by Paul Burston
Tom nods, wishing he was anywhere but here. ‘So you said you wanted a word. Can I help you with something?’
Colin frowns. ‘You help me? Not unless you can have a word with the man upstairs, ask him to speed things up a bit. No, I’m more concerned about you.’
‘Me?’ Tom feels himself flush. ‘You needn’t concern yourself about me. I’m fine.’ He’s about to add, ‘and you don’t even know me’ but manages to hold his tongue. He’s still the outsider here. He doesn’t want to cause offence and have to live with unnecessary tension.
‘Are you?’ the old man asks, staring intently with his watery blue eyes. ‘Tell me to mind my own business, but I’ve lived a long time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s how to tell when someone isn’t happy. Looking at you, I see a man who isn’t happy.’
Sensing Tom’s obvious discomfort, he falters, then changes tack. ‘I know we’ve hardly spoken, and you probably think I’m a foolish old man. But I still have eyes and I still have ears.’ He grins. ‘Just about.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Tom replies, though he can think of a few things – ‘mind your own business’ being one.
‘I can see I’ve embarrassed you,’ Colin says. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the mark. My late partner was always telling me off for that.’
Partner? Tom thinks. ‘Was she?’
‘He,’ the old man corrects him. ‘And yes, he was.’
The telephone interview goes well until the journalist, Ruth Freeman, asks Tom to describe how he feels now the court case is behind him. A spike of anxiety shoots through him and suddenly he’s lost for words.
‘Fine,’ he says at last. ‘The troll got what she deserved.’
‘I mean, how do you feel within yourself,’ the journalist says. ‘Victims of crime often experience a kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. And stalking is a very intrusive crime. It’s deeply personal and it usually occurs over an extended period, which means it can have a profound effect on the victim.’
‘I see,’ Tom says, rising from his chair and walking over to the window. On a bench overlooking the beach he sees a man gazing out to sea, smoking. Right now he’d give anything for a cigarette. ‘I don’t see much point in dwelling on the past,’ he says. ‘I’m a great believer in moving forwards.’
‘Of course,’ Ruth Freeman replies. ‘But often these crimes can have lasting effects. I suppose what I’m really after is a sense of how this has impacted on you long term.’
‘Impacted on me in what way?’
‘Some of the people I’ve spoken to experience feelings of anxiety and symptoms of depression. Some have had flashbacks or panic attacks. Some people have difficulty sleeping or concentrating, or self-medicate with drink or drugs.’
‘None of the above,’ Tom says, more glibly than he intended. ‘Sorry, it sounds serious.’
There’s a pause before the journalist continues. ‘Well yes, it is. Other people have spoken of feelings of guilt, embarrassment, humiliation or self-blame. Often there’s a fear that the perpetrator will reoffend. As I’m sure you’re aware, many do. Over forty percent of people convicted of stalking go on to breach their restraining order. The effects on someone’s mental and physical health can be truly debilitating.’
‘I see,’ Tom says. ‘Well, I certainly don’t feel guilty or blame myself for what happened.’
‘Good. And there’s been no further contact from the perpetrator?’
He hesitates. Does that recent tweet count as contact? Or the apparent sighting at the Southbank? Or will he just sound mad? ‘No,’ he says. ‘No further contact.’
‘That’s good to hear. And what about the other symptoms I’ve described?’
‘I don’t really see myself as having symptoms,’ Tom replies, though he knows damn well he does. But it’s one thing admitting it to himself, quite another broadcasting it to readers of a national newspaper. How’s that supposed to help with feelings of embarrassment or humiliation? Sharing his humiliation publicly. Letting the whole world in on it. The last thing he wants is for that bloody woman to know she’s still affecting him. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction.
‘You were prescribed antidepressants, weren’t you?’ the journalist asks.
How does she know that? Tom wonders, then remembers it was discussed in court. The judge even referred to it in her summing up. ‘I was.’
‘How did that make you feel?’
‘I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy.’
‘Your GP must have thought you needed them.’
‘Obviously, or he wouldn’t have prescribed them.’
‘Do you remember what the symptoms were? How were you feeling at the time?’
‘I was having trouble sleeping. I went to my doctor to ask for sleeping pills. It was him who suggested antidepressants.’
‘So you were depressed.’
‘I was suffering from lack of sleep.’
Another pause, then Ruth Freeman says, ‘I was thinking about your first book, Boy Afraid.’
‘People really seemed to like it,’ Tom says, adopting his professionally modest tone, happy to be on more familiar ground. ‘Though inevitably some prefer the film version.’
‘I was thinking more about the title.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, in light of what happened, don’t you think it’s rather prophetic?’
After the interview, Tom finds it hard to settle. He didn’t give a good account of himself and he knows it. He was prickly and defensive. The journalist probably wondered why he agreed to talk to her in the first place. Hopefully she has another male interviewee lined up and won’t need to rely on his responses to provide the gender balance she was looking for. He wonders if he should call her back and ask, but decides against it. He’s wasted enough of her time already.
Checking his phone, he sees that it’s almost time for dinner, but he isn’t remotely hungry. His stomach is in knots. A glass of wine would help him unwind, but he questions the wisdom of drinking on an empty stomach. Besides, he doesn’t have any wine in, and the thought of venturing outside fills him with dread. Is this what he’s reduced to now? Some strange kind of agoraphobia? He’s surprised this wasn’t one of the symptoms discussed during his interview.
He wanders into the kitchen and fills a glass with water from the tap, gulping it down like he’s just returned from a run. He recalls a quote from somewhere – ‘The body knows things about which the mind is ignorant’ – and wonders what his body is trying to tell him. Is he thirsty? Dehydrated? Or is this its way of trying to drown the feeling of unease? He rinses the empty glass and places it on the draining board.
Returning to the living room, he sees his laptop on the table and reminds himself that there’s more to him than this. He’s not simply the victim of a crime. He’s achieved things his stalker can only dream of. He’s been published. He’s had a bestseller. And with his new book very nearly finished, he has the means and the opportunity to do it all again. As for motive, what better motive could there be than the need to prove the doubters wrong? Not to mention the thought of her reading his book, knowing he’s made good use of her. Whatever disruption and distress she may have caused him, there’s comfort in knowing that he’s turned their association to his advantage, whereas all she’s got out of it is a criminal record.
He sits at the computer and tries to write, but the words won’t flow. Staring blankly at the screen, he sees only her – her face, her Twitter profile, her snarky tweets and abusive comments, cluttering up his timeline. He’s about to close the laptop when a pinging sound alerts him to an email arriving in his mailbox. For one awful moment he imagines it’s her. She’s somehow aware that he’s been thinking about her and talking about her on the phone, and is emailing to taunt him. He’s doing it again – investing her with a power she doesn’t have. She’s just a sad woman with no life, hiding behind her computer screen.
The email isn’t from her. It’s from a
man claiming to be a private investigator. He introduces himself as David Rees and explains that he has a client who is being targeted by Evie Stokes.
‘I hope you don’t mind me contacting you,’ he writes. ‘I read about your case and I’m hoping you might be able to help. I’d rather not go into detail in an email, but if you could please call me on this number I’ll be happy to explain.’
Tom checks the email address against the company website and confirms that the man calling himself David Rees does indeed run a firm of private investigators in Swansea. Then he dials the number.
David Rees certainly sounds genuine. ‘Thanks for calling,’ he says. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
It’s a bit late for that, Tom thinks. As if he had any option but to call after receiving an email like that. ‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘How can I help?’
The investigator explains that his client was first befriended by Evie Stokes on Twitter around eighteen months ago. ‘Things were fine for the first six months. They exchanged pleasantries and even began emailing each other. Apparently, she seemed perfectly normal.’
‘Yes,’ says Tom. ‘She hides it well.’
‘Sorry, I thought you told the court you’d never met her?’
‘Just the once,’ Tom replies, kicking himself. ‘She came to a book signing.’
‘I see. Well, as I said, she seemed perfectly okay at first. Then, around a year ago, my client started to receive emails and tweets of an increasingly aggressive nature.’
Tom’s pulse quickens. ‘That sounds familiar.’
‘I thought it might. Stokes never mentioned you to my client, but she saw some of the more offensive tweets Stokes posted, and she backed off.’
‘So your client is a woman.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And can I ask if she’s a writer?’
‘She’s an artist. And between you and me, I’m not sure how reliable she is. She has a history of mental-health problems. She’s convinced herself that Stokes has planted some kind of spyware on her computer. She came to me because the police weren’t taking her complaint very seriously.’
‘So you think she might be paranoid? About the spyware?’
The investigator takes a sharp intake of breath. ‘We deal with a fair number of harassment cases. In my experience, the perpetrators tend to be rather inadequate individuals. I’ve yet to come across any criminal masterminds.’
‘And your client is in Swansea,’ Tom says, recalling the company address.
‘No, she lives just outside Cardiff.’
‘That’s close to where I grew up.’
‘Yes, I know.’
Tom’s mind races. ‘What’s her name? Perhaps I know her.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. But she assures me that she doesn’t know you. She’s a different age group, went to an all-girls school. So the case doesn’t appear to be related.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘I can’t. Not one hundred percent. But it seems unlikely.’
‘So where do I fit into all of this?’
‘I’m trying to build a clearer picture of Evie Stokes and work out how much of a danger she poses. I know she likes to play mind games. In your dealings with her, was there ever any threat of violence?’
Tom’s chest tightens. ‘You think she’s capable of violence?’
‘I honestly don’t know. Did you ever fear for your physical safety?’
‘Not really,’ Tom says.
He does now.
20
DAY 19 (711 DAYS REMAINING)
The circumstances surrounding my mother’s death are not something I like to think about very often. Not out of a misplaced sense of guilt or even a modicum of grief or pity. I felt none of those things. Any familial feelings I have are reserved for those deserving of my sympathy – namely, my father.
To this day, I’m not sure how much he knows about what happened. He’s never asked me and I’ve never volunteered any information that might incriminate him or tempt him to perjure himself, should I ever be found out. If he has his suspicions, he has always kept them to himself. It’s better for both of us that way.
The facts are as follows. She found me. I don’t know how, but she did. My first thought was that it was a terrible coincidence, but I refuse to believe in coincidences, certainly not where that scheming bitch is concerned. As Blondie once sang, ‘accidents never happen’. And as they also sang, ‘rip her to shreds’. Growing up, I must have played that last song a thousand times, the venom of it flooding my veins. It sounded like an exhortation, though I know Debbie Harry wasn’t singing about her mother. She was adopted as a child and grew up not knowing the woman who gave birth to her. I wish I’d been as lucky.
Picture this: it was early January. I’d gone to the Arndale Centre to browse the sales, and suddenly she appeared – my estranged mother, no longer out of the picture but in Manchester, in TK Maxx and in my face. I saw her before she saw me, her disembodied head bobbing above a clothes rail a few feet away. I barely recognised her at first. Her jaw was slacker than I remembered and her eyes less bright. Her hair had thinned, and her skin was as pale as parchment. Something told me she’d been drinking, which would explain her lack of focus and the air of irritation as she riffled through the sale items, failing to find what she was looking for. Then our eyes met across the cut-price clothing racks and I saw a flicker of recognition pass across her face.
It’s hard to say what I felt at that precise moment. Shock, I suppose, though this quickly gave way to that most basic of human instincts – fight or flight. I ducked behind a clothes rail hung with assorted unsold Christmassy tat and made my way hurriedly to the exit, hoping to lose her in the crowds. The sales had only just started, and the shop was heaving with bargain hunters hoping to come away with the best of the discounts. Nobody took any notice of me as I wormed my way towards the door. They were too busy fighting over clothes they would probably hate when they got them home and never wear.
More people milled around outside. I pushed my way through them towards the escalators, finally breathing a sigh of relief. I thought I’d lost her, when suddenly the crowds parted and there she was – not the woman I remembered from my childhood but a pale facsimile, thinner and frailer than I would ever have expected. She tried to smile, and even from a distance I could see that her teeth were discoloured. She looked old enough to be my grandmother.
Over the years, I’ve read a lot of self-help books and visited various online forums where survivors of childhood abuse share their stories and generally have a bit of a pity party. They all talk about the need to cut their abuser down to size. The theory goes that abusive parents are not the towering monsters we remember them as, but small, weak individuals who vent their frustrations on those they perceive to be smaller and weaker than themselves. Seeing them for what they really are is all part of one’s ‘recovery’, apparently.
Seeing my mother again after all these years, I didn’t need to shrink her down to size. The years and the lifestyle she’d chosen had already done that. Or perhaps she was ill, her body ravaged by cancer or some other wasting disease. I don’t know, and to be perfectly honest I don’t care. All I remember thinking is how small and feeble she looked, so light I could probably have picked her up and held her above my head, had the urge taken me. I could have thrown her down the nearest escalator or from the top of a high building and watched her puny body fall to the ground below.
That’s when the idea came to me. I knew this wasn’t the place for what I had in mind. There were too many people and too many cameras. I don’t just mean security cameras. There are companies who design elaborate CCTV systems especially for large shopping centres, not to monitor shoplifters but to measure the footfall at various entrances and exit points, all the better to sell advertising space and premium-priced retail units. Our shopping footprint is mapped out daily so some corporation or other can make even more money out of
our insatiable desire for conspicuous consumption.
I was wearing my winter coat, so I pulled up the hood and lowered my head to obscure my face. Then I took the escalator up to the third floor. As I reached the top, I glanced back to check that she was following me. Sure enough, she was. Stepping off the escalator, I kept my head down and made my way towards the door marked ‘Emergency Exit’. I knew there’d be far fewer cameras in the fire escape. Another quick glance back to confirm that she was still in pursuit, and I slipped through the door.
The top of the stairwell smelt faintly of piss, as if someone had lost control of their bladder before making it to the toilets, and the cleaners had neglected to do their job properly. Neglect can take many forms, as I’ve known since the day I was born. It also leaves its mark. The Human Stain isn’t simply the name of a best-selling novel by Philip Roth. The capacity for evil lurks in the hearts of many of us, and all actions have their consequences. It may take weeks, months or even years, but the stains we make catch up with us eventually. Just as my mother had finally caught up with me, so her sins were about to catch up with her. What a stain on humanity she was – and what a stain she would become.
There was no sound from below, no indication that anyone was making their way up the stairs. Why would they? The lifts from the car park served each floor of the building. Why would someone too lazy to walk to their local shopping centre suddenly decide to take the stairs? I checked for the nearest security camera, stood well out of its view, with my back pressed firmly against the wall, and pulled on my woollen gloves. My mother could come through the door at any moment, and I needed to be prepared.
Minutes passed. I looked at my watch. Where the hell was she? I was just about to lose hope, when the door swung open. She stepped out onto the landing in front of me, oblivious to the fact that, unlike Elvis, Evie hadn’t left the building but was standing right behind her.