard, look for a weapon and pick up one of the chalky, rough-cut stones that frame the beds of shrubs to either side of the porch.

  The front door isn’t closed properly. I push it open a crack and peer through. To my horror, a woman is lying on the floor and David is on top of her, pinning her down, his hands round her throat. Her hands grip his upper arms, white-fingered, before they suddenly go slack and drop to her sides. I move on instinct, adrenaline sharpening my movements as I burst in and slam the stone down. But David must have sensed me because he reacts quicker than lightning, reaching for me and shoving me backwards. I feel like I’ve been rugby-tackled. He throws his weight on to my body, catching my wrist as I lash out and slamming my hand on to the floor. I release the stone and he throws it out of reach.

  ‘Look what you’ve done, you stupid bitch. My life is fucked because of you.’

  I whip my head to the side when his spittle hits my face. ‘You did this to yourself.’

  He lets go of me and his hands circle my neck, his thumbs pressing into my larynx. I beat at him with my fists, but he’s squeezing the life out of me. A tide of blackness begins to wash away my vision.

  ‘The girl who can’t recognize faces,’ he mutters. ‘Well, you know me now, don’t you?’

  I can hear the sounds I’m making, the pathetic little creaks from my throat. Then a shadow falls and even though I can’t see, the effect is of someone shutting the curtains, or standing in front of the sun. There’s a whump noise, and David tips to the left without a word, his hands slackening and falling away. He leans on a little side table, but it slides from under him, and he slumps to the floor.

  My vision returns, and I look up to see a fall of dark hair around a sheet-white face.

  ‘Oh God, have I killed him?’ Rebecca asks.

  54

  Laura

  AFTER THE POLICE interviews, the medical examinations and all the fuss, I feel an urgent need to get away, so I spend a week in Paris with my sister. It’s term time so I
sabel is at work and the boys are at their Lycée, but I don’t mind at all. I find a way to be at least moderately content while walking city streets that have become as familiar as a friend in the years since Isabel and Eric made it their home. I visit the galleries, check out the Père Lachaise cemetery where Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison are buried. I visit the Bois de Boulogne, I take a bateau mouche and enjoy being a tourist as it ambles lazily along the river. It’s a break from London, a break from my flat and its associations, a way of drawing a line under what happened. David’s trial is a long way off. There is the rape trial to go through if the CPS agrees, but that won’t be for months either and I can’t sit around waiting to be given permission to feel better. And what if he gets off? How will I cope then?

  My lawyer says I should brace myself, that it could go either way, and the fact that Phoebe is standing by him, undoubtedly shifts the balance in his favour. It’s Elliot’s word against that of a woman who cannot recognize faces, who has no evidence, not even a blue shirt, to prove what happened.

  The police were excited when they discovered that I’d been in Elliot’s car, only to be irritated when I explained. Since then it’s been made clear that they would like to close the case; that I haven’t got a hope in hell of getting it past the Crown Prosecution Service; that I’m wasting everyone’s time, including my own.

  They had already found that first letter, the one I hid between my books, the one that made me hack off my hair, but even that didn’t impress them. I hate that they’ve read his words, raised their eyebrows over his description of the night we spent together, his insinuations, maybe even seen his point. But I refuse to back down. I may have been drunk, my condition may make me an unreliable witness, but I know what he did. I only regret that it took me so long to report it.

  I’ve heard that he’s moved in with his parents while he waits to find out if he’s going to be on trial for rape. I know what happened now. It was coincidence, opportunity and maybe even malice. Elliot knew about my condition, but did he have sex on his mind all along or was it a spur-of-the-moment thing, pure opportunism; an alcohol-fuelled decision that he would never normally have taken, had I not been in the state I was? Of course, according to him, he didn’t get into the taxi with me, someone else did. Someone who said he was my boyfriend and told him to get lost. I know he’s lying, but the driver of the cab has yet to come forward.