Killing Cupid (10 page)

I hurled myself inside the house, bolted the door, and ran around yanking every single set of curtains closed, making sure that the back door and all the windows were locked, shaking so much that I could barely get my fingers to work. Then I poured myself a huge gin and tried to sit down in the armchair, but I couldn’t sit still, even when Biggles jumped on my lap and wanted stroking.

I tipped him on to the floor and paced up and down, dizzy and fidgeting with fear. What did the man want? Was he outside the house now? Had he been after my bag, or worse? What if he tried to get in? I didn’t know whether I should phone the police or not. I wished Phil wasn’t in Portugal. I had a sudden urge to call Kathy, but of course I didn’t.

I’ve been sitting in my bedroom for ages, peering through a tiny slit at the side of the curtains, scanning the road until I got a draft in my eyes and I was beginning to imagine dark shapes behind every garden fence. But whoever it was has – I hope – long gone. It’s late now; well past two o’clock but I can’t sleep so I’m just going to keep writing.

I’ve suddenly had a really, really appalling thought…. What if this is all linked? What if someone’s broken into my house and that’s how come the mug was there and Biggles got out and maybe somebody’s got my credit card number, and maybe that’s the same person that has just followed me home. It could be the same person who sent me flowers – not realizing they were dead? – and wrote that card. Oh God, oh God.

I’ve just run downstairs and checked the back door again. No sign of a break-in. Still locked and bolted top and bottom. Front door chained and Chubbed. Window locks all still in place.

It can’t be that. It’s impossible. I’m obviously just freaked out about that walk home. I’ll have another drink…

Had three big drinks. Bit pissed now. Keep writing.

This would never have got to me so much if it weren’t for what happened when I was fourteen. That time, when I looked around, he hadn't pressed himself against a wall and tried to hide. Instead, I’d seen him clearly under the streetlight, running at me. He was young and skinny, with wiry hair and tight jeans. He wore a cheap vinyl bomber jacket with a bobbled elasticated waist – tonight, I hadn’t even been able to tell if the man was black or white.

That time, I’d felt two hands pounce heavily on my shoulders, the way people at school did to one another when they wanted to scare them. I’d jumped, and actually half-laughed, trying to twist my head around again to get a better look at him.

It must be someone I knew, I’d thought. I waited for him to release me and announce himself. Perhaps he was that fifth year who went to swimming club with Donna, the one Donna said fancied me. But he didn't speak, and I didn’t recognise him. An arm snaked out and pinned my neck in an arm lock, so my head was forced back against his chest. I wasn't choking, because the crook of his elbow had left a breathing space in front of my Adam's apple, but I couldn't move either.

‘What are you doing?’ I remembered trying to say. I remember how my voice was all small and spluttering. I could smell his breath in my ear, sour, heavy, more man than boy.

I felt his other arm move in front of my body, his fingers searching for the opening of my dufflecoat beneath the bottom toggle. His hand shot inside and clamped itself between my legs, under the bulk of my Laura Ashley dress and over my cream woolly tights. I remember exactly what I was wearing: that awful green flower-sprigged Laura Ashley smock thing. The tights were too small and had got dragged down a bit when I walked, and I felt his thumb brush against my bare stomach above the waistband, and it was the sensation of skin on skin which snapped me out of immobility. I’d tried to struggle, but he was holding me too tightly. His hand moved, a steel claw grabbing at me coldly, somehow dispassionately, and I felt pinioned, ready for dissection. It was almost like was scratching an itch for me, but too roughly. Without my permission.

I made more of an effort to shake him off with my shoulders, flailing at him with my arms and hands. I managed to jam an elbow into his rib cage, and he gasped, but didn't let go. He was still clawing at me, mechanically, painfully, as if we were locked in a brief silent dance, a back-to-front waltz of lust and disbelief. I grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him off me, but his hand appeared to be superglued to my crotch.

I tried stamping on his foot, which unbalanced him, and we toppled together towards the alley wall. I was in front of him and so I connected with it first. I felt a horrible scraping, ripping sensation down the right side of my face as the rough bricks grated my skin, and then a stinging heat followed by a trickle of blood down my cheek and into the neck of my duffel coat.

Bloody hell. Where did that come from? I think I must have held my breath the entire time I typed that, it still stresses me out so much. I was fourteen, and twenty years later I still go to pieces if I even think someone’s creeping up on me. And I’d been lucky – I got away. I wasn’t even raped, just ‘sexually assaulted’, as the policewoman said, when I gave a statement. But at least my assailant didn’t know where I lived.

It’s four o’clock. I must go to bed. I’m so tired and drunk now that I know I’ll sleep.

Thursday

Really, really knackered this morning. Two rejection letters from editors – well, at least that’s saved me the bother of chasing them. One said that the Botox thing had been ‘done to death’, and the other just that they aren’t taking any work from freelancers at the moment. I wonder if I should bite the bullet and try and get a proper job somewhere. I could read manuscripts. I could maybe get a job for a literary agent. Although probably all the failed writers in the entire world – and Lord knows there are enough of us – think the same.

Perhaps I could just run away somewhere remote, and hide. Me and Biggles. Safe where nobody can follow us or leave dead flowers.

Friday

Have just realized I forgot to write about class on Wednesday night – I was too freaked out by what happened afterwards.

It went well, I think, I’m really getting a good picture of their strengths and weaknesses. We did another sensory exercise and they were all much more attentive this week, now they know the drill. Not nearly so much fidgeting and scratching.

Speaking of fidgeting and scratching, Brian wasn’t there, for the second week in a row. I feel somehow uneasy about his absence – I mean, I know it’s not school and he’s free to come and go as he pleases without a note from his mum – but what if he’s too embarrassed to come in because it was him who sent that card?

Anyway, Kathy read out another really excellent piece of writing. Last week’s exercise was about the character and their reaction to noise, and she’d done a brilliantly funny thing about roadworks. Her descriptions were so vivid that I knew instantly where she was talking about – they’ve been digging up the road by the park for ages – so when we got chatting afterwards, I asked her if I was right. Turns out that I was, and she only lives a few streets away from me.

We ended up walking home together, and just as we got to the George V, I mentioned what a great pub it was, and she said, ‘I know, it’s my local. I live across the road here. Shall we, then? I’m parched.’

Before I knew it we were inside the pub, looking around for an empty, non-sticky table, and draping our coats over the back of two spare armchairs.

‘It’s funny,’ I said, feeling momentarily flustered, like I’d suddenly been asked out, ‘but I’ve had to turn down two invitations out for drinks with other students, on the grounds that it’s against college regulations.’

She laughed. She’s pretty when she laughs – her eyes crinkle and her chin goes really pointy. I always feel so fascinated by lesbians. I instantly start wondering if they fancy me, and then feel affronted when they don’t. I suppose that’s how most men are, around pretty women. I like the idea of a ‘lesbian experience’, although I’m not sure I’d have the nerve to go through with it.

‘Male students, I take it. Well, not difficult to guess which ones, since we only have the two.’

I tried to bluff it out, pretending that I’d meant the students were from other classes I’d taught, and not this one. It would have been a bit indiscreet. But I’m sure she wasn’t fooled.

We got comfortable in the two big tatty armchairs near the fireplace with our drinks – vodka and tonic for me, Jack and coke for her, and, just for something to talk about, I started telling her about the underwear delivery. I was laughing, saying how batty I’ve been lately, but she looked at me a bit strangely.

‘There’s no way you could have bought that off the Web without noticing,’ she said.

‘Well, I must have done. It’s on my credit card.’

‘You would have to have typed in your address, approved the amount, entered your card details, and then the site would almost certainly have confirmed your purchase with an email afterwards. They do that, to stop fraud.’

‘Then how…?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve got no idea. Unless you really are losing your marbles.’

Yeah, thanks Kathy.

I sighed, tempted for a moment to pour out my heart about all the other weird things which had happened over the past two weeks, but instead we drifted into a conversation about writing, and then publishing – Kathy used to have an agent, but the agent dropped her after failing to find a publisher for her first novel – so we had a lot in common. I told her about the TLA fiasco, and she sympathised, which made me feel worse. There was a time when people were impressed that you’d been published, not sympathetic. I can’t stand being a has-been.

I was about to say goodbye and go, when Kathy got up. Her legs in jeans were inches away from me, and I suddenly wondered what she’d do if I pressed my face into her. She has nice legs, like a Barbie doll’s. All the men in the pub looked at her when she stood up.

‘Another drink?’

I checked the time on my phone – ten thirty – although my decision wasn’t time-dependent, since I’d already decided I wanted to go home. ‘Better not. I’m a bit wrecked, to tell you the truth.’

‘Want a lift? My car’s just across the road. It wouldn’t be a problem.’

I laughed – how ironic, in retrospect. Why did I not just accept? ‘No, it’s fine, thanks. It’ll only take me five minutes to walk.’

There was a moment’s awkward hovering at the door of the pub. I didn’t know whether to shake her hand, or kiss her cheek, and it seemed that nor did she. In the end we grinned at each other and waved self-consciously.

‘See you next Wednesday, then.’

‘Yeah. Thanks for the drink, neighbour. Bye.’

Kathy vanished round the corner, pulling on her coat and simultaneously fishing around in the pocket for her keys as she walked. She strikes me as a multi-tasking kind of person. I wondered if, once the course was over, we could be friends and decided that it was quite possible. It would be nice to have a mate – I nearly said ‘girlfriend’ – living locally, none of my other friends do.

Then I began to walk home, across the swimming pool carpark, and that’s when I got chased.

Oh God, what if it is the same person who sent the card, and the flowers, and the underwear? That means he’s been in my house. What do I do? Should I tell the police? Have I got a stalker? I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or flattered. I know for sure I’d be terrified, if I really believed I had. No.

It’s just not possible.

Chapter 10
Alex

Wednesday

Seeing them together tonight made me feel sick. The way they were laughing, leaning close together across the table, looking so happy in each other’s company. It was bad enough seeing that she'd accepted Kathy as a friend on Facebook while ignoring my request, but this was a more visceral disappointment. It should have been me in there with Siobhan, having a drink with her, telling her about myself, swapping smiles. It should have been me! She told me a lie: that she wasn’t allowed to socialise with students. That hurts more than anything – maybe even more than the fact that she chose Kathy over me.

Why do the people we love always have to disappoint us so?

I hope Siobhan isn’t going to go off with Kathy and embark on some crazed Sapphic affair. I don’t think Siobhan’s a lesbian. I’ve seen the way she looks at me – it’s a look that says ‘I like men’, even if she hasn’t realised exactly how she feels about this man yet. But I still feel so betrayed. After following them from the college to the pub, I looked in through the window and had a clear view of them. My stomach lurched and I only just stopped myself from vomiting.

After they’d said goodbye I followed Siobhan for a little while, just wanting to be near her. Needing to gain strength from her proximity. But she almost saw me – I had to duck into the shadows – and then she ran off.

Oh, Siobhan, I don’t hate you now. I still love you. I still want us to be together. So no, my sweetheart, my angel, I don’t blame you. Of course not. It’s that bitch Kathy. I blame her. She persuaded you to go to the pub with her; maybe even coerced you, nagged you until you felt you had no other choice.

I wonder if you were wearing your new underwear tonight, Siobhan. Kathy didn’t know about that, did she? About the delicious silk you were wearing beneath your clothes. That was our secret. You and me.

I can picture you taking it off: slipping off the shoulder straps in front of the mirror, your breasts buffed to even greater softness by the smooth touch of the silk; then sitting on the bed and pushing down the rest of it, kicking it aside, a wicked look on your face. And I’m there with you, like a shadow. You can’t see me, Siobhan, but you can feel me. You open your arms and I fall into your embrace. We kiss and you run your hands down my back and you’re moaning, saying my name, oh Alex, please, I want you, and you pull me towards you, and you’re already wet, so wet, and I slide into you and . . .

Kathy could never give you that.