Feeding the Demons Read Free Page B

usually a good place to reach, but this was different. That little baby in the bath—poor crazed Adrian—the radiator. There was no room for a mistake. And yet there was no way to make it all right, either. I had to betray him.’
    Gerald drove over and picked her up. When they got home, Kit had to ring and explain what had happened to a furious client who’d waited in vain for an hour. For the moment, the anguish over Will was pushed to one side.
    Gerald cooked dinner for her, a touching gesture, Kit knew, even though the fish was overcooked into tasteless rubber and the events of the day had deprived her of appetite anyway. While she was spreading her fish fillet with tartare sauce, the phone rang. She and Gerald looked at each other, both remained sitting, waiting for the answering machine.
    ‘Hullo, Kit. It’s Angie McDonald.’ Kit picked up the phone. ‘Are you okay?’ Angie wanted to know.
    ‘I’m still rattled,’ said Kit. ‘But I’m eating something.’
    Angie paused as if not quite sure how to manage the next stage of the conversation.
    ‘I take it this is not only a social call,’ said Kit, her intuition on overdrive.
    ‘You’re dead right,’ said the other woman. ‘I want you to come and see something. But I want you to bring Gemma with you when you do.’
    ‘What is it?’ Kit asked, alarmed.
    ‘Adrian Adams’ flat,’ she said. ‘You feature rather largely in it.’
    Kit recalled what the disturbed young man had said earlier in the day. ‘I want to come and live with you,’ he’d said. ‘I want to be with you.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’ll pick you up in the morning,’ said Angie. ‘All will be revealed.’
    •
    The three women stepped into the flat, opened by Angie. The first thing Kit saw was a huge photograph of herself in rubber gloves, washing up, taken from somewhere outside her kitchen window, which faced the garden and the smaller of the streets flanking their corner block. The photo had a grainy quality to it, like a still from a European black and white movie. She frowned. ‘But I’ve never had that picture taken,’ she said stupidly. Then she looked around. Pictures of her covered the walls. She was depicted in almost every conceivable human activity: crossing roads with shopping bags, getting into or out of her car, hanging out her washing, gardening, walking in the street, eating at a restaurant with Gerald, talking to clients. There was even a misty long shot of herself in her underwear, in the bedroom, with the outline of Gerald behind her. Kit felt horrified, violated, frightened and bewildered.
    From somewhere, she heard her sister say, ‘Oh shit! What an arsehole. What a loony.’
    ‘Adrian Adams is a photographer,’ said Angie, ‘among other things. And you seem to be his favourite subject.’
    ‘But I had no idea,’ said Kit, looking around at the images of herself, most in black and white, some in colour. By some filmic contrivance, he’d conjured a picture of the two of them, hand in hand, with Kit seemingly looking lovingly up into Adrian’s gaunt face.
    ‘He’s used long-range cameras, Kit.’ Gemma studied them, moving from one to another. ‘He must have followed you all the time, watched you.’
    ‘But I had no idea,’ Kit repeated.
    Worse was to come in the bedroom. On the wall opposite the unmade bed was a huge pornographic image with Kit’s smiling face superimposed on another woman’s body, spreading legs and pubic folds, posed for Adrian Adams’ gaze. Angie opened and closed drawers, pulled clothes out of cupboards, finding more boxes and more images of Kit.
    ‘God,’ said Kit sitting down. ‘He asked me for a photo of myself and I declined. Ours was not a social relationship, I told him. I thought he understood.’ On the bedside table she noticed a small gold bangle, hers, that had inexplicably disappeared as things invariably do when people are living with an addict.
    ‘There’s my gold bangle,’ she said. ‘It