S. Watson - Second Life

It happens suddenly, comes from nowhere. I slap him, as hard as I can. It’s as if all the energy I’ve been clamping down has erupted. I want to kick and scream and fight.

Yet his only response is to laugh quietly, almost under his breath, and I realize he’s pleased.

He looks at me. His eyes are expressionless. I wonder if he’s capable of experiencing pain.

‘So, as I was saying, you’re going to stay away from me and Anna.’

I feel myself begin to cry. I tell myself I won’t let the tears come, I won’t give him the satisfaction, but they burn behind my eyes.

Yet at the same time I’m almost relieved. When everything’s gone, there’s no more pain, nothing else to lose.

Staying away from him and Anna – it might be difficult, but it can be done.

‘Plus,’ he says, ‘why not have a think about how much these pictures might be worth to you. I mean, I know your sister left a bit of money to Anna, but I understand there’s a lot more that’s gone to your son…’

‘You bastard,’ I say again.

He turns to open the door. The temperature in the car seems to drop as he moves away from me and the rest of the world rushes in. ‘I ought to be going,’ he says. ‘Anna will be wondering where we are. Plus, I guess you’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll tell her you were still upset, you had to get home to Connor. Something.’

I want to give up, to let him go, but then I think again of Kate and I know what I have to do. I’m strong enough; this year has taught me that, if nothing else. I’m stronger than I think.

‘Wait.’

He pulls the catch, but doesn’t step out. He turns to me, instead. ‘What?’

‘Anna trusts me.’ Now I’ve made my decision, my voice is strong, defiant. ‘She’ll never believe you. Not if I tell her what you’re doing.’

He closes the car door.

‘Tell her whatever you like. The truth is, Anna is beginning to think you’re a bit crazy. Sick. She thinks your sister’s death might have sent you off the rails. That perfect life you had… and now…’ His hand goes to his pocket. ‘She thinks you’re a little bit unpredictable. A tiny bit jealous, perhaps. Which of course you are, though she doesn’t know why.’

I think back to the time I spent with Anna in Paris, to all the conversations we’ve had over the months. He’s wrong.

‘You’re lying. Whatever—?’

‘Makes her think that? I guess this doesn’t help…’ He holds his hand up, between us. He’s holding something; it must’ve been in his pocket. It takes me a moment to realize it’s a knife.

I’m overcome with panic. I try to back away but the car is cramped and there’s nowhere for me to go. It happens in an instant. He grabs my hand with both of his, so that he’s holding me tight. The knife is exposed, sticking out towards me, in his hand though it looks as if it’s in mine. I struggle to free myself, thinking he’s trying to stab me, and he begins swinging my hand, left, right, back again. It’s as if we’re struggling, as if he’s trying to get the knife off me, even though he’s the one holding it. I hear a voice, shouting, and at first I think it’s coming from outside the car, but then I realize it’s me and I see it all. It’s as if I’m watching from the street, peering into the car. It looks as though I’m trying to stab him as he tries to hold me off with both hands. He relaxes for a moment, and just as I think he’s about to drop the knife he does it. With sudden ferocity he pulls both hands towards his face and the knife he’s holding catches against the skin of his cheek. ‘Fuck!’ he says, and then a moment later there’s a dull gush of blood.

‘You silly bitch.’ He smiles. He shoves my hands away as if I repulse him and drops the knife. It falls into my lap and I see it’s just a kitchen knife, one I’d use for preparing vegetables, and was never going to do much damage. Yet still it’s sharp, it’s cut him, the blood is beginning to run down his cheek.

‘You tried to stab me!’ He scrabbles, as if he’s trying to get away from me, then he’s stumbling, out of the car. I’m speechless, dumb. There are a couple outside the car, a man and a woman. They peer in, trying to see what’s going on. My mouth opens and closes, pathetic. I can see the wound on his cheek is a scratch more than anything, but still the blood pours. It’s over his mouth now, running off his chin, dripping on his white shirt.

I think of Anna’s reaction when he gets upstairs. There’ll be blood everywhere by then, it’ll look like a frenzied attack. It’ll look like he’s had a lucky escape and she’ll believe whatever he tells her. That I’m jealous, crazy. That I’m trying to split them up out of spite, because I have no one of my own.

‘Still think she’s going to trust you?’ he says, then a moment later he’s gone and I’m alone – even though there are cars and people, I’m alone – and all I can hear is the beating of my heart and a dog, way in the distance, howling into the dark.

I have no choice. I go home.

It’s late; the house is quiet, in darkness. It ought to feel safe, a place of refuge, but it doesn’t. Hugh and Connor are upstairs, asleep. Completely unaware of what’s happening, of where I’ve been. I’m separate from my family. Separate and alone.

I go into the lounge and turn on a table lamp, then sit in its warm glow. I turn the memory stick over and over in my hands. It’s so small, fragile. I could destroy it easily, crush it under foot, melt it over the flame from my lighter. For a moment I think I will, but I know it’s futile. I put it down, pick it up again.

I fetch my computer, switch it on, slide the stick into the port. I know I shouldn’t look, but somehow I can’t help it. Once, maybe even just a few weeks ago, I’d have still been hoping it might all turn out to be a joke, that he’ll have loaded the device with one of those tacky e-cards I used to hate but now send routinely when I’ve forgotten someone’s birthday. I’d have half expected the file to be an animated cartoon. Dancing monkeys, my face superimposed, singing a song. Fooled you!

But not any more. I can’t even pretend to myself now.

There are a dozen or so files, some pictures, some videos. I make sure my machine is muted then choose one at random.

It’s a video. The two of us. On the bed, naked. I’m underneath him, but my face is in the frame. I’m recognizable.

My eyes are closed, my mouth open. I look faintly ridiculous. I can bear it only for a second or two. I feel a sort of detached horror; detached because I could easily believe the woman on the screen has nothing to do with me, horror because this most intimate of acts is here, recorded without my knowledge, preserved for ever.

Exhaustion wipes me. How did he film this? Did he set up his laptop, angle the inbuilt camera towards the bed? I would’ve noticed, surely?

Maybe it was something more sophisticated, then. A hidden camera, disguised as a drinks can, built into the cap of a ballpoint pen. I know they’re available, I’ve even seen them in the department stores – John Lewis, Selfridges – when I’ve been looking at cameras. At the time I wondered why anyone would want one. They were for professionals, surely, private investigators. They belonged in the realm of James Bond. I guess now I know.

I shiver. These videos and pictures go right back to the beginning of our affair; he must have been planning this, all along. A wave of nausea breaks. I breathe as deeply as I can, long, slow breaths that don’t help at all, then slam my machine closed before ripping the memory stick out of the port and throwing it across the room. It bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor at my feet.