Colgate’s calm, flat response has the tone of a victory speech. Churchill on D-Day.
‘Remember, Miss Digby, when you were following Mr Barry and his girlfriend, Danielle, I seem to recall you wondering what the fuss was about; when it was the other way round. I suspect someone’s now having some fun at your expense, trying to turn the tables but don’t worry, they’ll get fed up soon enough.’
Like an usherette at the cinema, Lindsay holds the door open as Colgate marches back out into the corridor. He’s not going to help me, forgiveness isn’t a trait Colgate has in his armoury and my distress has only renewed his flagging energy.
Back outside, I peel off my cardigan, dropping my bunched-up shoulders, and shake my arms free to let the early morning sun coat my skin. Colgate’s attitude reminds me why I stalk. It’s about regaining control, stealing my life back from thieves, like Scott, who’ve stolen too much.
34
My appointment has been changed from late afternoon to early morning. For some reason I’ve been given Ms Evans’ first slot of the day and am outside her room early, keen to get started, but there’s no sign of her.
Her car is usually parked in the same space each day, third bay to the right of the main entrance; a woman of habit. On several occasions I’ve been tempted to drive, rather than walk, across the road and up the long driveway when it rains and park in her spot, curious as to how she’d react. If I apologised, saying I didn’t realise it was her spot, she’d know I was lying as she tells me often enough that I’m like her, very observant.
But I don’t want to wind her up. I’ve only three more therapy sessions left, including today, and then I’m free; free from all the interrogation and probing, so I need to behave. I sit down on the plush upholstered sofa in the foyer, and sink into the feathered cushions. The Abbott is like a five-star hotel, the luxury making the patients question their condition. It’s like a placebo making us feel momentarily better and wondering what all the fuss is about. If I ever get sectioned, I’ll insist on the Abbott with its fresh laundry, soft white towels and nouvelle cuisine.
I check over notes I’ve made for today’s session. There are things I want to bring up. Ms Evans might be able to help me find some answers regarding my stalker and how best I should respond. She’s certainly getting well paid to help and I’ve got no one else to talk to.
‘Beverley. Sorry I’m late.’ I don’t hear her approach as she’s not wearing her click-clack working heels. The grey canvas pumps are out of sync with her usual professional look and I wonder if I could have bared my soul so readily if she’d looked this casual from the outset. ‘Excuse the footwear,’ she says, reading my mind. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not a problem. I’m early anyway.’ I try not to stare at her off-kilter appearance. Her hair hasn’t yet been swept up back from her face and I imagine stragglers in my soup from a chef’s slovenliness. Perhaps she’s like this every morning for the first appointment but she’s breathing too heavily and it’s not from exertion; there’s an anxious edge to it. Maybe she’ll be lying on the couch when I go in.
Ms Evans unlocks the door to her room, closes it gently behind and five minutes lapse before she flings it wide again.
‘Come in. I’m ready.’
Before lying down, I take off my own shoes and leave them neatly under the recently mended couch like I was instructed the first time I came. Perhaps on my last session I’ll fling them into the corner, a coming-of-age rebellion. Like a student tossing their mortarboard on graduation day.
‘Okay, Beverley. How are we today?’
I want to joke that neither of us look too chipper but I don’t. I’m back in character.
‘To be honest, things aren’t good. I hope you don’t mind if I run something past you?’
‘Of course. Tell me what’s up and I’ll see if I can help.’
I begin. She doesn’t interrupt but sits quietly, lets me talk. I go into detail about the phone calls, the threat stuck to my back door, the poster on the tree, the night-time online messages and finally the damage to my new car. ‘Bitch. It was plastered in red paint all along one side. It cost over £500 to get cleaned off and to have the bodywork repainted.’ The cost seems important to back up my story. In the telling, cold light of day, the rest seems rather petty.
‘How awful. Did you report these incidents?’
‘Yes, but the police aren’t that interested. They’ve enough to do and to be honest, I’m not sure they really believe me. I’ve a long history with the detective, DCI Colgate. We go way back.’
‘I see. Why do you think they don’t believe you?’ She’s turning it round, asking rhetorical questions, ones to which she knows the answers. I was the stalker once so the likelihood of being taken seriously, especially by the police, is slim.
‘I think it’s personal. DCI Colgate has got it in for me and, unless someone attempts murder, I don’t think the police really care.’
‘What do you think you should do?’
It crosses my mind that Ms Evans is enjoying this, but I need to ask the questions.
‘What should I do? I really don’t know.’
‘Have you any idea who’s doing it? That might be a start.’
‘Yes. I’m almost certain it’s Scott. He thinks I’m stalking him and his new girlfriend, Cosette, and he’s already reported me to the police, as you know. No doubt he thinks he’s being clever turning the tables.’ I exhale a puff of contempt for the pettiness, unwilling to unveil my fear.
‘Why does Mr Barry think you’re stalking him and Cosette, Beverley?’
It’s all about her bloody job. She doesn’t want to work outside her remit; she’s getting paid to sign me off and needs satisfactory conclusions about my state of mind, not that of my ex-boyfriend.
‘Jesus. I’m not bloody stalking him. I’m at college with Cosette, that’s all.’
I’m certainly not going to own up to deliberately trying to enrol on the same course or stealing the purse as an excuse to engage in conversation. Bumping into Scott in Covent Garden might have been intentional but I’m the only one who could possibly know that. This isn’t stalking. This is about being unable to let go of the past and get closure. The fact that I feel compelled to punish Scott is no one else’s business.
Ms Evans sets down her pen and recrosses her legs in the opposite direction. It’s an unnatural little movement and today she definitely looks uncomfortable. Perhaps her night-time experiences aren’t that good either.
‘If it is Mr Barry, what do you think he hopes to achieve?’
She’s not going to help, give me advice or let me have measured opinions. I seriously wonder at this point whether she has opinions on anything. Perhaps she became a psychotherapist to find answers to her own deep-seated issues but it seems unlikely she’d have got anywhere.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. Perhaps I’m overreacting but I needed to get it off my chest, tell someone what’s going on. It’s helped getting it out in the open.’
‘That’s good. I’m glad talking about it helped.’
I want to say, ‘It’s your turn now,’ get up from the couch and use an outstretched arm to indicate it’s her turn to lie down. But I don’t. Anyway, it’s helped pass the time if nothing else as half an hour is already up, and I make a mental note that there are only another two and a half hours of inane questioning left before I’ll be out of her hair for good.
I lie back again and let Ms Evans take the reins, the finishing post in sight.
Once the session is over and I’m outside again, I feel deflated, anxious. The reality that I have a stalker, dark and menacing, hits home again. It’s not some made-up fantasy; the facts don’t lie. Yet I’m the only one who is scared, attune to the threats. I wonder if Scott feels frightened by all my attention. He always seems angry rather than scared, but it’s hard to tell. The late-night harassment aimed in my direction smacks of anger and revenge.
I hoped Ms Evans would be more
helpful but she now only talks about the future. She is pushing me to tell her about Terence, my new boyfriend, and what plans I have for moving forward. She doesn’t have time to help me with my phantom stalker and my past is now well and truly consigned to history; she’s heard enough to make a case.
Yet I feel as if I’m on a conveyor belt and the emergency stop button has stuck. There’s no way off and I’m being forced to keep moving on and leave the past behind. I think of my childhood hamster, Dizzy. He would go round and round on a wheel, faster and faster until exhaustion forced his little legs to a standstill. But it didn’t take long before he had to start up again and continue his journey on the road to nowhere.
‘He must be so dizzy,’ I used to say. That’s how I now feel; dizzy, light-headed and exhausted. I’m fed up dealing with everything on my own and, with what’s going on, it’s time to move forward. The house is now ready for my new family.
My slow walk speeds to a steady jog and by the time I reach the main road I’m more buoyant, racing for home. Tomorrow I’ll asks Travis to move in, confident he’ll agree, now he no longer has any other options.
I’ll become part of a new family, one that functions, shares and works together. It’ll be the new armour to help me face the world. Also, it’s definitely been worth the wait to steal Ms Evans’ husband out from under her nose. It’s unlikely that she’s put two and two together yet, but it’ll be fun when she finally twigs.
Ms Evans and Queenie. It’s hard to believe they’re one and the same person. Merging her roles must have been challenging, but she’s proficient in both guises, successfully separating her home and professional lives. With a birthday on the fourth of June, she’s a typical Gemini with two completely opposing personalities. It’s a mystery indeed, as to which side of her character is in charge.
35
Travis checked and rechecked his mobile every ten minutes. But there were no messages; even the emails had dried up. He felt like a soldier, abandoned, forgotten and left in the trenches to die.
Queenie had brought Freddie and Emily in to see him but his wife had directed the kids to his bedside without following and instead disappeared off for a coffee. She wasn’t going to forgive him this time and his weakened condition hadn’t softened her resolve. He was going to have to beg. He needed a place to sleep, somewhere to recover while he got his strength back and the kids kept asking when he was coming home.
As he set his phone back down onto the bedside table, it pinged. He checked the screen, expecting a LinkedIn notification or an app update.
Hi Soldier. Are you up for visitors? Planning to pop by after lunch. Thought you might need cheering up. Bev xx
Travis sat up straighter, smiled to himself and typed.
Yes please. Am bored to death in here! X
Perhaps he wouldn’t need to beg. Good old Beverley might be the one to come to his rescue.
He hoisted himself out of bed, swallowing hard to contain the nausea. He wasn’t sure whether it was the drugs or hospital food that made it worse. The nurse suggested he take a shower and freshen up as they were hoping he would be well enough to go home the next day, quoting a dire shortage of beds and assuming he had somewhere to go with someone to look after him.
Travis recoiled as he sniffed the T-shirt he’d been sleeping in, aware for the first time of the sickly stench. He hauled himself up and navigated his way across the ward, like a sailor in choppy waters, steadying himself every so often on the metal bed ends. He smiled at a couple of patients but sickness hung heavy and his pleasantries about the weather wafted over leaden heads.
By the time he’d finished showering his spirits had lifted considerably. He walked more upright and when he got back to bed, he crunched up a hidden packet of cigarettes and threw them in the bin.
At one on the dot, he watched through the window as Beverley drove in. Her dark blue Mini with the white stripes was hard to miss. Freddie had pointed it out, insisting he wanted one the same when he grew up. Beverley looked bright and sunny in tight yellow jeans and matching top, a white jumper casually slung about her shoulders, and designer sunglasses shielded her eyes. She looked quite the stunner.
Travis found it hard to remember where it had gone wrong with Beverley, maybe it had been the timing. When they’d hooked up, he’d been looking for some innocent fun; something to distract him from Queenie’s constant tiredness and sexual apathy. His wife’s temper, usually so well-contained, had exploded several times, increasing marital pressure still further.
But Beverley had wanted more; much more. Her impatience and persistence to hurry things along hadn’t helped. The realisation that she’d been keeping tabs on him and Queenie had freaked him out; the silent phone calls, the random sightings and then the strange appointment as classroom assistant at Freddie’s school. Travis had felt as if he was being stalked and there’d been too many coincidences to buy into.
He watched Beverley saunter across the car park, hips swaying provocatively, towards the hospital entrance. The sex had been great though and perhaps he had treated her rather shoddily; maybe she deserved a second chance.
When she glanced up and waved, Travis pulled away from the window and fell heavily down on the bed. Reaching for his aftershave, he dabbed a healthy blob on his chin, eyes watering as the fumes hit the back of his throat. If he played his cards right, Beverley might offer him a lifeline.
36
He so loves to fight. That’s children for you. He’s taken to wielding a plastic sword above his head and pointing it in the direction of anyone who comes within a foot of the swings and slides, and members of the school staff find it hard to calm him down. The more they crouch low on hunkers, trying to coax the toy weapon out of his hands, the more he swishes it around. I think it’s the sharing aspect they’re working on, but I’d be more concerned about brutal intent.
Either way, Freddie is a dab hand at aiming the blade. He never misses his targets. A swipe here, a swipe there; all innocent massacres of course. After all, he’s only a child but his aims are carefully directed and he always manages to miss the other children by the slightest of margins when he gets in close. He’s quite the little warrior with the sharpest of eyes. I’ve been watching the playground antics from a distance.
My online purchases arrive as I get home. The postman jokes that Christmas must have come early. Little does he know. I take the parcels into the sitting room, place them neatly in the corner and fetch the gin. It’s cocktail time.
I squeeze a lemon, pour the juice into the shaker before adding sugar syrup, a few chopped rosemary leaves and fresh egg whites. I then add the sloe gin and shake. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. Round and round, high in the air. Once it has frothed I pour the liquid into an iced glass and savour the nectar.
Before lifting the first parcel onto the table, I turn up the music; ‘Tales from Vienna Woods’ by Strauss and dance round the room. One two three. One two three. One two three. My partner is imaginary, following my rhythm but I control the steps.
I then start to open the parcels but in the wrong order. I make a mental note to number them for Freddie so that he keeps the most exciting till last; I know children’s habits so well.
The sword is even more lifelike than in the pictures and is razor sharp. The claims were true. It’s come all the way from China. I’m amazed at the glint of steel, the sharp lethal tip and wonder at the ease of purchase.
I rip open the second package and a piece of material falls out. It’s the waist sash. The plastic helmet, tight black pants and armoured plate will certainly hit the spot. Freddie will whoop in delight at the samurai outfit. What child wouldn’t? It will only be when he’s wielding the metal blade with gay abandon that there will be concerns. It’s doubtful that the sharpness of the blade will be picked up on immediately in all the excitement, but it soon will be.
Yet I’m not worried. I’m confident that he will use the lifelike weapon with aplomb. I’ve watched him practice. I know he’ll not inju
re anyone but it’s important that others will construe things differently. When the present, with its sharp dangerous dimensions, is questioned the finger will point in her direction. I’ll make sure of that.
The parcels will be waiting when the children get home from school.
I slow my movements, dizzy from all the spinning.
Children are every parent’s Achilles heel. Keeping them safe is what matters most. I know that’s how it is. As I toss my head back and throw down the rest of the gin cocktail, I swallow the memories. Like the lemon, they’re sharp and bitter.
That’s how it is for most parents. They watch their children closely. Filter danger. Keep them safe. But not my parents. I was invisible. My nightmares were belittled as the wild imaginings of a vivid imagination. They would pass. It was all part of growing up.
37
I’m walking up and down, back and forth through the bedding plants at our local garden centre, looking for inspiration. A young member of staff with ‘Seasons in Bloom’ emblazoned in bright yellow font on the back of his shirt is wielding a hose, spraying everything in sight. The hose writhes like a snake, squirming furiously in his grasp. Today is forecast to be the hottest day of the year so far.
Travis is too weak to join me, happy to potter at home and wait in for the children. Queenie should have dropped them off by now. Logic tells me I should be missing him; early days and all that, but truth is I’m glad to be out of the house with its suffocating atmosphere. The early euphoria of his arrival, with a battered half-filled suitcase, has already dissipated and the realism is smothering me.
I push the trolley vacantly past the geraniums. The red, pink and white displays are the reason I came but are depressing with their cheerfulness. My back garden has taken time to perfect, the colourful beds my pride and joy, and the geraniums are for the front. I’m adept at nurturing both the garden and myself, pruning when required and digging out the weeds. Looking after Travis is a whole new ball game though. He’s sapping my energy and his tears of self-pity have come as a shock. The ‘good time bad boy’, who seemed so appealing, so suitable for my purposes after months of meticulous planning, has drowned in the deluge.
The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye Page 14