Look Behind You (14 page)

‘OK,’ I say to his retreating back. ‘I’ll just clean up and have a shower. I’ll probably get an early night.’ I load up the dishwasher, wipe down the surfaces with cleaning spray until they’re spotless, then trudge up the stairs to our bedroom.

I shower and wash my hair, the soap and shampoo stinging the cuts on my fingers. They’re getting better now, but the scabs soften in the water. As I towel dry my hair in the bathroom, I see a pinkish tinge on the white fluffy fabric where they’re oozing a little blood. Wiping the steam from the mirror, I stare at myself.

I don’t recognize the woman who looks back at me. I’ve got dark rings under my haunted eyes, and they’re red and swollen. My skin and lips are pale, my cheeks hollow. I look like death, which is so ironic I laugh at the woman in the mirror. Fading scratches lace my forehead and cheeks, a result of the branches slapping my face when I ran through the woods. I pull the hair back from the lump above my ear and examine it. The skin is a mixture of colours: jaundice yellow, rotten plum, mottled tomato.

Scratches. Yes, of course.

I lean closer to the mirror, touching them carefully with my fingertips. I can’t hallucinate abrasions, can I? I can’t magic them up from the depths of my imagination. They’re real. They exist on my face, fingers, and wrists. No one can explain the lump on my head. If it were all something I’d concocted in my mind, I wouldn’t have the evidence.

I stare at my reflection for a long time, as if this woman can help me find the answers somehow. In the end, I don’t think she can. Maybe no one can. They’ll just say I fell over and hit my head somewhere or make some other similar excuses.

I turn away and walk into the bedroom where I slide the door to my side of the wardrobe open, looking for a clean T-shirt to wear in bed. My clothes aren’t expensive or designer gear like Liam’s. Only he’s allowed that. They’re cheap. High street brands that look acceptable but don’t cost a fortune.

At first, I don’t notice anything unusual. But as I slide the hangers from left to right, I see a few things are missing. My leather jacket. A pair of skinny jeans. My black boots with the wedged heel. A brown V-neck jumper. Some black leggings. A few T-shirts. A pair of ballet-style flats. I go through it all again, pushing things backwards and forwards, just to make sure they haven’t got jumbled up in between other items somehow

OK, so maybe the clothes are in the washing basket, but what about the boots and the shoes? I rummage around further and discover more things gone. A checked shirt, another pair of jeans. In the drawers underneath the clothes, my knickers appear to be sparser than usual. A polka dot bra and some socks are missing.

I clutch my towel tighter around me and retrace my steps into the bathroom to check the washing basket. I tip everything out onto the floor. Liam’s shirts, trousers, socks, boxers, one pair of my socks, and my pink cardigan. None of the missing items is in there.

I pull on a T-shirt and a pair of knickers and head downstairs, my bare feet silent on the carpet. The door to the dining room is half-open, and I walk in. Liam is in the middle of sending an email to someone.

Emails. Of course! I should check my emails. Maybe I sent one to Sara that can shed some light on all of this.

When he hears me, he immediately clicks the mouse, and the screensaver pops up. It’s a photo of a younger Liam with his cousin Jeremy when they were in their early twenties. They’re at the top of Mount Snowdon, dressed in walking gear. Clouds hang like candyfloss in the bright blue sky behind. Liam is a head taller and has his arm flung around Jeremy’s shoulder. They’re both dark-haired with the same shaped angular jaws and regally straight noses. They each take after their mothers, who were identical twins.

‘Yes? Is everything all right?’ Liam swivels round in the brown leather office chair to face me.

‘Some of my clothes seem to be missing.’

He gives me a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t you remember, darling, you had a bit of a clear out before I went to Scotland?’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes. You thought it would be therapeutic to get rid of some things you never wear anymore that were just cluttering up your wardrobe. I took the old clothes to the charity shop for you; that’s why you can’t find them.’

‘Right.’ I nod vaguely, knowing full well I wouldn’t have given those things away because they’re either new or my favourites. And who in their right mind gives away used underwear?

He smiles and pats my hand. ‘Is that all?’

‘Er…yes.’ I turn to leave and feel his gaze burning into my back, unease winding its way through every fibre of my body.

Hours later, I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I can come up with a rational explanation for all of this, but I can’t. I keep circling back to the only conclusion that seems logical. I must’ve found the receipts and suspected Liam was having an affair. I went to the hotel to try to confirm it. Maybe I found some other evidence, too. Then I waited until he went to Scotland before doing something about it so there would be no confrontation.

I’m certain now that the letter Liam showed me wasn’t a suicide letter at all. I was leaving him.
That’s
what the letter was about. He’d obviously found it and knew I’d left him. It would explain why my bag, phone, and some of my clothes are missing. I would’ve taken them with me. And if I did, Liam is lying to me
again
about me giving them to the charity shop. I wonder if he’s trying to convince people I’m mad, or actually trying to make me go mad.

As I said to Dr Drew, everyone has a breaking point. Maybe that was mine. Perhaps I thought enough was enough and couldn’t cope with Liam controlling me, criticizing everything, deciding what I should wear and what I should do. Maybe I realized there was more to life than the one I was living.

Jordan’s face flashes into my head then, but I squash it back down.

But where did I go? Sara’s would be the obvious choice. She’s still away, and her flat would be empty. Summers said we’d called each other. Maybe it was to arrange for me to stay there. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

So I went to Sara’s, and then what? What happened next? What led to me being kidnapped and left somewhere underground in the woods? Was it someone I encountered after I left home who put me there? Or did Liam do it? Did he ply me with sleeping tablets then bundle me in his car and leave me in that place? Was he really in Scotland at all? After all, he’d said he was going there before, when he stayed at the Royal Lodge Hotel. Who’s to say he wasn’t lying about being there this time, too? Does he hate me so much that he’d leave me for dead?

As Liam creeps into the darkened room and gets into bed, goose bumps rise on my flesh, and I wonder just who the hell I’m married to.

16

I mustn’t let him suspect a thing. Must act normal. Well, as normal as I can, under the circumstances. So I get up the next morning with a bright smile on my face and make him toast and marmalade, even though just the smell of it makes me gag. It’s on the kitchen table, ready and waiting for him when he comes down after his shower.

‘Thanks.’ His gaze slithers over me. ‘Why are you wearing those tatty old jeans, darling?’

I glance down at them. The denim is soft and has faded over time. I love them. ‘They’re comfortable.’

‘They make you look fat. Put that other pair on. The black ones. You know how I like you in those.’

‘Hmm,’ I mumble as I make tea for us both. ‘I’ll do it in a minute. It’s not like I’m going out anywhere.’ I pour milk into mugs, just the right amount. Stir. Put his in front of him and sit opposite.

‘You really should start taking more care of how your appearance,’ he goes on. ‘Your face looks awful.’ He points at the scratches. ‘Why don’t you book yourself into the hair salon? You could do with a cut. It’ll be a nice treat for you. It might make you feel more like your old self again. But make sure you don’t go out in that state.’ And just like that, he veils a criticism as something kind and caring. Good old Liam; give you a compliment with one hand and take it away with the other.

But he’s actually given me an idea, so I smile and nod. ‘I think I will, actually, yes. Can I have a front door key? You haven’t given me a new one yet.’

He pushes his empty plate away and stands up. Taking a set of keys from his pocket, he unclips one key from the key ring and puts it on the table. Then he takes his wallet from his other pocket and says, ‘How much money do you need for a haircut?’

‘I’m not sure. Since I can’t find my purse, I don’t have any until my new bankcards come through. Can you leave me fifty pounds?’

‘Fifty! That’s rather a lot, isn’t it?’

‘Well, I might stop at the supermarket to get a few bits, too.’

He puts thirty pounds on the table next to the key and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.’

‘Of course not,’ I say, although his idea of stupid and mine are probably vastly different now.

‘Come straight back after the hairdressers. You’re probably still quite weak. You need to get plenty of rest.’

Weak. Yes. I’ve been weak for much too long.

I nod and smile to placate him. He kisses me on the cheek, picks up his briefcase, and leaves. I exhale a trembling breath and call Sara. I tried her at least fifty times yesterday with no luck. Again, it just rings persistently in my ear, but she doesn’t pick up.

I slam the phone back in the base unit and go into the dining room. Sitting at the computer desk, I switch on the laptop. It makes a whirring, beeping sound as it springs into action, and while I’m waiting, I search through the desk drawers. The first one holds folders of insurance documents, our mortgage details, instruction booklets, receipts, utility bills, bank statements. I rifle through the banks statements, looking for more credit card transactions from Liam. I don’t usually get to see these, since Liam insists on dealing with everything financial.

‘You’ll only mess things up if you get involved,’ he told me as soon as we were married and insisted I close my personal bank account and open a joint one with him. At first, I thought it was wonderful that he would deal with the responsibility of paying the mortgage and other bills so I didn’t have to, but now I have to tell him every penny I spend.

The statements go back two years, and for the last year there have been regular payments every month or so to the Royal Lodge Hotel. I don’t find any more payments to jewellers. I put them back and go through the second drawer. It contains a couple of local phone directories and a Yellow Pages. Nothing much in the third, except packets of printing paper, envelopes, sellotape, and a box of paperclips. On top of the desk, a blue ceramic pot holds pens. One of Liam’s ex-girlfriends gave it to him a long time ago. What was her name? Katy, Katya, something like that. He told me she came to England from Moldova to work, but when she went back after a couple of years, he kept this memento from their relationship because he thought it was beautifully made.

He’s right. It
is
beautiful. A kaleidoscope of indigo, turquoise, baby blue, and azure. It’s like all the colours of the sea mixed together. I tip it upside down onto the desk. Five biros fall out, along with a small rubber and two paperclips, which I must’ve put in there since Liam would hate to get the paperclips mixed in with everything else. God forbid.

I don’t even know exactly what I’m looking for. Something that proves my husband has tried to kill me? I open Google and bring up my email account then type in the email address and password.

‘Error. Password incorrect. Your account has been locked,’ the screen flashes at me.

I frown and try again.

‘Error. Password incorrect. Your account has been locked.’

What?
I try again. Third time lucky.

‘Error. Password incorrect. Your account has been locked.’

I scroll down the page and read how to unlock my account.

‘If you receive the above message, your password has been entered incorrectly three times and your account has been locked for your security. To reinstate your account, fill in the details below:’

It asks for my alternative security word that I added when I set up the account. I type in Jordan’s name and hit
Enter.

‘We will now send a new password to the mobile phone number attached to this email account.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ I throw my hands in the air. ‘That would be great if I could bloody well find it!’ I jig my legs up and down in frustration, wondering what to do next. Chewing on my thumbnail, I click on the
History
tab at the top of the screen to see if that can give me any clues to what Liam or I have been looking at. It brings up a list of websites that have been browsed recently: my email account, Liam’s email account, The Diamond Store, the Royal Lodge Hotel, our online banking account, Discount Wine Cellar, Amazon, Zolafaxine Side Effects, and Devon Pharmaceutical.

I click on the Zolafaxine page and read the list of side effects.

Hives

Inability to sit still

Itching

Restlessness

Rash