When I got home tonight, it wasn’t quite dark. The mornings were getting lighter, too, the bulbs pushing through every spare patch of soil in the grayness of London.
I indulged my vice for circuitous routes home, enjoying the not-quite darkness, thinking about what I was going to cook for dinner.
By the time I got to Talbot Street the sky was getting dark and it was getting colder. I walked along the alleyway at the back, looking up at the rear of the house, at my flat, at the balcony, and the curtains. I looked at the gate, hanging off its hinges and the thick grass behind it.
The curtains hung exactly the way I’d left them. I looked at the faintly yellow space of my window, staring intently, trying to see into the room beyond.
It all looked perfectly fine, just as I’d left it.
I walked to the end of the alleyway and turned the corner, heading back to the street. As I came out of the gloom a figure passed me, walking on the other side of the street, away from the house. Something about his shape made me stop and shrink back into the shadows.
It was Lee.
In the same way it was always Lee, every time I saw a big man, that purposeful stride, fair hair, broad shoulders. I caught my breath and forced myself to look, just as the man rounded the corner at the end of the street and crossed over onto High Street. Not long enough for me to be sure. It’s not him, I told myself. It’s just your mind playing tricks again. It’s not him, it’s never him. It’s just imagination.
I walked back along Talbot Street toward the house, trying to get the feeling off my shoulders, trying to get back to the way I’d been just a few moments ago, looking forward to having something to eat, a shower, watching a film or something, listening out for Stuart’s footsteps on the stairs outside, going to sleep.
I got in the house, shut the door behind me and checked it, running my fingers along the edge of the door, feeling it flush with the frame, checking the lock had shot home, checking the handle, one, two, three, four, five. Checking it again, turning it.
I finished the check and waited. Something was wrong. Something was badly wrong. I started again, all the way from the beginning, checking the door, checking the lock.
What was it? What was wrong?
It wasn’t the door . . .
I stared at it for a moment, all my senses alive, listening. Then I turned my head, slowly.
I looked back to the doorway of Flat 1.
Silence.
My feet didn’t want to move, but I forced them. I went to the doorway and knocked, something I’d never done before, never even contemplated doing.
“Mrs. Mackenzie? Are you there?”
Silence, complete echoing silence. No
EastEnders
, no sound of the news or anything else for that matter. I looked behind me, back to the door, the table in the hallway, messy with piles of mail. Nothing wrong. The door was still closed.
I knocked again, harder. Maybe she’d gone out. Maybe she’d gone somewhere, gone away on vacation or something; I was thinking that thought at the same moment as knowing for a fact that something had happened to her.
I swallowed, suddenly terrified. I put my hand on the door handle, then pulled it back again. I felt in my pocket for my phone.
This was ridiculous. What was I going to say? “Oh, hi, Stuart, please can you come home? Mrs. Mackenzie’s turned her telly down.”
I put my hand back on the door handle and turned it. The door opened and swung open before I had a chance to stop it, swinging back on the wall with a loud bang that echoed all the way up to the top floor.
The lights were on inside, a gust of warm air, smell of cooked food, stale.
“Hello?”
I wasn’t expecting a reply. I stepped over the threshold, just a step forward. Her flat matched mine, upstairs: the living room straight ahead, kitchen at the end on the right, overlooking the backyard; bathroom and then bedroom to my right. I couldn’t see her from where I was standing so I took another step. The carpet under my feet was wildly patterned, threadbare.
I could see through to the living room, the television—a huge one, no wonder it was so loud. But it was turned off, just a big expanse of dark gray.
I was level with the bedroom door now. I looked to my right—I could see into the bedroom, lights on, but it was empty. I looked behind me to the open door, the staircase leading up to my flat and Stuart’s flat beyond it.
“Mrs. Mackenzie?” My voice sounded odd to me, off-key. I wanted to hear it for reassurance but the quaver in it made me even more afraid.
I took another step inside. The room opened up here, the windows to the front to my left, the curtains drawn. Ahead of me, to the right, the kitchen area. Next to me on the right, a small dining table, a neat white lace tablecloth, an African violet in a pot in the center of it. The curtains to the back open, just blackness beyond.
She was in the kitchen. All I could see was a slippered foot.
I ran to her. “Mrs. Mackenzie! Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
She was on her side, blood on the side of her face, but she was breathing, barely; I fumbled in my pocket for my phone, dialed 999.
“
Emergency, which service do you require?
”
“Ambulance,” I said.
I told them where to come, I told them that Mrs. Mackenzie was unconscious, hardly breathing, blood on her head.
I held her hand. “It’s okay, Mrs. Mackenzie. The ambulance is coming, they’ll be here soon. Can you hear me? It’s all right now, you’re going to be all right.”
She made a sound. The skin around her mouth was crusty. I found a tea towel on the counter, ran it under the tap, squeezed it so it was damp, dabbed it around her mouth.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” I said softly. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”
“Cath . . .”
“Yes, it’s me. Don’t worry, the ambulance is coming.”
“Oh . . .” She had tears in her eyes. “My—head . . .”
“You must have had a fall,” I said. “Try to stay still, they’ll be here in a minute.”
Her hand was cold. I went into her bedroom, looking for something warm. On the bed, a crocheted bedspread, hand-made by the look of it—I pulled it clear of the bed and took it back to the figure lying on the kitchen floor, laid it over her.
Outside I could hear a siren, a long way away, getting closer. I would need to go and get the door open but for the moment I couldn’t move.
“The door . . .” she said. Her voice was faint.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Mackenzie. I’ll let them in. Don’t worry.”
“The door—it was . . . it was . . . I saw . . . outside—”
The siren stopped, right outside.
“I’ll be back in a moment, Mrs. Mackenzie . . .” I ran for the front door, my hands shaking.
Green uniforms. A tall man and a short woman.
“It’s this way. She’s on the floor.”
I stood back and let them do what they needed to do.
“Do you know what happened?” She looked young, the paramedic, smaller than me, dark hair cut short.
“No, I found her like this. She must have had a fall or something. I live in the flat upstairs. She normally comes out to say hello, I can hear her TV on. I thought it was odd when she didn’t come out, so I knocked on the door . . .”
I was aware that I was babbling like a mad person.
“All right, try to take it easy,” she said. “She’ll be fine, we’ll look after her. You’re shaking. Are you feeling faint or anything?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Just—be careful with her, won’t you?”
By the time they got her out to the ambulance I’d started to calm down a little. I stood in the doorway watching them putting the trolley, stretcher, whatever they called it, into the back of the ambulance.
I heard the sound of someone running along the sidewalk and looked across to see Stuart pounding up the street toward the house. “Cathy—oh, God, I thought—” He was out of breath, put his hands on his knees. “I saw the ambulance, I thought . . .”
“It’s Mrs. Mackenzie. When I came in I suddenly realized I couldn’t hear her television. Her door was unlocked, I went in and there she was, on the kitchen floor.”
“Is she in a bad way?”
They were shutting the back doors of the ambulance. “She had blood on her head. She must have hit it on something.”
Finally, the ambulance drove away up Talbot Street.
“Come on,” Stuart said. “Let’s go inside.”
He let me check the door while he went into Mrs. Mackenzie’s flat to turn off the lights. When I’d finished I stood in the doorway waiting for him.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for a key. Don’t worry, I’ve found it.”
He turned off the last remaining lights in the flat and joined me at the door. He locked it behind us, putting the key in his pocket.
“Has she got any family? Friends?”
“Not that I’ve ever seen.”
On the first-floor landing we both paused. “Come up for a drink?” he said.
“All right.”
I made the tea in Stuart’s kitchen while he went to have a shower.
I felt unsettled, sitting at his kitchen table cradling my mug. I thought of Mrs. Mackenzie on the floor, trying to speak, trying to tell me something. The door . . . Something about the door.
She’d seen something outside.
I wondered if it was the same thing I’d seen: the shape, the dark figure of a man. I remembered the figure I’d seen walking away, the figure who looked like Lee. Had he called at the flat? Had she seen him at the door, been startled by it?
“Try not to worry,” Stuart said, coming into the kitchen. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. We can go and visit her tomorrow, if you like.”
He was warm and smelled of shower gel, dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The sight of him made all thoughts of evil shapes and shadowy figures evaporate from my mind. Every time I’d imagined seeing Lee these past few weeks, it had turned out to be my imagination. Why should it be him this time?
I handed him his mug of tea. It was getting cold already. I wouldn’t have been able to drink it like that.
“Thanks.” He sat down opposite me and before I had time to look away he’d caught me in those eyes.
“I’m going to Aberdeen on Thursday,” he said at last.
“To see your folks?”
Stuart nodded. “Dad’s birthday. I usually go up there this time of year.” He put his mug down carefully on the table. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me.”
I felt hot all of a sudden.
“But I guess it’s too short notice.”
“Yes, I think it is.” As well as being completely out of the fucking blue, I thought. Why ask me when it’s too late for me to do anything about it? Assuming I had wanted to go with him, even. “Besides, my first appointment’s on Friday.”
“Oh—of course it is. I forgot.”
You didn’t forget, I thought, because I didn’t actually tell you. And I somehow doubt that Alistair told you when it was—why would he? It was pointless second-guessing him. I was pissed off again, for no good reason.
“I wanted you to know that I’ve been thinking about what you told me.”
I didn’t answer, draining my mug of tea to hide my discomfort. I felt tense and itchy, like a sweater that was two sizes too small.
“I think we should take it slowly,” he said. “I want to make sure you get better first.”
“Oh, that’s very good of you,” I snapped.
“Cathy—”
“How about we take it slowly like we’re doing now?” I said, standing up so quickly that the chair rocked on the tiled floor. “Or how about we take it even slower than that, and give up on it completely?”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Good for you. What about what I want?”
“What
do
you want?”
“I want . . . I just want to feel
normal
. Just for a fucking change. I want to feel like a normal person again.”
I couldn’t stand to look at him anymore, sitting there all relaxed and sure of himself, so I turned and made for the door.
“Cathy, wait. Please.”
I turned to face him. “I don’t know how you really feel about anything,” I said.
“When I think you’re in the right frame of mind to listen, I’ll tell you what I feel.”
“You can be really fucking patronizing sometimes, Stuart.”
“All right,” he said, taking a step toward me, and then another. “You want to know how I feel.”
I nodded, stood my ground, chin up, angry enough to take it, whatever ammunition he had left, whatever he had for me, verbal or physical.
“Are you listening?”
I nodded. “Go for it.”
And then he kissed me.
It took me completely by surprise. He kissed me, leaning me back against the wall in his drafty hallway, his hand cupping my cheek. Every time I thought it was over he came back for more. His body was warm and solid against me, the pressure of him holding me there against the wall. He was so much taller than me, taller than Lee had been, his physique more athletic. I should have been terrified. I should have reacted the same way as I had when Robin had done more or less the same thing, out on High Street, two months ago. But instead I felt myself unfurling, stretching out, tensed limbs relaxing and chilled fingers warming up.
After several long moments Stuart took an abrupt step back and regarded me with one raised eyebrow, challenging.
“Oh,” I said.
He took another step back, toward the kitchen, giving me space.
“That’s how I feel,” he said.
“Right.”
He smiled then, a broad, happy smile.
I cleared my throat. “Well, I think we’d better talk about this some more—another time, maybe.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Maybe when you get back from your trip to Scotland.”
“Fine by me.”
“I’m going home now.”
“Okay. I’ll see you next week.”
Today would have been my mother’s sixty-fifth birthday. I often wondered what she would have been like if she’d lived—whether we’d be going out for a meal, or whether I’d treat her to a pampering session. Or maybe a weekend away somewhere. I wondered if we’d be good friends, whether I could call her up on a whim, wanting a chat, wanting comfort, wanting to hear a friendly voice.
I missed her.
If she’d lived, my life might have been different altogether. If they hadn’t both died in my final year of university, I might not have behaved the way I did. I might not have gotten drunk every night, slept around, done drugs, woken up in strange houses wondering where I was and what I’d done the night before. I might have gotten a better degree; I might be some CEO now, running a global organization, instead of running a personnel office in a plastics manufacturing plant.
I might not have been going to the River that first night, Halloween, wearing a red satin dress, with my heart wide open and ready to be broken. I might not have worn that jacket, with the receipt for the last time I’d bought a tea in the gym’s café, in the pocket. I might not have left the receipt in the pocket, where he could have searched and found it, and discovered a way of finding me again. I might have gotten away without ever seeing him again.
I might have escaped.
And even now, maybe if my mum and dad were still alive, maybe they would have been able to counsel me away from him. They would have recognized him as dangerous. Would I have listened? Maybe not.
If Mum had lived, maybe I would have married someone by now, someone kind, stable, honest; maybe I’d have a child, maybe two, maybe three.
No point in thinking about what might have been.
Today is going to be the start of my fight back
, I decided—the way I decided every day, until he turned up at my house, let himself in, and turned it back around until it was nicely under his control.
Today was different, though.
I had an e-mail from Jonathan Baldwin. I remembered him, although not immediately. We were on a monthlong training course together, four years ago, in Manchester. He appeared outgoing, enthusiastic, we had a laugh together and I seemed to remember promising to keep in touch, although we never had. He e-mailed me at work out of the blue, to see how I was doing. He said he was setting up a branch of his management consultancy business in New York and asked if I’d worked with anyone I could recommend. I e-mailed back and said I would give it some thought and let him know. It felt a bit like a sign, for me. I wondered if New York could be the answer.
Lee was waiting for me when I got home from work.
Not on the doorstep, as he used to once upon a time—no, inside, in the kitchen, busy making us some dinner. He used to do that, before, and I would be pleased. Today, when I opened the door and smelled the cooking smells, I just wanted to run. But running didn’t get me anywhere.
He would let himself in whenever he felt like it, come and go as he pleased. I remembered when this was such a big deal for me, not so long ago. I’d wanted my own space, my front door that I could lock behind me and know for sure that nobody was going to be inside there without me. I remembered telling him that I wanted that space back. I remembered asking him for the key, and him walking away from me. I remembered him simply walking away and leaving, without so much as an argument.
When I thought back to that time, I couldn’t believe that he’d let me go so easily, and that I was such a fool, such a stupid fool, as to go looking for him. I could have gotten away. If I’d left him alone, avoided him completely, started going out with my friends again, I could have been free.
But I didn’t.