That night, Nancy went to bed early, claiming exhaustion. She wasn’t exhausted; she was quiveringly alert, full of a restless anticipation. She lay in the dark and listened to the sounds of Felix clearing up: dishes clattering, a tap running, music playing. At one point, she heard him singing along.
He eventually came softly into the room. She was curled up on herself, her face pressed into the pillow and her eyes closed, but she could feel him standing beside her for what seemed like ages although it was probably no more than a minute. She made herself breathe peacefully and at last he moved away, and she heard him pulling off clothes, and then he climbed in beside her with a sigh of contentment. He put a warm hand on her back, moved it up and down in a soothing motion. She murmured and shifted away from him, feigning deep sleep. She felt him settle beside her and soon he was snoring slightly, a small rumble that she had once found endearing and comfortable, but now made her want to scream.
Be calm, she told herself. She breathed in and out on the words. Be. Calm. She tried to let her limbs relax. She thought of Michelle smiling at her, Dylan looking at her, Harry being concerned. She thought of Felix ringing up work and making sure she wouldn’t go back there, that she had no income and no independence. How much money did she have in her account? She couldn’t remember, but it wasn’t very much.
That didn’t matter. She could find work, any work would do, preferably in a cafe or restaurant. She felt that she was still standing on the rim of the nightmare she had been in. Felix could contact the doctors again. Michelle could. And then, perhaps, they would take her again, jab her with needles, shut her in a windowless room, tell her she was mad until she was mad.
Friday. Saturday. Sunday. She would act frail and docile. In the darkness she felt her lips curl into a sneer: how easy it was to fool Felix, after all. How could he believe that she, who had always been stubborn and cross, had become this defeated little creature?
Michelle was another matter. Michelle had lied about Nancy. She knew Nancy knew that. Nancy knew she knew.
Why had Michelle lied? Nancy thought of the way Dylan had looked at her that evening, and the way Michelle had looked at Dylan looking at her.
But she mustn’t think like that. That was all behind her. Kira was dead and although Nancy was certain that someone had killed the young woman, there was nothing she could do about it. She was done with being a ludicrous amateur detective; done with trying to find out who had murdered her, done with remembering the howls of Kira’s mother as she sat in Nancy’s kitchen. She needed to save herself now.
Three days. They stretched out like a desert, but she would get through the time, tired and passive.
She felt Felix turn and shift beside her; he moved closer, and she felt his warmth, his breath on her shoulder, and moved away. Everything about him revolted her: his strong body, his large hands, his thick blonde hair, his smile, his frown of concern. Whenever he touched her, her flesh shrank and it was hard not to jerk away from him. At least she wouldn’t have to let him have sex with her. She was convalescent, after all: that was what he kept telling her.
She pictured herself on Monday morning, kissing Felix goodbye, waving him off, running to the bedroom and packing a small bag: passport, laptop, a few shirts, underwear, toothbrush. She could be out in minutes. She let herself imagine running out of the door and down the road, wind and rain in her face; she would run so fast nobody would be able to catch her.
Where would she go? She couldn’t contact anyone in advance, in case they saw it as their duty to tell Felix. Perhaps she couldn’t go to any of her friends, not at first, not until she knew she safe.
She felt very alone. But being alone was all right. Being alone was being free.