by Gemma Rogers
‘I can imagine,’ she droned, sucking on her cigarette so hard her lips puckered. Her mouth resembling a cat’s backside.
Can you, Debbie? Can you really? Do you know what the fuck it’s like to have a knife put to your throat? My head screamed with it. Little flashes of rage came without warning.
The pause stretched out and eventually Debbie changed the subject to update me about the company restructure. She knew the HR girl from the other company whom she would now be up against and was confident she would stay. That didn’t surprise me, Debbie knew everyone. I cringed inwardly, I wasn’t being fair, my head was in a bad place.
‘Thank you for the flowers. They were lovely.’ I placed my hand on Debbie’s arm and awarded her my best smile. Her spongy flesh beneath my fingertips. She beamed, lighting up like a Christmas tree.
‘I’m glad. I chose them myself. We wanted to show you we cared. The whole office was in shock when they heard.’
You mean when you told them, Debbie? What was wrong with me? I liked Debbie, but everyone was irritating me. It was an effort to be pleasant or polite. I didn’t know who I was any more.
I smiled as best I could, lips pursed, hiding my gritted teeth. I wanted to leave so flicked my cigarette into the bin and turned on my heels. She did the same, quickening her stride to keep pace.
‘Ah look, the dog walker has brought Molly back.’ Debbie stared at her phone as we waited for the lift. Over her shoulder, I could see a fluffy white dog bouncing around a kitchen on the screen.
‘What is that?’ I asked, more to fill the silence than because I was interested.
‘It’s a PetCam, got it on eBay. They’re brilliant, plugs into your Wi-Fi and you can watch through an app on your phone. I can even talk to Molly if I want to.’ Debbie made embarrassing baby noises into the phone. The dog, at the sound of her voice, barked and ran around in circles. I had to admit, pets didn’t really interest me. It was just something else to look after. Eventually, we parted company and I was free, back to the solitude of my desk. My socialising quota had been fulfilled.
By the end the day, I had dealt with all the emails from the previous week and was up to date. I avoided speaking to anyone other than Debbie and Stuart, which, under the circumstances, was an achievement. The journey home was much calmer, less people on the streets, and I no longer had the worry of the day ahead. I was looking forward to winding down after a long Monday, like every other person making their way home.
The flat was empty when I arrived, Ben had already left for work. I tried to call Jane, but her phone was switched off; she must be on the ward. I left a message asking her to call me back. I wanted to hear a friendly voice. The flat felt like it was shrouded in a blanket of silence. The air was thick with it and even the television didn’t fill the void. I stared at the screen, not absorbing the cookery programme I’d put on. It was something to fill the time before bed. I’d missed lunch at work so indulged in a big bowl of pasta, leaving some leftovers for Ben when he got in. It was nice to return the favour.
My phone rang, and I scooped it up, hoping it was Jane. Unknown number flashed on the caller display. Normally I wouldn’t answer, but if someone wanted to waste their time trying to sell me double glazing, it was fine by me.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is that Eve?’
I replied it was and Detective Emmerson announced herself.
‘I’m in the area. Are you home? Do you mind if I pop in and give you an update?’ I agreed, eager for news and company.
Fifteen minutes later she arrived, and I set about making tea. We clutched our mugs and I sensed from her downcast expression, her day had not been a good one.
‘I wish I came with better news, but I’m afraid we’ve hit a stumbling block.’
I frowned. How was that possible? I remained silent, willing her to continue.
‘Your clothes came back negative for any DNA. I’ll return them to you when the lab sends them back.’
I shook my head. ‘Please get rid of them. I don’t want them back.’
Emmerson nodded. ‘Of course. We’ve managed to locate some footage from a resident’s CCTV. The image is grainy, and we cannot identify him from it, but I’d like you to view it at the station when we run through some suspect photos, just to confirm it’s the same man.’
‘I’m sorry I washed him off me,’ I said, my voice cracking and tears erupting from my eyes.
‘It’s okay, Eve. I completely understand the compulsion to get clean after what you went through.’
I hung my head, shame eating me up from the inside out. Emmerson squeezed my hand for a second, but she looked defeated, her expression grave. How could I have been so stupid? I gave away their only chance to find him.
‘Has anyone come forward from the incident boards? I saw one at the entrance to the park.’
‘No, I’m afraid not; no information that has given us any leads.’
‘So, we have nothing?’ It sounded more like a dead end than a stumbling block.
‘We have the tape, but it doesn’t help to identify him currently.’
‘You need him to do it again?’ I asked.
Emmerson hesitated, pushing her blonde hair back behind her ear, before nodding. ‘Well, it would give us more to go on. We’ve got a team calling in on all known local sex offenders; cross-referencing those against the physical description you gave us and determining their whereabouts at the time. It might lead to something.’ She looked tired and a fleeting flash of pity hit me before the anger burned brighter. It wasn’t fair. He was going to get away with it and there was nothing anyone could do.
‘Do you think he’s done it before?’
She sighed and leaned back in her chair, as if anticipating my question.
‘I can’t discuss other ongoing cases, Eve.’
‘But do you?’ I pushed, knowing I was on to something.
Emmerson folded her arms tightly across her chest. ‘Yes. We think so. But he leaves very little evidence behind.’
I felt sick. If only I’d gone straight to the police, we could have had his DNA. They could have been out searching for him immediately. Now, even if they caught him, it was his word against mine.
Lowering my face, I continued to cry. Emmerson reached across the table and rested her hand on my arm, the skin prickled beneath.
‘We’ll keep trying.’ She sounded genuine, but I knew it was bullshit. I was being placated. The case would go cold, no leads to follow and they would move on to something else. Anger bubbled inside, filling me up. I entwined my fingers in my hair and pulled at the scalp.
‘I’d like to be alone please.’ It was as polite as I could manage.
‘Of course. Can you come in around two tomorrow afternoon to look at the photos?’ Emmerson asked, as she stood.
I nodded. I just wanted to get her out of the flat.
When I heard the front door click shut, I slammed my fists onto the wooden table top. Pummelling them into the flat surface as it shook. I howled like a wild animal and threw my chair to the ground, again and again until the wood split. Red-faced and sweating, I returned to my room to sob into my pillow. Everything had gone to shit.
10
Sunday 28 January 2018
I need to use the bathroom and the interview is paused while I am escorted to the ladies’. The custody officer waits outside for my return. There is little privacy when you are a suspect. I wash my hands in the sink and try to ignore the reflection looming large. It doesn’t look like me. Bruises on my neck are starting to appear, purple blotches in the shape of his fingers. I can’t bear to touch my face; one side is unrecognisable. I look away from the mirror. It won’t do to get emotional now.
When I return, Becker and Hicks stop mid-conversation as the door opens. They look at me and then each other. Are they apprehensive? Perhaps worried I had overheard? Someone has turned the heating up as the room is warm now or perhaps it’s because I’ve moved. I put the blanket over the back of the chair and si
t, ensuring my body language is open. No crossing of legs or arms, no barriers of any kind. The interview has been routine so far. No questions have been asked that I haven’t anticipated.
‘Can you describe the next time you saw Ian?’ Hicks asks, once he’s pressed the recorder to start again and continue from where we left off.
‘I saw him a few more times at the gym.’ I know this isn’t what they want, but I can’t resist being obtrusive. I don’t want to make things too easy for them.
‘Sorry, I meant outside of the gym. Just the two of you,’ Hicks clarifies, without a hint of irritation.
I nod like I’ve just understood. ‘Oh yes, of course. It was in the New Year. I didn’t see him over Christmas. When we saw each other at the gym, he asked if I wanted to go for a drink.’
‘Where did you go?’ Becker asks.
‘Mangos, the wine bar on the corner of the high street. We had a few drinks in there. I didn’t want a late night as I was getting up early the next day and when we left at about half ten there were no cabs.’ It was freezing outside, but the lack of transport turned out to be a stroke of luck. ‘He said he only lived around the corner and we could wait in the warm whilst he called an Uber,’ I continue.
‘So, you went to his house. Do you remember the date?’ Hicks asks.
‘Not exactly. It was two weeks ago, the second Friday in January.’
Hicks taps his smartphone, appearing to struggle with the buttons. Sighing, he hands the phone to Becker, who finds the calendar and scrolls through.
‘Twelfth of January?’ she asks, directing the screen towards me.
‘Yes.’
‘You felt safe with him, at that point?’ Hicks’s tone is laced with something. Not sarcasm, perhaps judgement? I’m not sure.
‘Yes, I had no reason to fear him. It wasn’t like we’d just met.’
Becker coughs and shoots a furtive glance at Hicks. It may be a reprimand. These two are difficult to read. Not like Ian. He was easy, he was transparent.
Tuesday 2 October 2017
‘Scream and I’ll cut you,’ he hissed, pulling my jeans to my hips and shoving me to the ground.
I sat up on my elbows, scrabbling backwards in the dirt, but he pulled me back by the ankles. My shirt rode up, and gravel scraped into the flesh on my back.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said as he began undoing the button of his fly.
‘Eve. Eve!’ Ben’s face was above mine and I thrashed in my duvet. ‘Wake up.’ I could hear screaming, but it took a few seconds to realise the noise was coming from me.
I slumped back onto my pillow panting. Ben sat on the edge of the bed holding his cheek.
‘It was a nightmare.’
He threw me an incredulous look. ‘I guessed! Jesus, you’ve got a good right hook,’ he grumbled and disappeared out of the room.
My T-shirt was damp and cold, hair slicked flat to my head. It was freezing, and I reached for my dressing gown, still half asleep. It was the third nightmare I’d had in a week. Every time I tried to sleep, I saw his cold eyes drilling into me.
Ben reappeared in the doorway with a bag of oven chips pressed against the side of his face. It would have been funny if I wasn’t so broken.
‘How did you get in?’ I asked, scratching my head.
He pointed to the bolt lock that was swinging from the wall, two of its four screws in Ben’s hand. He’d forced entry to my room? My mouth went dry. Ben wouldn’t hurt me though? Would he?
‘I’ll make some tea,’ he offered.
It was before seven, my alarm wasn’t due to go off for another half an hour. Ben must have just got home. Seeing him in various stages of undress had become normal, but when I entered the kitchen he was fully clothed in jeans and a hoody. Had he been to work? He placed a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal in front of me.
‘What happened to the chair?’ Ben asked, nodding towards the broken pieces of wood stacked in the corner of the kitchen.
I rolled my eyes and continued to push cereal around my bowl. I was still reeling about the lack of progression on my case, much of it down to my own stupidity, but I didn’t want to talk to Ben about it now. I didn’t want to go to work either, but I had to. Everything was so unfair.
‘We had a falling-out.’
Ben didn’t respond. Perhaps, ascertaining from my tone, it would be wise to leave it there.
‘Maybe you should go and see your doctor? About the nightmares, I mean. Maybe you’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder. You could get some meds for that.’ The idea sounded tempting, floating around all day, away with the fairies. Although I wasn’t sure that’s exactly what Ben, or Jane, meant when they suggested I go and see a doctor.
‘I might do,’ I replied, and Ben seemed pleased he’d mentioned it. He sat on the kitchen counter to eat his cereal. ‘I’ll replace the chair today,’ I added.
Ben shrugged; he wasn’t bothered.
Later that morning, I sat in the small office of Doctor Sola, wringing my hands. Thank goodness there was a cancellation. Normally it took two weeks before an appointment would become available. What were you supposed to do if you were actually sick? In that time whatever ailment you needed to see a doctor for would have cured itself, or you’d have died waiting. The journey here had been uneventful, but I was still uneasy being surrounded by lots of people during rush hour. I’d left a message on Stuart’s answerphone to let him know I would be coming in to the office late and quickly called my mum. She sounded pleased to hear from me, although I said I couldn’t talk long, letting slip I was on my way to the doctors.
‘Are you still poorly?’ Mum had sounded concerned.
‘No, Mum, not really. Something happened that I need to tell you about, but I can’t talk now. I just wanted to make sure you were all right?’ I heard her hiccup and gritted my teeth. That’s why she was in a good mood, she’d had a drink.
‘Yes, I’m fine, love. In fact, I have something I need to talk to you about, too.’
‘Okay, I’ll ring you later,’ I’d said before hanging up. I had to sort out my own problems first before I tried to fix her.
Doctor Sola was a small Indian woman who had an excellent bedside manner. She put me at ease as I stumbled through my rehearsed and edited version of what had brought me to the surgery.
‘Well, I believe you’re suffering with PTSD. The side effects of an event like this are psychological as well as physical. I’m happy to give you something to help your anxiety, but I believe you should consider seeing a counsellor too.’
I nodded in all the right places and took the card she gave me of a local psychiatrist who saw NHS patients. I still had the details for Victim Support but couldn’t bring myself to get in touch.
‘I’ll refer you and you should receive an appointment automatically, but if you don’t then please don’t hesitate to come back.’ She gave me a prescription for some diazepam, 5mg dose, and advised me to take one, three times a day. She had only prescribed sixty-three pills. Enough for three weeks at the recommended dose. Did she think I might be a suicide risk? The thought had crossed my mind in the past week but only for a split second. It would never be something I’d seriously consider. Did I look suicidal? I had a few days of floating around in a cloud to look forward to. ‘How are you coping at work?’ she asked.
‘I’ve only been back one day, but it’s overwhelming. I’m struggling with panic attacks.’ I was happy to exaggerate, if it kept the prescriptions coming.
Doctor Sola nodded and tapped her keyboard. ‘I’ll sign you off for the rest of this week. Just to help you get back on your feet.’
The chemist next door always took an age, the staff behind the counter moving at their usual glacial pace. My reflection in the make-up display scared me. I no longer looked like myself. Pale, sunken eyes, sallow skin and flat lifeless hair. My cheeks were hollow too; I’d been ignoring the extra room in my waistbands and ribs were starting to show. I wasn’t vain, but I did take pride in my appear
ance. Wearing make-up most days, hair done and always clean. Now I was modelling the heroin-chic look from the nineties.
Blinking back tears, I accepted the small paper bag the lady behind the counter handed me and tapped my card against the reader. A loud beep and an error message told me my debit card had been declined. The queue behind me was growing as I quickly fumbled for another card in my purse, paid for the drugs and left. Clutching them close, I hurried back to the flat.
The phone call to Stuart was awkward and I used the emotion in my voice to my advantage. He said he understood and was worried coming back this week may have been too soon. I wondered if I would I lose my job? I couldn’t worry about it now. I had to get to the police station.
On arrival, I approached the front desk, the protective glass covered in fingerprints.
‘I’m here to see Detective Emmerson, it’s Eve Harding,’ I told the police officer behind the glass and was advised to take a seat. After perusing the noticeboard which displayed posters advertising FRANK, where you could find honest information about drugs, and a guide to preventing bike theft, I sat in one of the orange plastic seats that were bolted to the wall. This part of the station was cold and uninviting, the walls had scuff marks and obscenities were scratched into the black metal chair legs. The whole place looked tired and dirty. Thankfully I didn’t have long to wait. The detective burst through the door, her cheeks flushed, and ushered me through the metal door and into an interview room.
‘Patrol picked up a man yesterday afternoon who reportedly exposed himself to some teenage girls in a park. He will be charged with indecent exposure, but I was keen to see if you recognised him.’ She paused and motioned for me to take a seat, but I was too jittery. ‘He’s of similar height and build to that you described, and I’ve got a feeling he’s into more than flashing.’ She didn’t wait for me to answer, just nodded as though we had agreed on something and disappeared out of the room.
I backed against the wall, sweat manifesting on the nape of my neck. She wasn’t going to bring him in here, was she? Force him through the door by the scruff of the neck for me to see? No, surely not. I didn’t want to face him. I couldn’t face him. God no. My legs buckled, and I leant against the desk in the centre of the room. Willing myself to keep calm, I listened to the drum of my pulse quickening in my ears. My head whirled. Fuck’s sake, Eve, you need to pull yourself together. I lowered my head to my knees, trying to stop the room from spinning.
