Page 69 of You Can't Hurt Me

The nonconscious you is the powerhouse of every interaction, every reflex and desire, even sexual attraction. Crack that and you can control any aspect of human behavior.

On my morning runs, I find myself jogging back towards the river, drawn to somewhere my mind won’t acknowledge quite yet. The sky is a seamless blue, my breath cold enough to snap. In my head, I run a defense trial where I am exonerated and Nate is guilty as charged.

I should turn back and head for home but instead I’ve slipped down the underpass, below the rumble of the Great West Road. I emerge at Furnival Gardens and, a few minutes later, I find myself at the Upper Mall close to Algos House.

Outside I allow myself a sideways glance up at the Georgian windows, the tendrils of lilac wisteria creeping through the black railings. I think of the last time I was here. Nate’s voice above the hiss of rain, urging me to call a cab from his house.

I turn on my heels. I think I’ve seen enough. But something catches my eye. The flash of white board, an estate agent’s sign. Sold.

He must have been much further ahead with the sale than he’d implied that night, his plans way more mapped out than he let on. Another deception to add to the pile.

As soon as I’m home, I scan Rightmove, greedy for details of Algos House. “Immaculate and stunning architectural home close to the park with easy access to central London. Generous garden and studio with glorious views across the river.”

I flash through interior after interior, the double-height atrium, the glass gallery, gleaming kitchen island and walk-in wardrobe. The overall impression is vaguely disappointing. Even through the estate agent’s wide-angled lens, the rooms appear smaller, less opulent and characterful than I imagined, like a series of sterile stage sets.

I run back home, carry on editing the book except that every word I read feels inauthentic. Kath’s words ring in my ears.You made herup. There’s nothing of the sister I knew in there at all.

As all these fragments merge to form a bigger picture, deep unease seeps into my bones. Nate despises me now, he made that much clear. I’m also the only person who shares his secret: that he hurt Eva and lied to the inquest about his whereabouts. Anger turns to anxiety and finally fear.

Late one afternoon, when I am in the Google doc I used to share with Nate, I see his cursor hovering on the page. I scroll down swiftly to another section of the manuscript until I see it follow me there too. He hangs back and tweaks a paragraph I’ve been working on. I wonder if I am the first female to feel harassed in the context of a shared document.

It happens again the next day, his digital presence looming there like a veiled threat, name bolded up in blue. He is watching each word I write.

STALKER.

STALKER.

STALKER.

I copy and paste the word over and over, only to watch each one being deleted.

YOU’RE SO VAIN, YOU PROBABLY THINK THIS BOOK IS ABOUT YOU.

His cursor twitches there, before eating up the words.

I copy what I’m working on into a separate document to avoid his scrutiny. As I scroll through the chapters, it is like wandering into once-familiar rooms yet all the furniture has moved around, the decor is different. My phrases are vanishing, they’ve been ghosted away. It occurs to me that, finally, he has erased my voice—and Eva’s.

Early on Wednesday morning it happens. I am tinkering on the final chapter when I realize I’m there. I’ve touched the finish line. I write a short covering letter to Priya and there’s nothing else to do but press Send.

I have read about this euphoric milestone many times, the authors who celebrate with a glass of champagne or a cigarette. I have yearned for it, the giddy euphoria of the final period. Yet now I’m finally here, the moment seems tainted.

I declutter my workspace, bag up the notepads and the transcript and dump it all in the bottom drawer, stare transfixed at the space above my desk. One more thing on my list. I call a locksmith to change the locks. No more surprise visits from Tony.

Later, I am on the sofa watching TV when there’s a buzz at the communal door. I don’t move but someone on the ground floor lets them in. Steps echo from the stairs and my heart flip-flops. A knock now, more urgent this time, on my front door. I run to the hallway and press the intercom.

“Anna? It’s me, Amira,” comes a voice, out of breath, the south London vowels warm and familiar. “Sorry, I haven’t got my key.”

I exhale, relieved, and help to carry her bags in from the landing. We hug briefly, the scent of travel clings to her; of international departure lounges and fast food and taxicabs.

“I thought you weren’t back until Friday,” I say as she sinks onto the sofa, kicks off her trainers and rubs her toes.

“I thought so too, but surely you’ve heard about Jess?” She looks astounded, as if it’s global breaking news I somehow failed to pick up on.

I shake my head, confused.

“Where have you been?”

“Here. Chained to my desk, out of the office loop. Something called finishing a book?”

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