The house is finally finished. Every room decorated and ‘dressed’ with furniture and soft furnishings. It’s been an epic task, most of which has been undertaken by Jack, but it has been worth it.
I often walk around, stroking the walls, rubbing my toes into the carpet, inhaling the scents of each room, luxuriating in what we’ve achieved. It does feel like my house, too, now. I was incredibly lucky to be able to pour some love and attention into the place alongside Jack. We’ve painted the walls in a white that has hints of green, which makes everything look far less stark than it did before. I’ve encouraged Jack to have splashes of colour in each room to warm it up and, most importantly, there are photos in every room. I missed having those around all these years, so in every room there are pictures of a younger Jack, and me with Jack. There are a few of me on my own, which are cringe-worthy, but in the main it’s fine.
In the living room we have our wedding photo. It is one of us stepping out of the register office, a shower of confetti around us and Jack and me holding hands, grinning at the camera but also secretly looking at each other.
I have a version of the picture of my parents and me, the only one I took from Leeds.
We won’t be having children immediately, but our house is ready, we are ready, so unless something BIG happens in the next year, we should be on our way to parenthood soon. I can live with that. As Jack said, ‘What’s the big rush? It’s not like we’re going anywhere.’
Lots of love,
Eve
19th February 2003
This is going to be my last diary entry, ever.
It’s too dangerous to keep getting them out, writing in them – I need to hide them permanently. I could burn them, but I don’t want to destroy them because that would be like destroying my life, as flawed and strange as it is.
Yesterday I was mugged. In broad daylight someone grabbed me from behind while I was walking that last bit from Kingsway to our road, and dragged me into the doorway of the block of flats at the bottom of our road. He was taller than me and broader than me, but because he was behind me the whole time I could only tell because he was holding me so close to his body and the outline of him easily dwarfed me. He had gloves on and the stench of sweated-into leather made me gag as he held his hand over my mouth and nose; he also smelt of that pungent, almost sweet mixture of sweat and weed – how Elliot used to smell on the days when he couldn’t be bothered to shower.
I thought for a moment it was Elliot, that he’d found me and that he was going to kill me. I started to struggle, kicking out, trying to scream against the cloth covering my mouth – trying anything to get free.
‘Mr Caesar says hello,’ the man whispered into my ear. It was the voice from the telephone. ‘And this will be a lot worse next time if you don’t hand over those diaries.’
His hand that was around my body reached down and ripped open my jacket, causing the large black buttons to fly off in all sorts of directions. I watched the buttons scatter and a new type of terror tore through me. Apart from Caesar, I’d been attacked twice before but this was different, this was personal and felt all the more deadly for it. The person delivering the threat would clearly do as he was told; the person who was sending the message would think nothing of ending my life. I’d seen that capability in his eyes when he told me he would kill me if I left, back in ’96.
The man who had been sent to do his bidding shoved me forwards with enough force to leave me on my hands and knees, while ripping my bag off my shoulder at the same time. Shaking with terror, I watched as he unzipped my bag and emptied it over my head.
Laughing, he walked away. I couldn’t move until I had heard his laughter and footsteps fade. And as I was waiting for him to leave, I kept thinking about how he could have had a knife, could have sliced it across my throat or plunged it into my side. Trembling and trying not to cry, I scooped some things into my bag, then gathered the rest in my arms and ran home as fast as I could move on shaky legs.
I had been only a few feet from home and I had almost met my end.
I was still quivering when Jack came home, and I told him I’d been mugged but the person had run off without taking anything. Jack immediately called the police. They were very nice and gentle, and took a statement about what had happened. I couldn’t tell them much because I hadn’t seen his face, I could only tell them about the smell of the leather gloves and the fact he also smelt of cannabis, but nothing else. I couldn’t tell them that it was a warning, that the man who had once pimped me out to his friends, who had intentionally hurt me every time he had sex with me, was now out to kill me. I could not tell them that I was starting to fear my days were numbered.
I almost told Jack once the police were gone. While he was rocking me and holding me and reassuring me that the world wasn’t a bad place, just that people occasionally did bad things. It almost all came spilling out. But then I remembered his broken hand, his tears at finding out I’d been with his father. Could I really do that to him? Could I really tell him everything in order to break his father’s hold over me?
If it was anyone else, I would tell in an instant. Because it was Jack, someone I loved so much, I could not hurt him with another big revelation. I’d had my chance and I let it slip away. If I did it now, I would hurt Jack, I would destroy his family and he would never look at me in the same way again.
I could hand over the diaries but that would essentially be signing my death warrant. Caesar is only threatening me because he can’t get them. Maybe I should fight back. Maybe I should tell him that if he continues to threaten me I will show my diaries to Jack. If he leaves me alone he has nothing to worry about. Why have I been so passive in all of this? Why have I let him do this? He is acting out of fear; I can act because I have nothing left to lose.
That is what I am going to do. I will hide these well and I will take the fight to him.
But I must say goodbye now. You’ve been the most faithful and enduring friend I have had, always listening, never judging. I will miss you. Maybe when I am an old woman I will get these out and read them and find something to laugh about. Maybe age will allow me to look back on this time with cool and generous eyes, and I will be able to tell Jack all of my secrets without the fear of losing him.
Thank you for all you have done by being here, for stopping me from going crazy by giving me an outlet. I will miss you.
Love, always
Eve x
libby
‘Oh my God, Eve, what did you think you were doing?’ I say to the book in front of me because the vision of Eve has permanently gone. ‘Going up against him when you know what he is capable of? Are you mad?’
I know she felt she had no choice but she must have been mad to ring him to threaten him. He definitely did it, didn’t he? And he let Jack be arrested for it rather than come clean. His own son. The man is a psychopath. That is what is so disturbing about all of this: he seems so sane and normal – you would never know that underneath he is a card-carrying psychopath.
And the silent phone calls when Jack isn’t here keep coming, keep interrupting my day. He’s definitely after me now.
Ding dong, intones the doorbell.
My heart stops and across my mind flashes, ‘Do not ask for whom the bells toll, they toll for thee.’
Butch is already up the stairs and barking at the door.
Ding dong.
The doorbell goes again and I hurriedly wrap up the diaries in the cloth, then the plastic bag and shove them back into the fireplace. Finally I pull the plate into place.
Ding dong.
Whoever it is is not going away. I move as quickly as I can up the stairs, and pause to shut and lock the door behind me. I tuck the key into my pocket.
Ding dong.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I call as I head towards the door.
Ding dong.
I open the door, and it is only as I swing it open that it occurs to me that it could be Hector. Didn’t I just think two minut
es ago that he was the one making the phone calls, that he was out to get me? And now I am blithely opening the door without finding out who is on the other side.
‘Harriet,’ I say, relieved that it isn’t Hector.
Her usually friendly face is set, her mouth a grim line, her eyes focused and unblinking. There is not a hint of the usual warmth that surrounds and exudes from her. She is, in fact, quite frightening. Fear, the kind I had the moment of the crash, spirals inside. I’m going to die. I know it now as I knew it then. Harriet is a killer.
She places a Harriet smile upon a murderer’s face. ‘Liberty,’ she says. ‘I need to talk to you about Hector.’
‘I … I, erm … I need to go out,’ I stutter. Upon hearing the tremor in my voice, Butch races back to his basket and all but puts his paws over his eyes.
‘Not until we’ve talked,’ she says firmly and takes a step forwards, forcing me to step back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make the tea,’ she continues as she forges ahead into the house. ‘I am, after all, very good at making tea and being mother.’
I have my mobile in my pocket, and my hand on the dial button.
While Harriet was bustling around the kitchen as if it were her own, gathering things together to make tea, I put 999 on the screen then slipped it into my pocket.
I’m hoping I’d be able to fight off a woman of her age, but I can’t be certain I will because I don’t seem to have as much strength as I had before the accident. But being able to dial 999, if she does attack me will give the police time to trace me, I hope. I have a lot riding on this. I remember Angela saying that she was amazed at how much people relied on mobile phones. They acted as though they were weapons that would get them out of a deadly situation. ‘I am a woman: and I am safe because I have a mobile phone,’ she said. I’d agreed with her that it was ludicrous, that people with mobile phones got mugged, raped and murdered every day. Now I was being forced to rely on one.
Why I didn’t tell Harriet to leave, I don’t know. I seemed incapable of being rude to her, even though I suspected her of something heinous and of intending to do me harm.
We have settled on the sofas in the living room. I am as far away from her as possible. I have taken my mobile out of my pocket and put it on the sofa beside me, out of sight, I hope. I can’t sit on the sofa with my hand in my pocket.
‘Coffee instead of tea,’ she said, holding out the cup to me. I am shaking as I reach for the cup and saucer, and they rattle together noisily. Harriet’s eyes, the same green as Jack’s, stare at the clanging crockery, then move up to my face. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
‘Fine, fine,’ I say. I shift myself back across the sofa, leaving her on the edge of the other one. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
After carefully making her tea – adding milk and no sugar – Harriet takes a couple of dainty sips. I watch her hands, watch her lips, wondering if it took too much effort to push Eve down the stairs, or if those lips were twisted in rage, shouting as she did the deed.
‘That’s better,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I find driving such thirsty work.’ She carefully places the cup on the table, then returns her attentions to me. I am trying not to look intimidated or scared, but I am both. ‘Now, Liberty – Libby – I’m going to ask you a question and I would appreciate an honest answer.’
‘OK,’ I say with a nod.
‘Are you sleeping with Hector?’
I stop moving, close my eyes so I can hear what she said again without any other distractions. When I open my eyes my face is creased in disgust and disbelief. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘Emphatically, absolutely, NO! Why would you even ask such a thing?’ I shudder, trying to shake off the very idea from clinging to me and contaminating me.
‘You wouldn’t be the first of Jack’s wives to do so, would you now?’
A stillness surrounds us as I stare into Harriet’s eyes and she, unabashed, stares back at me.
‘You know about that?’ I ask.
‘Of course, that’s why you think I killed Eve, isn’t it?’
‘I … I …’
‘It’s perfectly fine,’ Harriet says. ‘If I were in your position, let’s just say it would occur to me.’
‘How do you know?’
She smiles a bitter smile. ‘We’re not stupid or blind, you know, the wives of the men like Hector. We are not oblivious to the failings and indiscretions of our husbands, we simply have to weigh them up against what we have to lose.’
I could not reply because I could not see myself staying with a man I knew to be cheating on me. I was struggling as it was with the fact that Jack was still in love with a dead woman; if I thought he’d had sex with a woman in the here and now . . . I would not be able to stand it.
‘I see you don’t understand. Let me tell you a little about my life,’ Harriet says. ‘Years ago, I would attend many more functions with Hector than I do now. We would also go out for meals with friends or just as a couple. When you have two independent, grown children, it’s easier to do things together. I noticed, though, that more often than not, there would be a woman at these things who would almost petrify at the sight of Hector. She would look first at him, then at me. Sometimes she would look at him with fear, then she would look at me in bewilderment. Other times, these young women, whoever they were, would look at Hector with such compassion in their eyes and at me with disdain and disgust.
‘I grew tired of their looks, wondering what they were whispering to their friends when out of earshot, until I had the opportunity to run into one of those girls – a waitress – in the corridor of a restaurant. I took her to one side and asked her how she knew my husband. She tried to deny it, but I threatened to have her sacked if she did not tell me.’
Bitch! I think. Over-privileged, monied bitch! Threatening someone who probably needs that job to get what you want, is … bitch!
Harriet sees the look on my face and replies, ‘I’m not proud of myself for doing that, but you must understand I could feel the whispers about Hector and myself and I had to understand why. In many ways, I wished I had put up with the looks and the whispers. She eventually told me that she had worked in a brothel and that’s where she knew him from.’
I stare at Harriet, thinking at the back of my mind I should feign surprise, but I don’t because I can’t be bothered.
‘I see that this isn’t news to you,’ Harriet says sadly. ‘She told me that at first he was very nice and spoke about how his wife – I – had rejected him, had put an end prematurely to intimate relations, and how he wanted affection more than anything. She said the first few times they simply talked, and sometimes she held him. Then she told me how he started to cry one night about his failed relationship with his wife and, as she comforted him, he overpowered her and took her …’ Harriet’s matter-of-fact tone falters, but then she finds her voice and continues, ‘without any form of protection.’ Her eyes fill with glossy tears as she stares at the plain teacup on the table in front of her.
How could I have thought her a murderer? I must have been insane.
‘We were still being intimate at that time, so he could have put me at risk of catching something, but it didn’t seem to matter to Hector. She also told me that he regularly came back and changed his name every time so he could see her again. With every visit he became worse, more violent, more depraved. And although he left a bigger tip each time, by the fifth visit she was terrified of him. The people who ran the brothel didn’t care that she was being brutalised by him because he was paying them over the odds to be let in to see her. After his tenth time, she had to leave because the stress of not knowing if and when he would return became too much for her.’
Her eyes still focused on that no man’s land between then and now, the space where we all go to think things over, Harriet brusquely brushes away a tear that is sliding down her face.
‘I knew she wasn’t lying. And I knew my husband was a monster.’
‘So why didn’t you leave him?’ I ask.
??
?Leave for what?’ she replies. ‘Do you think for one minute Hector is the type of man who will allow someone to leave him? I was a housewife and mother for most of my adult life. I haven’t worked outside the home for years. Hector decides when things are over; he would never let me leave unscathed, and he would do his best to keep me tied up in legal knots and to distance me from my children. I did all I could – which was to leave his bed, and to make plans. I have been putting aside money for a long time. I should have enough soon to be able to leave and weather any legal battle without suffering too much.’
‘But you could leave him tomorrow and come and live here. We have plenty of room.’
Firmly, Harriet shakes her head. ‘No. I have two sons, remember, and while I fear Jack may know more about Hector than I’d like, I do not know what Jeffrey knows and I cannot risk alienating him until I have properly left and properly talked to him.’
I can’t understand why she would stay with a man who so clearly revolts her, who has humiliated her over the years, and who she doesn’t respect. To save face? I don’t think I could do that, not even for my child because my fear of damaging them, of unintentionally showing them by example that such behaviour is acceptable, would outstrip everything else.
‘Why did you think I was sleeping with Hector?’ I ask.
Harriet is sipping at her tea and I can tell by the way her jewel-like eyes stare into the mid-distance that she is choosing her words carefully.
‘After I understood why those young women – and they almost always were young – were looking at me like that, I had to cut down on the amount of socialising I took part in with my husband. Encountering those looks was intolerable. Instead, I spent more time with the wives of his friends and I watched them, all of them looking at each other knowingly while we all battled to contend in our own ways with the knowledge of our husband’s infidelities. I wasn’t alone, I discovered, far from it. Other wives put up with these things too. That made me more confident in my decision to sit and wait.