Don't Stand So Close (21 page)

She should have kept Blue safe. The girl was as much a victim of Lawrence Simpson as she herself had been.

Stella forced herself to take one step over the threshold. And then another.

The patio was frozen and slippery and she couldn’t keep her balance; her feet slid out from underneath her. She tried to catch her breath as she hit the ground, the small of her back slamming against the bottom of the step and winding her.

She started to shake. Her heart raced, so fast it might break. Her breathing became shallow and she began to pant
as the muscles in her chest seized up. She was alone, exposed. Helpless. She was going to die.

She pressed her hands against the freezing cold ground and managed to get her balance. She struggled to her feet. Blue’s bright red blood formed a trail in the pristine snow. She could make out two sets of shallow footprints on the white-carpeted ground, leading towards the semicircle of trees.

There was no way she could make it across the open garden.

Her heart was still thundering. She forced herself to breathe. Slower. Deeper. She looked back towards the house, at the safe, bright lights of the living room.

She heard a scream.

Please let Blue not be lying at the bottom of the pool, broken.

Then silence. A terrible stillness.

She could see terrible things. Blue, mangled on a cushion of white, her limbs bent at odd angles.

Tiny icicles pricked Stella’s face, it was snowing again. The cold was bracing, so intense it became all she was aware of. Her palms stung where they had pushed against the ice. The skin under her nails was on fire. Her toes were numb.

Another scream slashed the still, white garden.

Stella oriented herself towards the sound. A figure emerged from the line of trees. It was too far, there were too many shadows, she couldn’t see who it was.

‘Peter?’

She took a step backwards, towards the house.

‘That wasn’t so bad?’ His voice was saturated with pleasure.

She was on her hands and knees looking at the magnolia-painted wall of the consulting room. The muscles in her arms and hands ached from holding herself up, her knees hurt where they pushed against the hard bed. She was too scared to move until he gave his permission.

‘I’d guess you haven’t done that before,’ he said.

She thought she might be bleeding because a raw, sharp pain pierced from back to front. She imagined that behind her he was smiling. Seconds ticked past. She guessed he was carefully removing the condom and he would take it with him.

‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘You didn’t scream. Hardly made a sound. There’s K-Y Jelly here on the doctor’s stand but I didn’t think you deserved any.’

At least she didn’t have to look at him.

‘Get up.’

She stood. She didn’t dare go for her clothes. Her mouth was so dry she did not think she would be able to speak, there was a disgusting taste on her tongue, her throat ached. Her legs were unsteady, they didn’t want to hold her up. She would not let him see her cry.

He unlocked the door, his back to her. She scanned the room, the desk, for something heavy – anything she could use against him. There was nothing, and even if there had been, she had no strength. She leaned against the edge of the medical couch, closing her eyes for just a second. Standing up had made her dizzy. But she was still in one piece. Just about. She held on to the hope that her ordeal might soon be over, that he would be satisfied with his revenge. But she didn’t believe he would simply let her go.

He waited for her at the open doorway, relaxed. He had all the time he wanted, he knew they would not be disturbed. He had no weapon, no gun and no knife. And still, she was terrified of him. She was confused; whipped and subdued and sore. He took hold of her upper arm, gripping hard as he pulled her towards the bathroom. He held on to her while he pulled the shower curtain aside.

‘Get in,’ he said.

She was shaking, but she managed to lift both legs over the edge of the bath, not to fall.

The spray of cold droplets pierced her skin, like needles. She was shaking. He picked up the bottle of hand soap from the basin, unscrewed the lid and poured it over her head and her shoulders.

‘Scrub,’ he said. ‘I’m watching. Everywhere.’

She did as she was told. There was too much soap and it lathered easily. At least the water was warmer now. She wanted to scrub every bit of him off her; she didn’t care about DNA. She rubbed the soap over her closed eyes and pressed her fingers hard into her scalp. She washed her arms, breasts, stomach and between her legs. She was careful not to look down. She feared she would see blood across the white enamel of the bathtub. She didn’t want to know.

She held on to the handrail, unsteady, fixing her eyes on the grey lines between the white tiles, as she reached down to wash her feet. She wondered if she had been punished enough or if there was worse still to come. She wanted to crawl away somewhere, into her flat, put the chain on the door and pull the curtains shut and just hide and never come out.

Simpson turned off the water and handed her a towel. She was grateful for the small gesture of kindness. She had no intention of running away or fighting back. She was weak.

‘My daughter is too old to be adopted, so she’ll probably stay with her useless mother or go into long-term foster care. I’ll still have contact with her. In a few years, she’ll see what a weak, useless bitch her mother is, and she’ll come back to me of her own free will. And there’s nothing any one of you meddling cunts can do about it. And you’ll have your memories of me.’

She saw his fingers curl into a fist, but he checked himself, relaxed his hand, pushed his fringe back from his face. His jaw was still tight. She was sure he ached to hit her, but he wouldn’t want to leave any marks easily visible to the world.

She wrapped her arms around her chest.

She was very cold again, the shaking grew worse. The pain between her legs was acute and blood trickled down her legs. She felt sick at the thought of the damage. She was in shock. She couldn’t push down the nausea any longer, she dropped down and retched into the toilet bowl. She stayed there, kneeling, relieved to be looking away from him.

‘Tell the A and E team it was a bit of rough sex with a one-night stand,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d recommend anyway.’

She nodded.

He gave her one last appraisal as she knelt in front of the toilet, in pain, trembling, naked, grasping at the edge of the bowl. He ran his fingers through his fringe one more time and then turned and left the bathroom.

She managed a few deep breaths. The pain throbbed so much she felt she was split in two. She had no strength.

She gathered herself together, a second or two, then crawled to the door. She reached up and turned the lock. She sank to the floor, grasping at the too-small hand towel, pulling it tight around her shoulders, putting her head between her knees to try to stop the room from spinning. She thought she heard the front door slam shut, but she couldn’t be sure.

There was no window. She had no watch so she couldn’t tell how much time had passed. She lay down on the tiles, curled on her side. Her thoughts slowed, her limbs became heavy and then all she could think of was water. She needed a drink of water. She wanted to stand up and turn on the tap, but she didn’t have the energy. She craved a nice hospital bed with crisp white sheets and lots of painkillers.

Her hip and shoulder ached where they pressed against the cold, hard floor. The overhead light reflected off the white tiles. She must have slept, a little. She sensed she was alone in the quiet building. She pulled herself up to a sitting position, staying there until her head cleared. She reached up to grip the basin with her right hand. She gasped at the sharp stabbing between her legs as she tried to stand. She bit her lip until the pain eased. Her legs were weak, but they held her upright. She closed her eyes, stayed still for a second to check she would not fall. She didn’t want to think about the pain or the damage that might have been done. She needed a
doctor. She so badly wanted her clothes. She unlocked the door, waited a second, opened it. The passage was in darkness. She felt safer in the dark, she’d been exposed enough. The photographs. They might be up on the internet already. Simpson had won. She had submitted to him completely. He had ensured that she would forever be vulnerable; degraded.
It’s only a body
.

Stella felt her way along the wall to the office and once inside she moved slowly in the dim light that filtered through the shutters. She did not want to see this room ever again. She just wanted her clothes. They were still there, folded over the arm of the chair. She dressed, taking care to make only small, slow movements.

Her bag was still propped against the desk where she had left it. She slipped her feet into her shoes. Even the low heels were a source of pain, so she took them off again and put them into her tote. She put the bag over her shoulder, still holding her mobile phone. The building remained hushed.

She was sure she was alone.

She trailed her hand along the wall again, until she reached the top of the staircase. The thick pile was comforting under her feet as she made her way down, carefully, one step at a time, clutching the banister for support.

She walked to the front door and pulled on it to check it was locked. Simpson had shut it when he left and he wouldn’t be able to get back in. She fastened the security chain, then hobbled over to a chair in the waiting room and thought about what to do. Through the slats in the blinds, she could see headlights passing on Grove Road. The only number she could remember was 999 so that’s what she dialled. After one ring, she disconnected the call. There was another number for non-emergency matters, but she
couldn’t remember it. She didn’t want to talk to strangers. She didn’t want anyone else examining her, hurting her, humiliating her.

Her eyes had adjusted to the murky light and she could see perfectly well. She still had no idea what to do. She moved to the sofa and drew her legs underneath her. She considered staying that way until Monday. She thought of her privacy and of her career. She needed advice.

After a few rings, he answered. She wondered where he was, on a Friday night. If he was out with Hannah and Izzy and the rest of her friends.

‘Pete,’ she said. ‘It’s Stella.’

‘Stella,’ he said. He sounded pleased to hear from her.

She was silent, she couldn’t think what to say.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘Listen – can you come and see me?’ she said.

‘Sure.’

‘It’s not what you think. I need some advice. And please don’t tell anyone else.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you are.’

While she waited for him to arrive, she ransacked Anne’s neatly ordered drawers, looking for painkillers. All she could find was paracetamol. She managed to swallow a few. She needed something stronger. She wasn’t bleeding any more, that was the important thing, her clothes were dry. Any damage was on the inside.

She had bad cramps. She went back to curl up on the leather chesterfield in the waiting room. She had forgotten to ask where Peter was and she didn’t know how long it would take him to get to the clinic. She wanted him to hurry. She felt as though she’d been in a car accident, battered and bruised and raw.

At ten o’clock she heard a car pull up on the driveway at the front of the building. She peered out: Peter was climbing out of his Golf. She walked gingerly to the front door, took off the shiny brass chain and turned the large brass lock.

‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked, when she peered out.

‘Come in.’

She switched on the light in the hall, but used the dimmer to turn it down to the minimum setting. She supposed she looked pale, but she didn’t think Simpson had left any marks. She couldn’t find any words, it was exhausting, to have to tell him, to have to live through it all again.

‘Could you please make me a cup of tea?’ That was all she could manage. ‘There’s a kitchen at the top of the stairs – it’s small, you’ll find everything. Milk and lots of sugar.’

He did as she requested without asking any questions and she was relieved. But she wondered if it had been wise to telephone a police officer. The last thing she felt like was explaining. She pulled a small cushion over her lap.

The tea was milky and not too hot. He had to hold the cup steady for her. The sweetness helped to steady her, to stop her head feeling so light it might lift off her shoulders. He sat facing her on the sofa, solid and dependable.

‘What were you doing when I called?’ she asked.

She needed a little more time.

‘Studying for my DI exam on Monday.’

She nodded. She had dragged him out to St John’s Wood when he should be at home studying for the most important exam of his career and now she didn’t want to tell him what had happened.

‘You look like you need a doctor,’ he said.

‘I just need a few more minutes. To sit here.’

‘It’s OK.’ He was patient, but observant too. She took
another sip of the milky, sweet tea. She felt better, safer, now that he was with her.

‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

She felt a little less weak, a little less like she might keel over at any moment. ‘Did you always want to be a policeman?’ she asked.

‘Since I was fifteen. I came home from school and our house had been broken into – they smashed a window at the back. My mother’s jewellery was taken, nothing valuable, but everything she’d inherited from her mother. The house was a total mess. And the worst part was that our cat ran away. I found her lying in the road, hit by a car. I was so angry. I just wanted to go out and find them and get revenge.’

‘And here you are,’ she said.

Her mug was empty. She had automatically placed it on top of a magazine, so there would be no stain on Anne’s wooden coffee table.

‘Do you want another cup?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Are you ready to talk?’

She told him then, in detail – as though she were writing it up in a report. Dispassionately. Everything. The most degrading parts. She tried to speak as though it had happened to someone else and not to herself and to stay clear and calm.