The Accident (26 page)

I set off, tottering as fast as my heels will carry me along the cobbled street, my eyes fixed on the familiar glow of the tube sign in the distance. I keep to the pavement, staying close to the tall buildings on my right and up my pace. I’m halfway down the alley already and now I’ve left the streetlights and cars of the main road behind. Long shadows and looming shapes appear from nowhere. There are no houses, no flickering televisions and yellow-hued table lamps warming curtained windows. Instead bars, boards and shutters creak and slam as I hurry past. The sound of a can rolling down the street makes me jump and I glance behind me to see where it came from. A man has appeared at the far end of the alley. He’s silhouetted against the blurs of cars on the main road, a black shape with broad shoulders and narrow hips, and he’s moving towards me. This isn’t someone on a late-night stroll through London, this is a man trying to move quickly but without attracting attention. I wait for him to change direction, to cross the road so he’s on the opposite pavement – something most men would do to reassure a lone female at night that they had nothing to fear – instead he quickens his pace. I glance at the tube sign. Two hundred metres to go. Two hundred metres to safety. I quicken my pace and start to run. The sound of my heels on concrete echoes through the alley – clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. Seconds later it’s joined by a new sound – thump-thump-thump – the man has started to run. He’s closed the gap between us. He’s wearing an army jacket, the hood pulled tightly over his lowered face but I can still make out the shape of his jaw. It’s wide, narrowing to a strong chin, clefted in the middle.

I run. The cold night air whips my face and grabs at my dress, pulling me back, slowing me down, as I run as fast as I can, the underground station in my sights. A woman in a baseball cap and denim jacket crosses the road at the end of the alley and I shout, willing her to turn and see me, urging her to help but no words escape from my mouth. The only sound I can hear is the hoarse wheezing of my breathing and thump-thump-thump of my pursuer’s trainers on the pavement. He’s getting closer. I can feel him closing the distance, sense him staring at me, his eyes boring into the back of my head. Not much further, just a hundred metres or so and—

No!

A man in a yellow security jacket pulls the metal grating from one side of the tube entrance to the other.

Stop!

I try to shout, to tell him to wait, to let me in, but he disappears through a side door and slams it behind him. I burst out of the alley and onto the main street. I’m panting, my thighs are burning and cramp is ripping at my side but I continue to run – left, after the woman I saw a few moments ago but now I’m closer I can see she’s got headphones on over her cap. She doesn’t look round. An elderly Asian woman on the other side of the road gives me a curious look then glances away quickly when I catch her eye. I step into the road, to go after her, but a car speeds past and I’m forced to jump back. I’m forced to stop running.

‘Sue,’ a man breathes my name and my body shuts down. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Cars speed past and I wait. ‘Sue.’

Wednesday 12th August 1992

I need to write this quickly because James has popped out to go to the hospital and I’ve got no idea when he’ll be back. It’s become too dangerous to leave the diary hidden in my sewing room so I’ve started keeping it under a loose floorboard in the hallway. That way if anything happens to me and the police search the house, they’ll find it and the truth about James, and what he did to me, will be revealed.

So I’m going to say it as clearly as I can – I think he’s going to kill me.

I don’t know when and I don’t know how but he said he’d rather spend his life in prison than think of me ‘spreading my legs’ for another man and, considering what he did to the man I did sleep with, I’ve got no reason to doubt him.

This is the first time he’s left me alone since Sunday night but he’s not taking chances on me escaping. He’s locked me in the house and disconnected the phone so I can’t call anyone for help and I can’t hammer on the wall because the couple who live next door have gone on holiday and there’s no one on the other side. I’ve checked all the windows – twice – but they’re locked shut and the back door is double glazed so I couldn’t shoulder it open even if I could. An hour ago I shouted through the letter box at a woman pushing a buggy down the street but she didn’t so much as twitch. I can only assume the traffic is drowning me out or the house is set so far back from the pavement my shouts don’t carry.

I can’t even ask Mrs Evans to help me – not that she would – because she’s not here. She suffered a heart attack while I was in York visiting my mum. That’s why James has gone to the hospital, to see her. And I’m trapped and there’s nothing I can do but write.

I came back from York on Sunday early evening in a very good mood. I’d finally been to visit Mum thanks to the £50 James had given me for the train fare (I think he wanted me gone so he could spend the weekend with whoever it is that he’s shagging) and Mum’s mood was brighter than the last time I’d seen her.

Mum had asked how I was and I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth. I told her that James and I were impossibly happy and we’d got engaged (she cried when I showed her my engagement ring and said she wished Dad was around to walk me down the aisle) and I was making a huge success of my costumier business. So convincing was my little tale that I started to believe it myself and, as I settled myself into my seat on the train home, I was bubbling with excitement. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell James about my visit, maybe even grab a little bit of time to organize my fabric whilst Mrs Evans took her daily nap. It was as though stepping outside London had removed the grey fog from my brain. I wasn’t neglected and put upon. I’d just become a bit depressed after everything that had happened. I needed a bit of fighting spirit, a bit of positivity back and I could turn things around. Besides, I had nearly three hundred pounds saved up. With the cake tin Mum had pressed into my hands before I left (containing nearly two hundred pounds in assorted crumpled bank notes) that was almost enough for a bedsit deposit and the first month’s rent. Maybe, I thought as the train chugged into King’s Cross, I won’t have to work in Tescos full time after all. If I live with James and his mum for another two or three months and my business takes off, I’ll only have to work on the tills part time to cover my rent.

‘James,’ I called as I pushed open the front door and stepped into the dark hallway. ‘James, are you home? I’ve had the most wonderful couple of days.’

The answerphone light was flashing red in the gloom but I was only vaguely aware of it as I abandoned my suitcase, replaced my shoes with soft, suedette slippers and padded down the hallway and into the living room. The black mask wall hanging leered back at me as I glanced around but, other than that, the room was empty.

‘James?’

‘James? Mrs Evans?’

I glanced at my watch. 7.30 p.m. There was every chance James had decided to stay on at the theatre for post-rehearsal drinks but his mother should still be at home. She normally watched
Songs of Praise
in the living room on a Sunday night. Perhaps she was in the toilet? Or taking a nap in her room? The house was uncommonly quiet and I felt like a burglar, tip-toeing around, barely breathing for fear of disturbing the peace.

‘Mrs Evans?’ The bathroom door was open so I tapped, nervously, at her bedroom door. ‘Mrs Evans, are you okay?’

There was no answer so I poked my head into the room. The bed was made, the curtains were pulled and everything looked normal apart from … I stepped closer to the dressing table. Margaret’s mother of pearl-handled brush was missing. So was the brown leather case that contained her manicure set and the tiny silver jewellery box that contained her wedding and engagement rings. Where had she gone? She couldn’t drive, she was terrified of leaving the house and when she met up with her friends – which was so rare I could only remember it happening twice in all the months I’d lived with her – they came to her.

I shrugged as I made my way to my sewing room. If James and Mrs Evans were both out of the house what better excuse to start sorting through my fabric? Everything was still boxed up and I knew for a fact my silks would need attacking with a cool iron before I hung them up, never mind the lin
—

‘Oh my God.’ My hands flew to my mouth as I pushed open the door to the spare room. My sewing table was lying on the floor on its side. Half a metre away was my machine, a dark footprint staining the body, the delicate thread guides, tension regulators and spool pins snapped and bent, the foot control ripped away, lying on the other side of the room. My boxes of material that I’d so neatly stacked in the corner were upended and crushed, the material spilling out – ripped, mangled and smeared with what looked like red paint. My mannequin leaned drunkenly against the back wall, black-handled sewing scissors plunged into its chest. The floor was a riot of colour – thread, ribbons, buttons, bindings, chords, elastics and tapes, all splattered with the same red gloss paint. The curtains were ripped from the window, the mirror smashed and the upholstery on the chair I’d so lovingly covered before I moved in was slashed open, the white stuffing bursting out like a puff mushroom, the elegant wooden legs snapped clean off.

I backed out of the room, my hands still pressed to my mouth, certain we’d been robbed and the burglar was still in the house. Why else would my room be trashed and Margaret’s things missing? But where was she? An image of my mother-in-law, tied up and terrified, flashed into my mind and a cold shiver pulsed through my body. I stepped across the landing as softly as I could – heel, toe, heel, toe – trying to avoid the creaky floorboards. The blood pounded in my ears as I stepped past mine and James’s bedroom door. Did they have her in there? I paused mid-stride, one heel pressed into the floorboard, the ball of my foot raised. All my senses prickled with anticipation as I listened, then as a floorboard creaked behind me I sprinted across the landing, took the stairs two at a time and ran across the hallway. I vaulted my suitcase and sped past my shoes. I had one hand on the front door handle when it flew open and I was grabbed around the neck.

‘No!’ I slapped at my attacker as I was forced backwards, away from the light of escape and back into the dark hallway.

‘Bitch.’

I recognized the voice immediately.

‘James, stop.’ I tripped over my suitcase as he powered towards me, and fell to the floor. ‘It’s me. It’s Suzy.’ I reached my hands up towards him, certain he’d help me up when he realized his mistake. ‘James, it’s Suzy.’

He bent down and peered at me, his pupils dark pools in the gloom. His fingers made contact with my head and he stroked my hair back from my forehead.

‘James,’ I reached up and touched his face, ‘something terrible has happened. My sewing room … it’s awful. Everything I worked so hard for has been destroyed. Why would someone do that?’

The pressure of James’s hand on my head changed and he began raking his hand through my hair, pressing the tips of his fingers into my skull.

‘Ow.’ I wrapped my hand round his and tried to relieve the pressure. ‘Could you be a bit more gentle?’

‘I don’t know. Could you be a bit more truthful?’ He stood up suddenly, yanking me up by the hair.

It was as though my scalp was being ripped clean from my skull. I screamed and lashed out but I barely had time to find my feet before James set off, striding towards the living room, dragging me, still screaming, along the hallway behind him. Each step made my head burn like it was on fire. Just when I thought I’d pass out from the pain, James released his grip and threw me across the room. I raised my arms to cover my face as I flew towards the glass cabinet then there was a crash, I hit the floor and a thousand shards of glass rained down on me. I lay still, too dazed to move, and then James was on me again.

‘Lying down on the job again are you, you slut?’

He grabbed me by the ankle and dragged me across the room, back towards the door then yanked me to my feet.

‘Tell me the truth!’ he bellowed in my face then CRACK! his fist made contact with my cheekbone and I fell back to the floor.

‘Please,’ I tried to scrabble up, my fingers pressed to my cheek. ‘Please James, just tell me what I’ve done wrong. Let’s talk about it, let’s
—
’

CRACK! His boot made contact with my shoulder. He towered above me, his face a mask of anger, his eyes black, glittering holes and he raised his boot as if to kick me again when …

Ring-ring, ring-ring.

James glanced towards the living-room door.

Ring-ring, ring-ring.

He looked back at me.

Ring-ring, ring-ring.

Beep! This is 0207 4563 2983. Please leave a message after the tone.

The phone went to answerphone.

‘Hello? Susan, this is Jake from the Abberley Players. Sorry to call you again but I really need to talk to you. There’s been a fight, between Steve and James. Steve’s in hospital but we don’t know where James is. We’re worried about him. And you. He was saying some … um … unusual things. Could you give me a ring when you get this, please. My number is 0208 9823 7456. Thanks.’

I looked at James. There was a bruise on his cheek I hadn’t noticed in the dark hallway and the edge of his mouth was split, caked with blood. There was blood on his neck too, and on his fists. I didn’t know if it was Steve’s or mine.

He caught me looking at him and the look of worry on his face morphed into disgust.