The Victim

by Jane Bidder

  ‘Quite sure.’

  Georgina turned away. ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Vanda sharply.

  ‘No reason.’ She smiled brightly. ‘You know, when my parents died,’ she continued, ‘I’d have given anything to have had a brother or sister to talk to. Instead, all I had was an ancient grandmother who was obsessed with her own grief.’

  You’d think, thought Georgie, that Georgina was desolate from the words, yet her tone was light. Almost casual.

  ‘You had me,’ said a voice suddenly. It was Vanda. ‘I was there for you.’

  Joly turned to her. ‘They were at school together,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Especially,’ continued Vanda clearly, ‘when they o’deed.’

  So her new friend’s parents had taken drugs?

  Georgina’s face stilled. ‘I told you. It was an accident.’

  Vanda rolled her eyes as though to say ‘You don’t really believe that.’

  Had Georgina seen? If so, she wasn’t showing it. Then she stretched out an elegant hand towards her, jangling with thin silver bracelets. ‘But you’ve got to admit, Vanda. We’re different. But me and Georgie … well. We’re kindred spirits, aren’t we, darling?’

  ‘Like you were with Louisa, you mean?’

  There was a hushed silence. That name again – the woman who had left the commune.

  ‘We don’t talk about her any more,’ said Vanda sharply. Then she passed the cigarette to Georgie. Before, when this had happened, she’d politely refused. Not knowing much about drugs – she and Lyndsey had been too scared to take part in the dealings at the back of the playground – she’d been unsure about the content of these particular cigarettes.

  But Georgina’s compliment – kindred spirits! – and nervousness at the atmosphere around her made her accept the rolled-up paper and inhale. Immediately she spluttered and began choking.

  ‘Your first time,’ declared Joly delightedly. ‘That’s what I like to see.’ He took it from her. ‘Watch me.’

  Carefully, he put his guitar down, placed the thin cigarette inside his mouth, and then removed it, breathing out slowly. ‘Your turn.’

  Scarcely believing she was sucking on something that had been in Joly’s mouth, she did the same. After a while, she could feel it. A warm sense of headiness overcame her. Almost immediately, she stopped worrying about Vanda. Or about how she was going to manage for money – there didn’t seem to be any work out here and certainly the word ‘job’ hadn’t been mentioned by any of her new friends.

  She just felt … happy.

  It was a sensation she’d never had before. And it felt good. Really good. Especially when Joly picked up his guitar again and the soft music made her soul start to sing.

  ‘I hope you don’t have plans to get rid of my picture.’

  The Hon. Mrs R-R’s cultured voice brought Georgie sharply back to the present.

  ‘I happen to be very fond of it.’ Her eye fell on the swatches which Georgie had artfully laid around the room. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me that it doesn’t fit in with this colour scheme of yours.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  Georgie was upset but not surprised. She had a feeling that nothing much was going to please this woman. If it wasn’t for the fact that she didn’t have anyone else, she might have cut her losses and quit there and then.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Her client’s eyes narrowed again as she picked up the hyacinth blue wallpaper strip. ‘How did you know this was one of my favourite colours?’

  ‘Then why the cream?’

  The words were out of her mouth before Georgie could take them back.

  Yet instead of being offended, Mrs R-R laughed. A rather brittle, mirthless laugh. ‘My husband’s choice. Money men are always bland, don’t you think?’

  Luckily, before Georgie could answer, she carried on. ‘Mind you, I might like your choice of colour but your timekeeping is another matter.’ Those eyes narrowed again. ‘I happen to pride myself on punctuality and I expect others to do the same. But frankly, Georgie, you’ve been late once too often. My time is money too, so I’m afraid …’

  ‘Don’t’. Once more, Georgie heard herself speak before thinking it through. ‘I know what you’re going to say and if I was in your position, I’d do the same. But please don’t sack me. There’s a reason for me being late.’

  Her eyes filled with tears. Now she’d really done it. This wasn’t professional. It went against all her rules. Yet Mrs R- R was motioning that she should sit down.

  ‘Take a deep breath,’ she said in what was almost a kind tone. ‘Start from the beginning.’

  Georgie tried to follow her instructions but the words just tumbled out. ‘You remember how my car was stolen? Well, it started then …’

  By the time she had finished – ending with the last catastrophe – the expression on her client’s face had changed to nothing short of sympathy. ‘Nearly five thousand pounds,’ she repeated.

  ‘It might not sound much,’ began Georgie, ‘but …’

  ‘But it’s the principle. The feeling that someone has stolen something you’ve worked hard for.’ The eyes hardened. ‘Frankly, it’s outrageous. What does your husband say?’

  Georgie felt like a traitor. ‘I don’t want to tell him.’

  There was an understanding nod. ‘I know all about that.’ She got up and walked towards the mahogany desk on the other side of the room. ‘Who shall I make the cheque payable to?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Call it a payment towards your work.’

  ‘But it’s too much.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be. You must know what your London competitors charge.’

  Georgie found a cheque being pushed into her hand. Ten thousand pounds? ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let’s just say it’s one woman helping another.’ She spoke crisply as if embarrassed. ‘Look, I like what I’ve seen so far so just carry on, can you? Order the curtains. Sort out the decorators. I’m going away shortly for a month and I’d like everything sorted by the time I get back.’

  Georgie tried to speak but the words stuck in her throat.

  ‘Naturally, I expect a full breakdown when you’ve finished. Now, there’s something else. When I said just now that my time was precious, I wasn’t about to sack you as you presumed. I wanted to explain that I don’t have time for a longer meeting. I’ve just found out that a new neighbour of mine has gone into hospital so I need to visit her.’

  How wrong you could be about people! Georgie hadn’t put Mrs R-R down as the good Samaritan type. ‘In fact, I believe you met her the other evening. At Pippa Michael’s.’

  It was such a small town. There had been lots of people there. Yet at the same time, Georgie had a sinking feeling. She knew exactly what Mrs R-R was going to say next.

  ‘Lyndsey. Lyndsey Green. She’s been rushed in for emergency treatment, poor thing.’

  My wife has taken early retirement. We both have. Wasn’t that what her dinner companion had told her?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, suddenly anxious.

  Mrs R- R raised her eyebrows. ‘You don’t know? She’s got leukaemia, poor thing. She was diagnosed just before moving here. Such bad luck. And from what I can gather, it’s not looking good.’

  Leukaemia? Her friend Lyndsey. Lyndsey whom she’d grown up with? Lyndsey whom she’d pretended not to know the other night? Lyndsey was possibly going to die?

  ‘I’m going to visit her right now.’ Those eyes narrowed again. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you come with me?’

  FIFTEEN

  Georgina Hamilton is getting smart. She’s no longer replying to emails that offer her prizes to fill in a questionnaire or from holiday companies asking if she wants to be informed of new deals.

  Haven’t you ever wondered about them yourself? How else do you think that people like me can tap into your accounts? The more personal details we have about you, the easier
it is.

  Phishing, we call it in the trade.

  How do you know about Mrs Hamilton’s email patterns, you might ask. Because, thanks to her computer history which I hacked into when I was in her house, I’m there. In the cursor. On the screen. When she sends an email, I see that too. It’s like leaving your front door open. Without realising.

  That’s the beauty of my world. Nothing is hidden.

  Sometimes our lot on the ground steal people’s secrets too. It might be a letter from a lover in a woman’s bag. Or a text message suggesting something it shouldn’t. You can just imagine how the victim feels. Probably shitting bricks in case it ends up in the wrong hands. I don’t go in for blackmail myself. But I know plenty who do.

  Then there are the photographs in a purse. The other day I came across a faded baby snap. Maybe it was the only one they had.

  That quite upset me, it did. Made me wonder if I was getting soft. Then again, it’s their fault for carrying their personal stuff around with them.

  They should be like me. Take just enough to see you through the day. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  For some reason, it’s important to me that you realise how stressful my job is. In fact, it’s probably more stressful than yours, because the stakes are higher. If I want to stay out of jail, I’ve got to be one step ahead of you.

  Even if mine are the footsteps you can hear behind.

  I’ve always got to be there to trip you up. And I’ve always got to be smart enough to make sure that no one does the same to me.

  Newspapers get all pious about thieves like us. But why should other people have everything just because they’ve been given stuff that we haven’t?

  All we’re trying to do is spread it about a bit. It’s only fair.

  Don’t you think?

  SIXTEEN

  There was no getting out of it. It would have looked distinctly un-neighbourly not to have gone. But all the time she was in the Hon. Mrs R-R’s Audi TT (predictably with a personalised number plate), Georgie kept feeling that there was more to this than met the eye.

  Was it possible that somehow her client knew about her past connection with Lyndsey and was trying to make her feel guilty? Or was she was one of those women with more time on her hands than she needed and who decided on a whim to visit a woman she hardly knew?

  Then again, thought Georgie as the Audi took a sharp bend with breathtaking arrogance – which went with the driver – maybe she was being unkind. Perhaps Mrs R-R was more compassionate than she’d given her credit for.

  ‘I had a friend who died of leukaemia.’ The words came out suddenly after a ten-minute journey of near-silence, during which Georgie had been wanting to hang on to the door for comfort but not liked to.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ So maybe that explained it.

  There was a shrug of elegant shoulders at the wheel which made Georgie feel even more nervous, especially as they were going through an amber light at the time. ‘These things happen. But it can’t be very pleasant when you move somewhere new.’

  ‘I’m surprised they did that,’ Georgie heard herself say. ‘If it was me, I’d want to stay close to a place I knew rather than going to a strange hospital for treatment.’

  ‘But not everyone is you.’ The statement came out sharply, causing Georgie to look across in concern. ‘Or like me. Or like Lyndsey, come to that. Just as well we’re all different, don’t you think?’

  Once more, Georgie had an uneasy feeling there was much more than met the eye behind these philosophical comments. But they had, she realised, taken her mind briefly off her own situation. And now they were pulling up outside the hospital.

  ‘Got any spare change for the machine? I only carry plastic.’

  The request took her by surprise. Fumbling for her purse, she went through the zipped part where she kept coins. Nothing. It would have to be a note. Her fingers closed round something hard. She gasped.

  ‘What is it?’ Those eyes narrowed.

  ‘My card. The one that was in the box. It’s here.’

  The eyes narrowed again. ‘Do you think you put it there?’

  ‘No.’ But even as Georgie spoke, she wondered if she was going mad. Was it possible that she had moved it without thinking? Surely not. Yet what other explanation could there be.

  ‘Think about it later,’ commanded Mrs R-R, swinging her legs out of the Audi. They had rather lumpy ankles under the casual white trousers, noticed Georgie irrelevantly, her mind still whirling. How the hell did the credit card get into her purse?

  ‘Look. We’ve got free parking for the first hour so we don’t have to worry about change after all.’ Mrs R-R consulted her phone. ‘She’s on Fraser wing. Let’s go, shall we?’

  Georgie had never liked hospitals. They reminded her of when she was fourteen and she’d gone in for an appendix operation. Her mother had told her to ‘put up with’ that aching nag which had started on the Friday night. By the time it got to Sunday, she was in severe discomfort.

  ‘We can’t bother the doctor at the weekend,’ her mother had said brusquely. ‘It can wait until Monday.’

  But when she began screaming with agony during the night, even her mother had to concede it ‘might need looking at’.

  ‘So embarrassing,’ she said, dialling for an ambulance as though all this was Georgie’s fault. Even when she came round from the operation, she failed to show much sympathy. ‘Peritonitis can happen very suddenly, the doctor said.’ Then she’d sniffed. It was almost as though she was exonerating herself from any blame for not having called an ambulance earlier.

  Georgie had stayed in hospital for nearly two weeks. ‘You were very lucky,’ said the fatherly consultant during one of his rounds. ‘You could have died. If you ever get a pain like that – or know someone who does – act a bit faster.’

  She’d been shocked but at the same time glad that her mother hadn’t heard. It would only have made her cross and defensive. However, she’d told Lyndsey when she’d come to visit. ‘That’s awful,’ her friend had said, appalled. ‘my mum said your mother was negligent.’

  Negligent? Really? Georgie hadn’t thought of her as that. Merely cold. Until now, she’d tried to explain her mother’s distance by her father’s early death. Now however, she felt a coldness setting in herself. What kind of mother didn’t do anything when her daughter was clearly in pain?

  Maybe through guilt, her mother failed to visit her after that in hospital. Instead it had been Lyndsey who’d come in every day after school. Lyndsey who had painted her fingernails in an attempt to make her giggle, even though that hurt. Lyndsey who had assured her that the scar would fade in time and yes, of course she’d be able to wear bikinis again soon.

  Now, as Georgie followed Mrs R-R through the antiseptic corridors, she found herself feeling like a complete rat. What kind of friend had she been? Yet what else could she have done? Time and time again she’d thought of getting in touch with her old friend but it was impossible. Not if she wanted to stay out of prison.

  Perhaps that’s why she’d never had a best friend since. If you grew close to someone, you lost them, Georgie told herself. Hadn’t Georgina proved that?

  ‘Fraser Ward,’ announced Mrs R-R bossily. ‘Here we are.’

  Georgie watched with a certain admiration as her companion marched up to the desk and announced that they were here to see Lyndsey Green. ‘Yes, I am aware we’re outside visiting hours but my friend and I both work and are unable to come at any other time. I’m sure you can make an exception.’

  Both work? Mrs R-R didn’t seem at all fazed by the lie. Clearly her tone worked on the nurse who, after a quick phone call, announced that she would ‘allow it this time’. What did it take to have that kind of arrogance?

  As they followed the nurse down the corridor, her mobile rang. Unknown. ‘Sorry. I thought I’d turned it off. Won’t be a minute.’

  Hanging back by the desk, she pressed answer. ‘Georgie speaking.’

  ‘Mrs Hamilton?’ The
voice was deep. Slightly rough without being common. ‘This is Security. I need to ask you some questions. Is this a convenient time?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Thank you for calling back.’ A nurse waved crossly, indicating mobiles weren’t allowed. ‘Can you hold on for a minute please?’

  She dived back towards the lifts. ‘Hello. Hello?’

  Blast. The caller had gone now. And because it had been an unknown number, she didn’t know how to call back. Maybe they’d ring again. Georgie waited for a few minutes by the lift but nothing happened. Something didn’t feel right – and it wasn’t just the nervousness of having to visit Lyndsey. It was a different kind of unease.

  ‘This is Security.’

  That’s what the voice had said. But it hadn’t mentioned the name of her bank. Wasn’t that a bit odd?

  Just then the lift pinged. A short, grey-haired man with a slight stoop got out. He wore a worried expression and was looking around as if out of his depth. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘do you know where Fraser Ward is?’ The Yorkshire accent was unmistakeable.

  Georgie’s mouth went dry. For a minute, her mind shot back all those years to Lyndsey’s garage where – so exciting! – her father had put up a table tennis table as a surprise for her friend’s twelfth birthday. She and Lyndsey had spent hours there, batting the ball back and forth. Even now, she was still quite good. Last year, on holiday in the Maldives with Sam, she had beaten him in every game they’d played.

  ‘Yes,’ she said numbly. ‘It’s down there.’

  He looked at her again. This time, she could see his eyes registering her. Holding a question. ‘Thank you,’ he said hesitantly. Then, looking as though he was going to add something else, he began to speak. ‘I don’t suppose …’ Then he shook his head. ‘No. it’s all right. I’m very grateful to you.’

  And with that, he shuffled off down the corridor.

  Lyndsey’s father! Of that, there could be no doubt. There was no way she could go and see her friend now. She’d have to go. Ring Mrs R-R later and make her excuses. It could easily be done. The bank had rung – that was true enough, wasn’t it? They needed to speak to her. They …