Weyward(15)

It was this last statement that did it – that sparked some forgotten fire in her. And so she looked him in the eye and said what she hadn’t been able to tell the kindly colleagues who’d brought her tissues and a cup of tea, as she’d recovered at her desk.

Work wasn’t the problem; Simon was. His face darkened. For a moment he was still, and Kate’s breath caught in her throat. Without a word, he threw his cup of coffee at her. She turned her face away just in time, but the boiling liquid splashed her left arm, leaving a pink line of scalded skin.

It was the first time he had hurt her. Later, it would scar.

That night, he’d begged her not to go as she’d packed her things, telling her he was sorry, it would never happen again, he couldn’t live without her. She had wavered, even then.

But when the taxi arrived, she got in. It was the thing to do, wasn’t it? She was, supposedly, an educated, self-respecting woman. She couldn’t possibly stay.

The hotel – in Camden, she remembered; it had been all she’d been able to find (and afford) at such short notice – had been cold, with the musty stink of mice. The room overlooked the street and the window shook with every car that drove past. She lay sleepless until morning, watching the ceiling glow with the passing headlights, her phone vibrating with pleading texts, the burn on her arm throbbing.

She’d called in sick to work the next morning, spent the day wandering the markets, staring into the oily depths of the canal. Searching for resolve.

By the second night, she’d decided to leave him. But then came the voicemail.

‘Kate,’ he’d said, voice heavy with tears. ‘I am so, so sorry that we fought. Please, come back. I can’t live without you – I can’t … I need you, Kate. Please. I – I’ve taken some pills …’

And just like that, her resolve evaporated. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let someone else die.

She phoned 999. As soon as she knew the paramedics were on their way, she called a taxi. On the drive back, she stared blankly out of the window as the neat terraced houses, gleaming dark in the rain, gave way to the images from her childhood nightmares. Black wings, beating the air. The tarmac glossy with blood.

I am the monster.

What if she was too late?

The yellow ambulance was parked on their street by the time she got there. She’d barely been able to breathe in the lift, had hated it for delaying her as it cranked slowly up the building.

The front door of their flat was open. Simon sat on the couch in his pyjamas, flanked by two female paramedics, pill bottles glinting on the coffee table in front of them. Unopened. Ice formed in her gut.

He hadn’t taken them at all. He’d lied.

She stared. He looked up at her and the tears fell freely down his face.

‘I’m so sorry, Kate,’ he said, shoulders shaking. ‘I was just … I was so scared that you would never come back.’

The paramedics didn’t notice the blistered skin on Kate’s arm. She walked them to the front door, promising she’d call 999 again if Simon displayed any more signs of suicidal ideation, agreeing not to leave him alone, to follow up on a referral to the local psychology team. Then she shut the door behind them carefully.

Simon got off the couch and walked towards her, until she felt his breath on the back of her neck. Together, they listened to the lift going down the shaft.

‘I’m so sorry that I left,’ said Kate, without turning around. ‘Please promise me you’ll never hurt yourself or do anything stupid again.’

Stupid.

She knew as soon as the word left her mouth that she’d made a mistake.

‘Stupid?’ Simon asked, keeping his voice low. He gripped the back of her neck tightly, before shoving her against the wall.

She resigned from the publishing house the next day. Surrendering not just her pay cheque and her sense of self, but her strongest link to the outside world. To the women who had made her feel valued, intelligent – like she was more than just his girlfriend, his plaything.

Kate switches off the indicator. She thinks of the cells knitting together inside her and is hit with a wave of nausea. If she goes back … if he finds out about the baby … he’ll never let her leave.

She turns the car around.

The next morning, Kate walks to the village for supplies.

The early spring air is cool against her skin, with a smell of damp leaves and things growing. Kate shuts the front door and swallows burst from the old oak in the front garden. She flinches, then watches them pinwheel through the blue sky while she collects herself. The village is just 2 miles away. The walk will be invigorating, she tells herself. Maybe she’ll even enjoy it.

She sets off down the lane, which is bordered by hedgerows fringed with unfamiliar white flowers that remind her of seafoam. There’s the squawk of a crow, and her heart quickens. She looks up, craning her neck until she grows dizzy. Nothing. Just branches patterning an empty sky, their tiny green leaves quivering in the breeze. She walks on, passing an old farmhouse with a sunken roof. Sheep bleat in the surrounding fields.

Crows Beck looks as though it’s barely changed for centuries: the only signs of modernisation are a BT phone box and a bus shelter. She passes the green, with its ancient well and another stone structure, a small hut with a heavy iron door. Perhaps it was the village jail, once upon a time. She shudders at the thought of being confined in such a small space, doom closing in.