Sarah heard a knock and opened one eye.
“Yeah,” she said. Her throat was dry; painful. “Come in.”
The knock came again and she realised that it wasn't the door, but the wall.
She sat upright and pulled her jacket on, getting her arm caught in the sleeve. She had to get ready to run, but she was dizzy and could hardly stand.
Bang!
Bang!
Of the two possibilities for the violence - Simon or someone he had hoped to protect her from - she knew which she dreaded most; the thought of opening the door and seeing Simon rushing toward her made her feel sick.
At the window, she saw that an extension had been built at the back of the house. Its roof was beneath the window, so she ought to be able to climb across and lower herself down to the ground without much difficulty. A rickety fence, about six feet tall, separated the overgrown garden from the back street. She was fit. She could probably climb the fence, give or take a few splinters, but much rather that than the uncertain fate that waited if she stayed put. Working out her route, wondering if she could get to her car from there, she attempted to open the window, but it was locked.
Bang! Thud. And another thump, followed by the slap of flesh hitting the wall.
Fuck.
Maybe she should run for the stairs and head straight to the car. At the spare room door now, she listened, feeling for her keys. Where were they?
There was no sound from the hallway. Again, something struck the wall from the other side. She heard Geraldine yelp.
Fuck.
And again.
And again.
Rhythmic ...
…
Sarah slipped to her knees, weary now that she was no longer afraid, and she worked hard to stifle a fit of laughter.
Geraldine wailed again, the pillow or fist or ball-gag, whatever it was, slipping out her mouth, she supposed. Listening carefully, she could hear her husband grunting too, roughly in time to the sound of the headboard striking the wall.
Her chest ached and she noticed the beginnings of tears in her eyes, conveying relief and regret at once. She swatted them away and slapped her cheeks to get a hold of herself. She was surprised that she had fallen asleep, but any good it had done had been undone by her shock upon waking.
In the next room, they weren’t making love. They were fucking. Geraldine was the fuckee. The bed was slamming against the wall. Every now and then, there was the sharp snap of a heavy palm across buttocks. She heard Geraldine gasping for breath, never quite catching it.
It went on like this for a long time; long enough for Sarah to wish it would stop.
Hands over her ears, she couldn't help thinking of the time – the first and last – that she had heard her parents having sex. It was a school night and they had thought she was asleep, but she had been staring at the ceiling, fingers in her ears, in the room that was now Simon's, the walls too close on all sides. It wasn't sounds of pleasure she had blocked out, but desperation. Release.
She had heard her mother say 'no', but the noise continued, like a fist pounding on a door; the door finally giving way.
She couldn't recall them ever hugging each other again, no matter how bad things got. In fact, she couldn't remember them touching. They glared at each other, they passed the salt, they left each other curt messages on their remaining headed notepaper, they said goodnight.
She counted slowly to two hundred and tentatively removed her hands from her ears, just in time to hear Geraldine's husband come, long and loud, the sound of a beast, not a man; an ape that has just taken new territory perhaps. An ape that will be insufferable for days on the back of it.
There were no words, unless they were whispering. Except for the drone of electricity, the house was as silent as death. The air was still.
Her phone vibrated and she pounced on it. It was Simon again. A text this time.
Are you ok? I'm ok now. Where are you?
She was thinking about what this meant when she heard heavy footsteps heading across the landing. She held her breath and prayed that the man would not come in here for any reason. The footsteps went past her door and then there was the sound of the light pull being activated in the bathroom, followed by the clank of the toilet seat. He peed thunderously, like a racehorse Simon called it, directly into the water.
When he was done, she heard Geraldine crying. Her sobs dyed when the toilet flushed. The man returned to the bedroom. His voice. A rumble.
She began tapping out her reply to her brother, but paused with her finger over the send button. She didn't want to consider it, but perhaps Simon wasn't himself yet after all. It was possible that he was going through the motions to lure her home. There was something about a code or pattern that she was meant to follow. She hadn't memorised it; at the time, she had hoped that if she didn't entertain the notion of something like this happening, everything would be okay. She should have known that that wouldn't work. Dad had still left. And mum had still died.
She read the message again.
Are you ok? I'm ok now. Where are you?
It was short and to the point, the way she had imagined his messages would be. There was nothing special about it, but she was sure there should be. He hadn't used her name, neither Sarah nor Sally. Wouldn't he have used one or the other to signal his state of mind?
She imagined him walking home in the dark, stabbing out the message, an assassin with the advantage of knowing his target inside out.
Her hopes of a reunion receded, because she knew it was true. Simon wasn’t back yet. This message wasn't from him.
She cancelled her reply, feeling dejected, vulnerable and alone, missing Simon more than she could have known.
It was only then that she noticed she had missed four calls. All from him. A few minutes apart. Wasn't this the code? He would call a number of times in a row and ring off before she answered; then he would call her a final time, giving her enough time to pick up. Only she had slept through the whole thing, because she was exhausted and had set her phone to vibrate.
She was almost sure that this was the case and the thought of letting him down if he needed to talk to her was unbearable. She had done so many things wrong, she had to try to make up for it. She could at least let him know that she was safe. If there was a problem, she would move on. It was better than staying here, in limbo, with nothing but her thoughts for company, not knowing what was going to happen to her and not knowing if Simon was okay.
Fingers shaking with adrenaline, cold and relief, she set about typing her reply. When it was done she re-read it and hit send. The phone thought about it for a few seconds, during which she changed her mind several times, and then the handset buzzed.
Message sent.
That was that.
A reply came back within seconds. She realised that she had been holding her breath and sighed with relief when she opened up the message.
She knew it. Everything was going to be okay.