The Good Samaritan
Page 40
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For a moment, her shaking hand and that knife were the only things in the room to move until I broke the deadlock. I reached over to grab her wrist, then spun her around and got her in an armlock. As she howled in pain, the knife fell to the floor and I frogmarched her across the room towards the rope.
I planned to tie it around her neck, then once she begged for her life and was at the most pitiful and apologetic a person could ever be, I’d let her go. Tomorrow, I’d hand over the recordings of our phone conversations to her manager at End of the Line and let them and the police deal with her.
Only I hadn’t thought about how I would get the rope over her neck. As I released my grip on her arm, she took advantage of my hesitancy and elbowed me in the balls and kicked me hard in the shinbone. It was an automatic reaction for me to ease my grip on her, but that gave her the opportunity to free herself, pick up the knife from the floor and plunge it into my stomach.
It was a lucky shot – for her, anyway. I felt the pressure of the blade at first but not the pain; that only came after I put my hand on the wound and felt blood dripping down the waistband of my jeans. I felt a small whoosh of air when Laura bent down and pulled the knife out of me, and as I fell to my side I heard her footsteps disappear through the house, then a loud crash of something heavy on the staircase like she’d fallen. I paused to listen, hoping to God she hadn’t broken her neck, and then panicked over what I’d do with her dead body. Suddenly she began moving again, and I heard her leave the house and a car pull away.
I lay in the room, alone, surrounded by pictures of her on the wall and those she’d torn down and left strewn across the floor.
We had underestimated each other, and she had beaten me. For now, anyway.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
LAURA
I inhaled deeply to get the scent of sandalwood emerging from the bubble bath, and inched my body a little further down until the warm soapy water covered my breasts, stopping just short of my chin.
Seven vanilla-scented candles were arranged around the bath top, and every now and again the silence of the room was interrupted by a sharp crackle of the burning wick and wax.
I began my mindfulness exercises and focused on how the water felt against my skin, how my toes felt as I raised my feet and they came into contact with the bubbles on the surface, and the pressure of the tub against my back. I focused on my breathing and allowed it to become slower and deeper, letting my tummy rise and fall instead of my back and shoulders. Then, as I was at my most relaxed, I pushed my bum forward, opened my mouth, slipped my head underwater and took the biggest gulp of water I could until it flooded my lungs.
My brain’s immediate reaction was to force myself to the surface and cough the water out, but I fought hard against it and remained underneath, thrashing about like a fish caught in a net. I felt the muscles around my larynx contract and let the countdown begin on the remaining oxygen in my blood. My eyes stung but remained open, and I could make out the blurred blue of the towels on the radiator. It took all my strength but I held myself down a little longer until I couldn’t take the burning anymore. Light-headed, I pulled myself up and leaned over the side of the bath, violently vomiting water and bile onto the tiled bathroom floor. I was sure I’d remained underwater a little longer than last time.
I pulled myself together and made my way to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam from it with a flannel. I stared at my reflection. Six weeks after the night of my confrontation with Steven and my fall down his stairs, my black eyes, split lip, grazed ear, and bruised cheeks, neck and arms were healing too quickly for my liking. I applied my make-up sparingly, so any scabs were still noticeable, and I pinched hard at my bruises so they retained their colour.
I was ready to return to work a hero.
Inventing my assault soon after I escaped from Steven’s cottage might have been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment decision, but it was a bloody good one. It had given me an alibi and brought me closer to my husband.
At first, I didn’t even try to process that I’d just stabbed a man. I was in shock and needed to get back home where it was safe and familiar. My arms and head were already starting to feel the pain of falling down the stairs, but I tried to put it out of my mind as I sped along the road. Then cold shivers ran across my shoulders, and down through my arms and legs until there was no part of my body that didn’t feel like ice. How had I been so stupid as not to have considered that I was being set up? Steven had known so much about me, and God knows how long he’d been following me.
I didn’t notice the red traffic lights until another car blew its horn long and hard. I slammed on my brakes and skidded across the junction as the driver swerved to avoid me and mounted the pavement. I didn’t wait to see their reaction or apologise; instead, I drove even faster.
I took a sharp left onto a side road and came to a halt in front of a row of tired-looking terraced houses, desperately trying to regulate my panting breath and tell myself that everything was going to be okay.
But it’s not, is it? warned my inner voice. You’ve just stabbed a man. What if he’s dead? That makes you a killer.
It wasn’t that I might have been responsible for a man’s death that concerned me. It was that if I’d killed him, there would be evidence in the cottage that could link the two of us. I’d begun tearing down photographs of myself from the walls until his sudden appearance had stopped me in my tracks. Many had remained.
Suddenly it struck me – the only way out of this was to become the victim, not the perpetrator.
Night had fallen by the time I left my car outside End of the Line, then I hurried along the streets, thinking clearly for just long enough to make sure there were no CCTV cameras above me. I made my way towards the Racecourse, a 120-acre rectangular park with only the occasional streetlight. Once in a darkened, secluded spot, I stared at the time on my phone and remained motionless, waiting for five minutes to pass. A sharp, searing pain burned my face like acid and my ear was ringing. I wanted to collapse to the ground in tears from the pain.
‘Don’t give in to it,’ I muttered under my breath, and gritted my teeth. Then, when five minutes had passed, I took a deep breath and ran back into the open on paths by busy roads, past shops and lamp posts with mounted cameras.
‘I’ve been attacked!’ I sobbed to the duty officer at Campbell Square Police Station. I didn’t need to encourage my body to tremble, and he could see by my bleeding face and hand that I’d been through the mill. He called for a colleague, and a young woman in uniform ushered me towards a chair.
‘Are you in need of any urgent treatment?’ she asked gently.
I shook my head. ‘No, he didn’t . . . rape . . . me. I escaped before he did that.’
She led me into an interview room at the back of the station and the next two hours of my life went by in a blur. It was as if I had allowed someone else to control my body, my brain and my conversation. I became a spectator listening to myself conjure up lie after lie.
I explained how I’d been walking home from End of the Line through the park when I was pushed to the ground from behind. It was too dark to see his face when he rolled me over and kept hitting me in the face and then grabbed me hard by the shoulders and arms. I saw a knife in his hand, but somehow I’d managed to knee him in the groin, disable him and flee.
While officers were dispatched to the scene, the crime was recorded and my statement and photographs of my injuries were taken. I was hesitant when they asked me to remove my clothes for processing, especially as I’d be forced to wear an unflattering forensic suit.
I planned to tie it around her neck, then once she begged for her life and was at the most pitiful and apologetic a person could ever be, I’d let her go. Tomorrow, I’d hand over the recordings of our phone conversations to her manager at End of the Line and let them and the police deal with her.
Only I hadn’t thought about how I would get the rope over her neck. As I released my grip on her arm, she took advantage of my hesitancy and elbowed me in the balls and kicked me hard in the shinbone. It was an automatic reaction for me to ease my grip on her, but that gave her the opportunity to free herself, pick up the knife from the floor and plunge it into my stomach.
It was a lucky shot – for her, anyway. I felt the pressure of the blade at first but not the pain; that only came after I put my hand on the wound and felt blood dripping down the waistband of my jeans. I felt a small whoosh of air when Laura bent down and pulled the knife out of me, and as I fell to my side I heard her footsteps disappear through the house, then a loud crash of something heavy on the staircase like she’d fallen. I paused to listen, hoping to God she hadn’t broken her neck, and then panicked over what I’d do with her dead body. Suddenly she began moving again, and I heard her leave the house and a car pull away.
I lay in the room, alone, surrounded by pictures of her on the wall and those she’d torn down and left strewn across the floor.
We had underestimated each other, and she had beaten me. For now, anyway.
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
LAURA
I inhaled deeply to get the scent of sandalwood emerging from the bubble bath, and inched my body a little further down until the warm soapy water covered my breasts, stopping just short of my chin.
Seven vanilla-scented candles were arranged around the bath top, and every now and again the silence of the room was interrupted by a sharp crackle of the burning wick and wax.
I began my mindfulness exercises and focused on how the water felt against my skin, how my toes felt as I raised my feet and they came into contact with the bubbles on the surface, and the pressure of the tub against my back. I focused on my breathing and allowed it to become slower and deeper, letting my tummy rise and fall instead of my back and shoulders. Then, as I was at my most relaxed, I pushed my bum forward, opened my mouth, slipped my head underwater and took the biggest gulp of water I could until it flooded my lungs.
My brain’s immediate reaction was to force myself to the surface and cough the water out, but I fought hard against it and remained underneath, thrashing about like a fish caught in a net. I felt the muscles around my larynx contract and let the countdown begin on the remaining oxygen in my blood. My eyes stung but remained open, and I could make out the blurred blue of the towels on the radiator. It took all my strength but I held myself down a little longer until I couldn’t take the burning anymore. Light-headed, I pulled myself up and leaned over the side of the bath, violently vomiting water and bile onto the tiled bathroom floor. I was sure I’d remained underwater a little longer than last time.
I pulled myself together and made my way to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam from it with a flannel. I stared at my reflection. Six weeks after the night of my confrontation with Steven and my fall down his stairs, my black eyes, split lip, grazed ear, and bruised cheeks, neck and arms were healing too quickly for my liking. I applied my make-up sparingly, so any scabs were still noticeable, and I pinched hard at my bruises so they retained their colour.
I was ready to return to work a hero.
Inventing my assault soon after I escaped from Steven’s cottage might have been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment decision, but it was a bloody good one. It had given me an alibi and brought me closer to my husband.
At first, I didn’t even try to process that I’d just stabbed a man. I was in shock and needed to get back home where it was safe and familiar. My arms and head were already starting to feel the pain of falling down the stairs, but I tried to put it out of my mind as I sped along the road. Then cold shivers ran across my shoulders, and down through my arms and legs until there was no part of my body that didn’t feel like ice. How had I been so stupid as not to have considered that I was being set up? Steven had known so much about me, and God knows how long he’d been following me.
I didn’t notice the red traffic lights until another car blew its horn long and hard. I slammed on my brakes and skidded across the junction as the driver swerved to avoid me and mounted the pavement. I didn’t wait to see their reaction or apologise; instead, I drove even faster.
I took a sharp left onto a side road and came to a halt in front of a row of tired-looking terraced houses, desperately trying to regulate my panting breath and tell myself that everything was going to be okay.
But it’s not, is it? warned my inner voice. You’ve just stabbed a man. What if he’s dead? That makes you a killer.
It wasn’t that I might have been responsible for a man’s death that concerned me. It was that if I’d killed him, there would be evidence in the cottage that could link the two of us. I’d begun tearing down photographs of myself from the walls until his sudden appearance had stopped me in my tracks. Many had remained.
Suddenly it struck me – the only way out of this was to become the victim, not the perpetrator.
Night had fallen by the time I left my car outside End of the Line, then I hurried along the streets, thinking clearly for just long enough to make sure there were no CCTV cameras above me. I made my way towards the Racecourse, a 120-acre rectangular park with only the occasional streetlight. Once in a darkened, secluded spot, I stared at the time on my phone and remained motionless, waiting for five minutes to pass. A sharp, searing pain burned my face like acid and my ear was ringing. I wanted to collapse to the ground in tears from the pain.
‘Don’t give in to it,’ I muttered under my breath, and gritted my teeth. Then, when five minutes had passed, I took a deep breath and ran back into the open on paths by busy roads, past shops and lamp posts with mounted cameras.
‘I’ve been attacked!’ I sobbed to the duty officer at Campbell Square Police Station. I didn’t need to encourage my body to tremble, and he could see by my bleeding face and hand that I’d been through the mill. He called for a colleague, and a young woman in uniform ushered me towards a chair.
‘Are you in need of any urgent treatment?’ she asked gently.
I shook my head. ‘No, he didn’t . . . rape . . . me. I escaped before he did that.’
She led me into an interview room at the back of the station and the next two hours of my life went by in a blur. It was as if I had allowed someone else to control my body, my brain and my conversation. I became a spectator listening to myself conjure up lie after lie.
I explained how I’d been walking home from End of the Line through the park when I was pushed to the ground from behind. It was too dark to see his face when he rolled me over and kept hitting me in the face and then grabbed me hard by the shoulders and arms. I saw a knife in his hand, but somehow I’d managed to knee him in the groin, disable him and flee.
While officers were dispatched to the scene, the crime was recorded and my statement and photographs of my injuries were taken. I was hesitant when they asked me to remove my clothes for processing, especially as I’d be forced to wear an unflattering forensic suit.
