The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘Sorry. I’m not from around here.’ Fear draws out the lies and survival instinct kicks in.

  ‘I’m here.’ He points at the map, a small A–Z. Why no phone? Google maps? Perhaps there’s a tracer out on him already. He wills me to look, help him get his bearings. But I don’t. I’m void of trust.

  ‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry but good luck. Hope you find it.’ I’m off. Not too fast. Not too slow. Polite. No trace of fear. Tuck that tightly away under your skin. Follow the rules.

  Is he watching me? Has he noted my bare feet moving fleetly across the pavement? My fists and jaws are clenched. Has he turned and gone the other way?

  I think I’ve done it; lost him. A foolish flush burns me up. But then I hear them. Footsteps. Right then left. Left then right. The hard-soled beat of well-heeled shoes. The tread of nightmares.

  They’re speeding up, louder, sharper, heavier. And then he’s closing in. It’s a race against time. Run rabbit run. Run rabbit run.

  There’s a brick wall up ahead; nowhere left to go.

  Then maybe, just maybe, I see a way out. There’s a small road on the right; a dead end but lights are on. People are at home. I swerve wildly round and turn the corner. The street name looms large. Willian Street. But it’s too late.

  It’s just another dream. Another nightmare. Different faces, different streets. But the terror is the same. There’s no let up. Day and night. Night and day. There’s no pattern, only one theme. A stalker is on my tail.

  I try to wake up but my body is rigid, my limbs numb and I’m unable to move. It’s always the same. The sleep monster sucks me back down and won’t let go.

  Coffee. I need coffee. I need to be awake, wide awake to make my escape but I still can’t move. I can’t get up. There’s no escape. The wall ahead is solid, too high to climb. I’m like a coma victim, hearing, knowing and seeing but unable to tell; to impart the horror.

  A small hole high up in the wall catches my eye. It’s near the ceiling. If I can reach it I might make it, slither through. It’s my escape. I scale the wall, fingers gripping hard against the brick. And then I’m there. If only I can get through I’ll be safe. I’m certain.

  I slide my head in first, and then wriggle round, body oiled from top to bottom, until my head pops out. The doctor’s there to catch me. The soft white towel wraps me up and I’m safe at last. My cry is deafening, heartbeat strong. The doctor’s wearing gloves. They’re made of fine-grained leather.

  Suddenly I sit upright, jerked awake. My nightwear’s soaked and stuck like cling film to my body. My ears are pinned back, my eyes agog. The bedside clock shows 3am. It’s the same every night, the buried demons won’t let me rest. They torture my night and fuel my day.

  I get up and quietly pad downstairs, closing the bedroom door behind me. In the kitchen I flick the lights on; white and glaring they stun the nightmares and dissipate the images. The outside light flickers and through the back window I take in the plants, rich and lush in summer bloom. They remind me that dead heading wasn’t enough.

  I have one more thing to do. One more person who needs to pay.

  I close my eyes and remember. Once again I’m walking down the hall, slowly scuffing my feet. I glanced sideways but you averted your eyes; snapped your gaze away.

  The remote control was clenched in your fist as you clicked and clicked, turning the volume up; higher and higher. My eyes made impotent silent pleas. You knew where I was going. The garden shed held no mystery and you were just the lookout; there to keep an eye. Doing your job.

  You weren’t his type and you pretended not to see. You turned a blind eye.

  But I know who you are. You still don’t recognise me. Not yet. But soon you will.

  When I peel back my skin, layer by bloodied layer, you’ll see what’s underneath. It’s carefully hidden, buried underground for now. But soon you’ll see me and then you’ll pay the price.

  Not long to go.

  30

  Freddie had been hard to calm down; well-nigh impossible. ‘Want Miss Digby, want Miss Digby,’ he wailed. His little shoulders huddled in so close I could smell the sweet-scented shampoo in his hair. I closed my eyes and breathed in but Miss Altringham shook her head suggesting I move back a bit.

  ‘My car is outside, I could take him home? Look after him until Mrs Lowther gets back from the hospital?’

  ‘Can I go home with Miss Digby? Please, Miss. Please, Miss.’ Watery little eyes pleaded but to no avail. School policy won over and I left Freddie to his fate but he screamed my name all the way down the corridor.

  As I crossed the playground I got out my key fob and clicked open my new car. The shiny paintwork glistened in the sun. A bright metallic blue Mini Cooper convertible; ample room for four. Freddie had whooped in delight when he spotted the bold white stripes running along the sides.

  ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Cool.’ Queenie didn’t do cool. A point to me. The heat was on and things were definitely hotting up.

  With the ignition running, I rolled the roof down and turned up the radio. Freddie’s little face was pressed to the window of his classroom, a small hand slightly raised. I waved back, smiled, put my foot down and drove out. He’d soon be mine, part of the package. The perfect ready-made family would be my future: Travis, Freddie and Emily. Queenie should have worked harder, given them more attention.

  Bob Pratchett and Queenie are walking out together. The palm of his hand is flat against the small of her back, offering soft assurance. They could be a couple, similar ages, but their outfits scream their differences. Garish red trousers skim Bob’s snake hips and a Hawaiian flowery shirt covers his pigeon chest whereas she’s dressed top to toe in navy blue. I can’t work out why they’re here together.

  I jump back behind a wall and wait for them to pass. It’s a close shave. As they walk across Barnet hospital car park, away from the entrance, I wonder who drove here. Then I spot Queenie’s car some distance away. How did Bob know Travis had taken a turn? Did Queenie phone him when she heard, ask him to come with her? Were they that close? I need to keep an eye on Bob. How did they become such good friends?

  The corridors inside the hospital have the clinical stench of bleach and sickness. Smiles are turned off inside, along with mobile phones. I wonder why there isn’t a red circle with a black line through a smiley face; but it’s not necessary. Deference towards the infirm keeps mouths downturned and visitors glum.

  ‘Mr Lowther? Let me see.’ Amber, her plastic name tag giving her identity but not personality, checks the list. ‘Are you family?’ It’s on her ‘to-do’ list of questions but she’s unlikely to check or ask for photographic evidence.

  ‘I’m his sister.’ The no-smile rule helps here.

  ‘Ward 10. First floor, along on the right. Ring the bell and they’ll let you in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Everything in the hospital is square, straight edged. Illness is treated with efficiency, no sugar-coating. I think of the plush carpeting of the Abbott Hospital, the corniced ceilings, not a hint of death in sight, where suicides are smartly brushed under the luxuriant piles. The money rolls in and helps cover up the blood.

  In the stairwell I take the concrete steps two at a time, trying to quash the flashbacks of Danielle’s distorted and twisted body. At least I’m going upwards, away from the memories.

  Ward 10 is directly opposite the exit from the stairs and I soon find myself peering through a narrow glass slit in a thick fire door. I ring the bell, glancing left and right but there’s no one about. Perhaps the good weather keeps visitors away.

  A petite pale-faced nurse opens up, lets me in and points to a room on the left.

  ‘Mr Lowther is by the window.’

  I clutch the grapes, looking down at the brown paper bag and wonder whether Travis will set them out or give them to a nurse to take away and hide from view. They could be misconstrued as evidence of some illicit wrongdoing. I’m not sure if Queenie has a soft enough heart to take Travis back but a rogue
bunch of grapes might help her decide and it’s worth a shot.

  ‘Travis?’ I’m not sure if it’s him, if I’ve got the right bed. His face is ashen and he’s lying on his back, eyes tight. I’ve never seen him lying down before. Our sex has never been followed by sleep apart from the occasional post-coital five-minute shut-eye. He gets up and dressed within ten minutes of climax.

  There’s no reply. ‘Travis? Is that you?’ I lean in closer, unsure of why I’m asking the question because I know it’s him, but he’s so unrecognisable.

  ‘Beverley?’ His intonation is similarly questioning.

  ‘How are you?’ I bend down and kiss him on the forehead, a waft of the clinical having replaced the familiar reek of aftershave.

  ‘Shit. How did you know I was here?’ He’s not accusing, rather resigned.

  ‘Freddie. They told him at school. I’ve brought you some grapes.’ I fiddle with the bag and tear it apart.

  ‘Thanks.’ He’s too weak to argue.

  ‘What happened?’ I pull up a lone chair and squeeze it in behind the curtain.

  There are six beds in the ward, four occupied. The one beside Travis looks like it has been recently vacated and it’s stripped bare, like in a movie when the relative arrives to find their loved one gone. Dead. Taken away on a trolley, somewhere out of view. There’s little evidence of life anywhere and even Travis is struggling to stay awake.

  ‘Angina. I passed out on the train.’ It sounds better than a heart attack, more encouraging, but nevertheless bad. There’s still the possibility of a future together, albeit a weakened one.

  ‘Were you going home?’ I’m curious. Travis doesn’t usually catch the train back until round about now. Six at the earliest.

  ‘No, back to the office.’ His breathing is laboured, his eyes heavy. ‘Queenie threw me out. I got home early and she’d changed the locks. I’d nowhere else to go except back to the office.’ His voice is disjointed as he pauses after every couple of words.

  ‘Why? Not because of Gigi? Surely not.’

  It’s a mean trick; kick a man when he’s down but I don’t want to miss my chance. He can’t run away, turn off his phone. He’s not certain how much I know about Gigi, and spotting me by the river will have fed his doubts.

  ‘What?’ His mind is fuddled.

  ‘Why has she thrown you out? That’s dreadful. Where will you go?’ Make hay while the sun shines. The master bedroom is ready.

  ‘She warned Gigi off. We’d only had a drink together and then she sent Gigi a picture of us, as a family, telling her to back off. I’ve no idea how Queenie found out.’

  I’m delighted he hasn’t connected the photo to me and he hasn’t even asked. He doesn’t seem to have considered the possibility that the picture was taken off the internet, picked out from his wife’s array of perfectly orchestrated family portraits. Queenie seems unaware of the nausea they cause; the tuts and raised eyebrows from people she hardly knows but has ‘befriended’. Unintentionally, she’s put a nail in her own coffin.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I take his hand and rub it gently, his usually manicured nails raggedy, his skin dry.

  An old man, two beds down, lets out a loud moan. I’m the only one who seems startled and I pray it’s not the precursor to a death rattle but it breaks the silence, gives me a moment’s respite. I haven’t come prepared for sickness and have to avert my eyes from Travis’ face. Yet, after all these months of vigilance and planning, I’ve got my chance to take control. If Queenie won’t have him back, he’ll have to move in with me as he’s nowhere else to go.

  I stay a while longer and ask some random questions which he tries to answer. There’s no anger or irritation in his voice as the near-death experience has killed his fight if not his body. When he dozes off again I make a move.

  I wander back out into the sunshine, but feel deflated. Travis was meant to look after me, and me him. We were to form the perfect team; the Stepford couple with a model family. Travis ticked all the boxes but being nursemaid wasn’t part of the plan. Although there’s the bonus of Freddie and Emily, happy families is looking less likely as the possibility of death has taken hold.

  At the far end of the car park, well away from careless parkers, the white stripes on my new car shine boldly. I remember Freddie’s excited face and smile. Only as I draw close do I notice the red. There’s a thick smear across the wing mirror which makes me think a bird has miscued, blinded by the sun, and ricocheted off the glass.

  But as I circle the car to have a better look, I see it; bold and accusing. BITCH has been sprayed in deep red paint along the side which is hidden from view. There are plenty of empty spaces nearer to the hospital entrance where the regular visitors park, but not me. I know how easily wing mirrors can get clipped.

  I look up. Of course I’m well out of range of the CCTV cameras; it’s automatic. I learnt, when Scott accused me of stalking, never to leave a trail of evidence. Big Brother is watching you and I’ve been careful ever since.

  Yet this time my caution has played into someone else’s hands. Someone has been watching me and seen where I parked. This is no random act of vandalism, it’s deliberate. All around, other cars gleam spotlessly in the sunshine.

  I wonder if Queenie could be that vengeful. She always seems in control. A strange thing for a responsible mother to do though. Perhaps Bob did it for her? I scour the car park, shielding my eyes against the sun, half expecting to see Scott close by, hiding behind a wall, enjoying a prank of childish vengeance.

  I open the car door, collapse into the hot cream leather seats and straighten the rear-view mirror. It could have been anyone but someone’s got it in for me. I’m not sure Mr Hoarden, Ms Evans or even DCI Colgate would believe I’m no longer the hunter but the hunted; the prey, not the predator. Perhaps I should accept the damage to my car as a random act of vandalism and let it go.

  As I turn on the ignition and click my seat belt into place, I breathe deeply. I need Travis to get better and stick to my original plan. I want company round the house; a healthy, noisy group will keep the bogeymen away and only a proper family will help me forget my own dark past.

  31

  ‘Of course we can still be friends. But I’ve moved on, Danielle. I’m with Cosette now. We’re happy.’ Scott’s voice was hesitant, unconvincing and he wondered at the fickleness of relationships.

  With Danielle beside him, sharing drinks like old times, Scott felt the warm familiar stirrings. Her dishevelled appearance didn’t matter. It was Danielle after all, his soulmate, and he’d been easily persuaded to join her for a drink when she’d called.

  ‘That’s not why I’m here. Listen, Scott. Can we talk about Beverley?’

  ‘What about Beverley?’ Scott drew back.

  ‘She turned up at the hospital, you know. The day I lost the baby. It didn’t seem important at the time, just a random sighting, but I’m certain it was Beverley at the far end of the corridor, walking the other way.’ As she sipped her gin and tonic, Danielle’s hand shook and Scott laid his on top.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I didn’t think anything of it until recently. Last week I was up in London and she walked past me in the street. It seemed coincidental, like everything about Beverley. Among the thousands roaming around Piccadilly Circus she strolled past me. Just like that.’ Danielle sucked the lemon, squeezing her eyes against the bitter taste. ‘Have you seen her recently?’

  ‘Yes. She’s still hanging around like a bad penny.’ He didn’t want to expand, tell her too much, and it didn’t seem fair on Cosette. ‘Strangely enough I bumped into her in Covent Garden a week or so ago and she’s also studying at the same college as Cosette.’ He decided to leave the badger saga out.

  ‘Scott, I know you humoured me when I lost the baby, telling the police that you thought Beverley was somehow involved although you didn’t really see, at the time, how she could have been. There was no evidence. Call it instinct, but I know she killed our baby. I tripped on something in the
stairwell. An invisible string or something, I didn’t just tumble.’

  Perhaps the past doesn’t let anyone move on. It’s always there, picking at the sores and building scabs that never heal. Scott thought Danielle had moved on, finally accepted what had happened, but he was wrong. Beverley, on the other hand, wouldn’t let anyone move on.

  ‘She’s crazy, Danielle, but there was no proof that she did anything criminal. The police found nothing, no trace of anything at the site. It was my baby too. It’s been really hard but you’ve got to try to put it behind you.’

  ‘Seeing Beverley brought it all back. It’s not so easy to move on.’ Light tears dotted her cheeks. ‘I thought I could, back to work and all that, but it’s still so fresh in my mind. And the other day I had a flashback. It’s happened before.’

  ‘Go on,’ he coaxed, leaning forward in his seat.

  ‘You remember the day I fell, tumbled down the stairs? There was someone at the top, standing behind the door. The person was wearing dark flat pumps but the soles of the shoes were light coloured; beige I think. I saw them move away as I lay twisted on my side. The memory’s only recently come back but I can’t shake it.’

  There had been no proof of anyone around at the time. Scott had tried hard to put Beverley at the scene, more to placate Danielle than through any deep-seated belief that Beverley had been there. Danielle had mentioned none of this before, claiming at the time to remember nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. There was nothing to add. To go to the police now would most likely be construed as a conspiratorial effort to put Beverley back in the frame, get revenge for recent events.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I wanted to get it off my chest and no one else understands.’

  Scott took Danielle’s hand, pulled her off the chair and put his arms around her. Time stood still for several seconds as they melted into each other.