I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

by Teresa Driscoll

  guy knows your name? Could actually be watching you?’

  ‘Possibly. Probably not. The police reckon it could be

  a lucky guess. Or the caller may have done some research

  just to spook me.’

  ‘But he used your name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is a pause, and Tom’s expression is changing.

  He stands and is at first still. He seems to be thinking

  and then starts pacing.

  ‘So this guy targets you – you specifically – and the police just let you drive home in your car on your own?

  To just wait and see what happens?’

  I tell him that the office offered to arrange a taxi but

  I didn’t want to leave my car behind. And I felt reassured

  by the police. A bit, anyway. I explain that at this stage there isn’t really anything they can do. It may just be

  random. He may never call again.

  ‘No, no. I don’t like that he knew you were at the café.

  What if some nutter is watching you? Followed you here?

  They shouldn’t have let you just drive off, Alice. Not after

  two phone calls like that. A voice changer, for Christ’s sake.’

  I don’t tell him that Jack offered to bring me home

  and wait with me.

  ‘Can’t the police give you some kind of protection?

  Surveillance or something? At least until we know if this

  is a grudge against the paper. Or a grudge against you

  personally.’

  ‘No. Apparently not. Not on the basis of a couple of

  phone calls. They don’t have the resources, Tom.’

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  ‘So you just drove straight home?’ He glances at the

  door as if someone could be out there right now watch-

  ing us.

  ‘No. I drove around a bit actually. Took a couple of

  detours. Just in case.’ I do not want to tell him that I

  actually drove several miles in ridiculous circles for the

  best part of an hour, taking random eleventh-hour turns

  this way and that, just in case someone was following me.

  ‘Right. I’ll cancel dinner. Obviously. We can order

  in.’ He is back alongside me, holding his palm to my

  cheek, and I look into his face and feel the guilt I always

  feel when Tom looks at me this way.

  It makes me think of that other face. From years back.

  Also Jack’s face. Stop it, Alice. I glance across to the other side of the room and feel another punch of guilt before

  I turn back to Tom.

  I need a moment and so I ask him to make me a coffee.

  My house is open-plan downstairs and I watch him move

  over to the kitchen area, staring at his back as he flicks on the kettle and reaches for the coffee canister on the shelf

  above the cooker. I realise that what I feel, along with all the confusion, is still this powerful disappointment in myself.

  I am someone who has always admired resilience in

  people. I see it often in my job. Write about it regularly.

  The truth? I had hoped and believed that deep down I was

  tougher than this. I have interviewed people who have had

  their lives utterly devastated and yet have risen above it. A man who had his foot blown off in Afghanistan and went

  on to run a marathon. A woman who threw herself in front

  of three children when a drunk driver mounted a pavement.

  I watch Tom’s back as he pours the boiling water into two

  mugs, and I think of so many stories. So much courage.

  And the first time I am tested?

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  I Will Make You Pay

  ‘No, Tom. We should go out as planned. I need to

  get a bloody grip. This is completely ridiculous. Precisely

  what he wants.’

  ‘Dinner doesn’t matter.’ Tom carries the drinks back to

  the sitting room area and places them on the coffee table.

  ‘It does matter, Tom.’ The booking this evening –

  Tom’s favourite restaurant – was supposed to celebrate

  things going so well for him at work. He’s pushed incred-

  ibly hard the last couple of months, working long hours

  to win a big new corporate client. His firm is delighted.

  I sip my drink, new emotions pushing to the fore.

  Anger now. ‘That’s precisely what this creep wants. To

  mess with my head.’

  ‘I honestly don’t mind about this evening, Alice. We

  can order in. Chinese. Thai. Whatever you fancy.’

  ‘No. I mean it. I’ll have a shower. Get changed. Stuff

  the saddos of this world – we’re going out.’

  * * *

  For all my bravado, I find – on the way to the restaurant –

  that I keep turning to check the cars behind us. By the time

  we reach the parking area, I’m almost dizzy with the flip-

  flop of emotions. Afraid then angry. Worried then furious.

  Yes. Livid, actually, that someone on the end of a telephone

  for less than a minute could do this to me.

  So that, once we’ve ordered, I come clean. ‘Do you

  know what, Tom? I feel ashamed. Me – always banging

  on about the resilience of people, and look at me.’ I hold

  out my hand to show him that it is actually trembling.

  ‘Oh, Alice. Why always so hard on yourself? It’s no

  wonder you’re shaken. It was nasty, what he said. Anyone

  would be shaken.’

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  I do not answer. I try not to think of the deli; of the

  wire slicing slowly through the slab of cheese. I wonder

  what would make someone say that – such a horrible image.

  I tear at my bread roll and spread far too much butter on it.

  ‘OK. So has the paper upset anyone recently – any

  trolling online? Complaints about any of your copy?

  Court cases? Anything like that?’ He is using his lawyer

  tone, practical and steady now, leaning in so I can see my

  reflection in his glasses.

  I shake my head. The police asked this too, but I can’t

  think of anything or anyone; I haven’t covered court or

  crime for ages.

  ‘I’ve been on features mainly – busy on the Maple

  Field House campaign.’

  ‘And no one has kicked off about that? The campaign?’

  ‘A few local politicians are still embarrassed to have

  been shown up. Otherwise, quite the contrary. Everyone’s

  delighted how it’s turned out. I mean, I shouldn’t be tak-

  ing the credit. The residents have driven the campaign.

  I just wrote it all up.’

  Tom lets out a sigh of exasperation and fidgets as if

  trying to think of some other motive.

  The truth is I’ve been so busy on Maple Field House

  stories that I haven’t done any meaty news for ages. I’ve been the lead reporter on the campaign for the best part of a year, and Ted’s been delighted to have so much copy out of it.

  Maple Field House is a dreary and dated U-shaped

  mall of shops with three storeys of flats. In its heyday, it

  was apparently quite smart; the shops busy and successful.

  But changes in customer habits and the poor building

  design have taken their toll.

  Most of the shops are now empty – just a few converted

  to charity shops. The flats above them are extremely damp

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  I Will Make You Pay

  and d
reary, with all manner of structural problems. They’re

  owned by the local council, but the block hasn’t been up-

  graded in years because the housing committee couldn’t

  decide whether to reinvest in the flats or relocate the residents to a new low-rise development of houses and maisonettes.

  Because of the indecision, conditions got worse and

  worse. The whole building has some kind of dry rot. The

  communal rubbish chutes kept getting blocked. Fed-up

  residents started a campaign for the whole place to be

  demolished. It was largely ignored until I started to run

  features on the damp affecting children’s health – espe-

  cially the kids with asthma.

  Finally it all came to a head – the council got tired of

  the embarrassment caused by all the stories in our paper,

  the South Devon Informer. The housing committee agreed to demolition and the relocation of all the residents. Plans

  for a joint scheme were swiftly drawn up with a housing

  association.

  Everyone is now in temporary accommodation, and

  the first families are moving into the early phase of the

  new development.

  To be honest, it’s made for easy copy for me. The

  constant roll of story updates keeps me busy; it’s good to

  work on something worthwhile and it keeps my editor

  happy too.

  ‘You know I’ve been off the court rota at work for

  ages,’ I add. ‘People are always upset with the paper, Tom –

  you know that – but I’ve not personally covered anything

  controversial for ages. At least not that I can think of.’

  I stare at my fish. Sea bass with perfect crispy skin.

  I separate the flakes with my fork but then find myself

  staring at the glinting metal.

  I am going to use cheese wire on you…

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  ‘Not hungry?’

  ‘I think I just had too much at lunchtime.’ I put the

  fork down.

  He finds a smile. ‘Well, you’re right. Probably just

  a nutter you won’t hear from again.’ Tom saws into his

  steak. ‘Though if you’d like to stay at mine – or me at

  yours – until we’re sure?’

  He isn’t looking at me and I don’t know how to re-

  spond. The truth is I don’t like the idea of sleeping on

  my own, but we normally stay over only on weekends or

  after dates like this. Tom’s now in commercial law. His

  work takes him to London quite often and that rather

  suits me. I’m not ready to live with anyone. Not again…

  ‘How about you stay over at mine tonight as planned

  and then see how we go?’ I say. ‘I’m sure I’ll feel better

  tomorrow. Probably just a one-off. It’ll all settle once I

  know it was a one-off.’

  ‘OK. So long as you’re not just being brave.’ He pauses

  and tilts his head with a smile. ‘Or stubborn.’

  ‘ Moi? ’

  We both laugh, and I realise it’s the first moment I’ve

  relaxed since I took the wretched phone call. And that

  feels good; like some tiny triumph.

  Tom smiles at me again and I want to fast-forward to

  the day when we can look back on this as a dinner party

  anecdote. You remember that nutter who tried to spook you… ?

  Yes. I feel defiant suddenly. I pick up my fork again.

  I scoop a large flake of fish into my mouth and find that

  it is delicious.

  Everything will be back to normal very soon.

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  CHAPTER THREE

  Alice

  The box arrives the following Wednesday. Courier. Ten

  a.m.

  It is a bakery box with a sticker on the top from a

  local firm which recently won an award. I did a feature

  on the owner just last week, and she emailed to say how

  thrilled they all were with the coverage.

  ‘Someone get the coffees in.’ I raise my voice and stand

  to make a little show of the gift. ‘It’s from that award-

  winning bakery. Should be good.’

  I am pleased to be feeling my old self today. For the

  first forty-eight hours after that stupid phone call, I was

  all over the place. Nervous in the car. Nervous in the of-

  fice; afraid to answer the blessed phone. But as the days

  passed – Thursday, Friday, the weekend – the impact of

  the phone call faded. I felt more and more foolish for

  overreacting.

  I went to the gym as normal on Saturday afternoon.

  Visited mum Sunday morning and had a cinema date

  with Tom in the evening. Then, on Monday, I stopped

  thinking about it so much, and yesterday I covered stories

  as normal. Answered the phone. Even went to the café

  next door.

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  I am thinking of all of this as I look at the box, pleased

  to have a treat to share with my colleagues. The only

  question going through my head is – will it be one large

  cake or individual cakes? Ipso facto, will I need to find

  a knife?

  The top of the box has a kind of envelope closure – the

  paper slotted neatly into slits like the lens on a camera. I

  carefully pull out one flap, then a second.

  By this time Jack is next to me – standing close to

  get a good view. A cake lover. Hollow legs. I open the

  final flaps.

  The shock that it isn’t a cake inside takes a moment

  to sink in. By now there are three of us peering into the

  box – Jack, the editor’s secretary Samantha, and Nigel,

  one of the older photographers.

  ‘Flowers?’ It is Samantha’s voice first, her tone all

  puzzlement. ‘But they’re completely ruined. Look at the

  stems. How odd.’

  ‘Oh no…’ Jack moves forward and begins to close the

  top of the lid to try to stop me seeing, but I move my

  hand to push him back.

  ‘I want to see.’

  ‘No, Alice. It’s another wind-up. We need to phone

  the police. There may be fingerprints.’

  Again I push his hand away.

  Pink peonies. My mother’s favourite.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ted has come out of his cubicle.

  ‘Oh – so is this from the cheese wire guy?’ It is Samantha’s voice again, her hand up to her mouth.

  I stare at the flowers. How the hell does he know about

  peonies? These are deep pink and shaped as if for a hand-tied bouquet, but the stems have been tightly wrapped

  with wire – a cheese wire with little wooden handles,

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  I Will Make You Pay

  the type used in professional delis – so that most of the

  stems have been deliberately severed and the flowers are

  all dying.

  Worse, there is a large card inside…

  ‘Christ. Right.’ Ted lets out a huff of air. ‘Leave the

  box there. I’ll phone Alan again. Get someone down

  here from CID. See if they can’t rustle up someone a bit

  more senior this time.’

  ‘Seriously. We shouldn’t touch it, Alice. It’s evidence,’

  Jack is saying, but I can’t help myself; I push his hand away again to pick up the card and start to read it.

  ‘Dear Lord. My mother.’ The message on the car
d is

  such a shock that my heart is immediately pounding and

  my whole body temperature seems to change. First hot.

  Then cold. Then back to hot. ‘I need to check my mother

  is OK.’ My hand is trembling and I have to sit as I reach

  for my phone to dial.

  ‘Why? What is it, Alice? What does the card say?’

  ‘Shh. Shh.’ I wave my hand for quiet as I wait for the

  line to connect – come on, come on – I press the receiver closer to my ear as I read the rest of the card.

  And that’s when I realise for the first time, my heart

  still pounding with fear for my mother, that the day is

  significant.

  Wednesday.

  Also that the phone call last Wednesday wasn’t the

  beginning of this.

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  CHAPTER FOUR

  Him – before

  He sits on the end of his bed staring at the rockets and

  stars which zoom and flash across the duvet. He is five

  years old and his gran says he is growing up way too fast.

  My little rocket man.

  It is his gran’s voice inside his head right this minute,

  which is odd because she is really next door in the kitchen. He gets this strange little punch in his stomach as he remembers the day they picked out the duvet cover in the special shop

  where everything is cheap. It was in a big, bright red plastic bin. Like a dustbin, only smarter. sale. He remembers trying to spell out the letters, with his gran helping. So proud.

  You’re such a clever boy…

  He gets this odd and confusing explosion of feelings

  inside. Like the noise and the flash when a rocket launches.

  Sort of muddled and loud and strange. He doesn’t know

  if he is angry or not. Mad. Sad. Bad?

  My brave little soldier.

  It is the other thing his gran calls him. He stares up

  at the door as there is some kind of clattering from the

  kitchen. She always says that on Wednesday…

  He gets chocolate flakes for breakfast on Wednesdays.

  And ice cream after his tea. She is making it now – fish

  fingers, chips and beans. His favourite.

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  I Will Make You Pay

  And ice cream with chocolate sauce for my brave little soldier.

  Only he isn’t brave, is he?

  That’s the problem.

  In school they are learning to read in groups and he is

  in the top group. Red Group. The best in the whole class.

  He has a book about a girl who is frightened of the dark

  and who meets a bear who is frightened of the dark too.

  He wanted to tell the teacher this morning that he’s