I open the door to the dining room and he follows me in, pushing the door to behind him. It’s not a social call, that’s for sure. He hands me a photograph, folded in two. I wonder why he’s made such a mess of the picture, marring it with fold lines. Seems a pity.
‘Did you send this?’ He’s angry but not in the way Scott gets angry. There’s a lack of bite; venom. There’s a softer side to Travis’ character, his nature non-confrontational. It could be that he’s weak but either way he’ll give me the benefit of the doubt; innocent until proven guilty. Scott would have dragged me by the hair straight to the gallows.
‘What is it?’ I can see what it is, the image very clear. There’s no doubt about the happiness of everyone involved. It’s Facebook perfection; buckets and spades in the sun. Majorca most likely, as I don’t think he’s taken his family anywhere else since he got married.
‘It’s my family.’
‘So? What’s it got to do with me?’ I open my hands wide, palms upwards and shrug.
He hesitates, doubt clouding his reaction.
‘A friend of mine received this in the post today. I know it’s from you.’
‘A female friend? I assume it wasn’t sent to one of your male buddies.’ I stare at the photo as if looking for clues. ‘Although it’s not the sort of thing to send to a male friend unless you’re selling Spanish timeshares.’ I keep it punchy, light. He’s easier to fool than Scott but perhaps that’s what having children does for a man and it’s part of the appeal, the reason I work so hard on him.
‘Yes, if you must know. A lady friend.’ He’s trying to deny romantic involvement, a token gesture to save me hurt.
‘Where would I have got such a picture? You’ve got to be kidding.’ I daren’t tell him I spotted the picture on Queenie’s Facebook page, where she’s been showcasing her perfect life, a few days ago.
A crack appears in the doorway behind Travis. One of my mad friends is listening. Shit, I should have locked them in. We’re like members of a secret sect and I’m not keen to expose my involvement.
‘I’ve no idea how or where you got it. But we’re over, Beverley. I’ve no intention of leaving my wife and kids. Whatever you think you saw is all in your imagination. My family is everything to me.’
Travis is not a very inventive liar. He’ll deny intimacy with Gigi with his last breath, but his childlike manners have their appeal; he’s like a little boy sucking a sweet while denying its theft. A little more guile and I’ll get him on side.
‘Travis, you’ve already told me that. I’m cool with it. Doesn’t mean I don’t still love you. Gigi’s a pretty lady, but do you really want to be a stepdad? Isn’t two kids enough?’
His puckered face tells a story. It’s the French in Gigi, all words and emotional gesticulations; full of bullshit. He doesn’t know she has a child.
‘You okay?’ I’m a bit concerned when he goes quiet. I’m used to violent tit for tat with Scott but Travis is going to slope off. He takes the picture back, folds it over again and turns to go. Footsteps outside the dining room door shuffle off.
‘I’m fine, but please keep away. You need to get on with your life and let things go. I’m sorry if I led you on.’
It’s as confrontational as he can get. Travis blames himself for everything that’s wrong in his life, smoking, drinking and womanising masking and compounding the problems. I’m tempted to ask him to join our circle and let me look after him, and to reveal Freddie and Emily’s rooms with their first coats of paint.
As we walk back to the front door, I ask, ‘What did you think of Freddie’s drawings? He’s quite the little Van Gogh.’
‘Sorry?’
‘He’s got them in his schoolbag. Have a look. We’re working on family pictures and he’s put me in the background. Although I’m not part of his family he wanted to include me so it made his picture stand out.’
‘Bye, Beverley.’ Travis has heard enough. I wonder if Queenie will ask who the random lady in the picture is, but I doubt she’ll care. In fact, I know she won’t.
‘Bye, Travis. See you soon.’
He wanders off, looks left and right, unsure of which way to turn.
21
While talking to Travis, I momentarily forgot about the group in the kitchen. My life is split into very distinctive but disparate parts. There’s the part that Ms Evans is trying to sort out, the deep-rooted and troubled persona that makes me act in compulsive, intrusive ways; the stalking is what she’s trying to understand.
Then there’s the side of me that has nothing in common with the random gang in my house. They’re like a band of prison mates willing me back to the cells, to keep them company. Discussing their depression is a masochistic pleasure which they hold close like dirty security blankets but when I need a break, they don’t let up.
‘All okay?’ Bob speaks first and I guess he was the one listening in. ‘Want to talk about it?’ He doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘Was that Travis? Sorry, I meant Terence.’ He laughs.
‘Who’s Terence?’ Dave asks.
‘The alias of Travis. Beverley’s boyfriend.’ Bob thinks he’s hilarious but all he’s doing is winding me up.
‘Sorry I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Was he the one who sent the pizza boxes?’
‘What?’ I didn’t tell anyone this, or did I? I threw the boxes away and binned the memory. They only seem important again, now that Bob has brought them up.
‘How do you know about those?’ Everyone looks at Bob, confused, me included. Perhaps I let it slip.
‘You must have told me. How else?’
I sit back down opposite Bob, who has stretched his legs out on top of the table, willing me to reprimand him. His unpredictability is unnerving. One minute he’s laughing like a hyena and the next silent as a lamb; constantly play-acting, using personas too numerous to count.
‘Do you mind not smoking inside? I’d prefer it if you went into the garden.’ Dave looks up when he realises I’m talking to him. It’s a good distraction, turning the conversation away from myself, but I’m irked that Dave didn’t ask. He fidgets with a roll-up, licking the paper back and forth.
I’ve read somewhere that people with mental disorders still have personality traits that aren’t linked to their problems. Selfish people are still selfish. Egomaniacs never change despite the suicide attempts. Alcoholics are arrogant, insecure and not very likeable except after the first drink. Four or five down the hatch they’re deathly dull, irritating, aggressive and painful to be around. Before they fall unconscious, they’re likely to kill themselves or anyone who gets too close.
Dave has tried to kill himself half a dozen times. I wonder why he’s never been successful. If he tries to smoke again I’ll help him tie the noose. His wife left him for another man but he’s no balls to fight for her, not a plan in sight, whereas I’ll fight to the death to get what I want.
The group misery is infectious and I want them all to leave.
‘No worries. It’ll do me good to wait,’ Dave says, setting down the carefully constructed death stick.
‘Listen, guys. I’ve got a bit of a headache. Do you mind if we call it a day? I’m really sorry.’
‘Did that prick get to you?’ It’s Bob again.
‘No. Honestly, I’m fine. I just need to lie down.’
‘I bet you’re not the only girl he’s mucking around.’
‘Why do you say that? You don’t even know him.’ I stand up and push my chair firmly under the table.
‘I saw him having a drink with a lady in The Bull pub on the High Street last week.’ Bob wraps his sweater round his neck. ‘I wouldn’t worry though, it didn’t look serious.’
The other three look at me.
‘It was probably his wife. It’s complicated.’
I walk with them to the front door in silence. Dave pushes the cigarette behind his ear, triumphant that he’s lasted an extra five minutes. Tamsin has drunk three strong black coffees which will act as stringent laxa
tives and pocketed three biscuits for the walk back to the hospital. She’s been sectioned and is not allowed home until she’s gained a few pounds. Manuel knows more than he’s letting on and I suspect he’s bilingual but maintaining the secretive, mysterious façade.
‘Bye. Thanks for coming. Another time.’ I give a weak wave, like the queen pretending to connect with her subjects from inside an ivory tower.
‘Bye, Beverley. Love your house, by the way. Travis is a fool. Oh and it wasn’t his wife, Queenie. She’s a friend of mine, you know. We go way back.’ Bob winks and hops off, a rabbit on the move, bounding down the steps two at a time.
22
Damian Hoarden is moulded to his chair, the blubber folded into tight confines. His complexion has the oily sheen of a whale and his chins are made up of four sections. Worse still, his character matches the revolting appearance.
I’m perched opposite on a small upright chair, jiggling my leg up and down, my nervous agitation in stark contrast to Mr Hoarden’s lethargic demeanour. I suspect an underactive thyroid might be an excuse for the inability to burn off the globular mounds but whatever, it’s not obvious if his size is the result of a lack of energy and enthusiasm or if it’s the other way round. In my favour, his obesity may have helped him understand obsessive cycles and how hard they are to break.
‘Beverley,’ he says. The one word starts the ball rolling, echoing Ms Evans’ motto of ‘less is more’. ‘As Ms Evans has already told you, Mr Scott Barry has lodged an official complaint that you’ve been following him and his girlfriend again. He used the word stalking and is now after a new restraining order.’ Mr Hoarden doesn’t close his mouth, letting his red blubbery lips hang down and he runs his tongue round towards his back teeth as if trying to release a bit of food. A thick forefinger, its nail edge ragged and sharp, enters the fray.
Watching awakens the same sensation as when our teacher would scratch the blackboard with his fingernails. Mr Hoarden has my complete attention.
‘Please tell me your side of the story, Miss Digby, because his claims sound familiar.’ He’s not that interested but needs to get the forms filled in.
I can trace the earliest onset of my obsessive behaviour towards Scott back to a particular night when I phoned him, begging to meet up. The pregnancy termination had already taken place, all expenses paid. Scott thought I was going to merrily move on after the lifeblood had been sucked out of me but he didn’t know about the complications, as he hadn’t been in touch since April first, the date of our baby’s murder. With a light kiss on the cheek, he strolled away from the clinic, unconcerned about the light bleeding, relief written large. After a final meal together, to drown phoney sorrows, he kept his distance.
‘Why not tonight? I can come round and we can talk things through,’ I’d pleaded. Of course, there was nothing to talk about as far as he was concerned as he’d already bolted.
‘Listen, I’ll call you tomorrow. I can’t really talk now.’
I should have known Danielle would be there but for some reason, I didn’t think he was such a bastard; brushing me and the baby under the carpet as if we were dirt from his shoes. I could hear soft music in the background.
‘I want to talk now. I have to tell you something.’ He needed to look into my eyes, feel the despair when he heard that my womb was irreparably damaged. ‘I’ll come round.’
‘No. You can’t come round now. I promise I’ll call you tomorrow and it’ll be easier if I come to yours. Look this isn’t fair on Danielle.’
‘What’s not fair on Danielle?’ That was the moment I flipped. His ex-girlfriend talking to him on the phone wasn’t fair on his new girlfriend. He was worried Danielle might get jealous, offended that his attention was taken up, even for a second, with thoughts of someone else. His death knell was putting the phone down at that point.
‘I don’t know what Mr Barry has been claiming, but I have no idea why he thinks I need a restraining order. What has he told you?’
Mr Hoarden refers to his notes, running his chubby fingers along the sentences as if reading braille.
‘He says you’re following him and his new girlfriend, Co…, Co…’
‘Cosette. Cosette is the name of his new girlfriend. We’re at the same college, that’s all.’ It hadn’t been as easy as I’d hoped enrolling as a mature student, course choices were limited and the French and Italian classes had been full. ‘I’m doing Spanish. It’s purely a coincidence that we’re both there. I’ve been planning to go for ages. Cosette just happens to be there too, learning English.’
‘I see. Mr Barry also claims that you’ve been tailing him to work. He’s seen you three times now in Covent Garden where he regularly goes for after-work drinks.’
‘So? I go to the market, what’s the crime in that? I’ve been going there for years.’ I’ve been careful when tailing Scott, all encounters meticulously planned and all taking place in broad daylight and in busy places. I’ve been building the pressure slowly and steadily. It’s now time to turn the tables, tell Mr Hoarden what Scott is up to. I’m still assuming the pizza boxes, the phone calls and the online photomontages are Scott’s pathetic attempts to get his own back; tit for tat, so I spill the beans.
‘Have you reported any of this? It’s not in your notes.’ Mr Hoarden flicks through the pages, perspiring from the exertion.
‘No. Unlike Mr Barry, I wouldn’t want to waste yours or police time with trivial name calling. He’s just playing games, trying to get his own back. But I’d like these incidences noted.’ Two can play.
‘I see,’ is all Mr Hoarden says. ‘No, there’s nothing in here.’ He scrawls across the pages with small black spidery scribbles.
‘When can I stop the therapy sessions, by the way?’
‘Ms Evans has suggested another month. She says you’re making good progress.’ A half-hearted smile reveals a glimpse of ragged yellowing teeth. It looks as if his apathy for action is going to play into my hands.
‘Okay, Miss Digby. I’ll not recommend a restraining order at this juncture. But I do suggest you keep your distance and I’ve noted your concerns regarding Mr Scott’s behaviour and would suggest you keep a note of any other odd incidences. It sounds a bit like he’s now the stalker.’ Mr Hoarden guffaws, tickled by the sudden realisation, all four chins wobbling and he coughs from the effort.
‘Thank you. Is that all? Can I go?’ I stand up, not waiting for him to extricate himself from the chair.
‘Yes. Hopefully I won’t have to see you again any time soon.’
As I leave the main entrance of the hospital grounds, I spot Ms Evans approaching. Another month should give me plenty of time to unload all my neuroses and for me to tell her why I chose her as my therapist. She must surely have wondered, as there were hundreds to choose from in the area.
‘Good morning, Beverley.’
‘Good morning, Ms Evans. Another lovely day.’
We stroll on past each other like a couple of acquaintances. Thing is, we’re not casual acquaintances. We both know far too much about each other for that to be the case.
23
‘Predatory stalkers use stalking to gratify their need for dominance and control and ultimately to gratify sadistic sexual desires.’
Browsing case histories, I’m fascinated by the characteristics I’m meant to portray. I want to be convincing as a predatory stalker and it mightn’t be a bad idea for her to fear the possibility of sexual deviance. I don’t want her to only experience sleepless nights, edginess and anxiety. I’m aiming for nightmarish. When she’s terrified, fearful for her life 24/7 with no response from the police, then I might take my foot off the pedal. But then again I might not. It takes one to know one and I’m starting to enjoy myself.
‘Cold and calculating, on the surface the predatory stalker is often able to maintain the façade as a devoted husband, or in rare cases, wife, caring professional or kind-hearted neighbour. Underneath, though, lurks an underbelly of twisted sexual desires and preda
tory violence.’1
I can relate to this.
I’m standing over the hob, stirring rhythmically to mix up the ingredients. I like cooking, trying out new recipes. It’s a calming, therapeutic hobby. Occasionally I have a disaster in the kitchen, but the smell from the rich dark meat makes me close my eyes and devour the aroma. Tonight’s offering is a success.
Roadkill has been on the news recently. There’s a local community group in Enfield which runs a roadkill programme and, as I cook, I reread a flyer that came through the letterbox. There’s a number listed which you can phone and one of their ‘do good’ members aims to be at the scene within thirty minutes. They take away the dead animal and promise that the carcass will be put to good use. I’m not sure whether they use it to feed the starving millions or if they stuff it for posterity, as I’m sure at least one of their members is likely to be a taxidermist. Either way, if you’re lucky they might offer you a finder’s fee. ‘Waste not, want not’ is their motto.
When my back wheels skidded across the road, I knew I’d hit something. The glare of headlights had drawn the eye of the night-time scavenger. It was tempting to drive on, swerve round the bloodied carcass but instead I pulled over and had a look.
It was a struggle, hoisting the weakly pulsating badger into the boot of my car but I spread out an old torn dustsheet across the boot and managed to lay the animal down. It surrendered to its fate and stiffened quickly.
Instead of a finder’s fee, I opted to cook it myself. Badger chasseur, served with tomato sauce and croutons sounds good and the recipe is pretty simple.
‘There are five tastes and textures in there, including the tongue, the eyeballs, the muscle… The salivary glands taste quite different. And of course, the brain. You get that by putting a teaspoon in the hole in the back and rooting around.’
It’s good having the kitchen to myself, spreading out over all the surfaces with gay abandon. As I pick and choose which bits of the badger to use, poking through its innards, I realise there is blood and gore everywhere. It’s dripping from the work surfaces, into the sink and a fine red slippery trail coats the floor tiles.
The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye Page 9