‘You’re going to stand here and watch me?’
‘Believe me, Frances, I’ve seen you do a lot worse over the years.’
My cheeks flush as I unbuckle my belt. He doesn’t trust you, that voice says again. Can you blame him? He watches me, unblinking, as I relieve myself into the earth, shuffling to avoid getting any on my shoes. I don’t look up at him again until I’m done, and when I finally lift my gaze I’m horrified to see he is holding something in his right hand. It’s a hammer. A claw-head. It’s dropped down from his sleeve like a magic trick and now it swings slightly in his hand like a pendulum slowing down. I can’t speak. I can’t take my eyes off it. My reaction is so strong I wonder if I will be sick, bile rising in my throat.
William talks to me kindly, squatting down beside me on the grass, careful to avoid the dampness beneath me. ‘It’s all right, Frances. I’m not going to use it. I just need you to do as you’re told. So no more diversions, okay? Come on. Let’s go.’
He helps me to my feet and I walk beside him slowly back to the car. In my dreams the figure chasing me with the claw hammer always changed, but the weapon remained exactly the same: a red handle wrapped around the middle with straps of black gaffer tape. Just like the one William is holding.
Samantha – Now
There is a sound like a chainsaw, something buzzing through the ridges of my skull. A deep throbbing pain in the back of my neck. If I open my eyes everything seems to slide away, like a ride at the fairground, so I keep them closed. It hurts less that way. I’m being moved in the dark. Bumped around. Something against my chest, a weight. I don’t fight. I lean into it. Tight bands restricting my breathing. God, my head. I fade in and out. A woman’s voice that I recognise, but only a little.
‘Put her over there so I can see her.’
Hello? My voice doesn’t work. I fade out. In. Out. Like my breath. A hand against the shelf of my neck. Ow.
‘There’s a pulse. You think I should throw cold water over her?’
‘Only if you want to clear up the mess it’ll make, young man.’
That woman again, so familiar. Who is it? In. Out. I’m trying to repair my memory. What happened? I was driving. I had sunglasses on, because the sun was right in my eyes. So blinding that I almost missed him. Who? The man standing by the side of the road. Who? The man in the grey sweatshirt. He was clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack. His car was skewed across the road. I was driving to – to meet someone. Who? Frances Thorn. William’s wife. William. William. I got out of my car, sliding my sunglasses up to the top of my head. I was saying are you hurt, should I call an ambulance? The sun was in my eyes, making it hard to see his features. I wasn’t looking at the way he was holding his arm behind his back. I was only looking at the way his hand was massaging his heart.
‘Help me,’ I say weakly, turning my head just a little, so the pain is muted. I wait. The chair creaks as I shift position. I prise my eyes open. Everything is a blur, prisming, smeared colours without form. Then I hear a man’s voice say, very quietly, ‘She’s awake, Mum.’
‘Help me,’ William said as I raced forward. Both our cars were blocking the road now. The lane was baking in the heat. Dragonflies rose and fell in the air. I was reaching for my phone, the other reaching out to steady him, when he struck. First the back of my head, producing a loud ringing noise in my ears that made my whole head shiver, then my shoulder. I heard something crunch beneath the impact of that, with a roaring pain that shot up my neck and across my skull. I looked up at him as black spots swam across my vision, pitching me into a hole, a blackness. A deep well.
In. Out. It’s difficult to lift my head without discomfort but the sickening see-sawing of my vision has stopped and I can see a little better now. There is a deep, angry throbbing in my shoulder and a dark stain has spread on the fabric of my T-shirt. The floor beneath my feet is deep, cream carpet. It lifts towards me and then falls away. I tilt my head and look to my left, where there are long windows, sunlight filtered by gauzy net curtains. The agony in my head recedes a little and I want to lift a hand up to the wound and feel for the damage there. I know there is blood because I can smell it, rich and coppery, tangled in my hair.
Instead I keep my head down and slide my glance sideways. The pain in my head recedes like a low tide but my ears still buzz, my skull filled with worker bees building a hive. Worker bees, Sam? a voice in my head says, gently. Honey, be careful. You were knocked out. This is a concussion. You’re going to need help.
I see the clawed feet of a bed, a day bed, one of those vintage French ones with flaking white paint and rattling supports. There is a pale paisley coverlet draped over a skinny form, like a bundle of sticks. I can hear a television playing softly, a laughter track. An old show, one I haven’t heard of in years.
‘Do you mean a bloodhound,
