Gone Away

It was a long search through the boxes in the roof, but eventually I found a souvenir copy of the student union magazine complete with a picture of the bastard, shining and smug with long hair, a Frank Zappa moustache and a report of a speech of his as president.

I replied to the email: any idea how to contact good old Harry? The reply came before I'd finished making coffee. "Don't know, but I'll pass it on to others."

Two days later there was an answer, culled from someone who had spoken to Harry at a reunion. He worked in Marketing for a bank in the City. A quick internet search produced the address of the bank's head office in Moorgate.

It didn't need much planning. I caught the first train and was outside the bank by 7.30, prepared to spend the whole day tracking my prey. Already there were people arriving so I might have missed Harry, but I thought not. It was a busy place with one main entrance and a high proportion of female and young employees. It wasn't so difficult therefore to stand across the road, walk up and down, and scrutinise every thirty-five-plus male.

At eight fifty-five I spotted what looked like my target and crossed the road, confident I wouldn't be recognised. There was no facial hair, a receding hairline and heavy-rimmed glasses, a dark grey suit and polished brogues. Harry was speaking into his phone and looked at nobody as he pushed his way through the revolving door. I followed him inside as far as the security barrier where I paused. Harry flashed his pass and strode on; I asked the guard whether I was in the Bank of England. We had a problem understanding one another as his language wasn't English and by the time I withdrew, I had watched Harry take the lift to the higher reaches of the building.

I wasn't prepared to take chances. Now I'd had a close look at Sophie's lover I was confident of seeing him leave. I withdrew to a Starbucks across the road and prepared to wait all day. He might leave at lunchtime and not come back. Or he might take flexitime and leave mid-afternoon to hurry home to prepare a meal for Sophie. In the event it was six coffees and three walnut and apricot cakes later when Harry came out. He was in a hurry and I scrambled to keep up.

He walked to Bank and we took the Central Line tube to East Acton. Out in the street he walked for ten minutes to a modern flat in a residential cul de sac. He didn't challenge me, look round, or show the least interest when I followed through the entrance door behind him before it closed. There were a dozen flats in the building on four floors. He took the lift and I took the stairs, pausing on each floor to check whether the lift stopped. It wasn't difficult. I arrived on the top floor at the same time as the lift and waited in the stairwell, holding open the door an inch to watch Harry take out his key and unlatch his door.

"Well Harry, I'm your worst nightmare." I stood behind him, having pushed him forward into his flat as he opened the door. He turned swiftly, dropping his keys, and I pushed him again, anxious to keep my advantage as I wasn't sure who would prove the better fighter. He was four or five stones heavier, but it was mostly flab. All the same, his was a heavy build.

"Get out!" he muttered, collecting his thoughts. "Get out of here."

"Where is she Harry?" I had looked round swiftly for a sign of Sophie, but there was nothing.

"Where's who?" He was struggling with his pocket and pulled out his phone. I knocked it out of his hand and pushed him again. He retreated towards the kitchen.

"Don't go in the kitchen Harry. Where is she?"

"There's nobody here. What do you think you're doing? Get out of my home."

He was frightened, his curly black locks sticking out like brushes above his ears. I glanced round, still anxious to know whether Sophie was there. Through an open door I could see a bedroom with a double bed, but no evidence of a female occupant. I was suddenly afraid that I'd not get what I wanted. More terror was necessary. Harry had stopped retreating, watching warily, waiting his moment. I reached out and grabbed his neck, fingers in his collar. The touch of his sweaty bristled neck was a shock, but I took a firm grip, thumb round collar and tie so that when I twisted my hand the cloth was like a garrotte. He lifted his hands to his neck and I could see the fear now in his eyes and beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Please. Don't. What do you want?"

I twisted harder and Harry sank to his knees. After about a minute I let off the pressure a little.

"Don't be afraid Harry. Just tell me."

"I'll call the police if you threaten me."

"They know about you Harry. It was the police found you for me."

"I've not done anything."

"You're the prime suspect. A woman disappears. She's been groomed by some seedy banker. You can bet they're interested in you Harry. It's just that I wanted to speak to you first."

"Sophie's not here."

It was a shock, the admission that he knew her, even though I knew.

"Progress! You know where she is."

"She's never been here."

"I don't know that."

I twisted the tie recklessly and the collar of his shirt tore from the neck. "Tell me everything you know."

He was red-faced and gasping and put up his hand to indicate surrender.

"Then let go. I'll tell you what I know, but I've done nothing wrong."

I let him up and for a while he knelt on the floor, hands resting on a coffee table, collecting his breath, or his courage. He didn't look at me.

"Yes, we arranged to meet. For old time's sake. We met at a restaurant in Soho. I suppose we talked for a few hours, ate the meal, and she left."

"Not enough Harry. I know better than that."

"I know who you are. You're Neville." He'd recovered some confidence and it came out like childish bravado. "Susan spoke about you and I can see you're full of self-righteous anger. But you must accept -- we were together first. I'm the one who should feel aggrieved."

What did he mean? It was said with a frustrated, petulant expulsion of breath. Was he trying to claim that Sophie was his girlfriend before she was my wife? She'd never mentioned him, but..." There were too many lines of thought to explore now.

"If you're telling the truth Harry, you're the last person to have seen Sophie. Start worrying. She came to see you and hasn't been seen again. She's vanished."

"No."

"Did she spurn you? Did you murder her Harry?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. Really, I...I"

I pulled Harry to his feet and pushed him back against the wall. He was shaking, hardly able to stand. For that brief moment it felt right to give my feelings their freedom. I saw a new bottle of whisky standing on a sideboard beside a little wine rack. Lifting the bottle by the neck, I smashed the base on the edge of the large plasma television and turned back to Harry with the bottle held as a weapon. He collapsed at once. He knew better than me what I might do.

"She's working in Bloomsbury. I don't know where she's staying. We met a few times at my insistence. I'm on my own and I admit I wanted to get something going but it didn't work. She led me to expect more but she didn't want me. She's not been here; that's the truth. I've not touched her. I've never been to where she's staying. She won't meet me any more. It's a small publisher where she's working -- Skimpole and Stephen or something like that -- in Gordon Square. She's working as a proof reader."

"Okay Harry. Temporarily your life is spared. Enjoy your miserable evening." I threw the bottle so that it shattered against the mirror on the far wall of his sitting room, showering the place with glass. "Don't get up, I'll show myself out. As you say, I'm full of self-righteous anger and I may just feel I want to discharge some more of it. What better way than coming back to slap you around a bit more? You make the effort worthwhile."

Now he sensed his ordeal was over, the words began to flow. "You're scum, you're a sanctimonious thug, you have no right to behave like this, if Sophie ran away from you it's good riddance, you're not worthy of her, you screwed up her life, you're a bastard. "

Harry rose, a superior, disdainful look on his face as if to show that the damage I had caused was nothing to him. On impulse I caught his collar again and this time kneed him in the groin, collapsing him to the floor once more.

"That's for being a smug cheater. Let me know when you want some more," I said, but suddenly sober. Harry wasn't a worthy enemy by half.

The door was open in the flat below as I went down the stairs and an old woman peered out, scared by the noise.

"Your upstairs neighbour, Mr Hardiment, really shouldn't bring his tarts back to a respectable house like this. It's not fair on the other residents," I said as I passed.

By the time I shut the entrance door my satisfaction had turned to revulsion and despair - revulsion at the bully I'd unleashed, despair at the thought of Sophie. Did I believe Harry that nothing had happened between them? Clearly he'd said as little as he could get away with -- no mention of the email conversation or the arranged elopement. I struggled to treat the idea objectively -- it was so far from what I'd imagined. I had been prepared to find them together, snug in bed or sitting at the breakfast table sipping wine and such a scene would have be worthy of my violence. I'd had no relief or satisfaction from what I'd done. Whether or not they'd been to bed, an affair had been planned. And what had Harry meant by being the first? Back on the tube into the West End, I was fairly sure that Harry had been lying when he said that nothing had happened. More likely they had got together, did their best to flash up the old passion, and only then, in the scattered bedclothes, did they realise that the whole seedy adventure was ridiculous.

Did I want to find Sophie? The story I'd pieced together was pretty much complete and there was no need for another act. Sophie had known Harry before she met me. It took time to accept the fact, but I now did. Somehow - it didn't matter how - they had got in touch and he had convinced her she loved him still. It was an old story: youthful passions recaptured. First love. A nostalgia for past, happy times when life was simple and lacked the burdens of adulthood. Maybe they had been getting together for some while. Anyway, he must have convinced her she should leave me and live with him. Too ashamed to tell me of her betrayal, she eloped to start a new life with her lover. And playing to her script of deceit and betrayal, I had completed the drama, tracked down her lover and exacted my revenge. End of story. Let the lovers rot in hell.

Did Sophie want to be found so that we could have a final cathartic unreconciliation scene? A drama in which I would make myself thoroughly unpleasant and validate her choice in leaving me? It was conceivable. Hide and seek is a poor game unless you find the person hiding at the end. That night in my hotel in Earl's Court I worked out that I wanted to see her. If there was another act, it was the one in which the foolish wife confesses her sins and begs to be taken back. I decided I had to be there for the climax.

I called my work and took another day's leave so that I was outside the publisher's office in Bloomsbury at eight the following morning. There was nowhere for me to hide and I waited for an hour across the street, leaning against the railings and pretending to fiddle with my phone. There was no one about to take notice, but if there had, I looked as suspicious as a suicide bomber muttering religious verses and with an explosive belt bulging from underneath his tee shirt. And the fact -- a grimy, unshaven male, fuelled by despair, sexual jealousy and violent revenge, I was much the same as one.

The publishers was in the basement of a terrace house of the kind that gave the square its Georgian character. Of course if she and Harry were seeing one another he would have warned her of my visit. She would stay away from work, maybe slip off once more into the anonymous mass of Londoners. I was apprehensive and restless with unspent energy. If Harry had been around I'd have enjoyed kicking him a few more times just for the pleasure of relieving my feelings. After a while I realised I was wound up by the prospect of meeting Sophie.

It was late, after ten, and I was about to give up. I turned away from the publishers, looking for the nearest way to the tube, and stepped aside as she dashed past me and down the steps to the building. She didn't look up. Head down, bag clutched to her chest, she was in a hurry to get to work.

I'd seen Sophie and she was gone in one flash -- a glimpse of a timid creature lost in her trivial business was my reward for hours of waiting. I almost convinced myself I'd got what I'd come for. I'd seen my wife and I should have known it would give me no satisfaction. I could go home or consign myself to hours more waiting. Really, I didn't care for her enough. Not after what she'd done. But I thought hard and decided to wait. What was a few more hours out of five years wasted on a dead marriage?

I bought myself cheap binoculars in a little camera shop and retreated to the leafy park in the square, seated where I could keep a discreet and distant view of the door. She didn't leave for lunch. Nobody came in or out until after four. Then a group came out together and I almost missed Sophie. I ran to catch them up. She was among the group as they walked to Euston station and I tagged along a few steps behind. They split in the ticket hall and Sophie took the escalator to the Victoria Line.

There followed a farcical chase across the West End. She walked slowly and I was in a hurry -- down escalators, pressed to the end window of the carriage next to hers in the tube, watching her stare at nothing. It wasn't difficult to avoid being seen by her among the crowds and in any case she never looked round. It seemed Harry hadn't warned her I was close. We meandered through the crowds at Oxfords Circus to the bistro cafeteria in John Lewis via the handbags and haberdashery and shoes. I wondered if she was meeting someone. It was the sort of place to eat ice cream or cake with a female friend after work.

I joined the queue for coffee and watched her buy soup. Delaying over the cream cakes, I joined the payment queue a few places behind her. She never looked round and carried her tray to a bench seat by the window. She was tired and sat for a moment motionless while I stood behind her and calmed myself. I watched her butter her roll and stir her soup to cool it.

"Hello Sophie."

Overdramatic, perhaps, because she was startled and spilled her soup. It occurred to me that she might run away again, so I sat on the bench beside her, blocking her way out.

"Neville." She picked up the spoon and wiped the spilled soup from the handle. It was a controlled performance and I smiled, struck by the idea that she might slip to the floor and crawl under the table to get away from me. "How did you find me here? Why have you come?"

"No need to freak out Sophie. It's good to see you and I'll only disturb you for a moment. How did I find you? Is that really important?"

I made up the words as my prepared speech had vanished, my hand trembling with the effort of this confrontation. What was I so eager to tell her? I could not describe my anger and hurt. Perplexed, I rose and took the seat opposite her across the table so that I could see her face. If she wanted to run, I shouldn't stop her.

"I'm not here to make you come home."

"Drink your coffee Neville." She nudged the mug in my direction, her lips compressed. We looked at one another with a curiosity that had been missing for years. She'd cut her hair a little shorter and it made her look younger. I'd always told her I liked it long. And she had coloured her lips and eyelids with makeup. I searched for what I recognised, disturbed by reminders of how we had loved one another. My feelings betrayed me -- why care for a woman who had abandoned me? I felt my anger rising and fought to stay calm. Instead of shouting, I told her I was very well and that I was not there to accuse her of wickedness. She nodded as if she expected nothing more, but was silent.

"I've seen Harry." I paused and watched her response. She remained silent, but there was alarm in her eyes. "I suppose I'm looking for what I think is called closure -- a way of getting on with the rest of my life. You got yours by walking out and starting life again with your lover. But I didn't know. At first I thought you'd had an accident. It took a while to see the truth and I need to tie up the threads."

She held up her head and for the first time met my eyes with an honest look, as if unaware until that moment of the impact of her actions.

"It's not your fault. It's mine. If you've spoken to Harry you know that nothing happened. It was a mistake, but don't worry, I'm not asking you to take me back. I know that's not possible. I've shown myself to be untrustworthy and selfish. I'm unworthy of you."

She'd left me and it was a mistake? "But what did you have in mind? What did I do that made you run away from me?"

"You did nothing. I thought I'd made a mess of my life and decided I had to start again. I was unhappy and no good for you. I felt better planning my new life with Harry. It seemed to make sense of my life, once I'd accepted that I was a selfish, lying, cheating bitch. But that was only the truth. I never intended to hurt you. The way I saw it was that if I disappeared without a word you wouldn't find out what I'd done and you wouldn't feel betrayed. Day by day you'd forget about me and gradually you'd adjust. I understand if that makes you bitter, but I didn't mean it to."

I shrugged. It seemed self-pitying now to make the point of the conversation my pain. Her misery trumped mine and that wasn't any consolation.

She continued. "And I don't know what to say. I don't want to do any more harm. We were so comfortable together we barely spoke. We worked hard, but that was to escape the lack in the rest of our lives. Come on Neville, our marriage was nothing to be proud of."

"I was happy."

She flinched. "Harry listened to me and I thought we deserved to see what we could make of ourselves together. He deserved some time with me. One makes very few close friends in life and they have to be cherished. Why should I ignore the only person who could make me feel good? Come on, you must know that our relationship had hit the buffers."

"I cherished my marriage."

"I knew I was being selfish, putting my needs first, but why not? Why go through life and feel you've missed out? Yes, I left you thinking I'd make a new life with Harry. Yes, I was ashamed to confront you with what I was doing, so I crept away when you weren't home. I knew it was wrong but I still did it. And yes it was a mistake. I knew the instant I met Harry. I'd confused my dreams with reality. Harry was nothing more than the catalyst for my imagination. Don't humiliate me by saying I'm stupid."

She looked at me searchingly and I did my best to remain impassive. In fact I was numb -- relieved in a way to be with her and to have my questions answered, but unable to imagine picking up our lives together.

"You have somewhere nice to live?" I asked.

She laughed. "This is London. Only bankers live well. What I have is like a room in a student house. It's okay, makes me feel young. I'll see whether I can get a teaching job for next term. That should set me up financially. London is desperate for experienced teachers and I have nothing to do but throw myself into my work."

"Will your old school give you a reference?"

"I'll get a doctor's note to say I had a breakdown. Isn't that what happened?"