by Neal Doran
‘I’ve told you I have nothing to say to you on that subject. It’s none of my business.’
‘But you’re a key witness aren’t you? Or are you cutting yourself off now?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘So you’re fully behind him at this difficult time.’
Rebecca didn’t respond. She couldn’t believe how he was trying to trap her. Then something he said clicked in her head.
‘Who did you say you work for?’
‘I’m writing a piece for the Standard. I wanted to—’
‘You’re employed by the Standard?’
He shifted uncomfortably, and leaned back onto the armrest of the sofa. For the first time he seemed to be weighing up what he was saying.
‘I’ve featured in the paper for several yea—’
‘Have they commissioned this piece?’ she cut in.
‘No.’
‘Then I’d like you to leave. And I don’t want you to come back. And I don’t think your chances of working for the paper again would be helped if I had to phone them and tell them you were passing yourself off as one of their representatives.’
The journalist smiled at her and she did her best to smile sarcastically back at him, anticipating the imminent patronising answer.
‘Staff jobs these days…it’s not really like how you might see it on TV. You have to do the work and bring the stories to them. They don’t really need to send anyone out to do them. Saves money I guess in this day and age. Y’know, the internet. Metro…’
‘It must be very difficult for you, but I’m sorry I can’t help.’
‘Your dad seemed keen enough to talk. I thought press coverage was what you wanted. I’ve seen the local freebie. That mural at the station is quite something. Your mother-in-law?’
The more he kept her talking the harder she found it to stay angry. It was just…maddening. If he’d got angry back, or at least reacted somehow, she’d have been fine. She could have maintained her indignation and not had to stop and think about what she was saying. It was like phoning up to complain about a delivery that hasn’t shown up and the person in the call centre is blandly apologetic but then can do fuck-all about fixing it. Being angry at them just makes you feel stupid. Pointless and playing into what they want you to do, be unreasonable, so they can put you on the backfoot.
‘Like you said, you’ve seen the stories, yes she’s my mother-in-law.’
‘So I just assumed everyone would be pleased to help…’
‘My father’s dealing with this himself. If you need anything I think you should go to him.’
‘I’ve spoken to Howard,’ he said, as if surprised she didn’t know. ‘We did an interview. He’s very proud of you and that younger brother of yours off on his gap year. He reckons you would have been made partner this year if you hadn’t decided on the baby thing. Is that right?’
‘I think maybe that was a bit of parental exaggeration. And I don’t think it’s rel—’
‘He was a little cagey on the other charges. That was the only thing he didn’t want to talk about. A long time ago, I suppose. In Manchester. And Edinburgh? More mix-ups I think he said. And a long time ago, of course.’
She looked at him hard, her eyes darting across his face, trying to find some sign that he was bluffing, going over his words in case there was something she had misunderstood. She found nothing.
‘It must be good to have a family that’s so understanding.’
She couldn’t speak. She could barely breathe. Not looking at him, she walked out of the room and to the front door and opened it. There was no sign of movement from the living room.
‘Go,’ she said, struggling to keep a tremor out of the single syllable.
He finally came out to the hall.
‘You know, in a strange way, getting all this stuff out in the open in the public can make things better, although it might not feel like it now. And it might help others in a similar situation.’
All she could do was stare at the wall and hold open the door.
‘I’ve left my card.’
She slammed the door behind him, and listened to his steps as he headed onto the street. She went to the window to make sure he’d really gone.
She was too upset to cry. She couldn’t stop pacing across the carpet, panic shutting down any thoughts or response to the news, her brain looping back to the end of their conversation.
He’s done it before. The bastard’s done it before.
She dropped onto the sofa, face down into a pillow, the card belonging to Vincent Clarke, Journalist on the arm, just on the edge of her vision. She finally broke down.
Chapter 27
James’s first thought was there was something wrong with Bompalomp. He’d come back to his desk from getting a coffee and saw the missed call from home, but no voice message or text saying ‘all well’, or that Suzanne was mad and she was back at work. That had set him on edge. He’d phoned back and the landline had been answered instantly, but there was a long pause before he heard a small, distant hello from his wife.
‘I got your call. Everything all right, darling?’
She didn’t say anything, but from the sound of her breathing on the line James could visualise Rebecca’s face: the way she’d bite on her bottom lip, and every muscle in her face would stiffen as she tried to control tears.
His nail pressed deep into the foam of his mouse-mat as he asked, ‘Is it the baby?’
Still there was nothing.
Angry and scared he asked again.
‘It’s not the baby,’ she snapped back.
There was a pause and when she spoke again it was quieter.
‘It’s Dad.’
James was relieved and irritated all at once. If it was just Howard making an arse of himself again on his stupid campaign, this could be managed easily enough. He was so frequently coming up with bold statements and stupid schemes that to James it had become a wearying part of everyday life. It almost seemed normal. He sometimes wished Rebecca could see it the same way…
‘What’s he done now? He’s not been calling in to LBC again has he?’
‘This isn’t the first.’
‘What?’
‘This isn’t a first offence. He’s done it before.’
‘He’s…what? He’s told you this? How do you know, what did he say?’
‘I haven’t spoken to him. A journalist was here. At our house, James. When Suzanne was around. He said something about the other times. Up north.’
‘What the fuck was a journalist doing at our house? Was it your dad who sent him round ’cos I’ll have words.’
‘You’re not listening! He’s done it before…’
‘Other arrests?’
‘I suppose. I didn’t ask. I just threw him out of the house.’
‘Good for you, darling,’ he said softly, ‘well done.’
‘I don’t know what it means,’ said Rebecca through tears.
I’ve got a fairly good idea of what it means, thought James.
‘Look, who was this journalist anyway? What paper was he with? Do we know if he’s even telling the truth? He could just be fishing…’
‘He’s a freelancer. Said he was writing for the Standard.’
‘There you go, then. He was probably just trying his luck. Seeing what your reaction would be?’
She didn’t answer, neither of them really convinced by James’s positive interpretation of events.
‘Are you OK? Do you need me to come home?’
‘I’ve got to go to work anyway.’
‘If that’s what’s best for you. Don’t get yourself too stressed.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Suzanne.’
He could hear the first signs of a smile in her voice, and felt another surge of protectiveness towards her.
‘Listen, what’s the name of this guy? I’ll go and speak to Dad after work, see what he might know or can find out about him. And then I’ll call him myself. I
’m not having him upset my wife like this.’
‘Don’t, James…’
‘He can’t just get away with doorstepping people like this. It’s not on.’
‘Please, don’t. It’ll only make things worse. And anyway I was able to get that message across on my own, thank you.’
James remembered it wasn’t always the smartest to get too macho and male with his wife.
‘Did you give him one of your looks?’
‘I spoke to him in a tone I usually reserve for council officials dilly-dallying on planning applications.’
‘Oof. He’ll be too scared to show his face again,’ he said. ‘Are you all right, really?’
‘A bit shaken up. Like you say, he was probably just chancing his arm. Everything was fine on the check-up.’
James wasn’t convinced.
‘Really, I can come home if you like.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
They said goodbye, and James promised to bring emergency treat supplies home, along with a takeaway, after he finished at his parents. Despite his worry, he was privately a bit relieved he didn’t have to go home. He could just imagine it would have sparked a huge amount of form-filling, and explaining to Robert the boss, and the dole, why there was an unauthorised absence. It’d probably set him back weeks. And when he got there, there wouldn’t have been anything he could actually do that would help anyway.
But bloody hell. It looked like Howard really had done it. That was a complication he didn’t really need now.
By lugging around his paperwork and squatting at the desk of anyone who called in sick each day, or ‘hot-desking’ as they liked to call it, James had been able to get a proper log-in for the computer system and get online. Spurred on by the crappy work he was doing, he had finally started doing some proper applications. But the results had not been good. The first time he got a knockback for a job that was frankly a lot less prestigious than the one he’d lost, he was surprised, but fine with it. He figured maybe he looked over-qualified. The second time it happened he began to worry. He’d been concerned about background checks, he hadn’t worried that he wouldn’t be able to even get an interview. More bad news had come in when a speculative email he’d sent to a local accountancy had come back with a ‘we’ll keep you on file’ response.
He was never going to get anything.
He wasn’t sure what to do, how to deal with the situation.
In a rush of panic he could see everything going on in his life crashing together. Big fights between the Winfields he’d be stuck in the middle of. The potential for this story to really hit big in the papers, probably worsening his chances of getting a job. Rebecca just becoming this emotional mess with a new baby in a house that was nowhere near ready and baby-proofed for its arrival. A baby that would probably spend all its time screaming and crying and they’d have no idea what to do with it. Their money running out, and all the debts to pay crashing in.
He remembered some of his own childhood’s changes of town or country, which had happened suddenly and unexpectedly to him. He realised maybe that was his parents doing a flit when the rent got behind or when they’d borrowed too much, putting them back on the road in the camper van. It felt like it was happening again, and all because of Howard.
His face flushed as every problem chased the last around his head, with every thought sparking another worry, like a council tax bill that needed paying, or that the car needed a service. Or that he used to be able to keep on top of this stuff and do a difficult job and now, when it was really needed, he was turning into his parents.
He was reaching a point where he thought he was just going to have to stand up and make a bolt out of the office just to clear his head when an internal message came in.
I was right. He made Escape From New York before The Thing. You were wrong.
It was Gemma. When he’d been grabbing his coffee they’d continued a long-running argument about horror movies, and today the subject had turned to John Carpenter movies. He knew she was right about the movie chronology, two minutes after he’d disagreed with her, but he wasn’t one to back down just because he was wrong. Especially not to a woman like Gemma. Apart from her annoying habit of calling him ‘Monty’ after his Pythonesque wardrobe mix-up on the first day in the office, she was a bit of a lifesaver around the office. Her attitude helped him act like his being there wasn’t such a big deal.
He couldn’t believe how rude and surly she was to Robert. It was a revelation to him. And she got away with it! If anyone had tried something like that in his old job, some sort of confidential ‘voluntary redundancy package’ would be on their desk by the end of the week. She happily lied about work she’d not done, and seemed entirely unfazed that no one believed her. Everybody seemed a bit afraid of her. And now she was giving James a hard time over his specialist subject of horror movies. He wasn’t going to settle for that. He tapped in his response.
All right smartarse. But I’m pretty sure I got the order of release right for Halloween 1, 2, and 3.
He lingered slightly before sending the message. A small twang of guilt. It was OK, he was pretty sure. There’s nothing suggestive about it. He’d done what he could to help. He’d offered to go home, but Rebecca was already at work. There was nothing he could do here, except get on with his brain-deadening data entry, and try not to think about the better jobs he wasn’t even getting a sniff at. He sent the message, and tried to get back into work, his mind now distracted by movie trivia and good put-downs he could use if he needed them the next time a quiz question came up. Another message pinged in.
Halloween 3 wasn’t even a Carpenter movie so irrelevant. Wrong again. You’d better shape up by lunchtime.
Oh she was annoying. Perhaps he could go to Robert himself and try and get her fired.
Back in their home in Dollis Hill, Rebecca had phoned in saying she was going to be late, blaming Suzanne for messing up her appointment time. She felt bad about lying to work, and taking advantage of Bompalomp to skive, but she wasn’t ready for work yet.
She was going to go and see someone she really probably shouldn’t.
Chapter 28
Before Rebecca and James had got together, she’d had a short happy relationship with Ed, a boy she’d known since childhood. Unfortunately, the short happy relationship with Ed had only been a brief summer in the noughties, and had been preceded and followed by a generally unhappy time when they were together for reasons neither of them could ever satisfactorily explain.
Rebecca often thought they’d got together out of geographical convenience, and stayed together out of inertia and fear of loneliness. Ironically, it was probably the loneliest time in Rebecca’s life. Saying they stayed together was probably a stretch in itself. They would never irrevocably break up, but there would be plenty of times they’d row, and not speak for weeks or even months, and times when they would sit down and agree maturely it wasn’t working and perhaps they needed a break. This would last until one or the other would get in touch again to suggest a friendly drink, and the whole thing would start again.
It was a difficult relationship to explain to people. She’d start to tell someone, and the ‘aw, childhood sweethearts’ replies would start, but they’d been little more than aware of each other’s existence during their childhood. In the same big secondary school, but in entirely different classes and circles. Occasionally they’d be at political or charity fund raisers and gatherings, or neighbourhood barbecues together. The kind of event when they were teenagers that they would rather pretend they weren’t at. There was an unspoken pact for all the older children at these events that they would not be spoken of in school, and that while they were at them they would do each other the decency of pretending the others didn’t exist rather than speak to them.
They’d been in their twenties before they got together for anything more than a snog, and that hadn’t even happened until they were both well into the rhythm of flitting between home and university.
He wasn’t even that good-looking, just a little taller than she was, skin still recovering from the horrors of adolescence, and nothing really to separate him from the mass of teenage almost-men of that time, except perhaps he was a little bit cleverer. Some relationships start with a spark, here it was more a gradual build-up of friction after a prolonged period of rubbing together.
Then one summer, before Rebecca started law school, and Ed had been waiting to start a PhD in medieval history, the relationship got more serious. Maybe it had been because a lot of the people they both knew were getting started in proper jobs and careers, while they had basically more of the same student life to come. Maybe it was because it had been such a gloriously hot summer, and the sunshine and long days sitting in the park, just the two of them talking, brought them closer than they had ever been. But probably it was because, at an age that made her blush with embarrassment now, Rebecca was finally at a point where she felt comfortable with sex and her own sexuality. For that summer – when her parents and Matty had been away on some kind of six-month consultancy contract her dad had got, she remembered – she’d discovered she did have at least something of a sense of adventure.
It had been a summer of instruction books, her with Jamie Oliver cookbooks trying to make grown-up meals for dinner parties with her friends, him with a Lover’s Guide he’d snuck out of the library and was researching as diligently and studiously as he would a monk-scribed parchment. Rebecca remembered the time now with a combination of fondness and embarrassment at how immature they probably seemed as they tried to act so grown up.
The longer lasting legacy of that summer, though, had nothing to do with Ed directly. He was, she knew, still single, but spent most of his time on university projects in parts of the Middle East where the ancient conflicts that still seemed to be filling the news had originally started. They didn’t talk now, and only occasionally even remembered to send a Christmas card. The relationship that had lasted had been between Rebecca and Ed’s mum, Joan.
Joan had taken maternal interest in Rebecca, all alone in a big house by herself for those few summer months, which partly explained how they got close. But more than that she treated Rebecca like an adult, rather than someone who she could remember being a kid not so long before. And not, thank God, like someone who was trying to steal her son away from her.