Last night Mike really scared me. He’d been out all day, looking for somewhere for us to stay. He locked me in the hotel room again, saying I’d get bored, traipsing around looking at apartments. When I told him I’d be bored staying behind on my own, he kissed me on the nose and told me be patient. We had the rest of our lives to spend together.
I knew it hadn’t gone well, the second he walked back into the room. He was all sweaty round his temples and his blue eyes looked dark. I didn’t ask him how it went. Instead I patted the space beside me on the bed and give him a sympathetic smile. He slumped beside me, crossed his hands under his head and stared up at the ceiling. His bad mood was like a black cloud that covered both of us.
‘I fucking hate French people.’
‘So why did we come here?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back and I tensed, waiting for him to snap.
‘Because I love France. But I hate the people.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re up their own arses. Arrogant pricks. Everyone I tried to talk to in French acted like they couldn’t understand me and the only person I could find who spoke English laughed when I told him what our budget was.’
‘Maybe he—’
‘He fucking laughed at me. I should have taken his head off. Fuck it. Maybe we should leave Rouen and go somewhere else.’
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want him to snap at me if I said the wrong thing and if I said nothing he’d think I didn’t care.
‘Why don’t we …’ I slid my hand over his stomach and wriggled it under the waistband of his jeans.
‘Don’t.’ He grabbed my wrist and threw it away from him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
Neither of us said anything for the longest time. Mike continued to stare at the ceiling while I lay curled up on my side, watching his face. It was horrible and awkward and I wished I could magic myself out of that cold, boxy little room and back into my bedroom with my warm duvet, my TV and all my stuff. I even missed Mum shouting at me to stop messing about and do my homework.
‘Maybe …’ my voice sounded small and weak. ‘Maybe we should go back to England?’
‘What?’ Mike turned his head to look at me, lightning fast. I’d said the wrong thing.
‘You … you don’t … you don’t seem very happy.’
‘And why’s that then, do you think?’
‘I don’t know … the French … the Frenchman. You didn’t—’
‘Has it ever occurred to you, Louise …’ Mike propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at me. ‘That perhaps you’re part of the reason why I’m not happy?’
‘Me?’
‘Ever since we’ve got here you’ve done nothing but bitch and moan about how bored you are, how there’s no TV, how you want to ring your mum. You’ve thrown things at me, you’ve shouted at me and you’ve insulted me. I did this for YOU, Louise. I did it because you told me that I was all you ever wanted. That you loved me. That you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me. I have given up everything for you. EVERYTHING. My home, my marriage, my club. And how do you repay me? You ask if we can go back to England?’
‘Mike I’m sorry.’ I burst into tears and threw myself at him, burying my face in his chest, wrapping him with my arms and legs. ‘I didn’t mean … I’m sorry … I just, I just … I just want to make you happy.’
He flipped me onto my back and sat astride me, pinning my arms either side of my head. He was red in the face, eyes gleaming.
‘You are everything to me, everything. Don’t you get it?’
I nodded dumbly.
‘You need to trust me, Louise. I keep telling you. You need to start trusting me.’
‘I do. Mike I really do.’
He shifted off me, pulled at his belt buckle and took off his jeans and boxers. He flipped up my dress – the one he bought me on Monday – and pulled down my knickers.
‘Prove it,’ he said as he sat astride me. ‘Prove how much you trust me.’
‘How?’ Tears rolled down my cheeks as I reached up and touched his face.
He gently moved my hand from his face and laid it on the pillow by my head, then he wrapped his hand round my throat. I instinctively tried to pull his hand away but he shook his head.
‘You need to trust me, Louise. Remember? I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to do something to you that’s going to feel amazing. You’ll feel giddy, light-headed and more pleasure than you’ve ever felt in your life. It might scare you but I will … not … hurt … you. I promise. This is your opportunity to prove how much you trust me. Do you?’
As I nodded my head he shoved himself inside me and tightened his grip on my neck.
Wednesday 2nd May 2007
I speed round the supermarket, chucking bread, milk, ham and cheese into my basket. It’s Wednesday morning and the second time I’ve phoned in sick at work. Mike has been in the barn since Monday early evening. He’s still refusing to give me the code to his phone. Yesterday, after my freak-out about the helicopter, I drove around until my phone picked up 4G, then I googled how to unlock a phone. I spent hours following different YouTube videos, and read through pages and pages of forums, but none of the suggested hacks worked. There’s only one more thing I can try – one of those phone stalls that unlock phones and replace screens. There aren’t any in Bromyard but I’m pretty sure I’ll find one in Worcester.
With my basket half full I hurry to the tills. It’s a small shop and there’s only one cashier working so I’m forced to queue. There are two older women in front of me, dressed in near identical puffy anoraks, and they’re deep in conversation.
‘Do you go there, do you, Mavis?’ says the taller of the two.
‘I used to, but they put their prices up so I go to Crossman’s now.’
‘Do you? I like the staff in Greensleeves, they know their stuff.’
My ears prick up at the mention of the garden centre. That’s where Chloe and Mike work.
‘Did he work there then, did he?’
‘I think so.’ Mavis, the shorter woman, starts unloading her basket onto the conveyor belt. ‘Delivery driver apparently.’
‘How long’s he been missing?’
‘Since Monday night. He was supposed to check his van back in at work but he didn’t show and he didn’t answer his phone. Sandra was telling me all about it yesterday. Her neighbour’s niece works there. Apparently he rang his receptionist to say that he had one last delivery to do, then he disappeared off the face of the planet. He didn’t turn up to do any of his Tuesday deliveries. Sandra said they’re really worried about him. He had some heart problems last year and they’re worried he might have had an attack and ended up in a ditch.’
‘Oh gosh. Poor man. I do hope they’ve gone to the police.’
‘Oh yes. They reported him missing yesterday.’
I keep my gaze fixed to the conveyor belt as a pint of milk, tin of baked beans and a packet of bacon travel towards the cashier but my heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest. Mike can’t have told his receptionist where he was going or my door would have been the first one the police knocked on. But it’s only a matter of time until they do. And Mike’s van is parked up in my yard.
‘Sorry,’ I drop my basket full of food into the metal holder beneath the conveyor belt and shoot an apologetic look at the cashier. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ one of the chatty women comments as I head for the door.
There’s no way I can hide Mike’s van in the garage, not with a wheel-less car and all the junk filling it. That gives me two options – drive it as far away as I can and dump it or hide it in plain sight. Dumping it’s too much of a risk. Too close to the farm and it’ll look dodgy, particularly as the last call Mike took on his phone was in my barn. Too far away and someone might spot me hitchhiking back. I’ll have to hide it, and there’s only one place where I can do that.
Compared to my Mini, driving Mike’s van is like manoeuvring a tank. I can’t see anything in the rear-view mirror and the wing mirrors make everything behind the van seem miles away. Still, there’s not much I can reverse into out here, other than a few fences.
Mike starts shouting as I start the engine. ‘Lou! Lou, what are you doing? That sounds like my van. Lou! Lou!’
I touch my foot to the accelerator and drive towards the rear field. The van easily fits through the open gate and rolls and bumps down the steep incline. The field, like all the others surrounding the house, is unkempt and unloved with grass that’s at least waist height. It’s raining heavily but I don’t bother turning on the windscreen wipers. I’m not going to be in here for long.
I stop the van halfway down the field, pull on the handbrake, pull up my hood and get out. It should look miserable, the murky lake at the edge of the field, reflecting the black sky but there is something almost beautiful about the way the rain lands on the water, painting concentric circles that appear and then vanish in less than a heartbeat. It’s deep. Mum was terrified I’d drown in it as a kid and insisted Dad put a fence around it. He did a half-hearted job and it’s all but rotted to nothing now.
I half expect a helicopter to drop down through the clouds but there isn’t so much as a bird in the sky. For now. I reach into the van, release the handbrake and jump back out, scared I’ll be swept down the field with it. But the van doesn’t speed anywhere. It lurches forward and then stops. I’m going to have to give it some help.
‘Please,’ I raise my eyes heavenward. My hood has slipped down, my hair is plastered to my head and my waterproof is clinging to every part of my body. ‘Please work.’
I trudge back up the hill, turn, and ready myself.
‘One … two … three … go!’ I run towards the van, hands outstretched and launch myself at the closed back door.
The wheels groan against the wet grass and, for one terrible moment, I think the van isn’t going to move, but it lurches forward. I ready myself to give it another shove but it gathers pace and suddenly it’s off, hurtling down the field towards the lake. Please, I pray, please don’t stall partway into the water. I won’t be able to get it out again.
My prayer is answered. The white van speeds towards the lake and then SPLASH, the front end goes in and a huge brown wave of water leaps into the air. The van travels halfway across the lake and then slowly begins to sink. The lake ripples as it swallows it whole then it’s still again. Still, apart from the gentle dimpling of the rain.
I don’t know whether to punch the air or sink to my knees. The whole thing was so surreal I can’t believe it just happened. How can I have gone from living in a nice flat in London, dating a decent guy and doing a good job to locking a man in a cage and sinking his van? It’s like one of those dreams where you kill someone and wake up desperately hoping it didn’t happen.
But Chloe is real. What Mike did to me was real. And there’s no waking up from that.