Looking for JJ

by Anne Cassidy

  “You told us you were a school teacher,” Rosie said, her voice dripping with disappointment.

  “We made plans to write an article about Jennifer . . . Alice. It was going to be a prelude to my writing a book about the whole case. The . . . incident at Berwick, the trial, the aftermath, Alice’s new life. That’s why I moved in downstairs. Not to expose you, Alice, I could have done that six weeks ago. No, no. I wanted to get to know you. I wanted to be able to write a serious book about you and your new life. To show the public that it is possible for people to change.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?” Alice said.

  Sara’s face softened and she leaned forward, resting her hands on the back of a chair.

  “I knew you would refuse. I thought if I came to you, you would just disappear, go somewhere else.”

  This was true and Alice knew it. It didn’t make her feel any better. She looked at Sara’s suit and smart shoes. That was the difference. In the past Sara had dressed like a school teacher. Baggy tops, jeans, jewellery, a giant bag that looked as though it held a set of exercise books. She’d been in disguise to fool them. Rosie had liked her, taken her into the flat and made her drinks and homemade biscuits. She had trusted her, made plans for theatre visits, when all the while Sara was a person in disguise. Just like Alice, really. Poor Rosie, she was surrounded by fakes.

  “I want to write a serious piece about you, Alice . . . Jennifer. . .”

  That was it. That was the final straw.

  “My name is Alice Tully. I am not Jennifer Jones. Not any more. That’s what you people don’t understand. I am a new person.”

  “That’s exactly it. That’s what I want to write about!”

  Rosie let go of Alice’s hand and stood up suddenly, the table rattling as she did so.

  “Why tell us this now? Why now? When it’s all died down.”

  Sara’s composure crumbled for a moment and she began smoothing her skirt down, picking at the jacket buttons.

  “I had no intention of doing anything this soon. I have the lease on the flat for a further month. The trouble is that my editor wants to go with the story now. With all this stuff about Jennifer being in Holland it would be a marvellous coup.”

  “You’d expose Alice now?” Rosie said, her voice cracking.

  “No, no. That’s why I’m talking to you now. I believe that if we three could come to an agreement, if we could cooperate on the story, then I could put my editor off publishing it for a while. At least until Alice goes to university. That way she could avoid some of the . . . notoriety. Also if she . . . if you were prepared to cooperate, then the article would give you a chance to have your say. To put your side of the story. Surely that’s worth thinking about?”

  Alice slumped back in her seat. She had known it was too good to be true. The detective leaving, the newspapers getting it wrong. These were just cruel jokes to make her feel better. They had known where she was all along.

  “Even if Alice agreed, her probation officer would never allow it. It could put her in danger, for goodness’ sake!”

  “From the girl’s parents, you mean?” Sara said.

  “And others. You know what it was like at the time of the trial. No, no. I certainly won’t have it. Alice cannot be put in that position.”

  “I’m afraid she won’t have any choice. What I’m saying is that my editor wants to go with this story with or without Alice’s help. I think it would be a better story if she had a say.”

  A moment’s silence lay on the table between them. Rosie sat down heavily. Alice looked round at the ironing board, the iron facing her, the sleeve of one of her shirts hanging down. She felt her eyes misting up. That was it. That was the end. There would be no trip to Brighton, no plane ride to Majorca, no room in halls at the uni. It was all a mirage because they would never leave her alone. Rosie caught her eye. Her eyebrows flickered with misery and then she seemed to pull herself together.

  “We don’t have to decide this very minute?” she said, softly.

  “No,” Sara said, even though there was a hint of urgency in her voice. “We’d need to know soon, though. My editor wants to run the story this weekend but if you agreed to cooperate I think I could persuade him. He trusts me. He knows I’ll do a good job.”

  Rosie nodded. “And meanwhile you won’t tell anyone where Alice is?”

  “You have my word,” Sara said.

  Alice wanted to laugh. The word of a liar.

  “We’ll let you know,” said Rosie. “In a couple of days. Now, I’d like you to leave us.”

  Sara nodded solemnly as though a great contract had been made, as though something momentous had happened. She turned quietly and stole out of the kitchen, her high heels making only the slightest sound on the floor. When Alice heard the downstairs door close she had a sudden feeling of nausea. She stood up and turned to the sink but before she could move Rosie enveloped her, her big arms holding her firm, Alice’s face pushed into the soft fabric of her blouse.

  “It’s all over,” she choked the words out.

  “No, it isn’t. It’s not all over. We’ll deal with this, you’ll see,” Rosie said, her voice in a whisper.

  Alice nodded, her head pushing into Rosie’s soft flesh. The words had been spoken but they were low and quiet. Insubstantial, liable to be blown away in a puff of air.

  part two: Jennifer Jones

  The girl with the ginger hair was called Michelle Livingstone. She introduced herself to Jennifer the day after they moved into Water Lane. She knocked at the door of their house just after ten in the morning. Jennifer was up and dressed but her mum was still sleeping.

  “I live next door. My name’s Michelle. My mum’s a secretary and she works at my school. I saw you moving in yesterday. Was that fat bloke your dad?”

  Jennifer mumbled No, her eyes transfixed with Michelle’s orange hair which sprung out wildly from each side of her head. Someone had parted it down the middle, a completely straight line, and put a couple of slides in at the front to hold it in place. It looked like it might uncurl itself and spring free at any moment.

  “I’ve got a den and some dressing-up stuff and it’s my birthday in two weeks’ time. What have you got?” Michelle demanded, trying to look past Jennifer into the tiny hallway of the house.

  “A lot of things,” Jennifer said. “But we haven’t unpacked everything yet.”

  “My best friend is called Lucy. She lives at number two. Well, she’s not my absolute best friend. Lucy just hangs around a bit. But she’s all right. She usually does what I tell her. Who’s your best friend?”

  Jennifer looked at Michelle with consternation. She didn’t have a best friend.

  “My mum’s a model,” she said, ignoring the question. “You could come over later and I’ll show you her photographs.”

  Michelle’s expression was a mixture of irritation and interest.

  “I’ve got to go, now, my mum’s calling me,” Jennifer lied, closing the front door over.

  Later, before her mum got up, she took out the stolen Luke Skywalker figure and thought about Perry, alone in the flat, wondering what had happened to them. He’d see all their stuff had been taken, the beds, the armchairs, the bits and pieces from the kitchen. He’d notice immediately that his portable telly was gone. Poor Perry. He would probably go round the neighbours asking about them, maybe he would even call the police. The whole day would have gone by before he noticed that Luke Skywalker was missing. Jennifer held the figure out. Its arms and legs felt stiff, as though no one had ever played with it. She took it into the living room and stood it on the mantelpiece. It looked shiny and new. Not like Macy. She was old and scuffed and her outfits looked tatty and out of date. It didn’t matter. Jennifer still kept her. Maybe, in years to come Macy would be worth money, like Luke Skywalker.

  When her mum finally got up she made her a cup of tea.

  “Do you think Perry will come and find us?” she said.

  Her mum shook her head.


  “I don’t think so. Perry will be all right on his own. He was far too young for me.”

  “What about your job?”

  Because her mum was between modelling jobs she had taken some bar work. It meant she was out a lot late at night and Perry hadn’t liked it. Neither had Jennifer.

  “I’m concentrating on my modelling. All that smoke, anyway. It’s bad for the complexion.”

  Jennifer didn’t say anything about money. She didn’t mention paying the rent or buying stuff. Maybe her mum was right, and this time she would get her picture on the front of a magazine. She looked idly out of the back window and saw some movement in next door’s garden. It was Michelle with someone else. The ginger curls stood out, bobbing busily here and there at the end of the garden. The other girl was less clear. The two of them were doing something and had their backs to Jennifer so she couldn’t see very well.

  “What you looking at, Jen?”

  “There’s a girl who lives next door called Michelle,” she said.

  “Right next door?” her mum said. “The posh lot?”

  Jennifer shrugged.

  “Why don’t you ask her round to play?”

  “We don’t play,” said Jennifer, offended. She was almost eleven. In September she would go to secondary school. She didn’t play any more.

  “Well, tea, then. Or just to chat. That’s what girls do, isn’t it? I could make something for her to eat. It’d be a way of getting to know the neighbours.”

  “What about the other girl?”

  Jennifer saw Lucy Bussell then. She was carrying a big pile of stones to the far corner of the garden. Michelle was walking behind her, talking and gesticulating with her arms, and Lucy turned round for a moment to answer. She was smaller than Michelle, much smaller. She looked younger as well, maybe only about eight. She was thin and had almost no hair that Jennifer could see. She was wearing a zip-up anorak that looked a couple of sizes too big. She looked cold, her mouth pursed against the air.

  “Whatever,” her mum said, gulping down her tea. “Want to come shopping with me? See what the town’s like?”

  Jennifer washed up the cup while her mum got ready. When she came down the stairs she was wearing skin-tight jeans and boots and a small leather jacket that barely covered her bottom. Around her neck was a bright pink scarf with tassels. She’d put her make-up on and tied her hair up on top in a scraggy ponytail.

  “Don’t want to look a state, do I? I might be paying rent on this place but that doesn’t mean I can’t dress well, does it?”

  There was still snow on the ground when they shut the front door behind them. Her mum had to step carefully along the icy path and was shivering by the time they got to the end of the road.

  “An apartment in Spain, that’s what we need,” she said, pulling Jennifer’s arm through hers.

  The main street was only ten minutes’ walk away. There was a pub and a garage and half a dozen shops: a tiny Co-op supermarket, a couple of newsagents, a launderette, a Chinese fish and chip shop and a clothes shop.

  “Not exactly Bond Street, is it?” her mum said.

  A few flakes of snow fluttered by as Jennifer and her mum went into the Co-op. They emerged a short while later carrying four plastic bags of shopping. The walk back to the house was uphill and Jennifer held her head low to avoid the bitter wind hitting her face.

  “Maybe Danny’ll come and give us a ride up to the superstore,” her mum said, the snow dotting her hair. “It’s bloody expensive there.”

  Later, after they’d unpacked the shopping, Michelle called for her again. This time Lucy Bussell was with her, looking pale and tiny. Close up her face had the look of a mouse. All she needed were the whiskers. Michelle spoke immediately, businesslike.

  “You can come in my house, if you like. Lucy and me have dug a grave in the back garden.”

  Jennifer’s first instinct was to say no. She didn’t like the bossy tone of Michelle’s voice. She was startled by the mention of a grave though. A grave? she thought. Her mum’s footsteps sounded up the hallway behind her.

  “It’s freezing here. Why don’t you bring your friends in?” she said, coming right up to the door and giving her best model-girl smile.

  Jennifer grabbed her coat off the banister.

  “I’m going next door,” she said, pulling the front door closed behind her.

  “That’s her mum,” Michelle said to Lucy. “She’s a model.”

  At her front door Michelle pulled out a single key that was attached to a variety of fobs: a tiny shoe, a dice, a troll, a plastic skateboard. She opened the door and the three of them walked in. The heat on the inside hit Jennifer immediately. She stood for a second and let it soak through her. The house, although the same as Jennifer’s, looked very different. The hallway had hidden lighting and looked longer and higher. So did the lounge. The kitchen was the biggest surprise, though. It had been extended and was a giant room with fitted units and a big old-fashioned cooker. She paused and looked around at the pots and pans that were hanging from the ceiling and the jars and bowls, plates and jugs that seemed to cover every surface. The room seemed busy.

  A woman was standing by a worktop measuring out ingredients from packets. She had an apron on with pictures of rabbits all over it and her hair, ginger and curly like Michelle’s, was pulled back behind her head. She looked round and gave a smile.

  “Hi, you’re from next door?”

  “Hello,” Jennifer said.

  “We’re busy, Mum.”

  Michelle grabbed hold of Jennifer’s sleeve and led her out into the garden. The cold air seemed to shoot up her nose and into her ears as the back door clicked shut. The other two walked briskly up the garden but Jennifer slowed up, wishing they could have stayed in the kitchen longer. She rubbed her hands together to keep them warm. Michelle looked back and gestured to her to hurry up. Jennifer quickened her steps reluctantly. When they got to the end Michelle made a shush sign with her finger and then pointed to the ground. In front of her Jennifer could see a mound of stones. A small hill of pebbles and bits of rock.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “It’s a grave, obviously.”

  “Whose grave?”

  “Not whose grave. It’s not a person’s grave, silly. It’s a bird.”

  “Mine.”

  The word came from Lucy. Jennifer was taken aback because the girl hadn’t spoken before.

  “She found it in her garden,” Michelle said, hooking her thumb at Lucy.

  “It lived on my tree. Now it’s dead.”

  Lucy’s voice was squeaky; as though it needed a spot of oil.

  “You can see if you like,” Michelle said and squatted down flinging the stones to the side. In the middle was a tiny brown bird lying on its side. Its feathers looked soft and velvety and it just seemed as though it was sleeping.

  “Are you sure it’s dead?” Jennifer said.

  “Course it’s dead, most probably killed by one of the wild cats,” Michelle said, looking affronted.

  “We said a prayer for it,” Lucy said, quietly.

  “Wild cats?” Jennifer said, imagining tigers and lions.

  “Up at the reservoir. They live there, tons of them. They come round here for food. They eat anything. They’re cruel.”

  “I’ve got to go,” she said.

  She was feeling gloomy and wished she hadn’t come. Before she had walked a couple of paces Michelle had run up to her and was whispering in her ear.

  “Come back, after lunch, when Lucy’s gone. I’ll show you my room and my things. You can show me your mum’s model pictures.”

  She looked round. Lucy was staring at the ground where the dead bird was. It didn’t seem right her coming back when Lucy wasn’t there. On the other hand she had said she’d show Michelle her mum’s model shots.

  “OK,” she whispered and ran off up the garden.

  School was easy. She’d been to six different ones over the years. A week after moving into W
ater Lane she was led into the classroom by the head teacher and introduced to the pupils. She’d been through this before. In the past she’d been nervous, looking along the rows of strange faces. This time it was different. In the corner, by the class library, was Michelle, and beside her an empty space that had been saved. The head teacher left and the lesson went on. Michelle was smiling at the other kids. She laid her hand on Jennifer’s arm in a proprietorial way. She had already met the new girl. She also knew the new girl’s mum who was a model and had had her photograph in clothes catalogues.

  At lunchtime Michelle took Jennifer to the office to pick up her lunch.

  “How’s your first morning?” Mrs Livingstone said, looking up from her computer.

  “Very nice,” Jennifer said, smiling.

  Lucy was in a younger class, so Jennifer looked around for her in the dining room.

  “Most days she goes home for dinner. Sometimes she’s in Reading Club. I usually don’t hang around with her at school,” Michelle said, with a hint of annoyance. “Anyway, she’s too young to be my best friend.”

  Jennifer relaxed. This made her feel a bit better. The younger girl had been giving her and Michelle doleful looks for the last few days.

  “She’s very timid,” Jennifer said.

  “Her dad left home. . . She just lives with her mum and two brothers.”

  Jennifer already knew this from her own mum, who had made it her business to find out stuff from the neighbours. She’d seen Lucy’s mum herself a number of times. She was a small thin woman who was always wearing sporty clothes, as if she was about to go and play a game or run cross-country. Jennifer had only ever seen her standing round, though, talking to people outside the shops or to the other neighbours in Water Lane. She had a loud voice that seemed to carry so that Jennifer often heard her before she saw her.

  “Stevie and Joe boss her a bit,” Michelle continued. “My mum says that they get away with murder. Stevie’s never had a job and Joe should really be at a special school.”