by Adam Croft
Tom turns and looks at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The drinks. They weren’t just singles, were they?’
He shrugs. ‘I dunno. I only bought some of them.’
‘You were trying to get me drunk, weren’t you?’ I say, walking forward in what I think is a sultry, sexy manner. ‘You were just trying to get me into bed.’
‘I get you into bed every night, Grace. Now come on. Sit down and let’s get some water into you.’
‘Make sure it’s not vodka this time, won’t you? I know what you’re like. Trying to get women drunk so you can take advantage of them.’
Tom’s face changes. ‘Grace, you’re talking bollocks. Sit down now.’
‘I’m fine thanks. Standing makes me less likely to be sick.’
‘Yeah, and it makes you more likely to fall over. I’m trying to look after you. Now sit down.’
‘Do you like looking after women, Tom?’
‘Only ones I care about. Sit.’
‘How many women have you cared about, Tom?’
Tom sighs. ‘What are you talking about now?’
‘Tell me about them. You never talk about your exes. Not even Erin.’
I notice his jaw tense. ‘Why the fuck would I want to talk about them? They’re in the past.’
‘Your daughter isn’t.’
‘No. No, she isn’t. But I can’t start thinking about that. It’s not going to do anyone any good, least of all me. Now will you sit down?’
‘You should track them down, Tom. You should find them. You should find your little girl and tell her how much you love her. You should find Erin and tell her exactly what you think about her. You should tell her she’s a stupid fucking bitch who shouldn’t have—’
The air is thrust out of me as my back slams against the wall, Tom’s hand grasped tight around my throat. His face has changed completely. He looks demonic. Unrecognisable.
‘Tom, I can’t breathe,’ I croak, the air barely able leave my mouth. I hear the blood pounding in my ears as the edges of my vision start to turn black, and I feel my life slipping away. Inside, I’m panicking. ‘Tom. Please.’
His eyes are cold, and I see something in them that I’ve never seen before. It’s almost as if they’ve changed colour and he’s been possessed by another being.
I feel my legs start to weaken, and my stomach lurches. Just as I’m about to finally lose consciousness, his grip weakens and I hit the floor.
I lie there for a few moments, unsure what’s going on, my body adjusting back to reality. There’s a piercing screech in my ears and the taste of blood in my throat. The first thing I notice is Tom’s suitcase being wheeled in front of my face. As he speaks, his voice is distant, almost robotic.
‘I’m going to the airport now, Grace. Goodbye.’
32
I don’t know how long I lie there, but I know there’s no point in chasing him. By the time I’ve realised what’s happening, he’s left the house and has probably already got his case in the car. Meanwhile, I’m left struggling for breath, barely able to stand if I do get up, and completely unable to either run or drive after him.
On top of all of that, I’m left stunned at what just happened. Part of me thinks I must have imagined it, but I know I didn’t. It was too real.
He’s never reacted like that before. Did I say something out of order? I try to go back over our conversation, but the exact words are out of reach. We were talking about his ex and his daughter, I remember that much. What the hell did I say to make him react like that?
Another part of me tells me it’s crazy to blame it on myself in any way whatsoever. There’s never an excuse for that. But it’s so out of character for him. It’s not normal. It’s not Tom.
All of these thoughts, and plenty more, go through my mind as I slowly prop myself up on my elbows — one of them still sore from falling over at the wedding — and gradually onto my backside, before I perch on the stairs and try to recover.
My head is swimming. I’m an absolute mess. I need to do something. Am I meant to call the police now? No, that’s ridiculous. I can’t do that. It was just a stupid argument. I love him. I need to sober up. This is going to hurt like hell in the morning. I’m going to have one hell of a hangover. Tom won’t be here. He’s gone. What time is it? How can I sort this out? I need to eat something. I need to have a drink. Coffee. That’s meant to sober you up, isn’t it? I don’t drink coffee, can’t stand the stuff, but they always give people black coffee on the TV when they’ve had too much to drink. Black coffee on the TV. Heh. I think about pouring it all over the screen. Funny. No, not funny. There’s nothing funny about this. This is crazy. You need to sober up. He just fucking strangled you. Walked out. He’s gone. Might never come back. You need to go after him. Stupid. Can’t do that. No way to do it. Won’t let you in an airport now. Not now you’re drunk and bleeding. Elbow’s a mess. Head’s a mess. Life’s a mess. Need to make that coffee. That’ll help.
My mobile phone pings, and I scrabble around to find my handbag, then scrabble around a bit more to find my phone inside it. Maybe it’s Tom.
It’s not.
It’s an email. From a name I don’t recognise. Someone called Jess Caton. I don’t know a Jess Caton. Normally I’d assume it was spam, but I know it’s not. I know, because the subject line is TOM RAMSAY.
33
From: Jess Caton
To: Grace O’Sullivan
Subject: TOM RAMSAY
Dear Grace,
You probably don’t know who I am. My name’s Jess. I’m Tom’s ex. I’m emailing you to warn you about the person Tom is. I hope I’ve managed to track you down before you got to find out for yourself.
To be honest, I don’t know what good this email will do. If you’ve already found out what Tom’s like, who he really is, then it’s too late. If you haven’t found out yet, you’re probably not going to believe me when I tell you. I wouldn’t have believed it either if someone had told me. But I can’t sit back and do nothing. I need to warn you.
I bet he calls you Butterfly. He does that. You might not like it — I didn’t — but he still does it. There’s a reason for it. I bet I can tell you some other things about your life right now. I bet you’ve fallen out with friends and family and aren’t quite sure why. I bet something’s gone wrong at work. Did you let him move in with you to get him out of ‘his boss’s flat’?
I bet he also told you his parents were dead. They’re not. They’re very much alive. I was with Tom until he moved up your way. When I started to have my suspicions about Tom, I did some digging. That’s how I found out his parents are still alive. That’s how I found out a lot of things about Tom Ramsay. They don’t talk to him. They disowned him long ago because of the person he is and the things he’s done to them. There’s a reason he makes out they’re dead.
I bet he told you his previous ex, Erin, left him and won’t let him see his daughter. That’s not true either.
I don’t want to go into detail about either of those things in an email. All you need to know right now is that Tom Ramsay is a pathological liar.
I managed to get out. I was lucky. I believe there are others who haven’t been so lucky, or won’t be so lucky.
I don’t know what I can say to make you believe me. Please, Grace, look deep inside your soul and ask yourself if you think Tom is the perfect gentleman he makes himself out to be. If you have even the slightest shred of doubt, GET OUT. He is dangerous.
You probably think I’m a psychopath or deranged. That couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m a police officer with Devon and Cornwall Police. I’m based in Bodmin. My collar number is 19442. You can look me up and see I’m real and credible.
If you’re not ready to do anything yet, that’s fine. I completely understand. But please, PLEASE keep this at the forefront of your mind. Keep thinking about it and asking yourself if Tom is the person you think he is, or if I might just be right.
You need to know the tru
th. Because otherwise it could cost you your life.
Jess x
34
I read Jess’s email a second time, and I immediately feel as if I’ve sobered up.
Tom never mentioned an ex called Jess. He’s mentioned Erin, the one who disappeared with their daughter, but even then I got the distinct impression it wasn’t something he wanted to go into detail about. Understandably so. But Jess? I’ve never heard of her.
If what she’s saying is true — if — then that would explain why. He’s hardly going to admit to that, is he? But at the same time that doesn’t make it true. Otherwise there’d be people popping up all over the place saying ‘Did you know Person X is a murderer/paedophile/morris dancer?’ and people would be leaving their partners left, right and centre.
Although I thought the email had sobered me up, it’s becoming clear it didn’t. I am, however, lucid enough to ask myself if I would have reacted in the same way to this email if I’d received it a few weeks ago. Hell, even a few days or even hours ago. It’s arrived on the same night that Tom put his hands around my throat and nearly choked me before walking out of our home. Is that all part of the plan? But what plan? The more I think about things, the more complicated it gets.
I read Jess’s email again, trying to take in every word, every letter, trying to make sense of it all. Why would he lie about his parents being dead? Does he not get on with them? Surely it’d be easier to just say that.
At any other time, I’d think Jess was a nutter. But so much seems to ring true. The mention of him calling me Butterfly, for starters. But that’s something anyone could know. Someone in the street could have overheard that. And yes, he did tell me his parents were dead. That’s also perfectly reasonable for someone else to know. If, for example, they are dead. Saying they’re not doesn’t make them alive.
She said she doesn’t want to go into detail about stuff in an email. Well, of course she doesn’t. But she’s perfectly willing to email a stranger out of the blue and tell her that Tom’s some sort of psychopath? And I’m meant to just believe her?
I mark the email as unread, then walk back out into my hallway and check the door is fully locked. Then, just for good measure, I put the security chain across. I know logically that’s not going to stop anyone, but every little helps, and it makes me feel better.
I realise that by now my instinct should have been to bring this up with Tom. But even if he was right here in this house with me I still don’t think I would. And why? That’s the thing that keeps me wondering, makes me think perhaps there’s something at the back of my mind which somehow rings true, which doesn’t make Jess Caton sound like a bunny boiler but actually gives her a lot of credibility.
As I think about all this, I start to feel nauseous. It’s been a day with a huge amount of emotion, an even larger amount of alcohol and now this. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what to think. But with Tom out of the house and me having to spend the night on my own, I’m also well aware that I don’t need to think or feel anything right now.
The aftereffects of the alcohol and adrenaline are hitting me hard. I crawl up the stairs and into my bedroom, before climbing up onto the cold duvet and sinking my head into the pillow. I shouldn’t have done this. I should get up and brush my teeth, at least, or change into something a little more comfortable. But I am comfortable. I’m…
35
Saturday 15 February
The first thing I register as I wake up is the disgusting taste in my mouth. I can only imagine this is what it must be like to lick a badger’s arse.
The second is the indescribable throbbing — banging — of my head. It pierces through my skull and down the back of my neck like nothing I’ve ever felt before. There’s absolutely no way in hell those vodkas and Cokes were singles. They must have at least been doubles, if not triples. But Tom said he—
Tom. My eyes fly open as I remember last night. The fight. He left. I roll my head to the side, wincing as I do so, to see Tom’s side of the bed is empty. It hasn’t been slept in.
Some bits are as clear as day, and others are hazy. We got home. I was being flirty, he pinned me up against the wall, he walked out, I made coffee… Did I? No.
The email.
My heart lurches as I remember it — snippets of it. I remember feeling like it had sobered me up, but that was clearly just an illusion. I don’t even think I’m sober now. I reckon I’m probably still drunk.
I reach for my phone, unlock it and notice a message on my screen.
It’s from Tom.
Boarding flight now. Sorry about last night. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll call you when I get to Japan x
I can deal with that later. Not much point replying back now, as he won’t see it for hours.
I open my email app to read it again. A few bits have come in overnight: some spam, Tinder asking me where I’ve been for the past couple of months, a notification that my credit card bill is available to view online. I scroll down to find the email that came in last night. I can still remember her name. Jess Caton.
But I can’t find it.
I won’t have deleted it. That would’ve been stupid. I check my Deleted Items folder just in case, but it’s not there either.
This is ridiculous. I force myself out of bed, feeling my stomach lurch as I do so, and make my way downstairs. When I get into the kitchen, I open my laptop in its position on the table, blinking at the bright glare of the screen, and enter my password. It takes me a couple of attempts to do so with my shaking hands, but I’m finally in. I open my inbox and look for Jess Caton’s email.
But it’s gone.
36
I know I received it. I read it. I can still remember bits of it. Vividly, in fact. I’m absolutely certain about it. There’s no way in hell I dreamt it or imagined it. It was far too real. The whole evening was. My neck is still bruised. My elbow is still bloody. My head is still pounding with the force of a million volts. Everything is as clear as it could be, considering the circumstances, and this is no different.
There’s no way I would have deleted it. Not a chance. It was something I knew I needed to read with fresh eyes in the morning. I even remember double-checking I’d locked the doors and put the chain across. It scared the living shit out of me. I didn’t imagine it.
Yesterday is a bizarre mix of blurred memories and absolute clarity. I can still see the look in Cath’s eyes as she said ‘I do’ to Ben. I can hear them being pronounced man and wife. But I’m buggered if I can remember what happened after that, or how we even got home. I can remember in vivid detail what happened when we got home, though.
Those big moments, those adrenaline surges, are clear as day. There’s no way I imagined them. Not any of them. However, Tom’s text…
Boarding flight now. Sorry about last night. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll call you when I get to Japan x
It’s vague. Sorry about last night? That could mean anything. Especially when it’s followed up with I just wanted to make sure you were okay. How is throttling me until I almost lose consciousness making sure I’m okay? But I didn’t imagine that. I can’t have done.
Even though my head is ringing and my stomach is lurching, I head back upstairs and make my way to the bathroom. I take a good slug of mouthwash, which I swill around my mouth and spit out into the sink. That’ll do for now. Then I look up into the mirror.
Sure as anything, there are marks around my neck. And they look like finger marks. To be fair, most of my face and neck looks red and blotchy after yesterday’s events, but there’s no mistaking those particular marks. I wasn’t dreaming. I didn’t imagine it. So Tom’s text was dismissive. It did try to downplay the fact that he’d tried to kill me just a few hours earlier.
And that means the email might have been right. I remember it just as vividly as I do Tom strangling me. I can still remember snippets of it word for word. Devon and Cornwall Police. I bet he calls you Butterfly. GET OUT. Je
ss Caton.
I go back into my bedroom and grab my phone. Then I pause. No. If that email has disappeared, it’s because someone deleted it. Someone has access to my phone. I can’t risk storing anything sensitive on there.
I turn and head down the stairs, my head pounding as I try to hold onto the contents of my stomach. When I get to the bottom, I double-check the door. It’s still fully locked and the chain is across. In the kitchen, I grab the notepad and pen from the work surface and scribble down the words Jess Caton. I can remember them now, but I don’t want to ever forget that name. Just for good measure, I write it down on two more pieces of paper, then I hide one underneath the TV stand and another behind the toilet cistern in the bathroom. I keep the third one with me. I don’t know why, but I’m not taking any risks. I need to remember that name, need to be able to get to it in the future.
It feels as if I’m going mad. Twenty-four hours ago everything was normal. At least, I thought it was. And now this. All because of two events: Tom’s reaction and Jess’s email. What was Tom even reacting to? I try to think back, to work out why he might have responded in that way, but there’s nothing there. I can’t remember.
I didn’t dream it, though. The marks are on my neck. At least, I presume that’s what it was. It can’t have been because of anything else, can it? Tom said he was only trying to make sure I was okay. What did he mean by that? Have I got this wrong somehow? Did something else happen and Tom was just trying to protect me? I don’t normally forget things. Except the email to Matilda, of course. But that was only a silly mistake. Just a slip of my finger.
I go back into my kitchen and open my work laptop on the table, bring up my Outlook email software and search my Sent Items folder for Matilda’s name. And that’s when I see it. I didn’t accidentally send the email to Matilda instead of Sue. Nor did I copy Matilda in on the email. I forwarded it on to her a full three hours after sending it to Sue.
