We stare at each other. She astonished, and me, contemptuously. Her hand drops limply to her side. Suddenly she looks unbearably young and exhausted. She glances down the road at the bus stand.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ In the bustle of the street her voice is barely audible.

‘Tom’s here,’ I say, as the Bentley pulls up along the curb.

She shakes her head. ‘Thanks, but I’ll take the bus.’

‘Tom will drop you off,’ I insist.

‘Fuck you,’ she snaps suddenly. ‘Our contract doesn’t start until tomorrow. So today I’ll decide my mode of transport.’ She swings away from me.

My hand shoots out and grasps her wrist. ‘I will pick you up and put you in that car if necessary. You decide.’

‘Oh, yeah? And I’ll call the police.’

I laugh. ‘After everything I’ve told you about the system—that’s your answer?’

She sags. All the fight gone out of her. ‘Of course, who will believe me if I claim that a Barrington tried to force me to take a lift?’ She resorts to begging. ‘Please, Blake.’

This one is non-negotiable. There is no way that she is taking the bus. I know how to stop her in her tracks. ‘Very well, Tom will go with you on the bus.’

At that point she stops arguing, simply turns around, opens the car door, gets in, slams it shut, and stares straight ahead.

Tom turns around and says something to her and she answers as the vehicle pulls away.

I stand on the sidewalk looking at the car, willing her to turn and look back. Now, Lana, now. If she turns before the car disappears out of sight it will all be all right. Turn, Lana. Please turn back. Turn back and look at me. As the car turns at the traffic light she twists her neck and looks at me. Her face is white and expressionless. But inside me wild joy surges. I want to punch the air. Never have I experienced such a strong current of emotion in my body.

Then the oddest thing happens.

Perhaps it is the churn of high emotions that I almost never allow myself to indulge in, or perhaps it is the shock of seeing her again, but I am no longer standing on Kilburn High Street with badly dressed strangers shuffling around me.

I am five years old and alone and terrified in a room lit only by a naked light blub. I look down at my hands and they are covered in blood. My shirt, my shorts, my legs, even the floor around me has turned red. The blood is not fresh: my fingers are stuck to the knife. The knife is not mine. The blood is not mine. I rip the knife from my hand and let it clatter on the floor noisily. I pull my eyes away from the glinting blade, and thought I don’t want to, I let them travel along the cement floor. Until…

I come upon what I have done.

I did that!

No. It cannot be.

I open my mouth and scream for my Mommy, but no sound will come out. I scream and scream, but no one comes. No one can hear me.

No one.

POV

Forty 2 Days

When Blake Met Sorab

I paused at the bathroom door, shocked.

She was laughing, I mean really laughing, the way I had never seen her do while with me. The laughter was like a fountain of fresh, sweet water bubbling up from deep inside her being. I stared at her as if I was a man who had been wandering in a desert for days without food or water.

I don’t know how long I stood there simply staring. At the sight of water. So near and yet so far away. You’re no better than a heroin addict desperate for his next fix, a voice inside my head taunted. But at that moment there was nothing, nothing I wanted more than to take her in my arms and never ever let her go again.

What was it about this woman that made her impossible to resist even when it was patently clear I shouldn’t trust her further than I could throw her? Slowly, as if in a dream, I was drawn to the centre of her attention—to the shrieking, splashing, lustily laughing baby. It was obvious.

She loved that little creature.

Instantly, I was jealous of it, of the love she had for it. The jealousy didn’t strike me like a bolt, more like weevils crawling all over me. The feeling disgusted me. I didn’t want to be jealous of a fucking baby. I wanted to hate her guts. A small sound came from my throat.

I didn’t plan it: it was involuntary.

Her head whirled around, and right before my eyes, quite interesting really, I watched her withdraw, build a wall around herself. And I had to stop myself from laughing in her face. She knew me so little. Did she really think I was going to hit that wall, and just stop? No wall could keep me out. I would scale it, brick by fucking brick. Nothing, no one could keep me out.

Until I said so she was mine. To do with as I pleased.

‘Hi,’ she fluttered, nervous, very nervous. And so she should be. A secret thrill fizzled in my veins. I wanted to throttle her. Little bitch. How dare she love the kid and not me?

‘Who do we have here?’ I said softly, going into the room.

I looked into the child’s big, blue eyes—solemn, curious, unafraid—and suddenly, that disassociated, unreal feeling I hadn’t felt since I was child drifted in. My mind didn’t say, ‘Who are you?’ It said, ‘Who am I?’ I felt like one of those turtles in Asia that have had their throats slit while still alive and I was bleeding out to make a blood cocktail for some demented human.

Something was wrong with the picture I was looking at. My mind began to race. The baby grinned toothlessly, and in that instant, I understood everything. The slit in my throat healed itself. The incessant feeling of being empty and lost receded.

That was my son in my tub. And that was my woman standing beside him.

In that same moment of illumination I felt the danger. It was in the room standing beside me, like an invisible shadow. But by the time I turned to look at her, my eyes were neutral, betraying nothing. We looked at each other.

I saw the fear, but I also saw the love in her eyes. How could I have missed it? I felt rage, murderous rage at what had been done to her, to us, but also wild and leaping joy that she loved me. That she was pure. She had acted as a mother. Only as a mother. I wanted to grab her and kiss her.

‘Does he cry a lot?’ I asked finally, my voice so smooth and normal even I was impressed.

‘No. Most nights he will sleep right through,’ she assured quickly.

I saw the relief in her face. I marveled at that. She must think me a fool. It would work in my favor.

‘Good,’ I said with a nod, and as if losing interest, I turned away and went out.

My legs took me to the dining room. I closed the door, leaned back against it, and closed my eyes. When I opened my eyes I knew what I must do. I knew, too that this apartment was no longer safe for my family, but moving them would alert him. The only thing in my favor was stealth. As long as he thought I didn’t know I could lay my plans. Otherwise, he would win. He had nothing to lose, and I everything. I picked up the phone and called a business associate. I talked business for twelve minutes. My voice betrayed nothing.

I opened my briefcase. Took some papers out. Looked them over carefully. Made notes on them. Left messages for Laura to action in the morning. But all the time the best and most efficient part of me was coldly, meticulously planning the future. Hours later, I went into the bedroom. I knew he was listening and watching. Let him listen. Let him watch. He would hear and see nothing different. I closed the door softly. She was already in bed, and by the sound of her even breathing, asleep.

Quietly, I stepped through the connecting door that had been left ajar. A sliver of light came in from the door leading into the corridor. I walked up to the cot and stood over him. I was surprised at the rush of pride that coursed through my body at the sight of his sleeping body. I stood in the dark and fought the intense longing to feel the texture of his skin. I clenched my fists.