I Found You

by Lisa Jewell

Mark laughed in that girlish, revolting way of his. ‘Will you now, Graham? Will you? I’m caressing her throat now, Graham. Very gently. With my fingertips. I think she quite likes it. Yes, she really does. She’s virtually purring.’

  A dark red fire was building inside Gray. It was licking up the walls of his consciousness, melting his reason. He wanted to kill this man. Murder him. Stab him, batter him, stamp on his skull until it smashed, shoot him in the head and then in the heart, kick him, stone him, decapitate him, maim him and maul him until he was nothing but a lump of flesh and bone.

  ‘Tell me, Kirsty, why did you come here tonight? Just out of interest.’

  ‘Because it sounded like fun.’ Her voice was tight and low.

  ‘And is that why you told me you loved me? On the beach. Because it was fun?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I said it because I didn’t know what else to say. Because I’ve never had a boyfriend and I didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘you’re certainly learning a life lesson tonight. You really, really can’t go around telling people you love them, Kirsty. Not when you don’t mean it. You could give someone the wrong impression. Oh’ – he peered round at Gray – ‘by the way, I’m currently massaging your sister’s breasts. They’re absolutely lovely. Even better than I’d imagined. Two proper handfuls.’

  Gray felt Kirsty wriggling against him. He was blinded by impotent rage but breathed in and out until his mind cleared. Rage wasn’t going to help anything. He rearranged his hands a fraction, ignoring the blast of pain in his wrist, and began to fiddle with the electric cord. It was tied tightly, as he’d known it would be, but if he could find the frayed end, there might be just enough slack in it to manipulate it somehow.

  ‘Men are sensitive, Kirsty, that’s what people don’t realise. Easily hurt. And you really hurt me. The minute I saw you I fell in love with you. I told you that. It was like a thunderbolt. It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. And for you to behave the way you have behaved, to have so little respect for another person’s feelings, it makes you less than human, somehow. Do you see what I mean?’

  Kirsty’s entire body jerked then.

  ‘What did he do?’ Gray shouted.

  ‘I’ve got my hand between her legs, Graham.’ His tone was jaunty. ‘Right … between … her … legs. Oh yes. Yes, she likes that, big brother. She really, really does. And you see, this is the sort of thing that happens to people who don’t have basic respect for other people.’ This was addressed to both of them, like useful advice for the future. Then, horribly, he groaned. ‘Mmmmm. Yes.’

  Gray’s fingers fiddled harder and faster with the electric cord. The Anglepoise lamp was still there, where he’d left it. He could still do something. If only he could get this cord untied. Kirsty had worked out what he was trying to do and he felt her fingers start to work at the cord too.

  Mark groaned again; Kirsty flinched. This was not going to happen. He was not going to let it happen. If it did their lives would be ruined. For ever.

  He looked at the lamp. He licked his lips. He felt the cord. It was loosening. It was definitely loosening. Mark was talking to him. Telling him how good his sister felt, how wet she was getting, but he blanked it all out. He could not listen to it. He needed to focus. Forget the pain. Forget Mark’s hand between his sister’s legs. Just get this cord loose. Slip his hands out. Get that lamp. Bash it over Mark’s head. Make this stop. Make this stop. Make this stop.

  Forty-four

  Lily looks around the room. It is a large rectangle with a sloped ceiling and two dormer windows. There is a four-poster bed to their left, nicely dressed with white cotton bedding and satin cushions. It is freshly made, the duvet smoothed to a glacial sheen. It smells fresh in this room and the walls are papered with something quite modern: duck-egg blue with a pattern of chrysanthemums. The carpet is new and plush and there are smart fitted wardrobes. At the other end of the room is a door to an en-suite bathroom, a small modern kitchenette, two cream armchairs and a desk with a standard lamp. It looks like a room in an upmarket B & B. It looks nothing like any other room in this house.

  ‘Well,’ says Russ. ‘This is interesting. It looks like we’ve found the lair of your mysterious phone-answering woman.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Lily. ‘In a house so big, why would you live in a room so small?’

  ‘Saves on heating bills, I guess.’

  She steps into the room and begins to explore. Whoever lives in this room is a nice, clean person. The woman she spoke to on the phone sounded like a nice, clean person. She pulls open a wardrobe and there is the scent of jasmine, of clean clothes. The wardrobe is full of expensive-looking things: tailored trousers clipped neatly to wooden hangers, soft woollen jumpers folded into neat squares, handbags with golden chains, neat loafers with tassels, shiny court shoes with buckles.

  ‘This woman is very elegant,’ she says to Russ, who is picking up and examining the objects on the desk. ‘She is classy. Like Carl. And also very tidy. She is def­initely his mother. It is obvious.’ She closes the wardrobe door and joins Russ. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘I reckon’, he says, ‘that the occupant of this room left very recently and took a lot of personal effects with them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It just looks like a couple of drawers have been emptied, and there’s an empty jewellery box, an empty filing tray. Look.’

  The roman blinds over the two dormer windows are open and the daylight is just starting to fade. She sees Russ sneak a quick peak at the time on his mobile phone. Their mission has been unsuccessful. Lily must have scared the lady away with her phone call this morning. She is gone. The house is empty. Russ needs to leave. He needs to see his baby and his wife and sleep for eight hours before he goes to work tomorrow.

  ‘You go,’ she says, sitting on the desk chair and swivelling round to face him. ‘It is late.’

  ‘But where will you stay?’

  ‘I will stay here. In this lovely room.’

  ‘But, Lily, I wouldn’t feel … I mean, this is a big house. You’d be all on your own. And what about getting home? You know I can’t come back and collect you.’

  ‘I have money,’ she says. ‘Plenty of money. I can find my own way home.’

  ‘But you don’t even know where we are!’

  ‘I do know where we are. We are in Ridinghouse Bay. I have my phone. I have money. Please, Russ. I want you to go home. To your baby. And your wife.’

  ‘But if something happened to you …’

  ‘Nothing will happen to me. This house is safe. The only person who can get into this house is the woman who answered the phone. And look’ – she gestures around the room – ‘does this look like the room of a dangerous woman?’

  Russ smiles and shakes his head. ‘No. I guess not. But still, I’d feel happier if you were in a hotel.’

  ‘I want to stay here,’ she says firmly.

  Russ pauses, then breathes out. ‘I do need to go,’ he says.

  ‘I know you do. So go.’

  He softens and relaxes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  He smiles and steps towards her. ‘Please, please call me tomorrow morning, so I know you’ve made it through the night.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course I will.’

  ‘And if you’re scared in the night. Call me. I’ll keep my phone by my bed. Any strange noises. Anything. Please.’

  She laughs. He looks so earnest. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I promise.’

  She steps towards his open arms and they share a long and heartfelt embrace.

  ‘Did you leave anything in my car?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Fine then, I’ll say goodbye.’

  He hugs her once more and then he turns and leaves the room, clicking it quietly shut behind him.

  Lily sits down again on the swivel chair and lets it spin 360 degrees. It stops, slowly, and s
he finds herself facing her own reflection in a full-length mirror built into the wall. Here she is, she thinks, staring blankly at herself, here she is: already hundreds of miles from home, and now hundreds more. She thinks of the empty flat in Surrey. She thinks of the building site next door with its flapping sheets of plastic, its strangely flashing light. She thinks of tomorrow, of exploring the streets of this odd little town, of the answers she might finally find to all her questions.

  But mainly she thinks of just maybe waking here in the night, the moon shining down on her through the high-set windows, and feeling the gentle touch of her husband, his hand against her cheek, his face above hers, smiling down at her and saying, ‘You found me. You came all this way and you found me.’

  Forty-five

  Alice rests the little postcard against the base of her bedside lamp and gazes at it. It is exquisite. A tiny pencil sketch of her and Romaine standing side by side with their arms around each other. They’d posed for him in the kitchen; it had taken him all of ten minutes, and he’d captured them exactly. Romaine’s extraordinary curls, the pudge of her wrists, the crooked ends of her smile. And Alice’s long legs, the way her hair springs back off her hairline, the tired glamour of her face. But mostly what he’d captured was the love between the two of them. The matiness. Because Romaine was very much her buddy. They lived life at the same rhythm; they danced to the same beat. If Romaine were thirty years older and not her kid, they’d probably be best friends. And that was what poured out of Frank’s lovely drawing. Alice and Romaine. BFFs.

  He’d spent the evening with them, wedged between Romaine and Kai on the sofa watching fifty greatest something or others on Channel Five. But by the time Alice had come downstairs from putting Romaine to bed (far too late, as always), Frank had gone to bed. The little postcard was all that had remained of him, and a small scrawled note that said: ‘Off to bed. School night! See you in the morning.’

  She’d felt both deflated and relieved. Of course he must sleep in his own bed tonight. Had she not just this morning made up her bed with man-repelling Monsoon Home cushions? But equally she’s aching for him. She picks up the card and traces her fingertip over the pencil markings. He’s made her look beautiful. Willowy and hollow-cheeked with a piercing gaze. Is that how he sees her? she wonders. Not a badger-haired housewife with a spare tyre and dark circles around her eyes? But a woman who could give Catherine Deneuve a run for her money?

  She sighs and looks behind her, imagining Frank in her shed, on his bed. Possibly naked. Then she imagines that same bed tomorrow night, empty, the shed cold and locked. Life returning to normal. Who knew how long it would be before she would hold a man’s body again? What were the chances of a single mum of three living in a small seaside town miles from anywhere, who left the house only to chase dogs around a beach and stand outside schools, meeting a half-decent man who wanted to have sex with her ever again?

  She makes it as far as the back door before sanity reclaims her. She lets her hand drop from the door handle and takes a deep breath.

  Kai appears behind her as she turns round.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ she says.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Just locking up,’ she says. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing. Just getting some water.’

  He pours himself a glass from the tap.

  ‘You all right?’ he says, turning to appraise her.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

  ‘You seem …’ His eyes trace a thoughtful arc across the room, then zoom back to her. ‘A bit mad.’

  She laughs. ‘Mad?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, not, like, crazy mad. Just a bit distracted.’ He looks towards the courtyard. ‘Is it him?’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Yes. You know. All this lost-memory stuff. Having to deal with it?’

  ‘Well, yeah. I suppose, a bit. It’s been strange, hasn’t it? Having him around. But’ – she steps towards her son and wraps her hand around the back of his neck – ‘this time tomorrow it will be over. He’ll be gone. Life will go back to normal.’

  ‘Do you want that?’

  She looks at him sharply.

  ‘Do you want things to go back to normal?’

  ‘I suppose. I mean—’

  ‘I like him,’ he cuts in. ‘If it turned out that he wasn’t a murderer. You know. Or even if he was.’ He laughs.

  ‘Oh,’ says Alice. ‘Good.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’ He gives her a bear hug. ‘Love you.’

  ‘I love you, too, baby.’ She kisses his cheek and he smiles at her and then he’s gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen with the buzzing fridge and the darkness and the dogs.

  Forty-six

  1993

  The cord was now loose enough for Gray to remove his hands. He resisted the temptation to free himself, and gave himself a moment to plan his next move.

  ‘I’m using the knife to slice through the front of your sister’s T-shirt, Graham. Don’t worry. I’m being very careful. Because I don’t want to hurt her. At least, not yet.’

  Gray flinched again at the sound of fabric rending, his sister’s intake of breath.

  Then: ‘Wow. I mean really – wow. Those are about the most incredible tits I have ever seen. Truly. Have you ever seen your sister’s tits, Graham?’ Mark asked this conversationally, as you might ask someone if they’ve seen a certain movie. ‘Such a shame you can’t see what I’m seeing. You’re really missing out.’

  Gray breathed in deeply, holding down the flames of fury. He slipped his good hand gently from the cord and then used his fingers to locate one of the wire coat-hanger hooks Kirsty had put in the back pocket of her jeans earlier. She adjusted her position slightly to let him ease it out, which Mark misread as an indication that she was enjoying herself. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘your sister seems to be getting into things now, Graham. Right, let’s let these beauties free, shall we?’

  Gray felt Mark’s hands reach behind his sister’s back and begin to fiddle with the fastening of her bra. He stilled his hands and stopped breathing. It seemed to take for ever.

  ‘Have you never undone a bra before, Mark?’ he asked.

  ‘Shut up, you fucking dweeb.’

  ‘No, seriously. You appear to be a bit of an amateur. And actually, I’m starting to wonder, given the way you’re behaving like a total fucking freak, if maybe you’re a virgin.’

  He felt Mark’s hands loosen from behind Kirsty. Then Mark was in front of him, his face twisted with disgust. He brought his arm back and slapped Gray hard across the cheek. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’

  And there it was, the moment. Swiftly Gray pulled his bad hand from the cord and then leaped to his feet and brought the wire hanger hook down on to the crown of Mark’s head. He felt it puncture the flesh, felt it rip the flesh, saw Mark’s hands reach up and meet together over his scalp, saw the blood ooze through his fingers, saw the heavy-based lamp on the floor at his feet, brought it up with his good arm, brought it down again, saw Mark’s hands leave his skull and grab it midway, felt it come away from his one good hand like a flower plucked from a meadow.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Mark was saying, the lamp in his hand, blood dripping down his face in three separate rivulets, ‘you’ve done it now. You’ve really, really done it now.’ His voice had changed, the high-pitched whine lowered to a bass rumble.

  ‘The door!’ Gray shouted at his sister. ‘Get out! Go!’

  He caught a glimpse of her tear-stained face as she hurled herself towards the door, one hand holding the shredded flaps of her T-shirt together across her breasts, the other tucking something into her pocket.

  ‘Go!’ he shouted again.

  Dropping the lamp, Mark stumbled across the room, almost grabbing hold of Kirsty’s arm as she slipped through the door which she slammed hard in her wake, right on to his arm. Mark stopped, grabbed his arm, howled; then he flung the door open, setting off after her like a wounded animal. Gray followed in pursuit; he saw Kirsty hurtling
down the staircase two steps at a time, stumbling, sliding down three steps on her backside before regaining her feet, but leaving a vital beat for Mark to catch up with her. Then Mark brought her down on to the stairs, landed with his full weight on top of her, began tugging at her bra, tugging at her jeans, blood dripping from his wound on to her chest. Gray grabbed the back of his collar and tried to yank him off her but he didn’t have enough strength in his one arm and Mark easily pushed him away. But while he was distracted by Gray’s lame efforts to manhandle him, Kirsty launched her left foot right between his legs, throwing him back into a foetal ball of pain.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ Mark wailed, clutching his crotch. ‘You disgusting, ugly bitch.’

  Gray grabbed Kirsty’s hand and they ran, shouting out for help as they went, in case there was still someone in the house.

  ‘No!’ Gray said, pulling Kirsty away from the front door. ‘It’ll be locked.’

  They ran across the tiled floor of the hallway and towards the back door. Gray turned once, to see how much of a lead they had, just in time to see Mark’s blood-smeared face inches from his, to feel his hot, angry breath, and then he was down, hard, his jaw cracking against the hard tiles, momentarily winded, Mark on top of him. He felt Mark’s hands meet tightly across the crown of his head, pick it up and then smash it against the hard floor, felt his brain bounce against the walls of his skull, his hearing fade to a drowsy buzz.

  His sister was screaming, and then there was a strange and terrifying moment of silence. Mark suddenly rose away from him, then slumped again. His sister had stopped screaming and stood over them both breathing loudly, hyperventilating.

  She was clutching a bloodied knife. Mark’s knife. Blood dripped on to the pure white floor. Then they were both running, through the door at the back of the house, across the glorious, moonlit lawn, hand in hand.

  Forty-seven

  Lily hadn’t fully lowered the Roman blinds last night and a blush of dawn light is now breaking through the gloom of the room. It’s five fifty-one. She’s only been asleep for a few hours – three, maybe four. So many strange noises here by the sea. Seagulls cawing like haunted children, foxes wailing as though they are being slowly disembowelled. And the distant tide, like a mob of people, hushing and whispering, ooh and aahing, throwing itself against invisible rocks.