Deliberately, the shower is cold, that kind of shower I'd take to soothe my sunburned body after a day by the pool. Lowering my head, the jet sprays bullets against my neck. The boat is shaking. Looking down, I realise it is not the boat; it is me. I am shaking. I stare at my upturned hands like they are tea leaves, offering all the answers. My palms are white and crinkled. I find no answers.
I hear something outside the bathroom. I think I hear something outside. Was it the door? Is he on the boat? Again? I turn off the shower. I stand in the tiny cubicle- naked, wet and shivering. I listen for noises, for signs, for anything. Erica is pottering around. She is washing the dishes. He'd get to her before he'd get to me.
My nerves are shot to pieces. He is getting to me. I haven't heard from him for days, for all the time I was in Wales. The phone was in my pocket all the time. At first it felt like it was alive. I was sure I felt it vibrate with every movement I made. I compulsively pulled the phone out of my pocket and checked it. The red phone. Nothing. As the seconds and minutes and days passed I became used to it. It became a weight, a shape, just a harmless part of me. I very nearly - nearly - forgot that it was there.
I know damn well what I need to do. I need to do what Richard told me to do. I always listen to Richard. I need to make the right choice. I need to choose to ignore him.
It is all in my mind. He is not outside. If he was, I'd confront him, stop him from getting close to Erica. I pull the shower curtain open. Step out of the shower. Dry myself down in the towel. My mind drifts. I suddenly feel stronger than I have for weeks, for years. I am empowered. I have a choice. I can make the right choice. I am strong enough. I am brave enough. Things are going to be alright.
My phone vibrates.
The red phone. His phone. Whoever he is. I stare at it. I somehow wish that I can make it vanish, make it disintegrate into dust. It stays there, lying on the floor on the rug, next to my discarded trousers, seemingly growing in size. I want to pick the thing up and throw it against the wall, smash it into tiny pieces. I pick up the phone. I click on a button. The screen lights up.
I do hope you enjoyed your little trip away, Jeffrey. I expect you got used to the break I gave you. Holiday is over! I've kindly sent you a video so you don't get any post holiday blues.
I stare at the screen. I read the words again. And then again. There is no video. What is he talking about? He is just playing games. The phone vibrates in my hand.
This time there is a video. I don't want to open it. I long to put the phone in my pocket and take it straight to DCI Reeves. This is real evidence. This is something for his stats. Whatever the video is, the mere fact that I have one on my phone would make him salivate with anticipation.
I click the button to open the video. I watch with an open mouth. I arch my neck and adjust my position to make sure I believe what I am seeing. I close my eyes and squeeze the handset. I drop it to the floor. It is the only thing I can do to stop myself from crushing it.
I have just watched a video of my dad, sat alone in our kitchen, cup of tea by his side, palms of his hands rubbing his face.
I am quite sure that he is quietly sobbing.
DAY NINETEEN 19TH JUNE 2018
This is a bad sign. This is the second time I've been here in less than a week, and the first time wasn't exactly a jovial experience, either. Then I'd been in and out and on my way to the supermarket car park to gift Ken his unexpected treat. Now I perch on the edge of a high stool, absent-mindedly gazing at the endless flow of pedestrian traffic through the window. Of course, England is a happier place this week. They won. Harry is the new hero of the nation. Unfortunately, I'm not one of the happy people. Last time I was here it had been two cardboard cups to take away; now it is one white china mug please for Billy No Mates in the corner.
Years and years of a relentless working environment made me adept at making decisions. There was no time for dithering. There was no room for niceties. Sometimes I got it right. Sometimes I got it wrong. Most of the time I really didn't give a fuck. Nothing puts things into perspective more than getting slashed seven times with a cut-throat razor. Most of the time I was just glad to be alive. The rest of the time I was glad I was not sitting alone in an empty house, like when I first moved to London.
Now the odds are serious, and I'm clueless what to do. I spend my working days (when I bother to work, that is) telling others how to speak and how to behave. Usually I playfully mock and undermine the students. Now I'm a duck, keeping calm on the surface but madly kicking my legs under the water. I don't want to over-think, but then I do want to put my thoughts into some sort of order. Right now they are rebounding off each other like bumper cars at a makeshift fair.
