Into the Darkest Corner

  It was six-thirty and the town centre was still heaving. I got changed at work, dressed up for a night out with the girls, and went into the town to look for a present for Lee before meeting them in the Cheshire. He’d been working this week, not at the River but at this other, unnamed job that took him away from me for days at a time and spat him back out the other end, exhausted, and occasionally bad-tempered.

  In Marks & Spencer I browsed through the men’s shirts, looking for something I could see him wearing, something that would bring out the blue in his eyes.

  I was completely away with the moment, dreaming about Christmas, humming along to ‘Santa Baby’ which was playing just about audibly, when a figure appeared in front of me and stopped.

  I looked up and it was Lee, looking triumphant.

  I squealed as he grabbed me into a bear hug, then treated me to a long, long kiss. He tasted minty.

  ‘I thought you were working,’ I said, when we were sitting at a table in the coffee shop a few minutes later.

  ‘I am working,’ he said, ‘just having a bit of a break, that’s all.’

  The coffee shop was quiet, just us, a young couple sitting near the door, an elderly couple with a pot of tea and two fish suppers over by the big picture windows which looked out over the Christmas lights in the High Street. Behind the counter, the staff were wiping surfaces and wrapping things in clingfilm.

  ‘I missed you last night,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And your wet cunt.’

  I felt my skin flush and looked around. Nobody was near enough to hear, but even so, he’d not dropped his voice.

  ‘Are you wet now?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off mine.

  I couldn’t help myself. ‘I’m getting there.’

  He sat back in his chair and glanced down into his lap. I was starting to feel a bit queasy. Leaning forward, across the table, I followed his glance and saw what I’d expected to see.

  ‘Lee, seriously. Not here.’

  For a moment I thought he was going to object, push me into putting my hand under the table, but instead he sighed and sat straight again. ‘Where are you off to, then, dressed up like that?’

  ‘I’m meeting Louise and Claire in the Cheshire.’

  He continued looking at me and in the end I laughed. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Find anything you want? In the shops?’

  ‘That’s for me to know.’

  ‘Been in enough of them. Burton, Principles, Next, and now here.’

  ‘Have you been following me?’

  He shrugged, but suddenly his cheeky smile was back. I wasn’t sure if he was winding me up. ‘Let’s just say I’m one of many men who’ve been letching over you in that skirt this evening.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re the lucky one who gets to play with what’s inside,’ I said.

  He drank the last of his coffee and stood. ‘I’ve got to get back to work,’ he said, dropping his head and kissing my mouth hard. ‘Don’t be late home.’

  The elderly couple by the main window got to their feet, scraping chairs and sorting out bags and bags of shopping, just as a woman in the coffee shop uniform came over and offered to take their tray.

  I sat for a second, cradling my coffee cup, wondering whether I really wanted to go to the Cheshire after all, when suddenly he reappeared, standing like a brick wall between me and the rest of the coffee shop.

  ‘Take off your knickers,’ he said.

  I looked up at him. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not joking. Take them off. No one will see.’

  Making as little movement as possible, I hoiked up my skirt and wriggled my knickers down to my knees, pushed them down to my ankles and stepped out of them as quickly as I could, balling them up into my fist.

  ‘Let’s have them,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘What for?’ But I handed them over anyway.

  He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, then kissed me again, gently this time. ‘Good girl.’

  I sat very still, knees pressed together, staring straight ahead until I was sure he’d gone, then I slid to the edge of the seat and stood. I felt light-headed, afraid, and aroused, all at the same time.

  I’d had enough of shopping. I reached for the nearest blue shirt, took it to the counter and paid.

  All the way up the High Street towards the Cheshire, dodging my way through the shoppers, squeezing round behind queues of people waiting for buses, feeling the chill of the night air under my skirt – a nice feeling, in different circumstances – all the time thinking that he was probably still watching me, I wondered if this was a test. Was I supposed to spot him? I tried not to look obvious, glancing through the faces, looking in shops, in alleyways, but I must have been. Despite how odd it felt, how wrong, to be out here in December in a short skirt and no underwear, I was still feeling undeniably frisky at his unexpected appearance and was half-wishing I’d taken hold of him under the table when I’d had the chance.

  Thursday 13 December 2007

  I’d been home an hour and a half, and the checking was going badly wrong. Every time I thought I had done it, the uncertainty was there, the fear. There was no point doing it if I didn’t do it properly. By that time my hands were shaking and I could hardly see through the tears, and I hadn’t even made it beyond the flat door.

  I heard the footsteps this time, I heard his flat door upstairs open and close, and I stood still, holding my breath, trying not to make a sound.

  He knocked gently, but it still made me jump. ‘Cathy? It’s me. Are you okay?’

  I couldn’t reply, I just gasped and sobbed.

  I thought I heard a sigh.

  ‘You’re not okay,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  I took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Nothing, I’m alright.’

  ‘Can you open the door?’

  ‘No. Leave me alone.’

  ‘I just want to help, Cathy,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t help me. Go away.’

  I cried harder, angry now as well as afraid, furious at him for being there, for not letting me fall apart.

  He wasn’t going to go away.

  At last I tried to stand, pulling myself up on the door handle. Through the peephole, I could see him, his face distorted. There was nobody else in the hallway.

  My hands were shaking. I pulled back the bolt at the top, the key took longer. The mortise lock took longer still. By the time I got everything open and the door was unlocked my knees gave way and I dropped to a crumpled heap on the floor.

  He pushed open the door from the other side and came in, bringing with him the chilly air, the smell of winter. He closed the door behind him and sat down next to me. He didn’t come too close, just sat there with me.

  I couldn’t look at him at first.

  ‘Try and take a breath and hold it,’ he said quietly.

  I tried. There was just a lot of gasping. ‘I’m so – I’m… I’m so tired. I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it… couldn’t check.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Try and think about your breathing, nothing else. Just your breathing, for now.’

  I tried. My fingers were tingling. The skin on my face, tingling.

  ‘Can you hold my hand?’ He held it out across the gap between us, steady.

  I reached out, touched it, withdrew, touched it again, and he took hold of me. His hand was cold, icy. ‘Sorry, cold hands. Now try again with your breathing. Can you look at me?’

  I tried that too. The breathing was still all over the place. If I couldn’t get the breathing calmed down I was going to keel over.

  ‘Just think about your breathing. Breathe with me. In – hold it. Keep holding. That’s better. And out. Good, come on, do it again…’

  It seemed to take forever, but in the end it got better. I started to get some feeling back in my hands. The breathing slowed, I got it back under control. I gripped his hand as though I was drowning.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, quiet
ly, ‘you did it.’

  I shook my head, still not quite ready to speak. The tears kept coming. I looked up at him and his eyes, kind eyes, looking at me completely without judgement. I shifted a little, towards him, and he moved and stretched his legs out, sitting with his back against my front door, and I moved closer and then he had his good arm around me and I had my face into his chest, where it was warm and smelled of him. He put his hand on my head, stroking my hair.

  ‘It’s okay, Cathy,’ he said, and I felt his voice rumble in his chest. ‘It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re alright.’

  I felt so tired I could have almost slept there, on the floor next to him, just as long as he kept hold of me and didn’t let go. I opened my eyes and I could just see blue cotton, his shirt, and the way it moved as he breathed. I thought I should move. Everything was starting to ache, and the fear had been replaced with a gradual, crippling embarrassment.

  At last I lifted my head and he eased away from me, gently. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.’

  He stood and helped me to my feet, then led me to the sofa. I sat down and folded myself into a ball. I wanted him to sit down next to me. If he had done that I would have snuggled up to him again.

  ‘Can I make you a cup of tea?’ he said.

  I nodded, shivering. ‘Thanks.’

  I listened to the noise of him filling the kettle, the clinking of mugs. Opening cupboards looking for the tea. Opening the fridge. The kettle roaring into life. It felt strange, having him here. I’d never had another person set foot inside the flat since I’d lived here, apart from that plumber the day the stupid pipes burst.

  By the time I heard him putting the mugs down on the coffee table in front of me I’d been dozing a little.

  ‘Will you be alright now?’ he asked.

  I sat up, putting my fingers around the mug. My hands weren’t shaking any more, but my voice was hoarse, my throat raw. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you. Thanks for the tea.’

  He watched me while I drank. He looked bone-tired too.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘How’s your shoulder?’

  He smiled. ‘Painful.’

  ‘I’m sorry about all this. How did you know?’

  ‘I heard you crying.’

  ‘You should have left me to it.’

  Stuart shook his head. ‘Couldn’t do it.’ He drank some of his tea. ‘Are they getting worse, the panic attacks? More frequent?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He nodded. ‘Was that a bad one?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  He was watching me steadily, appraisingly, like a fucking doctor. That was exactly the way they used to look at me in the hospital, as though they were waiting for me to do something, say something, demonstrate some symptom or other so they could finally agree what was wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you’d be okay. Sanj – he’s alright really. He can be a bit casual sometimes. What did he say?’

  ‘It was okay. He was alright. He’s going to refer me for an assessment, or something. What did he mean when he said with you out of action they’ve got a chance of winning on Sunday?’

  He laughed. ‘Cheeky bugger. I’m in the NHS Trust’s rugby team. Sanj seems to think I’m some kind of handicap.’

  I finished my tea at the same time he did.

  ‘Anyway, you did it,’ he said, looking at me. ‘You took that first step.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I’d caught the eye contact and now I couldn’t look away.

  ‘Will you tell me about it?’ he said it so quietly I almost didn’t hear.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what started it all?’ I didn’t answer.

  After a while he said, ‘Do you want me to stay here while you sleep?’

  I shook my head. ‘Really, I’ll be alright now. Thanks.’

  He left, a bit after that. I felt more awake and I wanted him to hold me again, if I’m honest, I wanted him to hold me tightly and stay with me, but it wasn’t fair to ask him to do that. So he left, and I locked the door behind him, and went to bed.

  Now I need to think about carrying on with all this. Facing the rest of my life. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other. I can’t do this for much longer. I can’t keep doing this.

  Wednesday 24 December 2003

  Until Christmas, everything was fine.

  Well, not entirely fine. Going out with someone who was away working for days at a time wasn’t fine at all, really, but when he was around, everything was good. When he was going to be working on a job for several days, he warned me first. And when he reappeared, I was always so ridiculously relieved to see him back in one piece that any reproach I had just melted away.

  When he was around, he practically lived with me in my house. When I was at work, he would tidy up, fix things that needed mending, cook dinner for when I got home.

  When he was away, I missed him more than I thought it possible. Every night I wondered if he was safe, and whether I would ever get to find out if anything bad happened to him. Although he usually turned up shattered, starving hungry and in need of a shower, he didn’t appear again at my front door with any injuries. Whatever happened that first time, I wanted to believe that he was more careful now, because of me.

  Not for the first time in my life, I was alone on Christmas Eve. Lee was working somewhere – it was his turn, he said. He’d tried to get out of it so that he could spend time with me. He said he was going to try to leave early, but by ten o’clock on Christmas Eve there was no sign of him.

  Fuck it, I thought.

  Getting ready to go out didn’t take that long. My favourite dress, heels, a quick bit of make-up, hair up, bits of it falling down just moments later, and I was ready.

  By ten-thirty I was in the Cheshire, and Sam and Claire were in there too. I was several shots behind them and had some serious catching up to do. Claire had already found a likely candidate for a festive night in; he looked rather young, though, and a wee bit too pissed to be able to put up much of a performance.

  ‘Don’t fancy hers much,’ I yelled into Sam’s ear, above the noise of Wizzard singing ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ for the millionth time since October.

  ‘Yeah, but you should see his mate,’ Sam shouted back, pointing with the top of her beer bottle over to the corner, where someone dark and much more appealing was watching them both with an expression that was hard to determine.

  ‘Friendly, is he?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  The friend came over and introduced himself, and actually he turned out to be rather nice. His name was Simon, and he was in the army, he said into my ear. Off to Afghanistan in two weeks’ time. I listened, and watched Sam’s eyes which showed total adulation, and slight mortification that this dark-eyed sex god seemed to be paying rather too much attention to me.

  ‘Simon,’ I shouted into his ear, ‘this is Sam. I’m just leaving. Happy Christmas!’ I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, for luck maybe, gave Sam a wink, and went off to find where I’d left my coat.

  The Cheshire was out, then. And I wasn’t nearly pissed enough yet, I thought, as I clattered up Bridge Street to see if the Hole In The Wall was too packed. Grateful that I’d actually worn my coat over my dress, because it was starting to rain. Not cold enough to snow, but it felt freezing none the less, and for a moment I wondered if I’d have been better off staying at home after all.

  ‘No, mate, I’m not fucking doing it. No way. You can fuck off!’

  The sound of an argument from an alleyway, and something made me look over. There were three men having a bit of a set-to, one of them drunker than the rest. Half in shadow. Probably a drug deal, I thought absently, head down, keep walking, you don’t want to know.

  There was a queue outside the Hole in the Wall, but not a big one. I huddled into the doorway of the supermarket, next door, along with a couple of other people I
knew vaguely.

  Just in time to see two of the three men who’d been arguing in the doorway walking up Bridge Street past us.

  One of them was Lee.

  He didn’t look over, just kept walking, laughing at something the other man was saying, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  Just then, a pile of drunken blokes spilled out onto the pavement and moved off in search of a festive kebab. The noise from the bar crashed out with them, some Christmas music, just for a change, along with a gust of warmth and a smell of beer and sweat.

  ‘You coming in, or what?’ said the doorman, holding the door open for me.

  Fuck it, I thought. And I gave the doorman a Christmas kiss on the cheek and sidled into the warmth and the chaos.

  Friday 21 December 2007

  When I got home from work tonight, there was a note waiting for me.

  Seeing it made me smile. It was waiting for me outside the flat, on the landing, just outside my front door. I guess Stuart thought I might have some objection to it being pushed under the door into the flat itself, and had left it outside, knowing that nobody was going to be coming past my door apart from him.

  I picked it up before I started checking the door, put it into my coat pocket, and finally got to read it an hour and a half later, when I sat down in my living room at last.

  C, hope you are well. Been thinking about you. Fancy going for a drink or something on Saturday? S x

  God, yes, I do, was my first thought. This in itself made me laugh. Me, go out for a drink? With a man who knew I’d got mental health issues, who’d seen me having a panic attack? I must be getting better.

  I’d been practising deep breathing, as suggested by some of the material Stuart had printed off for me. I had tried this before, last year, when it was getting worse and worse, but back then the panic attacks and the terrible thoughts were sneaking up on me, and I was already panicking before I could start trying to calm myself. Then I would start panicking because I wasn’t breathing properly, wasn’t doing it right, and it would just make it worse somehow.

  Now that I was more aware of the things that triggered it, it might just work. So every evening after work I built a new rule into my daily regime. After checking the flat, I would sit on the floor of my living room, close my eyes and breathe. Slowly, in and out. I made myself start by doing it for three minutes. I set the kitchen timer. At first it was a struggle to keep my eyes closed for that long; every sound disturbed me. The first few times I did it, I found the old perfectionism, the desire to control my life, meant that I would admonish myself for getting it wrong if I opened my eyes before the timer went off, if I turned my head to the window at the sound of a noise in the street below.