by Lisa Jewell
Tom looked at her. His eyes, she noticed for the very first time, were, like her own, green. Only 3 per cent of the population of the world has green eyes. Her mother had always told her that in an effort to make her feel special. Jack’s eyes were blue. Blue was very common, apparently. Her mother had been aware of how inferior she felt to her brilliant brother and was always keen to give Joey a little boost where she could.
‘You’ve got green eyes,’ she found herself saying.
‘Have I?’ he said.
‘Yes!’ She laughed. ‘Surely you know what colour your eyes are?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think I thought they were a kind of murky blue. I’ve never really thought about it.’
Joey narrowed her eyes at him. Was he being disingenuous?
‘Well, they’re green. Officially. And I should know because mine are green too.’
He turned briefly to look. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘So they are. You have very beautiful eyes. If that’s an OK thing to say?’
‘It depends on the context,’ she replied.
‘And is this the right context to tell you that you have beautiful eyes?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I think so.’
‘Phew,’ he said. ‘That’s a relief.’
They’d arrived in the city now. The early morning streets of Bristol thronged with people heading to work. An awkward silence descended.
‘You know,’ said Tom, peering at the traffic stretching towards the next junction, ‘it would probably be quicker for you to walk from here.’
‘Yes,’ Joey agreed quickly. ‘Yes. It probably would be.’
‘Next time the lights go red, you can jump out.’
‘Yes. OK.’
She unclipped her seat belt. A sensor began to ping. She waited for Tom to slow the car to standing and then she said, ‘Thank you for the lift,’ and he said, ‘You are most welcome,’ and she searched his face for something, some other meaning, some sense that he didn’t want her to go, that he was fighting a terrible urge to pull her back, to grab her, to push his mouth on to her mouth and make the cars behind hoot their horns with frustration at being kept waiting. She searched for a full five seconds until Tom looked ahead and then back at her and said, ‘Quick, they’re changing to green again.’
She got out of the car and dashed to the pavement. The lights changed, and she watched Tom’s car pull slowly forwards and away from her.
She shivered – a nauseating combination of embarrassment and lust – then turned and headed to work.
RECORDED INTERVIEW
Date: 25/03/2017
Location: Trinity Road Police Station, Bristol BS2 0NW
Conducted by: Officers from Somerset & Avon Police
POLICE: How long would you say your infatuation with Mr Fitzwilliam has been growing?
JM: I wouldn’t call it an infatuation. Just a mutual attraction.
POLICE: Well, in that case, how long would you say it has been since you discovered your mutual attraction?
JM: I really don’t know. I suppose since the first time I saw him.
POLICE: Which was?
JM: Early this year? January?
POLICE: And this mutual attraction – how did it manifest itself?
JM: I don’t know what you mean?
POLICE: I mean, were there clandestine meetings? Lingering looks?
JM: There were looks, I suppose. I don’t know if they were lingering.
POLICE: For the purpose of the recording I am showing Ms Mullen a series of photographs. Numbers 2866 to 2872. Could you describe these photographs to me, if you would?
JM: They’re photographs of me.
POLICE: And what are you doing in these photographs?
JM: I’m looking at Tom Fitzwilliam’s house.
POLICE: And can you tell me where these photographs were taken?
JM: They were taken on the path around the back of the houses.
POLICE: So you are familiar with the back exits to the houses on Melville Heights?
JM: Yes. Yes I am.
POLICE: And these, Ms Mullen – for the sake of the recording, I am showing Ms Mullen another set of photographs, these numbered 2873 to 2877 – could you describe these photographs, please?
JM: They’re photos of Tom Fitzwilliam’s house.
POLICE: Or, more specifically, of the inside of Tom Fitzwilliam’s house?
JM: Yes. It looks like it.
POLICE: These are photographs we took off your phone just now, Ms Mullen. Could you explain what photographs of the interior of Mr Fitzwilliam’s house were doing on your phone?
JM: Yes. I can totally explain it. My husband did a decorating job for them. I said I’d take some pictures for him, so he could show them to other clients.
POLICE: And this one, in particular. Could you describe this photograph, for the recording?
JM: Yes. It’s a photograph of the conservatory thing at the back of Tom’s house.
POLICE: Clearly showing, I think you’ll agree, a broken window.
JM: What?
POLICE: I am showing Ms Mullen a detail on photograph number 2876. Could you describe what you are looking at?
JM: It’s one of the windows. Next to the back door. It’s tied together with string.
POLICE: Thank you, Ms Mullen.
JM: But I didn’t even notice it. I didn’t even know—
POLICE: Thank you, Ms Mullen. That will do for now.
33
10 March
‘Mum!’
Jenna peered behind her mum’s bedroom door. She wasn’t there. She went to her own room and knelt on her bed so that she could look down into the back garden. Before she’d started using e-cigarettes, her mum had spent hours out in the garden, smoking. Her smoking table was still there: the sad chair by the sad table, the sad ashtray full of damp, mulchy old butts. Now she rarely went out there. It was a slight improvement, but not much.
There was no sign of her mum in the garden so Jenna pulled her trainers back on and then her hoodie, and headed out into the early evening gloom towards the bus stop outside the Melville. This was her mum’s favourite vantage point for watching Tom Fitzwilliam and his family. Her mother was not there. She crossed the road and went to the bottom of the escarpment, peering up the road to check that her mother wasn’t hiding in the undergrowth near his house again, and as she stood there, her hands knitted together, unsure what to do, she became aware of a brilliant blue light ricocheting off windows and cars. She followed the source of the light to a silently approaching police car. The car slowed as it made its way down the high street and then pulled up opposite Jenna, right next to the Melville. Two policemen exited the car, adjusted their uniforms, one said something into a walkie-talkie and then they entered the hotel.
Jenna felt her heart contract and then thump. She crossed back towards the hotel and peered through the window into the bar. There she saw exactly what she had expected to see. Her mother sitting at a table by the bar being spoken to by one police officer while on the other side of the bar a worried-looking couple and the manager talked to the other police officer.
‘Fuck,’ she said, under her breath. ‘Fuck.’
She pulled in her breath and walked into the bar.
‘Ah!’ she heard her mother say. ‘Here’s my daughter. She’ll tell you. She’ll tell you everything. Jen. Come over here.’
The bar fell silent; all eyes were on her and her mother.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked the police officer.
‘Could you confirm your name? And your relationship to Mrs Tripp?’
‘I’m Jenna Tripp. I’m her daughter.’
‘And how old are you, Jenna?’
‘I’m fifteen. Nearly sixteen.’
The police officer turned to the bar manager and said, ‘Is this OK? She’s under age.’
The manager nodded and the police officer said, ‘I’m PC Drax and we’ve been asked to come and talk to your mother about some alleged thr
eatening remarks made to some other patrons. Apparently she was refusing to leave.’
Her mum tutted and rolled her eyes. ‘They were not threatening remarks, officer. For God’s sake. We were having a conversation!’
Jenna turned to look at the couple sitting across the room who could barely make eye contact with her. She had no idea who they were.
‘That’s the thing,’ her mother continued. ‘No one will talk about this stuff. No one will admit that it’s happening. We sit in our little cotton-wool cocoons pretending that the world is all soft and safe and lovely because we can’t face the truth. They’re all in it. Him up there’ – she pointed towards Melville Heights – ‘half the village, probably. And this isn’t just about me. I’m not that stupid as to think that I’m the only one who gets all this … all this shit. It’s happening on a global level. And there are other people like him’ – she pointed upwards again – ‘powerful people. All over the world. And if we don’t talk about it, it will keep on happening. And I heard these nice people just now, while I was standing outside, I heard them talking about him and saying what a great job he’s doing and all I said was you don’t know the half of it, but nobody wants to hear it, nobody wants to bloody hear it.’
Her mother kept talking and Jenna stared at her and thought, This has suddenly become something much bigger than me.
‘Is there anyone you can call?’ PC Drax asked her. ‘An adult?’
Jenna looked at her phone clutched inside her hand and thought that she should phone her dad. Then she thought that if Dad came he’d make her go back and stay with him. And if she went to stay with him then she would end up living with him and she didn’t want to live with him because her life was here. And then she thought of Bess, who had once again not waited for her this morning or after school this evening, and she looked at her mother who was very close to as far as she could go in life without some serious help from the outside world, and she wondered if the life she had here was worth as much as she’d always thought it was.
‘My dad lives in Weston-super-Mare,’ she said. ‘I could call him?’
‘Yes,’ said the police officer, ‘maybe you could.’
She typed in her dad’s number and watched the couple across the way talking to the other PC. They were shaking their heads and saying, ‘No, no, it’s fine.’
‘And you know,’ her mother was saying, ‘in actual fact it should have been me calling the police. To report an assault. This gentleman’ – she pointed at the manager – ‘was really quite physical with me.’
The manager rolled his eyes. ‘I barely touched her,’ he said. ‘Literally, just put my hand on her elbow trying to encourage her to leave. But she refused.’
Her father’s phone rang and rang and rang. Jenna pressed end call and looked at PC Drax. ‘No reply,’ she said, a whisper of relief in her tone.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Just around the corner. Literally one minute away.’
‘Do you think you could get your mum to come home with you? Now? There’s no charges to be brought here. I think it’s best if we can just end this nice and quietly. What do you think?’
‘Yes,’ Jenna said brightly. ‘Yes. I can get her home. Mum?’ She went to her mum’s side and touched her shoulder.
Her mother clasped her hand over hers. ‘My daughter knows what I’ve been through. She can tell you. She can tell you everything. Maybe then someone will listen.’
‘Mum, we’re going home now.’ Jenna gently pulled her mum to her feet and started to lead her towards the door.
‘I’ve written to the chief superintendent three times in the last six months. I’ve written to my councillor and my MP. Nobody wants to know. I get fobbed off with these meaningless stock replies. Maybe now, maybe someone will actually listen. And you two!’ Her mother turned suddenly as they neared the front door and pointed at the embarrassed-looking couple. ‘I’m sorry I had to approach you both so heavy-handedly. I can see that wasn’t ideal. But as long as decent people like you keep believing what you’re told about people like him, nothing will ever change.’
‘Come on, Mum.’ Jenna kept her moving. The police officer held open the door and finally her mum was out of the hotel bar, on the pavement. People stopped and watched. Traffic slowed as it passed.
The two police officers escorted Jenna and her mum back to their house and stayed for half an hour, asking Jenna lots of questions, the answers to which she knew would be going straight to social services. No, she said, her mother had never approached strangers before as far as she was aware. Most of the time, she said, her mother sat at her computer. Most of the time she said her mother was perfectly normal. And, well, yes, maybe she had noticed a slight increase in her mother’s paranoia over the past week or so. Her mother had always been up and down, yes, possibly she had a slightly bipolar aspect, but no, it had never caused any problems for her, no. Life was fine. Her mum was fine. On the whole, yes, it was all good.
Her phone rang about two minutes after the police finally left.
‘Jen, love, it’s Dad. Is everything OK? I’m really sorry I missed your call; I was in my t’ai chi class.’
Jenna let a moment of silence fall as she wondered, briefly, if now was the time finally to offload her fucked-up life on to someone else. But then she sighed, and made herself smile and said, ‘Everything’s fine, Dad. Honestly. I just wondered if I was going to see you over the Easter holidays. That’s all.’
34
Freddie scooted on his office chair from the window to his bedroom door.
‘Dad!’ he called down the stairs. ‘Dad! That woman! Jenna’s mum! She just got arrested!’
His father’s voice rose up the staircase. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘That woman! The stalker woman! Mrs Tripp or whatever. She just got taken out of the Melville by two uniformed policemen.’
He heard his father slowly taking the stairs and his face appeared between the banisters. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I am entirely sure. She was talking to two people outside, and I could tell she was getting agitated and I could see they were trying to get away from her and then she followed them into the bar. Ten, fifteen minutes later there were blue lights and the cops got out and then the daughter turned up and five minutes later the daughter and the mum were being escorted off the premises.’
‘Into a car?’
‘No,’ said Freddie, mentally downgrading the excitement factor. ‘No. I think they walked them home.’
‘God,’ said Dad. ‘That’s not good.’
‘Why don’t you go down there? To the bar?’ Freddie suggested. ‘Ask what happened? You’re all pally-pally with them in there, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Dad. ‘I guess I could. I suppose so.’ He narrowed his eyes at Freddie. ‘Want to come with? I can get you a Coke and a bowl of scratchings?’
Freddie nodded. In one way he didn’t want to go anywhere at all. It was warm in here. It was dark and cold out there. But he never went anywhere on his own with his dad. Normally his dad wouldn’t even be here now. Normally he’d still be at school. Often he didn’t get home till gone ten o’clock but he’d been home early tonight because he’d been at a meeting at the LEA all day. He’d appeared while Freddie was eating his supper, full of bonhomie and joy, ruffled his hair, called him his fine boy, made them both Nutella on toast for afters, exclaimed about the smartness of the newly painted hallway, poured himself a generous glass of red wine, put his arm around Mum and just been generally jolly and like the sort of dad you wished got home from work at six o’clock every night.
And now he was offering Freddie Coke and scratchings and a chance to find out first-hand what on earth was going on with Jenna and her mum. He grabbed his shoes from where he’d thrown them and pulled them on.
Freddie loved the Melville. They came here sometimes for Sunday lunch. Once they’d brought Grandma here for afternoon tea in the little lounge area behind the reception des
k. They’d been given tiny cakes with gems and rose petals and fluffed-up cream fillings. They’d had a teapot each with an antique strainer and a bowl of sugar lumps. The fire had been lit and there’d been low-level jazzy stuff playing in the background and Freddie had thought that somehow he’d jumped straight into a really nice dream.
His dad held the door to the bar open and suddenly there was the flutter and excitement of grown-ups discoursing, the dense smell of beer and scented candles, the theatre of muted wall lights and towering vases of tropical flowers.
His dad went straight to the bar and ordered Freddie a Coke and himself a pint of something local and spumy.
‘Saw some blue lights here earlier,’ his dad said to the very young man tending the bar. ‘Hope there hasn’t been any trouble?’
The boy – he didn’t look much older than Freddie – said, ‘Not really. Just a woman. With some issues. She was giving that couple over there a hard time. We asked her to leave. She wouldn’t.’ He shrugged, flipped the beer tap upwards and let the last few drops hit the frothy head.
‘God,’ said Dad. ‘And you had to call the police?’
‘She just refused to go. It was creating a disturbance. Rob tried to ask her nicely. Made her even madder. You know.’
‘And a bowl of scratchings please,’ his dad asked, pulling out his wallet.
The boy nodded and put the beer and the Coke on the bar top.
‘And what was she shouting about, this woman?’
‘I dunno. It was all this weird stuff about powerful people and being controlled. You know. She was telling them that they shouldn’t believe things they read in the papers, conspiracy theories, all that. Just, you know, like, mad stuff.’
‘Probably unkind to use the word mad, you know, Luke,’ his dad chastised gently, being Saint Tom Fitzwilliam, as usual. ‘Shall we say, maybe, troubled?’
As he said this, the male half of the couple from the other side of the bar approached Freddie’s dad and said, ‘Mr Fitzwilliam. I’m Ralph Gross. Our son Felix is at your school, in year eight. That’s my wife, Emma.’