It was an effort to go up the flights of stairs, past the flat on the first floor, where I could hear the sound of a television. My legs felt heavy and I was panting by the time I reached our door on the next floor up. I called out, as I turned the key. "Hello? Hello, it's me. I'm back." Nothing. "Terry? Hello?"
Silence, except for the noise of a tap dripping in the bathroom. Suddenly, without warning, fear flooded me and I had to stop quite still, holding on to the door to steady my crumbling legs. I breathed deeply, in and out, until the fear had ebbed again, then stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind me.
I don't know what I noticed first. Probably it was just the mess: the muddy shoes on the living-room floor, unwashed dishes piled up in the sink, dead tulips drooping on the kitchen table, next to several empty bottles and an overflowing ashtray. Grimy surfaces, stale air. But then I saw that there were odd spaces here and there, where things should be but weren't. My CD player, for a start, which we'd always kept on a low table in the living room next to the little television. Except it wasn't a little television any longer, but a new big one. Automatically I looked next at the small desk in the corner of my room for my laptop and it, too, was gone. It was go an old one, a dinosaur in computer terms, but I groaned to think of the things stored in there that were lost all the email addresses, for a start, which I'd never made a note of anywhere else.
I sat down on the sofa, next to a pile of old newspapers and Terry's overcoat. Had we been robbed? Books seemed to be missing as well there were gaps all along the shelves. I tried to remember what had been there: a giant encyclopedia from the lower shelf; several novels from the shelf above; an anthology of poetry; the Good Pub Guide perhaps. Certainly a couple of cookery books.
I went into our bedroom. The bed was unmade; the jumbled-up duvet still held the shape of Terry's body. There was a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, along with two empty wine bottles. I opened the curtains to let in the dazzling sunshine, opened the window to feel the fierce, clean air blasting into the room, and then stared around. It's always hard to see what isn't there; to notice absence. But the alarm clock was gone from my side of the bed. My wooden box of jewellery was gone too, from the top of the chest of drawers. There wasn't anything valuable in it -just a few earrings, bangles, a couple of necklaces, things given to me over the years but they were mementoes and gifts and could never be replaced.
I opened the drawers. My underwear was gone, except for an old pair of black knickers stuffed at the back. Several of my T-shirts were missing, a couple of pairs of jeans and smarter trousers and at least three of my jumpers, including the expensive one I'd succumbed to in the January sales. I pulled open the wardrobe doors. All of Terry's things were in there, as far as I could see, but some of the hangers on my side were empty. A couple of dresses were missing. My black coat wasn't in the cupboard, or my leather jacket. Neither were most of my shoes just a couple of pairs of sandals and some scuffed trainers remained on the wardrobe floor. Most of my work clothes seemed to be still there, though. I looked around, bewildered, and I saw that some of the missing clothes had been stuffed into a bulging bin-bag at the base of our bed.
"Terry," I said aloud. "You bastard."
I went into the bathroom. The lavatory seat was up and I banged it down. No Tampax, no makeup, no moisturizing cream, no perfume, no body spray, no deodorant. I'd been cleared away. Even my toothbrush was gone. I opened the cabinet. All the first-aid stuff was still there. I unscrewed the bottle of paracetamol and poured two into my palm. I swallowed them without water. My head banged.
This was a dream, I thought. A nightmare, in which I was being rubbed out of my own life. I'd wake up soon. But that was the difficulty where had the nightmare begun, and at which point would I wake? Back in my old life, and nothing had happened and everything was just a feverish concoction inside my head? Back on the ledge, a rag stuffed into my mouth, my mind clouding over, waiting to die? Back in hospital, still thinking the doctors were going to cure me and the police were going to save me?
I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. While I was waiting for it to boil, I rooted around in the fridge for I was suddenly dizzy with hunger. There wasn't much in there, apart from several bottles of beer and three or four oven-ready meals stacked on top of each other. I made myself a Marmite and lettuce sandwich on white bread, plast icky like the hospital bread, and poured boiling water over a tea bag.
But mid-bite, still standing by the fridge and with a strip of lettuce dangling from my lower lip, a thought came to me. Where was my bag, with my purse, my money, my cards and my keys? I picked up cushions, looked behind coats on hooks, opened drawers. I looked in places it wouldn't be and places I had already searched.
I must have been carrying it when I'd been snatched. Which meant that he had my address, keys, everything, while I had nothing at all. Nothing. I didn't have a single penny. I had been so furious and so ashamed when Dr. Beddoes told me about the 'treatment regime' she was going to begin that would help me to 'move on', I shouted something incoherent at her and said that if she wanted me to listen to a single further word from her or anybody connected with the hospital she would have to have me strapped down and sedated. Then I had marched out of the hospital in the clothes I'd been found in, trying not to let my knees buckle under me, trying not to weep, rant, beg. I'd refused all offers of a lift, some money,
proper explanations, a follow-up session with a psychiatrist, help. I didn't need help. I needed them to catch him and make me safe. And I needed to punch Dr. Beddoes in her smug face. I didn't say any more. There was no point. Words had become like vicious traps, springing shut on me. Everything I had said to the police, the doctors and to that fucking Irene Beddoes had been turned against me. I should have taken the money, though.
I didn't want my sandwich any more. I chucked it into the bin, which looked as if it hadn't been emptied since I was last here, and took a sip of cooling tea. I walked over to the window and looked out, pressing my forehead against the icy pane and almost expecting to see him standing there on the pavement below, looking up at me, laughing.
Except I wouldn't know that it was him. He could be anyone. He could be that old man dragging a resistant dachshund with stiff legs, or that young guy with a pony-tail, or that nice-looking father in a bobble hat with a red-cheeked child beside him. There was a thin layer of snow on the trees and on the roofs of houses and cars, and the people who passed were muffled up in thick coats and scarves, and had their heads bent against the cold.
No one raised their heads to see me standing there. I was completely at a loss. I didn't even know what I was thinking. I didn't know what to do next, or whom to turn to for help. I didn't know what help I would be asking for: tell me what happened, tell me what to do, tell me who I am, tell me where to go from here, only tell me .. .
I shut my eyes and tried for the thousandth time to remember something, anything. Just a tiny chink of light in the darkness would do. There was no light, and when I opened my eyes again I was staring once more into the street, made unfamiliar by winter.
I went to the phone and dialled Terry's number at work. It rang and rang. I tried his mobile number and got voice mail
"Terry," I said. "Terry, it's me. Abbie. I urgently need to speak to you."
I phoned Sadie's number next, but only got an answering-machine and I didn't want to leave a message. I thought about calling Sheila and Guy but then I would have to explain it all and I didn't want to do that, not now.