Live to Tell (46 page)

“Have you made plans for this evening,” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Look, we could get some food if you want. I promise I won’t jump on you.”

I knew Mum and Dad would be on visiting assignment at Aunt Jess’ bedside tomorrow. I wondered if she would introduce them to Olivier and then whisper to them that she had hopes something might come of our “romance”. That would mean I would have Mum breathing down my neck as well. She’d probably start hopefully eyeing the displays in
Mothercare
shop windows too, looking forward to possible grandchildren.

“No. Er sorry,” I said. “I have to go home.”

But I didn’t have to go home straight away. In some ways I never wanted to go home again, so I walked the opposite way—down Pond Street past the overland railway station and up to Parliament Hill. In the silence of the tree-lined hill-side I stood alone looking at the stars and thinking about Danny. I wondered if “his” satellite was still in orbit. I guess I’ll never know, I thought. I shivered with a sudden chill.

Wearily I returned home. From Maida Vale underground station I walked up the street to the turning into my Mews. In the darkness a face peered at me from around the corner. Surprised, I realised it was Mrs Jeffery. She emitted a little cry and ran forward. Wringing her hands together, she seemed unable to speak so I took hold of them.

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

She shook her head and moaned in reply.

“Has something happened? Are you feeling ill?”

I hugged her small frame. She still seemed unable to speak but clung to my jacket. With faltering steps, we walked to our houses and her shoulders started moving up and down.

“What is it,” I asked softly because, in truth, I could not understand what had upset her.

“Look,” she said pointing upwards.

Bewildered I stared. Then I saw it. My redundant CCTV camera had something hanging over it. It looked like an old sweater or a jacket. I couldn’t quite see what it was. Then I screamed. It was Henry hanging there.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
 

I felt faint. My head was swimming and I leaned against the wall of my house. Somehow Mrs Jeffery manoeuvred me into the building. This was the end. How much more could I take? Sobbing, I sat down at my kitchen table feeling utterly defeated. My neighbour stood with her arms around me and tried to calm me down. But there was nothing she could do. How could someone hurt my little Henry who never did anyone any harm?

“I found him half an hour ago,” she said, “when I was putting the bins out.”

Of course, the refuse collectors were due the next day. I had forgotten.

“I didn’t know what to do. We can’t leave him there. It isn’t decent. We must get him down. I have a set of steps but I can’t climb up them. I’m afraid I might fall.” She wrung her hands again, and then said. “I know who will help us. I have an idea. Why don’t we ring that nice Barry? I’m sure he would come if we asked him.”

“No,” I shrieked. “We can’t bother him, he’s probably busy. Oh God,” I sobbed. “What next?”

“We have to have some help, dear. I don’t think we can do this on our own.”

She was right. Whatever happened next, we couldn’t leave his little body draped across the CCTV camera. It was obscene.

“We need a tall man,” she said and sat down.

I knew a tall man. I fumbled in my bag and found Olivier’s card with his private number scrawled across it. Let him come and sort it out, I thought contemptuously.

Mrs Jeffery phoned him. I couldn’t.

Ten minutes later his car swept into the mews. He walked into my house and looked from one to the other of us. Mrs Jeffery explained our dilemma. I couldn’t speak. She took him next door, where the steps were stored, and carefully he removed Henry. He laid him in the boot of his car, closed it, and gently placed his arm around her narrow shoulders.

“I guess you know I’m a doctor,” he said. “I carry sedatives in my bag. Would you like one? It will help you sleep.”

She shook her head.

After returning her and the steps to the safety of her home, he came back to my house. He sat down opposite me, on what I now thought of as the kitchen “hot seat”. Despite his presence, I could not stop crying. He frowned and leaned forward.

“It’s gone now,” he said. “I’ve got rid of it.”

At these words I cried even more. He said “it” as if Henry had no identity.

“Don’t take on so. It’s only a cat.”

“Only a cat? Only a cat? It isn’t only a cat. He was my cat, my lovely boy. I can’t take any more. I’ve come to the end of the road. That’s it. You might as well know, a year ago I killed someone. Now I’m being persecuted and I can’t take any more.” I buried my head in my hands. “This is the last straw.” The thought came to me that if Henry with all his speed and agility, and his inability to identify anyone, could not escape my stalker’s evil clutches, what chance would Barry’s son stand against this monster.

Olivier got up and walked around to my side of the table. “Come through to the other room where you can lie down,” he said. “If you want, you can tell me what happened.”

I shook my head. “You won’t understand. You’re a pacifist. You said so. You spend your life saving other people. I killed someone. That’s all there is to say!”

“I promise I’ll try to understand. Talking will help, I know.”

He led me through to the sitting room and I curled up on the sofa. I no longer cared what the future held for me. I just wanted the nightmare to end. I told him everything.

During my rant Olivier sat quietly on the sofa beside me. The only show of emotion he made was when I spoke of the way I dumped the body in Epping Forest. Then he just raised his eyebrows slightly. When I finished, he tenderly stroked my face with his thumb.

“There. Now you know,” I said. “Now you’d better call the police. At least in prison no-one will be able to get to me.”

“I have no intention of calling the police,” he said. “Please believe me. I’m half Italian and we Italians have a different attitude to such matters. Not exactly
laissez
faire
, but definitely more compassionate when a crisis has occurred. I believe there is not a court in Italy that would convict you of murder. They would think—provocation, or crime of passion. And a woman attacked by a man? Definitely self defence. You may have been looking for him but you didn’t force your way into
his
home or attack
him
, did you?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t want to harm him but he was hurting me. He was kicking me and I was afraid. I knew he would rape me. He said as much. I was in pain for weeks afterwards. Then when he started to move after I knocked him out, I thought he would attack me again. But I know the police will never see it the way you do. The only hope I have is that they will have a record of Aidan’s attack. They’ll know about the carving.”

“The carving?”

“Yes. He said he would do the same to me. That’s when I knew I had to fight. I just suddenly thought I’m a loyal subject of the Queen. What gave
him
the right to disfigure my face? He said he would carve a letter “H” on my forehead, “H” for whore. So I mocked him, told him whore began with “W”; said he didn’t even know
my
Queen’s English. That’s when I hit him.”

I started to cry again softly. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t cope with the phone calls. I feel so threatened.”

He looked down and shook his head. “And you’ve got such a beautiful face. I can’t allow any harm to come to it. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but why don’t you come home with me tonight? Either that or I will stay here.”

Indecision gripped me. I didn’t want to be on my own, but I could hardly abandon Mrs Jeffery, even though I was sure she had nothing to fear from the stalkers. It was me they were after. She was just collateral damage. I felt so confused. I didn’t want his car parked outside all night but, as he was being so kind, it seemed ungrateful to say so. Because of his work, Barry never calls around in the mornings, I thought. That’s the thought I must hold on to.

“I knew there was something wrong,” Olivier said. “It wasn’t what you said or did, just something about the way your eyes looked—kind of withdrawn. It must have been hell for you. There I was, rabbiting on about protest marches and you were dealing with the real thing. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I came on so heavy. I hope it didn’t bring back bad memories.”

“It doesn’t matter. You weren’t to know. And I’d be very grateful if you would stay,” I said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Again I slept fitfully. Olivier shared my bed but kept his t-shirt and shorts on and I slept in my underwear. At around four-thirty I awoke, as usual, and lay there too hot yet shivering with cold. There’s no choice now I decided. I must go to the police and tell them everything—whatever that brings. It’s the only way out. I can’t go on like this. My movements woke the man beside me.

“You okay? ‘S everything alright?”

“Yes. I just can’t sleep. I wake up at this time every morning.” I sighed. “I’ve been lying here thinking and I’ve come to a decision. It’s the only way I can go.”

I explained what I intended to do.

“There is another option,” he said. “I haven’t told you—or anyone for that matter. I didn’t want you to think I was running out on you again. Not after we only just met up, but I’ve been offered a post abroad. It’s in a prestigious department carrying out cell research at the university in Bologna, in Italy. That’s not far from my family estate and it could be a great stepping stone for my career. Also, it’s a long way from here. Come with me. You’d be safe there. If the police haven’t bothered with you after a year, they are not likely to now, are they? If you liked it there and things worked out, we could get married. Then you’d have a passport in a different, Italian name. If things got really sticky, we could leave Italy, go to Argentina. There’s a big Italian community there—and
no
extradition. What do you think?”

I stared at him, not sure if I had heard him correctly.

“You’d do all that for me? I don’t know what to think.” I felt shocked. “When it first happened, I tried to run away but I only got as far as Dorset. Moving abroad isn’t something I’ve even contemplated.” I lay back. It was too much to take in.

He raised himself up onto one elbow and in the light from the uncurtained window looked at me. “Apart from my work, I haven’t exactly made a great success of my life have I? With two broken marriages and not getting on with my father, I mean. I think we could be happy together if you are willing to take a chance. If it didn’t work out, at least you’ve put some space between yourself and whatever’s threatening you. Good God, who’s that?”

Anxiously I looked in the direction of his gaze expecting a person to be standing there. In the half light Olivier was looking at the photograph of Danny. “But that looks like…” he trailed off.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s Danny. I was married to Danny. He’s my late husband.” There was a long silence.

Olivier lay back against the pillow. “I feel so stupid. I had no idea,” he said. “I knew Danny died. My mother wrote and told me, said he had a military funeral. I never even thought he might be married.”

“I met him when I was with you in Italy,” I said, “but we didn’t see each other again until a couple of years later. We bumped into each other by accident. We got married, were very happy and then he died.”

“That’s it then. I’ve got no chance, have I? I can’t compete with Danny. I never could.”

“What are you talking about? Danny’s dead. He’s been dead for nearly eleven years. There is no competition. I love him—I always will and I’ll never forget him, but my life has moved on. It had to. Oh, and if it makes you happier, he worried about you too.” I didn’t add that since Danny died, there was a cold empty space somewhere in the middle of my body that could never be filled—by anyone.

“Really?” He looked surprised.

Now I was in a dilemma. Olivier was the decent and kind man my aunt said. He just made me a generous and tempting offer. But if I threw my lot in with his, I knew I’d never see Barry again. You stupid, stupid cow, I thought. You are weighing up possible fleeting happiness against keeping your life. I was sure I would be the cat killing monster’s next victim.

“If it helps you, or helps me to establish my credentials,” Olivier said, “look at this! Now you might understand better. Look.” He pulled his t-shirt off over his head. On his lean body he had an abdominal scar—healed but white against his tanned skin.

“What is it? An appendix scar?”

He laughed. “You don’t know much about anatomy, do you? No, I got this on a protest march.”

“You were stabbed,” I asked horrified.

“No, just beaten up. As a result I had to have two ribs removed. So you see I understand how it feels to be attacked.”

I traced the line of the wound with my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I had no idea.”

“Please don’t do that. Stop. A few hours ago I promised I wouldn’t make a move on you again. I’m having a lot of trouble keeping that promise. If you don’t stop, I’ve had it.”

Sometimes you reach a point when you have to make a decision that you know will affect the rest of your life. This was one such moment. He had offered me a way out. I would be stupid not to take it. I didn’t stop. Instead I closed my eyes and pretended I was back in the Edwardian house in West Kensington. It was so strange how the years rolled away.