Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

My fist furled without instruction, the skin stretched tightly over tensed knuckles. The bubble of pressure began to expand in my chest, filling every available space, pushing my lungs to one side. I looked at you, still laughing, still jabbering, and I raised my fist and slammed it into your face.

Almost immediately the bubble burst. Calm washed over me, like the adrenalin release after sex, or a session in the gym. My headache eased, and the muscle at the corner of my eye ceased to twitch. You made a bubbling, strangled noise, but I didn’t look at you. I left the room and took the lift back down to reception, walking straight out on to the street without looking behind the desk. I found a bar and drank two beers, ignoring the barman’s attempts to engage me in conversation.

An hour later I returned to the hotel.

‘Could I have some ice, please?’

‘ Si, signore .’ The receptionist disappeared and came back with an ice bucket. ‘Wine glasses, signore ?’

‘No thank you.’

I was calm now, my breathing measured and slow. I took the stairs, delaying my return.

When I opened the door you were curled up on the bed. You sat up and pushed yourself to the end of the bed, backing up against the headboard. A wad of bloody tissues lay on the bedside table, but despite your efforts to clean yourself up there was dried blood on your top lip. A bruise was already forming on the bridge of your nose and across one eye. When you saw me you began to cry, and the tears took on the colour of blood as they reached your chin, dripping on to your shirt and staining it pink.

I put the ice bucket on the table and spread out a napkin, spooning ice into it before wrapping it into a parcel. I sat down next to you. You were shivering, but I gently put the ice pack against your skin.

‘I found a nice bar,’ I said. ‘I think you’ll like it. I took a walk around and saw a couple of places you might like for lunch tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.’

I took the ice pack away and you stared at me, your eyes big and guarded. You were still shaking.

‘Are you cold? Here, wrap this around you.’ I pulled the blanket off the end of the bed and placed it around your shoulders. ‘You’re tired, it’s been a long day.’ I kissed your forehead but still you cried, and I wished so much you hadn’t spoilt our first night. I had thought that you were different, and that perhaps I wouldn’t ever need to feel that release again: that blissful sense of peace that comes after a fight. I was sorry to see that, after everything, you were just the same as all the others.

36

I struggle to breathe. Beau begins whining, licking my face and pushing his nose against me. I try to think, try to move, but the force of the impact has winded me and I can’t get up. Even if I could make my body work, something is happening inside me, spinning my world smaller and smaller. I’m suddenly back in Bristol, not knowing what mood Ian will come home in. I’m making his supper, bracing myself to have it thrown in my face. I’m doubled over on the floor of my studio, trying to protect my head from the punches raining down on me.

Ian walks carefully down the stairs, shaking his head as though admonishing a rebellious child. I have always disappointed him; never known the right things to say or do, no matter how hard I tried. He speaks softly, and if you didn’t hear the words you would think him solicitous. But the sound of his voice is enough to make me shake violently, as though I am lying in ice.

He stands over me – his legs straddling me – and lets his eyes trail lazily along my body. The creases in his trouser-legs are knife-sharp; his belt buckle so polished I can see my own terrified face in it. He catches sight of something on his jacket, and picks off a loose thread, letting it float down on to the floor. Beau is still whining and Ian aims a sharp kick at his head that sends Beau three feet across the floor.

‘Don’t hurt him, please!’

Beau whimpers, but stands up. He slinks into the kitchen out of my view.

‘You’ve been to the police, Jennifer,’ Ian says.

‘I’m sorry.’ It comes out as a whisper and I’m not certain he’s heard, but if I repeat it and Ian feels I am pleading it will make him angry. It’s strange how quickly it all comes back to me: the need to walk a tightrope of doing as I am told without offering up the pathetic figure that infuriates him. Over the years I’ve got it wrong more often than I’ve got it right.

I swallow. ‘I’m – I’m sorry.’

His hands are in his pockets. He looks relaxed, laid-back. But I know him. I know how quickly he can—

‘You’re fucking sorry?’

In an instant he is crouched over me, his knees pinning my arms to the floor. ‘You think that makes it all right?’ He leans forward, grinding his kneecaps into my biceps. I bite my tongue too late to stop the cry of pain that makes him curl his lips in disgust at my lack of control. I feel bile in the back of my throat and I swallow it down.

‘You’ve told them about me, haven’t you?’ The corners of his mouth are edged with white, and specks of saliva moisten my face. I have a sudden memory of the protester outside court, although it feels far longer ago than a few hours.

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

We’re playing that game again; the one where he lobs a question and I try to volley. I used to play it well. At first I used to think I saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes: he would abruptly break off mid-rally, and turn on the television, or go out. But I lost my edge, or perhaps he changed the rules, and I began to misjudge it every time. For now, however, he seems to be satisfied with my answer, and he changes the subject abruptly.

‘You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?’

‘No, I’m not,’ I say quickly. I’m glad I can tell the truth, although I know he won’t believe me.

‘Liar.’ He hits me across the cheek with the back of his hand. It makes a sharp cracking noise, like a whip, and when he speaks again the sound rings in my ears. ‘Someone helped you set up a website, someone found you this place. Who is it?’

‘No one,’ I say, tasting blood in my mouth. ‘I did it by myself.’

‘You can’t do anything by yourself, Jennifer.’ He leans forward until his face is almost touching mine. I steel myself not to move, knowing how much he hates me flinching.

‘You couldn’t even run away properly, could you? Have you any idea how easy it was to find you once I knew where you were taking your photos? It seems the people of Penfach are more than happy to help a stranger looking for an old friend.’

It hadn’t crossed my mind to wonder how Ian had found me. I always knew he would.

‘That was a lovely card you sent your sister, by the way.’

The throwaway comment is like another slap to the face, making me reel anew. ‘What have you done to Eve?’ If anything happens to Eve and the children because of my carelessness I will never forgive myself. I was so desperate to show her I still cared that I didn’t give a second thought to whether I was putting her in danger.

He laughs. ‘Why would I do anything to her? She’s of no more interest to me than you. You’re a pathetic, worthless slut, Jennifer. You’re nothing without me. Nothing. What are you?’

I don’t answer.

‘Say it. What are you?’

Blood trickles down the back of my throat and I struggle to speak without choking. ‘I’m nothing.’

He laughs then, and shifts his weight to release the pressure so the pain in my arms dulls a little. He runs a finger across my face; down my cheek and over my lips.

I know what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier. Slowly he undoes my buttons, peeling back my shirt inch by inch and pushing up my vest top so my breasts are exposed. His eyes run over me dispassionately, without so much as a flicker of desire, and then he reaches for the fastening on his trousers. I close my eyes and disappear inside myself, unable to move, unable to speak. I wonder briefly what would happen if I cried out, or said no. If I fought him, or simply pushed him away. But I don’t, and I never have, and so I only have myself to blame.