Underground Rivers (5 page)

“Charlie!”

“Don't you ‘Charlie' me. Slag. You women are all the same. Only interested in one thing. Doesn't matter who gives it to you. One's too many and a hundred's not enough. Well, cunt, I'm going to give it to you right now.”

He grabs my wrist and yanks me to my feet. Somehow I'm on the floor. One hand's round my throat, pinning me down. The other's at his belt. Again. He's biting my arms. My neck. My shoulders. Tearing my clothes. I can't scream. I can't even breathe.

This time he doesn't pass out.

I open my eyes. I'm on the floor. The room's moonlight-dark. There's a smell straight from the pit of hell. But it's not this cold there. I hurt. I can't remember why. There's a figure on the edge of the sofa, casting a grotesque shadow. Hunched. Prayerful. That's not right. Brooding's better. The hands hanging between the knees. Something dangles from one of them. I can't make it out. Then a passing headlight catches Granny's kitchen knife. Cuts bone like butter. That's it. He's going to finish me. Right here. Right now. In my own living room. On the new carpet. Pink swirls. Marbled cream. Fitted just a week before I met him. It took me a year to save up for it. I feel. How do I feel? Calm. I think. Numb. Shadowy. Like moonlight. He's been drinking. I could lie here until he passes out. Then get up and run. Like hell.

Charlie looks at me. He throws the knife aside. He's on his knees before I can move. Gathering me in his arms. Rocking. Crying. He loves me. He thought I was dead. Why was I on the laptop? It's been such a bad day. Truly it has. Something terrible happened. Truly. It wasn't his fault. Truly it wasn't. If only I truly understood him. That's a lot of truly for someone who doesn't know the meaning of the word. My hair's sticky. Charlie's shivering. Sobbing. And somehow it's my fault. I'm comforting him. I can't work out why. My arms are round him. Rocking. Stroking his hair. Telling him it's all right. I love him so much. We help each other up from the floor and stagger to the kitchen. Clinging to one another like the dazed survivors of an earthquake.

The tea hurts my throat. Charlie clutches his and hovers like a wasp at a picnic. I think he's frightened. I don't know why. Shouldn't it be me who's scared? He's twice my size and he's just raped me. Or I think he has. Maybe he thinks I'll call the police. But what could they do?

I think my husband raped me.

You mean you don't know?

Well, I can't remember exactly ...

It's not going to work, is it? I mean, they can't even take DNA samples, can they?

The sky's pink by the time Charlie suggests going to bed. He's been talking for hours. Crazy stuff. Even in my addled state I know the half of it can't be true. There's a bottle of gin on the table. God knows where that came from. He's drunk most of it. How I'm awake, heaven only knows. The marks on the sitting room carpet are shapeless in the half light. We step over the mangled torso of the laptop on the way to bed. It's then I remember. Anna Denning. The conversation on Facebook. I should have no trouble staying awake for the rest of the night now.

We're getting into bed when I notice Charlie's arm. Raw. Blistered. The hair charred and frizzled. So that was the smell. I catch hold of his hand but he pulls it away and turns his back. I cuddle in close and kiss him between the shoulder blades. His skin's sticky. Salty. Oozing stale alcohol. He shudders and huddles to the wall. After a moment or two he eases back against me. His physical presence is all I've got now. Familiar. Scarily reassuring. Everything else is a lie. But he loves me. He does. He wouldn't have punished himself if he didn't. So he must've had a reason to hurt me. Maybe it is all my fault.

I open my eyes. The sun's streaming through the unclosed curtains. I can't believe it's possible to hurt in so many different ways. My head's falling in half. My neck's stiff. My shoulders are bruised. My ribs hurt and my left knee's throbbing for no reason I can fathom. The insides of my thighs feel like they did after my first riding lesson. No. That's a good memory. I don't want it mixed up in this shit. There's a deep, cramping ache in my belly and the butterflies in my stomach have mutated into crocodiles. On top of all that, the sheets are stuck to me. Every time I move, the bedclothes come with me. Charlie's sleeping like a baby. Still face to the wall. I try to calculate how long the gin will keep him asleep. What time is it anyway? Why do I want to know? I haven't had any idea of the time since I arrived at the church. That was a lifetime ago.

After a few minutes, or a couple of hours, my head starts to clear. Charlie's deep, even breathing is comforting. Part of me wants to burrow into him and go back to sleep. The more rational part hopes I can get out of bed without waking him. There's a tussle. The rational bit wins. I peel the bedclothes off my body. It's an hour, or five minutes, before I'm free. I roll over and slide out from between the sheets. Charlie sleeps on.

That's not me. It can't be. I avoided the bedroom mirror. It's full-length and I couldn't cope with the impact. But I can't help glancing in the one over the sink. The face that looks back is out of a horror film. Sheet-white. Black-eyed. Smeared with dried blood. The hair lifeless around it. Dreaded with nameless fluids long dry. The floor ebbs under me. I catch hold of the sink and regurgitate yellow strings that slither into the plughole and disappear. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. My body's soiled. Inside and out. I can do something about the outside. I wish the floor would keep still. I grab for the towel rail. My feet won't go with me. I drag them. One ... Two ... One ... Two ... Will the shower door hold me? I calculate it will. Just long enough. I rest my full weight on it and flip the tap.

The floor in the shower's no better than the rest of the room. The water's warm. Comforting. Cleansing. It flows off me in pink swirls, marbling the creamy foam. I scrub myself raw. There's not enough soap in the world to deal with the filth. I've washed my hair three times. I'm about to go for the fourth when my legs give way. I lean back against the unforgiving tiles and slide down the wall.

It's raining. Warm and safe. But raining. My hair's soaked. For once in my life, that really doesn't matter. At least I'm safe. And the rain's washing it all away. Whatever it was. I've no idea where I am. How did I get here? And why am I sitting in the rain? What day is it?

A shadow falls over me. The rain stops abruptly. I try to look up. My eyes won't open. I shiver.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

It's not a nice voice. Something touches my shoulder.

“Wake up, little brown eyes.”

There's a note of panic. Something must be wrong. I shudder. Pull myself back from the edge. Open my eyes. Everything's white. Apart from the dark shape looming over me. I try to speak, but my tongue's stuck to the roof of my mouth and all the words are trapped behind it. Charlie breathes a long breath out.

“Wait there.”

He disappears. I couldn't move if I wanted to. My body's convulsed with shivering and my legs are made of jelly. They're melting. Seeping down the plughole. I can see the red streaks running across the floor of the shower.

Charlie reappears with my favourite towel. Fluffy. Warm. Deep red. I don't want it near me. He's holding it out. It's contaminated anyway. I submit. He puts his arm round my shoulders and lifts me to my feet. He guides me out of the shower. Strong and gentle. Is this the same man? He wraps me in the towel and dries me with such tenderness that I think I've woken up from the nightmare at last. Then he touches one of the bruises.

Streaks of red keep running down the insides of my legs. Charlie wipes them away, but it's no good. He tries to hide his disgust. He rummages in the cupboard and produces a pack of tampons. No way. He sees the look on my face. He pulls out some pads instead and busies himself sticking one into a clean pair of knickers. I'm like a rag doll. Charlie pulls my knickers up and reaches for the bathrobe. I want to scream. Leave it alone. Bastard. I love that bathrobe. I'll never be able to wear it again. He puts it on me and starts drying my hair. The towel falls to the floor when he's done. It'll have to go in the bin later.

He won't let me in the bedroom. Instead he manoeuvres me down the stairs and lifts me onto the sofa. My beautiful white rug has been moved to cover the scene of the crime. That'll have to go too. My head spins. So many things to do. Charlie makes tea in my favourite mug. Another casualty. He sits beside me and draws me to him. I'm exhausted. Lost. I rest my head on his shoulder. Drift in and out of sleep. I've forgotten to water the wedding flowers on the mantelpiece. They're almost dead. Charlie kisses the top of my head and whispers:

“I love you, little brown eyes.”

As if he really means it.

The excruciating silence is shattered by someone pounding on the front door. Charlie leans forward so abruptly I almost fall down behind him. There's a short silence while I pull myself upright. The hammering starts again. I make to stand up, but Charlie pushes me back.

“Shh!”

“What's the matter?”

They're my first words.

“Shh!”

He flaps his hand so hard he catches my cheekbone with his nail. He doesn't notice. I curl into the corner of the sofa and hope I'll wake up soon. The letterbox rattles.

“Police! Open the door.”

Now I know it's a bad dream. Charlie's like a rabbit in headlights.

“Mr Denning!”

It hurts to hear them say it. Even though I know the truth now.

“Mr Denning. We know you're in there. Open the door. Please.”

As if saying please is going to make any difference.

Silence again. Maybe they've gone. Charlie risks a breath and looks at me. I pretend I'm asleep. There's a scrabble and a thud.

“Shit,” says Charlie.

Another thud. No use pretending now. They're breaking my door down.

“Stay there,” says Charlie. “I'll get rid of them.”

He walks out into the hallway. Alone.

I've been huddled on the sofa for hours. Or minutes. I've mentally binned the wedding flowers a hundred times and I'm starting to realign the books on the corner shelf. They took Charlie away. I couldn't hear what they said. But I did hear words. Assault. False name. Bigamy. I heard him tell them his wife wasn't here. Which was perfectly true in the circumstances. The sun's starting to go down. Deeply red over the darkening rooftops. What was that about shepherds? Red sky at night. Tomorrow's going to be a good day. Can't be much worse than today. My legs have been hunched under me for so long I can't feel them. At least they don't hurt. I fish down the back of the sofa. I've learned to keep the phone on silent when Charlie's around. But he's not here now. I extract it from its hiding place. Eight missed calls. A couple of texts from Emily. I don't want to look at them. She'll be really pissed off with me by now. The one I do want is here though. I open it and reply.

I'm trying to work out whether a cup of tea will be worth the effort when she knocks. Getting off the sofa's even harder than I expected. I can't control my legs. Then my feet come back to life with a vengeance. The carpet turns into a bed of nails. I just hope she won't give up and go away before I get there. She's not a quitter though. It's like looking in a mirror when I open the door. We could be twins. The shock registers on her face before either of us has a chance to speak.

“My God,” says Anna. Anna Denning. Mrs Charlie Denning. “What the hell has he done to you?”

Anna and I are drinking tea. We've stripped the bed. We've thrown the bloodied sheets in the wheelie bin. We've got rid of the towel. And those bloody flowers. We've salvaged the mug by dunking it in boiling water, although I'm still hankering after bleach. Anna's persuaded me not to shave off my hair and we've brushed the knots out of it. She says I'll feel better one day. I don't believe her. She's told me her story. I've told her mine. There wasn't much to choose. Except that hers went on for four years. How she's still alive God alone knows. We're contemplating the bloodstains on the carpet when Charlie's key sounds in the lock. I sling the rug down and Anna disappears into the kitchen.

“You look better,” he says.

It's not a compliment. Charlie reeks of booze. He struts round the room like a drill sergeant. He knows something's wrong.

“Boyfriend been here? I bet it was him who helped you set me up, wasn't it?”

“Set you up?”

“All that crap with the police. You know, Hannah, if you wanted to get rid of me, you only had to say. There are plenty of other fish in the sea.”

Last week, the remark would have destroyed me. He knows it. Now I want to laugh. He sees my face contort and interprets it as fear.

He homes in. I step back. I mustn't look at the kitchen door.

“Guilty conscience, huh? If you haven't done anything wrong there's no need to be scared, little brown eyes.”

He moves in again. I hold my ground. He hesitates. I side step. It's a complicated dance and neither of us knows the moves.

“But we both know you have done something wrong, don't we, little brown eyes?”

And we both know how this is going to end. Or we think we do. Charlie grabs my arm. His thumb snags a bruise and I wince. His eyes narrow. He pulls me closer. Cups my chin in his hand and tries to force me to look at him. I can't. He clenches his teeth. Grinds them. His face is inches from mine now. His breath stinks.

“Don't fight me, Hannah. You know you want it.”

His hand's at my throat. Pushing me down. Choking me. I scrabble at his wrist. Wish my nails were longer. His grip tightens.

“Relax, little brown eyes. You'll enjoy it. Just like all the other slags.”

The walls are wobbling. I've been here before. The floor comes up to meet me and Charlie drops to his knees. One hand pressing me into the rug. The other fumbling with his belt. Deja vu. Where the hell is Anna?