CHAPTER 18
Ella
My socked feet are cold against the marble floor as I wait for the kettle to boil.
I’ve not drunk so much tea in all my life.
But the afternoon dusk draws forward a cold chill that begs me to sink into bed.
Immi and Jude left after checking the house for me.
The camera that I found now sits in my desk drawer, a taunting reminder that Henry has been watching.
What has he seen? What has he wanted to see?
Despite it all, I turn on the television.
Craving some banal comfort from afternoon talk shows and car adverts.
Knowing that Immi checked the house over and Jude secured all the doors has unwound some of the tightness in my neck.
The sofa lulls me into a sleep haze, broken only by a sudden spike in noise from the television.
I watch a talk show with a local celebrity and a reality cooking competition as exhaustion tugs at my body.
I’m craving another cup of tea as my phone pings from the edge of the sofa. If Rufus were here, he would condemn me for lying out across the feather-stuffed pillows. He’d balk at the way I use our expensive throw as a cocoon for my sadness. Not for the first time, I am glad he’s not here.
Shock yanks me to an upright position as I open the latest email.
The sender’s address is an ever-changing series of numbers and letters, which I have come to know as Henry’s.
There are no words in the message, just a single picture pasted into the body.
So familiar that it takes me a moment to accept what I am seeing.
Not just what, but who. It’s Rufus, standing outside an office building that I have been to a few times.
His office. His face is almost turned fully away from the camera, but there’s enough of him to recognise.
His hair, his coat, the way he cups her face.
My stomach flips. I can’t look away from her.
The way she leans up to him with her lips slightly apart.
The longing palpable through the picture. Poppy.
I don’t know how long I sit and stare at that picture, the image that begs to destroy everything I have worked for.
Rufus is having an affair. Rufus is sleeping with Poppy, his assistant.
Out of all the cliché things for a man to do, he chose this.
Disdain piles on top of the anger. If Rufus doesn’t want me, then what is all this for?
What am I saving? I could drain our bank balance and run.
Find Henry, find my answers and go to Dad.
I crave silence. Leaning forward, I switch off the TV, letting the stillness of the house swallow me whole.
My body is pulsing, radiating with anger that I truly believed this man ever loved me.
I wipe my eyes, expecting them to come away wet with tears, and find nothing.
Instead, I sit in anger, waiting for an answer on what to do.
My answer comes in the form of another email.
The subject line reads: Looking for your answer?
My eyes dart up, half expecting to see Henry standing in the centre of my living room, old phone in hand, a smile on his face. I’m greeted with the same view of my living room as always.
I open the email:
You’re all just liars.
The phone flies across the room, slamming into the edge of the fireplace with a violent crack.
“I’m sick of you!” I shout at the house, at the world, at this stupid game. What is the purpose here? Why would Henry want to destroy Rufus and me? My ragged breathing, fast with anger, fills the silence, and then I hear it.
The sound of footsteps on gravel from the back of the house. Fear wraps itself around me, its grip squeezing so my chest burns. Scrambling to my feet, I fumble towards my phone, bringing the security camera app to life.
Not again.
Not again.
I rush to the kitchen, trying to reach the main security base where the monitor is. Whoever is here hasn’t tripped the alarm, which sits flashing happily.
Please, not again.
The sound of walking carries from the right side of the kitchen. It’s distant but certain. Banging. The house is eerily empty. I can’t move. My eyes open wide, my body alert with tension. For a moment, there’s nothing, and then there’s a knock.
It’s the most normal sound in the most abnormal way. So jarring in its reasonableness that it produces a nervous giggle from me.
It comes again.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It’s coming from the double doors of the snug. A room attached to the opposite end of the kitchen that, when I first moved in, perplexed me. I remember asking Rufus what the purpose of it was, with its single sofa and bookcases.
“A smaller reception room, I suppose. The snug.” He had shrugged at me as though that answered all my questions, yet all it had done was highlight our differences again. Now, I step into it, the usual cosy feeling dissipating at what I see.
There, against the back door, is a man. His face is shadowed by a cap, a black hoodie pulled over it so only the bottom of his face, lightly dusted with a beard, is visible.
I can’t see his eyes, but I know they are on me.
I am unable to look away, to move, to scream.
He’s tall, relaxed and comfortable in my garden.
Bile rises in my mouth. My hand flies to it, half expecting vomit but only muffling a terrified squeak. Henry reaches forward, pushing down on the handle of the door. My stomach drops.
I step back.
The door opens.
My vision blurs. This is it. This is how it ends.
Henry will step across that threshold, and I will have my opportunity to confront him.
Or he’ll do his worst before I get the chance to.
But I’m weaponless. My weakness is tangible as I stand rigid in place.
The door opens at a glacial pace. He is savouring this. Offering me a simple wave as he does.
Then he turns and leaves.
The coldness nipping in through the now open door, leaving me shivering in place. My safety has been utterly ripped open. My hand is wet, the tears falling rapidly now. My breath is hot against my palm.
Henry.
I stumble, missing the sink by inches as I throw up.
My vision blurs. The stories I’ve told on the podcast that I’ve benefited from, of people just like me.
Of people who have experienced worse, making light of their trauma, when now my own slaps me hard in the face.
The person I was mocks the person I am now.
The room slides away from me, my hand bracing the counter to keep me steady.
Something clicks inside me. My old self kicking back in, no longer disarmed by good food, soft luxuries and time.
I race through the house. My bare feet trip over themselves as I move from tile to carpet to hardwood, trying to race Henry to the front of the house.
I dial as I go, the realisation that this could implode my world is not enough to stop me anymore.
Henry wants to break me.
I press against the door, checking that the locks are in place.
The phone is against my ear as I wait for the call to connect.
It rings out. Jude doesn’t answer. Something crusts on my cheek, and I wipe to find saliva and vomit mingling on my skin.
Ignoring that, I press myself against the door, squinting through the peephole.
He has to come past here. He has to. It’s the only way out.
I try again, dialling Immi now. Time drags on, leaving me with the stench of vomit and my quick breath for company. Immi doesn’t answer, and no one comes from the corner of the house.
A trapped scream pushes out into the space between me and the door. I’m a sitting duck. I dial Rufus, my eyes still darting across the drive.
Nothing.
Still on my toes, face pressed against the door, I dial the only number I have left.
“Emergency department, who can I connect you with?” The voice answers almost immediately.
“Police.” I sound horrible. Scared, desperate, pathetic.
“Connecting you.” There’s a click through the phone.
“Police, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone’s in my house,” I say, and then pause. “Well, no, someone’s outside my house in the drive. He was in my garden and he opened the door. It was locked, I’m sure of it. He must have jumped the fence because he’s not come round the front.”
I’m talking fast, fingers pressed against the wood, hoping that Henry will saunter past and I can watch him leave.
“Are you inside the house?”
“Yes, the door is locked,” I say.
“Are you alone?”
I think of Immi, offering to stay with me. What would happen if she were here? God, I wish I weren’t alone.
“Yes.” My voice is weak.
I haven’t had a reason to be scared for so long. It’s all spiralling so fast. Not only is Henry watching me, but he’s destroying me from the inside out. Edging me closer to my demise and enjoying it.
“Can you see him?” the handler says.
“No,” I sob, because I can hear it. I can hear the privileged nonsense of a woman calling in the middle of the afternoon because someone, somehow, got too near to her. I want to tell them who I am and what I’ve been through and make them understand how serious this is.
“We’ll send a car over to check the property. Please stay indoors and don’t approach him if you see him.” The handler’s voice is calm when juxtaposed against the erraticness of mine.
But I won’t see him, Henry is smart like that. He knows me, knows how to unravel me. And he savours every moment of it.
I’ll destroy you! Henry’s words splutter from my memory.
“I’ll stay on the line,” the handler says. I hear my tears, the sobs that I had pushed down. The vulnerability in knowing that even when you disappear, you can always be found.
I think of the weapon upstairs, and how I can finally stop this.