The Book of You: A Novel (8 page)

I’m looking ahead and moving counterclockwise as fast as I can. I’m wondering if I am going to get out of this at all, but I can’t afford to think like that; I try to tell myself I’m overreacting. I’m only at eleven thirty, still five minutes’ walk from the black iron gates at six o’clock, but I retrace my steps along the loop the way I came. I’m not letting you get me anywhere near your car.

“You had your period last week, didn’t you?”

I can’t stop myself glancing up at you, briefly. You’re smiling like a smug detective with a valuable secret source. I don’t say,
How can you know that?
But I’m thinking it.

“I know you, Clarissa. I know you better than anyone knows you. That’s why you were in such a bad mood, isn’t it? That’s why you lied to me that you were sick. That’s why you ruined our evening at the restaurant. That’s why you stood me up at the theater. It was your hormones. I’m trying to forgive you for how you’ve been treating me. I’m trying to understand.”

Despite the salt on the road, I nearly lose my footing, and when you move toward me, I lurch out of your reach.

“I only wanted to help. You could have fallen and hurt yourself.”

And whose fault would that have been?

“You don’t need those leaflets from the stalker organizations, Clarissa. You know that’s not what this is.”

How can you possibly know about the leaflets? But again I manage to keep the words in. I see, too, how hopeless it would be to argue with you. You’ve actually said the name of the thing you are and you don’t even recognize yourself.

Three-quarters of female victims know their stalker.
The leaflets say that too. I wish I didn’t know you.

I continue to move along the road. I haven’t got far. Only back to eleven o’clock. I scan hopelessly for CCTV cameras, but there doesn’t seem to be a single one.

“You wanted me to find you here, didn’t you? You wanted me to follow you.”

I consider screaming, but there’s nobody around to hear and I’m not sure my voice will work.

“I like your new perfume, Clarissa.”

Surely it’s faded to nothing since I sprayed it this morning. I only used a little. Behind my ears. The nape of my neck. Just as my mother taught me.
Never overdo it,
she always says.

“Gardenia. You’re wearing it now, aren’t you?”

Since when are you so expert that you can identify perfumes?

“Come to my car and talk to me where it’s warm.”

Walk fast Walk fast Walk fast.

“I’ll put the heating on.”

Faster Faster Faster. Don’t slip Don’t slip Don’t slip.

“We’re going the wrong way.”

And with that you grab my hand. I feel it before I see it since I’m refusing to look at you as I continue toward the black iron gates.

“I tried to make you see sense, Clarissa, but you won’t.”

I try to snatch my hand away, but you grasp it more tightly, and that’s when I notice that you are wearing fitted leather gloves.

“We do it my way now.”

Somehow I register that I’ve never seen you in gloves before, and my stomach does a full tumble. I look around wildly, but the park is still deserted. I tell you to let go of me, you have no right, to let go of me at once, but nothing I say or do makes you release me.

“Please walk with me, Clarissa. We can talk. We need to talk.”

You’ve managed to pull me a few feet. The way I don’t want to go.

“How are your parents?”

You speak as if you’d met them, as if we were taking a happy stroll and chatting like close friends, as if you weren’t dragging me by force, as if you think you can make this normal by talking about normal things. If it weren’t so awful it would be comical.

“I didn’t realize they had a sea view.”

That’s when it hits me. That’s when I see how you have learned these things.

You must have crept up to my house early on Friday morning and stolen the black bag full of my rubbish, including my used sanitary towels.

Freaky creep.

You must have taken the contents of my recycling box, too—the return envelope with the stalker organization’s logo, the brown parcel paper with my parents’ return address and Brighton postcode, the receipt for the perfume.

The most ordinary things that people do all the time. Meeting a friend for dinner is no longer possible for me. Putting the rubbish out is something I can no longer take for granted. Do you want me to know it? Or are you so out of control you don’t see that you are showing your hand, alerting me to your covert intelligence tactics?

You’ve got me back to twelve o’clock.

“I just want to take you home, Clarissa,” you say.

“With me,” you say.

“Back to my place,” you say.

“Just to spend time with you,” you say.

“That’s the only thing I want,” you say, “the only thing I ever want.”

“I’ll cook you dinner,” you say.

“I know you’re not sleeping lately. You’ll sleep beautifully if you’re with me all night,” you say, and I realize you must have found the discarded container for the sleeping pills in my rubbish, too.

“The sun’s nearly gone. You’re not safe on your own in the park after dark,” you say, and I can’t help but be amazed that there isn’t even a hint of irony in your voice.

You’re towing me faster, clutching my hand and wrist in both of your hands, and you’ve got me to one o’clock.

Why didn’t you scream for help? Fight back?

My heart is thump-thump-thumping so furiously I don’t know how it manages to keep going, and my nose is running, and my scalp is tingling as if tiny electric shocks are falling on it from the sky. But I can’t let you get me into your car. At any cost I must stop that happening.

I make another violent effort to break free.

“You asked for it.” You yank my arm so hard I cry out.

You asked for it.

You smash me against you, knocking the wind out of me. You pin my arms behind my back with one of yours, hooking one of your legs behind me, too, to stop me struggling or moving. From afar, we must look like lovers.

“I like having you in my arms this way, Clarissa.”

I am entirely alone here. The leaflets are more useless than ever.

“This is all your fault, Clarissa.”

Your breath is in my face. It doesn’t smell like toothpaste this time. It’s the sour bacteria breath a person gets before a sore throat comes on and I start to gag. I try to turn my head, but you squeeze your other hand around the back of my neck so I can’t.

“You left me no choice, Clarissa.”

My hat has fallen off. Your lips are against my ear. You’re biting the lobe.

I consider letting myself go limp, thinking that then maybe you won’t be able to hold me up. Dragging a limp weight isn’t easy. Robert told me that this morning during one of the breaks. But I realize that even if Robert’s right, I don’t want to be on the ground. I don’t want to think about what you might do if I were on the ground. Staying on my feet is crucial.

“If you keep running away, if you keep avoiding me, what do you expect?” You pause for a few seconds before saying my name again, and this time it comes out like a groan.

Anyone could do violence, Clarissa. I promise you could, too, if you needed to.

I know that Robert is right, and I would do great violence to you if I could. But a physical fight is not going to get me out of this one. I can’t beat you that way. I can’t damage you. I can’t run faster than you. Right now you’re making sure that I can’t even move at all.

My only chance is with words. And tricks. And luck. I think I can pull off the first two, but the third is not in my control.

I say, “I’ll go with you.”

Your lips are on my forehead. They are wet.

I say, “I’ll come with you to your car, but please let go of me.”

Your lips are against mine. “Really?”

“Yes,” I say. “But you’re hurting me.”

“But you like that. I know your darkest secrets, Clarissa. I know your hidden talents.”

“I don’t like being hurt. I really don’t. Please stop.”

You run your tongue over my lips.

“You’re holding my neck too tight. It’s making it hard for me to breathe. It’s hard for me to talk.”

“Good.” But you loosen your grip. “Talking isn’t what I want anymore, Clarissa.”

Your tongue is in my mouth. My breath is coming in uneven rasps, very loud and fast. Too loud and fast.

Your hips are against mine, and you grind into me harder. My knees want to fold, but you’re clutching me with such force I cannot fall. “See what you do to me?” Your hand is on my breast. “We need to get you out of all these layers.” You say this as if we are lovers sharing a joke. “They’re in my way.”

“You don’t want to do this out here, do you?” My voice comes out in a tremble, and you must think that this is because of passion instead of fear and repulsion.

Your hand is in my hair now, pulling so that my eyes fill with tears as you tip my head and make me look up at you. “Can I trust you?”

“Yes.” You look uncertain, but I think you’re wavering. “We’re not going to get to your house any time soon if we stay like this.” I try to make my voice sound teasing, and I think I fail, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve said what you want to hear.

“I have plans for us tonight.” You pull my hair harder. “More of what I know you want.”

You’re still pinning my arms behind my back with one of yours. You slide your gloved hand beneath my coat and dress and press it between my legs. “This is what you want.” I sway, but do not try to stop you. You press harder. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tell me again.”

“Yes. It’s what I want.” And though my words come out like a sob you finally take away your hand and release my arms. I force myself to let them hang calmly at my sides, though what I want to do is brush them off, brush away your touch, and shove you as hard as I can.

“Good.” Good is clearly one of your favorite words. You put your hand on the small of my back. “You haven’t been making sense lately, Clarissa. Don’t you see?”

“Yes.”

“Take my hand.”

I take your hand.

“You need to let me think for both of us.”

“Yes.” I step back so our bodies are no longer in contact.

“You need to do what I tell you.” You tow me a few more feet.

“Yes.” And I see that yes is a magic word for you, too.

You’re moving me faster. “That’s the best thing.”

“Yes.” And as the word comes out, a man and his big black dog step into the park at eleven o’clock, from the path that leads down to the allotments.

I have been watching for this since you found me. I haven’t stopped looking even for an instant. It always seemed likely someone would come; I hadn’t stopped telling myself that the whole time; I couldn’t let myself stop believing that.

You follow my eyes to the pair, and you falter. My boot might be soft rubber, but I balance myself and then aim it as hard as I can at your shin.

You cry out at what you see as a betrayal as much as pain. “Bitch.” That word again. What you really think. “You lied to me.” You truly do look astonished.

I scream and shout, but “Help me” comes out as a feeble croak, as if I’m in one of those nightmares where my voice won’t work right.

“You were only pretending you wanted me.”

“Yes.” And I can’t help but feel pleasure in this yes even though you manage to haul me a few more feet, and I’m screaming at you to let go of me, shouting that you’re hurting me. I’m trying to dig the heels of my boots into the tarmac to slow us.

“I’ll never trust you again.”

I don’t know if the noises I’m making are loud enough, or if the man sees the struggle, or if he can somehow just tell that something’s not right, but the man and his dog are speeding up as they approach us and you release me so abruptly I seem to fly for a few feet before slamming onto the road.

“You’ve pushed me too far this time.”

I scramble up.

“That was your last chance.”

The man and his dog are closer still.

“I’ll punish you for this.”

I shout again at the man, and my voice works perfectly this time, cutting through the cold, clear air with cold, clear clarity. “Please come. Please help me.”

You walk away, toward your car at three o’clock, toward the school just beyond the park.

When the man and his dog reach me, you turn and take a few steps toward us again so that the dog starts to bark at you and you freeze. You have to shout over the dog to make your voice carry the ten feet between us.

You say to the man, “She’s my girlfriend. It’s just a lovers’ quarrel and she’s acting crazy and refusing to come to dinner like we arranged. You should mind your own business. Everybody has domestics.”

You say to me, “I’ll see you later, Clarissa. When you’ve calmed down.”

You say to the man, “Shut your fucking dog up.”

As you move away, the dog allows short gaps between his barks. When he seems certain you aren’t coming back, he is quiet.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say to the man, wiping my mouth with my coat sleeve. And then, beyond caring that I am asking a perfect stranger for a big favor, I say, “Can you please walk me home? It’s only ten minutes from here. I’m scared he’ll be waiting for me.”

The man picks up my mitten, which has fallen off. I hadn’t noticed. I run it over my forehead and lips and ear and neck, then shove it in my pocket. The man finds my hat, too, and I wipe more at all the parts of my skin that you have touched. I am weeping, and trying hard not to let myself dissolve into outright sobs.

The dog licks my hand, as if he wants to comfort me. I realize there is grit in my palm. The man says, “This is Bruce. He likes you,” and he rummages in his coat for a tissue and wordlessly hands it to me, and I dry the tears that seem to be freezing onto my cheeks and the snot that’s beginning to make my lips and skin crack.

The man and Bruce walk me home. The man is tall. Taller than you. He is thin. Thinner than you. Even beneath his layers of outdoor clothes I can see this. He is nice. A million times nicer than you. And normal, I think. A zillion times more normal than you. He is a nerdy, clever computer geek. A trillion times more interesting than you. His name is Ted, a name I like infinitely more than I like yours.