I don’t remember much about the night I was meant to die. It’s funny how the mind can block out the memories it no longer wants to store, you must know that. But if I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds of that night in May. The howl of an unseasonably cold wind, the rattle of the bedroom window, the rasp of the sea against shingle in the distance.
It was also raining. I remember that much, because the thin scratch of water against glass is still vivid in my head. For a minute it was hypnotic. For a minute it disguised the sound of his footsteps outside: tap, tap, tap, soles against flagstone in slow determined steps.
I knew he was coming and I knew what I had to do.
Lying under the duvet on the iron bed, I willed myself to keep calm. A faint glow from the string of bulbs on the coastal path leaked into the room. Usually this spectral darkness soothed me, but tonight it made me feel more alone, as if I were floating in space without a tether.
I balled my fist, hoping, praying that the comforting twilight of the new day would present itself at the window. But even without looking at the clock, I knew that this was at least four or five hours away and I didn’t need to tell myself that it would be too late. The footsteps were right outside the house now, and the faint metallic grumble of a key being pushed into the lock echoed up the stairs. It was hard to disguise sounds in the big, old building, it was too tired and weary for that …
How had I let myself get into this? I had gone to London for a better life, to improve myself and meet a more interesting set of people. To fall in love. And now here I was: a cautionary tale.
I heard the front door creak open. Chilled air seeped through the cracks in the window pane and pinched my nostrils shut. It was as cold as a mortuary; a macabrely apt simile. I was even lying like a mummy, arms by my sides, trembling fingers tucked under my thighs, as heavy and immobile as if they were dead weights, anchoring me to the bed.
As the footsteps reached the top of the stairs, I pulled my hands out from the warmth and settled them on top of the cool cotton duvet cover. My fingers were clenched, nails pressing against my palms, but at least I was ready to fight. I suppose that was the lawyer in me.
He hesitated outside the bedroom door, and the moment seemed to compress into a cold, suspended silence. Coming here had not been a good idea. Closing my eyes, I willed the single tear not to weep on to my cheek.
A soft push of wood against carpet as the door opened. Every instinct in my body told me to leap out of the bed and run, but I had to wait and see if he would, if he could, do this. My heart was hammering out of my chest, my limbs felt frozen with fear. I kept my eyes shut, but I could feel him looming over me now, my body retreating into a menacing shadow. I could even hear his breathing.
A hand pressed against my mouth, its touch cold and alien against my dry, puckered lips. My eyes opened, and I could see a face only inches from mine. I was desperate to read his expression, desperate to know what he was thinking. I forced my lips apart, ready to scream, and then I waited for things to run their course.
Three months earlier
I had only been back in chambers five minutes when I felt a presence at the