Because She Loves Me

  What could I do? I tried to think of it in a legal way again. I either needed hard evidence or, failing that, I needed to know more about Charlie and her past, find people who knew her. Did she have a criminal record? Had anything like this ever happened before? Maybe I would uncover an alibi for the night Karen died.

  I grabbed a piece of paper from the printer and listed the various crimes Charlie might be behind, starting with the attacks on other women:

  Karen’s death.

  That was the big one, the worst. Could Charlie really be capable of murder? Had her jealousy really spun so far out of control? With a swirling sensation in my gut, I carried on.

  Threats against Sasha.

  Harriet – burglary.

  Kristi – acid in face.

  My hand trembled as I wrote these down, each name. My best friend, my ex, my attractive cleaner, whose now-ruined face had been so pretty. To do these terrible things, my girlfriend would have to be insane. Could I really be sleeping with someone who was capable of these terrible things? I moved on to the other weird occurrences that had impacted on my life since I’d fallen for Charlie.

  Victor framed for paedophilia.

  Why would she do this? To stop me working for Victor. But why – to stop me working with a bunch of cool, attractive women? There was a certain warped logic to it. But was Charlie capable of such a complex set-up?

  The thing was, I didn’t know what she was capable of. Large parts of Charlie’s life, her past, were still shrouded in secrecy. I shook my head, was tempted to screw up the paper, rip it to shreds. Was I the crazy one, entertaining these possibilities? I forced myself to carry on, to write down the last suspected crime.

  Me pushed down steps.

  Why would she do this? If she loved me, why would she want to hurt me? The answer came quickly:

  To keep you trapped in your flat. To stop you starting your job. To make you her prisoner, like a pet in a cage.

  Was that her idea of love?

  I got up, paced the room, feeling light-headed and nauseated, then returned to the list, trying to view these possible crimes coolly, rationally.

  All of them had a logical explanation that didn’t involve Charlie. She definitely hadn’t been there the day I’d fallen down the steps. Did that mean she had enlisted someone else’s help? The more I studied the list, the more my head hurt. Perhaps I should go to the police, let them gather the evidence . . . No, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to risk her leaving me before I knew for certain. But if I distrusted her enough to suspect her of any of this, could I really love her as much as I claimed? Yes, yes I could.

  Another little voice in my head whispered: And if she is guilty – would you forgive her? Would you want to be with her anyway? Maybe it excites you, turns you on?

  I shook my head violently.

  It came down to this: I loved her. I wanted her to be innocent but I didn’t know if she was. I needed more proof before I went to the police or confronted her. And if, as I prayed, she was innocent, I could clear my head of all this and we could go on as before. But she could never know I had suspected her. I had to be discreet.

  I walked across the room, thinking about secrets stacked upon secrets, and as I reached the window, something crashed into the glass.

  ‘Jesus!’ I cried out. What the hell was that?

  I looked down. A small bird – a sparrow or starling – lay dead on the tiny balcony. I rubbed my arms and heard Karen’s neighbour’s voice in my head. A dark spirit has attached itself to you. I shivered. It was getting dark outside, the streetlights flicking on. I stared at the dead bird, with its broken neck and mashed beak, and realised I needed to retrieve it so it didn’t rot and start to stink.

  I pushed the sash window up and went to look for a carrier bag. As I was hunting beneath the sink, where dozens of plastic bags lived inside other plastic bags, the doorbell rang.

  I pressed the intercom. ‘Hello?’

  The voice at the other end sounded faint, nervous.

  ‘Hello, Andrew? Can I come up? It’s Rachel.’

  Rachel? What on earth was she doing here?

  Thirty

  Rachel came up the stairs and stood blinking at me, her shoulders hunched inside her leather jacket, crash helmet in hand. Her short dark hair was squashed and she had grey crescents beneath her eyes. She was wearing her full biker gear: leather trousers, boots, gloves. She smelled faintly of petrol and fresh sweat.

  ‘I’ve left the bike outside. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Er . . . come in.’

  She followed me into the flat. She looked like a fox that had evaded the hunt, eyes darting about nervously. Taking off her biker gear made her appear even more vulnerable, like she was removing her armour, a turtle rolling over to reveal its belly. Having her here made me feel nervous too. A young woman in my flat. But Charlie was hundreds of miles away. She would never know.

  ‘Are you on your own?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Charlie’s on a course in Newcastle.’

  ‘Oh.’ She relaxed a little.

  ‘What is it, Rachel? Why are you here? Is Tilly all right?’

  She gripped her crash helmet. She was trembling. As she answered me she put her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Yeah, she’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.’

  I was perplexed but decided to let her tell me in her own time. I offered her a tea and she accepted gratefully.

  We sat down and I waited.

  ‘I like your flat,’ she said, glancing around.

  ‘Thanks.’

  It was dark outside now and I hadn’t removed the dead bird. I’d have to do it in the morning. I went over and shut the window, wondered if I should offer Rachel a blanket. She was still shivering.

  ‘I’m really sorry to barge in on you,’ she said. ‘But I couldn’t think of anyone . . . You’re the only person I know in London and I had to get out of Eastbourne.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Henry. I needed to get away from him.’

  She burst into tears. Awkwardly, I went into the bathroom and came back with a loo roll which I passed to her. After she’d stopped crying and blown her nose a couple of times, she apologised again.

  ‘It’s OK, Rachel. What’s happened? What’s Henry done?’

  She was, I realised, terrified. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘He attacked me. I thought he was going to kill me.’

  ‘Oh my God. What . . . why?’

  ‘He . . .’ She trailed off, squirmed in her seat. ‘I don’t . . . really . . . I can’t. I’m sorry.’ Her hand crept up to obscure her whole face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Hey, it’s OK. I don’t need to know.’ I paused. ‘He seemed like a nice guy.’

  ‘Despite what he looks like?’

  I smiled.

  ‘That’s what I thought. He was at first. Sweet and funny but with that edge of danger. It’s attractive, you know?’

  I nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘But I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You should go to the police,’ I said, fully aware of the irony.

  ‘I don’t want to. What will they do? He’ll deny it and then it will be even worse for me.’

  ‘Did he actually . . . hit you?’

  She stood up and took off her leather jacket and for a moment I thought she was going to show me her bruises. Instead, she sat back down and said, ‘It was more like pushing and shouting and . . . he spat at me. In my face.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘It’s next time I’m worried about. He said they’d get me.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Him and the other bikers. His mates. I think it was just an idle threat, but . . . He said I’d tricked him. Made him think I was into him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But he was
always pestering me to go out with him and, in the end, I thought why not? I haven’t been with anyone for ages and I thought going out with Henry would be fun, just like going out with a friend. It was when it came to sex that . . .’ Her words trailed off.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me any more,’ I said, embarrassed for her.

  ‘Thanks. To be honest, I don’t think he even noticed that I didn’t really fancy him . . . I mean, I like sex, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but not with . . .’ She trailed off again.

  I squirmed. This really was embarrassing.

  She gathered herself. ‘It was when I tried to end it, after I realised what a stupid mistake the whole thing was, that he went mad.’

  A horrible, selfish thought struck me. ‘Hang on – does he know you’ve come here?’

  She shook her head quickly. ‘No!’

  ‘You’re sure he didn’t follow you?’ My pulse accelerated at the sound of a motorbike on the street and I rushed to the window. But it was some guy on a little Honda.

  ‘He’s at work. He definitely didn’t follow me. Don’t worry.’

  ‘OK. So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought if I could get away for a few days, then I’ll talk to him. My sister lives in Cardiff. I’m going to head up there tomorrow.’ She met my eye for the first time. ‘I don’t want to be with him anymore. But maybe if I give him a few days to calm down, he’ll leave me alone.’

  ‘My God, Rachel. If he continues to threaten you, you have to call the police.’ I sipped my tea but it had gone cold and I spat it back into the mug. ‘Does Tilly know what’s going on?’

  ‘Yes. But don’t worry, she’ll be safe. He’s not going to attack her. He really likes her.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have left her alone if I wasn’t one hundred per cent confident.’

  I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. ‘I think we should open some wine. I could do with a drink.’

  ‘I’ll give you some money for it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  I opened a bottle of red and poured two glasses. It slipped down, making me feel better almost immediately.

  ‘So is it OK for me to stay the night?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, of course. You have my bed and I’ll have the sofa.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Rachel. I insist.’

  By nine o’clock, after we’d eaten a delivery pizza and watched a rubbish film on TV, Rachel told me she was exhausted and asked would I mind if she went to bed. She’d spent the evening checking her phone compulsively. I wasn’t sure if she was receiving messages from Henry; the phone didn’t beep but it could have been on silent. She didn’t appear to reply to any.

  A short while after she’d shut the bedroom door, my phone rang.

  ‘Hi sexy.’

  ‘Hi Charlie.’ My heart surged and I forced myself to stay calm, sound normal. ‘How’s it going? How’s the training?’

  ‘Oh God. Boring with a capital B. But there’s this cool woman on the course from Birmingham and I’m going to the bar with her in a bit. I’m just in my hotel room. The bed’s all lovely and springy. Wish you were here.’

  ‘I wish you were here.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. But hotel rooms can be very sexy.’ She paused and, with a smile in her voice, said, ‘I’m getting changed. I’m just sitting here in my underwear at the moment.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, you know, just lounging about in my posing pouch.’

  ‘You’re funny. Hang on.’

  It had almost become a regular part of our relationship, Charlie sending me pictures of herself in a state of undress. A few seconds later, the photo arrived, her body from the neck to the tops of her thighs, clad in red underwear, stretched out on the hotel bed.

  ‘Like what you see?’ she asked.

  I swallowed. Was I talking to a killer? Of course, the photo was glorious. She was glorious. Perhaps another man would have found the extra layer of danger, the possibility that Charlie was a murderer, exciting. I had kissed and touched every inch of her. I had spent almost every waking minute since we’d met thinking about her. But looking at the photo now, I felt lost. Did I really know her? Who was she? I felt sick with anxiety.

  ‘I’m touching myself,’ she said. ‘Stroking my clitoris.’ She let out a long, breathy sigh. ‘Ah, that feels amazing. I’m so wet, Andrew. Why don’t you touch yourself?’

  ‘I am,’ I whispered. But I was lying.

  ‘Are you hard?’

  ‘Rock hard.’

  She giggled. ‘I love your hard cock. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like to do with it.’

  I was aware of Rachel in the next room. Would she be able to hear? I got up and shut the living room door.

  ‘What was that?’ Charlie asked, her tone changing.

  ‘Oh, nothing. I shut the door.’

  ‘Why? There’s no one there to hear you, is there?’

  ‘No. It’s just . . . cold. I’m trying to keep the warmth in the room.’

  She was quiet for a few seconds. ‘You’ve broken the spell now,’ she said. ‘The mood’s gone.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I was relieved.

  Charlie sighed. ‘It’s OK. I’ve got to meet Brenda anyway. Maybe I’ll Skype you later. Then I’ll be able to see you.’

  My eyes filled with tears. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘All right. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  I awoke with a stiff neck and fluff in my mouth. I groaned and sat up. My sofa was not designed to be slept on. Charlie hadn’t called me back, just sent me a text at 1 a.m. saying she was drunk and going to sleep.

  Rachel stayed for breakfast then told me she was going to head to Cardiff.

  ‘On your bike?’ I asked.

  She grinned. She seemed brighter this morning. ‘How else?’

  ‘Well, be careful.’

  ‘Are you relieved there isn’t a gang of bikers parked outside?’

  ‘Nah, I was hoping they’d turn up so I could take them on. I’ve got a big rolling pin.’

  She giggled. ‘They’d be terrified.’

  I saw her out. She hesitated on the threshold and, on the spur of the moment, I gave her a hug. She looked like she needed one. Her muscles were so tense that it was like hugging a statue.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, shielding her mouth. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘Slight exaggeration perhaps, but you’re welcome.’

  After she’d gone, I retrieved the dead bird from the balcony and stuffed it into the bin, tied up in a carrier bag. I found the list on which I’d written Charlie’s possible crimes from my pocket and stared at it. I needed to get started.

  But where was I going to start? The logical place had to be her house. I could meet her housemates, take a look through her stuff, even though this made me feel deeply uncomfortable. I needed an excuse for going round there, but I’d think of one.

  The bigger problem was that I didn’t know her address. All I knew was that she lived in Camberwell.

  I went on to Google. There were hundreds of Charlotte Summers, dozens in London alone, but none with an address in Camberwell.

  Then it struck me: Charlie had loads of stuff in the flat. There was an old bag of hers in the wardrobe, a coat, various items of clothing, including her work suits. I went through to the bedroom and retrieved the bag, searching through it. A hairbrush, lipstick, an empty packet of contraceptive pills, numerous hair grips, packets of tissues, a box of condoms, a loose key . . . All this detritus tumbled out. Among it, an envelope, folded in half. I opened it and inside was a payslip with her address printed in the top left.

  ‘Bingo,
’ I said.

  Thirty-one

  Charlie’s building was not at all what I expected. I thought, like me, she would live in a converted Victorian house, although I wasn’t sure where that impression had come from. Instead, the address I’d found on the envelope was of a large 1960s building, a former local authority block housing thirty or forty small flats. It sat just off a busy main road near the Arts College and, in the dying light, looked foreboding and depressing, the England flags that were draped from several windows making the place appear even more unwelcoming.

  I went up three flights of steps and found Charlie’s door. There was no one around. Apart from the smell of lunch being prepared and the muffled bark of a dog inside one of the flats, the whole block could have been deserted, ready for demolition. I looked around nervously before I knocked.

  I waited by the door. From inside I could hear the faint sound of a TV. I still couldn’t picture Charlie living here. I had an image of her coming to the door, a couple of kids round her ankles, a shocked expression on her face. But that was impossible, of course. She had spent far too many nights at mine to be leading a double life.

  I knocked again and heard a toilet flush. A male voice called out, ‘Hang on.’

  The door opened.

  I don’t know who was more shocked: me or him.

  It was the guy who had been watching me in the cafe in Hoxton the day before. He was tall, maybe six-foot-four, the absence of his hat revealing a mop of curly blond hair.

  I must have been more shocked than him because he recovered first, saying, ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m . . . looking for Charlie.’

  ‘Go away.’ He tried to close the door but I stepped forward, blocking it with my foot.

  ‘If you don’t let me in I’ll call the police, tell them you’ve been following me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you yesterday.’

  He sneered. ‘That was a coincidence.’