by Anne Cassidy
Yesterday she was Alice Tully. Who was she now? She turned over, away from the clock, and looked around the room. She’d been there for almost eight months. She’d decorated it, rearranged the furniture, bought herself a chair and a small stereo system. She’d added some cushions and a mirror and a special lamp with fringed crystals hanging from it. Rosie had wanted to pay for them but it was important for Alice to buy her own things, to make her own stamp on the room.
It had seemed like home.
Now it looked odd, as if nothing quite fitted. She’d been away for four nights in Frankie’s tiny spare room, so at first her own room had seemed far too big, the ceiling too high, the floorboards too uneven and creaky. As soon as she’d taken her shoes off she’d felt the draught seeping up, making her feet feel icy and causing goosebumps to rise up on her shins.
She’d got into bed immediately, covering herself with her duvet.
“It’s stuffy in here,” Rosie had said. “I’ll open this window slightly.”
“No,” she’d insisted, “I want it closed. And the door, close it tightly when you go out.”
Rosie had given her a hug and kiss and then left, shutting the room door behind her, her footsteps along the hallway, heavy, as if she was burdened with something.
Alice looked at the lamp. It was too flashy, she could see that now. It didn’t go with the stripped-wood dresser and the Victorian curtains. She had carried it carefully home from the shops and set it up on the kitchen table first to show Rosie. Her first reaction had been to say, What’s that? When she explained Rosie had clapped her hand over her chest and said that it was Absolutely beautiful. It didn’t fit, though. Rosie was only being kind. A rush of affection filled her chest like a fire warming her from inside. Rosie. The one good thing in her life. Somehow she drifted back to sleep.
A knocking on her door awoke her. Rosie came in with a mug of tea in her hand. Strangely, she was formally dressed, wearing her court suit. Alice sat up, bleary-eyed even though looking at the clock she could see that she’d had a couple of extra hours’ sleep. She stretched her arms up.
“Have the papers come?” she said, knowing that they must have arrived.
Rosie nodded and Alice took a gulp from the mug of tea. There were some sounds from outside, voices, louder than she would expect at that time in the morning. Rosie pulled the curtain back a few centimetres and looked.
“Damn,” she said.
Alice got up, her feet hardly touching the floorboards until she stood next to Rosie. Out through the gap in the curtain she could see a car parked across the street and two people sitting in it with the door hanging open. Standing talking to them were two men, one with a camera.
“I thought you said they weren’t allowed to print my address?” Alice whispered.
“They haven’t. Those reporters are probably from the paper that’s printed the story. They’re hoping for another picture of you. Before anyone else.”
Just then another car drove up and parked further up the street. Jill Newton got out of it and walked along the pavement towards the house. Rosie mumbled something about opening the door and dashed off leaving Alice standing on her own. The reporters ignored Jill but the moment she turned into the pathway they sprang towards her, calling out, the camera flashing. Alice heard the front door opening and shutting as Rosie let Jill in. Then the reporters walked back off to their car and Alice could see curtains opening at other windows, one of the neighbours across the way coming out to see what the commotion was.
How long before everyone knew?
Jill Newton seemed calm. She gave Alice a hug and tutted when Rosie pointed out the newspapers. She was neatly dressed as usual, light-coloured trousers and jacket. When they sat round the kitchen table she refused a drink and held her hands together. Only then did Alice notice the peeling varnish on her nails. Looking closer at her she could see a weariness around her eyes, and her glasses looked speckled, as though they needed a polish.
“I have a safe house for you to go to, Alice, just while this is going on. When the stories in the newspapers have burned out we need to reassess the situation, see just how much damage has been done,” she said, her fingers drumming lightly on the table top. “I was going to take you there later this morning but I’m afraid there’s been a development and we’ll have to leave soon, within the next thirty minutes or so.”
“What’s happened?” Rosie said, laying a protective hand on Alice’s arm.
“I’ve got information that your mother is on her way here.”
“My mum?” Alice said. “Why?”
A strange sensation took hold of Alice. Her mum was coming. To see her? To look after her?
“I hardly know how to tell you this but she’s made a deal with this newspaper,” Jill said, pushing it away with a sneer. “Let’s face it. It’s not the first time she’s done this.”
Alice gave a tight nod of her head. Rosie pulled a chair up beside her and sat only centimetres away.
“What the newspapers have got here is hardly worth reading. They have your name, where you work, the area and so on, but what does it amount to? Not much. They want excitement. They want drama. They’re paying your mother to come down and try to meet with you. Maybe they’re hoping for a public reconciliation. Either that or some embarrassing scene. Anything that’ll help them sell more newspapers.”
“How do you know all this?” Alice said, in a tiny voice.
“I have a contact who works in the press. She does me favours, I pass her stuff. It’s a good arrangement. I always tell her the truth so I told her to ignore the Holland rumours. She phoned me this morning. I trust her.”
“Why such a rush?” Rosie said. “Alice’s mum lives up north, surely?”
“They brought her down yesterday. She’s due here in about an hour. That’s why I want Alice out.”
“I’ll pack a few things.”
Rosie lifted herself off the chair and walked off into the bedroom.
“I’m so sorry, Alice. That it’s turned out like this,” Jill said.
Alice couldn’t answer. She shook her head with disbelief. Her mum. Coming here. Paid for by a newspaper. At long last she would get her photo on the front page. It was what she’d always wanted. The very thought of it made Alice feel sick.
“I’ll get dressed,” she said and left Jill on her own.
It wasn’t the first time Carol Jones had made a deal with the newspapers.
In the beginning, when Jennifer was sent to Monksgrove, her mother had managed to visit her regularly. Every month for over a year she stood in the queue of visitors and waited her turn before being allowed through to the lounge where the visits took place. Little groupings of chairs dotted the big room. Half a dozen for a big family, and even then there might be a sleeping baby in a carrier. Jennifer and her mum usually sat by the window, one chair at an angle to the other. It always started with an awkward kiss on the cheek and then some chatting. The same questions each time. What was her room like? Her friends? Her schoolwork? Then it was Jennifer’s turn. Where was she living? Was she working? How was Gran?
Mostly her mum came dressed up, her blonde hair carefully styled and her mouth perfectly lipsticked. Jennifer always liked to see her like that because it meant things were going well. A couple of times she looked unkempt, her hair greasy, wearing jeans and old tops that Jennifer vaguely remembered. She talked about her modelling career then, about how she was going to get back on some agency’s books and earn enough to buy them a small place. That way Jennifer could come and live with her when she was released.
The counsellors said that Jennifer was tense for days after these visits. She liked to be on her own and avoided the other children. Her eating became erratic and sometimes she would hurt herself. Patricia Coffey asked her once if she would like a break from her mother’s visits. A chance to reflect, to work out her feelings towards her mum. She’d shook her head vehemently. Of course not. How could she not want to see her mum?
For
a while Carol stopped coming. Three, four months, over the summer period. She wrote a short letter saying that she was working abroad and would be back in September. She came, tanned and beautiful, a tiny T-shirt showing her rose tattoo; her flat stomach was the colour of honey, a gold ring through her belly button. The other kids and parents looked with envy.
The next month she looked grim. She’d been ill, she said, a chest infection. Her hair looked orange and for the first time Jennifer noticed dark roots and shadows under her eyes. She was out of work, she said, living with a friend. All talk of modelling had stopped. After that she missed three, four months. There were a couple of postcards, telephone calls, last-minute excuses. She returned in the following April without explanation. Jennifer had been at Monksgrove for almost two years.
Her mum looked like her old self. She had a leather coat on that was belted at the waist. Her hair looked lemony and her eyes were the brightest blue. They were allowed to walk out in the grounds, through the long grass, past islands of daffodils. They sat on a bench and Carol told Jennifer about her new job as a receptionist at a fitness club. After a while of chatting she took a small camera out of her handbag.
“I don’t have a photo of you,” she said. “And you’re changing. You’ve got taller and your face is fuller.”
Jennifer smiled with pleasure as her mother took some pictures. She sat back on the bench, looking casual, the daffodils in the background. Then she leaned forward, her shoulders hunched, grinning wildly for the camera. She was pleased. Her mum wanted a picture of her.
Unlike before, at the time of the trial. The only picture they had of Jennifer was the one taken by the police. A face, staring at a camera. A fringe and long hair. Staring eyes that looked surprised to be there. The newspapers had called it The face of a killer.
There were no other pictures of her. In a house full of photographs of her mother there wasn’t a single one of the ten-year-old Jennifer. Baby shots, a couple of early school photographs, but nothing else. Everyone who she spoke to wanted to know why: the social workers, the counsellors, the teachers. She couldn’t explain. Mr Cottis had been about to take some pictures of her, but Jennifer never told anyone about that.
When her mum left she gave Jennifer a hug and kiss and said she’d see her soon. A few days later her picture was in a national newspaper. The same long hair and fringe, only this time her face was smiling brightly. A Killer’s Smile the headline said, and inside there was an exclusive interview with Carol Jones: My Life Without Jennifer.
Patricia Coffey had shown her the article. She’d sat quietly at the other end of the settee while Jennifer read through the paper. Behind her were the stuffed animals, one or two new ones that she hadn’t seen before, a panda and a puppy dog.
Carol Jones, attractive mother of the notorious Berwick Waters killer, tells of life without her daughter. Thirty-year-old Miss Jones, former model, sat in the living room of her new flat and wept for her daughter. “She’s not a bad girl,” she said.
The article went on to describe Jennifer’s life at Monksgrove as told by her mother: a lovely house in the middle of breathtaking scenery; a private room with her own television; sports facilities; an education block; small classes; music tuition; good food.
The editorial in the newspaper gave its opinion: Is this justice? This girl killed her friend in cold blood. The state is paying for her to live in a place that sounds like a five-star hotel. What about Mr and Mrs Livingstone? How will they feel when they find out that their daughter’s killer is living like this at the taxpayer’s expense?
Jennifer put the paper down after she’d read every line about herself. She was surprised to see Patricia Coffey still sitting at the other end of the settee, her hands clasped, looking nervous. Jennifer didn’t speak. She was too full of hurt and fury. If she opened her mouth it might pour out like vomit.
Her mother, the model. The visits stopped. Jennifer didn’t want them any more.
Alice was dressed. She picked up her holdall which Rosie had repacked for her. Rosie was hovering, brushing dust off the sleeves of her suit. She had pulled her hair back severely and for once had no jewellery on at all. It looked as though she was in mourning.
Jill spoke, crisply:
“I am going to go out to the reporters and tell them I’ve got a statement for them. I’ll walk down to my car and distract them for a few moments. You must slip out then and go to the end of the road. My husband’s in a black saloon car there and he’s waiting for you. Don’t do anything dramatic like covering your face, you’ll only draw attention to yourself. Put some dark glasses on. That’ll be enough. If you’re quick they won’t be able to catch you up.”
“How long do I have to stay away?” Alice said, clutching her holdall.
“I don’t know. We’ll have to discuss it later. I’ll come and see you tonight when I’ve spoken to a few people.”
Rosie was at her side, quietly fiddling with her earlobe. Alice saw something in her face that she couldn’t quite grasp, an expression she’d never seen before. It was the suit, probably, the lack of any make-up, the stress of it all.
“Let’s go.”
Jill said it with an encouraging smile. They walked down the stairs one behind the other. Jill went out first, leaving the front door ajar. The reporters followed her up the street to where her car was and started to talk to them about Alice. Rosie and Alice walked quietly out and turned in the opposite direction. Nobody, none of the reporters noticed them. In moments they were at the corner and saw the black Ford car waiting, its engine idling. They got in. Jill’s husband said hello as he looked around, reversing back so that they could pull out and get away.
Alice, breathless, sat behind him and peered nervously out of the window, expecting to see the reporters turning the corner and running at the car. There was nothing, though. She focused on the indicator light that was blinking on and off. They were waiting to move out but a car was coming. It slowed as it approached them, intending to turn into Rosie’s road. They would have to wait for it to pass before moving out themselves.
When it drew level Alice looked in, her eyes drawn to the back seat where a woman was smoking a cigarette, her arm casually resting on the open window, flicking the ash on to the road. The woman’s face turned towards her.
It was her mother.
The hair was shorter and stiffer, the face a little fuller. Carol Jones put the cigarette between her dark red lips and sucked on it. When had she started to smoke? Alice couldn’t know. She laid her head on the glass, a pain across her chest, her ribs tightening like a vice. She pulled her dark glasses off and caught her mother’s eye. It was brief, just a flicker of acknowledgement; one back-seat passenger to another. Then her mother turned away, oblivious, and continued talking to the person next to her.
The car turned into Rosie’s street, and then Jill’s husband pulled out and the black Ford sped away unnoticed by anyone. In the back seat were two women. Only one would return later that day.
The safe house was in Hampshire. It was the home of another probation officer and Alice was only to spend the night there. The woman, an old friend of Jill’s, was called Margaret, and she greeted them holding a sleeping baby over one shoulder. Jill’s husband left them there and Margaret told them to come in in a hushed voice. Alice felt awkward walking into a messy living room, a baby carrier on the coffee table and bits of baby paraphernalia scattered everywhere. Rosie immediately began to talk to Margaret about the baby, its habits, its feeding and its weight. Alice sat on a chair, tongue-tied, still clutching her holdall. She felt like she had landed in another world.
Margaret laid the baby in its carrier.
“This is Emmie,” she said.
Then she made some tea and they sat down around a small kitchen table and talked about Alice’s degree course; what subject she was going to study, where she was going, whether she was going to stay in halls or rent a flat. It was all nice chitchat and it made time pass. When it was over and Margaret was
washing and drying the mugs Alice started to cry. The ordinariness of the room suddenly distressed her: the teapot, the messy kitchen table, the washed baby’s bottle upside down on the draining board. These were the important things of everyday life and yet Alice had no right to them. The upset came suddenly with no warning. Her jaw began to tremble and in a single blink she felt her eyes blur and then the tears ran in hot beads down her face. Rosie didn’t notice immediately. It was Margaret who stopped drying a mug and looked at her with concern.
“Oh, Alice,” Rosie said, getting up and standing beside her.
Alice stood up and pushed her head into Rosie’s chest. It felt odd, not so warm or soft as usual. It was the suit. The one she wore to go to court. The material was hard and dark and seemed, to Alice, like some sort of armour. After a few moments Rosie led her into the living room and she found a space to sit on the sofa. Margaret followed them in, carrying Emmie over her arm as if she was in a shopping basket.
“Alice, I don’t know you, but Jill tells me you’re a really good person and you’ll get through this,” she said.
Pat Coffey, Jill, Rosie, now Margaret. They all thought she was a good person. Maybe she was.
“You could watch television, but I might as well warn you that it’s bound to be on the news.”
Alice nodded. She might as well see the worst. She picked up the remote and switched to a news channel. After fifteen minutes or so there was an item on her. The newscaster giving brief details of the Berwick Waters story. In the corner of the screen was the photo of ten-year-old Jennifer Jones. The scene changed then to the street outside Rosie’s house. There, amid a group of reporters, was her mother. There was no cigarette at her lips, just a bunched-up white tissue that she was holding, like a wilted flower. Someone had just asked her how she felt about not seeing her daughter for so long. Her mum took a deep breath as if it was taking every ounce of strength she had to say a word.
Alice turned it off. She didn’t want to hear the answer.