by Naomi Kryske
Monday night she tossed and turned. During one wakeful episode she made herself a cup of tea, hoping it would warm the unseasonable chill that ran through her bones but not surprised when it didn’t. Neither did the extra blanket she put on the bed.
On Tuesday, wanting to encourage and congratulate Jack in some way, she called Esther Hollister at Hollister’s Books for a gift suggestion.
“What kind of dog did he adopt?” Esther asked. When Jenny responded that it was a Jack Russell, Esther exclaimed, “I’ve just the thing! Jack Russell: Dog Detective is the first of a series of books by Darrell and Sally Odgers. He’ll love it! Shall I send it for you?”
Jenny thanked her and arranged payment. She realized that she’d never told Esther about her grief workbook and resolved to give her a copy when it was printed. Then she grabbed a sweater and walked just far enough into the Heath to sit on one of the benches with vistas of open spaces around it, the better for Mr. Mac to see her. She wished Bear were with her, but his paws were still healing, and three of the four were still bandaged. Under the gunmetal skies she thought, no, obsessed about Simon. She removed her journal from her purse and titled a new page, Simon: He loves me, he loves me not. He had called her “love” for as long as she could remember, but she knew he didn’t mean anything by it. A common form of address, it was used by cab drivers, cashiers, and others with customers. Some British men called every woman they met, “love.” Maybe her loneliness caused her to hear it differently now. She didn’t enter that habit in either column.
However, her relationship with Colin notwithstanding, Simon had taken her places, calmed her fears, and helped when she had needed him. He kept in touch. When Colin was killed, he had come to the hospital, taken her home, and stayed until family arrived. He had held her when she cried and been patient with her grief. He called her flat, “home.” He stayed there and respected her boundaries. He was loyal and attentive: “constant as the Northern Star,” as Shakespeare had said. She smiled. She had never thought a Shakespearean passage would describe rough-edged Simon. He hadn’t attended her wedding, but she thought she knew why, and he had a photo of her that had been taken there. He had said that he was committed to her. He had told her – somewhat haltingly – that she had his heart. She entered all these in the positive column. On the negative side, there was only one item: He hasn’t told me he loves me. He had told her she was the one he wanted, but not the one he loved. He had said that he wanted what Brian had. That meant marriage and family, didn’t it? And in her book that added up to love. Did it for him?
Colin had been more verbal, giving her words of love and encouragement and then following them up with loving actions. However, when she added it up, the Simon loves me list was overwhelming, with so many actions over such a long period of time. She was probably being unreasonable, but she still wanted to hear him say the words.
The days without incident made her more afraid rather than less, and her dreams reflected her fear. In one of them, on a dull overcast day, she stood perfectly still, but the wolf turned in her direction anyway, mouth open, teeth bared, snarling and slathering. He howled once as he loped toward her, and suddenly a whole pack of wolves, gray as the clouds, appeared behind him. A bite wasn’t a superficial wound; it was a mouth full of sharp blades that would sink deep, rend, and tear. Her muscles were paralyzed, locking her in place, and still the wolves came, an entire horizon of them. She screamed, heard barking, and woke, realizing it was Bear who had saved her from the dream’s end. She cried out for Simon, who was not there, and stammered through her “I can win” mantra. She hadn’t practiced saying it when she was in Kent, and her heart wasn’t in it now. Hearing the wooden phrases didn’t make her feel more secure. She thought then about Father Goodwyn, who had often encouraged her to pray. She tried the Lord’s Prayer, but that didn’t answer the mail, except for the verse, “Deliver me from evil.” Finally she just asked God to keep her safe. And when daylight came and she was still awake, she asked Him again. And when her morning tea didn’t chase away her exhaustion and fear, she simply prayed, “God, please.”
On Wednesday she limited her errands to the Finchley Road side of Hampstead, shopping at Sainsbury’s and buying pizza from Domino’s. After locking the door and setting the alarm, she still needed to relax, so she opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass to drink with the pizza. When she drank a second glass, she realized that it had been months since she’d seen Simon drink more than one beer or one glass of wine. She should add that to her He loves me list.
After dinner she reviewed her progress on her grief workbook, spreading the pages out on the dining room table. She had a title page, acknowledgements, and dedication. She added Shakespeare’s quote from Macbeth to the introduction: “Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak / Whispers the o’er fraught heart and bids it break.” She had made extensive notes for the chapters, including fragments of poetry to highlight each section. Some organization and transitional sentences were needed, as well as a conclusion. What message should the conclusion convey? Acceptance and hope, certainly, but who was she to recommend acceptance, when she still railed at the injustices of life?
Then she wrote a note to Colin’s solicitor, instructing him to modify her will. She wanted the grief workbook to go to Joanne, who would be able to complete and compile it, and Colin’s Audi to Simon. In a postscript she mentioned Bear. Simon was her first choice to adopt Bear, because the dog knew and liked him, but if Simon’s lifestyle precluded having a dog, then perhaps Brian and Beth would take him. Bear would love being part of a family. If both those options failed, she asked the solicitor to query Joanne, thinking of the fields and forests around her Kent home that Bear could explore.
After Simon’s call on Wednesday night, she still felt down. There was an ache deep in her chest, not like the tightness she felt when she was afraid. Could she have caught the flu? She stretched: no aches in her arms or shoulders. She held her breath: Her heart had its normal rhythm. She closed her eyes and imagined hearing Simon tell her that he loved her. The ache eased slightly, and she knew that he was what she needed. If the stalker killed her before he told her, would his chest ache like this? “Stop these morbid thoughts!” she scolded herself. “Focus on what you can do!”
Tomorrow she’d mail the letter to the solicitor and then go by the bakery on the High Street. Buying some chocolate croissants would give her a lift; chocolate always did. “God, please,” she prayed and waited for sleep to come.
CHAPTER 39
Jenny felt lethargic when she woke late Thursday morning. Bear seemed sluggish, too, still moving slowly on his hurt feet. When the water finally boiled and her tea was ready to drink, it didn’t energize her. Deciding what to eat and what to wear was a chore. When she left the flat after lunch, she felt a pronounced chill in the air. By the time she thought about returning for a jacket, however, she was already at the bottom of the hill and dreaded walking back up. Maybe the cold would enliven her.
It was warm in the bakery, which further magnified her torpor, and she was disappointed to find that they had sold all their croissants, even the non-chocolate varieties. The tray which usually held the chocolate éclairs was empty, too. She considered the other chocolate selections. A chocolate cake would be too rich. Her choice was limited to dark chocolate cookies with raspberry filling or shortbread cookies with a dollop of milk chocolate frosting on top. Indecision paralyzed her, and she had to overcome a sudden shyness just to tell the tall woman with the black hair, the baker’s assistant, to help the next customer. What to buy? Maybe a cream puff with hazelnut filling. Or two. She could make a cup of hot chocolate to go with it. The tall woman stepped away, a strange smile on her face. Jenny paid the baker for her selection and watched him wrap it for her.
Outside the bakery she stood still for a few minutes, puzzled by her feeling of uneasiness. Maybe Simon’s self-defense exercises had made her paranoid. Were there any other purchases she needed to make? It was silly
to have left the flat for only one item; she should have planned better. The first day this week when she might get a glimpse of the sun, and she had nowhere else to go. On a warmer day she might have found a bench on the Heath and had a mini-picnic, but not today. She sighed, remembered the letter she wanted to mail to the solicitor, crossed the street, and trudged past Waterstone’s on her way to the post office. She placed her letter through the slot and doubled back past the Community Market, slowing to admire its mouth-watering display of fresh fruits and vegetables. She paused briefly at the Hampstead Florist, whose merchandise was also set outside to tempt passersby.
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As Alcina left the service counter, she whispered her declarations of power: “I am strong. I am determined. I am confident.” Stripping off her apron in the back room, she added one more: “I am ready.” She heard the baker call, “What are you doing? We have customers.” I am doing what I planned to do, she thought to herself, her excitement rising. She exited the back of the bakery and hurried through the alley to the High Street.
Her skirt had large pockets, and its fullness concealed what she carried in one of them. At first she didn’t see her target. When she spotted her on the other side of the street, she slid her hand into her pocket and rested it on the blade she had selected. Her target was coming in her direction but was distracted by the fruit and flower displays.
Alcina watched her target pass the markets and approach Perrins Lane. When her target turned onto Perrins, Alcina exulted. Her target was moving away from the busy High Street into the housing area. She was not looking in Alcina’s direction. Her target was on her way home, and Alcina knew exactly which streets her target would take to get there. Her months of reconnaissance and research were about to lead her to victory. Not long now. Not long now. She quickened her steps.
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When Jenny reached the intersection of Perrins Lane and Fitzjohns Avenue, she had to wait until traffic eased before crossing Fitzjohns. Fitzjohns connected her to Ellerdale. A few more blocks, and she would be home. She smiled, remembering her first days in Hampstead: She had had to keep to the main streets then. Now she knew all the quieter, less populated streets where she could focus on her own thoughts while she walked.
She heard rapid footsteps behind her and from a distance a man’s voice – Mr. Mac? – yell, “Run!” She turned and saw the woman from the bakery, her olive face contorted, a large knife held high in her hand. There was no time to step aside; the woman was nearly on top of her. Automatically Jenny raised her right arm to block the attack, but the woman kept stabbing at her, screaming something unintelligible and grazing her forearm. Blood welled up through her sleeve. She couldn’t fend the woman off, and still the knife was coming. Jenny panicked. If she turned to run, she’d be stabbed in the back. If she didn’t, she’d be slashed in the face. If she tried to dodge the assault, she could lose her balance, fall, and be mutilated. She reached with both hands to grab the blade, one fist squeezing tightly over the other, her teeth clenched vainly against the pain, the sharp, shocking, screaming pain. The woman was so strong that Jenny wasn’t sure her two hands would be sufficient defense against her, but if she didn’t hold on, the woman would overpower her and kill her. She could feel the pain weakening her grip; she hadn’t the energy to cry out or think what to do next. In her peripheral vision she saw Mr. Mac running toward her, his cane extended. He swung it with both hands at the back of the woman’s legs. The woman cried out, fell to her knees, and released her hold on the knife. He slammed his foot into her back, and she lay writhing and shrieking on the stone sidewalk.
“Shut it!” he yelled at the woman on the ground, forcing one of her arms behind her back and using his knee to pin her down more effectively. “Mrs. Sinclair! Mrs. Sinclair! Are you all right?”
Jenny was too dazed to answer. Her knees felt weak, and she sank to the ground, still gripping the knife in her hands.
She’s a rabbit in the spotlight, MacKenna thought. “Mrs. Sinclair,” he said firmly. “You can put the knife down.” He leant toward her. “My handkerchief’s in my front coat pocket. Take it and wrap it round your hand.” Her reflexes were slow. “My pocket,” he repeated. “Well done, Mrs. S. Well done.”
Blood soaked through the handkerchief and dripped onto her clothes. She saw Mr. Mac on his mobile phone, giving their location to the dispatcher and requesting police assistance and an ambulance. Then she heard him speaking to Simon. “It’s done, and she’s all right. It was a knife attack. Wounds not life-threatening, but we’ll have her tended to. Catch us up at the Royal Free.”
The first officers on the scene cuffed the woman, who glared at Jenny and refused to speak, not even to give her name. They then photographed Jenny’s wounds, hastily rebandaging her hand. More officers arrived. She looked at their earnest faces and cried while Mr. Mac identified himself and described the incident. He knew it all, her circumstances, every incident that had preceded this one, and the names of the West Hampstead detectives.
Jenny cried because she didn’t understand why this strange woman hated her enough to try to kill her, because it seemed that all her clothes were destined to have bloodstains on them, because she couldn’t stop crying long enough to thank Mr. Mac, and because, even surrounded by police and medical personnel, she felt alone without Simon.
“The sergeant’s on his way,” MacKenna told her.
That didn’t stop the shaking, and she wasn’t able to give much of a statement to the patient officer with the notebook. “She works at a bakery on the High Street, but I never did anything to her! She attacked me, and I tried to defend myself. That’s all I know.”
The ambulance ride to the Royal Free Hospital was short, but the wait at the Accident and Emergency unit was long. Mr. Mac filled out the forms and then waited with her, reminding her gently to elevate her arm. Still her wounds throbbed, and what little energy she had, drained away. Every time someone came through the revolving door, she looked for Simon, but she was called to the examining room before he arrived. She felt a little faint, so she lay down on the examining table. The doctor, a redhead who looked as if he didn’t have time to eat, cleaned and anesthetized her wounds. “A few pinpricks,” he said matter-of-factly, suturing her hand first. “The palm of the hand is a high tension area. Sutures will need to remain for ten to fourteen days. Keep it dry the first twenty-four hours. Cleanse and apply antibiotic ointment twice a day after. Blot dry. Paracetamol should be sufficient for pain when the anaesthesia wears off.” He cleansed and began to suture the gash in her forearm. “Sutures needed for only eight to ten days on your arm. For less scarring, these sutures can be removed early. Keep the wound closed with steristrips. When I apply the bandages, you’ll be good to go.”
“I’ll need to have a look first,” a voice Jenny loved said. It was Simon, his warrant card held out for the doctor to see. “Not to worry. I’ll not contaminate the sterile field.”
Tears of relief rose up suddenly and rolled down her cheeks. She struggled but couldn’t sit up. “Simon, it was a woman!”
He bent over to kiss her. “I know, love. Safe as houses now. Well done.” He gripped her unsutured hand, more tightly at first than he had intended. “Not a good idea to move at the moment.” He looked up at the doctor. “She cries when she sees me coming. Must be a symptom of something.”
She couldn’t stop. “I want to thank Mr. MacKenna,” she wept.
“I’ve spoken with him.”
“He – he – saved my life, Simon!”
He smiled. “That’s not the way he tells it.” When the doctor had bandaged her wounds and given her a tube of the ointment, Simon helped her sit up, keeping an arm around her waist. “Take a moment. You may be lightheaded.”
She clung to him, unable to stop sobbing in spite of her relief.
“Breathe,” he advised and waited for her to calm. “Think you can manage a motorcycle ride h
ome?”
“No! Don’t let go of me yet.”
“No rush. Stay as long as you need,” the doctor said and departed.
Simon took advantage of the privacy and put both arms round her, afraid he was hugging her too hard but hearing no objection from her. After a few minutes, her trembling subsided, and he tied his leather jacket round her and steered her outside. “Hold tight to me with your good arm. I’ll go slow.”
At the flat, he settled her with a cup of tea before asking, “Jenny, why didn’t you run? MacKenna said he shouted to you.”
“There wasn’t time! And you never taught me to run.”
He should have. “And why did you grasp the knife?”
“That wasn’t very smart, was it? I panicked. I was afraid she’d cut my face, and I just couldn’t let that happen again. But she was so strong! I think I should’ve been lifting weights.”
He leant forward to kiss her. “I’m proud of you, love. You acquitted yourself well. More than, actually.”
“Why?” she cried. “I couldn’t keep her from cutting me!”
“You reacted quickly. You defended yourself. Now let’s get some food into you so you can take the Paracetamol.”
“I’m not hungry. And I don’t want any pills. It doesn’t hurt as much now.”
