Joe feels a pang of conscience as he speaks, and wonders if he is choosing to blame Freddie for Felicity’s problems because it lessens his own failure to diagnose her properly.
‘She told me she saw him in Heffers last night,’ he continues. ‘I think he’s here, in the city. I think she’s terrified of him for some reason she can’t or won’t admit to, and I think she’s prepared to travel to the other side of the planet to get away from him.’
‘Lots of women never report their abusive partners,’ Delilah says. ‘Even very smart ones.’
Joe knows this. He’s met several before now.
‘I’ll make some enquiries,’ she tells him. ‘Now, get some rest. I’ll wait till I see you in the window.’
He opens the passenger door and then bends low to say good night. ‘When do I start looking after you?’ he says.
57
Felicity
He’s here.
Felicity starts awake to find her bedroom unusually dark. No light at all seems to be coming in from outside. She lies motionless, hot and damp between the bedsheets, her heart hammering. In the distance, she can hear a dog barking, and also the gentle roar of traffic. A subdued groan sounds from the hot-water system and music at a low volume is coming from one of the neighbouring houses. A minute goes by, and another. She tells herself that there is nothing to be afraid of.
Her skin prickles. Her beating heart will not listen to her. She eases herself up and turns her pillow. The reverse side is pleasantly cool and she pushes the duvet away from her shoulders. Her hair is damp against her neck and she finds that she is thirsty, as though she has drunk heavily. She pulls herself out of bed and switches on the light.
Nothing happens.
Bulbs blow all the time in old properties, she has been through several in recent months, a bedside lamp failing means nothing. Telling herself all this and more she steps carefully in what she thinks is the direction of the bedroom door. The room really is very dark.
The wall arrives sooner than expected. Her sense of direction has deserted her. Panic multiplies as she stumbles around, grasping for the main light switch. She finds it. Again, nothing. It doesn’t work. The hall is as black as her bedroom. The tiny electronic lights that normally illuminate her house just enough for her to be able to walk around at night have vanished and from upstairs in the study she can hear the gentle beeping that tells her the laptop battery is nearly empty. She’d left it charging.
She is not going to think about the fuse box in the basement. One switch flicked and the house would lose all power. She is not going to think about the un-repaired window. This is a power cut. This is her house, not some nightmare world in which she is blind. She turns to where she thinks she will find the hall table, to where she is sure she will still find the soapstone bear, only because it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.
Watch out. Watch out. Watch out.
Something springs at her from behind and she almost tumbles to the hall floor. Even as her mind screams that the threat cannot be real, a great weight is pulling her down. She staggers back and the two of them come up hard against a wall. Her scalp burns as her head is tugged backwards and metal gleams a few inches from her face. Thinking, knife, she twists, bucks, claws at anything she can reach.
He’s got you. He’s got you. Kill him now. This is your chance.
You’re going to die, you’re going to die.
Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!
Tear out his eyes. Pull his face apart.
Voices scream at her. Men, women, children. She has no idea which are in her head, and which are real. Some of them, she thinks, are her own. A hand wraps itself around her mouth and her hair is free. She slams her body backwards. A pained grunt sounds in her ear and she feels a second of freedom.
‘Help!’ She yells. ‘Police!’
‘Bitch, bitch, bitch. I’m going to kill you.’
She can feel breath against her face.
Fight him, come on, fight him. You’ve been waiting for this.
Two hands are on the knife now. Her own and another. It is tugged this way and that. It is inches from her throat. She is fighting someone with phenomenal strength. She screams again. She has neighbours on both sides. They can’t hear this and do nothing.
‘Shut up, bitch.’
They are speeding forward. She sees the faint outline of the front door’s glass panel hurtling towards her. Her face is pressed against the glass. It is going to break. Someone is laughing. She kicks back and makes contact with bone, hears a cry of pain and then the pressure on her is released. She spins to face her assailant as the dark figure leaps on her again. Now she is on the floor. Her head bangs against the carpet of the stairs and tiny glints of light break up the darkness. Someone is kneeling on her chest and there are hands around her neck.
He’s going to kill you. He was always going to kill you.
Thought you’d get away from him. You’re a fool.
Die now. No one will miss you.
Something strikes the side of her head and her vision is filled with white light. She can’t breathe. She grasps the hands around her throat, digs in her nails, tries to pull them away.
Someone is screaming and she doesn’t think it is her. Something is banging, deafeningly loud, over and over again, and she wonders if it is her head, thudding against the stairs. She pictures the stone bear, smashing into her skull, breaking the bones like eggshell. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Everything goes away.
* * *
Her attacker becomes a uniformed police officer. He holds her wrists gently and says, ‘Steady, steady, take it easy, Felicity.’ Then he changes again, this time into a paramedic in a yellow vest, who puts a mask over her face.
The voices have become gentler, kinder.
‘Stay with me, Felicity. Keep your eyes open.’
‘You’re safe now, Felicity. We’ve got you.’
She much prefers these voices to the last lot. One voice is most insistent that she stay with him. He repeats it over and over again, but she is so sleepy, she can’t seem to keep her eyes open.
They will not let her sleep. The voices are ruthless beneath their gentle tones. They lean over her, patting the side of her face, lifting her hands, and saying her name. She can hear a siren. She has no idea how much time is passing. The lights get brighter. She is inside and surrounded by a rush of people. Still the voices sound in her ear.
Finally, when she can hear the city beginning to stir, she opens her eyes and sees that she is in a hospital room. Small and square, painted a dull matte white, she is surrounded by instruments that buzz and beep and the electronic dawn chorus has an oddly reassuring feel. She is alive, and for some time last night, she really didn’t think she would be. Behind the window blinds, she has a sense of the darkness softening. It is nearly dawn, and Joe’s mother is standing in the doorway of her room.
She lets the door close softly behind her. She is a large woman who, judging by the lines on her face and the puffiness of her skin, is fonder of alcohol than she should be. Her pink and blonde hair would be more suited to a teenager than a woman in her fifties and her trouser suit is a size too small. She looks nothing like Joe.
‘Good morning, Miss Lloyd.’ She pulls a chair away from the wall and sits beside Felicity’s bed. She does not ask her how she is feeling, or whether she is up to answering a few questions. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Delilah Jones. Can you tell me when your basement window was broken?’