Can't Let Go

by Jane Hill

  I sat in the Great Court of the British Museum to try to work things out. I wasn't sure whether I was hiding in plain sight or playing catch-me-if-you-can. It was either the safest, most comforting place that I could think of to come, or it was dangerously open. One slight, unobtrusive, nondescript brown-haired woman in faded jeans and a grey T-shirt could easily get lost among the crowds of tourists in that light, airy courtyard. On the other hand, if my stalker was following me, keeping close tabs on me, then he'd have no trouble finding me in that big white space. All I know was that I craved openness and busyness. I didn't want to hide away in the shadows any more. I was sitting at one of the long white communal tables in the cafe area, as close to the corner as I could get. From where I sat I could see people coming and going in two directions, as they strolled around the huge domed curved area in the centre of the court, where the gift shop was, where the Reading Room of the British Library used to be. I was making my cup of coffee last as long as possible, trying to fill the empty day; trying to work out exactly what I should do.

  I couldn't tell Danny what I'd done. No way. He was too public-spirited, too good. He'd make me go to the police and tell them everything – not just about the letters, but about how I'd killed Rivers Carillo. He'd hate me for what I'd done. It would be the end of our relationship anyway, so what would be the point? The only answer was to break things off with Danny. I had to do it in such a way that there could be no mistake. It was the third time I'd made this resolution and the second time I'd tried to carry it through. Last time, as we'd driven home from my parents' house, it hadn't taken. He hadn't listened to me properly, and I hadn't explained myself clearly enough. This split would have to be decisive. The watcher, the letter-writer, my secret stalker would have to know that it was all over. I couldn't risk going out with Danny again.

  How could I break things off with Danny without hurting him? I knew I should have thought of that before I'd slept with him that very first time. I did think of it later, after the first note arrived, but then I had put it out of my mind. I had let my emotions, my need for comfort and security, overrule my common sense. I had let my heart rule my head. I had let myself drop my guard, had relaxed and enjoyed myself. How had I dared?

  What was I going to do? Lie to Danny and tell him that I didn't like him in that way? Use one of the old cliches? Tell him I loved him like a brother? Like a friend? Tell him that I was very fond of him but it just wasn't the right time? Tell him that it wasn't him, it was me? That would actually be true, for once. In spite of myself, I couldn't help smiling. I was thinking of a line in Zoey's routine, where she talked about how she dumped her husband with the line 'It's not me, it's you.' It always got a delayed laugh, as people worked out exactly what she had said. Once I'd managed to break things off with one sort-of boyfriend just by ignoring him, by not answering his calls – or anyone's calls – for a couple of weeks. I couldn't do that with Danny. He lived too close. I had broken things off with Julian by doing a midnight flit, almost literally. I'd left the flat one evening while he was out, with what I could carry in my car, and I didn't leave a forwarding address. But I was getting so tired of this, this constant running and hiding.

  People were coming and going, milling around the Great Court. It was getting close to lunchtime and the cafe tables were filling up. A big, noisy Italian family with several kids had invaded my personal space. One of the staff, who was wiping the cafe tables, had just given me the glare, the one that says: 'If you've finished with that coffee, can you leave and make room for someone else?'

  I noticed a man who seemed to be watching me. A tall man, bearded, fiftyish – a hippie type in a tie-dyed T-shirt and long baggy shorts. Grey hair in a ponytail. He was in the far corner, in the other cafe area on the other side of the court, and he seemed to be staring in my direction. I didn't know how long he'd been there, and I didn't know why I hadn't noticed him before. He could have been the stalker. He was the right age, the right type, to have been a friend of Rivers's. Jesus, if only I knew who I was supposed to be afraid of.

  In the end, it wasn't quite as difficult as I'd imagined.

  Danny was still in his work clothes when I rang his doorbell. His top button was undone, his tie loosened. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and he smiled when he saw me. He beckoned me in. And then he stopped smiling. He'd seen the ominous look on my face. 'Ah,' he said. 'You're about to break up with me, aren't you? I hate this bit.'

  'Sorry.' I raised my hands in a gesture of hopelessness and let them flop down again.

  'Oh well. Can't say that I didn't see it coming. I guess you warned me often enough.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Please stop saying that. If you're sorry, you wouldn't be breaking up with me, would you?' He sat down on his sofa and took a swig of his beer. I just stood there, feeling awful. 'Is there a particular reason?' he asked.

  'It's just all getting a bit too intense for me . . .' I made my voice sound shaky and sad, which wasn't difficult. It was exactly how I felt.

  Danny gave a sudden, surprised laugh. 'Ha! I wish.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, honestly, it couldn't have been less intense if we'd tried. We've had – what? – seven, eight dates? I know you hate commitment and all that stuff. I wasn't asking for that. I just wanted to be friends, and go out sometimes, and maybe sleep together if it felt right. What do they call it these days? Friends with benefits: that's the phrase. It wasn't like I was asking you to marry me or anything. I couldn't have put less pressure on you if I'd tried.' He was warming to his theme now; not so much angry as annoyed. 'You know, I'd just like it placed on record that you were the one who invited me to meet the family. You were the one who stepped it up a notch.'

  'I know. Sorry.'

  'Stop saying that!' He half-laughed again. 'Christ, what is it about me? And if you say, "It's not you, it's me" I shall probably hit you.'

  I said nothing. I just stood there looking awkward and ashamed. Danny showed me to the door. 'Still mates?' he said, giving the word 'mates' its full force. I guessed he meant drinking buddies, music buddies, friends. I gave a non-committal nod and mouthed 'sorry' one more time. I hated myself for hurting him. I hated myself for putting myself in a position where I had to hurt him.

  Twenty-seven

  Zoey was in her frantic edgy mood, the mood she'd been in when I'd driven her to Southampton just a few days before. She was sitting on my settee with a glass of wine in her hand, tilting the glass backwards and forwards so vigorously that I was worried she'd spill it. She was heading for Edinburgh the next day. She was flying up there, ready to start her show the following day. It was her big adventure and I knew she was nervous about it, but this seemed to be something more than nerves.

  We were supposed to have gone out for a meal that night. She'd invited me to join her and Steve and a bunch of whichever of her comedy friends hadn't gone off to Edinburgh yet. But she'd called me earlier to cancel. The dinner was off, she'd told me. She'd sounded weird on the phone – more downbeat than I'd ever heard her. 'Listen, can I come to your place instead?'

  'To my flat?' People didn't come round to my flat. I didn't really know what to do with guests. There was nothing for them to look at or do. I didn't like having intruders in there. I guess I was afraid they'd start rummaging through my bookshelves or asking me too many questions about my lack of stuff. It always made me feel on edge and made my flat feel less safe, less of a haven. But I couldn't think of a good excuse to give Zoey. She was my friend. I'd been round to her flat, several times. How could I have said no? 'Um, okay. When? Why?'

  'In an hour or so? My place is a nightmare. I'm packing. I have clothes strewn everywhere. I don't want to be here at the moment. I need to escape. I need to talk to you.'

  'Steve and I have split up,' Zoey said, still swilling her wine around the glass. 'We had a stupid fight and now he says he doesn't want to see me any more, and I'm way more upset than I thought I'd be.'

  'So if you've split up,
I guess that means you were going out with him, then. Because I wasn't sure.'

  That made her smile, for some reason. 'Yeah,' she said. 'I got involved. Hadn't meant to do that. Not at this point.'

  It was like listening to myself talking about Danny. 'So why did you split up? What was the fight about?'

  Zoey put the wineglass down on the floor. She closed her eyes and opened them again. 'Life. The past. Things we've done. Things we haven't done.' She waved her arms around vaguely. 'You know what it's like.'

  I nodded. I watched her. There was something else she wanted to say, something she was finding difficult. She picked up the wine again and took a gulp from her glass. She fiddled with a strand of her hair, stretching the curl out and watching it spring back into shape. 'He got clingy. Overprotective. You'd be surprised. He does all that foul-mouthed routine on stage but really he's a mensch.'

  'A mensch?'

  'A good guy. A good, decent guy. Too good.' Still carrying the wineglass, she walked across to the window and looked out. 'This is an amazing view.'

  'Yeah. I love it.'

  'How long have you lived here?'

  'About eighteen months.'

  'It's a great apartment. Airy. Minimalist. I wish I could get my place looking like this. But I'm no good at throwing things out.'

  Zoey walked around, looking at things. I held my breath, willing her to move away from my bookshelf. She picked up one of the CDs that Danny had made me and browsed the song titles. 'Neat,' she said. And then, out of nowhere, 'Come to Edinburgh with me.'

  It sounded more like a command than an invitation. 'Me? What, like, for the Fringe?'

  'Yeah. Tomorrow. Come with me.'

  I didn't know what to say.

  'Shit, sorry. There I am assuming that you've got no plans for the summer. That's rude of me. You're probably going away somewhere really cool.'

  'No, no. It's just unexpected, that's all.'

  'Look, I'm renting an apartment there, what's called a tenement flat, and Steve was going to share the place with me. And, what with all this, he's decided to stay with some friends of his instead, so I'm left on my own. There's a spare bed. Well, some kind of fold-out bed, anyway. And it'd be much more fun with someone to share the place with me. Come up. It'll be so cool. We can hang out and go and see shows together. You'll have fun. Please?'

  I wanted to say yes straight away. It seemed so perfect.

  It was a way I could get out of London. It was a way of avoiding Danny. It was a way of running away. It seemed like the ideal solution. Except that I was fed up with running away. I didn't want to run any more. I was trying to be brave. I was trying to persuade myself that I should stay and face the music.

  'I don't know, Zoey. Can I think about it? Can I let you know?'

  'Sure. Call me. You can just get the train up some day if you want to. It's easy.'

  She sat down again, and she rubbed her thighs nervously. She felt for something in her pocket. 'Look, if you're not coming, can I give you these?' She was holding a ring with a couple of keys.

  'What are they for?'

  'They're the keys to my flat in Clapham. Just in case . . . you know, maybe something will happen and you'll need to get access.'

  Maybe something will happen. That sent a shiver down my spine. I looked at Zoey very closely. She was trying to say something to me. She knew something. And she was trying to tell me that she knew. She knew I was in danger. She was trying to give me a hiding place. The tenement in Edinburgh or the flat in Clapham: either way, she was trying to give me somewhere safe to stay. But how did she know? Had she guessed from my behaviour? Had she seen me take that letter from the windscreen of my car?

  Had she known what was written in it? How did she know? What did she know?

  I took the keys from her and jangled them in my hand.

  I stuck them in my back pocket. 'Thank you,' I said, thinking about the lovely safe womb-like cosiness of Zoey's little room. 'I'll look after them, okay?'

  'Cool.' And again, I thought Zoey was about to say something, but there was a sudden noise, like someone at the door. 'What's that?' she said. But I was already halfway up the hallway towards my front door. I was already looking at the white envelope sitting on my mat. I was already reading the words on the envelope, the words that said 'To the murdering bitch' in handwriting that I already knew too well. I was already stuffing the envelope into my jeans pocket as Zoey came to check. 'What was that?' she said again.

  'Nothing,' I said. 'Just a kid knocking and running away, I think. It happens all the time.' I opened the door and looked around, searching for a sign of my stalker. Would I finally get to see him, to find out who it was? The grey concrete walkway stretched around the four sides of the courtyard, five storeys below. There were pillars and doorways, and a hallway on each of the four sides leading to the lifts and the stairwells. In the low sun, half of the building was in deep shadow, the other half still in bright sunlight. I stared towards the shadows, wondering if that was a movement I could see. More than anything I wanted to chase after him. But Zoey was standing next to me, staring at me with those green eyes. It seemed as if she could see inside my head. She knows, I thought. She knows. I was sure of it. She definitely knew something. She was staring at me, her eyes boring into me, and she wanted to ask me and she wanted me to tell her. I cut in quickly, before she could say anything else. 'So, what time are you leaving tomorrow morning?'

  And the tension passed. 'Early. You're right, I need to get going.' She kissed me on the cheek. 'Please come,' she said again. 'It'll be fun. Call me.'

  My trembling hands opened another white envelope. My trembling hands pulled out another sheet of white paper. It was the same kind of paper and the same small, neat handwriting. This was what it said: I told you I was watching you.

  Twenty-eight

  Rivers Carillo was always writing. He was a poet. If you were to ask him what he did, that's what he'd say. He carried with him a small black hardback notebook, pocket-sized, with a piece of black elastic that kept the book shut. I've seen notebooks like it since, for sale in bookshops. They're called Moleskines. They cost more than a notebook should, but people seem to buy them anyway. Sometimes Rivers would take the book out of his pocket and write in it, using a silver propelling pencil that he held very close to the tip, which made his writing tiny and square and almost illegible. I know: I used to try to read it over his shoulder or upside down, but he'd hide what he was writing, putting his arm across it like a swotty kid in an exam.

  I could picture him writing. There would be a look into the middle distance, a narrowing of the eyes, a half smile, sometimes a nod, and out would come the notebook – scribble scribble scribble – and then he'd put it away again, twist the pencil shut so the lead was hidden, and look at me with a surprised expression, like he'd forgotten I was ever there. Sometimes I'd ask him to read me what he'd written but he never would. He would just shake his head enigmatically and resume whatever conversation we'd been having before the muse struck.

  I saw him give a poetry reading once. He hadn't invited me. He didn't know I was going to be there. He hadn't even told me about it. I saw his name, one on a list of several poets, on a leaflet that was lying on Joanna's kitchen table. I picked up the leaflet, was still holding it when Joanna walked in. ' D o you want to come with me?' she asked. 'It'll probably be a tremendous bore, but we could always go for dinner afterwards.'

  It was a bit of a bore, in fact. We sat on tiny stools in a cramped room at the back of a second-hand bookshop in North Beach. The whole room smelled of dust and mouldy books. There were about twenty of us in the audience, and various people read poems out loud, and I struggled not to fidget while I forced my face into a facsimile of Joanna's ethereal poetry-listening expression. Rivers was on halfway through the proceedings. His poems were short and full of hard consonants. He read out loud quite well, full of fire and anger. He made eye contact with me at one point, looked away, looked back at me briefly and frowned, and
then he ignored me for the rest of the reading.

  Afterwards there was red wine. I think it was bad red wine, because it hurt my throat when I swallowed it. I bought a pamphlet of some of Rivers's poems for a dollar. He barely acknowledged me but later, when people started to leave, he came up to me and whispered: 'Here. Tomorrow. Midday. I'll make lunch.'

  I returned to the bookshop the next day, promptly on the dot of twelve. It was closed. The door was locked and shuttered, there were no boxes of books outside, no sign of life. It was on a steep side-street, and I sat on the steps for a while and enjoyed the view. Houses clung to the vertiginous slopes, and there were little patches of green and pink and red from window boxes and roof terraces. Down the hill, at the end of the street, I could see a much bigger green patch – Washington Square, full of people in small groups sitting on the grass and enjoying the sun. It was a warm day with a bright blue sky and a brisk breeze sending fluffy white clouds dancing across the sun from time to time. Had anyone seen me waiting there? Was anyone looking out of their window? Had anyone seen the way I leaped up to kiss Rivers Carillo when he toiled up the hill carrying a brown-paper grocery bag about ten minutes later? Did someone see us together? Had someone been bearing a grudge all that time?

  He had a key. The shop belonged to a friend of his. It only opened at eccentric, occasional hours. Rivers had borrowed it for the day, for this assignation. He ushered me inside, into the smelly darkness, and pulled up the dusty blinds.

  Thinking back to that day, Rivers had every right to call me a prick-tease. A deserted bookshop in a quiet street on a Wednesday afternoon. A blanket on the floor of the back room, the curtains drawn. A picnic – bread and pate and cheese and red wine. Joni Mitchell on the stereo. The archetypal seduction scene. It had probably worked for a dozen other women. But I wasn't a woman. I was a girl, a stupid little girl.

  Rivers had a hand on my knee, and then the hand was on my bare thigh, and then some of his fingers were touching me through the gusset of my white cotton knickers. I moved his hand, it moved back, I moved it away again. I pressed into his kiss and our tongues got tangled up together. My nose squashed against his. I pressed my tits against his chest, trying to suggest an alternative place for his wandering hands to go. He got the message, ran his hands up my back, unhooked my bra – he'd obviously had practice – and cupped my breasts in his hands, teasing the nipples with his thumbs. He pushed me down onto the blanket, firm hands on my shoulders, but I wriggled away, pulled my skirt down, pulled my blouse down. 'Not here,' I said, hoping to give the impression that all I didn't like was the dust and the dirt and the darkness, and the breadcrumbs all over the blanket.