me for a long time, while I held him and wondered whether, actually, I was going to be all right after all.
“I’ll get locked up,” he said, his breath coming in rasping sobs, “they’ll put me away for this.”
“No, they won’t,” I soothed. “I won’t say. We’ll be all right, honestly. Just you and me.”
“Really?” He looked up at me like a child.
I wondered if he could even see my ravaged face. Did I look suitably comforting? How could he possibly imagine that anything was ever going to be all right again?
I had to continue down this path—it was my only chance. “You have to let me clean up a bit.”
“Of course.”
To my surprise, he got up and left the room.
I crawled across the landing to the bathroom, found my way into the shower and stood there, seeing the blood diluting as it washed away, swirling into patterns against the white enamel that were almost beautiful. I rinsed the piss out of my hair, trying not to watch as clumps of it came away in my fingers and blocked the drain. My skin stung; my right hand was still useless. I wondered what would happen if I had broken bones in my hand and they weren’t fixed.
Fortunately the towel in the bathroom was the navy blue one, not one of the white ones, so the blood that dotted it as I dried myself gingerly was not too noticeable. I was bleeding from between my legs. Probably my period, I thought, which had been overdue. I hadn’t thought about it, putting it down to the weight I’d lost, the stress, the fact that I wasn’t eating regularly. Maybe it had been brought on by the trauma.
It was as though all this was happening to someone else. I went into the bedroom and found some sanitary towels, underwear, clothes to wear, jeans, a belt, a loose sweater. I could have run away, right then. I could have run out into the street, shouting for help.
But that was just it. I couldn’t run. I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t call the police, could I? He was one of them. They would look at me, and he would invent some story about me being traumatized by some incident he’d been working undercover on, how I was showing signs of mental illness and he’d been trying to help me. They’d take me to the hospital, patch me up, and then I’d end up back in the loony bin. Or worse, they’d send me home. With my left hand, I made a half-hearted attempt to clean up the blood in the spare room. It was everywhere—walls, carpet, smeared over the door. I gave up in the end, and went downstairs.
Friday 28 March 2008
On the way back from Leonie Hobbs House I walked fast, long strides, getting my heart rate up. If I was physically tired this evening at least I stood a good chance of being able to sleep. That was the theory anyway. I was finding it harder and harder to sleep in my flat, spending hours lying awake listening out for noises outside. Even sleeping with Stuart upstairs was difficult; every noise sounded as though it was coming from my flat below us.
Once I turned away from the main road onto Lorimer Road, the noise of the traffic faded away.
I could hear footsteps that matched my own, perfectly. For several yards I thought they were mine. Then I realized that there was someone on the sidewalk behind me. I thought it was quite far away, so I stole a look behind me. Just a glance.
A man was walking behind me, about thirty yards behind, matching my pace. Dark clothes, a hooded top, the hood down. I couldn’t see his face because the streetlight behind him left it in shadow. Just clouds of his breath in the cold air.
I picked up my pace and waited for the sound of his steps to match mine. The sound of them was jarring.
He’d speeded up, too.
At the end of Lorimer Road, the main street again. I could see buses, still stationary in the traffic, but at least I’d be able to get on one of them if I needed to. I didn’t care which one.
Before I reached the main street, though, I realized that the noise of the steps had ceased. I looked behind. The man had gone. He must have turned into one of the houses.
At home, later, I looked and looked. I checked the door