Every Move You Make

by Deborah Bee

  ‘I know you did. And as I told you at the station,’ she sighs, ‘and again at the hospital, we need evidence. And at the moment, the evidence is not stacking up.’

  ‘I hate that phrase.’

  ‘Not adding up?’

  ‘And that one.’

  ‘Do you mind if I record our conversation?’

  She pulls out a tiny tape machine.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘It can’t be used in evidence. It’s an informal chat to help us figure out what’s going on.’

  ‘It sounds formal. You look formal with your tape-recorder and everything. Aren’t I supposed to have legal representation or something?’

  ‘You can have that if you want. That’s your right. But I’m not charging you with anything, Clare. It’s just an informal chat. And Celia is here.’

  ‘Not charging me,’ I say, trying to take that in. Why would she be charging me?

  ‘No,’ she says.

  I shrug.

  Fine.

  I think that.

  I don’t say that.

  Celia comes into the room, balancing two mugs of coffee and a ring binder.

  ‘Now, Clare, I haven’t made you a coffee, my love, because I know you’re not a big fan, so let me go and get you something else. A tea? I brought some lemon and chamomile? Rosehip? Or I’ve got a carton of Ribena in my bag?’

  Smiling, nodding, smiling, nodding.

  Rosehip tea!

  ‘Neat vodka?’ I say, thinking of Sally.

  Wishing she was here.

  Celia’s cardigan has a sheep on the pocket.

  A white fluffy cloud with a black face and two black legs.

  Is it normal for a grown woman to wear a cardigan with a sheep on the pocket?

  Do they wear these things to try to disarm you, in some way?

  ‘Nothing, thanks,’ I smile.

  Susan starts fumbling with the recorder.

  ‘Clare understands that we need to tape this for evidence, but that it’s an informal interview,’ Susan says to Celia.

  Celia’s looking at the floor.

  ‘We are here to try to help you, Clare, work out what happened over the last few weeks,’ Susan says, looking directly at Celia and unzipping her laptop from its neoprene case.

  ‘Do the last two years not count, then?’ I say.

  ‘And the last two years,’ says Susan, tapping the keyboard, bringing it to life.

  Back in control.

  ‘So, for the tape, Clare,’ she says. ‘This interview is being audibly recorded. We are in the Rose Room at York Gate Women’s Refuge, London NW1 4QG. The date is the fifteenth of April 2019 and the time by my phone is ten past nine in the morning. I am Detective Sergeant Susan Clarke, Community Support Adviser at Camden Police Station. Also present is Celia Barrett, acting caseworker for Clare Chambers. Do you agree that there are no other persons present?’

  I look at her.

  What is she doing?

  Why am I being treated like a criminal?

  You’re a worthless piece of shit.

  ‘Do you agree that there are no other persons present?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Please state your name and date of birth.’

  ‘I thought you said this was informal?’

  Celia shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

  She runs her finger around the neck of her sweater.

  Too high.

  Too hot.

  Itchy.

  Something.

  ‘This is informal,’ she says.

  ‘Please state your name and date of birth.’

  ‘You know my name and date of birth.’

  ‘For the tape,’ she says, sounding bored, tired, exasperated, furious . . . all those things.

  ‘Clare Chambers, twenty-sixth of March nineteen-ninety-six,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll have to say it louder,’ she says, resting her elbow on the table and her head in her hand, like she’s waiting, waiting . . .

  ‘Clare Chambers, twenty-sixth of March nineteen-ninety-six,’ I say, louder.

  ‘Since we last saw you, Clare, we have completed a thorough forensic investigation of the property at 289 Oval Road, Camden. This property is in your name, is that correct?’

  ‘You know that’s correct,’ I say.

  ‘Yes or no, for the tape,’ she says, looking at her screen, and conspicuously not at me. ‘During our investigations traces of blood were found on a unisex T-shirt in a laundry room at your home. The traces do not match your blood or that of your father. Do you know how the blood got there and whose it might be?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you able to inform us of the whereabouts of Gareth James in order that we can establish his blood type and rule him out of our investigations?’

  ‘You know I don’t know where he is! I just asked you that! This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Do you know his blood type?’

  ‘I’m not even sure I know his real name!’ I shout. ‘Look, Detective Sergeant Clarke, you seem to have changed your tune here. Last time I saw you, you were trying to help me! Arrest Gareth for consistent, long-term abuse, you said. That’s what you said. Now you seem to be saying he is the victim!’

  ‘Clare, calm down. CALM DOWN!’ Celia gets up and starts trying to pat my shoulder. ‘Let’s get you that cup of—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Celia. You! Susan! What’s going on? Explain to me what you’re doing.’

  Susan looks pained.

  ‘Clare. There is too much blood on that T-shirt for us to pretend that something serious hasn’t taken place there. Now, either you know about it or you don’t.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ she says.

  ‘Don’t you think I’d know if someone had died in my house?’

  Babe, it’s like this.

  Take the tablet, it’ll make you feel better.

  Here.

  Take it now.

  ‘OK, let’s hold that thought for a minute. Celia, get her some tea.’

  Celia is getting up.

  Then sitting down again.

  Up and down.

  Pulling faces at Susan.

  ‘Yes, now, Celia! Forget the tape,’ Susan says, getting even more annoyed.

  ‘But you said . . .’ says Celia.

  ‘Get the fucking tea!’ Susan shouts.

  ‘For the tape,’ I say.

  Susan gives me a long, hard stare.

  ‘Here’s the problem, Clare,’ she says, when Celia closes the door.

  She’s talking quietly.

  Not for the tape.

  ‘Number one, we have evidence of too much blood, way too much blood. Number two, we have a whacking great wedding photo of a very happy couple. Number three, Gareth’s journal is packed with information that is entirely at odds with what you’ve told us. Entirely. Number four, he’s got a whole mountain of emails that back up his side of the story.’

  Did I tell you, I used to work for the CIA?

  Yeah?

  I still do.

  I’m a sleeper.

  I’m a lone wolf, that’s what they call me.

  ‘And what is his side of the story?’

  ‘The emails appear to be to his various friends, many based in the US and Australia. Asking for money, basically.’

  ‘True to form.’

  ‘Money for you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘He says his new wife has been ill and he needs money for her medication, plus she’s spending money like it’s going out of fashion.’

  ‘His new wife?’

  ‘You.’

  Celia comes back in with a rosehip tea.

  It smells like sherbet.

  Hot raspberry sherbet.

  ‘I’m spending money like water, am I?!’

  ‘Profligate. Says you’ve had depression, an eating disorder, problems with substance abuse, and that you’re self-harming.’

  ‘Self-harming?’

  ‘Trying
to set fire to yourself, that kind of thing.’

  It’s not that I want to hurt you, babe.

  It’s just that I like to watch you hurting.

  And you do want me to be happy, don’t you?

  You do.

  Yes, you do.

  ‘And you know that’s not true, right?’

  ‘I believe that you believe it’s not true,’ she says.

  ‘You’re not pulling that stunt on me again,’ I say.

  ‘You need to help me here, Clare. Explain to me what has gone on.’

  I nod.

  ‘Clare. You need to help me.’

  I nod again.

  You want me to be happy, right?

  You’re my wife.

  That’s what wives do.

  Make their husbands happy.

  ‘The wedding photo doesn’t help your case.’

  ‘I told you about that. I explained to you all about that.’

  ‘Clare, we’ve been to the shop and interviewed the owner.’

  ‘Well, good, and . . . ?’

  ‘And the lady remembered your visit and commented on how charming your partner was.’

  She’s reading this off her laptop.

  ‘And so that makes me a liar?’

  ‘Why are you getting angry, Clare?’

  ‘I’m not angry.’

  You’re out of control.

  That’s the trouble, you can’t control your emotions.

  ‘She said that Gareth told her that you were being treated for being . . .’ she looks at her laptop again ‘. . . bipolar. That makes you . . .’

  ‘Manic, hypomanic, depressed, intolerant, aggressive?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘He got it out of a book,’ I say. ‘Living with Bipolar Disorder by Lynn Hodges. My mother had it. Died from it. Well, she committed suicide. But I’ve always thought she would still be here if she’d got the right help. They didn’t know what it was, back then. He’s always loved that book. Especially the bit about how bipolar occurs “five times more often in a person who has an affected close relative”.’

  ‘So, you haven’t been diagnosed as bipolar?’ says Susan.

  I shake my head.

  ‘For the tape?’

  ‘No. I have not.’

  ‘And your doctor would back that up, would he?’

  ‘What, Stephen?’

  ‘Dr Stephen Short. Psychiatrist.’

  ‘Stephen’s not a psychiatrist. He’s a nutritionist. He specialises in managing mood swings with natural herbs and supplements. He gave me vitamin shots and supplements. St John’s Wort. Kava Root. DHA. Omega 3 Fatty Acids.’

  ‘Consultant Psychiatrist MBChB, FRCPsych, Dip Psychotherapy.’

  ‘Well, maybe he did that too.’

  Vitamin shots changed my life, babe.

  Gave me so much energy.

  And you need something for your mood swings.

  Supplements.

  I’ve noticed you seem a bit low.

  ‘We can simply go and ask him, Clare,’ she says.

  ‘I wish you would,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait!’

  Steve’s a great guy. We go back, me and Steve.

  Remember?

  ‘OK,’ she says, looking at her laptop again.

  ‘OK what?’ I say. ‘Looking for some other shit to fling at me?’

  ‘It does you no favours being aggressive,’ sniffs Susan, flicking her eyes up from the screen. ‘The journal is perhaps the most damning piece of evidence, for you personally.’

  ‘How can something he scrawled in a notebook constitute evidence?’ I say. ‘He could have made it all up.’

  ‘It’s written evidence, apparently collated over a period of time, which describes a long-term pattern of abnormal behaviour characterised by unstable relationships with colleagues and friends, unstable sense of self and unstable emotions.’

  ‘Sounds like a textbook.’

  ‘That’s not what it says; that’s what it has been assessed as, by our psychology expert, Emma. You met her.’

  ‘Emma. I remember. Iron fist in a silk glove.’

  ‘I’ll read you an extract, if you like.’

  ‘Please, go ahead, read me an extract.’

  ‘Celia, you read it.’ Susan looks at Celia who nods. Susan settles back in her chair and folds her arms, looking at me.

  ‘October fourteenth, 2018. Today I was so upset to discover that my lovely Coco hasn’t been taking any of her anti-psychotic medication.’

  Anti-psychotics!

  ‘For god’s sake! They were vitamins, I told you.’

  But they made me feel too sick. Too sick.

  They’re both watching me. Susan nods at Celia and she continues.

  ‘I hate to admit it, even to myself, but she’s becoming increasingly out of control. All I said to her was we needed to go buy groceries. She had an episode and refused to leave the house.’

  All the while Celia is reading, Susan keeps her eyes fixed on me, seeing how I react.

  ‘I haven’t been to a supermarket in seventeen months,’ I say.

  ‘She even refused to get dressed, though Jesus knows we’ve got enough clothes from Net-a-Porter.’

  Net-a-Porter. I wish.

  ‘He won’t even let me use a computer,’ I whisper, almost pleading, ‘in case I’m on some dating website looking for a boyfriend.’

  They both look blank.

  ‘When I told her I would have to go get the groceries myself, she doused herself in paraffin and threatened to set herself on fire. This is the fourth time she has done this. It’s only a matter of time before something dreadful happens.’

  ‘Something dreadful,’ repeats Susan. ‘Doesn’t sound like the psychopath you keep describing. . .’

  Fuck.

  I don’t understand.

  I can’t remember.

  ‘I spoke with Stephen. He has been so kind. He explained that the symptoms of bipolar are brought on by seemingly normal events, but going for groceries seems like about the most normal thing in the world. I don’t know what to do. Stephen says he’s going to prescribe some Ritalin for the depression. You have to take it regularly to prevent episodes of extreme anxiety. I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this. She’s so aggressive. So violent. Stephen says that’s all part of it.’

  I can’t catch my breath.

  Celia stops reading and looks up.

  ‘Clare – look at me, Clare,’ says Susan.

  ‘Just because it’s written down doesn’t make it true!’ I gasp.

  Because this is too frightening.

  I can hear him laughing.

  I’m plausible, babe.

  You know what that means?

  It means women can sniff out a good lay.

  ‘I mean, you don’t honestly believe that, do you?’ I say. ‘He doesn’t even sound like that. He would never have said: “I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.” Psychos don’t admit defeat. When did you ever hear a psycho talk like that?’

  ‘Clare, you’re the only one who says he’s a psychopath. Everyone else—’

  ‘Who is everyone else, exactly? Some woman in a dress shop that he could have shagged for all I know? He shagged almost every woman he met.’

  ‘Everyone says he was a really nice guy. Very charismatic. There were a couple of barmaids in the—’

  ‘I’ll bet there were. And they loved him, right? Got it.’

  I feel sick.

  ‘Why would I douse myself in paraffin, DS Clarke? Why would anyone douse themselves in paraffin?

  ‘Or ruin their hands with bleach?’ she says.

  ‘Bleach?’ I say.

  ‘Bleach,’ she says, looking at me oddly, and reads from the screen.

  ‘January twelfth, 2018. Clare wants me to go get some household bleach. She says that the house needs to be sterilised. All the surfaces. Plus, the floor. Says she even wants to sterilise my shirts. I come back with a bottle of bleach,
like the normal stuff you get at the grocery store, and she goes mental and says I have to go buy industrial quantities of the stuff so she can get the house spring-cleaned. I buy her gloves but she won’t wear them. It’s like she wants to hurt herself. I’m so worried about her hands. Typical bipolar. She can’t help what she inherited from her mother. I love her so much. I just hope she’s going to get better with my help.’

  ‘Jesus, tell me you’re not believing this shit,’ I say, starting to cry.

  Not sorry for myself.

  Just frustrated.

  Hot.

  Too hot.

  Sick.

  Babe. Can you hear me? Babe?

  Did you especially like the bit about the gloves, babe? What did you think, babe?

  And the bleach? Only a really fucked up person buys that much bleach. A fucked up person with an awfully big cleaning up job to do.

  Babe. Can you feel them closing in on you?

  ‘Go away. GO AWAY!’

  I’m shouting. I can’t breathe.

  ‘Clare?’ Susan says. ‘Clare! Celia, get her some water. She’s having a panic attack.’

  ‘GO AWAY.’

  ‘CALM DOWN. CLARE!’

  ‘GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE.’

  I’ll always be right here with you, babe.

  I’m sick.

  He’s here.

  In my fucking head.

  ‘GO AWAY!’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere, Clare,’ Susan says.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  She doesn’t understand.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Not you. HIM.’

  Thirty-Eight

  Sally

  When I saw Clare legging it up the stairs, half of me wanted to leg it up there right behind her, and the other half was thinking, well, at least I can get half a bloomin’ chance to talk to Sue without anyone seeing, if you know what I mean. Then when I saw Sue, white as a sheet, walking through reception like a zombie, I thought, well, this ain’t gonna get me very far.

  ‘Forget it, I’m knackered,’ she goes.

  ‘What do you mean, forget it? I need to talk to you. I didn’t even speak to you all of yesterday.’

  ‘You’ll have to come to me,’ she goes. ‘At the station.’

  ‘I thought it weren’t safe for me to put my nose out the door, let alone come to the station.’