Thirty-seven

I hadn’t protested when he took my foil card and popped the small yellow pills, one by one, down the lavatory. If anyone had told me, six months ago, that I would be allowing my lover – my husband – to flush away my contraceptives without my consent, I would have laughed in their face. He had shaken out the last pill and then taken me by the hand and led me, without a word, to the bedroom and made love to me very gently, making me look into his eyes. And I hadn’t protested. But all the time my mind was making furious calculations. Probably he didn’t know that the effect of the Pill lasts for a bit, and by that time I would be past this month’s window of opportunity. I wouldn’t, I guessed, get pregnant for the next couple of weeks at least. I had time. Yet I felt, nevertheless, as if he were planting a child in me and all I was doing was lying back and receiving it, and not protesting. It made me realize how unimaginative I had always been about battered wives or the partners of alcoholics. Disaster creeps up, a tidal wave on the tourist beach. By the time you can see it, you are powerless or unable to resist it and it rolls you up and away. I suppose I had been unimaginative about a lot of things, though. I had spent most of my life untouched by tragedy, and not properly thinking about the way that other people lived and suffered.
When I looked back over the past few months, I felt freshly ashamed of how very easily I had sloughed off an old and loved life: my family, friends, my interests, my sense of the world. Jake had accused me of burning bridges, which made my behaviour sound reckless and fine. But I had abandoned people as well. Now I needed to get my affairs in order, or at least make a gesture of reconciliation towards those I might have hurt. I wrote a letter to my parents, saying that I knew I hadn’t been in contact much but they should always remember that I loved them very much. I sent a postcard to my brother, whom I had lasted visited a year ago, in which I tried to be jaunty and affectionate. I rang Pauline, and left a message on the answering-machine asking after the pregnancy and saying that I would like to see her very soon and that I had been missing her. I posted a belated birthday card to Clive. And, taking a deep breath, I rang up Mike. He sounded subdued rather than bitter, and not displeased to hear from me. He was going on holiday with his wife and young son the next day, to a house in Brittany, his first holiday in months. I was saying goodbye to everyone, but they wouldn’t know it.
I had wrecked my old world decisively, and now I was trying to figure out a way of bringing my new world crashing down too, so that I could escape from it. There were still times – fewer as each day passed – when it felt impossible to believe that I was actually living this. I was married to a murderer, a beautiful, blue-eyed murderer. If he ever found out that I knew, he would kill me too, I had no doubt about that. If I tried to leave, he would also kill me. He would find me and kill me.
That evening I had arranged to go to a lecture examining new figures on the link between fertility treatments and ovarian cancer, partly because it was distantly connected to my work, partly because it was given by an acquaintance of mine, but mainly because it would be a way of spending time away from Adam. He would be waiting outside for me and, of course, I couldn’t stop him coming with me if he insisted. But we would be together in my world for once, a world of reassuring scientific inquiry, empiricism, and of temporary safety. I wouldn’t have to look at him, or talk to him, or be held down by him, moaning in pretended passion.
Adam wasn’t waiting outside. The relief I felt was so intense it was like exhilaration. I was immediately lighter-footed, clearer-headed. Everything looked different without him standing there, watching for me as I came through the doors, staring at me with that persistent, brooding gaze that I could no longer decipher. Was it hate or love, passion or murderous intent? With Adam the two had always been too closely linked, and again I remembered – with a shudder of pure revulsion now, mixed with a tingling shame – the violence of our honeymoon night in the Lake District. I felt trapped in a long, grey morning-after.
I walked to the lecture hall, which took about a quarter of an hour, and as I rounded the corner towards the building I saw him standing there, holding a bunch of yellow roses. Women looked longingly at him as they passed by, but he seemed not to notice. His eyes were for me only. He was waiting for me, although expecting me to come from another direction. I stopped and backed into the nearest doorway as a wave of nausea came over me. I would never get away from him: he was one step ahead of me, always waiting for me, always touching me and clasping me to him, never letting me go. He was too much for me. I waited until the panic subsided and then, careful not to be seen by him, I turned round and ran back down the road until I was round the corner. Then I hailed a cab.
‘Where to, love?’
Where to? Where could I go to? I couldn’t run away from him because then he would know I knew. I shrugged in dispirited defeat and asked the driver to take me home. Prison. I knew that I couldn’t continue like this. The horror that had swamped me when I had seen Adam had felt utterly physical. How much longer could I pretend to love him, pretend to be in bliss when he stroked me, pretend that I didn’t feel very scared? My body was in revolt. But I didn’t know what else to do.
As I came through the door, the phone was ringing.
‘Hello.’
‘Alice?’ It was Sylvie, and she sounded flustered. ‘I didn’t think you’d be there.’
‘So why ring?’
‘Actually I was wanting to speak to Adam. This is a bit awkward.’
I suddenly felt cold and clammy, as if I were about to throw up. ‘Adam?’ I said. ‘Why were you wanting to speak to Adam, Sylvie?’
There was a silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Sylvie?’
‘Yes. Look, I wasn’t going to tell you, I mean, he was going to speak to you, but since this has happened, well.’ I heard her take a drag on her cigarette. Then she said, ‘The fact is, and I know you’ll think this is a betrayal but one day you’ll realize it was an act of friendship, I looked at the letter. And then I showed it to Adam. I mean, he turned up at my house out of the blue, and I didn’t know what to do, but I showed it to him because I think you’re having a breakdown or something, Alice. What you wrote, it’s crazy, completely crazy, you’re deluded. You must see that, of course you must. So I didn’t know what to do, and I showed it to Adam. Hello, Alice, are you still there?’
‘To Adam.’ I didn’t recognize my own voice, it was so flat and expressionless. I was thinking hard: there was no time left any more. Time had gone.
‘Yes, he was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. He was hurt, of course, God, he was hurt. He was crying when he read the letter and kept saying your name over and over again. But he doesn’t blame you, you must understand that, Alice. And he’s worried you might, you know, do something stupid. That was the last thing he said to me. He said that he was worried that in the state you are you might, you know, harm yourself.’
‘Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?’
‘Now, look, Alice…’
I put the phone down on her pleading voice and stood for a few seconds, paralysed. The room seemed very cold and quiet. I could hear every little sound in it, the creak of a floorboard when I shifted my weight, a murmur in the water pipes, the tiny sigh of wind outside. That was it. When I was found dead, Adam had already expressed the fear that I might harm myself. I raced across to the bedroom and pulled open the drawer where I had hidden Adele’s letter and Adam’s forged note to himself. They were gone. I ran for the front door and then I heard his footsteps, distant still at the bottom of the long flight of stairs.
There was no way out. Our flat was at the top of the stairs. I looked around, knowing there were no other exits, that there was nowhere to hide. I considered ringing the police, but I wouldn’t even have time to dial. I ran to the bathroom and turned the shower full on, so that it was splashing noisily on to the tiled floor. Then, tweaking shut the shower curtains and leaving the bathroom door very slightly open, I raced back into the living room, picked up my keys and ducked into the poky kitchen, where I stood behind its open door, barely out of sight. The copy of Guy magazine was there within reach on the worktop. I picked it up. That was something at least.
He came in, and pulled the flat door shut behind him. My heart pounded in my chest, thundering away so that I couldn’t believe he couldn’t hear it too. I suddenly remembered that he was carrying a bunch of flowers. He would come into the kitchen first to put them in water. Oh, God, please please please. My breath came in raggedy gasps, hurting my chest. I gave a little ratchety sob. I couldn’t stop it.
But then, like a miracle, fear ebbed away and what was left was a kind of curiosity, as if I were a spectator at my own disaster. Drowning people are supposed to see their lives flash past them as they die. Now, in those few seconds as I waited, my mind reeled through the images of my time with Adam; such a brief time, really, although it had obliterated everything else that had gone before. I watched as if I were my own observer: our first glance, across a crowded street; our first sexual encounter, so feverish it seemed almost comic now; our wedding day, when I was so happy I wanted to die. Then I saw Adam with his hand upraised; Adam holding a buckled belt; Adam with his hands around my neck. The images all led to now: this moment ahead, when I would see Adam killing me. But I wasn’t scared any longer. I almost felt peaceful. It had been such a long time since I had felt peaceful.
I heard him walk across the room. Past the kitchen. Towards the bathroom, and the gushing shower. I took the new Chubb lock between my thumb and forefinger, ready for use, and tensed my body to run.
‘Alice,’ he called. ‘Alice.’
Now. I sprinted out of the kitchen, into the hall, and wrenched open the front door.
‘Alice!’
He was there, striding towards me, yellow flowers crushed against his chest. I saw his face, his gorgeous murderer’s face.
I pulled shut the door and thrust the heavy key into the lock and twisted it frantically. Come on, please, come on. It turned in the lock, and I pulled it free and ran blindly towards the stairs. As I did so I heard him hammering on the door. He was strong, oh, God, he was strong enough to break it. He’d done it easily enough before, when he’d broken into our own flat to kill Sherpa.
I kept on running down the stairs, taking them two at a time. At one point, my knees buckled under me and I twisted my ankle. But he wasn’t coming. The hammering grew fainter. The new lock was holding. If I came through this I would gain a bitter kind of satisfaction from the fact that he had trapped himself when he had broken the door to murder our cat.
Now I was on the pavement. I sprinted up the road towards the high street and only when I was at the top did I turn my head quickly to see if I could see him. Was that him, that figure running towards me in the distance? I hurtled across the main road, between cars, dodging a bicycle. I saw the rider’s angry face as he swerved to avoid me. I had a sharp pain in my side but I didn’t slow down. If he caught up with me I would yell and howl, but people would just think I was a madwoman. Nobody ever interferes in domestic quarrels anyway. I thought I heard someone shout my name, but maybe it was just my screaming imagination.
I knew where I was headed. It was near here. Only a few more yards. If I could only make it in time. I saw the blue light, a numbered van parked outside. I summoned up my last energy and sprang in through the doors, coming to an abrupt, undignified stop at the front desk, where a policeman’s bored face was staring up at me.
‘Yes?’ he said, picking up his pen, and I started to laugh.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-29