C.L. Taylor - The Fear

‘Mike!’ I laugh, as he starts unbuttoning my jeans. ‘Let’s at least go out for dinner first. I thought this weekend was supposed to be romantic.’

He looks at me but it’s as though he doesn’t really see me. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes have this weird glassy sheen to them. He’s got this jubilant expression on his face, like he’s climbed a mountain or won a race.

‘It will be,’ he says as he yanks my jeans and knickers down to my ankles.

A couple of minutes later he slumps on top of me, roaring as he comes. It’s the first time we’ve had sex and haven’t looked each other in the eye.

Three days ago I caved and texted Ben. Mostly because I still feel so awful about what happened and partly because my friend Alice encouraged me to. She rang me on my mobile as I was walking to my car after work. Just for a chat, she said, but we both knew she was fishing for gossip. First she chastised me for not updating Facebook since I left London, then she told me she’d bumped into Ben in the pub. Apparently he was frosty when she asked how he was.

‘He said, I’ve been better. Those were his exact words. I think he still likes you, Lou. Are you sure you can’t sort things out with him?’

I haven’t told Alice the truth about what happened in Dover. I said we’d had an argument and decided to end things. She doesn’t know about Mike. None of my friends do.

‘I’ve told you, I’m a screw-up when it comes to men. I can’t even become a mad old cat lady because I’m allergic to them. Cats, not old ladies, although I’ve never had one rub themselves up and down my leg.’

Alice laughed. ‘Okay, well, first off, we’re all screwed up. Some people are just better at hiding it than others. Secondly, what you and Ben had was pretty intense. I barely saw you when you were with him. Maybe you both just need a bit of a breather. Has he texted you since you split up? Have you texted him?’

No, I told her. I haven’t heard from him. And I haven’t texted him either. But I still feel really bad about what happened.

‘Text him then. Say sorry. You obviously like him. If you didn’t we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Anyway, what’s it like being back? How’s the farmhouse?’

She listened as I told her how I’d almost driven straight past my old family home, it had changed so much. That the neatly clipped hedges, gnarly apple trees and bright daffodils that lined the lane up to our house had been replaced by a tangle of green foliage and weeds. The trees dipped so low, their branches so tightly tangled, it was like driving through a dark tunnel. I told her how my heart had caught in my throat as I’d pulled into the driveway and spotted Dad’s parked Volvo.

‘For a second, I thought he was still alive,’ I said.

I didn’t tell her how freaked out I was when I walked into the living room and saw his old chair.

‘Bloody hell, Lou,’ she said when I finally stopped talking. ‘Sounds traumatic. Oh mate, I knew I should have come with you, at least for your first weekend.’

By the end of the phone call I felt calmer than I had done in days. I hadn’t realised how much I was bottling up my emotions or how isolated I was. Alice was the first person I’d spoken to in a week. Properly spoken to, I mean. Superficial conversations with my new colleagues at work didn’t count.

I took Alice’s advice and texted Ben before I got into my car.

I’m sorry for what happened in Dover. There are reasons why I reacted the way I did that I can’t explain right now. You didn’t deserve the way I spoke to you afterwards. I hope you’re okay. X

I read the message again, deleted the kiss at the end and then sent it. Ben had twenty minutes to reply before I reached the countryside and the technology dead zone that is Dad’s house. There’s no reception, no Wi-Fi and no neighbours for at least a quarter of a mile. If someone bludgeoned me in my bed, no one would hear me scream. There’s a landline phone downstairs that works, but that’s it.

It’s Saturday now and I still haven’t heard back from Ben. I haven’t heard anything from DS Hope either. When I rang for an update, she told me to ring back this afternoon. The wait has been torturous. I can’t stop thinking about Chloe, and the look on her face as she ran out of the garden centre. Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling. I remember how that felt – the adrenaline rush of an illicit meeting, the warmth of the kiss, the wretchedness of saying goodbye. I thought I was so grown up. That my life was a romantic movie. That I was in control. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Chloe looked so damned joyful that it makes me feel sick. Sick with guilt. She should have been smiling because she’d just been kissed by a boy her own age, not a man old enough to be her father. I just pray things haven’t progressed any further. If he’s put her through what he put me through I’ll never forgive myself.

This morning I decided to try and distract myself by getting on with some of the jobs I’ve been putting off. I’ve scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom and sorted through Dad’s wardrobe and chest of drawers, bundling jumpers, jeans and suits into black plastic bags for the charity shop. I had a bit of a cry when I found a framed photo of me face down in the bottom of a drawer. There was nothing else that shed any light on who he was or the life he’d lived. Just a few piles of change, some painkillers, half a tube of Deep Heat, betting slips, newspapers, an alarm clock, a radio.

I was fourteen the last time I saw him. It was the weekend before Mike’s court case. Mum waited in the car at the bottom of the track while I walked up to the house that I hadn’t called home for nearly a year. I dumped the cardboard box I was carrying outside the garage, then knocked on the side door. When no one answered, I turned the handle and let myself in. I found Dad slumped in a chair in front of the television, horse racing blaring and an empty bottle of whisky on the table beside him. He didn’t open his eyes when I said his name and he didn’t stir as I shook his shoulder. Only when I turned off the TV and slapped him, hard, on the back of his hand did he open his eyes.

‘I’m going, Dad,’ I said. ‘To London, with Mum. We’re not coming back. I’ve left a box of my things by the garage. Can you keep it here? Mum says there won’t be enough space in our flat in London.’

His eyes swivelled towards me. They were red-rimmed and puffy, dark pinpricks in a rough, doughy face. He was only forty-seven but he looked twenty years older. ‘Have fun,’ he murmured, then he closed his eyes again.

Now, I push open the door to my old room and throw the bin bags on the growing pile on the floor. Other than the piles of Dad’s crap, it’s exactly as I left it eighteen years ago. I hate this room. Mike never came to the house but he’s in here. He’s ingrained in the fabric of the faded yellow curtains, the peeling wallpaper and the bleached faces of the popstars I pinned to the wall. The number of nights I’d lie in bed, staring into the darkness, losing myself in my imagination. A smile during a kata, trouble finding my things as I got changed, coming out of the changing rooms to discover that I was the only one left in the dojo. Mike appearing behind me and lifting my hair from my neck and—

I back sharply out of the room and slam the door shut. I need to make the call. I can’t wait anymore.

My hand shakes as I pick up the landline and dial the station. If Mike’s been arrested and charged I’ll need to tell the truth about who I really am. And if he hasn’t … No, I’m not even going to go there.