It’s hard to pull the wool over Oli’s eyes.
The list, the list. As I hand it to Santa, I think it might save me. But he looks at it, frowns, shakes his head, tells me I am on the naughty list. I am not nice.
I wake up, or at least I think I do, I’m bleary, dreary. It’s hard to stay conscious in this hot room, with so little sustenance and the pain from the assault pulsing through my body. The list swirls around in my head. What is it like being married to Mark? What does it really mean? I close my eyes again, but I can still see the list, it’s tattooed on to the inside of my lids. Or maybe I can hear it. Who is reading the list to me? Mark? Oli? Santa?
A home that feels like a big smile every time I open the door. Everyone else adoring my man, endorsing my choice because of his deep all-year-round tan and his big biceps. Help with putting on bedsheets. Lots of jars of spicy chutney and cheese in the fridge. Wet towels on the bathroom floor. A constant supply of Merlot on the rack. The sound of football matches blaring through the TV. Being bought Bailey’s year after year for birthdays, Mother’s Day, Christmas and Easter because I once mentioned it was a guilty pleasure. Giving away those bottles of Bailey’s to neighbours and the school tombola; my tastes have changed, I don’t like Bailey’s anymore, I can’t find a way to tell him. He hasn’t noticed. The alarm going off before the boys need to be up so we can have fifteen quiet minutes lying in one another’s arms. No leaky taps, flickering lightbulbs, wonky shelves ever, he is handy around the house. No one noticing my new underwear. Or my old underwear. Hanging baskets that are the envy of the entire street. Dad jokes. Someone who will listen to me retell a plot of a book but will not read that book. Drinking cans of cider in the back garden on hot summer nights. Being encouraged to plunge into a cold lake to swim. Liking the swim. Singing along to country and western music on long car journeys. Feeling safe.
My throat is dry and scratchy. It hurts but not as much as the thought: he used to make me feel safe. Is that why Santa is shaking his head? Is he sad too?
I crawl around the room to see if anything has been delivered. Close to the door, there is a tray with a chicken sandwich, an apple, water. When did that arrive? I don’t know. I hate myself for not checking sooner. It might have been there for a while, maybe even before I started pulling down the wall. I could have helped myself sooner. Or have I been asleep again, did it just come? I don’t know. I’m scared about how many things I have no idea about. I drink the water. Sips. Sips. I know that now. Three trays in a week? Careful. Careful. Slowly, I start to eat. Chewing every mouthful as if it were my last. Because it might be.
I am alone. It should be a relief. I suppose I have some chance of escaping if I’m not guarded. If I can work my way free of the chain, if I can break down the door, if I can stand by the window and call for help. But I’ve had those ideas for days now. It is impossible. I am not getting out of here unless someone gets me out. So somehow the aloneness is terrifying. What if he never comes back? What if there is no more water or food? I stop eating. I have to ration. The thought makes me want to cry. I’m so hungry I could die.
I might very well die.
36
Fiona
Fiona rings the bell. Mark almost instantly flings open the door, he must have been waiting for her. She imagines him crouched in the hall, ready to pounce. Not on her exactly, but on the information she brings. He has a near-empty wine glass in his hand and a sharp, shrill energy about him.
Not standing on ceremony, she steps inside, slips off her jacket, slings it over the banister. She doesn’t want to be the first to speak because, despite grappling with the problem all the way over here, she still isn’t sure what she’s going to tell him, so she gets her question in first. ‘Any news?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t heard anything from the police?’
Mark shakes his head impatiently, not bothering to conceal his need to know what she has discovered. ‘So? Did you go to see him?’
‘I did.’
‘What’s he like?’
She doubts she can tell him. But then, can she afford to lie to him? It’s likely to come out at some point anyway, now she’s spoken to that officer. It is best he hears it from her.
‘He’s everything you might imagine him to be,’ she admits with a sigh.
‘How do I know we imagine the same thing of him? I imagine him to be arrogant, slick, supercilious.’
Fiona nods. ‘Yes, he’s those things. To an extent.’ She glances about her, buying time. ‘Where are the boys?’
Mark looks a little surprised to be asked, as though he hasn’t thought about them for a while. ‘They’re staying overnight at their aunt’s house. She’s going to drive them home tomorrow. She didn’t give a time.’
‘You’ve been on your own all afternoon?’
Mark shrugs. ‘Where am I going to go?’ Suddenly, he seems to remember that they are hovering awkwardly in the hallway and that he is holding a wine glass. ‘I’ve a bottle open, join me?’
‘Yes, please.’
Fiona follows Mark into the kitchen. She takes advantage of the fact he is busy finding her a glass and filling it, therefore not staring at her intently as he was when he first opened the door. She garbles, ‘Look, Mark, there’s something I need to talk to
