Live to Tell (34 page)

I stopped off at the hotel bar to order a sandwich and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and took them up to my bedroom. A room that on closer inspection, William Morris the Victorian Arts and Crafts textile designer would have felt proud of. Most of the walls were covered in the same dark wood panelling they used in reception but the curtains and the wall opposite the bed were in a beautiful sage green and rust coloured fabric adorned with birds and leaves.

I removed my suit and carefully hung it in the wardrobe. The rest of my belongings were scattered about where I left them and I found my jeans on the floor. I grabbed them and tried to ease them gently over my legs, before sitting down and unpacking my laptop computer. As I set about my task, seated in a tub chair in front of the desk, I could only pick at the food. For a person who hadn’t eaten all day, I had little appetite.

Next job is to speak to Dad, I thought. I looked at my watch and poured myself a second large glass of the wine. He answered my call straight away.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ve spoken to Stephen now and know where you are. But I was worried when I couldn’t get hold of you.”

“Sorry, Dad. My phone was out of power and I couldn’t get it charged until just now.”

“Who’s that thug you’ve got working for you at the house?”

“Thug? English or Russian?”

“Not a foreigner, a Londoner. He practically threw me out when I went round and dared to ask if he knew where you were. I don’t like you mixing with people like that. Did you check his references before taking him on?”

Perhaps he should have checked mine, I thought. “He’s okay, Dad. They’ve nearly finished the whole house now.”

I wanted to add, “and I know you will approve of the result,” but the thought of the paint-splattered wall that no doubt Barry was having to fix sickened me. Oh no, I thought, could there be any traces of red left underneath the paint? And would he realise what he was dealing with? If he did, I had to rely on him to turn a blind eye. What a mess I was in.

I spent the next four days working on Mr Abraham’s brother’s accounts. His humour didn’t improve and I wondered how he would feel to know he was sharing space with a murderess? When he was particularly truculent and irritating I was tempted to tell him so, just to shut him up. The urge to confess was one of my major worries. The other was the continuous pain I also had to conceal. I decided that if it became very obvious and someone asked me directly, I would blame a sport injury.

After finishing work each night, I went back to the hotel and spent the evenings resting in bed and watching TV. It was the only thing I could do to aid the healing process.

Despite my father referring to him as a thug, I missed Barry desperately. I wanted his company and his easy conversation. I knew when he squared up to Dad, he was really protecting me. I heard that some men made selfish and insensitive lovers, but there was an underlying quality in him that made me realise he would probably turn passion into an art form. I would never know, would I?

It’s a good thing I’m here, I thought. I can’t afford any romantic encounters; certainly not while I’m covered in such obvious bruises. Although their outer areas were turning yellow, the centres were various shades of red, purple and black and were too sore to touch. And, even more shockingly, there was still nothing about my attacker on the news!

My task was finally complete and Bill’s accounts were as transparent as my limited skills could make them. I drove out of the town through the rolling hills to the east. Bill’s farm was somewhere over this way and I wanted to see the cause of all my hard work, but although I drove along many narrow lanes some bordered with steep banks, some with overgrown hedges, I couldn’t find it.

I parked on the crest of a hill where the tranquil landscape opened out and I could see for miles. Oh, how I wished I could stay. I’m sure no-one has followed me here, I thought. Yet still I scanned the distant horizon nervously. My brain refused to articulate my real fear, that in addition to the police, my victim’s friends were also searching for me.

Enjoying the peace of birdsong and plane free skies was something new and I liked it. If only Danny and I were able to move to Blandford, I thought. If it’s only half as welcoming as Dorchester, I know we would have been happy there.

Someone was on top of me. They were hurting me and I had to get up. I forced myself upwards, threw back the bedclothes and screamed. I tried to sit up, sweat running down my body. Except, they weren’t and I wasn’t. I lay on my new sofa in the sitting-room under a dustsheet, an old rug on top of it for warmth and the vegetable knife, wrapped in a tea-towel under my pillow. I spent a turbulent night continuously waking and straining my ears for the sound of intruders. In the safety of that hotel in Dorchester I was cocooned from all of this. Now it’s back to reality. Chinks of light were coming through the blinds. It must be morning.

At last in daylight, I could examine the walls and floor of the room I was in. The walls looked pristine, smooth and evenly painted, and although the floor was splattered with a large paint stain, I could see no red. The carpet had been removed. Oh God, that’s a relief. What a treasure Barry is, I thought.

Yesterday I returned home for the first time since the unspeakable occurred. The closer I got to London, the more frightened I became. Since the rush of adrenalin that set me off in my escape from the capital, I had time to reflect on the enormity of my crime. In the cold realisation of what I had done, I couldn’t believe I had carried it out. Was I mad? I ought to throw in the towel and go straight to the police, I thought. But again I wondered what on earth will happen to Mum and Dad? It will ruin their lives. Re-living over and over again the events that took place a week ago, I felt no remorse about the supposed victim, just fear. That odious man deserved to die.

Stephen said I need not go into the office until twelve to compensate for the additional hours I put in. He must be pleased at the extra business I generated, even if he was unlikely to tell me. I already knew exactly how I was going to spend the free time.

Sometimes when driving between Maida Vale and North Kensington I noticed a shop on the Harrow Road that sold locks and advertised “security services”. That was where I intended to go. I must have more security here, I thought, even if I won’t be able to enjoy it from a prison cell. I shuddered at the thought and got up.

And now it’s Wednesday, my second Wednesday in hell. Coming home from work each night, I was constantly alert for possible danger. It did not get dark until around nine and I couldn’t decide whether this was to my advantage or not. I tried to vary my route home and the time of my arrival. This evening it was seven o’clock when I rounded the corner of the mews, to find Olaf staring up at the close circuit television camera, newly installed above my front door.

“Olaf,” I called. “How lovely to see you.”

He turned and smiled his bounteous, honey bear smile. “Hello, Missus. How you been? Boss sent me with this.” He held out an envelope. “It’s bill, but said no hurry. What’s this? You have camera.”

I unlocked the freshly changed mortise lock on the front door and ushered him in. “Would you like a coffee, Olaf, or a cup of tea, while I write you a cheque? Please, have a seat.”

“Boss said no hurry for money, unless okay!”

“That’s very sweet of you, but it’s no bother, honestly.” I would have loved to ask him if he would like to move in with me as well, but I realised he would probably misconstrue the question and I could do without that.

He refused my offer of a drink so I wrote the cheque for him, then started to search one of my kitchen cupboards. “Olaf, do you drink vodka?”

“Yes missus, sometimes and beer. I’m from Ukraine.”

“I know, so perhaps you will accept this, an appreciation for all your hard work.” I held out the bottle that had been languishing in my possession for several years and his face lit up.

Stephen sent me to carry out the audit of a firm in Stevenage; so I took the opportunity to keep away from home again staying with Mum and Dad, who lived closer than I did. I carefully concealed my injuries from my parents, who would have been on my case like a ton of bricks, at any suspicion of harm to their only daughter.

The following Monday I was back in London working in my own office but I spent the evening wandering the streets of the West End and Mayfair, killing time until after dark. When I eventually returned to Maida Vale, I carefully checked that I wasn’t being followed from the underground station. Since the collector had come upon me without warning, I was feeling paranoid that it might happen again. Reaching the entrance to my small road, I stood for a moment at the corner, trying to search out hidden assassins. Then, I ran to my front door, keys at the ready.

There had been nothing concerning a missing man or a discovered corpse on any of the news channels I viewed or in any of the papers. It was almost as if the whole episode had been a figment of my imagination. I was beginning to feel an overwhelming urge to drive out to Epping Forest, to poke about in the ditch and check it for myself. Almost, because in truth, nothing would drag me there again.

My bruises still plagued me, and commuting to work on crowded underground trains was hell; especially for someone sleeping on a sofa instead of in a bed. I could not bring myself to use my bedroom in case someone broke into the house during the night. From my sofa I could view the monitor connected to the CCTV camera. If anything happened, I would be ready with the vegetable knife.

The next day I started auditing at a firm based in Acton in West London. I drove there and parked in their car park, which seemed easier than commuting on a rush hour train. They insisted on closing their offices at five p.m. sharp. This meant I had to leave at that time too.

Forty minutes later, driving in bright sunlight into my road, I was struck by how pretty it was and how much I loved living here. Geraniums tumbled from the hanging baskets outside Mr Bonneville’s front door and an array of colourful tubs and window boxes adorned most of the houses. I almost could have been in Italy again. Except that in my head, my road would now be forever tainted by the events of just two weeks ago.