Every Move You Make

by Deborah Bee

  ‘Was she originally referred to you, Dr Short? It would really help to know that,’ interrupts PC Chapman.

  DS Clarke nods.

  ‘No, Gareth’s a really old friend. We knew each other in high school.’

  ‘And you saw Clare as a personal favour to Gareth, is that right?’ says DS Clarke.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, although I kind of felt I’d bitten off more than I could chew with Coco,’ he says, nodding gravely.

  ‘Oh really?’ says DS Clarke, taking out a pen and pad.

  ‘Yes, do write this down,’ says Dr Short, trying to take control, thought DS Clarke. ‘Her symptoms are paranoia, extreme mood changes, high mania and low depression, displayed as impulsive behaviours, agitation, feelings of worthlessness and suicide, hearing voices as well as believing she has super powers.’

  ‘What kind of super powers?’

  ‘That she can feel no pain. She regularly self-harms. Gareth had a hell of a time, poor guy. She attacked him many times. She even tried to set herself on fire. More than once . . .’

  ‘And hearing voices?’

  ‘So she said. In the last six months alone, we’ve tried Lithium, Sodium Valproate, Olanzapine and Quetiapine,’ he says, ‘though not all at the same time,’ he says and smiles. ‘Without Gareth as her full-time carer, I doubt she’d still be here. Without the strict dosage required to manage her illness, well, that’s what prevented the onset of mania.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that, Doctor Short,’ says DS Clarke as she gets up to leave. ‘Just one thing occurs to me . . .’ She smiles, that tight-lipped smile she reserves for people she really doesn’t like. ‘How come she’s fully functioning now, when she’s not on her strict dosage?’

  ‘Well, I-I don’t know, I’m sure,’ says Dr Short, momentarily undone.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the vitamins she’s taking,’ she says, smiling again.

  ‘You do know you’re dealing with a highly manipulative individual, don’t you, Detective Sergeant Clarke? She seduces people into believing her. She plays the victim. But watch out. It’s all just a game to her.’

  ‘Do you happen to know where Mr Gareth James is now, Dr Short?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m actually very concerned about him.’

  DS Clarke and PC Chapman exit the building and climb into the waiting Vauxhall Astra.

  ‘Do you know what Dawn?’ says DS Clarke. ‘I think I’m getting a little bit bored with our little friend Coco.’

  Forty-Six

  Clare

  ‘Susan, what ya doing?’ says Sally.

  Susan’s just walked into our sitting room.

  ‘Clare Chambers,’ she says, standing outside my bedroom door, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Gareth James. You—’

  ‘Sue, what you doing?’ shouts Sally.

  There are two officers with her. I haven’t seen them before. Two male officers and Celia.

  ‘. . . do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence . . .’

  ‘Sue, you’re making a mistake!’ shouts Sally.

  ‘. . . if you do not mention, when questioned . . .’

  They come right over to my bed and haul me up.

  ‘. . . something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sue, you don’t have to put handcuffs on her. She’s a kid!’

  They yank my hands behind my back and clip some handcuffs on me.

  Babe!

  You hear me, babe?

  What’s that remind you of, honey?

  Gareth’s laughing at me.

  ‘Do you understand?’ she shouts in my face.

  ‘Take her to the station, PC Corkett, I’ll follow you there.’

  ‘Let her put her fucking shoes on!’

  ‘Come on now, Clare, put your . . .’

  You don’t want to go out without your shoes on, babe.

  Think of your feet.

  ‘Clare!’

  What’s everyone saying?

  I can’t hear.

  Falling down the stairs.

  Kitty’s face.

  Staring.

  ‘. . . gonna be back soon . . .’

  Down the stairs.

  ‘. . . doesn’t know yet,’ says Celia.

  ‘. . . need to do my pictures!’

  ‘Go to your room, Kitty,’ shouts Mrs Henry.

  Through reception.

  Prashi starts crying.

  Abigail and Sian.

  By the door.

  Whispering.

  ‘She didn’t do it!’ yells Abigail.

  The front door buzzes.

  Dark outside.

  Buzzing stops.

  Click.

  Back of car.

  Click.

  No air.

  Radio buzzing.

  Voices.

  Celia.

  Looking out the window.

  Given up.

  Click.

  ‘Your name is Clare Chambers.’

  I nod.

  A different room.

  ‘Please answer for the tape!’

  ‘Yes, I guess, but . . .’ I say. She interrupts. There’s a camera in the corner. And a policeman by the door. Eyes forward.

  ‘You were born on the 26th March 1996.’

  She looks at me. Cold.

  I nod again.

  ‘For the tape!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have been arrested and brought here today because we believe that you may have had something to do with the disappearance of a Mr Gareth James, of 289 Oval Road Camden, NW1 4BS.’

  The policeman by the door is watching out of the corner of his eyes. Our eyes meet and he blushes.

  ‘Do you wish to speak to a legal adviser now, or have one present during the interview?’

  She’s eyeballing me.

  Babe. Tell Susie Sue you don’t need a legal adviser, babe. You haven’t done anything.

  Only guilty people get legal help.

  ‘Clare?’

  She sighs.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘No, what?’ she says, looking round the room to see if everyone else is as exasperated as she is.

  ‘What was the question, again?’

  ‘Do you wish to speak to a legal adviser now, or have one present during the interview?’

  ‘I don’t need a legal adviser. I’m innocent.’

  She raises her head sharply.

  God, Susie’s a right fucking bitch!

  ‘No, for the tape,’ I say, before she can.

  She breathes out slowly.

  ‘At the conclusion of this interview, I will give you a notice explaining what will happen to the tapes and how you and or your solicitor can get access to them.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  She clicks on her keyboard.

  ‘On the tenth of April, there is evidence that a crime took place at property 289, Oval Road, Camden, NW1 8BS. Traces of blood were found at the property, specifically on a white T-shirt and also in the kitchen area. There is evidence that an attempt had been made to remove the blood, using household bleach.’

  Boring fucking bitch.

  ‘Receipts,’ she says, looking up again, ‘from HP Dunlop hardware store on Mount Pleasant Road, indicate that four five litre bottles of household bleach were delivered to the address on the twenty-seventh of March, twenty-eighteen. Is that correct?’

  I shake my head. I don’t know about any bleach. Bleach was his thing.

  Tell Susie Sue to get on with it.

  ‘For the tape, Clare is shaking her head. We found traces of bleach on your skin and on your dressing gown.’

  Bathrobe, babe.

  Tell her it’s called a fucking bathrobe!

  ‘Did you use the paraffin simply to mask the smell of the bleach, Clare. Is that it?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘We found a receipt for the four bottle
s of bleach hidden in your bathroom cabinet. Do you deny knowledge of this?’

  That was me, babe.

  They need to be detecting. It’s what they do.

  Bet Susie Sue was wetting her pants over that.

  ‘This morning we located an eight-inch carving knife, in the garden of the property, with traces of blood that match the blood found in the kitchen and on the T-shirt, which we believe may belong to Gareth James.’

  Yadda yadda yadda

  Just say yes and you can get out of there.

  ‘And we have spoken to Dr Stephen Short, of 23, Harley Street, London W1G 6AD, who confirms that he has been treating you for eighteen months, for Bipolar Disorder.

  Good old Stevie.

  Atta boy.

  ‘He’s a nutrition doctor . . .’ I say.

  ‘A Harley Street Psychiatrist,’ Susan says. ‘There’s a big sign on the front door.’

  Susie’s just bullshitting you, babe.

  She’s playing with your mind.

  ‘Let me tell you what I think happened that night, shall I, Clare?’ she says, pulling out a chair and sitting facing me. ‘Let me tell you what the circumstantial evidence suggests happened.’

  It’s just a game, babe.

  Someone has to win.

  Someone has to lose.

  ‘From what Dr Short says, Clare, Coco, whatever it is that you choose to call yourself, you have recently been forgetting to take your medication, either deliberately . . .’

  And we think deliberately don’t we, babe?

  ‘. . . or otherwise, which makes you unable to control your emotions.’

  You’re weighing me down, babe.

  ‘. . . so, you experience frequent emotional ups and downs . . .’

  And you never know when to shut up, do you?

  ‘. . . and become impulsive and suspicious. Dr Short reports that you believed that, despite having recently married you, Gareth was going to leave you for someone else . . .’

  I WISH.

  I think that.

  I don’t say that.

  ‘. . . do you have a comment you want to make, Clare?’

  Don’t tell Susie Sue anything.

  I shake my head.

  ‘. . . and according to Dr Short, it would be perfectly within your scope to believe that the only way to stop him was to kill him.’

  ‘And do what with the body?’ I say.

  Make it into chicken tikka masala? I love a chicken tickka masala.

  He’s laughing.

  ‘You tell me, Clare.’

  Oh, just tell her to fuck off.

  ‘Shut—’ I start.

  He’s doing my head in.

  ‘Clare? Shut?’ says Susan.

  She sure as hell don’t miss a trick, babe.

  ‘Go . . .’ I start.

  Because he’s still doing my head in.

  Baby, baby, baby.

  I’m all you’ve got.

  They don’t give a shit about you.

  I told you they wouldn’t.

  Told you no one would believe you.

  They just think you’re mental.

  Babe.

  You actually are fucking mental.

  ‘CLARE,’ shouts Susan, so suddenly that all of us jump out of our skins.

  ‘DO YOU HEAR VOICES, CLARE?’

  ‘NO!’ I shout back.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say more quietly.

  Babe.

  You can tell her about me.

  It’s OK.

  ‘No! I don’t hear voices. Not at all.’

  Except mine, babe.

  ‘Clare!’

  I say nothing.

  Remember our song, babe?

  I can’t breathe.

  ‘Clare, can you please breathe normally?’

  You know the one.

  There’s no air.

  ‘Clare, you’re deliberately hyperventilating, Clare. Stop it!’

  Now, how does it go?

  ‘Celia. She’s passing out. Get her water. Quickly now. Someone get her some tea with sugar. Clare!’

  Oh, can’t you see . . .

  You belong to me . . .

  How my poor heart aches . . .

  ‘CLARE. Why are you humming?’

  Every step you take . . .

  Every move you make . . .

  Darker.

  Every vow you break . . .

  Sliding off the chair.

  ‘Celia! Get a medic in.’

  Don’t take me back to the hospital!

  I can’t get the words out.

  Every smile you fake . . .

  ‘On the floor!’ says Susan. ‘She’s fitting!’

  Every claim you stake . . .

  Darker.

  Shaking.

  ‘. . . faking!’

  ‘. . . can’t fake this kind of reaction. Breathe, Clare, come on! Clare, slowly now, slowly.’

  I’ll be watching you.

  Forty-Seven

  Sally

  Sue’s returning my call. About sodding time.

  ‘You can’t sleep either,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ she says. She sounds low.

  ‘Sue, I need to talk to you about Terry,’ I say, before she can get a word in.

  ‘Is she OK?’ she says.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine,’ I whisper.

  ‘She’s there, is she?’ she goes.

  ‘Yes. She’s here.’ And I think to myself, I don’t know where else she’d be, it was you that dropped her off.

  ‘What, in the same room?’

  ‘No, of course she’s not in the same room. I wouldn’t be talking to you if she was in the same room, would I? She’s asleep. I don’t know what you guys gave her, but she’s out cold.’

  ‘She had some kind of breakdown. She was singing to herself at one point. Talking to herself, and that was before they gave her the drugs. They just sedated her and took her to the hospital for a check. We decided that York Gate was the safest place for her, for now. She’s hypoglycemic. You should make sure she eats more. I thought you were on that.’

  ‘Maybe you should go easy on her,’ I say, because when they brought her back in, even Celia said she thought they were way too harsh.

  ‘I think I was too tough,’ Sue says quietly.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Terry!’

  ‘Sal, I’m at a loss to know what to do. On the one hand, she makes a totally convincing victim and Gareth sounds like the archetypal psycho. But without a walking, talking Gareth, that doesn’t work. And then Gareth, he also makes a convincing victim; blood everywhere, abandoned personal belongings, no sign of him in all the usual places, the emails, the journal, the knife . . .’

  ‘Knife? You didn’t tell me about a knife.’

  ‘Found this morning. In the garden.’

  ‘Clare’s garden? How come you missed that before.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Maybe someone put it there . . .’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Sal. I’ve heard enough conspiracy theories for one day.’

  ‘Just saying . . .’

  ‘And Clare looks like the archetypal personality disorder. But she’s not daft, Sal. She’s an intelligent girl. More intelligent than we’ve given her credit for, I think. What if she killed him, hid the body and then came crying to us to make it look like she’s the victim? Has she been starved, or is she anorexic? Is she emotionally unstable or emotionally manipulative? Is she terrified of being abandoned or a killer? What’s to say she didn’t plan this whole thing? Maybe she’s bipolar, maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s a narcissist. Maybe she’s a psycho.’

  ‘And maybe she needs help!’

  ‘Psychopaths who go around killing people don’t deserve to be helped.’

  ‘Some people would argue that point with you, Sue. They can’t help how their brains are. But that’s not her.’

  ‘I’m not bothered about their
brains, Sal. I’m bothered when they go around killing innocent members of the public.’

  ‘And Clare’s just that – an innocent member of the public who’s been set up.’

  ‘I hear she attacked Kitty again?’ she says.

  ‘You are actually kidding me,’ I say. ‘Kitty makes all that stuff up. She likes causing trouble.’

  ‘It’s been recorded that Clare acted highly aggressively towards her. Twice.’

  ‘I act highly aggressively around Kitty. She’s an animal.’

  ‘I’m being pressured to charge her. Either that or have her sectioned.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. The boss says we need to get some results – after all the shite with Liverpool prison, I need to get some results in one of these cases.’

  ‘Has anyone actually looked for Gareth, properly?’

  ‘We’re looking for a body now. If you’d seen what the Luminol spray picked up, you’d understand.’

  ‘But you don’t even know if it’s his blood.’

  ‘No, but the distribution pattern suggests a violent attack. It’s type O. She’s type A. It’s human. It’s the same blood on the knife and her prints are all over the handle.’

  ‘Did she give you his name yet?’

  ‘Gareth James doesn’t come up anywhere. It’s as though he never existed.’

  ‘She has a locket that she stole from him. It’s got his name in it.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on, hang on. What locket?’

  ‘She said she found a suitcase that was all packed. She said she told you that.’