Chapter Twenty-Three
On the journey home, I sang the Beach Boys’ ‘God Only Knows’ to myself. I sang the entire song holding only one note – B very flat – but, hey-ho, it made me happy.
I parked my Mini and climbed the two flights of stairs that led to my flat. I was still singing to myself when I inserted the key and opened my door. Then all hell broke loose.
I was hanging my coat in the closet when Dan burst through my front door. In my merriment, I’d forgotten to lock it. He grabbed me by the elbow and hurled me into the living room. Crying out in pain, I went sprawling across the carpet, laddering my tights, knocking my head against the television stand.
“Don’t worry,” Dan smiled, charmingly, boyishly, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m cool, calm, in control, the new Dan. I just want some answers to some very important questions.”
I pushed myself into a sitting position while rubbing my head and then my arm. “You’ve already hurt me,” I groaned. “Get out, before I call the police.”
Dan ignored me. He stood over me, his legs either side of my thighs, pinning me to the floor. “Question one – what were you doing with him when you knew you had a date with me?”
“Did I?” I rubbed my temple. It was throbbing from its thud against the TV stand. “It must have slipped my mind.” And that was the truth; I was so intent on my dinner date with Alan that meeting up with Dan completely slipped my mind.
“Who is he?” Dan demanded.
“None of your business.” I tried to wriggle between his legs to free myself, but he trod on my dress, tearing the hem. I stared at the torn dress and then at Dan, my anger rising. “Have you been following me?”
“I’ve been keeping an eye out for you, yeah.”
I pushed him away by placing my hands behind his right knee. He lost his balance, temporarily, and I clambered to my feet.
As I dusted myself down, I realised that I was the one with the stalker, not Derwena. Dan had been following me while I’d been looking the other way.
“I think you should leave.” I was shaking inside, with anger, indignation and fear but to my ears, my voice sounded surprisingly calm.
“You haven’t answered my questions,” Dan snarled; the synthetic charm, the boyish pretence had quickly faded; once again, Dr Jekyll had given way to Mr Hyde. “I want to know all about this bloke, his name, where he works, what he means to you.”
“He means nothing to me.”
“Liar!”
A picture of Alan appeared in my mind, an image of him smiling, looking happy. I felt guilty, because it was a lie, because by using those words I was doing him a disservice. No matter what Dan thought of me, of Alan, I resolved to tell the truth.
“Yes, that was a lie. I like him. I like him a lot. He’s a decent man; he’s kind, considerate, compassionate...everything you’re not.”
“Ooh,” Dan ridiculed me while circling around the room, “you’re really pushing the boat out, lady. More talk like that and you’re heading for a slap.”
From somewhere, I found a level of courage that surprised me, and I stood up to him. “You lay a finger on me, and I’ll kill you.”
Dan pushed his right palm into my right shoulder and I fell into an armchair. “What’s he been saying to you, where’s all this talk come from?”
I was at a disadvantage, sitting in the chair, but I stuck to my guns. “Get out!”
“Does he love you?”
“He likes me.”
“Do you love him?”
“I like him.”
“I see. I get it. So it’s goodbye Dan. No room for a cuckoo in Sam’s love nest.” Dan squatted beside the chair. He placed his face close to mine and I could see the veins pulsing in his forehead, I could smell his over-strong after-shave and the alcohol on his breath. “Do you honestly think he’ll stick around? Once he gets to know you, once he gets to understand what a frigid piece of shit you are, do you honestly think he’ll want to know you. He’ll be gone before you can turn around.”
I flinched, turning my head away, as though he’d hit me. The physical blows were excruciating but over the years, Dan’s words had caused me more pain.
“You’re sick, Dan,” I mumbled in a small voice, “you need help.”
“I’m sick?” He stood and wandered around my living room, waving his arms like a windmill caught in a storm. “That’s rich coming from Sam the fruitcake. That’s rich coming from the woman who dissolves into tears the minute a man puts his hand on her cheek.”
He bent over me again and placed the back of his right hand, lightly, on my right cheek.
I tensed. My hands gripped the armchair and my eyes stared at his hand as though it were a cobra, ready to strike. “Don’t touch me. Please.”
He ignored me. He continued with his rant, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sick? That’s rich coming from the woman who cries herself to sleep at night whenever she thinks of her mother, or her father, whoever the hell he may be. You’re an emotional mess, Sam. You’re a loony tune. You come on all bold and brassy, but if anyone lays a finger on you, you freak out. You’re damaged goods, Sam. A man like that won’t want to know you. And look at you. You look like a whore, you’ve got no class.”
“Not true!” A tear trickled down my left cheek. I brushed it away with my index finger.
“Your hair’s a mess and your clothes look as if they’ve been discarded by a charity shop.”
“Not true!”
“You were pretty when I first met you, but look at you now. You’ve got bags under your eyes, wrinkles on your face and pimples on your skin. How old are you? Thirty-two? You look fifty-two. You’re heading for the gutter, Sam, on the slide fast.”
I brushed away another tear. And another one from my left eye. “Stop it, Dan! Stop it! Please! Why are you doing this to me?”
“You’re shit, Sam. I flush better things than you down the toilet.”
I put my head in my hands. My shoulders started to shake. “Stop it! Please!”
“You’re no better than a piece of dog shit. You’re garbage.”
“Stop it!”
“You’re an ugly whore who sells herself as a private eye. Your office is above a knocking shop. Why is that? Because you want men to walk in and buy what you have to offer. You’re a slut, Sam, and a cheap slut at that.”
I was crying openly now. I put my hands over my ears, to try to block out his voice. But it was no use, his words were already embedded in my brain; I’d listened to this tirade, or variations of it, continuously for four years. Dan didn’t have to say a word. He only had to look at me and the whole lousy record would start up again. And it would go on and on and on...
“Do you give them discounts? Or refunds? I bet you don’t give value for money.” He mocked my light voice, “Not tonight, Dan, I’ve got a headache, not tonight, Dan, I’m tired, not tonight, Dan...for four sodding years!”
I bit my lip. I shook my head. I wiped the tears from my face. I wanted to argue, to stand up for myself, but I didn’t know what to say.
“You’re a failure, Sam. You dropped out of school, have no friends to speak of, you’re a lousy lover and a pathetic private eye.”
“Go away! Leave me alone!”
“When are you going to get honest with yourself? You’re a whore, Sam.” Again, he mocked my voice, “Do you want to hire me, you can do anything you like for £25 an hour.”
“I’m a businesswoman! I run a respectable business!”
“You’re a slut, Sam, you sell yourself cheap. You need to get out of this game, clean yourself up. Get a proper job, go back to typing. Get yourself off the street and into a nice clean office. And give up on the idea that Prince Charming is out there waiting to find you because no man in his right mind will ever love you. I’m the only man who understands you. I’m the only man for you. No other man would put up with a w
hore like you.”
I buried my face in my hands again. My words of defiance had taken the last of my energy. I felt tired, weak, feeble, pathetic...I felt like the woman Dan had described.
He sat on the arm of my chair and put an arm around my shoulder. “You need me, Sam,” he murmured in a gentle voice, “you can’t live without me. Come here,” he tightened his grip around my shoulder, “don’t cry. Let me make it better.” He kissed my forehead; my forehead was hot; my whole body was burning, as though gripped in fever. He kissed my forehead again. “I love you.”
“Go away, Dan. Please.”
“You need someone who can look after you, someone like me.”
“Go away.”
He ignored me. He cast his eyes around my living room, then stared at the bedroom. “You owe me, Sam; you owe me for four years of frustration.” He winked at me. Maybe he thought it was a playful wink, but it came across as a leer. “Time to start making the repayments.” His hand wandered over my thigh, under my dress. “Me and you, in your bedroom now, what do you say.”
“Get away from me!” I pushed him. Finding an ounce of energy from somewhere, I pushed him and he fell away from me, landing on my carpet, on his backside.
The anger on his face and the ire in his eyes was frightening. He curled his fists into tight balls and eased himself to his feet.
“Don’t make me hit you, Sam. It’s all your fault, I don’t want to hurt you, but you bring it on yourself.”
He swung a right hook, but I managed to duck under it. I looked frantically around my living room, searching for my shoulder bag.
“Come here,” he demanded, “come and get what you deserve.”
“No!” I pushed him away and dived on to my shoulder bag. I fumbled inside the bag and came out with my gun.
Dan took a step away from me. His face was frozen in time, a mixture of rage and disbelief. He held his right hand out, palm raised, as though to shield himself from the impending bullet.
“What are you playing at, Sam?”
“Get out!” Although I was churning inside and my mind was whirring, my hands remained surprisingly steady as they gripped the walnut stock of my Smith and Wesson .32.
“You really have flipped this time.”
“Get out!” The tears were streaming down my face as my hands gripped the gun and my index finger embraced the cold steel of the trigger.
“You should be in a padded cell.”
“Get out!”
“I’ll go and get help.” He took another step back, his hand reaching, blindly, for the door. “You’re sick, Sam. You’re having another breakdown. You need help. I’ll go and get help. Put the gun down. I’ll get someone to help you.”
“Get out!” I started to squeeze the trigger.
“I love you, Sam.”
“Get out!”
Dan jerked the door open and ran down the corridor. I could hear his footsteps echoing on the stairs as he ran into the street.
With a heavy sigh, I closed the door. I locked it, securing all three deadlocks. Then I slumped to the floor with my back to the door. I dropped my gun on to the carpet and, crying uncontrollably, placed my head in my hands.