something. If you saw someone, or something, that scared you.”
There it was again, a twitch more than anything, as though she was dreaming and her hand was moving of its own volition.
“You’re safe here,” I said. “They’ll help you get better. And we’re keeping an eye on things, Stuart and I. You don’t need to worry about anything.”
It was hard keeping up a one-sided conversation. I glanced across at the card. It was an artist’s print of some red flowers, with the message “With Best Wishes” printed at the top. My curiosity got the better of me. Inside, it read:
Get well soon, with love from Stuart (Flat 3) and Cathy (Flat 2). X
Oh, well, I thought. Hopefully when she wakes up she’ll remember who we are. I added the flowers haphazardly to the vase of daffodils rather than go on the hunt for a second vase, and topped up the water from the sink in the corner.
“I’d better go,” I said, giving her hand another squeeze. “I’ll come and see you again soon, all right?”
My phone rang as soon as I turned it back on, waiting at the bus stop on Denmark Hill.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Hello, me.”
“I said I’d call, didn’t I?”
“You did. How was your journey?”
“Not bad, thanks. How are you?”
“I’m okay. I’m actually standing outside the Maudsley, waiting for a bus.”
“Are you? Have you been to see Mrs. M?”
“Yes. She was asleep.”
“Did they say how she is?”
“I didn’t see anyone else. I just went in and stayed for a minute. Anyway, here’s my bus.”
“Oh. Can’t you talk to me while you’re on the bus?”
I was waiting my turn to get on, behind an elderly couple and a group of teenagers carrying skateboards.
“I could, but I’d rather not.”
“Can I call you later, then?”
I laughed. “If you like.”
“What time?”
“Give me at least a couple of hours—you know I’ll have things to do when I get in.”
Monday 19 April 2004
That first time Lee hurt me, I mean the first time he actually left me with physical injuries, I had to take the next week off from work. I pretended I had the flu—to be honest I must have sounded rough when I phoned in on the Monday morning. It took a week for the marks on my face to be sufficiently disguisable with makeup. The only thing left was the cut to my lip, which ended up looking like a particularly horrible, scabby cold sore. My nose, fortunately, didn’t turn out to be broken, or, if it was, it wasn’t a bad break.
Needless to say, I didn’t go to the doctor.
He stayed with me for five days. The next morning he was distant. He looked at me as though I’d been especially stupid and managed to fall over in the street. Nevertheless, he made me some soup and helped to clean me up, wiping my face with surprising tenderness.
The following day he was exceptionally gentle; he told me I was the only woman he’d ever loved. He told me I was his, only his; if any man ever looked at me he would kill him. He said it dismissively, as though it were a remark that could be made casually in conversation with little meaning, but I believed he could do it. He meant it.
For the time being, I had to play along with it. For those five days, I tried to be what he wanted me to be. I told him I was his, only his. That I had made a mistake by trying to end it. That I loved him.
When he left to go back to work on the Wednesday night, I considered my options. At first I stayed at home, in bed, watching television and pretending nothing had happened. I waited, and waited, in case he came home again. In case it was a test.
I wanted to call the police, but I knew he would check my phone. I wanted to leave the house, run, run as fast as I could to the police station, and hope they would protect me. They wouldn’t, of course. He would be questioned, if I was lucky, and then there would be some sort of inquiry, during which time he would be free to come and go, free to hurt me, free to kill me. It wasn’t worth the risk.
On the Thursday I called an emergency locksmith and had the locks changed on the front door and the back door.
That night was the first night I started checking properly.
By the following Monday there