Into the Darkest Corner (8 page)
When I got home there was mail for me on the table downstairs in the hallway. In addition to the usual bills, there was a large brown envelope with just the word “Cathy” on the front in black marker.
“Coo-ee, Cathy! You all right?”
“Yes, thanks, Mrs. Mackenzie. How are you?”
“I’m fine, dear.” She gave me that hard stare again, while I looked at the envelope on the table without picking it up, and then went back into her flat and shut the door.
I left it where it was and checked the door again, twice over, start to finish. I could have gotten away with once, but the second time enabled me to pick up the envelope with the other stuff and take it upstairs.
I dropped it on the coffee table while I did the checks, but I found I rushed through the first two times because I wanted to see what was in the envelope. I had to force myself to slow down the third time, do it properly, concentrate. When I’d finished I paused. Was that good enough? Should I do it again for good measure, just to be sure? Maybe I’d missed something.
I started again.
It was nearly nine when I sat on the sofa and opened the envelope. A pile of papers, some of them clipped together with a paper clip, and a handwritten note at the front.
Cathy—
Thought these might be useful. Let me know if you need anything. Or if you want to ask any questions.
Stuart
I looked at the note for ages, the way he’d written my name, the way he’d signed his name. I wondered if he’d had to think about what to write. It looked utterly carefree, easy, as though he’d picked up the pile of papers somewhere, casually, and then just scribbled off two lines without even thinking about it.
I went through the pile, and quickly I noticed that there was nothing careless about it at all. The first thing was a sheet about the Center for Anxiety Disorders and Trauma at the Maudsley Hospital in Denmark Hill, and the specialist outpatient clinic for OCD. Then there were articles that he’d printed off various websites, with bits underlined. There was a study about OCD and new therapy options for treating patients presenting with severe symptoms, written by Dr. Alistair Hodge, C.Psychol., AFBPsS, B.Sc. (Hons)., M.Sc., Clin. Psych, Dip., C.B.T., PsychD., DCHyp., SMBCSHA, UKCP and BABCP Registered—and half a dozen other people with equally impressive qualifications. There was a page of alternative therapists that he’d printed off from somewhere, with two handwritten ones added to the bottom, a yoga class meeting at the local primary school on a Wednesday evening, and a Core Relaxation Therapist, whatever that was, with a phone number. The page below that was a list of OCD support groups, with one highlighted and handwritten in the margin “
meets in Camden 7:30 p.m. third Tues of month, phone Ellen for details
” and a number. Under that, three chapters from a book called
Unstuck: Techniques for Freeing Yourself from OCD
, with various bits underlined. Then there were three different questionnaires which seemed to be about determining whether you actually have OCD or not.
Finally, unexpectedly, the last page was another handwritten note.
Cathy—
Thanks for looking at all this. You’ve made a start. Call me, okay?
Stuart
Then his phone number again, just in case I’d lost the last one he’d given me, which of course I hadn’t. I knew exactly where the bit of paper was, just in case I needed it, which I never would since I knew his number by heart already.
Not that I was going to use it.
Lee was working at the River.
I went to see him, wearing that red satin dress. His face when he saw me was incredible. I gave him a smile and a wink as I passed him going into the club. Through the night, dancing with people I knew, chatting at the bar with some people I hadn’t seen for a few months, then later on when Claire and Louise turned up, I kept seeing his face in the crowd, at the edge of the dance floor, watching me.
By midnight, several drinks down me, I was more bold. Dancing, on my own, I saw him again in the doorway, ostensibly watching the crowd, in practice watching me. I crossed the dance floor to him; his eyes never left mine. He took me by the hand and pulled me toward the corridor connecting the main club with the bar at the front, his steps rapid, making me stumble, all the while shouting, “Lee! Lee? What the . . . ?”
He pushed open a doorway marked “Staff Only” and the music suddenly dulled as the fire door slammed behind us, my heels skittering down the concrete corridor, another door to the side—an office. The only light came from the CCTV screens, showing the dance floor, the door, the stairs, the area outside the restrooms. He pushed a pile of paperwork off the desk, papers scattering everywhere, lifting me between his two hands as though I weighed nothing, his mouth on mine, hungry. I tugged at my skirt, pulling it up and out of his way. With one hand he pulled my underwear aside, ripping them, discarding them into the room, and then fucking me, hard.
A few minutes later, not a word spoken, he adjusted his suit and, without looking back at me, left the room. Sitting on the desk, legs still splayed and trembling with the force of him, I watched the CCTV screens until he reappeared at the main door of the club, looking for all the world as though he’d just been checking the dance floor for trouble.
Until he looked up at the camera, right into my eyes, and stared.
Looking around the office at the paperwork all over the floor, my underwear torn, discarded in the corner, I found myself thinking: this is so crazy—what the fuck am I doing? What am I doing?
I’ve been dragging my feet from one day to another for a week. The flashbacks are bad, which correspondingly means my checking is bad. I know this is because of what happened with Robin. It will take a while to get it out of my system, then at some point it will start to ease off, then I can just get back to checking normally and making myself half an hour late instead of three hours late.
I’m not sure if coming home and reading about OCD is really helping, to be honest. The medical terms remind me of the hospital and I try not to think about all that. I don’t remember that much about it, anyway. It’s as if all that happened to someone else. It’s as if I fell asleep when it all got too difficult, and then I woke up some time about eighteen months ago, gradually, with a kind of dull awareness that I was still alive, and that all I had to do was keep going, put one foot in front of the other, move forward and not backward. Of course I should stop reading about all this and start actually doing something constructive.
I’ve heard Stuart coming home, late at night. I think sometimes I lie there waiting to hear his feet on the stairs outside. I know he tries to be quiet when he comes up the stairs but to be honest I’d hear him in any case. I feel safer when I’ve heard him go past because I know for sure the door will be locked downstairs. After he’s been past I can go to sleep. Sometimes it’s been nearly midnight, though. He must be shattered.
Today I found myself walking past the library on my way home. The lights were all on, and the doors slid open automatically as I walked past, like an invitation. I avoid places like this, public places, but something made me go inside. It was nearly empty. Students at desks, a couple of people on the Internet terminals, two members of staff stamping books and chatting in loud whispers.
I browsed my way around until I got to the psychology section, looking along the titles for anything that might relate to obsessions and compulsions. I recognized the title of a book that Stuart had recommended, ran my finger along the spine.
It was quiet in here. I pulled out a volume about anxiety and flicked to the chapter headings. Not very cheerful. I heard a sound behind me, and looked over my shoulder. From where I stood between the shelves I could see nobody, not a single human being.
I put the book back in its place and walked back to the end of the aisle. There were still two people working at long tables, books spread out, notepads, highlighter pens. Only one person working at the main counter now, a woman with short hair and impossibly long earrings. She was accepting a pile of books that a man had just passed over the counter to her.
I caught a flash of blond hair, a bulky physique, navy blue sweatshirt, a confident, purposeful stride. It was him.
I felt light-headed, ducked back behind the shelves, my heart pounding. The lightness didn’t go away, and then it was blackness, and the room started to swim. I didn’t even feel the floor.
It must only have been a few moments later when I opened my eyes and saw the library woman and some other people standing over me. I tried to get up quickly, my head spinning, disoriented.
“Stay there, you’re okay. Just take a moment.” It was one of the students, a fair-haired man who looked far too young to have a beard of that magnitude.
“Would you like me to call you an ambulance?” said the library woman. “I’m afraid there aren’t any First Aiders on duty this time of night, so I don’t know . . .”
“I’m fine, really. Sorry. I just felt faint.” I tried to get up again. This time the young man helped me. They’d put a chair behind me. I sat down gratefully.
“Put your head down, that’s it.”
I looked around for the blond man as best I could before the student put his hand on the back of my neck and shoved my head downward. There was no sign of him.
“Have you had anything to eat?” said the student.
“Are you a doctor?” the librarian asked.
“I’m a lifeguard, I’ve done First Aid,” he said. “She just fainted, that’s all. Give her a minute, she’ll be fine . . . I’ve got some chocolate in my bag,” he said to me. “Would you like that?”
The librarian started to say something I suspected would be connected with rules about eating in the library.
“Thanks.” I raised my head. “I’ll be fine. I feel better now.”
She caught sight of the line forming at the desk and hurried off, leaving me with the student. He had a mess of strawberry-blond hair, heading somewhere toward an afro, and a beard that looked capable of holding enough food to sustain a family of four. “My name’s Joe,” he said cheerfully, offering his hand. He was crouched next to my chair, which was oddly positioned in the middle of the psychology section.
“Cathy,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thanks, Joe. Sorry for the—for causing a scene. Interrupting your studies.”
“S’okay. I was just about falling asleep over there.”
I stood up. He stood next to me as if half expecting me to keel over again. “You’re feeling okay?”
“Yes,” I said, “thanks. I’m fine.” I gave him my brightest smile.
“You look a bit better than you did. You went down with a hell of a bang.”
I looked at him and nodded. “Well, I’d better go.”
“Sure, see you around then. Take care.”
“You too. Bye. Thanks again.”
I scurried out of the library, giving the woman behind the desk a half smile as I passed.
In the fresh air I felt better. I knew it hadn’t been him, the man I’d seen. He was the wrong shape, his hair the wrong color. It was dyed blond, not natural the way his had been.
I see him everywhere, all the time. I know it can’t be him, he’s hundreds of miles away and safely in prison. But still he haunts me, a regular apparition, reminding me that I’ll never get away from him. How can I get away, when he’s still inside my head?
On my way back home, to start the checking, I fished out my phone and sent a text to Stuart.
Hello, thanks for all the OCD stuff. Hope you’re not working too hard. C
A few moments passed, I was just about to turn the corner into Talbot Street, and the reply came.
No problem, hope it’s useful. Do you fancy a brew? S
I looked up at the front of the house, all the way up to the top floor. All his windows were lit up. The floor below, just the lights from the dining room in my flat shining dimly through to the front. His windows looked much more welcoming than mine. I sent a reply:
I’m just on my way home. Give me half an hour? C
Friday night, and all my friends out in town, getting drunk and flirting and shouting and dancing . . . Waving at strangers and bent double laughing, knees squeezed together in delicious hysterical agony, at the lad who’s tried to jump over a trash can in the Market Square and landed flat on his face . . . Walking from one bar to the other holding each other up, trying to pretend we’re less drunk than we actually are, although we’re more drunk than we were in the last place because of the cold, the fresh air . . . Having serious discussions in bathroom stalls, holding your friend who’s crying because she thinks he doesn’t like her anymore and anyway he’s such a twat, he doesn’t deserve you . . . Repairing makeup again, crowded around the neon-lit mirror, the floor skiddy with water from the sinks, at least one of them always full and blocked with tissue . . . At the end of the evening holding back someone’s hair, probably Claire, she’s such a lightweight, at least she made it into the bathroom this time, while later some poor girl nobody recognizes sits barefoot on the steps outside, legs splayed at odd angles, mascara-streaks down her sorrowful cheeks, her shoes on their sides next to her, her bag hanging around her neck . . . Walking home together arm in arm because there’s no money left for a cab, too late, too early, if it wasn’t winter it would be light by now, not feeling the cold because we’re so full of vodka and friendship and love for each other and anyone else who’ll stand still long enough . . .
I wasn’t out tonight, though, I was at home with Lee. He turned up at my house at seven, with three shopping bags and a tagine. He shut me out of my kitchen and I sat watching television, hugging my knees and drinking the frosty-cold white wine he brought with him, listening to him singing along to the radio, lots of banging of cabinet doors and rattling of pans.
He’d told me he wasn’t working again until Tuesday. I thought of the long weekend stretching ahead of us like a beautiful promise, all the places we could go together, falling asleep with him, waking up with him still there, and shivered with delight.
Every so often the kitchen door opened and he emerged with something else for the table—silverware, bread, some small pots of something unidentified with spoons sticking out of them.
“Anything I can do?”
“Sit there and look beautiful.”
I thought about the girls. They’d gone to the opening night of the Red Divine, a nightclub in a converted chapel. It had finally managed to open despite complaints from former worshippers, who failed to see that if they hadn’t stopped attending services the chapel would still be a thriving Christian oasis in the seething heathen mass of the town center, instead of a state-of-the-art club with three bars, leather seating and a VIP area. They’d wanted to call it Angels and Demons but that part at least had been vetoed by the licensing department at the council. There was one bonus, though: the local newspaper said that all the people who’d put in a complaint had received VIP tickets to the opening night.
I was dying to see the inside of it. Next weekend?
The kitchen door opened again, a rush of warm air and the sound of voices on the radio against sizzling, the smell of something spicy and meaty and delicious.
He didn’t even look flushed, just cool and completely in control, humming to himself as he put out some serving spoons and arranged the place mats in preparation for something hot in the middle of the table.
“Sure I can’t help?”
He came over to me and bent to kiss me. I snaked my arm around his neck to pull him closer, but he untangled himself. “Don’t distract me, I’m nearly done.”
I went back to the television with a smile on my face. My mouth was watering.