Need You Dead

10 Wednesday 20 April

It had all been so naughty back then — so deliciously naughty! The clandestine meetings in their secret love nest, a tiny, shabbily furnished studio flat. Snatched hours whenever they could both get away, breathless with the excitement of seeing each other, and both feeling the terrible wrench each time they parted.

The flat was on the third floor of a dilapidated apartment block on Hove seafront, overlooking the King Alfred leisure complex. They didn’t care that the lift never worked, that the entrance hall and stairwell smelled of damp, nor that the wiring was a fire hazard. All that mattered was they had somewhere to meet, with a double bed — albeit a bit rickety — a little fridge where they could keep wine chilled, and a bathroom where they could freshen up before returning home to their respective spouses. She’d made it look as homely as she could, with a couple of framed photographs of themselves, scented candles, and a sheepskin rug on the floor.

Lorna had found it and it was ideal for many reasons. It was an easy location for them both to get to, with plenty of parking in the side streets. The rent, which they shared, was cheap as chips, because the building was due to be refurbished as part of the redevelopment of this whole area, and the landlord, happy to accept cash monthly, didn’t ask any questions. A big bonus was that nothing overlooked it. They were private.

Not, Lorna thought, that she and Greg would have been here for much longer. When they’d originally taken it, believing his promises, she’d figured it would be for a few months only until he left Belinda, and they’d find a proper home together. The months had dragged into a year, then a year and a half. But not any more, oh no. Soon Greg and this place, which once she had loved but now hated so much, would be history.

And that numpty with his vile emails and pathetic hint at blackmail — he’d be history soon, too.

As would Corin.

She had her own plans now, a decision she’d made over the past weekend after discovering the truth about Greg. She was going to visit her sister, Melanie, in Australia and look into the possibility of making a new life there. Mel was a year younger, but they had always been so close they could be twins. Recently divorced from a wealthy stockbroker, and living in a gorgeous beachfront house in Tamarama, Mel was having a ball. And imploring Lorna to come out and join her.

Well, she had made up her mind, and she was off. Going to start a new life. Without Corin’s knowledge she had started putting up for sale, through eBay and Gumtree, everything she possessed of any value — jewellery, handbags, the Cartier watch she’d inherited from her mother. She’d originally advertised the car because she needed a more practical vehicle for the dogs. But now she wasn’t going to need a replacement and the cash would be useful.

There had been a big hiccup on that particular sale, but hopefully it would soon be sorted.

The puppies were going to be fine, she’d already taken deposits for all of them, and over the next few weeks they would be gone to their new homes. Someone her best friend Roxy knew, whose dog had recently died, was keen to take the puppies’ mother. Sorted. Nearly. Very nearly. Her excitement was growing by the day, helping her get over her anger towards Greg. Every few hours she would go online and google Sydney. Staring at the stunning views of Tamarama Beach and neighbouring Bronte, Bondi and Coogee. And at the Sydney waterfront. The blue ocean, the brilliant sunshine.

The sunshine that Corin, a total mood hoover, seemed to suck out of the sky. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d noticed the sun shining when she had been with him. Greg had changed that, he had put the light back into her life. Until...

Until...

Standing in her dressing gown, preparing herself for her confrontation with the bastard, she stared out at the ominously dark sky and falling rain, feeling the draught through the window and listening to the constant rumble of traffic along Kingsway down below. Stared at the dreary, crumbling red-brick edifice of the King Alfred — the pool where she had learned to swim as a child. Then around at the tiny room. The worn carpet was pink — old-lady pink, as Greg had jokingly called it. The walls were knobbly Artex and the ceiling was the colour of nicotine. The sagging double bed had a fake-fur throw she’d bought when they first got the place; there was a two-seater sofa, an armchair with a busted spring and a tiny kitchenette with a breakfast table. Through louvre doors was a bathtub, also in old-lady pink, with a hand-shower with a rubber hose that you stuck over the taps, a matching washbasin and loo.

The wiring scared her. Every time she came in and turned on the light, sparks shot out of the switch. She used a three-pin plug in the bathroom — which Greg said was illegal — for her hairdryer. On a couple of occasions she’d mentioned the wiring to the landlord, but he had never got back to her.

Right now she could not wait to leave.

A Van Morrison CD was playing. Days Like This.

With a huge grin, she began to nod her head along to it. Balling her fists in the air, she suddenly sang out loud, ‘Days like this! Yayyyyy!’

Then her phone — her private phone — pinged with a text.

Shit, she thought. Shit, shit, shit. She looked at her watch. It was 5.25 p.m. An hour sooner than she had been expecting him at the very earliest. Shit!

She ran into the bathroom and stared in the mirror. Her hair looked like she’d been through a tornado, and her make-up could have been applied by Jackson Pollock. She turned on the taps, and whilst the bath was filling she peered into the rapidly misting-up mirror and started to sort out her face, glancing intermittently at her watch. She wanted to be ready for the bastard and looking her best for the confrontation.

She plugged in the dryer, carefully, holding it with two fingers. As she switched it on there was a fizz and crackle from the socket. The machine whirred into life and she directed the hot air at the mistedup mirror. Some minutes later, when the bath was full, she dropped her dressing gown, eased herself into the tub, and began soaping her body, thinking back dreamily over the past couple of hours.

In what seemed like an instant later, a good fifteen minutes before she expected him, Greg in a sharp navy suit, striped shirt and a collegiate tie at half mast, was towering over her, holding in his hand a bunch of weary-looking flowers, which had petrol station written all over them.

‘My baby! God, I’ve missed you!’ He leaned down to kiss her on the lips, and as he did so, she turned her head away, offering him her cheek.

‘Uh?’ he said, standing back up with a frown.

‘Fuck you,’ she said.

‘Hey, baby — what is it?’

‘Had a nice time in the Maldives last month with poor, sick “Belinda” did you? Helped her recover her mental state?’

‘It was shit,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you. I had a terrible time. We barely spoke a word to each other for the entire fortnight. I woke up every morning wishing it was you with me.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘I promise you, Lorna. Every single day I said to myself, “Another shitty day in paradise. Because I’m with the wrong woman.”’

‘Go and take a look at my laptop on the dining table, Greg. Do you really think I’m an idiot? Go on, take a look! I’ve left it on, and disabled the password, so you can sodding see for yourself.’

He backed out of the room. After some moments he came back in. ‘Where did you get that from?’

‘Does it matter, Greg? You had a terrible time, did you? Poor you. It doesn’t look like you were having a terrible time — you and Belinda look quite cosy to me.’

‘Baby, listen — please listen to me. I know what it must look like.’

‘Do you? Do you really?’

‘Yes.’

‘No you don’t, you have no idea.’

‘Listen—’

‘No,’ she interrupted him. ‘You listen to me for once. I’ve believed your bloody lies all this time. Now I know who you really are, you bastard. Greg! Ha! Did you really think I’d never find out? How stupid do you think I am?’

‘Baby!’

‘Baby!’ she mimicked. ‘Don’t baby me. I’m not your baby. I’m not your convenient little shag on the side. Not any more.’

‘Hey, I love you, baby.’

‘No, you don’t love me. You just love shagging me.’

‘It’s not like that at all, trust me. Please, baby.’

‘I’ve trusted you for all this time, you lying creep. God, I feel a fool.’

‘Lorna — Jesus — don’t be like this.’

‘Oh, how would you like me to be? Naked in bed, listening to more of your lies? For months you’ve been promising to get me away from my nightmare with Corin. For months you’ve told me one lie after another about poor, sick Belinda.’

‘I haven’t!’

‘Oh yes you have. She’s not even called Belinda You’ve lied about your name, about who you really are, about what you do for a living. How many other girlfriends do you have all lined up, waiting for you? Are you doing the rounds of all your conquests? Is Wednesday Lorna’s turn for a shag?’

‘I love you, Lorna. I really do.’

She shook her head. ‘No, if you really loved me you’d have told me the truth long ago. I trusted you. I believed you. I thought you were who you said you were, but you aren’t, are you? Is there anything you’ve ever said to me that hasn’t been a lie?’

He stared at her for a moment. ‘Listen, let me explain—’

‘No, you let me explain. Let me explain just how angry I am. I’m angry enough to destroy your life you lying shit. One phone call is all it’s going to take and your career will be fucked. Believe me. Then one more and it’ll be your marriage. To poor sweet, sick Belinda.’

His face ashen, he said, ‘No, Lorna. Please listen.’

She tapped her ears. ‘I don’t have room in here for any more of your shit, my head’s full of it. Bursting. No more room. Sorry!’

‘I really do love you.’

‘I hate you.’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘You have no idea how much I hate you. Just get out! Get out of here, get out of my life!’

‘Look — I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’

‘You promise? You really think I’d believe any promise you gave me, Greg?’

‘Just let me explain,’ he said again.

She shook her head. ‘No, let me explain. I just have to dial one number on my phone and your career will be over. That’s going to happen ten seconds after you get the fuck out of here, you creep.’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Lorna, baby, please give me the chance to explain everything.’

She picked up the bar of soap in her hand. ‘See this, Greg? You’re just like this bar of soap.’ She closed her hand on it and the bar shot up in the air then fell with a splash into the bath. ‘You’re just as slippery.’ She glared at him, her eyes demonic, almost glazed. ‘But at least the soap makes me feel clean — you just make me feel dirty.’

‘Lorna, please.’

‘Lorna, please,’ she mimicked. ‘You know the worst thing of all, Greg? I’m actually going to get pleasure out of destroying you. Totally fucking up your career and then your marriage. I really am. Hello, Belinda! You don’t know me, but I can describe your husband’s cock — every inch of it, in fact. I could email you some photos of it, if you’d like, but I imagine you already know what it looks like. Though perhaps you’ve forgotten since it’s so long ago you last had sex — so Greg tells me.’

‘Lorna. Come on. Look — let’s talk reason.’

‘Reason? You sound just like my husband. Let’s talk reason. Do you know what my husband did on Monday? He tried to put dog shit in my mouth. Almost every morning he picks a row about something. And almost every night. Some days I count myself lucky if he just shouts at me. Other days he hits me.’ She pointed to a bruise by her right eye. ‘This is what he did last night after he was released by the police, when he stalked me here and went ballistic. I live in hell and I’ve endured it because I believed your promises that you were going to take me away from all that, that we would have a life together. Your lies.’ She began crying. ‘Your sodding lies.’

He pulled a towel off the rack. ‘Come on, darling, let’s talk about this over a drink. I’ve brought some gorgeous Champagne. Pol Roger, your favourite.’

As he leaned down to put the towel round her shoulders she lashed out, punching him on the chest. ‘Screw you.’

‘Owwww!’ He fell back against the washbasin.

‘Screw you, you bastard!’

‘Lorna! Calm down, this is insane.’

She stood up in the bath, punching him repeatedly.

He grabbed her tightly round the throat and she started spluttering.

‘Are you going to strangle me?’ she gasped, incredulously, still pummelling him.

He pushed her back, trying to hold her at arm’s length, desperately trying to restrain her. ‘Lorna! Stop it! Stop it, Jesus Christ! Calm down!’

She grabbed a bottle of shampoo, flipped up the lid and squeezed it hard, sending a jet of the soapy liquid into his face, momentarily blinding him.

‘You crazy bitch!’ His eyes stinging and in a red mist of rage, he lunged forward and grabbed her shoulders, pushing her away. She fell back into the tub, sending water slopping over the sides.

‘You lying, cheating bastard. I’m going to destroy you. Oh, you think you’re untouchable, don’t you? I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!’ She heaved herself up. ‘I’m going to make that call now.’

‘No!’ he shouted in fury. ‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ He slapped his hand against her forehead, forcing her back down into the tub again, pushing her head right under the water for a brief moment. Then released her.

As she raised her head she spluttered, looking bewildered, struggling to breathe for a moment. Then, her voice panicky, she yelled at him, ‘You jerk! What are you going to do? Kill me?’

Wriggling and twisting, she tried to worm out of the bathtub. In total panic, he grabbed the hairdryer in his left hand and held it above her. ‘Don’t move or I will fucking kill you.’

Lorna made a desperate lunge to lever herself out of the bath. Wild with anger, he shoved her hard back down with his right hand. There was a crack, as loud as a gunshot, as the rear of her head struck the tiled wall. As she slumped down, he saw a split in the tile where the contact had been, and a smear of blood.

Shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.

The hairdryer suddenly whirred into life. Everything became a blur. He tried to focus, but couldn’t; all he could see was mist, red mist — blood-red mist. He ran, crashed into a wall, ran again, fell over a chair, had to get out, out, out, had to get out.

He found the door, opened it and lurched into the corridor, his eyes blurred, like looking through fogged negatives, fogged red negatives, stumbling down fire-escape stairs, crashing from wall to wall. Then out, through the side entrance he normally used onto Vallance Street, tugging on the baseball cap and dark glasses he always wore to hide his face when visiting Lorna. Outside. The roar of traffic on the seafront a short distance away. Cold, damp wind with a salty tang.

He walked. Walked. Turned right, away from the seafront. Walked. Saw traffic lights in the distance. He was on a main road. Get on a minor road, mustn’t be seen. Had to think, somehow, had to calm down, had to think.

Had to.

Oh God, what had he done?

Go back in and say sorry. Beg forgiveness. Just like her husband did every time he beat her up. Sure, she would buy that, wouldn’t she? In her current mood.

How badly had he hurt her just now?

He turned left, into a wide, quiet street, and walked quickly, head bowed, clenching and unclenching his fists in agitation. He was hurrying, he realized, running almost, a man on a mission without a mission, without actually having anywhere to go.

Got to go back inside. Apologize. Explain. Got to calm her down. Explain he’d had a shitty day at work. This wasn’t him. He’d never hurt a woman in his life.

He loved her. Shit, he really did. She just had to be patient, give him time; that photograph wasn’t how it really was, no matter how it looked to her. Really. It wasn’t.

OK, so he hadn’t been totally honest with her. But he could explain that photograph, if she would just calm down and listen. He could.

He smacked head-on into someone. Someone rock hard.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he gasped, winded.

Then realized he had walked into a pay-and-display parking machine.