by Ruth Dugdall
I open, tentatively.
‘Like volcanoes,’ she says, though I know this. My teeth are thin at the front, smooth and strangely shaped at the back. Last time, she painted a fluoride treatment on them; there is little else that can be done.
‘Okay, Sam. You can send the next girl in.’
The next girl is Pearl, and she refuses to leave her seat. Sian sighs, puts Family & Home on the table, and proceeds to lift her by the arms. Pearl sinks her slight weight down, but Sian has her easily, and together they disappear into the dentist’s room.
I can hear muffled protests, then I choose not to hear.
Later, back at the Bartlet, there is still more to endure. I have my fifteen minutes with Clive, the painful viewing of my Black Magic box of memories. It’s like having a dentist drill my teeth, looking at those photos. Painful and unavoidable. Back to the familiar pain of that terrible month of June, when I went hunting for Jena’s attacker.
‘Why are we even doing this?’ I ask, arms folded and mouth nipped. ‘You can’t fix me.’
‘I agree,’ he says.
‘So what’s the fucking point?’
Clive holds up a chunky finger in correction, an earnest frown on his face so deep his eyes disappear for a moment.
‘I can’t fix you, Sam. But I really believe you can fix yourself. You’re doing so well, and the board meeting is soon. Don’t give up on yourself. Please.’
He places a saucer of cherry tomatoes on his desk, next to the Enliven.
‘But it has to be your choice. It always has been.’
‘Some choice,’ I say, looking at the can of fat and sugar.
‘I know this isn’t comfortable, or easy, but if you can peel back those layers of understanding it will be worth it. It will mean your freedom.’
It sounds like a cliché even as he says it. But talking, finally talking after eighteen months, is becoming necessary, like an unblocked river finding its way to the sea. There’s a trickle of hope, somewhere unseen, the narrow possibility of a better place, a normal life away from here. Home. My only option is to follow the trickle of hope, so I select the next photo in the pile, of a terraced house on the estate, and talk.
I used a brick to wedge the door shut and left Jena’s flat, the dog in my rucksack, and headed for The Terraces.
Under the gaze of the June sun I peddled hard, past closed-up shops, overflowing bins, concrete yards, signs showing snarling Alsatians with speech bubbles warning I LIVE HERE!
I dodged dog shit, drying out in the sun, and zipped around cars parked on bricks. Orwell Estate was built in the seventies, a limp ambition of flat roofs and plate glass, where thin terraces from the last century got boxed in by maisonettes, blocks crammed together in a dip in the world. It was just a few streets from my home, near enough for us to use the same local shops, near enough to hear the ambulance sirens outside Our Plaice.
Orwell Estate is the sinkhole of Ipswich; the path down to The Terraces is steep. I’d spent many hours here when I was younger, roller-skating down with my hands stretched out in summer, balanced on a tray and risking my neck in snow. It was a trudge walking downwards in the heat and my bike felt heavy, pulling me forward so I tripped on the uneven concrete. This was the older part of the estate, somehow forgotten when other parts had a breezeblock makeover, and there was a fair bit of greenery on both sides of the path, trees thriving through neglect.
I stopped just fifty or so yards from the row of terraced houses, the bottom of the sinkhole. I looked around at the long grass, at the spindly crab-apple tree, but there was not enough nature to hide my bike or me. Luckily, there was a recycling bin next to the tree, a huge black box on wheels with YES PLEASE! printed next to pictures of bottles and cans. Some keen councillor’s attempt to clean up the estate, but all around were discarded beer cans and family-sized White Lightning bottles. This was where I hid, crouched behind the bin with my bike flat in the grass, holding my camera like a sniper. Jena didn’t want me to have the camera, but I was going to use it to take pictures, and keep them in the Black Magic box, until I had enough evidence to bring her attacker to justice. I didn’t know how exactly this was going to fall into place, but I had to do something.
Even in the shade of the recycling bin, the heat was intense; my skin itched with sweat. I was starving, but I wouldn’t give up my vigil. I adjusted my camera lens to line up a shot. The first terrace had a pink door, a fancy net at the window and a fat orange cat meowing in the garden. An old, hunched-over woman came out, reaching a shaky hand to the marmalade moggy as it wound itself around her varicosed leg.
I moved the camera to the next house. I had a feeling this was Sonia’s home, just from the mess. From the itch in the pit of my gut. There was no movement, not even the twitch of a curtain, so after a while I took the printed newspaper story from my rucksack, as if it was going to tell me something different, something I didn’t already know. Then I took the dog out, and held it. This was a long shot. I had no idea if Sonia and Douglas were still together, or even in contact. He’d said in his statement that he hadn’t been back here in sixteen years, and the article that described her as his girlfriend was as old. But I had to start somewhere. Maybe she’d be able to tell me where he was now.
I was asleep in the grass, the dog in my arms, when a harsh voice roused me. A buggy appeared, then the woman who was using all her strength to push it. A lad a few years older than me was walking beside her, laden down with bulging supermarket bags that looked about to tear. I strained my ears to hear what the woman was saying in breathy sentences, only catching snippets: . . . put me down to work tonight . . . not even my . . . said to him . . . what am I supposed to do with . . . only a puppy . . . if you don’t like it you can . . .
They came closer, just twenty yards from where I was hiding, my body pressed against the hot plastic bin as I craned my head to hear and see. Finally reaching her own path, the woman stopped pushing the buggy. She wiped her brow and put her hand flat on her bony chest. I attached the zoom lens and focused in, and I could see it was Sonia, looking much older than in the newspaper picture. Her face was hollow-cheeked and her hair was ratty; she’d got the same dragged-down shoulders, even though it was the teenage boy next to her who was carrying the bags.
It was him: the boy I’d ducked apples with at Halloween, though his ginger hair was now more burnt orange, and his boyish face had narrowed; the boy whom I suspected was Douglas’s son. I zoomed too close and the image blurred, so I twisted the lens back until I could see him clearly.
Sonia pushed the buggy, one of those plastic tripper ones, up to the front door. The sound of yapping came from inside. She leaned into the pram: . . . now . . . get you inside . . . wee-wee.
The boy had his head down and was fumbling in his pocket, taking out a key, but before he had time to use it, the door opened.
I flattened myself into the grass, my face perilously close to a rusted tin of mouldy peas, camera to my eye, and zoomed in closer.
A man stood in the doorway, partly concealed, and all I could make out was that he was tall with greying hair. He reached up to the top of the doorway and stretched his whole body.
‘Bought the whole shop, did you?’
There was a tussle with bags and the pram.
‘I told you, Sonia, that dog is meant to be for your protection. It’s not a fucking baby.’
As he reached to lift the puppy from the pram, I saw his whole face. It was Andy, Sonia’s brother and Jena’s secret fiancé.
The surprise at seeing him sent a cold thought shivering through me: he, Sonia and Douglas were linked by blood and marriage, and these relationships somehow all connected to Jena. If I could untangle this, I might find the motive for the attack.
I’m in the grip of my story; I hadn’t felt the asthma overtaking me again, the panic at not being able to grasp air. The tube is making it worse, and I’m struggling to get enough air into my lungs.
Clive makes me breathe in through my nose, out t
hrough my mouth, five times. His palms cup my shoulder and eventually he says, ‘Do you want me to call Manda?’
‘No. She’ll only pump me full of prednisolone.’
‘I should get your Ventolin, though?’
‘Please.’
He returns with it, and the drug is like a miracle. He looks relieved, even though his meaty hands are still clasped in anxiety.
‘The other board members will ask to see all the unit files, so if I can see you through this without needing to write it up, that might be best. We don’t want to add any more doubts about your health.’ I breathe, grateful that Clive is not just with me, but totally on my side. It’s been a while since I felt anyone was.
‘It isn’t easy, Sam, digging up the past. I’m glad you’re facing it head-on. Just breathe, that’s it.’
Clive takes a deep breath in sympathy, and I find myself matching him, breath for breath, and feeling calmer. I don’t know whether the Ventolin or Clive is the better drug, but I feel better. There is a silence, just the sound of our matched breathing, and the seagulls cawing outside, drifting on the sea breeze.
‘What I’m not understanding, Sam, is why you needed to do all this. You were acting like you had to solve the crime, but why? You could have just let the police do their job.’
I’d let the police do their job for six weeks and they’d fucked up. Finally, I’d felt like I could do something to help my sister.
‘I needed to be in control,’ I say, grasping for a word that sums up everything that happened then, everything that came after.
CHAPTER 11
9 January
Most of the girls here smoke, but I don’t because of my asthma. Still, I join them in the frigid bathroom when the unit is quiet, under the extractor fan so the smoke rises and doesn’t trigger the alarm. The bathroom is the one place there are no rules. We can talk calories and weight and triggers, at least until a staff member discovers us. There’s laughter too. Today it’s about Manda, and how fat she’s looking since Christmas.
‘She should spend some time with us,’ Joelle says. ‘Wouldn’t take us long to get her back into shape.’
Pearl stands awkwardly on one tennis shoe, pulling at a coil of hair that has released itself from her green serge trilby. Stacey offers her the end of the cigarette, and I blanch but say nothing. Pearl has to make her own decisions; I know that, but she’s young and vulnerable, and I want to take her by the hand and lead her away. Her fingers hover in the air, just above the lit stub.
‘Take it, kid. It’s calorie-free,’ Stacey advises in a fake American, have-a-nice-day voice.
Pearl puts it to her lips and sucks, then she starts to cough. Each cough feels like it’s coming from my own chest. She passes the fag to Fiona, who pulls a face, so it’s returned to Stacey. No one offers cigarettes to Mina, who is also in the room; it’s as if she’s invisible.
‘Yup,’ continues Stacey, inhaling deeply and warming to the theme, ‘we could teach that fatty some weight-loss tips. Looks like she had too many mince pies.’
It’s funny, the thought of fat Manda cutting up her food into the smallest bites, then trying to hide it under her napkin so she isn’t made to eat it.
‘I’ve got the best tip ever,’ I say, tapping the tube on my face. ‘If it ain’t liquid, don’t do it.’
Stacey laughs, which is what I wanted, but Pearl gives me an admiring look from under the brim of her hat, and I immediately regret drawing attention to my tube.
After taking a final drag, coughing into her bony hand, Stacey concludes, ‘We look like the models in the magazines, but we’re the sick ones. And the staff look like whales, but they’re supposed to be healthy.’
The logic of the fatally ill is a perfect thing.
When I arrive at his office, Clive is seated in his high-backed, faux-leather armchair facing the window, flicking through my case file that is balanced on his knee, a fountain pen in his bear-paw grip. I take a moment to enjoy the view. There is condensation on the windowpane, and outside the sky is white, full of snow yet to fall, over a slate of sea.
‘Making notes on me?’
‘It’s my first draft of your progress report.’
‘For the board?’ I ask.
I try and make the question light, but really I’m nervous. Clive must see how tense I feel; he disarms me by pushing the case notes over to me.
‘I’m not going to write anything I won’t discuss with you, Sam. Here . . .’
I walk over to him and read the thick, slanted handwriting, the ink still wet:
Sam wishes to be in control of her body, as a direct consequence of her sister being attacked and the subsequent trauma, which she was unable to influence.
A snort of irony sends a bubble of air up my tube, as I land on the chair opposite him.
‘Not rocket science, is it?’
‘Maybe not. Shall we pick up where we left off, Sam?’
He leans forward, eager to hear the next part of this story. His pen drips ink over the blank page, hoping to fill it with the story of my life.
‘There is no we, Clive. It’s me telling this story. You’re just taking notes for your report.’
‘I’m sorry, Sam. If it bothers you, I’ll stop.’
He places the pen down, sits back. Then he looks out of the window, as if only interested in the view. The cold North Sea, which will outlast all of us.
‘I’ll just listen.’
I returned each day, positioning myself outside number 5, The Terraces, like a sniper, hiding behind the bin and watching, waiting for something to happen. On the third day of my watch, late afternoon on Saturday 11 June, Sonia’s son left the house.
I didn’t have a plan, not really, but this boy was in all probability Douglas’s son, and I needed to find out all I could about the man who had most likely attacked Jena. So, I followed him.
He was ambling along, in a familiar direction, and with crawling dread it dawned on me that he was heading for Orwell Parade, the place where Jena was attacked, with its row of shops: the petrol station with its yellow-and-green frontage; the tanning parlour, where you paid by the minute to turn orange, if cancer didn’t get you first; then the fish and chip shop, with its glass front and plastic blue fish painted with OUR PLAI – the final C and E having peeled away – once managed by Douglas and Sonia, if the news report was correct. Above was the flat where Jena should have been living.
At Orwell Parade, a group of lads were hanging around on bikes and skateboards, leaning on the wall and eating chips. One called out to the boy, ‘Hey, Rob, what’s up?’
So that was his name. I must have known it when we bobbed apples together, and this time I wouldn’t forget.
I placed my bike against the wall, and rummaged in my pocket for money, walking slowly past the gang of boys to join the queue coming out of the chip shop. I couldn’t help but think about the hard pavement under my feet and my sister lying there in a pool of blood.
Our Plaice was doing good trade and smelt delicious – hot vinegar and salt; the man behind the counter was red-faced, sweat dripping off him into the bubbling fat. I waited in line, watching the chips being shovelled on to paper; my stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten all day. My mouth watered at the sight of the battered fish inside the steamy warmer. Finally, it was my turn, but I couldn’t contemplate filling my hunger. How could I carry on, sustaining my body, when Jena’s was so wrecked?
‘A Diet Coke, please.’ Then, made weak by the delicious smells, ‘And small chips.’
I clicked my coins on the counter. Beyond the foggy window, I saw Rob take a pew on the arm of a bench, the green band of his boxers showing over his low-slung jeans. His chin was red with spots, and bits of copper hair hung in his eyes.
I took my chips, sprinkled salt, and knocked back the Coke greedily. The fizz made me gag, but that didn’t stop me downing it in big gulps, all the time thinking, What should I do now? I left the shop and walked over to Rob, feeling the heat in my
palm from the greasy chip wrapper. I took a chip and sucked, my mouth a hollow as I pulled in air to cool it. It was a betrayal of my sister, this selfish need for food, when I should be thinking about her and finding her attacker. Finally, feeling stronger, I tossed it away.
‘You want these? I’m not hungry anymore.’
Impulsively, light-headed with hunger and daring, I offered Rob the greasy packet and he took it.
He pushed his fringe from his forehead. He should have cut it, since his eyes were a lovely blue-grey, like a June sky before a storm. I was both excited and terrified by his closeness, by the possibility that his father was Jena’s attacker, his uncle was her fiancé, and he would know plenty about both men.
‘I’m Sam,’ I said.
He looked directly at me. ‘I know who you are,’ he said.
The sky was overcast; the sun had overreached itself, and a summer storm was on the way. My phone vibrated in my pocket; it was Mum. She’d be wondering where I was, when I was coming home for tea.
I ignored the call.
It started to rain, warm drops on my face. We stayed sitting on the back of the bench, the wood digging into my bum, getting wetter.
Rob’s red hair dripped into his eyes, and when he pushed it away from his forehead I saw a raised white scar, an inch above his brow.
‘How did you get that?’
I could see from its ragged edges that the cut hadn’t received the stitches it needed.
‘I . . . er . . . fell.’ He tugged his hair back to cover it, and looked away. ‘The rain’s getting heavy. We should take cover.’
As we ran for the bus shelter there was another call, this time from Dad. Again, I didn’t pick up.
‘I’m sorry about what happened. I saw it on the news.’
He thought I was a pity case, the girl with the damaged sister. He didn’t know yet that I was a vigilante too.
‘So, you live around here?’ I asked Rob, as if I didn’t know.
‘Yeah. With my mum.’
I quickly said, ‘Not your dad?’