Fifty Days of Sin (24 page)

“Oh.” The words stick in my
throat but I know I have to force them out. Thanking him for what
he’s just done? I could do it when we were playing, but this was
for real. But then I don’t have any choice except to do as he tells
me, so I make myself say the words. “Thank you. Sir.”

“You can call me ‘Master’,” he
suggests.

“Thank you, Master,” I manage
through gritted teeth.

“Now, you’re going to suck me,”
he tells me. I feel disbelief and bile rises to my throat. I don’t
know if I can do this. “I want you to do it nicely, like a good
girl. Because if you don’t I’m going to hurt you even worse than
before.”

“Yes, sir. Master,” I hurriedly
correct myself, still eyeing the knife.

“And I want you to swallow it
all,” he commands.

“Yes, Master,” I agree with a
heavy heart, ready to subject myself to his will. Then he puts down
the knife and puts his hands on my breasts. My heart leaps; he’s
unarmed, and although my hands are tied, my legs are free. I could
run. Immediately I form a plan. I’m going to have to bite him. He
wants me to suck him – and I’ll do as he says to start with. I’ll
take him to the edge of climax, and he’ll be so turned on that
he’ll start to lose his senses. And then I’ll bite as hard as I can
and make a run for it. I don’t have any choice.

“You’re so beautiful, Justine,”
he says as I suppress a shiver of revulsion. “It’s such a shame I
have to kill you.”

And in that moment I abort my
hastily-formed plan and in a movement that’s pure reflex, I bring
my knee up into his groin as hard as I can. His express statement
of his intention to kill me makes me react instinctively and I use
all the strength that terror has given to me to hurt him as much as
possible. Michael roars with agony and rage and doubles over in
pain.

I only have a split second. I
grab the handle of the door with my tied hands, and I’m straight
out and bounding down the stairs. I can hear him behind me and I
scream shrilly, but I daren’t turn to look, focussing only on
getting out of the house. I know I can’t unlock the door in time
but I can try the living room window.

There’s a pounding noise at the
front door. “Justine!” I hear a voice outside, then crashing again
and again as something slams into the door. Has someone called the
police?

I’m three steps away from the
bottom of the stairs when I feel his hand grabbing my shoulder.
“No!” he shouts, and again I cry out in terror as I stumble,
leaping the last of the steps to reach the foot of the stairs, and
I hear an almighty crash. Turning, I see Michael, holding the knife
tight in his grip ready to stab, stumble and fall down the steps,
letting out an unearthly roar of rage as he tries to reach for
me.

It’s like slow motion as I watch
the full length of his body crash face first down on the floor, the
hand gripping the knife hitting the ground and plunging into his
belly. “Justine!” comes the voice from outside the door and I
realise it’s Adam. He’s pounding against the door like a battering
ram.

But all I can do is stare,
frozen to the spot with horror, as the blood spreads across the
floor and Michael moans in pain, his fingers reaching out as if
trying to grasp something. I watch as his eyelids twitch and then
close, and he’s still.

Finally the door bursts open and
Adam runs into the house. And as he envelops my shaking body in his
arms my eyes are still wide with terror.

Friday, 22 June

“THANK YOU,” I HEAR ADAM SAY,
and then he closes the front door. He comes back into the room and
sits down next to me on the sofa.

I haven’t stayed in my house
again since the day of Michael’s attack. I seem to be permanently
installed at Adam’s now, and it’s exactly what I need.

It’s a drizzly but warm June
day, but despite the mildness of the weather I’m wrapped in a thick
jumper. Adam puts his arms around me and pulls me close.

“It’s over, baby,” he tells me
softly. “He can’t hurt you now.”

I turn my face to his chest and
the tears start to well in my eyes. The police officer has just
left. He came over to bring the news that Michael has died of his
injuries. My emotions are a turbulent mixture. Overwhelmed by
relief and a sudden sense of freedom – yes, Adam’s right, he can’t
hurt me now; if he’d lived, even if he’d been imprisoned I would
have been living in fear of his eventual release – I’m also
stricken with guilt. Was it my fault, was I partly responsible for
driving him to his extreme actions?

“Oh, Adam,” I sob. “I don’t know
what I’d do without you.” All I want is to be comforted by his
strong arms, held tenderly and warmly in his embrace until all the
trauma and pain are finally wiped away by time.

“I’ll always be here for you,
Justine,” he promises.

As he holds me and I let the
tears flow, I remember how he held me like this as Michael lay
bleeding on the floor of my house. He ran upstairs to fetch the
duvet, gently arranging it over me, and he cradled me as I trembled
on the sofa. I couldn’t sit – Michael had hurt me too much with the
force of his blows. I’d had to lie down until the police and
ambulance arrived. They took both Michael and I back to the
Radcliffe hospital and this time, they only needed to keep me in
overnight. Despite the pain I’d suffered, both through the beating
and the blow to my head, there was no lasting damage; although the
bruises were livid and purple and they’re still healing now.

Michael never left the
hospital.

“I just feel like I drove him to
it,” I whisper into Adam’s chest. “I didn’t give him any warning
that I was going to end it with him. And then I ignored him when he
got in touch.”

Adam pulls away so he can look
deep into my eyes. “I won’t listen to you talk like that,” he says,
a deadly serious look on his face. “People finish relationships all
the time, Justine. It doesn’t give anyone the right to kidnap and
torture people and threaten to kill them. He was a complete lunatic
and you have nothing to reproach yourself for.”

I nod weakly.

“Understand?” he demands.

“Yes, I understand,” I agree,
giving him a wan smile.

He hugs me again and I sink
gratefully into his embrace.

Thank God for Matt, I think as I
relax into Adam’s arms. I had no idea that when Kathy was with me,
persuading me to eat some lunch and make myself look presentable,
Adam was with her younger brother. I’d thought that there was no
way Adam would see my Facebook post. But Matt is one of my Facebook
friends so he saw what I’d written, and told Adam about my post
telling Kathy that I’d definitely keep my date, to talk things over
after that awful night with Natasha.

Adam told me how he realised
something must have happened to me when I didn’t show up. And
Michael had been giving him the creeps for a while. Somehow, he
said, he just knew that my ex had gone a step further and I still
remember the haunted look in his eyes as he told me how he feared
for me. He knew that Michael lived in Jericho and frantically
searched the area, looking for his dark green VW Golf, until he
suddenly considered the possibility that he might have broken into
my house. When he raced to my place and saw the car outside, he
knew Michael was in there with me and then he heard the screaming
through the open window.

I shudder at the memory and push
it away.

And more than anything, thank
God that Michael tripped on the stairs, plunging the knife into his
own body. My mother always told me that if I was walking around
carrying a knife or scissors I had to point the blade into the palm
of my hand – now I know how right she was.

I know that Adam was had nearly
broken into the house as I tried to escape, but if Michael had not
been bleeding on the floor when he broke in I truly believe Adam
would have killed him with his own hands – or done his best to.

Whether I would have still been
alive at that point is something I try not to think about.

Natasha is history now, and as
upset and humiliated as I was that night that she saw me on Adam’s
bed, it all seems very unimportant after what’s happened. I’m
already putting it out of my mind, and there’s no way I’m going to
let it get in the way of my relationship with Adam.

He’s stroking my hair, and he
gently wipes away my tears with his thumb. “Don’t cry any more,
Justine,” he tells me softly. “I love you so much. It’s over now.
Don’t cry.”

“I’m so glad I’ve got you,
Adam,” I tell him. “I love you too.” And I mean it from the bottom
of my heart.

Four years later

“KIVE!” SHOUTS JAMIE, WAVING HIS
CHUBBY little hand as Adam’s brother crunches down the gravel of
the drive and gets into his car.

“Yes, Clive,” says Adam, picking
him up to give him a better look. “Bye-bye, Uncle Clive.”

“Uggle Kive,” he repeats, then
squirms in his father’s arms and reaches out for me. “Mummy!”

“Come on then, little fidget,” I
smile at him and take him in my arms as Adam passes him over.

“Daddy not good enough for you?”
he grins at Jamie.

“He might have to get used to
Daddy a bit more soon,” I reply pointedly.

“I wonder what he’ll make of a
new arrival,” conjectures Adam wryly.

“Touch wood,” I say
superstitiously, putting my hand on the door frame. “We’ve only
just agreed to try again, remember; we don’t even know if it’ll
happen yet.”

“I forgot you were so
superstitious. Does the doorframe count as wood if it’s covered in
paint?” he teases.

“Okay, clever clogs,” I reply
and walk a couple of paces to our silver birch tree. “There,” I
tell him, touching the bark.

“That should do it,” agrees
Adam.

“
Look,” I tell
Jamie, pointing, “Uncle Clive’s going now. Bye-bye!”

“Bye-bye!” choruses Jamie and
waves until Clive’s car has turned the corner and is out of sight.
We go back into the house and I put Jamie down. He runs off on his
little legs, in search of his favourite floppy toy dog.

“Well, that was better than some
of his past visits,” I comment to Adam as he shuts the front door.
“Clive seems a lot easier to be around these days.”

“I think he finds you less
threatening now,” he agrees with a wry smile. “He can cope better
with women when he sees them in traditional female roles. You’re a
mum now, and you don’t even work at the university any more. So
he’s more comfortable with you now.”

I laugh. “Has he forgotten I’m a
bestselling novelist too?”

“I think he conveniently puts
that out of his mind,” grins Adam.

“When is he going to get himself
a steady girlfriend?” I wonder aloud.

“Probably never,” shrugs Adam.
“Three weeks of marriage and that’s it for Clive. That was enough
commitment for a lifetime, for him.”

Life since our marriage has been
all change. After being signed off from work for so long having
counselling following Michael’s attack, I realised that I didn’t
miss it as much as I expected. Adam and I had long talks about what
I should do, and it was him who gave me the encouragement to follow
my dream of trying to break into writing novels. I still remember
telling Adam how much I would like to write fiction, that first
time he took me out for dinner, and he remembered.

I put in just over a year’s
solid work researching and drafting my first historical novel and I
was overjoyed when my publishers accepted it. It was glorious
writing the story of Isabella of Angouleme, the wife of the
ill-fated King John, and I was so proud of the finished
product.

It was a long time before my
book hit the shelves, but I still remember the pride I felt when I
saw it on a “new releases” display taking pride of place at the
front of a bookshop. It was even weirder when I saw it for sale in
the local supermarket with the titles by Alison Wier and Philippa
Gregory. Yes, I’d had books published before, but this was the
first one with popular appeal. And it felt great.

As predicted by Matt, Adam made
partner at Grantham and James shortly before we married. The
financial package that came with his promotion made the decision to
give up my steady income as a lecturer much easier. Since then,
he’s quickly progressed onto a seven figure package. Combined with
my royalties, our earnings eclipse my wildest dreams; but in
reality, the financial side of things is not all that important. My
love for Adam and our little family – Jamie, the image of his
father, beautiful, wilful and incredibly sweet; Adam, my one and
only, my true love: these are what matters.

I’m working on my second novel
now, the story of Edward III’s wife, Philippa of Hainault.
Sometimes I wonder if I should give up writing altogether. During
the week, we have a nanny for Jamie, and he knows that when Mummy’s
in the study I’m not to be disturbed. But when I emerge from
working and they tell me all about what they’ve been doing
together, sometimes I feel jealous or guilty. Of course, writing is
the ultimate flexible job and if I want to do something special
with Jamie the work can wait. But if I do that too much, my working
routine is upset and it’s difficult to progress my novel.

Adam has told me over and over
again that I should only work if I want to – God knows we don’t
need the money - but in my heart I believe it’s good for me. I need
to use my brain and I enjoy the recognition and self respect that
comes with having my own career and my own earnings.

“Time for your bath,” I hear
Adam say to Jamie. “Come on, little man, we’re going up the
stairs.”

I watch them, Jamie running up
the steps pursued by his Dad who’s pretending to try and catch him.
A shiver runs through me but I push the thought of Michael to the
side. It’s a long time since I allowed the memories of the attack
to creep in. Initially, I was on heavy medication to help me
through the trauma, but I impressed my doctors with my progress and
I was drug-free by the day of our wedding.