by C. J. Cooke
Theo comes into the kitchen as I’m rinsing out my cup. I smile and say, ‘Morning,’ but he stiffens.
‘Morning,’ he mumbles under his breath. I watch, a little dumbstruck, as he pours water into the kettle and keeps his back to me. Why is he acting so strange, as if I’ve done something wrong?
He whistles to himself – an attempt to avoid conversation – and I set down my glass and walk outside. Luke’s folding up the tent and chatting with Michael, who looks like he’s dry retching. I approach them both, a little guarded. Luke sees me but carries on chatting with Michael. My heart sinks. Sometimes I feel like I’m a puppet and Luke’s the one pulling my strings. When he tells me he loves me I could melt in his arms. This love is so passionate that I’m bruised from it. Before we left for Chamonix, he held me so tightly that he left hickies on my arms and shoulders. He likes to leave them all over me like signatures. ‘Don’t you mean like a dog, leaving its mark?’ I laughed, and he pinned me down and sucked the skin on my hipbone until a black moon appeared. ‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s skin writing for “Luke was here”.’
But he leaves deeper, unseen bruises when he ignores me, or withdraws his affection. Those bruises are on my heart. It’s unsettling, how much I crave him. But something tells me that this isn’t how love should be. Not this pendulum between extremities. But then, I wouldn’t know. No one has ever loved me before. Not my mother. Certainly not my dad, whoever he was. None of the foster carers. Just Luke.
I approach him and give him a tight smile. He tilts his chin, acknowledging me like someone he vaguely knows, and I feel a shadow pass across my heart. Michael is rolling up his sleeping bag and there’s a foul smell in the air. He turns and grins at me and his smile is just enough to lift the shadow and make me feel like I’m whole again.
35
Helen
6th September 2017
Downstairs, Jeannie is bent over at the dining table sweeping up pieces of glass. I still feel a mild sting of guilt for destroying the print she bought me. She sees me, straightens.
‘Do you want some food?’ she asks.
I tell her perhaps later, and pull out a seat at the table. She tips the broken glass into the bin and joins me.
‘Is Reuben OK?’ she asks.
‘He said he’s been chatting with someone called Malfoy. He’s mentioned him before. He said he told Malfoy that we were in Belize.’
She studies my face. ‘Malfoy? Is this an actual person or a bot?’
‘He said it’s a friend on iPix. Have you heard of iPix?’
She thinks, shakes her head. ‘What is it? One of these new musical.ly things that all the kids are into now?’
‘Musical.ly? I don’t think so. We don’t let him have social media. I thought iPix was a drawing website but it seems to allow him to connect with other people. Can you look it up, see who he’s been talking to?’
She pulls out her phone, Googles it. The site is mostly videos of drawings and photographs. She types ‘Malfoy’ into the search bar but nothing comes up.
‘I think we’d need Reuben’s log-ins. A fourteen-year-old’s hardly going to be your first port of call for the car accident, though.’
‘Someone knew we were there, Jeannie. I know you think I’m paranoid but the simple fact is that the only way anyone knew where we were is because someone told them.’ I see the apps on her phone for Facebook and Twitter. ‘Did you tell anyone we were in Belize?’
She looks up. ‘Well, Shane, obviously. No one else.’
‘What about social media? Did you mention anything there?’
She brings up her Facebook page, bearing a profile picture taken by a professional photographer and headed by her Deed Poll name: Jean Kensington-Smith. One of many attempts to erase her humble origins as Jeannie Warren. The page shows a few cute photographs of her and Shane, some ‘sign this campaign’ messages and rants about the obscene amount of traffic wardens in Northumberland. Nothing about Belize.
‘You can see here that there is nothing about you and your family being on holiday,’ she says. ‘I know you hate Facebook so I never put anything about you or the kids on here.’
I tell her what the police had shared about the van driver, that his name was Jonas Matus. She stares at me for a long moment before typing his name into the search bar with her thumb.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘Searching for him.’
‘You can do that?’
She raises her eyebrows in a look of amused pity. I’d never have thought of searching social media accounts. Michael and I silently agreed we wouldn’t broadcast our identities online, and we had Lucy do all the online stuff for the bookshop so I’m completely out of touch with how these things work. I watch, a little mystified, as Jeannie brings up a list of people called ‘Jonas Matus’ on Facebook, then Twitter and Instagram. There are some Jonas Matuses in Australia, several in the UK, another in Israel.
‘He’s probably deleted his account,’ she says, frowning. ‘But you never know.’
I squint hard at the pictures, trying to match them to the mugshot DS Jahan showed me. I watch as she clicks on each profile and sends a ‘friend’ request.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘Can’t hurt, can it? Not illegal to friend people.’
With disappointment I notice that none of the people on the list are based in Belize. ‘Reuben told me what happened between Michael and Josh’s dad,’ I say, thinking back to what the detectives said about Ben Trevitt.
She holds my gaze, reads my mind. ‘Do you think he might be involved somehow?’
‘Is he on Facebook?’
She types ‘Benjamin Trevitt’ into the space bar and instantly his face pops up alongside Josh, an arm around his shoulders, Northumbrian landscape in the background, both grinning. Jeannie scrolls down his page. He isn’t an avid poster, but one status in particular grabs my attention. ‘CROSS ME AND GET WHAT’S COMING’ in bold white lettering against a black background. Jeannie scrolls down the comments beneath.
Sam N Sue Muir: ☹
Lewis Ure: Have it!
Philippa Crewe: Did someone cross you, m8?
Shayee Peeke: I heard bout this. Joshie’s birthday party!! Awful …
Lewis Ure: What happened?
Ben Trevitt: I’ll DM you.
‘When did he post that?’ I ask.
‘July twenty-fourth,’ Jeannie says.
‘That was just after the fight. We were in Mexico by then.’
‘Look,’ Jeannie says. She’s clicked on Ben’s friends list. There’s someone called ‘John Matos’ named there. I feel my heart pound in my ears.
‘Reuben said he told Josh that he was in Belize, too.’
‘That’s quite the coincidence,’ Jeannie says. ‘I can’t see where this John Matos guy is based, though. No picture, either. He must have his security settings set really high.’
I get up then, too anxious to sit still.
‘Where are you going?’ she says.
I step out of my slippers and into a pair of boots. ‘I’m going over to speak to the Trevitts,’ I say.
She watches me rummage for my car keys. ‘You’re not allowed to drive, Helen.’
‘Watch me.’
She sighs. ‘I’ll drive you.’
She calls Shane and asks him to come back and stay with Reuben while she drives me over to the Trevitts on Larkspur Lane. I’ve taken Reuben over there a few times before so I know where they live. A pretty stone cottage close to the school, surrounded by gardens, a large fir tree outside that they string with lights every Christmas. The perfect family home.
Jeannie parks a little way up the street and we make our way to the front door.
‘I don’t have a good feeling about this, Helen,’ she says, looking around. ‘Why exactly are we here again?’
My confidence is waning but I don’t want to admit this to Jeannie. ‘If Ben Trevitt has something to do with the crash, then I need to know
. This accusation against Michael is gaining traction and I have to slow it down.’
‘Mmm. So you want to go knocking on the door of someone who potentially tried to kill your whole family. Call me crazy but maybe just calling the police and telling them about it is the best way forward …’
‘I’m not going in there all guns blazing,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll play it cool. The police said the Trevitts pressed charges against Michael. I should have confronted them as soon as the fight happened. Nipped it in the bud.’
‘That’s what this is, is it? Nipping it in the bud?’
I get out of the car before I lose my nerve. A silver Porsche Cayenne is parked in the driveway, but there are no lights on in the front room. Jeannie texts Shane, mumbling her message aloud.
‘If you don’t hear from me I’ve been murdered at 13 Larkspur Lane …’
We ring the doorbell and wait for a few minutes. No answer.
‘Try the side entrance,’ Jeannie says.
We make our way to the right side of the house where, sure enough, there’s a smaller exterior door that seems well used, a kitchen visible through the window. I knock on the door – there’s no doorbell – and the door pushes back into the kitchen. I glance at Jeannie before pushing the door open further and calling, ‘Hello?’
No answer. I take another step inside, then another.
‘What are you doing?’ Jeannie hisses like I’ve lost my mind. ‘We can’t just go inside someone’s house.’
‘I’m just having a look …’
She gives me a wide-eyed look of warning, and I know I’m acting dramatically out of character. I would never normally be so bold as this, would never dream of doing anything illegal or offensive. It’s like I’m two people, one half watching on in curious bewilderment while the other is spurred on by a searing heat in my bones, an itch to find something that locates Michael. To prove he had nothing to do with the crash.
I move through the kitchen quickly, ignoring Jeannie’s loud, alarmed whispers, demanding that I stop.
The living room is dark and has a level of tidiness that makes me feel like a slob. A grand fireplace with an open fire, an ornate gold mirror and ornaments of hearts and stars. A quick glance tells me there’s nothing here of any relevance to what I’m searching for. I step into the next room where a glass dining table sits surrounded by metallic chairs. A large maple sideboard at the far side of the room. I open one of the drawers and find a silver laptop. I flip it open and it boots up. Jeannie takes a step closer to me, waves of fear radiating off her.
‘Helen, we’ve got to leave right now,’ she says, breathless. ‘Do you realise how much trouble you could get us into?’
But the temptation is too strong. I’m already clicking on the email icon, scouring through them as I had done Michael’s. I type the name ‘Jonas Matus’ into the space bar. Nothing comes up. I try Michael’s name, then ‘Belize’ and ‘John Matos.’
Nothing. Maybe I’m doing it wrong.
‘OK, you’ve checked, now let’s go,’ Jeannie says, fidgeting with nerves, but as I close up the laptop there’s a loud noise from the side door.
‘… I’m just grabbing my purse, give me one second,’ a woman’s voice shouts. Kate Trevitt. Inside. The. House.
Jeannie and I stare at each other for one terrifying, wild-eyed moment, before ducking down and crawling quickly under the dining table. Jeannie gets stuck as she tries to squeeze through the legs of a chair. I shove the chair to help her through but immediately a loud whine of metal against metal rings out across the room. The footsteps in the kitchen stop.
Jeannie signals at me not to move, and we both hold our breath – me under the table, Jeannie behind it, completely visible to anyone who might come into the room – as Kate’s heels click-click on the kitchen tiles towards us. I don’t dare breathe or move a muscle.
Through the legs of the table and chairs I see Kate’s leopard-print pumps as she walks quickly through the house, still speaking to someone behind her.
‘Hannah’s at Ava’s house, I told you,’ she says loudly in irritated tones, and I allow myself to exhale. She hasn’t seen us. The creak of a cupboard door in the hallway sounds. She begins to rifle through coats hung there. ‘I’ve got a meeting later,’ a man’s voice booms from the kitchen. I freeze. Ben Trevitt. They’re both here.
My heart beats in my mouth. We left the side door ajar, I’m sure of it. Did I leave the sideboard drawer open? I try to twist around from my position on all fours but I can’t see. If they find us here they’ll call the police, no question. Or something much, much worse. If Ben is guilty of arranging the crash, he won’t just phone the police. He’ll take revenge into his own hands.
‘We won’t take long,’ Kate shouts back, grabbing a large white handbag and glancing inside. ‘Where the hell did I put it?’
She comes into the room. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, waiting for the scream as she spies Jeannie behind the table. Her feet shuffle towards the table and there’s a jangling sound directly above my head. She’s reaching into the glass bowl in the centre of the dining table and plucks something out.
‘Check that she’s in before we head over there,’ Ben shouts from the kitchen. ‘You should have arranged it first.’
I force myself to open my eyes and watch her walk slowly back into the hallway, distracted by something. I don’t dare breathe.
From the hall I hear a bleeping sound – numbers being punched into Kate’s phone. A thought crosses my mind that it has all been a bluff, that she has spotted us and is calling the police. My stomach leaps. But a second later, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I almost jump out of my skin. With a trembling hand I reach to turn it off, and as I pull it out and find the ‘silent’ button I see ‘Josh’s mum’ in tall white letters on the phone’s screen.
I turn to Jeannie and we share a look of sharp despair. The kitchen door clicks shut and, without really knowing what I’m doing, I hit ‘answer’.
‘What are you doing?’ Jeannie mouths at me as I press the phone to my ear and mumble ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, is that Helen?’ Kate says, and in the background I hear the car door slam. The sound of tyres across the driveway. ‘It’s Kate Trevitt here. Look, we wanted to stop by for a chat, if you feel up to that. We were thinking of coming by in the next ten minutes?’
‘Sure,’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand. Then: ‘I’m just out at the moment but I’ll be home soon. Reuben’s in.’
‘Oh good. We have Josh with us so I’m sure those two will want to spend some time together. See you shortly.’
I hang up and take a hard gulp of air. Jeannie and I crawl out from under the table and make our way quickly towards the door. For one terrible moment I think it is locked, that we are trapped inside. I give a hard pull, then another, and with a swell of relief we are outside.
Inside Jeannie’s car we both look at each other and burst out laughing.
Then, falling serious: ‘You’ve got to promise me you will never do that again,’ Jeannie says, her voice trembling. ‘Never. You have officially just shortened my life by five years.’
We drive slowly through the streets to my house, where a Porsche Cayenne – silver – is parked outside. Ben and Kate are already here.
36
Helen
6th September 2017
We find them in the living room with Shane. Reuben sits at the kitchen table with Josh, both hunched over their iPads. Jeannie and Shane leave quietly while I busy myself with making a pot of tea. It’s an attempt to buy time in order to calm myself. Maybe they saw us in the house after all. Or perhaps they’ll spot Jeannie and me breaking in on a security camera. My hands shake as I stir the tea. What on earth was I thinking?
I take the rattling tray with cups, spoons and the teapot into the living room and set it on the coffee table. I can feel Ben’s eyes on me as I pour two cups of tea with shaking hands. He’s a reserved guy with ginger hair and glasses. Works in civil engineering. Kate’s
a slim, black-haired nutritionist. We’ve previously had conversations about our boys, about paediatricians and St Mary’s, the school Josh and Reuben both attend.
There’s a moment’s awkwardness as we sit in a triangle, the silence swollen with subtext. Kate and Ben share a long, uncomfortable look, as though neither knows how to begin. My stomach clenches with fear. I still don’t really know why they’re here. It’s about the fight, of course.
‘Are you here to tell me that you’ve pressed charges against Michael?’ I say in a small voice.
They share another look. ‘We had to press charges,’ Ben says, ‘but that’s not why we came.’
‘We heard about what happened in Belize,’ Kate says gently. ‘Not long after what happened at the shop, too. You’ve had such an awful time. We wanted to come by and see how you’re doing.’
I’m taken aback by this. As I stumble over my response I notice two scratches on Ben’s right cheekbone, just beneath the frame of his glasses. A remnant from where Michael punched him. His own eyes are drawn to the black brace on my wrist and the bruises on my face.
‘I was very sorry to hear about Saskia,’ Kate says. ‘How are you and Michael coping?’
‘Michael is missing,’ I blurt out. ‘I expect that’s who you came to see. He’s not here.’
‘Missing?’ She sounds genuinely puzzled, though I thought our situation was common knowledge in the village by now. ‘What do you mean, missing?’
I swallow hard, trying to read the tone of her voice. She sounds genuine, but I daren’t trust her.
‘It’s a long story,’ I say, wringing my hands and keeping my eyes on the coffee table. ‘But the police are still looking for him.’
They both look confused. ‘When did he go missing? We just heard there was some horrific crash overseas.’
I tell her about the hospital, about Sas, about the claim made against Michael by the van driver. I watch both of them carefully for their reaction, for any sign that they might not be telling the truth, but they seem genuinely shocked.