The Danger Within

Twelve

It was around four thirty in the morning when Lilian arrived on the outskirts of the ancient West Country sea-port city. She stopped at a service station, put twenty pounds worth of petrol in the now extremely thirsty motor car, and bought herself coffee and sandwiches.

Maybe it was the adrenalin of doing something at last, but for the first time, not only since leaving hospital but actually since the night it had all happened, she felt genuinely hungry.

She was heading for the Westbury Park area of Bristol. Her married cousin, Laura Beggs, whom she had once been close to, lived there. The two women had grown out of touch, and Lilian no longer had a phone number for Laura. Neither, of course, did she have a phone — something she needed to rectify as soon as she managed to raise some funds. But many years ago she’d visited the house which she knew remained to be Laura’s home because they did still send each other Christmas cards.

There was no one else she could think of who she could possibly turn to.

She skirted Bristol city centre using the inner ring road. At Clifton she turned off towards the famous old suspension bridge, parked by the visitors centre and walked along the bridge clutching her coffee and sandwiches. It was still far too early to go calling on anyone. Dawn was just beginning to break on what promised to be a beautiful day.

Lilian leaned against the safety fence on the city side of the bridge. Bristol lay before her, a still sleeping city. She could see the old docks, with their modern state-of-the-art residential developments, the huge lock gates and the floating harbour. She shifted her glance, looking downwards. The Avon, like a shiny black snake, wound its way along the gorge two hundred feet below. The Brunel designed triumph of nineteenth-century engineering upon which she stood was frequently used in suicide attempts. And anyone jumping from it was almost certain to succeed in their aim.

Lilian felt strangely grateful that the moment when, in such an opportune situation, she might well have taken her own life had passed.

She no longer wished to die. She was determined to live. But without Kurt. She just needed a place of refuge for a few weeks.

She’d had a career once, in magazine journalism, which she had ultimately found disappointing and had readily abandoned for Kurt. How glad she would be for the chance to return to it now. Apart from any other considerations she had no money. She was sure a husband wasn’t allowed to just cut off his wife financially the way Kurt had done, and there must be a way of clearing funds. But how long would it take? Even if she could afford legal help.

She allowed herself to fantasize, just for a moment, that Kurt would be arrested, tried and imprisoned. It was the only real path of escape she could imagine.

Meanwhile she could do no more than take things by stages.

She fleetingly wondered just how pleased cousin Laura would be to see her, beaten up and bringing with her such awful problems, but Lilian did not think she would turn her away.

She glanced at her watch. It was still not yet six a.m., but she decided to find her way to Laura’s house, in a tidy suburban cul-de-sac called Clarke Close, and wait there until an acceptable calling time. Laura and her husband had twin daughters, who Lilian reckoned would be nine or ten now and at school. So surely it would not be too long before the family would be up and about and preparing for the school run.

Just before eight a.m., which seemed like a respectable hour, she approached the front door of her cousin’s house, a freshly painted semi with a neatly bordered front garden. The place seemed suspiciously quiet. There were no windows open and no vehicles in the driveway.

She rang the bell. Once, twice, three times. There was no reply. She walked around the gravelled path to the back of the house. She had not really expected to find the family breakfasting on the lawn, even though it was such a lovely morning, but it had been worth a try.

With a sinking heart she retraced her steps, back around the house and down the driveway towards her car. Stupidly perhaps, she’d just expected Laura, with her young family and working husband, to be at home.

Then it hit her. The previous day had been the last Monday in May. Of course. The Whitsun bank holiday and school half-term. It may have meant nothing to her, but the Beggs’ family were quite probably taking a holiday. They could be away for the rest of the week.

She was glumly wondering what to do next when, just as she reached the pavement, he stepped out in front of her. At first she didn’t realize what was happening. She tried to move to one side, apologizing, like you do when you almost bump into someone. If you’re English anyway.

Then she realized the man must have been waiting for her, concealed by the high garden wall of her cousin’s property. He was tall and well built. His hair and beard both very dark. The wrong colour for Kurt St John. His eyes were dark too. Also the wrong colour for Kurt St John.

All the same, it was him.

And Lilian had no idea why she was surprised.

She had known he was going to find her sooner or later, hadn’t she? She’d known that he would come for her, wherever she was and whatever obstacles she and the forces of law had appeared to put in his way.

She just hadn’t expected him to catch up with her this quickly, and he was supposed to be out of the country. Also she was sure she had shaken off William and the goons on that mad rush out of London, and that she had covered her tracks. She hadn’t even left a paper trail. Indeed she hadn’t been able to leave a paper trail as all her credit cards had been cancelled.

He stretched out a hand, placing it lightly on her left arm.

‘Don’t be afraid, my darling. I’m so sorry I hurt you so badly. That will never happen again.’

He smiled at her. The same smile she’d once found so utterly disarming. Now it just filled her with dread.

She tried to step back from him, shaking her head.

His fingers closed around her upper arm, their tips digging into the flesh. Her body remembered all the pain he had caused it. Remembered too that the more she resisted the worse it always was. That is what had happened the last time. The only time he had actually inflicted any damage other than superficial bruising and a twisted wrist or two.

She felt herself weaken. Felt her will leaving her. Felt her limbs begin to dissolve to jelly.

‘How... how?’

She couldn’t even get the words out. But he knew what she meant. She saw his glance shift briefly to the BMW and then back again to her. Of course. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have thought that he would take a chance on her getting away that easily. It was no accident that her car had been just waiting for her to drive it away from the one place even Kurt would not dare turn up at with the police looking for him, his own apartment. She had played right into his hands. He had put a tracker on her car. She should have realized that, bizarrely, she had probably been safer at Penbourne Villas than anywhere.

It was too late now.

‘My darling Lilian,’ he murmured softly. ‘I just want to talk, that’s all.’

She just wanted to run. Oh, she so wanted to run. However, she only had one fully functional leg. In any case she assumed he would have that option covered. She glanced around her. A black Range Rover, almost certainly the one which had stalked her in London, was parked at an angle at the end of the cul-de-sac, half blocking the road. She could see the shapes of two heads inside.

Kurt was still talking.

‘I have a room in the best hotel in town. Won’t you come there with me? We could have breakfast. Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, your favourite. And maybe some champagne? Anything you want, you know how I like to spoil you...’

His voice droned on. He was smiling all the time. He began to stroke the side of her face with his free hand. The grip of his right hand on her upper arm did not loosen.

How had he dared to flout the law the way he had? He’d not only disguised himself, but, presumably, entered the country under a false passport. Or maybe, in spite of what the authorities believed, he had never left. She had been well enough aware of his obsession with her, his only weakness he always called it. How could she have underestimated it — and him — so? He regarded her as his property. Property he had come to reclaim.

‘We need to spend some time together, just you and me, time to rebuild our marriage,’ he continued, his tone soft and wheedling. ‘I want you to let me show you how much I care—’

She interrupted him. Her voice sharp, louder than she had meant it to be.

‘You bugged my car,’ she yelled at him.

The smile faltered. Just for a second. He didn’t bother to deny it. Well, there wouldn’t have been any point, would there? He just continued as if she hadn’t spoken. Only someone who knew him as well as she did would notice that the smile was now forced, and that his manner had grown that bit more assertive.

‘The room is all ready for us, sweetheart. Why don’t we go there now?’

It wasn’t really a question and certainly not an invitation.

He placed a strong arm around her shoulders, and in one fluid movement began to usher her towards the Range Rover.

‘My c-car. M-my bag...’

She stumbled over the words.

‘The boys will look after that,’ he said, reaching with his free arm to take the keys to the BMW from her.

She did not attempt to resist. She knew there was little point.