White Bodies: An Addictive Psychological Thriller

by Jane Robins

  The bookshop is a five-minute walk away, on Walm Lane, just past the Samaritans charity shop. It’s Daphne’s baby—that’s how she describes it—and is called Saskatchewan Books, which looks peculiar in the middle of Willesden Green, which is international but more in a halal-meat way. But Saskatchewan is Daphne’s birthplace, so that’s a good reason, and she likes to say it’s a suitable name because the shop is spacious and empty. Not empty of books, but of customers. I don’t mind. I like the quiet. I work there three days a week, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

  I tell Daphne that I’ll be going out to lunch, instead of my normal routine of a cheese sandwich in the stockroom.

  “Lunch out, sweetness? That’s nice. Is it a special day . . . ? It’s not your birthday, is it?”

  I get the truth out and done with. “No, I’m meeting my sister.”

  “Tilda? Coming here?” Her tone has flipped from soft to sharp.

  She gets up, walks around awkwardly, tidying the shelves, rearranging the nonfiction table. Then: “What’s happening with your sister? She was so successful, with all that TV, then Rebecca—but it’s been ages, hasn’t it, since she’s been in anything? A year or something?”

  The shop fills with silence. Eventually I reply with: “She’s fine.”

  “It’s absolutely right that you should be discreet. But I’m thinking an autobiography would sell well. I could see that being snapped up. And it would get her face back in front of the public.”

  She carries on tidying, then settles at her desk near the window display, lining up her purple Moleskine notebook and Virginia Woolf coffee mug and opening her laptop. She looks like a giraffe-woman she’s so long and thin, her legs stretched out under the desk, her feet poking out. It’s always the same—she inhales on her electric cigarette with a little snorting sound, then starts bashing the keyboard for a novel called The Lady Connoisseurs of Crime, which is a sequel to The Primrose Hill Murders and A Death Before Breakfast. She calls the books her “cozy murders,” and they have quite a following, which subsidizes the shop. Daphne says that other people have a business to support their vanity publishing—but she writes books in order to do vanity business. I’d say she spends half her time on her novels and the other half on internet-dating sites in her doomed quest to find a boyfriend.

  My job is to look after any customers who come in—like Mr. Ahmed who buys one hardback P. G. Wodehouse a month for the collection he’s building, and wants to put in his will for his son. Also Wilf Baker, who works in the real estate office across the road and likes thrillers, especially Harlan Coben books. When Wilf comes into the shop he always looks out of place; he’s big, with ginger hair, and he walks with a long untidy stride, and he always looks like he wants to make a big announcement but he’s not sure what about. Daphne calls him “the sack of potatoes” and a klutz, but I can tell she likes him. She always mentions it if he hasn’t been in for a few days.

  When the shop’s empty I take care of orders and returns and bring Daphne cups of coffee, which she likes strong and black, no sugar. Sometimes, she gets up and paces around, thinking about what she is going to write next, and I like the sounds she makes clacking her heels on the wooden floor. Then she’ll stop suddenly and say something like, “Hell’s teeth, I haven’t got a clue. Fancy an iced bun?” And I’ll go along to the baker’s. This morning, though, she stays sitting, legs stretched out, gazing at her screen like she wishes the novel would write itself. Daphne is about fifty, and wears miniskirts and a leather biker jacket, so I guess she really is mutton dressed as lamb. Which suits her, by the way.

  Maybe it’s because I know Tilda is visiting that time goes by so slowly. Only half a dozen customers come in, and three of those don’t buy anything, so they aren’t technically customers at all, and one buys only a Good Luck in Your New Job card from the display stand by the counter. Customers walk past Daphne like she isn’t there, which, given her length and her obviousness, makes me think they would walk past a baboon. Daphne’s pleased, though, that she isn’t interrupted. She likes the combination of activity and anonymity and feels that she has purchased her own personal coffee shop. Nicer than Starbucks because of the books, and there are no crumbs on the floor.

  Just before one, Wilf comes in to tell me he’s finished Tell No One and to ask if I have any more recommendations. Daphne calls out: “You again,” and he just shrugs and says he’s a fast reader. Then he tells me that he’d like to branch out, and asks if I’ve read John Grisham. He’s kind of looking at me intensely and then inspecting my hair, then looking away unhappily. I feel myself blushing and looking at his chest rather than his face, and I feel horribly embarrassed. But I try to act normal, saying he should try some Scandinavian writers. While I’m telling him about The Artist, our doorbell jangles and Tilda comes in, wearing a long tweed coat, a man’s coat I think, because it’s too big on the shoulders, and a man’s trilby hat. She would have looked ludicrous in any circumstances, but in the summer heat she looks mad. Because Wilf and I are busy with our conversation, she starts browsing the books, picking up something in the self-help section, though she really isn’t an Eat Pray Love sort of person. As I feared, Daphne stares at her intensely, like a dog that’s spotted a rabbit, then she gets up and says, “Hi, I’m Daphne, I own the bookshop.”

  Tilda doesn’t smile, but she holds out her hand politely and says hello. Daphne starts talking too much, in a high voice, telling her how I’m such a great employee, always on time, committed to the book trade, and she adds, “I’m very fond of Callie, very serious about making sure she’s okay and looked after.” I hate this effect Tilda has on people, making them fall over themselves to impress her or make themselves likable, even someone like Daphne, who’s a confident person. And it’s typical to talk about me in a patronizing voice, and to assume that Tilda is the older sister. But we are twins. And, if only they knew, I’m the one looking after her.

  “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  I’m aware that I’ve left Wilf without a decision on his next book, and I mutter a “Sorry” as I pick up my bag, registering a forlorn look on his face that is somehow hound-like, like a big scruffy dog that’s been told he’s not going for a walk. “Daphne can sort you out,” I tell him, thinking that, as soon as we leave, Daphne will start talking about Tilda, about how she was so fabulous in some TV drama and how she looks so strange now. And how she hasn’t been in anything recently. I just know it.

  I take Tilda’s arm and steer her swiftly along the street to the Albany pub. It’s only a couple of minutes away, and there’s nothing fancy about it—a plain wooden floor, rickety tables that wobble until you put a beer mat under one of the legs. We find an empty table in a corner. “This is on me,” I say. “What would you like?”

  She looks over at the bar. “God, I don’t know.” Her voice sounds weary, like the pub and its food has failed to meet her high standards. “I’ll have one of those blueberry muffins and a glass of white wine.”

  An odd choice for lunch, but I don’t question it, and I order myself a cheese-and-Marmite toasted sandwich and a Coke, then walk back to the table, carefully balancing everything on a tray, while Tilda sits leaning on one elbow and looking around nervously. She has put her man’s hat on a spare chair, but she still has her coat on and is shivering as she runs her hands through her hair to mush it up, and I notice how spindly her wrists are, how her skin is dull and pale. I want to force up the sleeves to see if she has marks on her arms. But I don’t, and I can see that, despite everything, the thin face and cracked lips, she still looks starry. She has these wide-apart blue eyes that people like and high cheekbones. If you didn’t know her like I do, you might think her paleness was sort of chic or romantic.

  “So, Callie, how’s everything?”

  “It’s been two months.”

  “I know. I’ve just been so hunkered down. Reading crappy scripts. You’ve no idea the pile of shit that comes my way, and I have to wade through it all metaphorically barefo
ot. It’s tiring.”

  I give her a skeptical look. “How’s Felix?”

  She stares at her muffin, and when her answer comes it’s in a rat-tat-tat way, like she’s typing at me.

  “He’s fine. He got some humungous bonus at work, and we’re thinking of going away to celebrate. I’m desperate for sunshine. We might go to Martinique . . . where no one knows me.”

  I have no idea where Martinique even is, and I note that London is in the middle of a heat wave. But I don’t want to be diverted, and I say, “How come you never invite me to your flat anymore? It’s Felix, isn’t it? He doesn’t like you seeing me.” So much for subtle.

  She looks at me now, and changes her voice into a kind of pleading:

  “Really . . . Nothing personal. He’s forgiven your crazy outburst—but he thinks it was damaging for him and me. Really, it’s just that he works so fucking hard that he’s got no energy left for socializing. We haven’t done much lately—no parties or concerts or anything. Actually we’ve become really boring. Just work, sleep, work, sleep.”

  Except in her case, she isn’t working.

  “Does he know you’re seeing me today?”

  Now she’s pulling her muffin into small pieces, moving them round the plate with the tip of her finger.

  “No, I didn’t tell him I was going to see you. . . . And, to be honest, why should I? Don’t look like that, Callie, I just prefer an easy life.”

  Her phone is on the table, and at this moment—on cue—it rings. She presses a button to ignore the call, but I know who it is, checking up on her. I want to come to the point, but I’m nervous, thinking I’ve already gone too far, probing her on Felix. If I’m not careful, it’ll be another two months before I see her again . . . but I can’t stop myself:

  “I’m worried. . . . You’re so isolated these days. And why aren’t you working? Didn’t the BBC want you for something in My Cousin Rachel?”

  She laughs. “Yes, Rachel. The lead role. But it’s nothing sinister. I’m just taking my time over scripts, not accepting anything that isn’t right. And with all these parts, there’s often a lot of talk—oh, you’d be so perfect as this or that, and then it doesn’t come to anything. And, yes, Felix helps me with scripts, and he’s great . . .”

  “Only, with Felix in charge, no script will ever be good enough.”

  “Callie! This is why it’s not so great seeing you. You have to accept Felix; he’s part of my life and will stay part of my life. For the long term. Understand?”

  Now, despite the hot day, I feel as shivery as Tilda seems to be. The long term fills me with dread. I spend some time chewing on my toasted sandwich, considering how I might sound supportive and, importantly, reasonable.

  “I realize you’re not telling me everything,” I begin, in a measured, even tone, “and I just want you to know that I understand men like Felix, and I know that they can be dangerous. So, if you ever need me, I’m here. I’ll look after you—”

  “Oh, I can’t stand this! Felix is wonderful, adorable, not dangerous. I don’t need or want you to look after me. Can you get that into your tiny pealike brain? If you can’t, I won’t spend time with you. You’re way too toxic. . . .” She’s downing the last of her wine, grabbing her hat, and I panic:

  “Please, please, Tilda, face facts. Felix has poisoned you against me. And he’s violent. You have to leave him!”

  She looks right into my eyes and I think for a second that she’s going to cry, then she shakes her head slightly before checking the time on her phone and saying that she doesn’t want coffee and needs to go home; so we collect our bags and leave. Tilda, I notice, has left her muffin in a state of devastation all over the plate. As she walks to the door, I gather up some crumbs and put them in my pocket.

  At the tube she puts her hat on and some big sunglasses, and as we part she calms down and says: “Please don’t get carried away. It’s all in your head, you know.”

  I get back to the bookshop and Daphne says, “That was short. Nice lunch?” Then we resume our normal day, except for me it’s far from normal. I’m churned up inside, terrified that by arguing with Tilda I’ve driven home the wedge between us and made her situation a whole lot worse. In one of the many quiet moments I eat the crumbs from her muffin.

  • • •

  When I get home I make supper, a microwave bacon risotto, and write up my meeting with Tilda for the dossier, letting out all my frustration and anxiety. I’m not ready to talk to Scarlet and Belle about this, but I’m looking forward to hearing their news when I log into the Zone at seven thirty. To prepare myself I go online and check up on the Chloey Percival case, but nothing much has happened. She’s still in intensive care because of the stabbing, and Travis Scott’s still missing. The police say he mustn’t be approached by members of the public and that he has a distinctive tattoo that crisscrosses his neck—in the picture it looks like his head is held up by barbed wire. The only new details are totally predictable. Travis Scott was identified as Chloey’s ex-boyfriend, and she had dumped him when he became too “possessive.” Travis had never had a girlfriend as pretty as Chloey, and his Facebook page had been plastered with pictures of the two of them—sharing a bag of chips, up to their waists in choppy English sea, screaming on the Nemesis Inferno roller coaster. The other development is that Travis’s mother, who hasn’t seen him in the past two years, is making “an impassioned plea” for him to give himself up.

  I log on to the Zone and find a message already posted from Scarlet. Just Click on this link. It’s an online rant by Travis Scott a month before he attacked Chloey, and posted on a website called Revenge Buddies, which allows its members to fantasize about payback plans for all sorts of behavior, most of it trivial—leaving bags of dog poo on the pavement, wearing leaky headphones, putting a BABY ON BOARD sticker on your car—but one section is devoted to violent threats against feminists who post messages on Twitter. Travis’s comments are in the romance section.

  His spelling is worse than Belle’s, but that isn’t the main point. What sticks out is the force of his message—the pain he’s been feeling, the desperation. All he could think about was Chloey. My Chloey is prettyer than any model. Her beuty comes from the inside she is a PERFECT girl and our love is perfect and without her I wudnt want to live but I Know she is sometimes thinking of someone else, and who it is. Hes called Cameron and hes suposed to be my mate Im not going to take this believe me she is making a mistack. He went on for ages like that, and added more a day later, when Chloey had dumped him. Believe me I wud never harm Chloey she is a good girl but love is biger than a single persons feelings it gos deep like a knife and takes over so you have to do what you have to do it cant be helped. One day she will feel pain like I do, then she will understand.

  This puke is vile, writes Scarlet. His language is so menacing. My X says the same things—he doesn’t want to go on living without me; I am the only woman he could ever love; he thinks I want to leave him. He’s right, I do want to leave—but you know why I can’t. Blood will be shed unless we take control and do something.

  I didn’t expect this. Scarlet’s usually the one to calm us down and tell us not to catastrophize. Also, I can’t think what she might mean—because the whole point is that the prey don’t have any control, that they are in an impossible situation. So I write in the dossier that Scarlet is just expressing frustration, especially when she uses that ugly word—puke.

  11

  Wilf comes into the shop clutching his Jo Nesbø but then he doesn’t mention the book, or say that he’s looking for another one to read. Instead he just stands at the counter, focusing on the reserved-items shelf above my head. I study his arms. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves, and I inspect the dark red hairs on white skin, the square tips to his fingers, the dirt under his nails. I’m about to do my “Can I help you?” knowing I’m being way too formal—it’s Wilf after all—but before the words come out, he says, “I was wondering, Callie, would you like to meet for lunch tod
ay? At the Albany?” I’m not sure that I’ve heard right, and I mumble, something like, “What? Did you say lunch?” But I had heard correctly, and we arrange to meet at one o’clock.

  I glance at Daphne, who’s monitoring us from her viewing point at the front door, swinging back on her chair for a better view. I half expect a wink, or a thumbs-up, and when Wilf leaves she says, “Romance?”

  “Of course not.”

  I’m not an obvious love interest for someone like Wilf. For a start, I don’t dress for it, and I don’t wear makeup.

  “Don’t give me of course not,” says Daphne. “You’re perfectly matched. Both as shy as badgers; he just covers it up better than you. And look at you! All those curves, that luscious hair, no wonder that boy’s always in here. . . . I can’t believe he reads as much as he says he does.”

  “He’s not a boy.”

  We go back to our jobs. I feel humiliated by her intimation that the lusty rolling forms of my (too large) breasts and backside should act like a beacon to local menfolk. While she chews on her e-cigarette, staring at her keyboard, I decide to sort out the stationery section.

  • • •

  At one o’clock, the pub is packed and noisy, like lunchtime is an excuse for a party. Wilf and I inch through the crowd and squeeze onto high wooden chairs at the end of the bar, beside a group of shrieking young women who erupt every time a new girl joins them. On our other side, an older guy sits alone, not drinking his beer because he’s playing a game on his phone. A builder, I guess, since he’s covered with dust.

  “I’m having the ploughman’s,” Wilf says unceremoniously. “What do you want?” I order a cheese-and-Marmite toasted sandwich, the same as when I came with Tilda, but this time with cider. He has a pint of lager, which he gulps, smearing his mouth with the back of his hand, and he eats his food with huge hungry bites. I watch, feeling uncertain about what to do or say, trying to figure out what’s going on, not sure whether this is a date. I’ve not had a date with anyone for nearly a year, and I’m so nervous that I can’t eat my sandwich. That, and it’s too hot.