The Good Samaritan
Page 41
I was now the victim of a crime. And should I ever be linked to what happened in the cottage, I’d have an alibi as to where I was. If that failed, I’d tell them Steven was a caller I’d grown fond of and who’d lured me to his home with desperate threats to kill himself. While it was unprofessional of me, I was concerned for his well-being. Then I’d tell them he attacked me and his death was self-defence. I had all my bases covered.
But the hours spent inside the station also had another purpose, as it brought Tony to me. In the early hours and following a call from the duty officer, my worried husband appeared. The moment his eyes fell upon his injured, vulnerable wife, over a year’s worth of animosity melted away.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, and placed his arm around my shoulders, instinctively kissing my crown. His lips were as soft as raspberries but I recoiled, as any physical contact hurt following my fall down the stairs. ‘What happened?’
I mustered up the right amount of effort to burst into tears again, and placed my nose against his neck, breathing him in deeply. There was a faint scent of the previous day’s aftershave and moisturiser left on his skin. The police officer explained to Tony what had happened to me.
‘Can you take me home, please?’ I begged.
We left with a crime number and orders to see my GP the following day if my injuries worsened. Within a quarter of an hour, Tony’s car was pulling into our drive.
‘Do the girls know what happened?’ I asked.
‘No, I didn’t want to wake them and worry them. I left Effie a note in case she woke up and said I’d explain it to her in the morning. Where’s your car? It’s not on the drive.’
‘I left it at the office,’ I said.
‘Why were you walking home when you’re doing night shifts?’ he asked as if he was frustrated with me, but fell short of telling me off.
‘Are you saying this is my fault?’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. Let’s get you inside.’
Tony helped me from the car and put his arm around my waist, gently assisting me up the driveway until we crossed the threshold. His touch felt magical. Tony’s eyes were diverted to the walls and he stared at each of them before looking at me. I knew what he was thinking.
‘I just want to sleep,’ I said quietly, and turned away.
He helped me upstairs where I changed into my pyjamas and crawled into bed.
‘Will you stay with me tonight?’ I asked.
Tony looked at me awkwardly. ‘Laura . . .’ he began.
‘Just for tonight,’ I said. ‘I’m scared and I need you to make me feel safe.’
He nodded, and I pulled the duvet from his side of the bed to invite him in. He turned on the bedside lamp but sank into an armchair in the corner of the room instead. It was progress; at least we’d be sleeping in the same room. Despite my physical pain, knowing he was in touching distance helped me to drift off into a satisfactory sleep.
By the time I awoke late in the morning, Tony had left me to face the day on my own. He texted to say he’d walked to End of the Line to pick up my car and it was parked on the driveway and that he’d return at teatime. That left me alone for seven hours. Only I wasn’t alone, because Steven was ever-present in my thoughts. Was he still alive and in that cottage, slowly bleeding to death, or had he died moments after I’d plunged my knife into his stomach? I had to know the truth.
I took the car, drove to his village and slowly approached the cottage. Locking the car doors, I tried to steady my shaking hands. There was no police presence or tape sealing off the area. The front door that I’d propped open with a chair had been closed and the light in the front bedroom had been switched off, so something had happened after I’d left. Suddenly the door opened and a man appeared. He was much older than Steven. I watched as he picked up a pair of garden shears and began hacking away at a hedge. If Steven’s body had been in that house, he’d have been discovered by now. There was no doubt in my mind that Steven was still alive.
But that in itself brought more problems. Where was he?
I was constantly on edge in the weeks that followed. Every couple of hours, I’d cautiously peek through the bedroom window blinds, first scanning each parked car, then each bush and neighbour’s window, looking for a person or a shadow. I kept the curtains closed and, every morning and night, I’d check every window lock.
The radio remained unplugged, the slightest creak of a floorboard or the sound of the cat stirring would startle me. When Tony wasn’t with me, sometimes I’d lock myself away from the world, turn on the burglar alarm and hide in the bedroom. I only left the house for doctors’ appointments, and it was Tony who drove me to them.
The mornings melted into afternoons and the days into weeks. All the time, I tortured myself by allowing Steven to dominate everything, waiting for him to make another appearance. He was in the food I ate, the wine I drank to get me to sleep, the face of every stranger who passed the house. That’s what scared me the most: that he knew so much about me, yet all I knew about him was his appearance.
The freedom I took for granted had been taken away from me. My actions had also placed Henry in harm’s way, as Steve knew where he lived. I was scared to visit him again and risk putting him in danger. I called the care home every day, and they’d hold the phone to his ear so he could hear Mummy’s voice, but it wasn’t even close to being the same.
Without my anchor, I was adrift and lacked purpose. One morning as I bathed, I wondered how it might have felt if I – instead of Charlotte – had been with David the day he’d stepped off the cliff. What had it been like for him to drown in the sea?
I held my head under the water and tried to imagine what it must have felt like to have had no control over anything: over the temperature of the water, the current dragging him deeper and further away from shore and the pain his body felt from the impact. I inhaled water through my nose and mouth and it hurt so badly and so quickly that I pulled myself out. But it felt like the only control I’d had over my life since before that night in the cottage. And unless I took charge of myself again, that was how it would remain.
This is not who you are. You’re a survivor. You need to pull yourself together.
I began thinking about all the people who were suffering without me to guide them. I thought about how Tony, the girls and Henry were coping as I hid from the world, and how Steven was winning.
I couldn’t let that happen any longer. I climbed out of the bath, took some deep breaths and felt the warmth of the sun on my face through the window. It was time for Laura’s return.
On the morning of my first day back at End of the Line, I took one last, lingering look at myself in the hallway mirror, adjusting my blouse and tweaking tendrils of hair to ensure they framed my face correctly. I’d chosen my wardrobe carefully: a smart pantsuit that said ‘survivor’ not ‘victim’.
Despite it being only thirty minutes to the office by foot, I took the car, emphasising to everyone – but without saying as such – my lingering fear of walking alone. I gathered myself when I arrived and opened the office door to Janine.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ she began, and offered me a lukewarm handshake.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, as those colleagues not on the phone made their way towards me. As twitchy as each hug and peck on the cheek made me feel, I accepted them. I reassured them I was doing better and better by the day, and handling what had happened as best I could.
But the hours spent inside the station also had another purpose, as it brought Tony to me. In the early hours and following a call from the duty officer, my worried husband appeared. The moment his eyes fell upon his injured, vulnerable wife, over a year’s worth of animosity melted away.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, and placed his arm around my shoulders, instinctively kissing my crown. His lips were as soft as raspberries but I recoiled, as any physical contact hurt following my fall down the stairs. ‘What happened?’
I mustered up the right amount of effort to burst into tears again, and placed my nose against his neck, breathing him in deeply. There was a faint scent of the previous day’s aftershave and moisturiser left on his skin. The police officer explained to Tony what had happened to me.
‘Can you take me home, please?’ I begged.
We left with a crime number and orders to see my GP the following day if my injuries worsened. Within a quarter of an hour, Tony’s car was pulling into our drive.
‘Do the girls know what happened?’ I asked.
‘No, I didn’t want to wake them and worry them. I left Effie a note in case she woke up and said I’d explain it to her in the morning. Where’s your car? It’s not on the drive.’
‘I left it at the office,’ I said.
‘Why were you walking home when you’re doing night shifts?’ he asked as if he was frustrated with me, but fell short of telling me off.
‘Are you saying this is my fault?’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. Let’s get you inside.’
Tony helped me from the car and put his arm around my waist, gently assisting me up the driveway until we crossed the threshold. His touch felt magical. Tony’s eyes were diverted to the walls and he stared at each of them before looking at me. I knew what he was thinking.
‘I just want to sleep,’ I said quietly, and turned away.
He helped me upstairs where I changed into my pyjamas and crawled into bed.
‘Will you stay with me tonight?’ I asked.
Tony looked at me awkwardly. ‘Laura . . .’ he began.
‘Just for tonight,’ I said. ‘I’m scared and I need you to make me feel safe.’
He nodded, and I pulled the duvet from his side of the bed to invite him in. He turned on the bedside lamp but sank into an armchair in the corner of the room instead. It was progress; at least we’d be sleeping in the same room. Despite my physical pain, knowing he was in touching distance helped me to drift off into a satisfactory sleep.
By the time I awoke late in the morning, Tony had left me to face the day on my own. He texted to say he’d walked to End of the Line to pick up my car and it was parked on the driveway and that he’d return at teatime. That left me alone for seven hours. Only I wasn’t alone, because Steven was ever-present in my thoughts. Was he still alive and in that cottage, slowly bleeding to death, or had he died moments after I’d plunged my knife into his stomach? I had to know the truth.
I took the car, drove to his village and slowly approached the cottage. Locking the car doors, I tried to steady my shaking hands. There was no police presence or tape sealing off the area. The front door that I’d propped open with a chair had been closed and the light in the front bedroom had been switched off, so something had happened after I’d left. Suddenly the door opened and a man appeared. He was much older than Steven. I watched as he picked up a pair of garden shears and began hacking away at a hedge. If Steven’s body had been in that house, he’d have been discovered by now. There was no doubt in my mind that Steven was still alive.
But that in itself brought more problems. Where was he?
I was constantly on edge in the weeks that followed. Every couple of hours, I’d cautiously peek through the bedroom window blinds, first scanning each parked car, then each bush and neighbour’s window, looking for a person or a shadow. I kept the curtains closed and, every morning and night, I’d check every window lock.
The radio remained unplugged, the slightest creak of a floorboard or the sound of the cat stirring would startle me. When Tony wasn’t with me, sometimes I’d lock myself away from the world, turn on the burglar alarm and hide in the bedroom. I only left the house for doctors’ appointments, and it was Tony who drove me to them.
The mornings melted into afternoons and the days into weeks. All the time, I tortured myself by allowing Steven to dominate everything, waiting for him to make another appearance. He was in the food I ate, the wine I drank to get me to sleep, the face of every stranger who passed the house. That’s what scared me the most: that he knew so much about me, yet all I knew about him was his appearance.
The freedom I took for granted had been taken away from me. My actions had also placed Henry in harm’s way, as Steve knew where he lived. I was scared to visit him again and risk putting him in danger. I called the care home every day, and they’d hold the phone to his ear so he could hear Mummy’s voice, but it wasn’t even close to being the same.
Without my anchor, I was adrift and lacked purpose. One morning as I bathed, I wondered how it might have felt if I – instead of Charlotte – had been with David the day he’d stepped off the cliff. What had it been like for him to drown in the sea?
I held my head under the water and tried to imagine what it must have felt like to have had no control over anything: over the temperature of the water, the current dragging him deeper and further away from shore and the pain his body felt from the impact. I inhaled water through my nose and mouth and it hurt so badly and so quickly that I pulled myself out. But it felt like the only control I’d had over my life since before that night in the cottage. And unless I took charge of myself again, that was how it would remain.
This is not who you are. You’re a survivor. You need to pull yourself together.
I began thinking about all the people who were suffering without me to guide them. I thought about how Tony, the girls and Henry were coping as I hid from the world, and how Steven was winning.
I couldn’t let that happen any longer. I climbed out of the bath, took some deep breaths and felt the warmth of the sun on my face through the window. It was time for Laura’s return.
On the morning of my first day back at End of the Line, I took one last, lingering look at myself in the hallway mirror, adjusting my blouse and tweaking tendrils of hair to ensure they framed my face correctly. I’d chosen my wardrobe carefully: a smart pantsuit that said ‘survivor’ not ‘victim’.
Despite it being only thirty minutes to the office by foot, I took the car, emphasising to everyone – but without saying as such – my lingering fear of walking alone. I gathered myself when I arrived and opened the office door to Janine.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ she began, and offered me a lukewarm handshake.
‘Thank you,’ I replied, as those colleagues not on the phone made their way towards me. As twitchy as each hug and peck on the cheek made me feel, I accepted them. I reassured them I was doing better and better by the day, and handling what had happened as best I could.
