sweep through to an enormous library overlooking the
bay, I try to play it cool – as if this is the kind of house I visit all the time.
She has her PR with her and so I know that our time
will be limited. We chat easily and, to my relief, she allows a recording on my iPad. She is more open and relaxed
than I expected and the interview goes well. Stories from
her childhood when she first realised she was ‘different’.
Denial in adolescence when she thought she was just
highly strung. And then diagnosis in her twenties, and
drugs and therapy which she kept entirely secret, fearing
it would destroy her career – until now. She’s thirty-eight
and tells me she cares less about what people think these
days and wants to encourage others to be more open too.
Ten more minutes and I can see the PR shifting in her
seat and so I ask the final question. Would she press the
button? Be free of bipolar disorder if she could? I remind
her that some people in the Stephen Fry documentary
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said their condition fuelled their creative lives and was a
part of them. They had learned to accept it.
I watch her closely as she turns to look out to sea
through the window. I am surprised to see her eyes tear-
ing up. I feel guilty. And yet excited too, and I check that
the recording is still running. I am already imagining
how I will write this into my feature. Maybe it will give
me an intro…
‘I’ll need to think about that, Alice. Can I email you
later?’ Melinda turns away from the window to glance
at her PR, who looks worried, and so I step in and say
that will be fine and hand over my card.
Outside, Matthew – who sat quietly drinking coffee
throughout the interview – suggests we grab a sandwich
and have a chat before we return to Leanne’s house to
map out the rest of the day. There is a café just along the
coastal road and so I agree to follow him. After about ten
minutes, he pulls in and I park directly behind.
I step out of my car first, turning to check behind as I
hear a motorcycle approaching. And that’s when it happens.
The rider has a bottle in his hand and freezing liquid
is sprayed right into my face and down the front of my
chest. Next I see Matthew bolting from his car as the
motorcyclist accelerates away. And I hear screaming…
Mine.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Him – before
‘So who the hell are you?’
Huddled in the pillows and blankets in the tiny, win-
dowless room, he does not answer with his name. He
remembers it is all supposed to be a secret. Suddenly he
very urgently needs the toilet and wants to shout out for
his gran.
‘You tell me who you are right this minute or I have to
call the police and the social services. Do you understand?’
He remembers that his gran said those words. The
social services would come if he ever told anyone at school about Wednesday nights. She said they might take him
away and so he shakes his head and says nothing, button-
ing his lips tight, tight together.
He is terribly afraid that the police will come too, and
he decides that he will fight and bite to stop them. But
suddenly there is a new face at the door and relief floods
through him. His gran.
The fat man still looks furious. His gran is also bright
red in the face but she moves into the tiny room to kneel
down and take him into her arms for comfort. Then she
turns to the fat man.
‘Please, Stan. Let me explain. It was just this one time.
An emergency.’
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‘So he’s with you? You brought him here?’
‘He’s my grandson, Stan. I normally have a babysitter
for Wednesday night but she’s unwell. I’m already on a
warning and I can’t afford to lose the job; you know that.
I couldn’t find anyone at short notice.’
Sitting on his little makeshift bed, he holds on to his
gran and wonders why she is telling these fibs. There is
no babysitter anymore. The lady on the floor below who
used to have him to stay over on Wednesday nights moved
months back. Why doesn’t she tell Stan the truth? And
what does she mean, she is on a warning? In school, it’s bad to get a warning. Timothy is always getting warnings
before he has to go to the headmistress.
‘This is not allowed, Martha. You know that. We don’t
have the insurance. What if something happened to the
boy. Unsupervised? We’d be in all kinds of trouble. An
investigation. All hell would break loose.’
‘But just this once. Just this one emergency. Please,
Stan. Don’t say anything. He’s a good kid.’
‘At nights I’m in overall charge, Martha. I can’t let
this go. More than my own job’s worth. You should have
phoned in and explained.’
‘I’m already on thin ice, Stan. They want me to do two
nights a week on the rota like everyone else and they’re
making an allowance just for now. If they find out…’
‘Right. So this is what happens.’ Stan has closed the
door behind him and has at last lowered his voice. He
pauses, looking at the ground as if he is thinking very
hard.
‘OK. Just this one time, I will say that you were sud-
denly taken ill, Martha. Vomiting bug. That I sent you
home because I was worried about the residents catching
it. I will cover you… but this one time. You are to take
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the boy home and this is never to happen again. Do you
understand me? One final chance, yes?’
‘You’re a marvel, Stan. Thank you so much. I prom-
ise you this will never happen again.’ His gran has stood
up and starts gathering up the pillows and folding the
blankets. ‘Come on. We’re going home.’
He stands and picks up his rucksack, staring at Stan
and then at his gran. He tugs at her arm to pull her down
to his level so he can whisper in her ear that he needs
the toilet. She whispers back that he will need to hold it
and do it in the garden when they leave so that no one
else will see them.
And so he concentrates very hard to try to hold it in,
all the while staring at Stan.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alice
I can see the sky now so I must be on the ground. I am
still screaming but Matthew is holding my arms and tell-
ing me not to touch my face.
‘Water. That jug of water.’ He is shouting at the people
seated at an outside table near us. ‘And an ambulance.
Phone for an ambulance…’
I am gasping and bracing myself for the pain as Matthew
is handed the jug and pours water slowly across my face.
The water is ice cold and this is also a shock, almost as
much as the spray into my face as the bike passed. I can
feel my eyes darti
ng from left to right, waiting for what
is coming next. The pain and the burning? I am thinking
of my looks. My eyesight. My face in the mirror. How
bad this will be; how quickly acid works…
‘Close your eyes, Alice. Keep them closed.’ It’s
Matthew’s voice again as he pours more water, first on
to my left eye and then my right. But I cannot help my-
self. I’m holding on to his upper arms with my hands,
frightened to let go, and my arms rise up as he moves the
jug. Despite what he says, I open my eyes again briefly
because I’m afraid of not being able to see. Relief. I still
see sky. I hear Matthew demanding a lot more cold water.
‘More jugs. Quick as you can, please.’
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He continues to pour icy water over me and it is
working. I close my eyes again and I can’t feel the burn-
ing. The cold water is stopping the burning. I wonder
how much damage it can stop; how long before I will
feel the worst of it.
‘It’s all right, Alice. It’s going to be all right. We’re
here. It’s going to be OK.’ Matthew has this low and
steady voice and I’m thinking how incredible it is that he
can do this. Not panic. His police training?
I open my eyes once more to find that he is staring
at me very intently and I want to cry because I im-
agine he can see what is happening to my face. The skin
changing? And then he stops pouring the water on me
and frowns.
‘No. Don’t stop.’ My voice is a whimper. I’m terrified
of what comes next. Without the water, it will burn and
I am very afraid of the pain…
‘No. It really is OK, Alice. It’s not acid. It can’t be
acid. You’re OK. There’s no burning. Your skin is com-
pletely fine.’
His shoulders sort of slump as he says this. I let go
of him and I am suddenly very, very still – eyes darting
once more from left to right as I try to process what he
is saying.
Not acid.
Matthew then looks at me very intently before touch-
ing my face – briefly and then for longer.
‘It’s water, Alice. All of it. Water. It must have been
water sprayed at you. Not acid.’ His voice cracks as he
says this, and the next thing I know Matthew is sitting
on the ground alongside me, raking his hand through his
hair, letting out little huffs of breath himself. Huff. Huff.
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I Will Make You Pay
I look up at the sky and put my right hand up to my
right cheek, touching ever so gingerly with the tip of my
finger. No burning. He’s right. Still no burning…
I smooth my finger right across my cheek next, to
check the flesh properly. Nothing.
No burning. Not acid.
And then I’m crying with the relief and I close my eyes
as I hear Matthew calling out to cancel the ambulance.
Again his voice is steady and completely in control. The
relief is seeping through me but I feel cold all over and
am suddenly shaking.
‘She’s OK. It was water. She’s going to be fine but
she’s in shock. She’ll need a hot drink and a blanket,
please, but we don’t need an ambulance. Can you ask in
the café? Tea with sugar and somewhere quiet for her to
sit?’ A long pause. ‘But she’s going to be OK.’
* * *
Ten minutes later and I am inside the back office of the
café, wrapped in some kind of tartan rug, clutching a mug
of sweet tea and still trembling. I can hear lots of voices
beyond the door and imagine everyone gossiping about
what has happened.
The café staff had wondered if an ambulance was still a
good idea, given the shock, but both Matthew and I felt that
was not what we wanted. Personally, I just want to get away
now; I want to get back home. Or rather, to Leanne’s home.
But Matthew reminds me that we have to deal with
the police first. Local uniformed officers have responded
to the 999 report but Matthew is now on the phone
to DI Melanie Sanders. He is giving her all the details,
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explaining that he took a photo of the bike on his phone
but that the number plate was covered. She’s sending
her own CSI officers to see if they can get any evidence.
Maybe the bottle was discarded nearby? They are already
putting a call out to check all CCTV and traffic cameras.
And then Matthew’s face changes completely as he
listens intently. He presses his phone closer to his ear then glances across at me. ‘You sure, Mel?’
His expression becomes graver and graver and I get
this sinking feeling, deep inside me.
‘She’s still in shock, Mel. But yes, of course. I’ll ask
her. And when we’re done here, I’ll bring her straight in
to talk to you. Yes, of course. Absolutely. But she’s had
an awful time – a horrible shock, remember.’
Finally he rings off and moves to the seat opposite me.
‘How are you doing now, Alice?’ His voice is still
concerned but there is some strange new edge that I don’t
understand.
‘Better. A bit better. Just shaken. I feel warmer now.
Have you spoken to Tom?’
‘Yes. He’s frantic. Also furious with me but never
mind about that. We’ll update Tom as soon as we can.
Right now we need to speak some more to the police.
Help them mop up any evidence.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I am looking into his face, trying to
read what the new problem is.
‘There’s something else. Something Melanie Sanders
shared with me. As a favour to me, really. Something I
don’t understand at all.’ He looks upset, a frown deepening.
‘What? What did she say?’ Suddenly I can see my
sister, looking across at me in the kitchen. The echo of
her voice … You have to tell them everything.
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Matthew takes in a long, slow breath – his eyes un-
blinking. ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean, I know
you’re still shaken. But she said she’s just found out that
your name isn’t really Alice. And I’m to take you into the
police station, firstly to investigate this attack. But also to explain yourself.’ He pauses. ‘We all need to understand
who the hell you really are.’
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Alice
I suppose I always guessed it would catch up with me.
Sitting in Matthew’s car as we drive to face Melanie
Sanders, I put my phone on silent. There is a string of
voice messages from Tom but I can’t face speaking to him
yet; instead I’ve texted to say where we’re going and that
I’ll update him as soon as I can.
I turn to look at Matthew’s profile. His expression
is stony. I try to imagine Tom’s face when he finds out
the truth, and the ball of dread in my stomach grows. I
turn to the left to watch the blur of fields and hedges and
tre
es, sweeping a patchwork green arrow to the chaos
ahead of me.
Yes. I always knew I would one day be found out; I
knew that today would come. I had just hoped it wouldn’t
happen while I was dealing with all this too.
* * *
I shut my eyes to picture him – Alex – and feel the familiar punch of fury at myself. He stares back at me from
my memories – so handsome and confident and funny
and smart. I can hear him playing the piano at the home
we shared, shouting over the music for me to please make
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more coffee. And the worst thing? I can actually remember
how in the moment, at the beginning of it all, I believed
utterly in him. In us. I genuinely had no idea what lay
ahead. I felt lucky. I cringe at that now but it’s the truth.
I actually felt lucky.
I met Alex at a fundraising concert in the Highlands.
It was my very first month as a reporter, on a tiny weekly
paper, and I had been sent to cover the concert with a
photographer called Hugh. The snapper was old school
– competent but well into the cynical zone; he wanted
to get his pictures done as quickly as possible to head off
for a curry with some friends.
But I’ve always loved music. I was pleased to be as-
signed the job and didn’t mind staying the course, espe-
cially when the organiser was introduced to me. Alex
Sunningham was impossibly good-looking and I had
to struggle to contain an involuntary blush. I could tell
immediately from his expression that he was thoroughly
enjoying my response as he shook my hand. I imagined
he was very used to women trying to contain a swoon
and I hated myself for losing the upper hand.
While Hugh posed Alex at the piano along with various
other performers, I took out my notebook and pretended
to be jotting in shorthand, while occasionally glancing
across at the ensemble. There were two violinists and
a cellist. They played along with Alex in little snippets
so that Hugh could get all his pictures. The sound was
wonderful, and I started to think this might be a very
enjoyable evening indeed.
Once Hugh had left, Alex took to the microphone
to apologise to the arriving guests about the impasse for
photographs, explaining that the publicity was crucial to
achieve maximum fundraising. ‘Please bear with me.’ He
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said the concert proper would start in approximately ten
I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 9