He scrolled through the recent numbers and dialled Geri.
Waited.
The sun was streaming through a gap in the curtains. It was easy to mistake the shaft of light for something spiritual, but he tried to stay focussed; he was in bed and he was dying, this was what dying felt like, but he wasn't gone yet. The sunlight was warming his skin. This was a good sign.
Geri's voicemail message kicked in.
Okay. So maybe he would die after all.
Maybe Geri too.
“Jesus,” he said and sobbed.
He was surprised and ashamed of himself for giving the man Geri's whereabouts. He could have lied. But the pain had been terrible, the fear of a further attack had been worse and he knew that. He hadn't been able to think; he had only wanted it to end.
End.
He ended the call to Geri, realising that he had been recording his breathing, and dialled 999.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sarah stirred three sugars into her coffee and took a sip, holding cup in both hands so it warmed her fingers as well as her belly. She'd never been much of a coffee drinker, but then she wasn't much of a smoker either and she had been doing that too.
The cafe had six tables inside, but Sarah was disappointed to find that she and Clare were the only people inside apart from the proprietors. It didn't seem like the kind of place that would attract an influx of builders seeking a fry-up, but, and she wouldn't have said this twenty-four hours ago, she hoped to be proved wrong. The more people around her the better. The more men there were to put off her unknown pursuant the better.
The menu said that the business was family-run. What she assumed were husband and wife stood behind the counter. The woman, Greek and plump, grinned hopefully at her whenever she looked over. It didn't look like they were expecting it to get much busier than this after all. At least she had three friendly people in close proximity.
Clare sat opposite. Her big white coat was on the back of her chair, so now Sarah could see her fuzzy pink jumper in all its glory. It looked as if it had been bought in a charity shop or was an unwanted gift from someone’s grandma, but somehow it looked cool on her, perhaps because she appeared unaware of how awful it should have been.
Her features lacked the balance of a model, nor were they unusual enough to be striking, and yet she possessed the quality of being utterly at ease, which made her very attractive. Sarah was envious. She watched her stir a single sugar into her coffee, holding the spoon lightly between two long, pale fingers.
“I feel so much better,” Sarah said when she was caught gazing. “I’ve had an utterly shit twenty-four hours.”
“What’s been so bad about it?”
She thought for a moment and then, relieved that she wouldn't have to lie, said: “I came to visit my friend, you know, Geraldine, on the spur of the moment, thinking it would be like old times, but things have changed.”
“How long’s it been?”
“... A couple of years. I didn’t realise people could change so much so quickly. But I changed, so I should have known. It wasn't the kind of night for thinking things through though.”
“You can't rely on other people. They're malleable.”
“Malleable?”
“They bend, according to pressure. They change their minds. Everyone does. Either that, or they break.”
Sarah thought of Simon, who must have bent so much that he was coming full circle.
“I suppose if good people can become bad,” Sarah said, “then bad people can become good.”
“You're young ...”
Sarah bristled.
“... Life isn't that black and white. But you have a point. Good people do bad things all the time, but it doesn't make them evil. Speaking of which, I'm going out for another cigarette. Want one?”
Sarah raised a hand to say no and watched Clare leave the table. In her mind she was back in the car with Simon. He was trying to tell her that she needed to run and she was paralysed, unable to believe what was happening. Once again, she considered what would have happened if she hadn't run.
She had asked him if he had killed people and he hadn't answered. Last night, she had almost seen for herself.
Ultimately, she didn't believe that he would hurt her. She believed that he would sacrifice himself if he felt it necessary, but where would that leave her? She may as well be dead without him. As much as he lived for her, she lived for him.
When Clare returned, Sarah picked up the conversation from where they had left off.
“Some things never change.”
“Like what?” Clare asked, removing her coat again.
“Love,” Sarah said.
Clare sniggered. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to laugh. But everything changes; especially love. I know you don't want to hear this, but love is the most unreliable emotion of all. Don't rely on emotions. That's how you get hurt.”
“Don't you ever get hurt?”
“Been there. Done that.”
“Don't you care?”
“I don't expect anything from anyone, including me. Nobody knows what's around the corner.”
Sarah frowned as she thought about what Clare was suggesting. She was right, she didn't want to hear it, but in the end she agreed, to a point.
“I suppose you don’t know how you’d react until a situation actually happens. You behave in ways you wouldn't have expected.”
“There you go. And you’ve changed your opinion in the space of thirty seconds. Malleable. Don’t look so sad. Being able to adapt is a good thing. It’s survival.”
“’It’s a jungle out there’,” Sarah said, looking into the street.
“’Lions and tigers and bears’,” Clare said.
In her best not-in-Kansas-anymore voice, Sarah said: “Oh my.”
“Speaking of survival: could you eat?”
“I’ll get this,” Sarah said and reached inside her jacket. Clare made as if to stand up, but Sarah held out her hand, insistent on paying, thinking that if she did that then Clare might be inclined to spend more time with her. She needed company for as long as she could get it. If that meant paying for it, then so be it. She retrieved a twenty pound note and picked up the menu. “I've been having a fantasy about going –“
“- straight to dessert,” Clare finished, sitting back now. “I recommend the chocolate fudge brownie.”
“Two then.”
While waiting for one of the owners to come out of the kitchen, Sarah touched her jeans pocket to make sure she had her phone. She was trying to look cool and together, but she couldn't resist pulling it out and checked for messages. Nothing.
She glanced over at Clare, who wasn't paying attention, because she was occupied with her own mobile phone. She was glad that Clare hadn't seen her, because she didn't want another lecture on expectations and letting go, no matter how coolly delivered.
The woman's words were working on her though. Who knew what was going to happen? She only had to experience each moment and live through it, as best as she could.
It would have been a relief to tell Clare her full story, but she was not the right person to hear it; Clare was sympathetic, but she didn't want to get involved and Sarah didn't blame her.
Besides, whenever she worked at putting the story into words, she imagined the look of dismay on Simon’s face and couldn’t go through with it. Her imaginary Simon was right: she needed to keep her mouth shut, but it was easier to think something than to do it; her fear and loneliness over the last 24 hours made her want to run back to the table and give Clare a hug, to cry again and tell her everything.
Instead, once she had ordered, she sat back down, with one hand pressed firmly against her mobile phone pocket.
“Business or pleasure?” she asked Clare.
“Business,” Clare said and pulled a face.
“I’m starting to hate mine too,” Sarah told her. “Although, waiting fo
r it to ring is worse than when it's going constantly.”
“I'll take your word for that.”
When their desserts arrived, Clare asked what they should eat to. Lots of things came into Sarah's head. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to say them out loud. In the end, she settled for: “What will be will be?”
“What will be will be,” Clare agreed.
Their forks slid through the cream and the chocolate and the fudge. They each put an opening forkful into their mouths.
“Isn’t that gorgeous?” Clare said.
Sarah felt slightly light-headed. She closed her eyes.
“Oh my God,” she said.
As she ate, she began to relax. It was going to be okay. Simon would call her, they’d meet and they’d work out a plan from there. All she had to do was stick to the plan. Stay in public. Don’t go anywhere alone. Look out for a skinny, sick guy in a hat who wouldn’t be able to do anything as long as she was in the cafe with witnesses.
The woman behind the counter, all curly, dark hair and dimples and apron, smiled at her. Not like mum, but like a mum, Sarah thought, and although she felt sad, she felt safe.
“Chocolate’s cheered you up,” Clare observed.
“I think I was hungry. Sugar-deprived.”
“Can’t have that.”
Clare ordered another coffee each, confessing that if she had any more after this she would be bouncing off the walls, then she put her coat on again.
Sarah envied Clare’s addiction; it was something so easily satisfied. Create a problem and solve it, ten times a day, or forty if you were Clare. At least something in life could be simple.
“Can I have another one?” Sarah said. “I'll come with you.”
“I smoke because I’m sick anyway,” Clare said. “It doesn't matter if I get lung cancer. You’re healthy. If you want to destroy something beautiful, you’ll have to do that all by yourself.”
Suddenly, Sarah felt stupid, as if the adult had gone out to do grown-up things, while she was left behind. Sit still. Be a good girl.
Aside from being somewhat pale, Clare didn't look sick to her. She could have done with some sun, but that was all. Her hair was dry, but full; it wasn't falling out. If Clare was lying about this, Sarah wondered, what else would she lie about.
When the coffee arrived, she smiled weakly. Feeling conspicuous, she pulled her phone from her pocket. No missed calls. No text messages. No nothing.
She dialled Geraldine’s number, telling herself that she ought to apologise for arriving suddenly the way she did, but really she wanted to be reassured that the rest of the world was turning, even though her world was holding its breath. She was surprised when the phone was answered after a single ring.
“Geraldine,” she said. “It's Sarah.”
“I know. What did you do? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I don't understand.”
“There's an ambulance on its way to my flat. George’s been beaten up by a guy looking for you.”
Out of the window, Sarah saw Clare's back and car's inching along in traffic.
“If I'd known it was going to be like this,” Geraldine continued, “I would have called the police as soon as I saw you. What have you done, Sarah? Why does he want you?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I didn't do anything.”
“Well, he's still looking for you and when he finds you, he'll probably do the same to you as he did to George, so you'd better stop running and call the police right now. Where are you?”
“I’m in a cafe,” Sarah said. “The Olive Tree. With Clare. The woman who wrote the play.”
“Clare's here,” Geraldine said. “I just told her what happened and she said that she'll drive me to the hospital.”
Sarah looked up again and saw Clare flicking a spent cigarette into the road.
“Clare?” Sarah asked. “Tall, white coat, red-blonde, smokes like a chimney, skin like tracing paper.”
“I don't know who you're with. Clare's here at the theatre. I'm looking at her. I suggest you call the police now. Don't be brave. And don't be stupid.”
“Geraldine, I'm so (scared) sorry about this.”
“Me too. Don't come again, will you?”
The line went dead.
Sarah stood to leave, but Clare was on her way back to the door so she sat down. She had to act cool.
“Freezing out there,” Clare said as she removed her coat and sat down. “Makes me want to give up smoking.”
Sarah smiled.
There was a moment of silence between them; the first one that was unnatural. It spun into something else, until it became agonising.
“All that coffee,” Sarah said. “I’m desperate to pee.” She pushed her chair back from the table.
“There’s no toilet in here,” Clare said.
She was right. Maybe that’s why she had chosen this place. One way in and one way out.
Sarah reminded herself to stay calm.
“You can come back to my place,” Clare suggested. “It’s five or six minutes from here. You can see it from that corner.” She pointed.
“I can hold it,” Sarah said, feeling her nerve wilting. “Actually, I might get back to the theatre. Geraldine called, wondering where I am. I told her I was here and said I’d be back in a few minutes.”
Clare's face was tranquil but her eyes were alert, assessing her. “Oh,” she said.
“You haven't done anything wrong,” Sarah said. “I just really have to get back. It’s rude of me to bail on my friend. I’ve kind of fucked her day up and I have to make it up to her.”
Clare nodded. “Did you tell her you were with me?” She sipped her coffee.
“No,” Sarah said too quickly and she dropped her eyes. Damn it. She was no good at this. She pretended to take a sip of her drink to cover up the mistake.
“Why didn't you tell her I was here?” Clare asked.
“I don't know,” Sarah said. Clare could have asked anything then and she would have replied that she didn't know. She wanted to stop talking entirely. She wanted to be out in the open again. “I didn’t think to mention it,” she said. “It never came up. The conversation was pretty short. She was pretty short with me.” Clare made a steeple of her fingers. “Look, I’ve really got to go,” Sarah said. “Thanks for everything. Here’s some money to cover the extra coffee.”
“Forget about the coffee, Sarah.”
“Maybe if I’m down here again, I can say hello. Could I have your number? I know you hate phones, but I could text you; find out how the play went.”
“Sit down, Sarah.”
“Geraldine’s waiting for me, so I'd better-”
“Sarah, I won’t tell you again.”
Clare put her index fingers to her lips, which Sarah took as a sign of self-restraint. Her eyes were cold and sad and Sarah saw that the woman she had been talking to for the last forty-five minutes hadn’t existed at all. Looking into those eyes, she felt exhausted and trapped.
The plastic seat squeaked as Sarah sat back down; the legs groaned as they scraped half an inch on the tiles.
When Clare spoke next, the easiness of her speech was absent. “I’m going to give you one piece of advice,” she said. “Don’t run.”
“Who are you?” Sarah asked, but Clare didn't answer. Sarah couldn't help looking away. She glanced at the counter, wondering if the owners of the cafe were in on this.
“You can't stop me leaving,” Sarah told Clare.
“You won't think so, but I'm doing you a favour,” Clare said. “It's better this way.”
Sarah demanded to know who she was, but again received nothing in return but a constant gaze, appraising her. She'd seen that look before; Simon, every time he refused to answer her questions.
“What do you want with me?” Sarah said. “I deserve an answer.”
Over Clare's shoulder, Sarah saw the sick-looking man through t
he window. She knew it was him immediately and her entire body tensed as though a spider had scuttled over her. He was peering in through a pair of sunglasses, moving in a hurry, and he was wearing a brimmed hat, which he pulled low as he shoved open the door. His trainers squeaked as he crossed the tiles. He stank.
She had been certain that Simon would save her. Even now, she thought that he would appear.
When the man stopped at their table, she was as surprised as she was afraid. His skin was covered in scars and his features had the appearance of having been wrapped in cling film. Sarah's skin crawled.
“Sarah,” he said. His voice was a cobweb. “I'm Firdy.” Sarah shrugged. Clare put her hands flat on the table as if to push herself up, but Firdy gave her a look that pinned her to her seat. “Sorry I took so long,” he said. “I see you're getting acquainted.” He looked from one woman to the other. “Or not. Finish your drink, Sarah, and we'll go.”
He extended his hand and Sarah stared at the black leather glove.
The kindly couple were behind the counter, watching. They didn't seem to be aware of what was happening. If she screamed, Sarah thought, they'd get the message.
“Now,” said Firdy. “Or I’ll make you.”
Sarah watched herself in the reflection of his sunglasses. She appeared small and frightened, so she sat up straight and got a glimpse of his misty eye over the top of his sunglasses. She recoiled.
“I can hurt you,” he said. “And I don't give a fuck that we're in public. I'll choke the fucking life out of you. Don't give me an excuse.”
“Remember,” Clare warned her. “You don't have a choice.”
“And how about you?” Sarah said. “Did you have a choice?” For the first time, she got a reaction. Clare's lips parted and closed again. That was all; easily missed, but not by Sarah. Compared to her composure a few minutes before, she looked as if she'd been slapped.
“Stand up, Sarah,” Firdy said.
One last look over her shoulder as she stood. The couple were watching her leave, doing nothing. She reached out to them with her eyes, but that was all, afraid of what Firdy would do.
“I had a feeling you’d be smart,” Firdy said. “You had to be either very smart or very stupid, but you just made the right choice.” He nodded towards the door and Sarah went, her muscles watery and her steps uncertain.