The Watcher (42 page)

She turned her car around with a screech of tyres. She had planned to go back to the office. Now she decided to drive home and soak in the bath.

And to open a nice bottle of red wine.

It was almost half past midnight when he said goodbye. She stood at the window and watched by the light of the street lamps as he walked along the road. She wished he had stayed, but she had not dared to ask him. She would have felt safer with him around. John Burton was someone who would not let himself be intimidated or scared. He was also capable of defending himself.

Nevertheless, she did not know whether she could trust him. All evening she had been unable to completely understand his role in the game – in this game that was anything but a game. He had said he was a private eye, but she had felt that she would not get anything else out of him on that subject. He said just as much as he wished to say. Not a word more.

Maybe he was going straight to the police to tell them where she was hiding. Maybe he even thought that was for her own good.

Although he did not seem naive.

He had disappeared from sight and she turned away from the window, drawing the curtains. The flat no longer seemed like a hiding place, a refuge. In a moment that had changed. John Burton had found her, which meant that anyone could find her.

She had to move on somewhere else as soon as possible.

She sat down at her dining room table and poured herself some more coffee. She had brewed a number of pots of coffee that evening, while she told John Burton, a complete stranger, her painful story. The physical humiliations at the start. Logan’s compulsive control of her. The years before anything physical actually happened but in which she felt increasingly suffocated. In which she had to justify every step, every movement, almost every thought.

‘I wasn’t allowed to decide anything. Not about our furniture, our curtains, our carpets or the pictures on the walls. Not about the crockery we ate from, nor the flowers we planted in the garden. Not about the books on the shelves. Nor the clothes I wore, nor my undergarments, my cosmetics or my jewellery. His perfectionism is sick and everything, absolutely everything, had to fit his image of the perfect house, the perfect garden, the perfect wife, a perfect life.’

He had asked the question he was bound to ask. ‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

And she had answered quietly, ‘Above all else, men like him do one thing. And they do it without it even being noticed. They rob their victims of their self-confidence. They destroy their souls. Suddenly you no longer have the strength to leave. You no longer believe in yourself. You no longer believe that you can do anything in life. You stick to your torturer because after destroying you, he has managed to convince you that you can’t live without him.’

John had nodded. She was grateful that he did not reply with some silly phrase to the effect that a pretty woman like her would have found someone straight away.

She had the impression that he understood what her husband had done to her as a person.

After a long pause John said, ‘When did he start to hit you?’ He seemed to know that it had led to that. He knew how these things developed.

She could tell him exactly. ‘After Fin was born. He couldn’t cope with the fact that I was not all his any more. Having a child gives you strength. I felt stronger after Finley was born. I don’t think I acted any differently, but maybe it was visible somehow . . . more inner peace, happiness. My love for my little creature. He could no longer affect me as deeply with his sadistic, controlling ways, his attacks, insults. Fin gave me a kind of protection. That must have made my husband furious. He no longer had total control over me. That was unbearable for him.’

She described how difficult it became to hide her injuries. How she would always wear the large sunglasses when she had another black eye. A split lip meant not leaving the house for days. Sometimes she stayed inside for weeks on end.

She could feel that John Burton was angry. Not at her. But at men like her husband. And at the psychologies and laws that meant women like her were exposed to such helpless situations.

She felt the need to describe the full complexity of the situation – to explain why she had remained, paralysed, in such a nightmare.

‘I was scared. Especially of losing Fin. My husband is powerful and influential. I always thought it possible that I would come out worst, even if I went to the police with serious injuries and reported him. He would have squirmed out of it. You know, I’ve been treated for depression. He would have managed to get me declared insane. Would have got someone to give evidence that I’d harmed myself. I would have ended up in an institution. I’d never have seen my child again.’

‘That’s not as easy as all that,’ said John. ‘You can prove whether someone has harmed themselves or been harmed by someone else. I don’t think he could have had you committed.’

She shrugged. ‘He always threatened that. He would shout at me:
You’re crazy! I’ll put you in the loony bin! You won’t ever get out!
I wasn’t going to risk it. I was just plain scared.’

To prove her fear, she had, in the end, taken off her jumper in front of this stranger. Under it she wore a top with a plunging neckline. She heard Burton snatch for breath as he saw the ugly scars on her neck, her arms, her shoulders.

‘He started to go at me with knives,’ she whispered.

‘God, Liza!’ Burton stood up, walked over and embraced her. They stood like that for a minute. She could feel his strength, his calm – as if she had found safety, a harbour, a place to rest.

Until she pulled herself together, telling herself:
Don’t trust any man!

She had moved away and put her jumper on again. He had promised: ‘I’ll help you, Liza. Believe me, I’ll help you.’

‘You can’t help me. You can’t do anything against him.’

‘He managed to make you think he’s invincible. I can understand that. But he isn’t. He’s a normal man. And laws apply to him too.’

‘He’ll kill me if he ever gets near me again.’

‘He won’t. He’ll go to jail.’

She laughed cynically. ‘And you think he can’t organise for someone to get revenge on me from there?’

‘Do you want him to get away scot-free? And to stay in hiding for the rest of your life?’

‘I might not have a choice.’

‘Your son . . .’

Rage flashed from her eyes because she heard a certain accusatory tone in his voice. ‘Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have left him! Don’t tell me that! You have absolutely no idea about the situation I’m in! How could I have taken Fin with me? A child who goes to school and has to lead something like a normal life. Logan would have found me immediately. I can’t just go completely underground with a twelve-year-old boy. It’s not possible. I know Fin is all right with him. Logan would never touch him. He never has. As crazy as this sounds, he’s a loving father. More than that, he idolises the boy. There was no other way. Fin has his familiar environment, his home, his school, his friends. That’s better for him than having to live on the run with me. Believe me, being separated from him is driving me half crazy. The only reason I can bear it is because I’m sure it’s best for him. And because I try to see him now and then. Like today. Now I know what a risk I was taking. My husband could just as well have been waiting for me there.’

‘Finley misses you.’

She struggled to keep back the tears. ‘Yes. And do you think I don’t know that? Do you think it doesn’t tear me apart? I could die. But I know that he’s doing better than he was before. And unlike what would have happened if my husband had had me committed, I feel free now to end the situation at any time. If I can’t bear living without Fin any longer, then I’ll go back. In spite of everything that’s waiting for me there.’

‘Your husband never feared that Fin would tell anyone? A teacher? A classmate, a friend’s parents?’

‘My husband doesn’t know the meaning of fear. At least, he doesn’t know what it feels like. He only knows how to cause it. He’s paralysed Fin as much as me. Both of us always knew that things would only get worse if we told anyone. My husband didn’t even need to expressly forbid us to say anything. We would never have done so. We just wanted to bear it all somehow. And to survive.’

She drank her coffee, staring at the opposite wall, where Finley’s large eyes looked out at her from the framed pictures. She asked herself whether Burton had really understood. Living with a dangerous psychopath changed everything, your whole outlook on the world, especially the feeling of security and stability that you might once have had. Years ago, in another life, she had believed in the protective guarantees of law and order, justice and the innate decency of other people. She had walked on solid ground and felt safe in the society she had grown up in.

Then she had learnt that she had been mistaken. There was no security, no protection, no justice or decency. There was only the law of the jungle, of the strongest, nothing else. The world was full of horrors. Only on the surface was there a semblance of balance, provided by a thin web of false systems of security. Whoever slipped through the gaps fell into an abyss. More people fell through than she had ever imagined. She had only understood this when she herself was in freefall. When there was nothing and no one to catch her.

Burton had asked again about Carla and Anne.

Carla Roberts and Anne Westley.

A bitter resigned smile flitted over her lips, even now as the candlelight flickered on the walls and she felt afraid that she was going to lose this refuge, which in spite of everything she had grown used to over the last eight weeks.

Carla and Anne had been her two attempts to find help. Both attempts had failed. Both women had failed her.

‘Your husband didn’t mind that you went to that women’s group?’ Burton had wanted to know.

She had shaken her head. ‘He didn’t know that it was for women who were divorced or separated. I told him it was New Age stuff, which he found idiotic but not disconcerting. The whole thing was a massive risk, of course. He could have looked into it at any time. He didn’t, though. He had too much on his plate at work. He started to get sloppy at keeping tabs on me.’

‘You confided in Carla Roberts?’

‘I didn’t tell her everything. She was always just talking about herself and her tragedy and saw me as a patient listener. But one day we met outside the group, at her flat. I was wearing my sunglasses again. After Carla had moaned and complained for half an hour, she suddenly paused, looked at me and asked:
Why do you always wear those sunglasses?

‘It was a dark, rainy day. Normally I would ward off such questions with something about my oversensitive eyes, my allergies or conjunctivitis. But suddenly . . . I don’t know why . . . I just took off the glasses and said:
That’s why!

‘I looked a mess. My right eye was swollen and bruised. Not a pretty picture.’

‘What was Carla’s reaction?’ John asked.

‘Dumbfounded. She’d thought that the worst a husband could do to his wife was to have an affair and bankrupt his company. Now she was given a sense of what else went on in the world. She was stunned.’

‘Did she ask questions? Or tell you to take your husband to court?’

‘She asked questions. I didn’t tell her the full extent of my martyrdom, but I said that my husband flew into rages and that he liked to sort out his problems with his fists. She was horrified, but . . . what can I say? Fifteen minutes or so later, she was already back to her old themes: her cheating husband, the daughter who didn’t take enough care of her, the company going belly up, her loneliness. That’s how she was. She wasn’t a bad person, but she could only see herself. She was unable to take a step back for a second. She probably couldn’t help it.’

‘Did she ever bring it up again? Or offer you any kind of help?’

‘No. But we barely saw each other after that. The group fell apart and my personal situation became more serious. I was hardly capable of social contact. I had no wish to meet Carla and have to listen to her whining.’

‘And you had turned to Dr Anne Westley at an earlier time?’

She had explained the situation with Westley and he had understood why she had sounded unsure when answering his question about whether she had borne grudges against Carla and Anne. No, she would not say she had borne grudges, but both women had left her in the lurch. She was very well aware of that.

Then he asked: ‘Did your husband have an idea that there were people who could be dangerous for him outside the family? Because they knew what was going on between you two?’

She thought for a minute. ‘I never told him. But of course he could have found out.’

‘How?’

‘No idea. But I don’t think there’s much he can’t do, you know. He might have known.’

‘And the name Ward really doesn’t mean anything to you? Thomas and Gillian Ward.’

‘No. I’m sorry. I’ve never heard of them.’

Eventually he had left. Before leaving, he had once again promised that he would help. She wondered how.

‘Is there anything else I should know?’ he had asked her on his way out. When she had said no, he had dug deeper. ‘Are you sure? Sure that you’ve told me everything that could be important in this affair?’

‘Yes.’

He had left his card. In case she thought of something. Or needed his help. He did not know that she had decided long ago not to take any risks. John Burton might be one of the good guys, but she had learnt to see men as potential enemies. She thought it would be safer not to make any exceptions.

She would go into hiding, further away. She would not go near Finley for months, even if it broke her heart.

She had not told Burton everything. But had he expected that? She did not know him. He was a complete stranger.

And he had asked what could be important in this affair.

She did not know whether what she kept to herself was important.

Probably not.

He could picture the situation. Liza had described it in a calm voice, almost lacking all emotion.