It would.
I take a few steps forward, the water up to my thighs.
I breathe in.
My waist.
I close my eyes.
It’s quiet. All I can hear is the sound of the water.
A wave crashes into me, knocking me backwards. My head hits the ocean bed. It’s surprisingly hard. There’s water everywhere. I can’t breathe.
Just let go.
Mummy. I never told her how sorry I am.
She’ll understand.
Addi. Roy.
I’m the only one who knows he didn’t do it.
They want you to be at peace.
No. They need me.
I struggle to stand up. The waves are too strong. The world contracts; it refocuses.
I don’t want to die.
The waves roll forward, dragging me further. A moment of calm as the sea prepares its next assault. I use all my strength and push myself to my feet. My head breaks the surface and I take in a deep gulp. Clean, fresh air. The water is up to my shoulders. I can still make it back.
I can see another wave approaching.
Things will never get better.
This is the only way out, the easiest way out.
Just close your eyes.
‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’ I scream out loud. I stagger backwards, then turn and break into a run away from the water.
I collapse on the sand, panting. I stare at the waves. The tide washes away my footsteps in an instant.
For a moment, all I can hear is the waves. It unnerves me. Then I get it, they’re gone.
The voices are gone!
I have barely let out a sigh of relief when they start again. I close my eyes and push my fingers into my ears but it’s getting too loud inside my head.
Why won’t they go away?
Breathe.
I open my eyes. I lower my hands. I listen.
Just breathe.
You can do this.
I smile. This time the voice is mine.
ROY
Sunday, 20th December
After the argument, I stormed out of my father’s house and straight into Ajay and Rahul’s flat in Green Park. I was seventeen; how dare he try to tell me what to do? Didn’t he know how difficult it was to get into Columbia? Did it not matter that I hated med school? Did I not matter? I hurled questions at my friends and they passed me beers. You’re awesome, man. Chill. Parents don’t get it. Here, I’ll cut you a line. You’ll win a fucking prize one day. Pul-something, what’s that prize called? I nodded along, the cocktail of drugs and booze softening my edges. Fuck him. I was going to make it on my own. More beer. Coke. Grinding in nightclubs. An endless summer. Girls. Have you got a hit? Not here, come with me. A bathroom somewhere. My first time. I didn’t last. It’s the coke. Always blame the coke. Here, have more. Better the next time, Rahul’s classmate, Ajay’s sofa. Much better. More booze. Parties. Girls. A friend, a tourist, someone’s cousin, no names register, the faces blur. They all want the same thing.
Then the email from Columbia. There are no scholarships this year. My father laughing. Go back to med school. Fuck that, man. Writing can’t be taught. You’re a natural. Have some more. Cut me another line. Suddenly sober. We’ve run out. Call Karan, we need more.
Karan honked downstairs. He called the dealer and set it up. We drove to Hauz Khas Village. The smattering of artist studios and designer shops shut down at six and then the dealers and junkies came out, the columns of the derelict fort the perfect spot for a fix, and with a view of the lake to top it all. We picked up a bottle of rum and some more beers on our way. Ajay and Rahul waited by the lake while Karan and I went to meet the dealer. We cut two lines and I slipped the bag in my pocket. We wandered back to the lake. We could hear Ajay and Rahul singing all the way from the fort. Tu cheez badi hai mast mast. I can still hear them, drunk and slurring, eating up half their words.
It was so dark, I could barely see. The coke had kicked in, it was good stuff, and everything was blurry; the stars were flashing green and blue at me, an open-air disco. Rahul and Ajay came into focus, their backs to us. Rahul was thrusting, his beer abandoned at his feet, and Ajay was cheering him on. Drunken bastard. Karan laughed. We were a few paces away when I saw the shape in front of Rahul. A girl, young, must be fourteen or fifteen, dressed in rags. She was cowering on the floor, her back pressed up against the fence circling the lake.
‘Rahul, what the fuck, man?’ I said. I could hear Ajay and Karan laughing in the background.
He turned and I saw he had his dick out. The arsehole was wanking off on her.
‘Leave her alone, man. She’s a kid.’
‘Dude, I’m just having some fun.’ He turned to look at me, staggering.
Her leg came out of nowhere. He fell back and she jumped up. By the time any of us realized what was happening, she had picked up his beer bottle and smashed it. She was waving it at Rahul, hurling abuse at him, threatening to kill him. He nudged away, half sitting, half lying on the floor. Calm down, we’re leaving, okay, we’re leaving, Karan hollered, while Ajay and I dragged Rahul back to his feet.
She was doing a kind of kabaddi step, bent down into a half-squat and moving from side to side, pointing the bottle at each of us in turn. She was guarding her space, lunging out every few seconds to make sure we retreated.
The high disappeared. My heart plummeted. I don’t remember being that scared ever before or since.
We stepped back slowly.
Karan kept speaking, moving back little by little so Rahul was at the front again.
Rahul turned to us and smirked. ‘Hot hai, saali. And I haven’t even touched her yet.’
He was still laughing when she leapt at him.
Someone screamed and we all ran. Karan was way ahead of us; he had the car up and running. Rahul was behind him. He was laughing manically, blood dripping down his arm.
I tripped. They were screaming at me to hurry, all three of them in the car by then. She was only a few feet away. I got up and ran towards the car. I could hear the engine running. Almost there. I willed my legs to speed up.
A sharp pain in my shoulder. I screamed. I flipped around and there she was. I snatched the bottle from her hand. I shoved her into the wall on my left and dug the glass into her neck.
I don’t know what I heard first, the crack of her skull or her gasp, that quick release, before she fell to the floor, blood colouring her grey kurta red, a distorted mess in an alleyway.
I dropped the bottle and turned to run to the car but they were gone.
I was sitting next to her when my father arrived. I didn’t mean to, I sobbed, as I watched him pick up the bottle and throw it in the lake.
I didn’t mean to, I repeated on loop, as he drove me home and to the airport the next morning.
I didn’t mean to.
MIA
Sunday, 20th December
I lock the doors and switch on the ignition. The heating blasts into life. I turn the vents towards me and strip down to nothing, dumping my wet clothes in the back. I find a set of used but dry underwear, a jumper and some jeans in my bag. That’ll have to do for now.
I turn on the radio and rummage through my bag for my phone. I have a few messages from George, a voicemail from James asking me to call him back immediately, and fourteen missed calls from unknown numbers.
‘. . . A thirty-one-year-old Indian man, Siddhant Roy Kapoor, has been charged with the murder of student Emily Barnett. He is due to appear at the Westminster Magistrates’ Court on Monday for the initial hearing. In a statement issued . . .’
I turn it off. I can’t believe it. I place the phone on the seat and grip the steering wheel, trying to decide where to go. The contract for the house sale catches my eye and I pull it out of my bag.
I can’t keep putting this off. I find a pen and skim through it, signing at the bottom right-hand corner of every page. Done. I’ll go to James’s, I decide. I put the car in reverse, then jerk to a stop
. I scroll through my phone until I find the email from Phil. I run through the chain of ownership on the Eastbourne house, skimming through the names. David F. Parker, Laurel B. Smith, Alice Doughty. I double-check the buyer’s name on the contract I just signed.
Alice Doughty.
It’s too much of a coincidence. I stare at the contract till the letters begin dancing, jumping, rearranging themselves.
The picture from Roy’s iPad pops into my head. She wouldn’t even have realized she was in it.
I rummage through my bag and fish out the estate agent’s card. I ring the number at the back.
‘Hello.’
I hesitate.
‘Hello? Who is this?’
I take a deep breath. I have to do this; I know I do.
‘Hi, it’s Mia Kapoor. I need your help. The buyer, Alice, what does she look like?’
I hang up and rest my head on the wheel. I can’t believe it. I found her.
I found Celia.
ROY
Monday, 21st December
The journey from the police station to the Magistrates’ Court takes little over twenty minutes, but it’s twenty minutes of bumps, jerks, swerves and breaks. The van turns a corner and I sway sideways on the bench.
The two guards across from me smile and hold on to the bar behind them, ‘Almost there,’ the one with an elaborate tattoo snaking up his neck says and I nod.
Aren’t tattoos better suited to armed robbers than coppers?
I turn my head to look outside. The high window offers glimpses of London as we drive through. It’s all grey. Grey blocks of council flats, grey sky, grey drizzle trickling down the windowpane. Even the iconic red London double-decker looks a dirty maroon when seen through the tinted glass. I wonder if this is what my life will be like from now on? Endless versions of the same day, the same view, the same food, again and again and again.
As we approach the court, we are greeted by a bevy of press people waiting behind barricades on either side of the street, their cameras flashing pointlessly at the darkened windows as we whizz past, sirens blaring, into the heavily guarded rear entrance. I am hustled out of the van without ceremony and the walk to the court cells is somber in contrast, no cameras or microphones, just a long dark corridor and the sound of metal doors opening and closing.
Nothing happens today. The Mags, as Alistair calls it, will hear the case and send it on to the Crown Court. Murder doesn’t fall within their jurisdiction. I will be remanded in custody until the judge at the Crown Court is ready to see me. It’s unlikely I will be granted bail, he has explained.
Do you remember that afternoon, my love, when we walked from Blackfriars to the cafe near St Paul’s? You pointed out the Old Bailey when we passed it. I asked you how you knew and you shrugged. I like old buildings, you said.
Had you known then that I would end up there? Had you been planning it?
There is this strange heaviness in the centre of my chest. It appeared when Alistair told me the only Celia Brown he could find was an old woman in a care home, and it has stayed lodged there firmly since, twisting itself around my heart. It’s the sting of betrayal. I trusted you and you destroyed me.
I wonder if this is how Mia felt.
When she found out about Emily, Mia asked me when I had made the decision to betray her. It wasn’t a choice I made, Mia, I yelled, not everything is a decision. Some things just happen.
But it was a decision, wasn’t it? Having a drink with Emily after pack-up, leaving the party to wait for a taxi in a dark alley with her, going to her hotel in the middle of the night, taking her to the maze. It was a series of insignificant choices, innocuous if viewed separately, but each of them leading me here, to this moment, held in an airless cell, charged with a murder I didn’t commit.
I wonder when it happened for you. When did you decide you were going to betray me? Was it quite early on, a plot you hatched when we first met, or did you, like me, make a mistake that you couldn’t come back from? Was it me that you were after all along or am I just collateral damage in some score you had to settle with Emily?
MIA
Monday, 21st December
Dorset
The door is green. A bright, primary green that reminds me of art class. I stare at it for a long time. It’s a solid wood door. No stained-glass panel or peephole. The curtains on the windows are drawn, affording not even a peek inside. I’ve driven like a maniac to get here, but now that I am here, it feels surreal. I worry I’ll burst into laughter. I turn around and look at the car. Still there. I can leave whenever I want. I’m the one in control here. I finger the little brass circle on the wall. It feels cool, springy.
Come on, you can do this.
I take a deep breath and press my finger down. A retro jingle fills the air, taking me back to summer afternoons and ice cream vans. I wait.
Nothing.
I am about to press the bell again when I hear footsteps. I lower my hood and step closer to the door.
The door swings open and I take another step forward, keeping my head bent low. I jam my foot in the door frame and then look up.
The only thing I have to work with here is the element of surprise.
She sways backwards, her already pale skin a deathly white, and I use her momentary confusion to push my way inside.
‘Hello, Celia,’ I say.
I pull my hood down.
I look straight at her.
‘Or do you prefer Natalie?’
I hear the sound of the door closing, locks turning, bolts going in. I spin around to face Natalie but her face is obscured by a shadow.
‘Did you think you’d just get away with it?’ I say.
She doesn’t respond. She turns towards the console table and slips a set of keys into the drawer.
My head buzzes. This doesn’t feel right.
‘Why did you do it?’ I go on. ‘All these years, I trusted you and you manipulated me. You destroyed my marriage, my confidence, everything. Why?’
I stop talking as my eyes take in the surroundings.
The drawn curtains, the solid door, the remote location.
Natalie steps out of the shadows.
It’s so obvious it’s unnerving.
None of this is to keep intruders out. It’s to keep hostages in.
She walks towards me and I take a few steps back.
She smiles. ‘You must be tired. It certainly took you a while to get here.’
I feel my bravado from earlier slip away. What have I got myself into?
‘Tea?’ she asks, taking my elbow and steering me inside. ‘Milk and one sugar, right?’
The kitchen is light and airy. Whitewashed walls. Wooden floor. There is a glass door opening directly into a small garden. No blinds or curtains on this one. She doesn’t need them here. The back of the house sits almost directly on the cliff edge and the sound of the waves crashing into rocks rings through the room. A mantra. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
The kettle boils. Natalie moves around in the kitchen, pulling out cups, teabags, biscuits, as if this is just a regular social visit. I stare at her. Her hair is different; the long black hair is gone. She’s a tousled redhead now. Alexa Chung meets Florence Welsh. I feel a giggle bubbling up inside me and I squash it. I remind myself that this is the same woman who has been manipulating me for years, who has so systematically ruined my marriage and framed my husband for murder. I remind myself that I am here to confront her, to claim my life back.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘What? Making tea?’
Her coolness is disorientating and I lose my train of thought. She finishes making the tea, squeezing each teabag out carefully, and sets my cup on the table along with a plate of biscuits.
My eyes flick up to the picture hanging on the wall to my left. It tugs at my brain. It’s the same anonymous beach I used to stare at while baring my soul to this woman. I’ve seen it somewhere else as well.
Natalie follows my gaze. ‘Gor
geous, isn’t it? I’ve always had a thing for the ocean,’ she says wistfully. ‘But then so have you.’
She leans back on the counter. ‘I know you have some questions, but why don’t you get comfortable before we speak?’ She smiles, the perfect hostess. ‘I’ll take your coat,’ she says, arm outstretched.
‘I’m okay,’ I say.
Everything about the way Natalie’s acting is bizarre but it’s her smile that terrifies me. ‘That wasn’t a request. Now, please.’
I slip off my coat and hand it over, straining to keep my expression blank. I watch as she checks the pockets, my heart hammering against my ribs. Even though I am fully clothed, I have never felt as exposed.
She shakes her head. ‘I knew I couldn’t trust you,’ she says, pulling out my phone. She switches off the recording mode, and deletes the audio file.
She slings my coat over a chair and places my phone and keys behind her on the kitchen counter.
‘Sit down,’ she says, nodding towards the table.
I do as I’m told.
Natalie regards me for a minute, sips her tea, then says, ‘You know, when I was working on my dissertation, I came across an experiment they conducted in America in the eighties. An actor went up to a pedestrian and asked for directions. While the pedestrian was giving the directions, two men carrying a large wooden door passed between the actor and the pedestrian, completely blocking their view of each other for several seconds. During that time, another actor replaced the original actor. Different height, build, outfit, haircut, the works. They tried this on a few hundred people. Over sixty per cent of the participants didn’t even notice the substitution. People will ignore what’s right in front of them if it doesn’t tally with how they choose to see the world.’
She puts her tea down and looks at me. ‘Just think about it, if you can understand how people think, how their brains function, you can make them believe anything you want without them even realizing it. Isn’t it amazing? The only thing is, sometimes it can get boring if it’s too easy. And you and Roy, you were both so easy. But then Emily came along, and that girl, she was a challenge. She put the fun back in it.’
Your Truth or Mine? Page 25