The Bed I Made (43 page)

‘Shall we have a glass of wine?’ he said. ‘Like old times?’

I stared at him. What could I do? I didn’t dare make a run for it now. Both the doors were locked: there was no way I could get enough of a head start. He would be on me within seconds.

‘You sit at the table where I can see you.’ Without turning his back, he picked up one of the bottles Pete had brought to dinner. I’d been saving it, something of his when I thought it was all I would have. Perhaps it would be now. ‘This is decent stuff for a change, sweetheart,’ he said, holding it up to the light. ‘Have you come into money I don’t know about?’ He pulled open the cutlery drawer and got out the corkscrew, then took glasses from the top cupboard.

‘You know where everything’s kept.’

He inclined his head gently to one side. ‘Your windows are less secure than your doors. Anyway, let’s go through. I don’t like this poky little kitchen.’

He steered me into the sitting room and on to the sofa. I willed him to take the armchair but he sat down next to me as comfortably as if we were a couple having a night in. He arranged himself sideways, his arm extending along the back of the sofa towards me, and I shrank away.

‘Old friends,’ he said, leaning across and chiming his glass against mine.

‘How long have you known I was here?’

‘Long enough.’

‘How? Helen said she didn’t tell you.’

‘Oh, you don’t doubt her now, do you? Why would you do that?’ He smiled. ‘No, she didn’t tell me – don’t worry. But she works so hard, doesn’t she? Always on that laptop when I went round and very trusting about leaving it open.’ He took a sip of wine.

I looked away. The blanket I’d arranged for Victor was still folded into the seat of the armchair. In the window opposite, I could see our reflections. I’d forgotten how powerful he was. He wasn’t as tall as Pete or as broad but the gym work kept him bulky and strong. His image almost filled the glass, leaving little room for mine.

The window.

I made myself look back at him, praying he wouldn’t see in my face the idea that had come to me, the sudden flare of hope. Both the doors were locked and the key to the one at the front was in his pocket. I wouldn’t be able to break through either: the glass panel in the kitchen was too small and the sliding doors were reinforced glass. I wouldn’t have time to undo the catch on the window, push up the sash, but if I broke the pane, the hole would be large enough.

‘Why did you do it, then?’ I said, playing for time, trying to think. ‘Pretending you didn’t know, sending me all those emails.’

‘Why?’ he said, and the anger came back into his voice. ‘Did you think it was nasty of me?’ His voice was rich with sarcasm. ‘After what you did? You cut me off – didn’t even have the courtesy to answer my phone calls. You changed your fucking number. I won’t be treated like that.’

‘You tried to rape me.’

‘Rape you? Sweetheart, I don’t think there’s a jury on earth who would buy that story. How many times had you done it willingly? You can’t pretend to me you don’t like it rough. Let’s have a little honesty, shall we?’

His hand moved over the gun, feeling its shape through the material of his shirt. My stomach turned over.

‘I think you’ve forgotten that I rescued you,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Remember how lonely you were? All you ever did was work. Admit it – I was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to you.’ He laughed.

‘I’m never coming back to you.’

His fingers moved under the fabric now and I heard a nail scratch over the handle. ‘Do you think that’s what this is about? Me wanting you back?’

A flare of terror went through me. I had to move now. He looked at me, his expression a mask of amused contempt, and I threw my wine glass in his face.

I heard a shout but I was moving before I could see his reaction. I flung myself across the room and on to the armchair and I picked up the vase from the side table and hurled it through the window.

I heard the sound of breaking glass, the brittle music of the shards falling on to the concrete outside, and then there was a thump, something hitting the back of my head, a flash of light.

The pain was the first thing. All sensation had centred in my head and agonising waves were radiating from the back of my skull through the tissue of my brain. I stayed still and tried to shut it out, focus. Everything in front of my eyes was red, a red so dark it was almost black. I was on my back and my body was stiff, as if I hadn’t moved for some time. I listened, and close by there was breathing, just audible. A current of cold air flowed over my face.

It was some seconds before I even remembered. Richard was here. He had a gun. I’d tried to make a break for it. I pressed my fingertips down, felt carpet under them. I was still in the sitting room. I hadn’t got anywhere.

‘Open your eyes. I know you’re awake.’ The voice was very close.

I kept them closed, not wanting to obey his orders, afraid of the pain that would come with the light.

‘Open your eyes.’

Until I did, I was powerless anyway. Gradually, I forced them open. I was looking at the ceiling. At the edge of my vision on the right there was the fringe around the bottom of the sofa and when I turned my head fractionally to the left, triggering another wave of pain, I saw the terracotta base of one of the table lamps lying next to me, missing its shade. The weight of the thump on the back of my head – it was what he had used to stop me, the first thing that came to hand. The room was darker, the remaining lamp on the table next to the sofa providing the only light. The cold air was coming through the broken window.

I lifted my head a little and saw him. My legs had been pushed apart and he was kneeling between them, his hands on either side of my body supporting him as he leaned over me. I gave a cry and he laughed. I wasn’t aware of my body, I realised; I couldn’t even tell whether or not I was wearing any clothes. I moved my left hand to my waist. My jeans were still there, still done up.

‘What, you think I’d touch you now? You don’t understand me at all, do you?’ he said, bringing his face closer. He’d been smoking while I’d been unconscious. How long had it been? ‘Everything would have been fine. I would have forgiven you – yes, even after all the shit you’ve pulled on me – but not now. You’ve made it impossible. You’re worth nothing to me – you’re just a whore. A whore like your mother.’

‘Fuck you,’ I said.

He moved his right hand and picked up a knife that had been lying on the carpet. It was the carving knife. The incredible became real: he really was going to kill me.

I brought my hand up and jabbed him in the eyes. He was almost quick enough but not quite. I missed his left eye but, as he turned his head, my other finger caught his right eye, not the straight stab I’d wanted but enough to cause him to shout out in pain. In the second or two in which he clutched at his face, I rolled back, trying to free my legs from either side of his body. I turned on to my front, tried to scramble away, but he was on me. He caught the neck of my jumper and pulled me up by it. The wool became a line across my throat, constricting my breathing.

He’d dropped the knife in his surprise but now he snatched it up again. I couldn’t see behind me but I swung my elbow back as hard as I could and I felt it connect with his ribcage. He grunted and tightened his grip round my throat. My vision was chequering and I felt as though I was rocking back and forth. The carpet seemed to be rising to meet me. I leant back slightly, desperate to take a breath.

He pulled tighter still on the jumper and I gagged. He put his face forward, letting his cheek touch mine. ‘You won’t win, however much you struggle. Nobody beats me.’

I pulled my head forward the few inches that I could and then I smashed it back, catching him in the face. But the contact came at the point on my head where he’d hit me with the lamp. The pain was disabling. All I could see was colour bursting in front of my eyes, a kaleidoscope of agony.

Behind us, in the kitchen, there was a crash, the sound of the door being kicked in. I couldn’t see anything but the pressure went from around my neck as Richard let go of my jumper. I fell forward, my hands meeting the cold tiles in front of the fireplace. He was scrambling to his feet and I put my leg back, knocked one of his out from under him. He grabbed a handful of my hair, pulled the back of my head against his chest again. The knife was in his hand but he hesitated.

It was just a moment but the hesitation cost him because, in that second, Pete seized the poker from the stand by the fireplace and knocked him sideways. He fell, hitting his head on the edge of the tiles. Somehow I got up, scrabbled out of range of the hand that grabbed at me. Pete pulled me across the room but Richard was up on his knees, the light of victory still in his streaming eyes. In his hand was the gun.

‘Here’s the cuckold,’ he said, putting his free hand on the arm of the sofa and pulling himself to his feet. ‘Second-hand goods must really be your thing. I’ve had her seven ways since Sunday, I hope she’s told you?’

Pete watched the gun, the poker in his hand useless. ‘She’s with me now.’

‘I wouldn’t touch her now. But you have to know something: I was the most important thing in her life – I was, I am and I will be.’ He turned the gun towards me. The barrel became a perfect circle. ‘Remember our connection?’ he asked. ‘Two points on the earth’s surface.’ He stroked his finger against the trigger. ‘We’ll always be connected, you and me.’

‘Richard, please –’ I begged.

Pete’s voice – not words, just a shout. He lunged, pushing me sideways, and then another noise filled my ears, seeming to push back the walls with its force. A rush of sensation, not pain, not anything but a rush, but pain then, extreme pain, beyond anything I’d thought the body could endure – like fear but tearing, screaming.

I was on the ground again and there was blood – a lot of blood. I’d been shot. He’d shot me. The pain overwhelmed me and it was a moment before I could focus again. I put my hand up towards the source of it and then thought better. Looking down, I saw that the left shoulder of my jumper was a ragged, bloody mess.

‘Kate.’ Pete’s voice, disembodied.

‘I’m all right – I’m OK.’ The chequering at the edges of my vision again.

‘Can you move? Not your arm – can you get up?’

It took an age but I did it. When I opened my eyes again after another spasm of pain I saw them. Pete had Richard on the floor and was holding him there with a knee pressed between his shoulder blades, his hands on Richard’s forearms. Richard’s face was sideways, crushed into the carpet. He was grunting, ineffectually pushing from his knees to force Pete off him, but Pete was too heavy; he was pinned. The gun was on the carpet six feet away, kicked or thrown out of reach.

‘Kate – can you hear me? I need you to call the police. My phone’s here – in my pocket.’

Beneath him Richard snorted. ‘Why don’t you just finish the job?’ His voice was muffled by the carpet. ‘You’ve got me where you want me, haven’t you?’

‘And give you the satisfaction of knowing I was going to prison?’ Pete brought his knee down harder.

I found the phone in his pocket but I had to put it down again to dial; my left hand was useless. Blood had darkened my entire sleeve now; it was red to the cuff. I suddenly felt afraid – not of Richard, not now, but of dying, losing everything just when I’d been given so much.

‘Sit down,’ said Pete, seeing me sway. I took a step away and fell back on to the sofa just in time. And then the answering voice of emergency services.

Epilogue

The scar on my shoulder looked like a second navel, I thought again as I looked at it in the mirror; the unsightly result of an umbilical cord tied up too quickly by a junior midwife at the end of a long shift. Even with the angry redness gone, it was ugly, the stretched and shiny skin with the twist in its middle a permanent reminder. I’d got into the habit, when I was on my own, of letting my fingers slip under the collar of my jumper to touch it and though I was familiar with it now, months later, it still sometimes surprised me, indelibly written on my body.

Over the summer I had worn cotton shirts and T-shirts with sleeves rather than vest tops, wanting to hide it, but Pete had made a point of not ignoring it, of touching it and talking about it, helping me to think of it as just another part of myself. Now it was winter and so there was no question of it being on display anyway: only he saw it, when we were dressing in the morning or when I burrowed up against him in bed at night.

Richard was tried for attempted murder but in the end was found guilty of causing grievous bodily harm. His sentence was the maximum five years, though he wouldn’t serve all of it. I’d expected it to be hard to face him in court, to feel his eyes move over me in that amused, assessing manner, and it was. He looked ridiculous in the dock in his tailored suit, like an actor playing the part of someone falsely accused, but the façade dropped for an instant when he heard the verdict and the jury saw for themselves one of the sudden switches I’d described to them in my testimony, the flick-knife speed with which the charming veneer could disappear. He couldn’t see all of the public gallery from his position in the courtroom so he hadn’t been aware a minute or so later of Sarah standing up from her seat at the back and slipping silently away or of the look she’d given me just before she did, a look that told me that she could relax now, at least for a while.