Someone Out There

by Catherine Hunt

  Once, on a stormy day in early winter, he went on to the Palace Pier to take pictures. She didn’t like to follow him because the pier was empty and she would be conspicuous so she waited nearby on the beach. White horses rode the water, crashing through the legs of the pier and down on to the shingle. There was a crowd of people watching the wild sea; she stood among them and someone must have had some food, because, all at once, they were buzzed by a squadron of screeching seagulls. To her surprise, and intense delight, she saw the boy turn his camera towards her. He was taking her picture, he must be, what other explanation could there be?

  The more disordered her life became, the more isolated she felt, the more she believed that he cared for her. By thinking about when she would next see him, she could endure the bullying. She inhabited a world where he loved her and so she was able to escape from her own dismal existence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Lisa and Luke Handley were having a birthday party. Lisa would be sixteen on the 13th December 1997, her brother would be seventeen three days later. Their party was on the Saturday at the end of term. The Handleys went to Anna’s school and both of them were popular – it seemed like everyone had been invited. Everyone but Anna. She hadn’t really expected to be, but it still upset her for she had once counted Lisa Handley as a friend. It hurt, especially as Lisa had never taken much part in the bullying, seemed not to enjoy it. Lately, though, Lisa hardly ever troubled to speak to her.

  As the party night grew closer, Anna was forced to overhear endless chatter about it. She was forced, too, to endure taunts and mockery because she wasn’t going. Girls who had been discussing it would suddenly stop talking when she came near, then say something like: ‘Shh. She’s coming. Ugh. We’d better shut up or she’ll go and tell her friends what we’ve been saying. Oh hang on, she doesn’t have any!’

  It was the last day of term and the morning’s lessons had finished. Students headed for their lockers, and when Anna arrived, there were large groups standing about chatting. She was making her way through them when she spotted the card taped to her locker door. She stood before it, a hard lump in her throat and a sick feeling in her stomach.

  Slowly she pulled the card from the door. It had a picture of a hugely fat girl with a doctor in his consulting room. The caption read, ‘It’s partly glandular and partly 8,500 calories per day’.

  She opened it.

  ‘Sweetheart’, it said, ‘I love the way your fat spills over when you wear those tight jeans. Will you come to the party with me? A secret admirer.’

  She heard sniggering behind her back. Big, tearing sobs filled her chest and as she tried to stifle them, she let out a strangled howl of pain. The buzz of conversation around her stopped, all eyes turned towards her. In the few moments before she ran from the scene she saw through her tears the smiling, smug face of Maria Burns.

  She ran but there was nowhere to hide. She ended up where she had ended up so often before, locked in a cubicle in the girls’ toilets, sobbing her heart out. But this time was different. Something else was mixed in with her distress, something that had been growing in her and was finally raising its head; a determination not to let them win, not to be a victim anymore.

  She gritted her teeth. Her enemies had hurt her, yes, they had seen her cry, yes, but she would get up again, they would not keep her down. In the afternoon she was back in class as usual. She said nothing, as usual. The teacher took no notice of her, as usual. A couple of the girls stared at her and she stared back. Maria Burns and her friends would get no more satisfaction from what they’d done.

  At last it was over. End of term. She hurried out the door, and then an amazing thing happened: Lisa Handley came up to her, thrust an invitation card into her hand, said, ‘You’re welcome, if you want to come’, and walked off before Anna had time to reply. She couldn’t have replied anyway, she was too choked up to speak.

  She knew at once that she would go. No doubt Lisa had witnessed the locker incident and felt sorry for her. But she didn’t need pity. She would show them all, show them that they could not crush her.

  She had not forgotten the message in the card and she chose to wear a pair of loose, black trousers. For the first time in a long time she studied herself in the mirror. The spots, which had infested her forehead and chest, were clearing up; she had grown taller, five foot ten at least, and she didn’t look so fat. Her large breasts were now in proportion to the generous swell of her hips, her belly no longer resembled a sack of potatoes. She would still be called ‘a big girl’, but she wasn’t so sure she would still be called ugly.

  It was an exciting discovery and maybe the reason her judgement deserted her. She put on a tight, low-cut Lycra top and squeezed her body into it. She thought with a thrill that her large eyes might almost qualify as attractive. She smothered them in heavy make-up, unconsciously ruining their natural charm. She persuaded herself that she looked good. It never occurred to her that she might look like a slut.

  Her mother should have told her but her mother was ill. Her mental health was fragile and she felt only relief that her troubled daughter was finally behaving like a normal teenager. Her father dropped her off at the party.

  Anna summoned up her courage and rang the doorbell. A boy she didn’t know let her in. She pushed her way down the packed hallway searching for a place to get a drink. Someone cannoned into her, spilling lager over the too tight blouse. It clung forlornly to her stomach. She was painfully conscious of her size. With dismay she spotted the gang of girls clustered round the kitchen doorway: the usual suspects. In their midst, Maria Burns.

  Maria had recently made great strides in the popularity stakes and was holding court. Maria saw her, stopped talking for a moment, and then began again. The gang of girls turned towards her. To her surprise they began waving, beckoning her over, and although the music was too loud for her to hear what they were saying, they were clearly being friendly.

  She moved nervously towards them. They welcomed her, put their arms round her, and somebody shoved a glass into her hand.

  ‘You look fab,’ shouted Jennifer Fleming.

  Anna wasn’t sure, it might have been ‘flab’ and Maria Burns might have sniggered. On the other hand she might simply be paranoid. She took a gulp from the glass. She wasn’t used to alcohol and the cheap red wine relaxed her almost at once. Michelle Cullen asked her where she got her ‘fantastic’ blouse and a glow of happiness inside her fed the glow from the wine.

  ‘Come on you lot. Why aren’t you dancing? It’s our birthday!’ Lisa Handley was bellowing at them. She was standing with her brother Luke, arms around each other’s waists, looking out from the living room where the DJ and the dancing were. The crowd parted to let the pair through and they marched down the hall, scooped up the girls, Anna among them, and, shouting and laughing, they headed for the dance floor.

  It was not something that Anna would ever have done. Dancing. She just didn’t – couldn’t. It was way out of her comfort zone. But the wine made her brave, the apparent friendliness of the other girls buoyed her up and she decided it could be done and she would do it.

  No-one was more surprised than Anna by the result. For all her bulk she turned out to be a good dancer. There was nothing clumsy about her and if Maria and her friends had looked forward to a good laugh, they didn’t get it.

  Anna was doing something right for a change, doing it so that she couldn’t be mocked or criticized. She closed her eyes, lost in the music and the dance. When she opened them again he was standing there. The boy from the beach. The saviour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Laura was worried by Anna’s breakdown and wondered if it meant she was going to cave in to Harry, give him everything he wanted, just to try to get some peace. Of course, it wouldn’t mean peace, Laura thought, it would only encourage her husband, make him think she would come crawling back in the end and he could continue abusing her just where he left off.

  A voice message from Jeff Ingham
had arrived while Laura was talking to Anna. He’d already called early that morning to say that Valentine had spent another restless night. He wasn’t eating properly either.

  ‘We’ll keep trying, little and often, with the things you told us he likes, but he needs to pick up soon … ’ the vet had said.

  Laura listened to the new message with a thumping heart, trying to brace herself. Valentine just would not calm down, Jeff said, they were going to have to sedate him. He wanted her to be prepared for that when she came in later to visit.

  It left her in an agony over whether to take the awful decision to put Valentine out of his misery. Wouldn’t that be better than making him fight for his life, and putting him through all this extra suffering?

  Her gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door and when she called out ‘come in’, she was surprised to see Morrison appear. She couldn’t remember him ever knocking before, let alone waiting for an answer.

  ‘Laura, could we have a little chat.’

  He was smiling and for once it didn’t look patronising. He was being friendly.

  ‘Wednesday night,’ he said, handing her a white printed card, ‘you should approve of the venue: Greene’s hotel.’

  It was the Law Society dinner. Inwardly, she groaned.

  ‘Good to see they’re supporting the family firm. Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.’

  Perhaps he would go away now, she hoped. But, no, he wasn’t going, he wanted a chat. He sat down in the chair opposite, silent, considering what to say. If she hadn’t known it was an absurd idea, she would have said he was nervous.

  ‘I’ve had a call from the Legal Ombudsman,’ he began, ‘one of their case workers. A Mrs Asha Patel. It seems there’s been a complaint about our handling of the Hakimi case.’ He told her that Mrs Patel had been informed by the complainant that Laura Maxwell had put forward a scheme to forge the letter but it had been vetoed by Sarah Cole. Laura started to protest but Morrison held up his hand. He continued, ‘She said, bearing in mind the serious nature of the allegation, she might have to bring in the SRA.’ His lip curled as he said the initials.

  Laura was well aware of his opinion of the Ombudsman and especially of the SRA, the Solicitors Regulatory Authority, which would investigate any possible misconduct. He hated them both, but he also feared them, for they had extensive powers to investigate and their decisions could not be easily challenged. He regularly complained that they were unaccountable to anyone.

  There was also the original mistake to consider, Mrs Patel had said. Of course, any resulting negligence claim was a civil matter and nothing to do with the Ombudsman, but they did have a duty to investigate whether there had been inadequate professional service to the client and they would be doing just that. She had faxed over a copy of the complaint and given Morrison fourteen days to put in a response.

  In true Morrison fashion he had told Mrs Patel that he knew very little of the matter but he would look into it fully, right away, and get straight back to her.

  He studied Laura. ‘Of course, I realize it was not your idea to write the letter, in fact, it was because of your good sense that no such letter was handed over but you’ll understand I couldn’t correct Mrs Patel’s version without admitting the initial fault. Better not to comment at this stage.’

  He paused, as if he was expecting her to agree or approve the fact that he had not immediately cleared her name.

  ‘I would like it made crystal clear to Mrs Patel that I had nothing to do with it,’ said Laura hotly.

  ‘Absolutely. No question of that,’ he said then coughed awkwardly. ‘Could I have the Hakimi file, please?’

  She opened a drawer, took it out, and handed it to him. He flipped it open, read through Sarah’s letter, which was pinned to the top of the pile of correspondence.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Sarah Cole this morning and left her in no doubt about the very serious position she’s in. Her name is on this and whatever she may say about being ordered to write it, she has signed it and is accountable.’

  He stared hard at Laura, all trace of a smile gone from his face.

  ‘We agreed that it’s best for all of us that this never happened, that no such letter was ever written.’

  He unpinned the letter from the file. ‘As far as the file is concerned this letter never existed. But I won’t destroy it just yet in case Sarah becomes unhelpful. I’ll keep it somewhere safe.’ He folded the letter and put it in his jacket pocket, ‘I trust you have no problem with that?’ Unusually, it was a question, not a statement. He badly wanted her cooperation.

  ‘But surely Sarah must have supplied the information on which the complaint is based so it’s going to be pretty difficult now for her to say it never happened,’ Laura said, confused.

  ‘She says not. She says she hasn’t told anybody. She says she was so traumatized by losing her job that she spent the whole weekend in bed. She hasn’t felt up to talking to anyone. Not even her mother. Must say, I felt rather sorry for her.’

  A small part of Laura found time to be astonished at the nerve of the man. He spoke as if he were an innocent bystander in no way responsible for what had happened. The rest of her was struggling to understand the implications of what he’d said.

  ‘You believed her?’

  ‘Of course not. She’s lying. How else would Clive Walters have known if she hadn’t told him? But the good news is she now realizes she needs to save her own skin and cooperate.’

  ‘Clive Walters made the complaint?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Yes and I know you’re going to say he’s not the client so technically he’s got no right to complain, but he seems to have got round that by saying it’s on behalf of his sister who is too upset to do it herself.’

  Laura hadn’t been going to say any such thing; her mind was running in quite a different direction. She was puzzled by Morrison’s account of what Sarah had said. It sounded authentic. Sarah would be shattered by what had happened and she wasn’t stupid. She knew Clive Walters was trouble; if she wanted revenge she’d realize that involving him was not the way to get it. Any formal complaint was bound to backfire on her. Morrison had dismissed what she’d said as lies but Laura found it hard to do so. But then, she told herself, he must be right. There could be no other explanation.

  ‘So are we agreed on the best way to proceed?’ He was still there wanting a commitment.

  ‘I’ll be very happy to say that I never suggested, or took part in, the forging of any letter,’ she said, hating herself for even half colluding with him. It was not the wholehearted rebuttal of the complaint that he wanted but he would have to be satisfied with it. She was not going to tell any outright lies though neither would she volunteer information. But if Mrs Patel pressed further she would only answer truthfully.

  The expression on his face was an odd mixture of relief and resentment. She had not displayed the total dedication to the well-being of Morrison Kemp that he would have wished for. Her commitment was lukewarm.

  ‘We need to stick together over this, there’s no ‘I’ in team,’ he said, waspishly, ‘And there’s still the original error to be dealt with. A very serious one, Laura.’

  He was rapidly returning to his old intimidating manner. He stopped short of trying to blame her outright for the mess, but, she thought, only because he needed her support over the forgery complaint.

  ‘We have to accept there was no letter advising Mrs Hakimi it was her responsibility to tell us to renew the order. Clearly we can’t produce one now. It’s an oversight that could cost us one hell of a lot of money.’

  ‘I’m doing my best to get the boy back. I don’t think Mrs Hakimi wants to pursue a claim anyway, certainly not at the moment when she believes we can help her. It’s her brother’s idea. He’s after a pay-out.’

  “And he’s very likely to get one,” Morrison snapped, “Let’s hope you can persuade his sister that we’ll do a better job for her if she gets her brother off our back.”

 
“I’ll speak to her.”

  He stood up to go, looked down at her coldly. ‘This will be a challenge for you Laura. How you handle it will help me decide what sort of contribution you can make to this firm in the future.’

  The superior smile was back on his lips: ‘I have every confidence you’ll be able to deal with this in your usual competent manner.’

  ‘Good of you to say so,’ she murmured, but Morrison was immune to irony.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After Morrison had gone, Laura rang Mary Hakimi on the excuse that she wanted to update her on the search for her missing son. It was not much of an update and Laura was honest enough not to exaggerate it. She said that she’d called a contact in Tunisia, given him details of the boy and his father, and he had agreed to alert the immigration people there. She didn’t say any more, didn’t try to explain what she hoped might come of it, but if she had single-handedly rescued Ahmed from the jaws of death, Mary Hakimi couldn’t have been more grateful. Clutching at straws had nothing on this, Laura thought unhappily.

  Mrs Hakimi sounded her usual stressed and dazed self and when Laura gently raised the subject of the complaint there was no reaction at all. She tried again, saying they would deal with it as quickly as they could and they understood her concern. Laura was careful to keep away from any mention of the actual allegation but she needn’t have worried.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t made any complaint,’ said Mrs Hakimi.

  Laura explained that the Legal Ombudsman had been contacted about the handling of her case and was now conducting an investigation.

  Silence from the other end of the phone, then an intake of breath that sounded like a sob.

  ‘Oh my God. It’ll be Clive. It must be. He’ll have done it.’