Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

You continued looking at the ground.

‘I said look at me!’

Slowly you lifted your head but you stared behind me, over my shoulder. I shifted my position to fall within your gaze, and immediately you looked over the other shoulder. I grabbed hold of your shoulders and shook you hard. I wanted to hear you cry out: I told myself I’d stop when I heard you cry, but you made no sound. Your jaw clenched with the effort. You were playing games with me, Jennifer, but I would win. I would make you cry out.

I let go of you, and you couldn’t hide the flash of relief that passed across your face. It was still there when I balled my fist and drove it into your face.

My knuckles caught the underside of your chin, and your head snapped back and hit the roof of the car. Your legs buckled and you slid on to the road. Finally you made a sound, a whimpering, like a kicked dog, and I couldn’t help but smile at this tiny victory. It wasn’t enough though. I wanted to hear you beg for my forgiveness; admit you’d been flirting; admit you’d been fucking someone else.

I looked at you thrashing about on the wet tarmac. The usual sense of release wasn’t there – the ball of white-hot fury inside me was still bubbling away, rising higher every second. I would finish this at home.

‘Get in the car.’

I watched you struggle to your feet. Blood poured from your mouth and you stemmed it ineffectively with your scarf. You tried to get back in the driver’s seat but I pulled you back. ‘The other side.’ I started the engine and drove off before you had even shut the door. You gave a cry of alarm, then slammed the door and fumbled for your seat belt. I laughed, but it still didn’t soothe the rage inside me. I wondered briefly if I was having a heart attack: my chest was so tight, and my breath painful and laboured. You had done this to me.

‘Slow down,’ you said, ‘you’re going too fast.’ The words bubbled through a mouthful of blood, and I saw it spatter on the glove box. I drove faster, to show you I wouldn’t be governed by you. We were in a quiet residential street, with neat houses and a row of parked cars ahead taking up my side of the road. I moved out to overtake them, despite the headlights coming towards us, and put my foot down. I saw you pull your arms across your face; there was a blare of horn and a flash of colour as I swung back on to our side of the road seconds before it was too late.

The tightness in my chest eased a fraction. I kept my foot on the accelerator and we turned left, into a long straight road lined with trees. I felt a jolt of recognition, although I had only been there once before and I could not have told you the name of the street. It was where Anya lived. Where I fucked her. The wheel slipped between my hands and the car hit the kerb.

‘Please, Ian, please slow down!’

There was a woman on the pavement, a hundred yards ahead, walking with a small child. The child wore a bobble hat, and the woman … I gripped the steering wheel tighter. I was seeing things. Imagining this woman was her, simply because we were in her street. It couldn’t be Anya.

The woman looked up. Her hair was loose and she wore no hat or hood, despite the weather. She was facing me and laughing, the boy running by her side. I felt a crushing pain in my head. It was her.

I had sacked Anya after I fucked her. I had no interest in a repeat performance, and no wish to see her pretty but vacuous face around the office. When she turned up again last month I wouldn’t have recognised her: now she wouldn’t leave me alone. I watched her walk towards the glare of the headlights.

He wants to know about his father, he wants to meet you.

She would ruin everything. The boy would ruin everything. I looked at you, but your head was dropped to your lap. Why didn’t you look at me any more? You used to put your hand on my thigh when I drove, twisting in the seat so you could watch me. Now you hardly ever looked me in the eye. I was already losing you, and if you found out about the boy I would never get you back.

They were crossing the road. My head pounded. You whimpered and the sound was like a fly, buzzing in my ear.

I pushed the accelerator flat to the floor.

51

‘You killed Jacob?’ I say, almost unable to form the words. ‘But why?’

‘He was ruining everything,’ Ian says simply. ‘If Anya had stayed away nothing would have happened to them. It’s her own fault.’

I think of the woman outside the Crown Court, her feet in tatty plimsolls. ‘Did she need money?’

Ian laughs. ‘Money would have been easy. No, she wanted me to be a father. To see the boy at weekends, have him to stay, buy him fucking birthday presents—’ He breaks off as I stand up, clinging on to the basin as I cautiously test the weight on my aching legs. My feet sting as they warm up. I look in the mirror and don’t recognise what I see.

‘You would have found out about him,’ Ian says. ‘About Anya. You would have left me.’

He stands behind me and puts his hands gently on my shoulders. I see the look on his face I have seen so many times the morning after a beating. I used to tell myself it was contrition – although he never once apologised – but now I realise it was fear. Fear that I would see him for the man he really is. Fear that I would stop needing him.

I think of how I would have loved Jacob like my own son; how I would have taken him in and played with him and chosen gifts just to see the pleasure on his face. And suddenly I feel as though Ian has taken not one but two children from me, and I find vigour from both their lost lives.

I feign weakness and look down towards the sink, then throw my head back with every last ounce of my strength. I hear a sickening crunch as the back of my skull hits bone.

He lets go of me, holding both hands to his face, blood seeping between his fingers. I run past him into the bedroom and on to the landing, but he’s too quick, grabbing my wrist before I can get down the stairs. His bloody fingers slip against my wet skin and I fight to get free, elbowing him in the stomach and earning myself a punch that takes my breath away. The landing is pitch-black and I’ve lost my bearings – which way are the stairs? I feel around with my bare foot and my toes touch the metal stair rod on the top step.

I duck underneath Ian’s arm, reaching out both hands towards the wall. I bend my elbows as though doing press-ups, then push back hard, slamming my whole weight against him. He gives a short cry as he loses his footing, then falls, crashing down the stairs.

There is silence.

I turn on the light.

Ian is lying at the foot of the stairs, not moving. He is face down on the slate floor and I can see a gash at the back of his head, from which a thin trickle of blood is oozing. I stand watching him, my whole body trembling.

Gripping the banister tightly, I make my way slowly down the stairs, never taking my eyes off the prone figure at the bottom. A step from the end, I stop. I can see the faintest movement from Ian’s chest.

My own breath coming in shallow pants, I stretch out a foot and tread lightly on to the stone floor beside Ian, freezing like a child playing grandmother’s footsteps.

I step across his outstretched arm.

His hand grips my ankle and I scream, but it is too late. I’m on the floor and Ian’s on top of me, dragging himself up my body, blood on his face and on his hands. He tries to speak, but the words don’t come; his face contorts with the effort.

He reaches his hands up to grip my shoulders, and as he pulls himself up level with my face, I bring up my knee hard into his groin. He roars, letting me go and doubling over with pain, and I scramble to my feet. I don’t hesitate, running to the door and scrabbling for the bolt, which slips beneath my fingers twice before I am able to pull it across and throw open the door. The night air is cold, and clouds obscure all but a thin sliver of moon. I run blindly, and have barely begun when I hear Ian’s heavy tread behind me. I don’t look back to see how far behind me he is, but I can hear him grunt with each step, his breathing laboured.