Greenwich Park(93)

I spin round, but he is too fast. His hand is at the back of my head, his fist in my hair. I feel a sharp wrench of pain at the back of my head, another arm around my waist. He is strong, too strong for me.

‘Daniel, what the fuck have you done?’

‘Be quiet, Katie,’ he mutters, dragging me backwards.

‘Daniel, call a fucking ambulance. That’s your wife, your baby!’

‘I said be quiet,’ he snaps.

I kick frantically, elbows flying, but nothing works. He is taking me upstairs. The pain at the back of my head is unbearable. I see a floating curtain, an open window. And then I am in fresh air, my body held over a steep drop.

I see roof tiles, a rotten gutter. The green of the gardens far below, divided up into neat little squares that, from here, look no bigger than allotments. The landscape wheels in front of my eyes, the dark outlines of trees against a pale sky, the wonky rooftops. The pain at the back of my head.

‘Let me go, Daniel! Let me go!’ But my voice is hoarse and I am screaming into thin air. I am screaming into nothing.

Daniel is panting. ‘This is your fault, Katie,’ he hisses. ‘I told you. I told you to go home. Didn’t I? But you don’t listen. You never listen.’

He pulls my face closer to his, so I can see his eyes, the deep hollows underneath. And in that moment, I wonder if I have seen this before, this ugliness in my friend’s husband. If I have detected this in him, before now. And deep down, I know the answer is yes. That I have seen it in the pencil lines of his face, in the blankness behind his eyes. And I did nothing. Because he seemed normal. And because you don’t. Because it’s awkward. And because how do you say? How can you?

And now this. Now this. Because of me.

And then he lets me go. My stomach collapses in on itself, my breath escapes my lungs. I close my eyes, wait for the slam as my body hits the ground. But it doesn’t come, and instead I seem to swing, as if I’m caught. And I realise that before I knew my hands had even moved, they have gripped, tightly, around something. The steel rings of the gutter. I am here, still here. But my hands are weak, and the metal is hard, and every muscle in my body says let go, I can’t hold on. I can’t, I can’t.

Nothing about this moment feels real. The smell of the bricks, of the moss in the gutters. The cool silence of the air. And then he is back. I see his vacant face, and his hand, a hammer in his hand. He is grimacing, as if in physical pain, as he holds the hammer up, just above my fingers, where they are gripped around the metal of the roof.

‘Daniel,’ I cry, ‘don’t do this!’

Daniel’s face is blank, as if he is looking straight through me. The hand holding the hammer is trembling. My fingers are holding tight, but I can feel the metal give way slightly, almost imperceptibly. It is over, I know that now. This will soon be over.

‘You should have listened, Katie,’ Daniel says again. His expression hardens. He pulls his arm back, preparing to slam down the hammer. I grip tight, close my eyes.

There is a bang, a slam. But the impact I am braced for hasn’t come. Shouts, voices. When I open my eyes, there is a voice I know.

‘Katie? Katie?’



There are hands reaching out. More shouting. The voice is calling my name. I know I have to let go, to reach my hand up. But I am too afraid. My cheeks are wet. I feel the wind in my hair. It’s so high, and I can’t let go. I can’t.





ONE YEAR LATER





HMP Bowood

20 November 2019

You used to talk about that day often, and we were all forced to listen. And I suppose it was perfect, to you. You just never knew the truth.

There really was something about it, a sort of golden quality. The light on the water dazzling, like diamonds. We’d all been so drunk, on the sun, our youth. Each other.

You didn’t see us on the opposite bank, under the willows. You couldn’t see past the leaves, under the surface. I wish I could say that was the first time. But it started long before that.

At the back of the theatre, after a rehearsal one night. Everyone else had gone home. It had been building for weeks. She tormented me. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, that Red Riding Hood cloak. When I was awake. When I was asleep. When I was fucking you, Helen. I am sorry to cause you pain. But that was how it was. I couldn’t stop.

It was raining, the night it happened. I was hanging around on purpose, hoping she’d be doing the same. I’d heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps, slipper-soft. And she was there, at the back of the empty stage. Still in her costume, but her feet were bare. She’d pulled her hood down. Let her hair fall over one shoulder. Until then I hadn’t known she felt that way. That first time. The sound of the rain, the smell of the stage paint. It felt like a revelation. I’m not trying to hurt you, Helen. I just want you to understand. I had never felt anything like it. And the more I had of Serena, the more I wanted. And that day, when I reached for her, under the water by the punt, she reached for me too.

When she said she didn’t mind taking the boat back, and she looked at me, I knew then what would happen.

We were on the floor, on a canvas sheet, when we heard them. I could see their stupid Ravens ties. I knew one of them. Rory’s mate. There was no time. They were going to catch us, they’d tell Rory. They knew we had taken the boat.