by Lesley Kara
‘No, just a cup of tea.’
Mark offers to drive me home, and for a second or two I’m tempted. But his eyes have a slightly glazed look about them. For all I know, he’s been drinking too, and there’s something in his voice that gives me the impression he’d rather not, that Teri’s made him ask.
‘It’s okay, thanks. I’m only round the corner. It won’t take me five minutes.’
But as soon as the front door has closed behind me and I’ve walked to the end of their driveway, I wish I’d said yes. There’s something eerie about walking along Waterfield Grove in the dark. The silence is so thick it’s almost claustrophobic and all I can think of is that someone called Sally Mac is following me on Twitter.
I look over my shoulder, scan the street for signs of life, but it’s empty. Being followed on Twitter is not the same as being followed on the street. Of course it isn’t. And Flinstead has one of the lowest crime rates in the country. The odd bit of antisocial behaviour by bored teenagers or mindless beach-hut vandalism is about as bad as it gets.
Even so, I quicken my pace and, when I reach the seafront and see how empty it is, feel the brooding presence of the sea to my right, I’m glad I don’t have too much further to go. As I pass the derelict house, I find myself breaking into a little run. I don’t slow down till I’ve turned into Warwick Road and see my cottage up ahead.
By the time I put my key in the front door, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to come clean with Michael tomorrow. Tell him the rumour’s escalated and I’m partly to blame. I’ll show him Sally Mac’s tweets and tell him to rethink this book idea. I mean, if by some miracle he tracks her down, and if she agrees to being interviewed – and those are two big ‘if’s – it’s bound to create trouble. A backlash from the victim’s family. More sensationalist nonsense in the papers. Hateful comments online.
We’re so much less forgiving than we were back then. Or maybe not. Maybe the hatred was just as strong when Sally was released, but because there wasn’t any internet it wasn’t in the public domain so people didn’t get all riled up. The news caused a brief stir then faded away, got replaced by something else.
He won’t be happy, but he’ll get over it. And if he doesn’t … if he blames me for buggering everything up and we end up falling out over it, well, then, maybe us living together isn’t such a good idea after all.
At least I’ll know what’s more important to him: resurrecting McGowan, or Alfie and me.
16
When I get home Mum’s asleep on the sofa, my throw draped over her like a blanket. The TV is murmuring away to itself and there’s a full mug of tea on the coffee table. I touch it, expecting it to be lukewarm, but instead it’s stone cold.
I pat her gently on the arm. ‘Mum, I’m back.’
She opens her eyes and blinks at me. Then she gathers herself into a sitting position and yawns. ‘Hello, darling. I must have dropped off for a couple of seconds.’
She reaches for her tea, then frowns and puts it down again.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have dragged you out. Why don’t you sleep here tonight? I can make up the spare bed.’
She shakes her head. ‘Don’t be daft. Anyway, you know I prefer my own bed.’
I do know this. She’s told me often enough. When I lived in London and she used to come and stay, she always complained about the mattress: too lumpy. Or the pillows: too flat. She was never an easy guest, which is why living so close to her is ideal. We can drop in for friendly visits and not have to inflict ourselves on each other for long periods of time.
But tonight is different. I don’t tell her that I want her to stay. That I need her to. Just this once. Because then she’ll ask why, and I’ll have to tell her. She can be infuriatingly obtuse about Twitter, in that way some people are. I’ve tried to explain it to her, just like I’ve tried to explain it to Dave, but she just can’t see the point of it: ‘Why do you want to talk to a load of strangers about nonsense?’
And if I tell her about the rumour, she’ll be even more scathing. I’ll end up explaining about Michael and his book and him asking me if he can move in, and though I’ll have to tell her soon, I really don’t think I’m up for that conversation tonight. She’ll only make some kind of barbed comment about what’s going to happen when the book is finished, and the implication will be clear.
‘Shall I make you another cup of tea before you go?’ I ask her.
‘No, I’d rather get back, if you don’t mind.’
She kisses me on the cheek and I give her a hug.
‘Are you okay, darling?’ she says as we separate, her hands still resting on my shoulders. ‘You look a bit worried about something.’
She’s always been able to tell when something’s playing on my mind. But what can I say that won’t freak her out? I’m worried I’m being followed on Twitter by some woman who killed a five-year-old boy when she was ten. I’m worried that I’m complicit in the false accusation of Sonia Martins and responsible, at least in part, for ruining her reputation.
And I’m also worried that Michael has suddenly announced he wants to move in with me and Alfie and be a proper family. I’m worried that he’s pinning all his hopes on tracking Sally McGowan down and she’s going to get wind of this rumour and disappear before he has a chance to meet her. I’m worried that, if that happens, he’ll change his mind about living here and we’ll go back to how we were before. And I’m worried that if he does change his mind, we won’t be able to go back to how we were before. That we will, in effect, be over.
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’
At 3.47 a.m. something inside me snaps and I give up the effort to get to sleep. I sit up and switch the lamp on. My worries have mutated and multiplied like rogue cells and, though I don’t want to look at my phone, I find myself tapping it into life and swiping the screen till I see the Twitter icon. The little white bird, its beak open mid-tweet, its wings lifted in flight. Irrepressible.
I click on my followers. She’s still there. Right at the top of the list. Sally Mac @rumourmill7. My thumb hovers over her name, then presses it before I can change my mind. Judging by the new tweets, the last of which was posted just fifty-seven seconds ago, she too is finding it hard to sleep. I read them all, from top to bottom:
Rumours voiced by women come to nothing – Aeschylus
Rumour grows as it goes – Virgil
What some invent, the rest enlarge – Jonathan Swift
A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes – Mark Twain
And then there it is, the very first one:
Rumours can kill.
So they’re all literary quotes, apart from ‘Rumours can kill,’ which is a saying and impossible to attribute to anyone in particular, although of course someone, somewhere, must have said or written it down first. Should I read anything into that? That the very first tweet she sent is not a literary quote and that it’s shorter and more obviously threatening than the others?
Because I am. Clearly I am.
I get out of bed and put on my dressing gown, pull some socks on before padding downstairs, trying not to make the stairs squeak.
Three hours later, I’m standing at the kitchen window, watching the sun rise. The bones in my face ache from lack of sleep, and the headache that’s been hovering behind my eyes all night now flares out towards my temples and ebbs across the top of my skull. What would help, apart from the two ibuprofen I’ve just swallowed with yet another cup of tea, would be to walk on the beach. Let the sound of the surf lull my frayed nerves, the astringent smell of seawater scour my nostrils and clear my head.
It’s a tempting thought. Alfie never wakes till seven-thirtyish. I could be back before he even starts to stir. I miss my solitary early-morning walks. Before Alfie was born, I used to walk along the river towards Greenwich, buy a coffee before heading back. And when I was a teenager, living here, I’d sometimes get up early before school
and head down to the beach, walk along the shoreline if the tide was out. On a good day, I might get to see a Thames barge sailing by, or find something unusual that the tide had washed up: a pleasingly smooth pebble or a pretty shell for my collection, an unusually shaped piece of driftwood to hang from the picture rail in my bedroom.
But I’d never leave Alfie on his own in the house. Too many bad things could happen. He could wake up early and panic when he can’t find me. Trip over something and hurt his head. Fall down the stairs and land in a crumpled, broken heap at the bottom.
Or maybe he wouldn’t panic at all. Maybe he’d just get up and help himself to breakfast. But even then he might shovel too many cornflakes in his mouth and start choking.
Then of course there’s fire. My own worst nightmare. If a fire broke out, Alfie might not wake up at all. He’d be overcome by fumes as he slept in his bed. There are so many things that could go wrong. He could open the front door and go out on the street. Cross the road without looking and get run over. Or someone might see him, a beautiful little boy still in his Star Wars pyjamas, and pluck him into their arms. Drive off with him. An opportunistic abduction. And all because his selfish mother fancied an early-morning stroll on the beach.
No. There’s no way I’d do that. I’ll take the scenic route to work after I’ve dropped him off at school. Even five minutes on the beach is better than nothing.
I go into the living room and draw the curtains, settle down on the sofa with my iPad. Resisting the temptation to look at Twitter again, I find myself scrolling through more articles about Sally McGowan and stumble across a piece in the Guardian.
WITNESS PROTECTION: A LIFE SENTENCE
By Martin Knight
Wednesday, 12 March 2014, 01.35 GMT
Guardian
The UKPPS (United Kingdom Protected Persons Services) protects members of the public deemed to be at risk of serious harm, such as witnesses to organized crime (often criminals themselves), newly released high-profile murderers (particularly child killers or those who have aided and abetted them), or people in danger from honour killings. Martin Knight, whose documentary In Identity Limbo will be aired on Friday, 14 March on BBC Two, explores the psychological impact of adopting a new identity.
The inner workings of witness protection have always been shrouded in secrecy, and rightly so. What little we think we know is largely the result of various myths and clichés that abound in popular culture. One of these myths is that people in witness protection are set up for life at the expense of the state, enjoying material trappings that many think they do not deserve. The tabloid press does little to prevent the proliferation of such views. In reality, protected persons are encouraged to become financially independent as soon as they are able.
Being in witness protection is nowhere near as glamorous as a Hollywood movie. It’s been likened to a life sentence and often causes lasting psychological damage.
Imagine having to leave your old life behind at a moment’s notice: your family and friends, your possessions, your home – everything that defines you. Imagine being taken somewhere new and strange and having to learn about someone else’s life – their personal history, their family, the places they’ve lived – because that’s what you must now become: an entirely new person. There may only be a handful of people who know who and where you are. It’s hard to make friends because you can never be your true self with them, and the closer you get to someone, the harder it is to keep on lying.
‘Mummy? Mummy? Where are you?’
I rub my eyes and yawn. ‘Down here, darling. Come and have your breakfast.’
I heave myself out of the settee. The documentary was aired almost four years ago, but it might still be available to watch. I’ll have a look later. Maybe Michael and I can watch it together. That’s if I manage to stay awake long enough.
17
The sea is still, eerily so. A vast grey millpond as far as the eye can see. Despite the chill in the air, I have the urge to strip off and swim naked. Slip below the glassy surface and push into a long, gliding breaststroke. Feel the cold water slip against my skin like a silk sheet. But though the beach is empty apart from me and the seagulls, I’m far too conservative to take my clothes off in broad daylight on an exposed stretch of sand. Someone might come down the cliff path, a jogger or dog-walker, or someone else like me, drawn to the water’s edge, as humans have been since time immemorial. And anyway, I have to be at work in twenty minutes.
I follow the tideline and watch my trainers leave imprints on the hard-packed wet sand. There’s something dreamlike about this in-between space that straddles sea and land. Something magical. As I surrender to the two-beat rhythm of my steps, the muscles in my neck and shoulders unclench and the sensation of dread that’s been hanging over me since last night recedes like the tide. But it’s still there, lurking in the pit of my stomach. The tide always rises.
I’ve almost reached one of the groynes that divide the beach into sections – horizontal boards bolted into wooden uprights – when I spot a lone figure up ahead. A tall woman standing still and facing the sea. Something about her is familiar. Her height and posture, perhaps. Her hair.
As I draw closer, I see who it is and instinctively want to avoid her. But it’s too late for that. She has turned her head to one side and registered my approach. If I turn back now or swerve inwards, towards the sea wall and the promenade, it will be obvious I’m avoiding her. Perhaps if she weren’t a client, I wouldn’t care so much, but then, if she weren’t a client, I wouldn’t know her in the first place.
‘Good morning,’ I say, not knowing how she’ll respond, or even if she will.
‘Miss Critchley,’ she says, inclining her head towards me, almost smiling. Away from her house, she seems less hostile.
Her gaze returns to the horizon. ‘It looks different every day, doesn’t it?’ she says. ‘The sea.’
I can’t believe she’s actually initiated a conversation. I’m about to say that, yes, it does, when she speaks again.
‘I want to apologize,’ she says.
‘What for?’ Of course, I know exactly what she wants to apologize for. Her coldness. Her distinct lack of courtesy. But professionalism dictates that I act surprised.
‘It’s that house,’ she says. ‘It holds so many bad memories.’ She clears her throat. ‘Sometimes I think he’s still there.’ She laughs then. A dry, dismissive sound. ‘Even though I know for a fact he’s dead and buried.’
‘Are you talking about Mr Marchant?’ I ask, revising my theory from philandering ex-husband to philandering late husband.
Her head whips round. ‘Did you know him? My father?’
‘Your father? No. No, I didn’t. Sorry, I assumed you were talking about your husband.’
‘The house belonged to my father,’ she says. ‘I inherited it when he died.’
‘Oh, I see.’
We fall silent. I’m unsure whether the conversation has finished. I presume it has, and therefore I need to say goodbye and continue with my walk, but then I remember Anne Wilson’s request about viewing the house again with her builder. I’ve been dreading the phone call with Mrs Marchant, but maybe I can bring it up here. It might be easier now.
‘Anne Wilson wants to bring a builder to look at the house,’ I say. How can I phrase this? ‘If it makes things any easier, you don’t have to be there. You could drop the keys off and I’ll accompany them.’
‘She’s not going to change her mind, is she?’ Her voice is sharp. Anxious.
‘I don’t think so. At least, that wasn’t the impression she gave.’
‘What does she want to do, then?’
‘Just a few changes to the layout, I think.’
Susan Marchant tilts back her head and inhales deeply through her nose. ‘It wouldn’t bother me if she gutted it and started again. I have no emotional connection to the house. None whatsoever. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do have an emotional connection to it, but it’s not a health
y one, if you know what I mean.’
I don’t know what she means, but I’m guessing she had a difficult relationship with her father. An unhappy childhood, perhaps. I think of Sally McGowan’s early years. The awful things I’ve read.
‘You’ve heard that poem by Philip Larkin, I suppose?’ she says. ‘The one about your parents fucking you up?’ She turns slightly, to gauge my reaction, to see if I’m one of those people who take offence at the F-word. Plenty of those round here, I should imagine.
I nod and wait for her to continue.
‘My father abused me, sexually, for the best part of ten years. The worst part of ten years. And he did mean to.’
I’m shocked. Not at the bald facts of her confession, although of course all abuse is shocking. But I’m shocked at her coming out with it like that. To me, her estate agent, of all people. Down here on the beach.
But then, why shouldn’t she tell me? Why should she keep such horrors to herself? Why should anyone?
‘That’s horrible,’ I say, cringing at the lameness of my response.
‘I didn’t want the house in the first place,’ she says. ‘It’s a millstone round my neck. I just want to be shot of it.’ She sniffs. ‘I don’t want the money either. I’m giving it all to a charity for victims of abuse.’
Her eyes slide towards me. She almost smiles. ‘He’d have hated that.’
She takes a woollen hat out of her coat pocket and pulls it down over her head, stuffing her hair in at the sides.
‘I’ll drop the keys off later,’ she says. Her voice is brisk again. Businesslike. It’s as if the last minute never happened. As if she hasn’t just disclosed the deepest part of herself.
‘I’m heading to London this afternoon. I doubt I’ll be back until a few days before completion.’
She holds out her hand – a stiff and formal gesture. ‘Goodbye, Miss Critchley.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Marchant.’
We shake hands, then she strides off across the sand, head down, looking like a woman on a mission to get the hell out of this place as fast as is humanly possible.