My hands shook violently as I tried desperately to turn the key in the lock; but it was stuck fast. I whipped round, panic-stricken now, my back pinned to the door. Through the gloom I could still discern the menacing presence, initially a pallid shadow against the opposite wall, shapeless and pulsating. But I could feel her getting closer. Even without seeing clearly, I knew without doubt who she was. She exuded loathing and contempt, sentiments for which I had apparently become the sole focus.
The walls seemed to close in on me now. My heart hammering, my breath came in shallow, rasping gasps as I watched the silhouette become ever clearer and more recognizable. The mocking eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul. Despite my best efforts, my feet remained inert. I felt the ground draw me like a magnet. Instinctively, I cradled my stomach; the room swam as she seemed to surround me.
And then I knew no more.
June 2009
Birmingham, West Midlands
I awoke, as had become the norm of late, cheeks wet, with fresh, hot tears spilling from my eyes, a choking sob rising in my throat. Each night the same recurring dream – Graham, standing at my bedside: expressionless, staring down at me. But the leaden weight of my arms left me unable to reach out to him and he would fade away, leaving me alone once more.
It was still dark and only a sliver of lamplight could be seen through the narrow gap between the curtains. Shrugging the covers around my shoulders, I slid out of bed and walked across to the window. I stood, staring, for what seemed like an eternity, down at the deserted street below, absent-mindedly resting my hands on my swollen stomach.
As daylight gradually began to creep through, I shifted my gaze, only to be met by my own dishevelled reflection in the glass. I suppose, looking back, that this was the wake-up call I so desperately needed.
The gaunt, transparent image staring back at me was virtually unrecognizable. For more than three months I had lived like a recluse, neglecting my appearance and more or less subsisting on a diet of anything and everything that could be tipped straight from a can or packet, supplemented in the last fortnight (on the insistence of my younger sister) by Prozac, prescribed by a concerned locum whom she had called to the house.
In spite of my initial reluctance to take the tablets, having passed the first trimester of my pregnancy, I was assured that the risks to the baby were very small compared with the jeopardy to my own mental health if I remained untreated.
*
As of the night of 25th February 2009, my status had become officially demoted from that of wife to widow. The title was something that did not sit well with me – it was a word I had always associated with women in their dotage who had shared a whole lifetime with their partners. At the ripe old age of thirty-six I was struggling to cope with this new-found and unwelcome identity thrust upon me by events beyond my control.
Finding myself unexpectedly and miraculously pregnant just seven weeks after my husband Graham’s fatal accident left me reeling. My monthly cycle had always been predictably erratic, therefore another late period was nothing new; nor had I experienced any of the associated symptoms such as strange cravings or nausea. After years of talking indifferently about the possibility of having a child, when I had eventually thrown myself wholeheartedly into the process of attempted baby-making, our efforts had remained fruitless.
The loss of my husband had totally devastated me. That, coupled with the untimely discovery of my pregnancy, had propelled me into a state of turmoil. A whole wave of emotions now washed over me: the baby would never know its father, and Graham, who had so desperately wanted to claim that role, would never be there to watch our child growing up.
Plus, if I were to put hand on heart, I did not know how I would cope with rearing a baby on my own. I had always been a career girl and the daunting prospect of single-handed responsibility for the welfare of a helpless infant threw me into a blind panic. I was a mess.
*
‘You really can’t go on like this, Annie,’ Sarah had told me only the previous morning, as she opened the curtains and attempted to restore some semblance of order to the train wreck that was once my living room. She turned her head to one side in that way of hers and looked at me, sympathy emanating from every pore.
‘You have to try to move on,’ she said, gently. ‘I know it’s hard, but you really need to get back to some sort of normality. He wouldn’t want you to be so unhappy. You’re still a young woman. And you’ve got to think of the baby, too.’
*
She had been right, of course. My sister: ever the voice of reason and practicality. We were so different in both appearance and nature. She, fair-haired and slight, like our mother; equable, ever the optimist. I had always been what our father had diplomatically described as ‘well built’, my paternal genes leaving me narrow-waisted but short in stature and solid of limb, and darker in both colouring and temperament. I was definitely of the ‘glass half-empty’ school of thought, whilst Sarah always maintained that something positive could emerge from any situation if one allowed it to.
Our parents, both suffering from arthritis, had retired and emigrated to Florida to escape the British climate and were therefore too far away to offer much assistance. I was acutely aware that I had begun to lean heavily on my sister for support and felt guilty about it. The least I could do was listen to her advice.
I leafed through the brochure of holiday lets, which Sarah had well-meaningly brought to show me the other day, the slip of paper still clipped to the page that she had been so eager for me to see. It did look tempting. An old stone cottage with a wisp of smoke climbing from its chimney and roses woven into a trellis round the door. It was set a little way up a hillside on farmland in Anglesey, North Wales, surrounded by views of lush pastures and white-capped mountains.
‘It could be just what you need,’ she had said, hopefully. ‘Peter has holidayed there on and off for years. His father’s family were from the area, you know. He spent a couple of weeks there last August and said it was wonderfully restful. You have the cottage all to yourself, with the farmhouse right next door for home cooking – and company, if you feel like it. Peter said the old farmer and his wife are a real tonic. Clean air, beautiful scenery: what more could you ask for? And Peter’s even offering to drive you up there himself!’
I had paid little attention at the time, but maybe the Prozac was starting to kick in. Perhaps it was time to give myself a shake and get back to the real world. As if to reaffirm my thoughts, the baby delivered a sudden sharp kick into my ribs.
I hesitated for a moment before picking up the telephone.
‘Sarah? I’ve been thinking … Can you come over? I need to get in touch with Peter …’
July 2009
And so it was that, on the first Sunday in July, I came to be a passenger in the car of my sister’s friend and colleague, Peter, heading for what I hoped would hail the beginning of a fresh start for me.
The doctor had warned me not to drive if the medication seemed to be affecting my judgement and I did not as yet feel confident enough to get back behind the wheel, so I was relieved and grateful when Peter had offered to take me. The agreement was that he would be staying just the one night in the farmhouse itself, and then Sarah would join me in a few days’ time and stay in the cottage for the remainder of the let, which had been booked for three weeks.
I didn’t know Peter particularly well. He had been working in the same office as Sarah for the past few months. We’d met only once or twice when she had brought him to the house. He was in his early thirties, of medium height and build; dark-eyed, and handsome, in a quirky sort of way. I found Peter pleasant enough and polite, but today, evidently having been briefed by Sarah about my state of mind, he seemed a little awkward about making conversation.
I