One Way Or Another You Will Pay (5 page)

“Okay,
okay, okay!” he mouths and gestures for me to sit down.

After
glaring at him, I slowly lower myself into the hard prison chair and pick up the phone once again.

“I’m
dying, okay? That’s all I have. Me and my memories. Give me a break here. It’s the closest I can come to phone sex.” He guffaws at his own joke.

“You’re
not dying. You don’t look or sound like someone dying.”

“I
am
dying,” he says in a serious voice. “Today is just a good day. I have energy. A few days ago, I was unable to lift my head off my pillow. Spent thirty-six hours just sleeping. I will not joke about a terrible thing like cancer. It’s just wrong to do that, Arena.” His smile is back. “Back to our phone sex. I have fantasies about you.”

“Listen,
Tom,” I say, fighting to keep my voice casual, “I’m married to a wonderful guy, who I’m very much in love with, okay? I’ve moved on, so please don’t try to rope me in with your childishness because I find it …” I look at the ceiling as I seek out the most appropriate word, “a tad pathetic.”

His
smile does a David Copperfield on me and his eyes turn the colour of granite.

“The
one who helped you fuck me over?” he spits, his face turning puce. “That cunt? You talking about him? That spiv?”

To
my knowledge, all calls between inmates and visitors are monitored and even recorded.

“My
answer is as follows: yes, yes, yes, and …what the hell is a spiv?”

He
gnashes his teeth as he glares at me. I hate to think what would happen to me if there was no partition between us. Probably would need green concealer again.

“You
need to calm down or you’re going into solitary,” I warn with a laugh.

“No,
I won’t!” Smug smile again.

“Has
your mother been to see you?” I say, changing the subject.

“No.
That bitch is not interested in me. I don’t want her to see me here anyway. She’s poison.” His face contorts as he talks about her.

I
don’t know Tom’s family very well. He cut off contact with them and discouraged me from having anything to do with them. Of course, I was uncomfortable with that, considering how close I was with my family. When I questioned him about it, he gave me instructions, which I followed. I shut my trap and minded my own business.

“I
want you to come and visit me. Often. Regularly.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m lonely and I’m dying.”

“That’s
not possible. But I have some photos of Warren, if you’d like to look at them.”

After
a slight nod, he sits back.

I
lift up the photos prison authorities allowed me to take in.

His
expression is inscrutable, so I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Why
don’t you love him?” I ask, after the fourth photo.

“I
don’t know,” he mutters after a slight hesitation.

“He’s
just a little boy, Tom.”

“He
took you away from me, Arena. You loved me, then he came into the scene and poof! you stopped loving me. No one loved me anymore.”

“That’s
not true, I loved you both. Just differently.”

No
answer.

“Sasha
didn’t do anything to hurt you. She was a defenseless baby, Tom.”

He
hesitates before he answers. “It is all your fault,” he suddenly snarls, waving a finger at me. “Every bit of it is your fault. Yours. You had it coming. You got what you deserved and you will pay for the rest of your life because of your dumb, stupid ways! You will
live
with that guilt!” He slams back into his chair and glares at me, his nostrils huge, his lips twitching with more unspoken insults.

“You’re
evil,” I say. “You haven’t changed one bit. You deserve to die in this sewer.”

“Yeah,
maybe, but guess what, I took something of yours.” Double dose of smug.

Something
…

“Some
body
, you bastard! Not some
thing
!”

He
shrugs. “You say potato, I say some
thing
.”

If
I were a cartoon character, smoke would be shooting out of my ears and nose, and I would probably explode with rage just about now.

Apparently,
Tom achieved what he wanted to because he gloats at my visible fury.

“Aw,
poor Arena. All angry and flustered now.”

From
where, I have no idea, but I manage to summon a smile.

“Well,
you know what? Therapy has helped me put things in perspective. True, I am partly responsible for the tragedy. I accept my error of judgment. I’m human, after all. Therapy has also helped me move on. That’s why I am so happy these days. But you, dear Tom, you are here for the best part of your life, when you should be wheeling and dealing and charming and impressing…”

He
laughs, so I plow ahead, my fury threatening to choke me.

“…the
women of the world and …you’re going to die here because of your cancer…”

He
continues laughing so I explode.

“…and
you’re looking flabby and your hair is halfway up your head. You’re in need of one of those comb-overs, you FUCKING DOG!”

His
smile disappears. As he glares at me, his free hand shoots up to touch his hair.

“And
my husband,” I hold up the last photo I brought (for moral support, I think), a photo of Bear and I holding each other, “he’s a hunk and the sex is out of this world. We regularly have date nights in a hotel so we can fuck each other’s brains out like crazy. And, Tom, you’re never gonna believe this but when I fuck Bear, I sweat. We’re so hot and sweaty that after sex we both have to shower together.” I grin. “Then it’s round two. For Valentine’s day, I bought him a copy of the Kama Sutra and we have so much fun
failing
with the positions.” I laugh at the memory. “I suggested we both take up yoga so we can …”

He
slams the phone down so hard, my ears hurt.

With
a snarl, he jerks to his feet and flings me a murderous look. If there wasn’t a glass partition between us, I am sure he would have bashed my head against a wall.

“What?”
I mouth. “You wanted phone sex, here it is.” My turn to laugh.

“You’re
going to regret this!” he mouths before he turns and storms off. “Say your prayers, Arena. Practice them!”

There
he goes, threatening me again!

“Fuck
you!” I mouth to his back.

As
I flounce out of Remington, hair flying around my face, my breathing labored, my nostrils flaring, I curse myself for making the mistake of seeing the arsehole.

Never
again will I see him. He can die for all I care, cancer or no cancer.

Bastard!

It’s
2 AM and my sleep is disturbed when I hear Bear in the shower. He’s just returned from fishing and I’m certain he caught no fish. He’s a lousy fisherman but he enjoys it.

I
weave in and out of sleep until he gets into bed. He slips his hand between my thighs.

“Bear,
stop!” I mutter in a sleepy voice.

Reluctantly,
he removes his hand and hugs me tight, my back to his chest.

“Catch
anything?”

“Yes,
I caught a sand shark,” he intones. Emphasis on shark.

“Mm.”

“A good fuck will ease the disappointment,” he says, cupping my breast.

“Noooo,
Bear!” I elbow him lightly.

He
stops and hugs me tighter, then kisses my hair. “Love you.”

“Loveyatoo.”

Within seconds, Bear is snoring.

Yeah,
right, wake me up then fall fast asleep.

It
takes a while before I go back to sleep.

It’s
3:24 AM and something awakens me.
Something
, not a sound as such but more a
feeling
.

I
open my eyes, lift my head, and listen.

Nothing.
In the silence, all I hear is Bear’s soft snoring. Yet …

Damn
Tom, ever since I visited him three days ago, I’ve become antsy and anxious.

He’s
in prison, he can’t possible hurt me, I keep reminding myself, as I burrow into Bear.

Some
women don’t like their man snoring, but I like Bear’s snoring. It’s comforting and reassuring to me. Like soft rain on my roof.

Still
asleep, Bear’s hand, out of habit, draws me in tighter.

For
a few moments, I lie with my cheek on his chest, my thigh over his hip.

But
the uneasy feeling that something is not right nags like a dripping faucet.

Warren.

With a sigh, I slip out of bed, ignore my silk robe on the back of the bedroom door, and tiptoe into Warren’s room.

Asleep.

He’s so lovely, yet his father never loved him. How sad is that? I lean in and kiss my darling son’s cheek.

“Don’t,
Mum!” he mutters.

I
smile. He’s used to me kissing him while he’s asleep.

I
peak in into Amy’s room. She’s fast asleep in pink, flannel pyjamas covered in shiny hearts, looking like a little blonde fairy with curls framing her sweet face.

She’s
just a lovely child with Bear’s personality; how could I not love her as my own?

Stifling
a yawn, I make my way into Savannah’s room. She’s a light sleeper so I don’t want to wake her up. Not at this time of the night.

Her
cot is empty!

I
blink rapidly, then stare at my baby’s cot. Empty.

I
back up to the light switch on the wall and slap at it. Light floods her room.

She’s
not in her room.

Tom!

With my heart pounding, I scurry around her room, looking for her.

“BEAR!”
I scream in a voice strangulated with terror. I run into the bathroom and turn on the light. She’s not there.

“BEAR!
WARREN!” I manage to scream as I run from room-to-room, looking for Savannah.

“SAVANNAH!”
I cry. “SAVANNAAAAAAH!”

A
shirtless and sleepy Bear appears in front of me. He doesn’t have to ask me what’s wrong.

“Call
the cops!” he shouts, as he takes the stairs two at a time. “Checking downstairs!”

A
frightened Warren appears behind me. “Mum?!”

“The
garage, Warren! Check the garage for Savannah!” I say, as I dial the police with shaking hands.

Tom!

“Amy! AMY, check the balcony!” I shout, as I run back to my bedroom and scan the place.

“Emergency,
police, ambulance, or fire brigade?” a sleepy voice asks.

“My
baby…eh, little girl…Savannah…she’s sixteen-months-old…”

As
I speak, I stick my head under beds, behind drapes, inside cupboards.

Outside,
I hear Bear. “SAVANNAAAAH!”

Amy
joins me and yanks open linen cupboards, checks behind TVs, and even inside the fridge; anywhere Savannah could be hiding.

Within
minutes, three cop cars are outside my house, lights flashing.

“No
forced entry,” a cop shouts.

No
forced entry? How is that possible? I look at Bear. He shrugs.

Six
cops join us in the search with flashlights, while other cop cars drive up and down the street, checking out drains, behind shrubs, and other places she could be.

Around
us, houses light up and the street comes alive.

Concerned
neighbours in dressing gowns join in the search for Savannah.

No
forced entry…

Our
house is declared a crime scene, cordoned off with yellow tape, and we are not allowed inside.

Holding
onto Warren and Amy, I run across the street to Meredith and Burt Simon, our elderly neighbours and good friends. We take refuge on their patio, where we can see our house and even
inside
it.