Wanting to get him alone, I waited for him leave the office and then followed him into that alleyway. He had his phone to his ear, speaking in the continuous stream that indicates a voice note. His tone was soft, crooning, sickening. When I heard what he was saying, it was like a physical pain. I staggered, and the noise of my soles on the concrete caused Freddie to swing round toward me.
He hung up and was on me in seconds. He grabbed me by the arm so hard I could feel the tendons twisting.
“It’s been you all along, hasn’t it? Fucking hell. Greg was right. You’ve been following me for weeks, letting me think I had some sort ofstalker.” He was so, so angry. He didn’t understand that it came from a place of love. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression with the kiss. That should never have happened. But you havegotto stop texting me, and messaging me, and staring at me. You’re freaking me out, Iris. You’re being so fuckingweird.” It was the shudder he gave that made something in me snap. The utter revulsion it contained.
He didn’t know what he was talking about. He was wrong. Wewereright for each other. Just as soon as he forgot about this other woman, we would be together.
“Please, Freddie.” I hated the note of desperation in my voice. He heard it, too, because his lip curled.
“Never contact me again, Iris.” And he dropped my arm with a final sneer and marched away. Toward the main road. Toward his end.
The call came early the next morning: an accident, my boss said. A lorry. I couldn’t breathe. “Take all the time you need,” he said as he ended the call, in a tone of voice that suggested he meant the exact opposite. “I know you two were close.”
The days that followed were awful. I could barely keep my headabove water, the grief, the tragedy of losing Freddie was so strong. I didn’t go into the office the day after he died. I couldn’t face the thought of his empty desk.
When I finally mustered the strength to go back, Greg was in our boss’s office, shouting. I could hear him through the glass. “He wassurehe was being followed. She’s had this weird obsession with him for weeks.”
Not long after that, I was called in by stony-faced HR.
“We’re letting you go. Don’t make this harder, Iris. You’re lucky that we haven’t got the police involved.”
So I left—with no references, nothing to show for the months and months of work I had given to them. They let me go like I was nothing. I couldn’t find another job after that. Not until Mick took me on. Greg made me lose everything: my job, my flat. Now he’s going to take this from me, too. The group. My safe haven.
I don’t look at Jack, but I can sense his gaze boring into the side of my face. Judgment rolls from every corner of the room in thick, black waves. I am so blindsided by this turn of events, I can’t even think of a way to worm myself out of it, cast aspersions on Greg’s testimony, twist the narrative so thatIam the wronged party here. I can only sit there.
“I always just had thissenseabout her,” he finishes. “Like she was acting. Like she was an empty shell and there was nothing underneath.” He shudders. Just as Jack did earlier today. Just as Freddie did minutes before he died.
The silence stretches. No one moves. Somewhere in the distance, a siren screams. I could say he’s delusional. That Freddie and I decided to keep our relationship a secret, even from him. But they won’t believe me. Greg pitched it perfectly: his voice low yet angry, imbued with just the right amount of righteous injustice to add veracity to his claims.
I can’t out Jack now. I can’t do anything now. How has everything gone so spectacularly wrong?
Even Charlie has deigned to lift his head. Above, one of the striplights flickers.
After a long, long pause in which I can only stare at a patch of chewing gum on the floor, Fiona speaks. “I think, Iris, it’s probably best if you leave us.”
No anger. Just deep, deep disappointment. I’m used to it. I disappointed Mum the moment I was born, and every day after that.
It’s a bad situation, but—as I always do—I intend to make the best of it. Because, unknowingly, Fiona has provided me with an escape. I may not be able to out Jack as the controlling abuser he is, but I have been afforded an option Alice never had. The option to leave.
So I do. If I’m quick, I can slip out before he has a chance to raise the alarm. He wouldn’t want to grab me in here: too many witnesses. If I can get through the door to the lobby, I might just be safe. I dread to think what would happen if he caught me. Now that I know what he did to Mum, what he’s capable of. This is my one chance to get out, start over. I could move abroad. I’ve always liked the sound of Italy. Over there, fall in with the right people, and law and order are more guidelines than decree.
I give myself a dignified departure. I’m owed that, at least. I’ve given a lot to this group. I stand, make sure I stare each person—even Jack—right in the eyes, and then, with my back perfectly straight, I walk right through the center of the circle. Back to being myself.
Forty-seven
Once I amin the lobby, I break into a run. I need to be quick now. Jack is not the type of person to allow such deceit to slide. But even as I think it, I hear the door go behind me—know instinctively that it is him. And I run harder, into the street, zigzagging left and right. I’m horribly unfit. Those days that Jack forced me to stay in bed are catching up with me, and my breathing becomes ragged and painful too soon.
He’s getting closer. I can hear his own breath laboring in his lungs, his footsteps heavy. This must be what it feels like to be hunted. Which instinct is stronger? The hunter’s, with the promise of a reward at the end? Or the prey’s, whose only reward is their life?
My answer comes quicker than I expected. Embarrassingly quickly, truth be told. Jack’s fingers close round my arm as I’m about to dart round the side of the community hall. His fingers are so tight, my whole arm starts to tingle.
He wrenches me round to face him, and when I see his face I realize—with a thrill of horror—that he is going to kill me. I can see it in his eyes: fury, disdain, hatred. And beneath that, emptiness. A blank space where the soul should be. I’ve been dancing with the devil, and this is my prize.
“Make one fucking noise, and I will slam you so hard into the pavement you’ll never make a sound again.”
God, he’s vile. I can’t believe I ever felt a modicum of affection for this man. But I do as I’m told, and I’m not acting. The fear is genuine. The pliancy is genuine. When the chips are down, it seems I am just as helpless as every other woman who has been in a scenario like this.
He keeps his arm tight round mine as we walk toward his house. To anyone else, we’d look like a happy couple, leaning against each other as we made the journey home. We pass three people on the way, and with each one, I try to catch their eye, hoping my face—twisted in fear—will give them pause, but they don’t lift their heads. Welcome to London, where the weather is shit, and the people even worse.
