another. My mind wouldn’t stop; I couldn’t make it slow down. I went over and over the letter in my mind.
“As I said before”: That was the funny thing. What was it? He would like to see inside me. As he had said before. But he hadn’t said it before, had he? I tried to reconstruct the first letter, the one I’d thrown away, in my mind. I could remember only fragments. But I would have remembered. What could that mean?
A thought stirred, something I wished I could ignore. I sat up, dry-mouthed, swung my legs out of bed, and went into the living room, where I dragged the cardboard box out from under the sofa. There were dozens of letters in there, some not even opened. This could take ages. I went back into the bedroom, pulled on my tatty old tracksuit; then I poured myself another horrible mug of the liqueur, lit a cigarette, and began.
I just needed to glance at each letter to make sure, although actually I could tell by the handwriting on the envelopes that they weren’t from him. My dear Zoe . . . Miss Haratounian. . .Go back to where you came from, bitch. . . . Have you found Jesus? . . . You smile, but your eyes look sad. . . . Good for you . . . If you would care to donate to our charity . . . I feel we have met somewhere. . . . If you’re into S&M . . . I’m writing this from prison. . . . I would like to offer you a word of hard-earned wisdom. . . .
And there it was. Suddenly I could hear my heart beating hard, too fast. My throat felt too narrow to breathe. The handwriting, black italic. I picked up the envelope, which hadn’t been opened. There was a stamp on this one; my address, post code in full. I took a violent swig from the mug, then slid a finger under the flap and tore open the envelope. The letter was short but to the point.
Dear Zoe, I want to see inside you, and then I want to kill you. There is nothing you can do to stop me. Not yet, though. I will write to you again.
I stared at the words until they blurred. My breath was coming in little ragged gasps. Raindrops burst against the windows, slow, heavy summer rain. I jumped to my feet and bumped the sofa over the floor, until it was rammed against the front door. I picked up the phone and dialed Fred’s number with shaky, inept fingers. It rang and rang.
“Yes.” His voice was thick with sleep.
“Fred, Fred, it’s Zoe.”
“Zoe? What time is it, for fuck’s sake?”
“What? I don’t know. Fred, I got another letter.”
“Jesus, Zoe, it’s three thirty.”
“He says he’s going to kill me.”
“Look . . .”
“Can you come round? I’m scared. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Zoe, listen.” I could hear him strike a match. “It’s all right.” His voice was gentle but insistent, as if he were talking to a small child who was worried about the dark. “You’re quite safe.” There was a pause. “Look, if you’re really scared, then call the police.”
“Please, Fred. Please.”
“I was asleep, Zoe.” His voice was cold now. “I suggest you try to sleep yourself.”
I gave up then.
“All right.”
“I’ll call you.”
“All right.”
I called the police. I got a man I’d never talked to before who took down all my details with painstaking slowness. I spelled my last name out twice, H for horse and A for apple. Every time I heard a sound, I stiffened and my heart raced. But of course no one could get in. Everything was locked and bolted.
“Hold on a minute, miss.”
I waited, smoked another cigarette. My mouth felt like the inside of an ashtray.
In the end he told me to come into the police station in the morning. I suppose I had wanted policemen to rush around and protect me and sort everything out, but this was all I was going to get. If anything, I was reassured by the tone of dullness and routine in his voice. Things like this happened all the time.
At some point, I fell asleep. When I woke it was nearly seven o’clock. I looked out the
“As I said before”: That was the funny thing. What was it? He would like to see inside me. As he had said before. But he hadn’t said it before, had he? I tried to reconstruct the first letter, the one I’d thrown away, in my mind. I could remember only fragments. But I would have remembered. What could that mean?
A thought stirred, something I wished I could ignore. I sat up, dry-mouthed, swung my legs out of bed, and went into the living room, where I dragged the cardboard box out from under the sofa. There were dozens of letters in there, some not even opened. This could take ages. I went back into the bedroom, pulled on my tatty old tracksuit; then I poured myself another horrible mug of the liqueur, lit a cigarette, and began.
I just needed to glance at each letter to make sure, although actually I could tell by the handwriting on the envelopes that they weren’t from him. My dear Zoe . . . Miss Haratounian. . .Go back to where you came from, bitch. . . . Have you found Jesus? . . . You smile, but your eyes look sad. . . . Good for you . . . If you would care to donate to our charity . . . I feel we have met somewhere. . . . If you’re into S&M . . . I’m writing this from prison. . . . I would like to offer you a word of hard-earned wisdom. . . .
And there it was. Suddenly I could hear my heart beating hard, too fast. My throat felt too narrow to breathe. The handwriting, black italic. I picked up the envelope, which hadn’t been opened. There was a stamp on this one; my address, post code in full. I took a violent swig from the mug, then slid a finger under the flap and tore open the envelope. The letter was short but to the point.
Dear Zoe, I want to see inside you, and then I want to kill you. There is nothing you can do to stop me. Not yet, though. I will write to you again.
I stared at the words until they blurred. My breath was coming in little ragged gasps. Raindrops burst against the windows, slow, heavy summer rain. I jumped to my feet and bumped the sofa over the floor, until it was rammed against the front door. I picked up the phone and dialed Fred’s number with shaky, inept fingers. It rang and rang.
“Yes.” His voice was thick with sleep.
“Fred, Fred, it’s Zoe.”
“Zoe? What time is it, for fuck’s sake?”
“What? I don’t know. Fred, I got another letter.”
“Jesus, Zoe, it’s three thirty.”
“He says he’s going to kill me.”
“Look . . .”
“Can you come round? I’m scared. I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Zoe, listen.” I could hear him strike a match. “It’s all right.” His voice was gentle but insistent, as if he were talking to a small child who was worried about the dark. “You’re quite safe.” There was a pause. “Look, if you’re really scared, then call the police.”
“Please, Fred. Please.”
“I was asleep, Zoe.” His voice was cold now. “I suggest you try to sleep yourself.”
I gave up then.
“All right.”
“I’ll call you.”
“All right.”
I called the police. I got a man I’d never talked to before who took down all my details with painstaking slowness. I spelled my last name out twice, H for horse and A for apple. Every time I heard a sound, I stiffened and my heart raced. But of course no one could get in. Everything was locked and bolted.
“Hold on a minute, miss.”
I waited, smoked another cigarette. My mouth felt like the inside of an ashtray.
In the end he told me to come into the police station in the morning. I suppose I had wanted policemen to rush around and protect me and sort everything out, but this was all I was going to get. If anything, I was reassured by the tone of dullness and routine in his voice. Things like this happened all the time.
At some point, I fell asleep. When I woke it was nearly seven o’clock. I looked out the
Similar Books
