The Day We Disappeared (30 page)

‘Wow.' Tim rubbed his face.
‘Wow, Annie. I'm so sorry. You poor, poor thing.'

I shook my head. There was no time for
betrayals and broken hearts. Stephen could arrive at my house in as little as ten
minutes now.

‘How strange that Stephen felt the
need to come between us,' he mused, ‘when all along
he
was
being unfaithful. I wonder what his motives were.'

‘I have no idea,' I lied.
‘Let's get back to that day, just for now. Stephen called you and said I
had food poisoning. I was running a bath. I could hear him talking to you, so I
guess he must have been talking to the dialling tone. His only real communication
with you was a message that he sent from my phone to yours, saying I didn't
want to see you.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘Indeed. So, you called me as soon
as you got the text message. You called three times, then Stephen answered. What did
he say? He didn't tell you I had food poisoning?'

Tim rolled his eyes to the ceiling,
trying to remember the details.

‘Nope. He echoed what you'd
said in the text message, really – that you were really upset about some stuff, and
that you were finding it particularly hard to be around men at the moment. Except
him. He …' Tim scratched his head, looking baffled. ‘He was actually
really
nice. He talked about your mum, said he thought this was
happening because you'd agreed to move in with him, and that that had probably
triggered old feelings.' A pause. ‘It was really quite plausible. Very
sociopathic behaviour.'

‘So, the
café? The bakery? When you turned up later?'

‘Oh, God!' Tim said,
realizing he'd been had again. ‘God, he's good!'

I nodded, impatient for him to
continue.

‘I was early for work,' Tim
said, ‘And I thought I'd check on you, because if you were in a
traumatized state I thought you might need proper help.'

Lovely Tim.

‘I was heading to your house when
Stephen came out of the bakery. I hadn't seen you two in there so I was taken
by surprise. Stephen got quite shirty, asking why I couldn't respect your
wishes. I said I was very familiar with your past and felt that you might need some
specialized support. Then he got all personal and insulting. I lost my rag a bit,
because I was stressed, and he loved that. I actually shouted at him! That's
when you appeared. And then I saw you sprint off and …' Tim's voice
caught. ‘Poor Annie,' he said softly. ‘I thought you were having
an episode. Maybe you were. To run that fast from me …'

My phone started ringing.

Stephen again. Was he outside my
house?

‘Go on,' I begged Tim. I had
to know.

‘I saw you run and in that moment
I completely believed what Stephen had told me.' Tim's eyes became
watery, and for a brief, bittersweet moment he became sixteen-year-old Tim again. So
young and bruised, yet so determined not to cry, rolling his tatty copy of
On
the Road
round and round in his hands, nails bitten down to sore crescents.
‘Just so you know, Annie, I did send you a final email, the next day. Said I
wouldn't be in contact unless you wanted
it but that I was there for you any time. I got a reply
saying could I please not email again.'

I put my head into my hands and slowly
folded down into my lap. ‘Oh, God. He's been accessing my emails. Oh,
God, Tim.'

‘Whoa,' Tim whispered,
visibly shocked. ‘What a mess. I had an awful feeling something like this
could be happening, but I've been in my own shit about Lizzy and failing to
get over it and I guess I just … I guess I just chose to believe you. I should have
fought harder, though. Carried on contacting you, irrespective of what you
said.'

He rubbed his hands over his face. He
looked awful. ‘I've let you down,' he said sadly. ‘I should
have trusted my gut.'

No, I thought. I've let you down.
And I'm going to do it again. You'll never know how much I hate myself
for this.

‘I think Stephen's been
using my phone to read my messages and emails constantly,' I said flatly.
‘He's always known so much, Tim. Things that he claimed I'd told
him, but I was sure I hadn't.' My mouth made a sound distantly related
to a laugh. ‘He'd say, “God, you forget everything, don't
you?”'

Tim shook his head. ‘This is
bloody awful.'

‘It's not the best.
I'm pretty sure I missed out on some Le Cloob meetings because he simply read
and deleted the texts. I'm convinced I wasn't that useless.'

‘Bloody hell.'

‘He's so good, though, Tim.
He accused me several times of stalking him and I ended up really paranoid that
he was right! That I was, like, some
shady stalker who should feel ashamed of herself!'

‘I don't
understand.'

‘Well, for example, one day he
found a photo on my phone of him that I'd Google-imaged at the beginning of
our relationship and he was all, like, “Ha-ha! My little stalker!” He
said it more than once. I died of shame every time. And all the time there he was,
poking around in my phone, my email, my life.'

Tim, who was looking increasingly pale,
checked his watch. ‘Look, I've got an admin afternoon so I can spare a
few hours if I make it up tonight. I suggest we go to your house now and pack some
stuff so you can come and stay with me. Or Lizzy. Or Claudine, if you're
feeling brave.'

I couldn't smile.

‘And I think we should call the
police.'

‘Not yet.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I don't want to,
Tim. I don't think you understand how clever Stephen is, how easily he can
talk his way out of trouble. He's got the very best lawyers, and the very best
brain. Unless I have an
overwhelming
body of evidence against him,
he'll be out of the police station and at my front door within the hour. I
need a couple more days to put it together. Will you give me that?'

Tim looked wary.

My phone started ringing again.
‘Hello, Claudie.'

‘Oh, my little pepper pot,'
Claudine said sadly. ‘Lizzy just told me you are back. I am so desperately
sorry, Annabel. I am going to come to Lizzy's tonight. We can
talk then. Or, if you prefer, we do not talk about it.
But I will be there.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Have you heard from
Stephen?'

‘Repeatedly.'

Claudine made a worried sound. ‘Be
careful, my little piglet. I think Stephen is very clever.'

‘I completely agree. I'm
being very careful indeed.'

I ended the call. ‘Claudie just
said the same thing. “Stephen's very clever.” I beg you, Timmy,
don't call the police. Not yet.'

‘Okay. But first sign of trouble
and I'm calling them,' he muttered.

I felt no relief at all when we got
back to my house and found the doorstep empty. If he wasn't there now, he
would be soon. He would be there soon and I would have to act on my plan, and I
would hurt not only Tim but Lizzy and Claudine. And – worst of all – my dad. My
lovely, sweet daddy.

Tim held my hand while he walked around
my little house, checking every cupboard. ‘I want to call the police,'
he kept saying, but I wouldn't let him.

After packing a bag of things we went
down to my kitchen to turn off the heating.

And then my heart stopped.

There he was.

In my back garden.

‘Annie!' Stephen called,
striding towards my French windows, and I heard Tim shouting something.

At first, as my arms, then my legs
started to shake, and
I felt breathless
and floaty, I didn't realize what was happening.

‘Police,' I heard Tim say
into his phone, and then shout, ‘I've dialled nine nine nine!' at
Stephen. I was dimly aware of Stephen yelling something through my back door and Tim
pushing me out of the room. Then my chest started tightening and it all came back to
me. The sensation of being unable to breathe, hearing myself gasping for air. Sweat
breaking thickly across me, like oil, while I scrabbled hopelessly at the threads of
my existence to stop myself dying.

And then the bit where it all stopped,
when I thought, That's it. I've died.

Annie:

HELLO FROM THAILAND! SURPRISE!
And sorry . . ! This is the view from my hut ☺ Guys, I'm so
sorry to do a runner on you, but I felt like I had no choice. I couldn't
wait around doing paperwork for a restraining order, I just had to go. Please
try to understand, and please know that I love you and that I'm sorry.
Lizzy, I called Dad and said I wasn't sure about Stephen and had decided
to take a nice holiday. Please DO NOT tell him what's really happened.
It'll set him right back, and I can't do that to him. Anyway,
I'll only be away two or three months; it'll soon pass and by the
time I'm back, Stephen'll have forgotten about me. I'm not
insane, by the way, I'm FINE. Just sorry if I've made you worry. I
love you all. X 6.52am ✓ ✓

Lizzy:

Oh God, Annie! Please answer your
phone. Please tell us where you are. You can send a letter if you think
that's safer. Pleeeeeeease, little sister. Or just come back where the
police can protect you. Love you so much. Xxxxxxxxx 7.11am ✓ ✓

Claudine:

Oh dear, Annie. I am so sorry to
have been part of the cause of this. I echo your sister. Please do tell us where
you are, it is important that somebody knows. Stay safe, my little flip-flop. I
also love you. 7.12am ✓ ✓

Tim:

ANNIE! Please come home. And tell
us where you are in the meantime. Please, sweetheart. X 8.00am ✓ ✓

Annie:

Better not tell you where I am,
just in case. Please don't worry about me! I think Stephen's
unhinged but I also think he'll give up as soon as he realizes I've
gone. By the time I'm back it'll just be a blip in the distant past
for him. And, anyway, you know I'm happiest abroad. Especially in Asia. I
am eating spicy soup and listening to the birds in the trees. I should split up
with mad stalky boyfriends more often! Honestly, I'm FINE. It's
utterly gorgeous here, and I feel relaxed for the first time in ages. xxx
8.57am ✓ ✓

I was not in Thailand eating spicy soup
and listening to the birds in the trees. Neither was I relaxed. ‘Can this just
go away?' I was saying to myself, sitting on a smooth, cold floor in a
windowless building. ‘Can this just
stop
?'

It did nothing of the sort.

I had bought a flight to Bangkok with a
changeover at Abu Dhabi Airport – where I was waiting now – but I had no intention
of completing the remaining leg. Stephen had been accessing my email account. That
much was now clear. What I didn't know, however, was whether he'd just
been snooping at my emails using my phone or if he'd actually hacked them.
This was my test.

If Stephen was hacking my emails, he
would know about this flight. And if he was as twisted as I now suspected he was, he
wouldn't simply turn up at Heathrow to persuade me to come back: he'd
fly out here to find me during my long layover. To stage a proper
‘rescue'. Show me
just how much
he cared; how desperately he
wanted me back.
I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, Pumpkin.
I'd spend every penny I had. We belong together.

Money was no object to Stephen Flint.
And where would be the triumph, the prestige, in snaring me at Heathrow? No. This
airport, with its vast eastern mosaics
stretching out across the ceiling, four thousand miles
away from London, would be far more exciting. A grand gesture befitting a grand
man.

‘I am the Leader of the
People!' he used to say. ‘I am God! You don't catch God having a
day off!' How I'd giggled.

How I would not have giggled if
I'd the faintest clue that he actually meant it.

You crossed the line when you let
Tim call the police
, he'd been texting.
I'm giving you
forty-eight hours to call me and explain yourself. Don't think I
won't find you.
Other texts would bang on about how much he loved me,
and couldn't live without me. Then some shouted things, like, ‘DO YOU
HAVE ANY FEELINGS AT ALL? ARE YOU EMOTIONALLY DEAD? FUCKING WELL CALL ME. I AM
HAVING THE WORST WEEK OF MY LIFE, YOU COLD-HEARTED BITCH. REMEMBER I HAVE EVIDENCE
THAT YOU'RE A STALKER. AND REMEMBER I HAVE EVIDENCE THAT YOU'RE FUCKING
MAD.'

Every time a message arrived, another
part of me seemed to fall away. There was so little of me left now. What remained
was just shrapnel, mismatching scraps of the innocent little hippie I'd once
been.

‘Are you all right, madam?'
asked a lady with a smart Etihad uniform and a soft Arabic accent. She smiled at me
as if I were an important first-class passenger rather than some freak in an old
trilby, crouching at the edge of the balcony like a stray dog. ‘Madam? You do
not look very comfortable there!'

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' I
said, as my brain started working
again.
‘Jetlag! I'm fine, thank you. Just waiting for my husband. He's
coming in from London and we're flying on to Bangkok together. I'll spot
him better from up here!'

‘Ah, of course, madam,' she
said. ‘Good luck finding him!' She walked off smartly, her spotless
shoes click-clacking away into the low murmur of the terminal.

How effortless it was to lie, I thought.
How easy it was, if you had the right accent, spoke the right language, to convince
the world that you were doing something perfectly innocent when you were doing quite
the opposite.

I wondered at what age Stephen had
stopped noticing or caring about his lies. If, in fact, that time had ever come, or
if he had just been lying since he could talk.

Did you have a nice day at school, darling?

Yes
, said five-year-old
Stephen.
I came top in maths homework, Mum!
When in fact he had badly
beaten up one of his classmates and spent the afternoon in the headmaster's
office.
I got a gold star!

There was still no sign of him. I
wondered if I needed to eat something.

I dragged myself off to a coffee shop
where a woman in a hijab was pulling coffees and chatting to a male customer about
his fungal toe infection. U2 was playing in the background, that song about the city
of blinding lights, and a tiny little girl who looked like she was maybe from Libya
was teaching her even tinier brother the Gangnam Style dance. The world had never
felt so strange.

I ordered a pastry that I knew I
wouldn't be able to eat, and a coffee that would probably send me through the
roof, and got out the notebook I'd had close to my body since finding out
three days ago that Stephen had not only
been cheating on me but was almost certainly in
possession of a dangerous personality disorder.

Psychopath
, I'd written
at the top of the first page, swirling the leg of the H round and round until it
rolled off the page.

I knew Claudine would be cursing herself
for using that word in her email. She'd have used it to add emphasis to her
accusations against Stephen but later regretted it, knowing that the mention of
anything like that would throw me over the edge. She was quite right. As soon as my
taxi had cleared Holland Tunnel and started zipping along towards Newark Airport
I'd been on Google.
What is a psychopath?
I'd written, feeling
horribly certain that the answer would describe my boyfriend.

I'd found surprising stuff about
how psychopaths often played important roles in society, rather than just running
around with axes, and then some less surprising stuff about how they were
remorseless and pathologically un-empathetic individuals, devoid of the moral
compass on which society depends. Lacking impulse control, narcissistic, overly
confident, afraid of nothing and no one.

But then had come the real shock:
Psychopaths are often extraordinarily charming
,
and will go out of
their way to appear humble, pleasant and highly entertaining. They rarely
struggle to form new relationships, although they have great difficulty
maintaining them.

In two hours I'd made ten pages of
notes from the internet and I'd started to plot my escape.

I didn't care if I was being over
the top. All I cared about – more, almost, than breathing – was getting Stephen off
my tail. I couldn't exist while a man was chasing me. Especially one with a
bloody personality disorder.

‘… to
London Heathrow,' said a voice on the Tannoy, and for a second I froze.

In and out
, I reminded myself.
Breathe in, then out, Annie.
If Stephen did what I thought he would, he
wouldn't be here for another forty-five minutes.

I returned to my notes.

Psychopath
, said my notebook.
It didn't feel like the sort of word you used for people you met in real life,
whom you chatted to in your treatment room, then ended up having sex with in a
vineyard. ‘Psychopath' felt like a film word. A
university-research-department word. An old word, with connections to Victorian
dungeons and mad, screaming people. And yet, apparently, psychopaths were
everywhere. They were quite frequently your CEO, but they could be your doctor, your
hotel concierge – even your teacher. One in every two hundred people, claimed one
source. One in every
twenty-five
! claimed another.

Stephen Flint. My knight in shining
bloody armour.

My psychopath in shining armour. It
would be quite funny, really, if it wasn't the unfunniest thing that had ever
happened.

I attempted to eat my pastry while
re-reading the observations I'd made from a psychopath ‘checklist'
invented by a Canadian psychiatrist.

–
Extreme grandiosity: check
. Stephen calls
himself God,
I'd written in trembly blue letters
. He says he
is the best in the business. He calls himself Leader of the People. He calls
himself God, Jesus, the King. He reminds everyone all the time – even me –
of how powerful he is, and he finds it funny.

–
Superficial
charm
.
He spent the first month making all these grand
gestures to show me how lovely and charming he was. The kindness, the
self-deprecation. Ha-ha, look at me, taking twatty photos in Hackney. Ha-ha,
look at me, having my scruffy breakfast in the French château. I'm SO
NORMAL. Ha-ha, look at me, chatting to Le Cloob, showing them all how lovely
and attentive I am. How could Annie resist me? Ha-ha! And all the while
I'm fucking other women!

At this point the wobbly letters had
been blurred by tears.

–
Proneness to boredom
. The man cannot sit still.
It's no wonder he's been conducting more than one relationship
behind my back. No danger or excitement in monogamy. No fun in being real
for five bloody minutes.

–
Pathological lying
.
Er, where to
start?

–
Lack of empathy and remorse
.
Look at
the way he talked about the people he's fired! And then how he was
all, like, ‘Annie, I'm JOKING,' when I looked upset!
I'm quite sure that poor Australian girl I used to massage left
FlintSpark because of Stephen. She'd be right up his street. Another
victim gone, dispatched, destroyed. And he
just
doesn't care
.

It went on and on. The excessive
libido, the underhand business tactics, even that framed picture of him cutting up a
frog. The signs had been everywhere but, of course, I hadn't been looking.
My boyfriend was a psychopath
. One of the successful ones who managed
to go undetected. Rather than the unsuccessful ones who couldn't keep
themselves under control and popped off on killing sprees
all the time. Stephen was a man whose brain was
fundamentally different from that of other human beings; a man who could never be
‘cured'.

‘Ideal!' I said
hysterically, to my coffee. ‘Absolutely ideal!' It was horrifying,
reading all of this again, but it was a pretty good reminder that I was not being
crazy at all.

Besides, I knew enough now to understand
that if I was questioning my own sanity, I was probably under the influence of a
skilled manipulator. Psychopaths, I'd learned, were fabulous at making their
victims think
they
were mad. Look how cleverly he'd turned me against
Tim. It had been a devastatingly brilliant campaign: he'd known my precise
weak spots and played clever little remarks about Tim right into them. ‘I
really don't think you should be unduly concerned,' he'd say,
‘but …' I had run off down the street screaming when my oldest and
dearest friend had turned up at my house. I'd even agreed to Stephen's
suggestion that I get some medication!

In fact, thinking about it, he'd
done a pretty good job of trying to turn me against all of my friends, not just Tim.
I felt sick as I remembered the tears he'd forced into his eyes when
he'd told me how sick he was of Le Cloob disliking him. God, he was
disgusting. And, God, he was good.

‘Gaslighting', the websites
had called this.
To cause a person to doubt their sanity through the use of
psychological manipulation.
In many ways the gaslighting thing was the
worst. Going back through the last four months, thinking of all the times Stephen
had told me that I had a memory like a sieve. ‘Do you even remember telling me
your
own
name?' He'd laughed once, when I'd asked how he
knew what Lizzy did for a living.

I was pretty
sure I hadn't lost my passport in France. That Stephen had nicked it to reduce
my confidence in myself. I'd turned my room upside-down searching for it.
I'd turned the bloody
château
upside-down. ‘You're
hopeless.' He'd smiled, handing it back to me.

Jesus, he was clever. One little
slip-up, right there at the beginning, and he'd grabbed it. All those
‘lost' phones, mistakes and oversights I'd apparently made over
the last few months. The horrible suspicion I'd felt that I was somehow
unravelling, falling apart, losing it. Even that first day at FlintSpark when I
thought I'd lost my client list. He'd been at it even then! Forcing me
to doubt myself!

I put my pastry down. It had begun to
taste like cardboard.

‘I've been shacked up with a
psychopath,' I muttered, trying it out for size. The little girl teaching
Gangnam moves to her brother on the other side of the café smiled at me, then waved
shyly. I waved back. I wanted to cry. Please may you stay safe and protected your
whole life, I thought. Please may you never meet a Stephen Flint, you lovely little
thing.

I had read that it often took a long
time for partners of psychopaths to come to terms with the truth. Even when faced
with evidence of multiple infidelities and lies, women would hold on to their
original beliefs about their men for months, sometimes years, rather than stare
reality in the face. Needless to say, it had taken me about five minutes to get on
board with the whole idea. I guessed that was one of the few bonuses attached to
extreme paranoia and emotional scarring. You didn't hang around fooling
yourself when you
were shacked up with
Freddy Krueger. You just got the fuck out of there.