Blurred Lines: The most timely and gripping psychological thriller of 2020

by Hannah Begbie

  ‘I simply don’t know why they bother making you do the exams, love.’ Adam is talking in his camp-uncle voice now. ‘It’s so depressing for the other children.’

  ‘Children ought to be depressed,’ counters Maisie, switching into her eco-hippie mode. ‘Your generation has fried this planet, man.’

  ‘We didn’t know! Nobody knew! We thought ozone layer was very bad layer! We tried make hole in him!’

  They continue in this fashion for another minute. Becky is happy just to eat a cupcake and play audience, which is what they want from her. Eventually, when she can get a word in, she asks: ‘How was the sleepover?’

  ‘Absolutely fine, thanks.’ And when Maisie proffers nothing further, Becky finds herself sunk with disappointment, wanting her to talk about Jules in the way she knows Maisie spoke to Adam.

  ‘No gossip?’

  ‘Everything was supervised and very safe.’ I’m a nag, thinks Becky. I’m the not-fun parent with conditions and rules attached to everything. Of course she doesn’t want to talk to me about fun stuff.

  They sit down and cut the white iced celebration cake.

  ‘Tell me,’ says Maisie, ‘was it that flamenco top I lent you that got your deal done? Was it the nice little ruffle over a highlighted, sparkling décolletage that reeled in that actress and director? Were they like, that woman has got serious taste?’ She laughs, picks up her fork and stabs the cake. ‘Seriously though, massively pleased for you, Mum.’

  ‘Thanks, my darling.’

  Becky reminds herself that this is one of life’s joyful moments. She takes her phone out of her pocket and puts it face-down on the sideboard, vowing not to look at it again while she is with her family. One day soon she will delete her Instagram app. Delete him.

  ‘We’ve been talking about what to do for Dad’s birthday. We’ve been making lists. You’ll be proud.’

  ‘So what are you thinking?’ says Becky.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Adam takes a seat next to her. ‘Something low key in the evening. At a pub, maybe? The room on top of The Three Bells?’

  ‘It’s quite small.’

  ‘I dunno, I went to take a look at it with Kate the Sunday before last. I think it’ll be fine. Kate’s mate had her thirtieth there.’

  ‘Kate’s mate,’ says Maisie. ‘I’m a fren of Ben. I’m a pal of Hal.’

  Becky had seen their friend Kate for lunch since then, and Kate hadn’t said anything about it. Becky has no right to information from either of her friends, and more than that, any information proffered shouldn’t cause a dent beyond casual curiosity – and yet, something shifts and slips inside her, jarringly making space for new, as yet, unnamed possibilities.

  ‘This is your big 3-2,’ she says quickly. ‘Why don’t you get some of your friends together for a dinner party at your flat?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to cook on his own birthday, Mum,’ says Maisie.

  ‘Of course he does. He loves cooking.’

  ‘I might have the builders in doing some stuff, I don’t know, not sure yet,’ says Adam.

  ‘We’ll throw you a party, Dad,’ says Maisie, and gets up to leave.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Sorry, Mum. Gotta message Lily about some stuff,’ she says, loping out the door.

  Becky pours coffee, pressing her hand tight over its lid. She finds herself absorbed in the tiny bubbles sliding over the black water.

  ‘So, have you got any Danish blood?’ asks Adam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some boy’s been teasing Maisie about her height. I think he may have been trying to compliment her, but she’s still annoyed.’

  ‘Dad was tall. You’d have to ask him. Oh no you can’t: he fucked off to Malaga.’

  Adam laughs. There is an awkward pause, something charged in the air. ‘Maisie asked me to move in,’ he says.

  ‘Of course she did. She loves you.’

  ‘She likes it when we’re all together.’

  ‘You know it’s not that simple. Remember what happened at Christmas?’

  ‘It was a great Christmas.’

  ‘It really was,’ says Becky. ‘But the look on her face when the time came for you to go home.’

  ‘I don’t really understand. We could avoid all that if I moved in. I could sell my place and buy a townhouse. Two floors for living, one floor each for messing up our private lives. Maisie would love that. I could keep her company when you go on dates. You can criticize my pancakes. And anyway, I hate my flat.’

  ‘Your flat is great. People would die for that flat.’

  ‘I’ve grown out of it. Exposed brick just looks like someone couldn’t be arsed to plaster, and however high the central heating goes, it’s still too cold.’

  ‘You need to brighten it up a bit, is all. You need a few plants.’

  ‘Or some human beings.’

  ‘It would be really confusing for her.’

  ‘Why?’

  Becky cannot believe he is being so bold. He is suggesting something practical, as if that would be the sum total of it, and yet, what he’s talking about … If it went wrong, it would shatter them all.

  ‘Maisie needs stability,’ she says.

  ‘Maisie needs Nike volt trainers.’

  ‘Seriously, two people bringing home dates?’

  ‘You never have dates,’ he says.

  ‘That’s a whole other issue.’

  ‘It’d be simpler. She already grew up with us like this.’

  ‘Yes, but living apart.’

  ‘We already spend so much time together.’

  ‘Nobody’s taking that away from her. I just think we shouldn’t … get her hopes up.’

  ‘Hopes?’

  ‘Adam. Come on.’

  ‘What?’

  Becky turns away and begins to clear crumbs and stack plates.

  ‘So are you going to talk to me about last night?’ he says. ‘You sounded terrible.’

  ‘Same old shit. It’s worse when I get tired.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘That’s all. I’m a bit shattered. That’s all it is.’

  She can’t look at him. He knows her better than anyone else and for a moment she thinks about telling him everything that is inside her head, all the clashes and conflict and suspicions. But what exactly would she be saying? That she thinks something might be wrong? Something has always been wrong. She always thinks that. Where is the news?

  ‘I wish you’d let me help more,’ says Adam. ‘You’re getting really tired. You work too hard.’

  ‘I like working hard. And you’ve helped enough,’ she says. ‘I don’t want you to have to keep on popping up to pay the bills. She’s nearly sixteen, Adam. You should be, I don’t know … your job is done. Your monumental task! You know I’ll never be able to thank you.’

  He looks so sad. ‘It’s hardly a job, Beck. It was never a job. I love you guys.’

  ‘I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.’

  She gets up from her chair and throws her arms around his neck.

  When she feels him in her arms now, she feels the edges of a possibility. It’s not the first time she’s thought about it. If it was clear-cut between them, if they were just recent friends, if their past wasn’t so sticky and embedded with complication – then perhaps she’d see things clearer and be prepared to throw the dice on the non-precise nature of what is, or is not, between them.

  But she can’t afford for it not to work.

  So it mustn’t be tried.

  Adam’s phone beeps. He glances at the screen, ignores it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asks Becky idly. ‘Svetlana who only eats apple crumble? Beth who windsails in dresses? Or Alberta, who keeps getting blocked by Twitter?’

  ‘None of them,’ he laughs. ‘I’m off internet dating now.’ He pauses. ‘It’s just Kate.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What’s she saying?’

  ‘She’s just sending over s
ome times for the cinema tonight.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  Becky returns to her chair and they sit in silence. She is sure Adam can hear her heart racing, can read her thoughts like ticker tape across her head. She reaches for something, anything.

  ‘Have your birthday here,’ she says. ‘It’ll be nice. Have your birthday with us and your friends, here. Please.’

  Chapter 13

  Hounslow

  29 March 2004, onwards

  In the lightless hours before dawn, Janette goes to use the toilet for the fourth time. She has a kidney infection that she blames squarely on the stress of her daughter’s affliction. She pops her head around Becky’s bedroom door, as she has done since she was a child, to check on her. But she finds the room empty.

  She searches the other rooms in the house, looking behind curtains and under beds as if playing an age-old game of hide and seek, expecting to find Becky curled up with tea on a sofa or chair – somewhere. The pregnancy seems to have broken Becky’s usual patterns of sleep. She has been keeping odd hours, up through the night and sleeping the days away.

  Janette opens the back door and checks to see if Becky is sitting out there, under the cold spring stars, but the garden is black and empty; nobody comes to the call of her daughter’s name.

  Janette calls Adam before she calls the police, because lately Adam is the only friend Becky has allowed to visit her at home. Adam says he’ll go and look for her. She’s probably gone for a walk, is all.

  Janette is able to go back to bed, and begins to allow herself to be annoyed with Becky again. A teenage girl out walking the streets in the early hours! This is exactly the kind of muddle-headed not-thinking that led to her getting pregnant. She has no common sense! No bloody regard for other people, when it comes down to it. Janette’s kidneys ache. She vows to call the GP first thing; for antibiotics, yes, those are needed. And to ask – is it normal, sitting up all night? Not seeing anyone? Is she actually depressed and, if so, why can’t they just give her a pill for it? Will a pill harm the baby?

  Her husband is no use. There is a child growing inside his child, this bright girl who was meant to go on to do this and that, who has chosen instead to be no better than one of those blank-eyed girls with bad skin pushing their squealing brats out of their council estate blocks to collect their benefits. A nothing kind of person who’ll likely raise the same. It’s like he’s forgotten that he loves her, thinks Janette, sipping water as her husband snores beside her. How does that work? Because for all her anger – and there’s plenty of that – she couldn’t ever forget to love her own daughter. Is that why she’s still up? Isn’t that why her kidneys hurt?

  It is not hard for Adam to find Becky.

  She is sitting – bent over, holding her ankles, facing her feet – on the low scarlet step on the highest mustard platform of the topmost climbing frame in the local park. She snaps up, terrified, when Adam says her name from the top rung of the ladder.

  She is shivering in the cold night air. He gives her his jumper and his coat and his hat.

  He takes the seat next to her, his arm thrown over her shoulders to seal the warmth between the layers of clothes she now wears. It is then that he sees the half-full bottle of neat vodka at her feet.

  ‘That’s not ideal,’ he murmurs. ‘Given you’re keeping it.’

  ‘I’m not keeping it. I’m giving birth to it. Then someone else can take it.’

  ‘OK. But … you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘Too late for that.’ She glances back at the bottle with glazed eyes.

  ‘Maybe once is OK. I don’t know but … it’s probably OK.’

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s OK. Nothing is.’

  He looks out at the stars. ‘Well. Nice night for it.’

  ‘Did Mum tell you to come out?’

  ‘No, I felt like a dawn trip to the swings and you happened to be here. Which is nice for me.’ He doesn’t get a smile from her. ‘Yeah, she rang me.’

  ‘There’s no law against going out.’

  ‘True. It’s probably why she called me and not the police.’

  ‘She hates me so much.’

  ‘She rang me. Which means she was checking on you at five in the morning. That’s not someone who hates you.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. You can hate someone and still have to look after them. I bet there are psychopath murderers whose mums still turn up for prison visits.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’

  ‘I’m not going to know …’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Whether it turns out decent or … a criminal like its father.’

  ‘What?’ Adam has gone very still.

  ‘Someone raped me when I was passed out. That’s why I’m pregnant.’ She looks directly at him. The words feel numb and stripped to her, like they belong to somebody else. ‘I don’t remember any of it. It happened at that house party in Hampstead.’

  Adam says nothing, his eyes just visible in the near-dawn light, wide and horrified.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he says, finally.

  ‘I think it was Scott … it was Scott who raped me. He tried to do something earlier in the evening but I didn’t want to. We did a pill instead and …’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘I woke up and I’d been … I just don’t remember anything. Scott was the last person I was with, I think he was there when … But I don’t know.’ After a few minutes have passed and Adam hasn’t spoken, Becky says, ‘I don’t even know if it was definitely against my will because I can’t remember, I just can’t … Like, maybe I said yes?’ Another minute passes and Adam touches her hand gently, unfurling it from its tight grip around her own wrist, like she has been trying to conceal something there.

  The morning after the party, fingerprint bruises had come up on her wrist, gradually, like a series of little images appearing in a polaroid picture. The bruises have long since disappeared but she still finds herself holding a place that feels branded, laid claim to. Who had done it? Had she done it? Had she been the cause of her own pain?

  ‘Can you please just say something?’ She says eventually, turning to Adam.

  ‘Sorry.’ He is crying. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’

  She reaches for the bottle at her feet. ‘I shouldn’t have got so wasted. I was out of it. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t …’ She is gritting her teeth and trying not to cry when she hurls the bottle into a high arc. They both watch it smash across a steel upright of the junior swings.

  ‘I didn’t go to the police or anything,’ she says, a tear tracking her cheek. ‘I mean, what would I say? I got drunk and did drugs and blacked out. What are they going to do?’

  ‘Why didn’t you get rid of it?’ He catches himself. ‘Sorry. Fucking stupid question. Ignore me.’

  ‘I was six months when I went to the doctor. I can’t explain it totally. I didn’t want it to be real. But I can feel it kick.’ Now she begins to cry. ‘Before it was just like my period had gone but now I can actually feel it in me. I just want to die.’ A great wrenching groaning sound escapes her. It sounds alien. Her misery is absolute. After a moment, Adam puts his arm around her.

  ‘Do you think I’m disgusting?’ she asks him. He is shocked by the question. ‘It’s OK if you do. I just want to know.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re disgusting. I love you.’

  She cries harder at that, at the dreadful kindness of his lie.

  ‘I want to kill him,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she cries.

  ‘You’ll be OK,’ he says.

  ‘What if I love it though?’

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘I’m scared I’ll give birth and they’ll make me hold it and I won’t be able to get it away from me. I just want it to be over now. I want to die.’

  ‘Don’t. Please don’t say that.’ They are both crying now, holding each other. Months of despair flooding out of her. She knows how thick and toxic it i
s; she watches his skin fall away as it touches her.

  Later she sits on one of the swings, pushing off the asphalt with the toes of her shoes, while he collects the shards of broken glass from the vodka bottle. This is Adam, who drops empty crisp packets on the pavement. She realizes that he’s worried a kid will cut themselves on the broken glass.

  She has emptied out. Now she has a headache. The sun is not yet up but the sky is lightening. Her mum has called Adam again and they’ve spoken, Adam talking to her in calm, measured tones.

  ‘Do you think I said anything before it happened? What do you think actually happ—’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘In a way it doesn’t matter as much as what happens now.’

  ‘Do I go to the police?’

  ‘I think you have to figure out what is best for you. I mean, talking about killing yourself … a doctor, a …’

  ‘I don’t want to be in my body.’

  ‘OK, but you don’t want to die. This is … this is horrible now, but if you give it time, I know you don’t believe me, but you can still have an amazing life. You’re funny and you’re clever and you’re beautiful. You’re going to have great things happen. Not just this.’

  ‘I can’t do it. I can’t do any of it.’

  ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘Every day one of my parents asks me who the father is. My dad wants to know who’ll pay for it. My mum just— I don’t know, I think she just needs to know. And I just say, I’m not telling you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want them to look at me like, like that … like someone who was stupid enough …’

  Adam’s face stretches with effort and pain, his eyes fill with tears. ‘But Becky, none of this is your fault.’

  ‘I went to the party. I got drunk. I didn’t say anything. I did a million things that were my fault. And now look at me.’

  ‘It’s not like they’re going to throw you out. Are they?’

  ‘My dad … My dad thinks I just fucked anyone. He doesn’t say it but I know he thinks it. He thinks I don’t even know the father’s name, and that’s why I can’t say it. Because I’m that kind of a person. He looks at me like, like I’m a slut.’