Keep her quiet, p.16
Keep Her Quiet, page 16
‘That’s all very well.’
‘Leo. Listen to me, will you? Sometimes I think Sophie’s absence is going to swallow me whole. Did you know that?’ He opens his mouth to answer, but I rush on. ‘But I’m still here and we’re still together. Other couples in our situation might well have been driven apart by the strain. That’s proof I’m capable of more, don’t you think?’
I refuse to cry. I set my jaw and watch him. He tips the dregs of his wine into his mouth, then refills his glass and offers me the bottle. I wave it away.
‘I didn’t mean to imply you’re weak,’ he says. ‘I happen to think we’re getting along OK. We’re comfortable. We have our pain but we both deal with it in our own way, we give each other strength. Why rock the boat?’
‘I have no intention of rocking the boat. I just want to do something different. Something that helps people.’
He sighs. ‘We’re going round in circles. You help people through Open Arms.’
‘Yes, and that’s why I want to do this. I need to earn a living, but I want to do it in a way that I can square with my conscience. I’m just not that interested in numbers any more, I’m interested in people.’
He slumps back in his chair. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If you’re worried about the money, don’t be. The redundancy package is generous, so we’ll be cushioned while I build up my client list. And you make money.’
‘We can’t bank on my income, though. You know perfectly well what it’s like – feast or famine. Financial security means I can write without worrying. If we’d had to rely on what I make over the years, we’d be in a pretty sorry place.’
‘That’s irrelevant. It’s not as if I won’t have an income. Just not as much. We live a simple life – we don’t go on exotic holidays or spend money on expensive luxuries. I have savings. If I do this, we’ll be able to spend more time together. I might even be able to come down to Sparrow Cottage from time to time.’
Leo places his knife and fork on his plate, slides them together and picks up his glass again. He eyes me with hostility.
‘No.’
He doesn’t say it loudly, or sharply, he says it so coldly I shrink back in my chair. His eyes are like flint.
‘I don’t see why not,’ I protest. ‘That house is mine, after all. I don’t need to come down on your working days. I only meant that instead of you coming back to London, I could join you for the occasional weekend. We could go for walks, do something with the garden. You said it needs a bit of TLC.’
‘A little neglect doesn’t hurt. In fact, it benefits the wildlife. I don’t want manicured lawns or clipped hedges. Don’t you understand, Jenny? The cottage is a scruffy, comfortable old friend. When I’m there I feel embraced. I don’t want it to change. I’ve organized it the way I like it.’
‘I would occasionally like to get out of London when I’m not working,’ I say stiffly.
‘Then we can do something else. We can hop on a train and go to Paris. We could go to Edinburgh. I promise I’ll make more of an effort. Let’s go somewhere next weekend. I’ll book a hotel. What about the Cotswolds?’
I grow hot as tears pool in my eyes, and I drop my head so that he won’t see. But Leo isn’t blind or stupid. He jumps up and hunkers down beside me. He takes my hands and strokes them with his thumbs.
‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ve been an idiot. I’ve neglected you when you’ve been nothing but generous, kind and forgiving. I’ll be a better husband, I promise.’
He kisses me and I wind my arms around his neck. He stands, drawing me up with him and we press the length of our bodies together. When I break the kiss, my tears are smudged on his cheeks.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ he says, kissing me again.
As if all this can be sorted out with sex, I think, as I allow him to lead me upstairs. He unbuttons my shirt, flings off the eiderdown and we collapse on top of the snowy-white duvet. The sex feels different. Whereas before we flowed automatically into our groove, practised and familiar, this time I detect a sense of urgency in Leo; a quiet but powerful desperation that hasn’t been there for a very long time, if ever. At one point I open my eyes and the expression of fierce concentration – of fury – on his face alarms me. It’s as though I’m some other person, someone he hates and fears.
Afterwards, he lies beside me for an acceptable length of time, about one minute, stroking my hair and asking if I’m all right, then he gets up and disappears into the bathroom. I pretend to fall asleep. When he opens the door I sense the light through my eyelids. The light goes out. I wait for him to get into bed, but the bedroom door closes and he goes downstairs. I feel a mixture of relief and pique.
I won’t let him down. We make mistakes, we do things we’re not proud of. We make ourselves promises in order to salve our conscience. I allowed Leo to think he’d lost his own child, even though his pain would have been so much less if he knew the truth. There will always be enough money for Leo. Nothing has changed.
33
Zoe
I HAVE WATER AND A SMALL AMOUNT OF FOOD. THIS morning I ate the last of the digestives. What’s left of the bread has gone mouldy, and I finished the fruit yesterday. Since he left, I’ve probably slept 70 per cent of the time. I’m getting used to the pungent smell down here, but I don’t think it’ll ever leave me. It’s in my mouth, my nostrils and it’s permeated my skin.
I’ve shouted and shouted until I’ve grown hoarse and my throat is sore, but no one has come, and I’ve stopped for now because it feels futile as well as painful. I was petrified when he first left. I banged on the door and screamed, then I was angry, but when nothing happens hour after hour, day after day, it’s hard to keep it up. Maybe he knows and he’s staying away on purpose to break me.
I don’t think I’m in London. I remember now seeing a light on in the basement when I walked up to his front door, and he went down to the kitchen to make my hot chocolate. This is somewhere else. Somewhere his wife won’t hear me shouting.
If he was going to kill me, I think he would have done so on the first evening, when I was drugged. He could have tipped me into a river or something. He could have made it look like suicide. He didn’t. He’s got me here because I surprised him, turning up like that. He didn’t have time to think and now he’s scared. If I can stop him being scared and make him trust me, maybe he’ll let me go. I try to feel what he’s feeling but that just makes it worse, because I wouldn’t let me go if I were him.
I do another inspection of the room, but it’s half-hearted because I’ve already searched thoroughly and nothing’s changed. There are no weapons or tools. I slump on to the armchair and pick at the escaping fluff. What’s Mum doing? What’s he doing? Trying to come up with a plan? I imagine screwing up my own life that much and almost laugh.
Something occurs to me. I push myself up and open the cupboard on the wall. A mug. I take it and feel its weight. It’s one of those thin porcelain ones; pretty and old-fashioned, with garden birds and sprigs of wild flowers on it. I like it, and feel a moment’s regret as I slam it on to the floor. It shatters into three big pieces and lots of smaller ones, tiny shards and white dust. I hide the two larger sections between the wall and the mattress of the top bunk, and keep hold of the third piece. It’s shaped like a curved triangle and fits snugly in my back pocket. I carefully scoop up the rest and drop it behind the toilet. The dust I blow away.
Hours go by. When I move again, my limbs feel stiff. If that’s happened in the space of a few days, what am I going to be like in a week? A month? I’m not particularly keen on exercise. I’m useless at netball, and I hate going to the gym because people are always watching you as they wait for their turn on the equipment. I should do something, though. It’s better than counting the marks on the wall.
I start by pacing the room. It takes eleven of my steps, so I do fifty lengths. Then I do stretches and star jumps, but they make me feel clumsy and self-conscious, even though no one’s here to witness me making a prat of myself. I run on the spot until I’m out of breath, which doesn’t take long; it’s much harder work than cycling. I have a break on the bunk, then start again. I went to yoga club after school for a term last year, so I do some of that. I attempt the warrior pose, but my legs ache and tremble. I stick at it because if I have to run, I’ll need strong thighs. I count to twenty, then collapse on to the floor.
There’s a sound, a scraping. I count the number of times his shoes tap the stairs. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Details are important.
‘Zoe.’
I don’t answer because fear seems to have taken my voice away.
‘Zoe,’ he says, louder this time. ‘OK. Suit yourself.’
The moment I hear his footsteps on the stairs again, I fling myself against the door, pounding it, my voice coming back. I scream his name.
‘Move away from the door and I’ll open it.’
I back up against the bunk bed. He comes in.
‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back.’
I do as I’m told, but before I turn I take the piece of porcelain out of my pocket and conceal it in my palm, the sharp edge poking between my fingers. As soon as Leo touches me I spin on my heel. I go for his face, knocking his glasses askew.
He catches my wrist, holding it so tightly I cry out. He bangs it back against the metal edge of the upper bunk and my hand opens, the pain sending a hot arrow through my entire body. My improvised weapon falls to the floor at his feet and he kicks it far under the bed. He flings me down, kneeling on my back while I kick and scream.
Once my wrists are bound Leo rolls me over, wraps his hands around my neck and squeezes. His glasses have slipped down his nose, his eyes bulge, his mouth widens into a maniacal grimace. Through my blurred vision he looks like a mad professor. Tears pour down my cheeks, wetting my ears. He squeezes harder and I begin to go slack. My hands press into the small of my back. My feet thud against the floor. I’m going to die.
I fix my eyes to his. At first, he seems to have gone somewhere else in his mind, somewhere disconnected from me, but then something odd happens. It’s as though he suddenly realizes what he’s doing. He rises without warning and rushes into the toilet to throw up. I lie flat on my back, my chest heaving, my choking sobs almost as noisy as his retching.
Leo blunders out of the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. I hear him stumble and swear on his way up the steps. I roll from one side to the other until I’ve worked up enough momentum to flip on to my stomach, then I drag my knees under me and start the difficult job of standing up. When I’m there I go to the door and check it’s locked. It is. I sit down on the chair, stunned. Leo just tried to kill me, but he couldn’t do it.
So what now?
He’s gone a long time. Two hours, maybe three. I can’t see my watch. I get into bed because I might not be able to get up quickly enough when he comes back, so I remain seated, waiting. My head droops between my shoulders, but each time I fall asleep I dream I’m tumbling, and jerk awake.
Leo stands framed in the doorway, a carrier bag in each hand. He looks sorry. I expect I have bright-red marks around my neck. My throat hurts more than ever and my head aches.
He locks the door behind him and starts emptying the bags. He’s bought more biscuits, cereal, packets of dried French toast, three apples, three bananas and a bag of tangerines. A bag of carrots too. There’s nothing I can’t eat without a knife. From the other bag he pulls three ready-made sandwiches from Marks & Spencer. There’s a choice of chocolate too – three bars – and a box of Easter-themed mini cupcakes.
‘I didn’t know what you’d like,’ he says. ‘You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’
I shake my head. He tears the wrapper off a pack of loo rolls, pulls off a strip of tissue and uses it to wipe my face.
‘That’s better,’ he says.
He gets down on his hands and knees, and reaches all the way under the bunk bed to retrieve the broken shard of mug.
‘Where’s the rest of it?’ he asks, holding out his hand.
When I don’t reply, he pulls my blanket and pillow off the bed, then the mattress, and does the same on the top bunk until he finds what he’s looking for. He rattles the pieces in his hand, then puts them in his pocket.
I sit stiffly, watching him, saying nothing.
‘I’m not angry with you, Zoe,’ he says. ‘You only did what anyone would do in the circumstances.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’
It hurts to speak.
Leo rakes his fingers through his hair, then drops his hand as if he’s embarrassed to be caught using such clear body language. He’s wearing a loose, rather scruffy jacket, frayed at the collar. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a penknife, which he opens. He grasps my shoulder and pulls me towards him roughly. I scream, but he doesn’t slice it through my neck; instead, he eases it between my wrists and cuts the cable tie binding my hands. I rub at the red marks left on my skin, then take the sandwich he proffers and rip open the packet.
Leo’s voice becomes business-like. ‘I’m here every week from Tuesday morning until Thursday afternoon. Friday through to Monday I’m in London with my wife. While I’m here, I write every day from six until three, then I either go for a walk or do some maintenance on the property. I’ll bring you food three times a day while I’m here and leave you with enough provisions to last when I’m not. Is there anything else you need?’
He hasn’t answered my original question. I reach for the bottle of water and take a long swig, swallowing painfully.
‘Books.’ I sound like I did when I had tonsillitis last year.
‘Good idea, I’ll bring a selection. Do you prefer the classics, or something contemporary?’
It’s as if he’s an English Literature teacher doing me a special favour. He tried to kill me and now that he’s not going to, he’s being nice, like this is reasonable, like he’s not telling a sixteen-year-old girl she’s not going to get out of here. Ever. Does he think I should be happy and grateful if he shows a bit of thoughtfulness?
‘Some classics, but I like horror and science fiction too.’ I put my hand to my throat and swallow. ‘What if I need … something else?’
‘Like what?’
I just look at him. Then I say, ‘I’m sixteen.’
I can’t bring myself to spell it out. I’m not used to talking about things like that.
‘Oh,’ he says, the penny dropping. ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do. Right,’ he adds, as if he’s dismissing a class. ‘I need to get back to work.’ He takes a pencil and a folded sheet of typing paper out of his pocket and hands them to me. ‘If there’s anything else you need, write it down on this. Within reason, of course. I want you to be comfortable, Zoe. It might be hard to believe, but I’m not a monster.’
‘Can you bring me a book now?’ The thought of the hours stretching ahead, with nothing to do, scares me more than the future does.
Ten minutes later, he’s back with a selection: well-thumbed copies of Charles Dickens’s Little Dorrit, Thackeray’s Vanity Fair and Wilkie Collins’s The Woman in White.
‘These should keep you going. I don’t have anything lighter, I’m afraid, but I’ll get you something next time I’m in town.’
‘I’ve read them already.’ I see the look on his face and add hurriedly, ‘But I can read them again. Please don’t take them away.’
When he leaves I sit for a long time, staring at the door. Then I unwrap a Mars bar and eat it. I wonder what Mum’s doing. She’ll be desperately worried. She must have gone to the police by now. She’ll tell them what’s happened. I imagine them treating her with disbelief, sneering maybe, making jokes behind her back, then she’ll hand them some kind of proof, something with my DNA on it. They’ll swing into action.
Will I hear the sirens from down here? I hope so. Scotland Yard will probably be involved. They’ll break the door down and find me cowering on the bed, dirty and bedraggled, quivering with fear. One of them will put their arm around me and tell me, with a catch in their throat, that I’m safe now.
Jessie and Becca will be doing their homework when their parents call out, ‘Hey, isn’t that the girl who’s missing?’ They’ll rush to the TV and watch open-mouthed as I’m hurried through a barrage of press, lights flashing like a strobe as they try to get a picture. ‘Zoe!’ the journalists will shout. ‘How did it feel being held prisoner?’
The image disappears abruptly from my mind. My stomach begins to feel tight. She can’t go to the police, can she? She stole me. The moment she involves them, they’ll figure it out. A light will flash up on a central database somewhere, and the connection will be made. She won’t be able to bear the shame.
And if it’s true she replaced her dead baby, then what would she do for her pretend daughter? Would she sacrifice herself to save me? She must. She will. She loves me. Maybe a jury would be sympathetic towards her. She can say she wasn’t of sound mind. How long does it take to get the results of a DNA test? I have no idea whether it’s two days, two weeks or two months. But what if she’s too frightened to come forward? Where does that leave me?
34
Leo
LEO LEANED OVER THE BUTLER SINK, HIS HANDS ON the counter, staring out of the window into the sinister gloom of the garden. He blinked away the image of Zoe’s distorted face. He had been overcome by rage and the sheer stress of his situation; anyone would have reacted the same way. He was proud of himself for pulling back from the brink – not many men would have been capable of that. It had been Zoe’s eyes that had knocked some sense back into him, locking with his, causing a physical reaction in him. They were Jenny’s eyes. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or to despair.
He felt alive, that was the extraordinary thing. His brain was literally buzzing, his pulse jumping. He was so full of adrenalin he felt he would burst if he didn’t find an outlet.
He took his mug of black coffee into the study, put on Tchaikovsky’s ‘Violin Concerto in D Major’, then sat down at his desk and pressed ‘enter’ on his keyboard. The screen lit up, he opened the latest draft of Still Lives, spread his fingers over the keys and focused his thoughts.
