I had lost a bracelet, and once my teeth were pronounced present and correct, I slipped away to the sports pavilion in case I’d lost it during games. I was feeling resentful and angry that day. Resentful toward the girls whose parents would be taking them away for the summer, to loving homes and sun-kissed beaches. Angry at the fact that I would be spending my summer at the school—a fate usually reserved for the “overseas girls.”
I can remember walking past the tennis courts under the dark shade of the yew hedging and back out into the shimmering glare of the morning sunshine. Then there is nothing. No sense of impending danger. No leering stranger luring me with promises of sweeties or the chance to stroke his puppy dog. No searing pain, just a void in my existence like the suspension of time.
Despite various reports of suspicious vehicles, no perpetrator of the crime was ever found. It remains the great unsolved mystery of my life. The breaking and the making of me.
For a while my story captured the attention of the press. The heady combination of teenage victim, exclusive school and “frenzied” attacker proving irresistible. I couldn’t think it at the time, mainly because I couldn’t think much of anything, but I have since wondered if he, for I really can’t imagine a she, read my name, saw my childhood photo and absorbed the details of me. Whether he took pleasure in his handiwork or feared me for what I might know or say. In my darker moments I have wondered if he hovers at the edges of my life watching me still. It’s odd to think that all this time he’s been out there, living his life in parallel with what he left me of mine.
I had hoped Tom was unaware of my nocturnal wanderings. He’s not. Last night as I slipped back under the quilt he reached and stroked my hair, gently soothing me back to sleep. My dream was different this time but no less unsettling. A flaxen-haired girl was under the trees trying to give me a key. Again and again she tried to give it to me, pressing it into my palm. Each time it dropped into the grass. It kept falling through my fingers no matter how hard I tried to keep hold of it. It was so vivid that when I think of it even now I can still feel its pressure in my hand and the sense of loss. It’s as though I was on the brink of something important and now it’s lost to me.
Tom looked at me strangely this morning and I sense a conversation coming on. Luckily it won’t be today, not when there are things to do. He met our neighbors last week and has invited them to dinner. It might’ve been nice if he’d perhaps spoken to me first. They’re coming tomorrow and now I must do what I can with the dining room and prepare the menu. I must make an effort to get things right in the hope they’ll be friends.
The dining room is shabby despite Tom having stuck down the loose wallpaper and replaced the hideous wooden chandelier with a simple shade. There are no curtains and we’re not really set for entertaining yet. I’ve ordered yards of ivory muslin off the internet and I drape this around the window to hide the rail and artfully knot it in swathes at the corners. It hangs at the sides like curtains, bunched and gathered on the floor. It’s a bit theatrical but in the absence of anything else it’ll have to do.
Thankfully it’ll be dark when we eat. We’re stepping into autumn now and the evenings are drawing in. I’ll light the room with candles and tea lights, which I’ve placed on every available surface, the mantelpiece, the windowsill, the shelves either side of the fireplace and in the grate itself.
Our light beech table and chairs look so out of place here. I’ve covered the table with an ivory damask tablecloth, a wedding present from someone, which helps. It’s too big for the table and hangs nearly to the floor. Tomorrow I’ll add a jug of roses from the garden, those big full-blown rosettes. I stand back and survey my handiwork. It may be a tad Miss Havisham but with the candles lit and the table laid it’ll do.
10
AUGUST 2004
“Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle. She died young”
—John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi
He turned to look in the back seat. He wasn’t happy. Already she was starting to let him down and after all the time and love he’d spent on her. He’d been careful to cover her with the rug to keep her safe from prying eyes. Now, somehow, her arm was dangling in the footwell, her face exposed. She looked ugly, not like his golden girl at all. Her lids were swollen and had slightly parted to reveal a rind of white. Sightless and disturbing. He shuddered. Her face was slack, and a thin strand of drool hung from her lips. This was not what he wanted. He needed her coruscating life force lustrous and glittering, not this dead meat. He felt a spark of anger. He’d have to make her pay but for the moment he had to concentrate on getting her safely stowed away.
He dragged her out of the car. God she was heavy, much heavier than she looked. Was this another of her tricks? Would he peel back her layers and find a mass of jellied fat?
He half carried, half dragged her to the door. She’d lost a trainer and her heel scuffed in the dirt. She was making him sweat and not in the good way he enjoyed so much. He all but threw her onto the floor, her face grazing against the concrete. Her eyelids fluttered and opened, she was pulling herself back, floating at the edges of consciousness.
“No you fucking don’t,” he said, reaching for the chloroform pad.
He wasn’t sure how long he could keep her under or what the effect might be but he certainly didn’t need her waking up now. Not until she was safe and secure. Tucked away where no one would hear her scream.
He looked around the storeroom at the boxes and clutter. No one would even know the room was there unless they were looking for it and no one would; nobody came here anymore. It was virtually his space to do with whatever he liked. The accumulation of old crap that’d built up over the years masked the true dimensions so, unless you measured, you’d never realize what he’d done. If anyone found it in the future it might take some explaining—except he had that eventuality covered as well. He was certainly inventive if nothing else. Another of his manifold talents.
He moved the precautionary stack of empty boxes and slid the panel of board to the side to reveal the hidden door. He admired his handiwork; two layers of plywood and some insulation and there it was, both sturdy and soundproof. He’d even remembered a vent at the top to allow in some air. He didn’t want her snuffed out like a candle. Any snuffing to be done was down to him.
The boxed-in space beyond the door was only a couple of feet or so in depth but it ran the width of the storeroom. It was perfect for his needs. He’d even added a pillow and a blanket—nice touches. He needed to be comfortable if she fancied a cuddle. He’d worked hard on this, over three weeks it had all taken him; he’d never been one to cut corners, particularly on a project that promised such rewards.
He slid into the space and laid her down with her head on the pillow. He unzipped her jeans and rolled them up. She certainly wouldn’t be needing those anymore. He ran his finger experimentally down the inside of her thigh. This was better, her skin was warm and soft as velvet. God this was going to be good, but he mustn’t rush things. He’d leave her for a while; let her equilibrate to her new surroundings and start to shine.
He was sure as he’d pushed the door closed, that she’d started to twinkle. A gentle phosphorescence that would lighten his darkness for a while.