Eventually, when I can’t bear it any more, I raise my head and turn. He’s holding the gun in the air. The bottom of his shirt has blood on it. ‘What…?’ I start to say.
He flies across the room at me. ‘You bitch!’ he screams. ‘Evil bitch!’ I don’t have time to move. I see the gun above my head, his hand coming down fast. Then a terrible crack, a burst of pain that wipes everything away.
When I come round, my arms and legs are twitching. That’s the first thing I’m aware of. I raise my hands to pat my face and head. Something around my eyes is the wrong shape. I find a lump above my right eyebrow, hard and huge, as if someone’s sliced open my skull and pushed a cricket ball under the skin at the top of my face.
My fingers are wet. I open my eyes: blood. That’s right: he hit me with the gun. I look around. Tears of gratitude prick my eyes when I see he’s not there. I don’t mind being in this room as long as he’s somewhere else.
Blood on his shirt. But that was before he hit me. Did he injure himself? How? Slowly, I rise to my feet. On the stripy carpet where I was lying, there is more blood. Nowhere near where my head was. I can’t bear to check in the most obvious way, not after what he’s done to me. I hobble over to my bag, pull out my diary and find the last page that I’ve marked with an asterisk. Then I count the days since then: twenty-nine. Oh, my God.
Knowing why he hit me frightens me as much as the click of the gun did. He can’t wait. That’s how mad he is. At some point in his life, he has lived with a woman and had a child; he must know exactly what the blood means.
He can’t even bear to wait five or six days.
Has he given up on me and gone to find another woman?
I try the door handle. Locked. I swear at myself, knowing how ridiculous it is to be crying with disappointment. For a moment I allowed myself to hope that he had left the house in a blind fury, forgetting to take his usual precautions.
I know he has gone out. I’m sure of it. He can’t stand to be around me, not now that I’ve let him down. I have to do something. I can’t wait for the milkman tomorrow morning. I must do something now.
Why do people say, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way’? Most of them will never end up in a situation like mine, forced to remember the number of times they’ve trotted out that idiotic platitude.
I have never said it because I’ve never believed it, but now I have to. I have to make it true.
Breaking down the door would be impossible. It’s a thick one with metal inside, a fire door. It swings shut heavily unless someone-the man, William Markes-holds it open. That leaves the window. Double-glazed. I’ve looked at it hundreds of times and decided there’s no way I could smash it.
I have to try. I run from the opposite side of the room, throw my body at the glass six, seven times. It doesn’t move. I do it until my shoulders and arms feel as if they’re about to break. I slam my fists against the window and scream, hating it for its strength.
There is clouding on one pane. It’s been there since I got here, blocking a small patch of what is already a limited view. It never clears; funny, I haven’t noticed before. Moisture, trapped between the two panes of glass. Which means that, somewhere, the seal is broken.
Climbing up on to the massage table, I unscrew the white plastic light fitting above the bulb and release the cranberry glass shade. Then I swing my arm back and hurl it at the window as hard as I can. It smashes. I leap down from the table, run to the pile of glass and choose a shard with a thin, sharp edge. I think about using it to kill myself and immediately reject the idea; if I’d wanted to die I could have lied and let William Markes shoot me-it would have been easier.
Using the pink glass triangle’s sharpest point, I start to slice gently at the grey rubber seal at the top of the window. The soles of my feet sting. I stop to examine them and see that they are bleeding: small chunks of lampshade have embedded themselves in the skin. I ignore the pain and carry on cutting at the thin rubber strip. I don’t care how long it takes. I will never stop. I will spend the rest of my life gouging out the corner of this window.
After what feels like hours, a curl of rubber springs towards me-I have prised it free with my makeshift spade. Yes. I drop the slice of lampshade on the carpet, grab the rubber and yank it as hard as I can. The strip peels away, and the glass in the window shifts slightly. I’ve pulled out the seal.
My body feels too battered to break anything. I push the massage table on to its side and start to unscrew the central metal leg, twisting it clockwise. It is stiff, and takes a while. I sing under my breath, ‘Annie Apple, she says “Aah”, she says “Aah”, she says “Aah”.’ Zoe’s Letterland song-she learned it at nursery. By the time I get to Z I’ll have done it, I tell myself. I’ll be free. ‘Annie Apple, she says “Aah”, she belongs to Mr A. Bouncy Ben says “Buh” in words, Bouncy Ben says “Buh” in words, Bouncy Ben says “Buh” in words, and then he bounces home. Clever cat…’
I’ve done it. I’m holding the sturdy metal leg. It’s hollow, but still heavy enough. It should do the trick.
Running from the opposite wall, I aim the end of it at the middle of the window. The glass smashes. It cracks, then crumples and falls like hard, opaque confetti.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and move towards the open air.
Police Exhibit Ref: VN8723
Case Ref: VN87
OIC: Sergeant Samuel Kombothekra
GERALDINE BRETHERICK’S DIARY, EXTRACT 8 OF 9 (taken from hard disk of Toshiba laptop computer at Corn Mill House, Castle Park, Spilling, RY29 0LE)
17 May 2006, 11.40 p.m.
Mum phoned this evening. I was so tired, I was barely able to form words with my lips and tongue. ‘What are you doing?’ she said. She always asks this question as if she hopes my answer will be ‘Sculpting a dolls’ house for Lucy from a piece of firewood. I’d better go now-got to get back to my sewing machine and finish the cute gingham curtains for those dollies’ little windows!’
‘Tidying away the toys that Lucy’s scattered all over the house,’ I told her.
‘I wish you wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘You’re always saying how tired you are. You should sit down and put your feet up.’
This surprised me. Mum usually tells me I have no reason to be tired and has never before shown an interest in the position of my feet.
‘Is Lucy in bed?’
‘Not yet,’ I told her.
‘Wait till she goes to bed, then. There’s no point putting things away that she’s only going to take out in five minutes’ time.’
Wrong again, Mother. There is a clear point. Tidying up is not only about the result. The process is equally important; sometimes I think it’s the only thing that keeps me sane at home. When Lucy and I are both in the house, I do almost nothing but walk from room to room tidying away the mess she’s made. I stand behind her, and as soon as she’s put something down I put it back in its proper place. Every time she pulls a toy or book or DVD off the shelf, five other items tumble down with it and land on the carpet. Each time she dresses up, all the play-clothes have to come out of the wardrobe to be strewn all over the bedroom. Then there are the toys I loathe most, those with more than one component: tea sets, picnic sets, hairdresser sets, Lego, Fuzzy Felt, jigsaws. All these things end up all over my floors.
In the past Mum has said that I should make Lucy tidy up herself, but if I did she would have a tantrum, which I would then need to summon up the energy to deal with. Still, that’s not the only reason why I clear up after her. Hovering behind her and putting back the things she’s taken out appeals to me in a sick kind of way. I like the symbolism of it. I want to prove to all observers how hard it is for me-second by second, minute by minute-to make my life acceptable to me, to get it into an order I can live with. I want my predicament to be clearly visible to alclass="underline" Lucy is constantly ruining everything and I am constantly struggling to repair the wreckage of my life. And I will never, ever give up. I’ll be on my feet, on my hands and knees, fighting the things I hate for as long as there’s breath left in my body.