Page 90 of The Dead Ex
‘Look at my bloody toilet. It’s fucking bunged up.’
I walked over to inspect. That was when I felt his hand on my head, tugging at my roots and pushing me towards the faeces which were rising up over the bowl.
Dad’s words ranground my head. ‘They’ll eat you alive.’
No bloody way.
‘TAKE YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME.’
There was a horrible clunking sound as his head hit the radiator. Oh my God. I’ve killed him!
Then he got up and lunged towards me.
Swiftly, I twisted his arm behind his back in the ‘holding’ position while shouting for help. ‘Make as much noise as possible,’ the self-defence instructor had told us. ‘Thenothers will be aware of your location.’
‘What’s going on?’ yelled two officers bursting in.
‘She bloody assaulted me!’
‘It’s all right,’ I panted, wiping the sweat from my face. ‘Everything’s under control.’
If only I could say the same all these years later. But one thing is clear. If a jury hears about my self-defence training, each one of those twelve might well assume I am capable of inflictingserious harm on someone else. And they’d be right.
32
Helen
I’ve seen fancy loft conversions like this in magazines. You could put five other flats plus mine in this open space and still have room for more. There’s even an L-shaped white leather sofa by the huge paned windows overlooking the city, seven floors below. The security system downstairs was something! David had to enter a code on the alarm pad before we could get into the lift. Talkabout Fort Knox.
The enormous bed, with loads of cushions all over it, is at the other end of the room with a black-and-white frieze behind it, showing famous London silhouettes like Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. There are no dividing walls apart from a door which leads into the bathroom, as I discover when I need the loo. It has automatic lighting and taps. Neat.
When I come out, David isopening a bottle. The cork seems to be a bit of a struggle. But eventually it pops open. ‘My first wife always said I was handy with both a corkscrew and the coffee machine. One of my few pluses, apparently!’
He sounds rather bitter. ‘So, what do you think of my place?’ he says, handing me a glass.
‘There’s enough space,’ I reply, not wanting to flatter him. I suspect he gets enough of that.
He nods. ‘I have a phobia about being cooped up in small places.’
‘Why?’
He turns away. ‘Reminds me of the army.’
‘It must have been scary,’ I say gently, in case he wants to tell me more.
He looks back at me. Hard. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Whatdoesmatter to you?’ I find myself asking.
‘Sure you’re a photographer and not a journalist?’
I laugh lightly. ‘Quite sure.’
‘Well … you should makea trip to Dartmoor. You could take some amazing shots there. Have you ever been?’
‘Where is it?’
‘In the south-west. There’s this tor – that’s like a really steep hill – with mountainous rocks at the summit. I love to climb right to the top and look down. It’s like looking down on the universe.’
