You and Me

by Nicola Rayner

  45

  It doesn’t take long for the world to start joining the dots. By Boxing Day, someone has spotted that Dickie and Tom were in the same year at Chesterfield. It begins as a sentence or so at the end of a story online, but, as the day progresses, the excitement begins to blossom and spread: one publication unearths an old team photograph – the same one as I have, though in this one Dickie’s and Tom’s faces are still intact, their eyes bright at the sight of Juliet’s red bra behind the cameraman. Another paper mentions a ‘Chesterfield curse’; a third links ‘TV personality Jules Bentley’ to the boys.

  The first thing I do, after a terrible night’s sleep, is switch on my laptop and check for messages from Ellie.

  There’s nothing – no email, nothing on Facebook, no change. But on my phone I have five missed calls. Three are from Charles and a couple are from a number I don’t recognise. There’s an answerphone message from Charles and one from Juliet.

  ‘Fran, it’s Jules. I got your number from Charles. I can’t believe it about Tom. I need to talk to you. Will you call me?’

  She sounds frightened, but I can’t deal with Juliet now. I delete it and call Charles instead.

  ‘Fran,’ he says in a low, urgent voice. ‘I got your message; I saw the news.’

  ‘The papers know,’ I say. ‘That Dickie and Tom were at school together.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s all going to come out,’ he says.

  ‘No.’ I stop pacing and sink into the sofa. The thought makes me sick: that Ellie’s private anguish might be shared with the world.

  ‘We can’t stop it,’ he says. ‘It’s already happening.’

  For a ridiculous moment, his words remind me of a disaster movie. I imagine snow gathered in clouds at the top of a mountain the moment before an avalanche begins.

  ‘Fran,’ he says. ‘Where’s Ellie? It’s been such a long time since we saw her.’

  ‘Tignes,’ I say. ‘Last time I heard. Not Paris.’

  I think of the icing sugar on my doorstep last night; I don’t know if it’ll complicate things, but it might show Ellie was here.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘If you’re sure.’

  A voice in my head says over and over: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. It’s so loud I’m surprised Charles can’t hear it.

  ‘It’s not as if she would …’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he says. ‘It just helps. That she’s in a different place. That she wasn’t in Paris.’

  He’s being polite, careful with my feelings. Neither of us points out that it wouldn’t have been a difficult journey for her to make. A child’s scream breaks the silence between us. I wonder if it’s Daisy.

  ‘Fran,’ he whispers. ‘Are you still planning to go to the police?’

  I swallow. There’s a small tear in the arm of the sofa and I begin to pull at the stuffing. It comes out in easy clumps and I wonder why I haven’t done this before. How simple it is to tear it apart in this way. ‘No,’ I say quietly. ‘Let’s wait. Like you said.’

  I can’t say it to Charles, but I’m sure he can guess: if Ellie is involved, there is no way I’m speaking to anyone official. Not voluntarily.

  ‘I’m just worried,’ he says apologetically. ‘Caroline is too. We all are.’

  ‘Is she still with you?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  He’s quiet for a moment. ‘She’s shocked.’

  I can imagine what Caroline is thinking: if it looks like Ellie could have killed Tom – if that’s something they’ve all been discussing – then there’s a chance she could have killed Dickie too. One violent death could be an accident. But not two.

  I know that must be what’s going through her mind, because it’s spinning around mine like a record and I don’t know how to stop it.

  46

  The story is everywhere the next day. Tom’s and Dickie’s faces, side by side like mugshots, peer from the front pages of the papers. I pick up one from the newsstand at Sloane Square and skim-read the piece, shivering. Like the other stories I’ve read, the article links Dickie and Tom to Chesterfield – the same year, both in the First XV – and summarises how they died in unexplained accidents within weeks of each other. The piece focuses on the prestige of Chesterfield; how much the fees cost – they always mention that; before referring, more tentatively, to a historic sexual assault case at the school. I stop for a moment. I can’t read on.

  ‘Are you going to buy that?’ asks the man at the stand.

  The world continues to move as usual. Resentful commuters on their way to work grip their coffee cups, faces sallow and hungover or determinedly cheery, still wearing Christmas jumpers, twinkling earrings, the odd Santa hat. I think I can smell chlorine. It’s filling my nostrils, burning my sinuses.

  I ignore him for a few moments more. My eyes return to the story and I see, with relief, they’re unable to name the victim in the sexual assault. She’s protected by anonymity. At least for now. The detail in the story is shocking, though. Only someone well acquainted with Chesterfield could have shared that kind of information – the terrible bruising on Ellie’s arms, her silence after the attack. Who’s been talking to the papers?

  ‘Actually,’ I say in the end, ‘can I buy them all?’

  It starts to drizzle as I walk up the Kings Road. The pile of newspapers becomes soggy and heavy with rain. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them. When I get to work, I’m still carrying them as I walk into the staffroom.

  ‘Fran.’ Gareth looks up from making a coffee. ‘What’s all this?’

  The sudden heat of the room and the weight in my arms become too much for me. The floor leaps up and hits me in the face. As I fall, the papers don’t scatter in the way they might if they were dry but drop in sticky clumps around me.

  Gareth picks one up and looks at the front page.

  The tears, when they start, are hot and unstoppable. I don’t even bother to climb to my feet but remain weeping on the floor. Gareth comes to sit next to me. ‘This is your old school, isn’t it?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘Was it you?’ he asks. ‘The girl in the pool?’

  ‘No,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Ellie.’ It’s not a question.

  Gareth and Ellie met once or twice when we were together. Despite how different they were, they always liked each other.

  ‘What a terrible thing to happen,’ he says. ‘No wonder she ran away from everything.’ He gives my hand a squeeze. ‘Where is she now?’

  I blink the tears away. ‘France,’ I say. ‘They’re implying she did it. But she would never …’ I can’t finish the sentence.

  Gareth returns to the paper and reads a bit more. ‘I don’t think they are at the moment,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘It’s true they’re making links between the stories but they don’t have much. Just two disparate incidents in different parts of the world and a historic case they can’t say much about. It could be nothing but a weird coincidence.’

  My fingers uncurl. I feel calmer than I have in the forty-eight hours since I heard the news. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There’s no proof. You can’t go round calling people murderers without proof.’

  The solidity of his body is a comfort against mine.

  ‘It’s just that people from school reckon it looks bad for Ellie.’

  Gareth gets to his feet. ‘Think about it logically: unless there’s anything linking her to either crime scene – it’s just a story. An idea, really,’ he says. ‘It’ll die down. It’s Christmas – they’re looking for things to fill the pages.’ He gathers up the pile of papers. ‘I’m going to take these out to recycling and then let’s have a cup of tea.’

  I pick myself up off the floor, put the kettle on and wash my face. When I come back, Gareth has made our drinks and we sit on the tired old sofa in the staffroom, staring at the noticeboard opposite.

  ‘It was really awful what they did to your sister,’ Gareth say
s, after a couple of minutes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your school sounds like poison.’

  ‘It wasn’t all bad.’ I think of Mrs Fyson, Meilin, Charles. ‘There were good things, wonderful opportunities. People who were really on my side.’

  I remember Charles, then, cradling Ellie’s dripping body as he carried her into the staffroom, his face sheet white, how he could barely look at Dickie. Things might have been strange between us recently, but I’m so grateful for his kindness, his constancy.

  Gareth gets to his feet, drains the last of his tea. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right to work today?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t be on my own at the moment.’

  ‘Let’s find you a job where you won’t have to talk to anyone,’ he says.

  First, I sticker up a pile of books for the sales table, then Gareth hands me a list of returns to find from the shelves. I get on with my tasks as calmly as I can. I’m interrupted from time to time by the odd customer, but, on the whole, it’s a quiet day. The work soothes me. I come round to thinking the situation is not so bad, after all. Perhaps all I need is to speak to Ellie. Just to hear my sister’s voice, for her to reassure me. I’ll try to call her again tonight.

  Mid-thought, a tap on my shoulder makes me turn round.

  ‘Are you Francesca Knight?’

  The woman in front of me is very slim and sleekly fashionable – dark wool dress, nail varnish the colour of dried blood.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m from The National,’ she says. ‘I’d like to speak to you about your sister, Ellie. About what happened to her at school.’

  I hug the book to my chest.

  ‘As I’m sure you know, there’s lots of interest in the current climate, about this kind of toxicity in famous institutions. Sexual assault at university, in parliament, our schools.’

  ‘How did you know it was her?’ I say in a small voice. ‘Isn’t it against the law? To identify her?’

  ‘We wouldn’t have to,’ she says smoothly. I notice she’s ignored my first question. ‘There are different ways of doing things: for example, she could speak off the record. Lots of women did to the New York Times about Weinstein.’

  I shake my head. It doesn’t feel real. I remember the kinds of comments I’ve seen online. Some of the things old pupils have already said on Facebook. It wouldn’t take any time to identify her.

  ‘Why would she relive the worst experience of her life?’

  ‘I know it’s a lot to think about,’ she says. ‘But she might find it frees her to tell her story.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I know what it’s like – this sort of attack. I’ve been through something similar. These men need to be brought to account.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I think of all those damp newspapers Gareth dumped earlier, of what further exposure might do to Ellie. To Caroline. ‘I’m pretty sure she won’t want to talk.’

  ‘But will you ask her for me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say again.

  ‘Think about it,’ she says. ‘Talk it through with her.’

  She passes me her card and, just as I’m taking it in my sweaty hand, Gareth appears by my side.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I was just asking Francesca about her sister.’

  ‘Please don’t pester my staff on the shop floor.’

  The journalist looks contrite. ‘Well, you’ve got my details. Pass them on to Ellie, if she wants a sympathetic ear. She lives in France now, doesn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Well, she moves around, but she was in London on Christmas Day.’

  I blush as the words come out. Gareth glances at me.

  ‘Oh.’ She slows down. ‘I hadn’t realised. She was with you?’

  ‘Not all day.’ My cheeks flush again. ‘But she popped by.’

  ‘Interesting,’ she says, before making her way out of the shop with Gareth following a few steps behind to ensure she’s gone.

  ‘Is that true?’ Gareth checks when he returns to me. ‘That Ellie was in London?’

  Glancing down at the stack of books on the counter, I manage to avoid his gaze. ‘I didn’t see her,’ I say quietly. ‘But she left a present for me on the day.’

  I don’t mention that the present was a footprint in a smattering of icing sugar. That I’m not sure if it was a greeting – or a warning.

  47

  It’s a relief when it’s time to leave work. To have a break from Gareth’s eyes on my face – worried and, on occasion, suspicious. As if he’s trying to work me out. The wind is bitter and I pull up the collar of my coat and wrap my scarf around me tightly. The door of a neighbouring restaurant swings open and the smell of Italian food sweeps out. I’ve never gone in – the food is overpriced and it’s not a place for dining alone. It’s cosy, with small tables, soft lighting: the kind of place you go with someone you’re intimate with, where they could lay a hand on the small of your back and no one would know any better.

  As I pass, I catch a glimpse of the journalist who came into the shop earlier. Kat is the name on her card. Her face is sympathetic as she listens to the person opposite her. Someone elegant, with long dark hair, whose earrings – a pair of tiny jewelled skulls – catch the light as she speaks, whose long, thin fingers tap on the table. Whose right wrist is striped by old scars. I take a couple of steps closer to check, though I already know.

  It’s Juliet.

  I walk away, with my chin tucked into my chest. Thoughts occur to me thick and fast. The insider details in the story about Ellie – they must have come from Juliet. But why? I ask myself as I pace to the tube – what did she stand to gain from talking? I step off the pavement without looking and a sharp car horn makes me step back in fright. Shivering, I hold myself together, clutching my bag so tightly the strain of it hurts my arms.

  Juliet never had any compunction about sharing other people’s secrets, I remind myself. They were currency to her. I don’t know why I’m still shocked by her after all these years, but I am. Her final act of cruelty was something I could barely think about. Something I kept wrapped up tightly, pushed away into a dark corner.

  I didn’t pick up the signs in my last English class at Chesterfield. Everybody was very quiet when Mrs Fyson came in. Unnaturally quiet. Expectant, you could say. As it was the last lesson of the Easter term, Mrs Fyson had said we could bring any book we chose to read out a favourite passage.

  ‘Who wants to go next?’ she asked.

  Juliet’s hand shot up. It was most unlike her.

  ‘Juliet, what would you like to read?’ asked Mrs Fyson.

  ‘It’s a creative piece,’ she said.

  ‘OK,’ said Mrs Fyson, sounding confused.

  On the one hand, she seemed pleased that Juliet had written something of her own. On the other, quite rightly as it turned out, you could tell she had her doubts about the endeavour.

  Charles, who had been slumped over his desk, raised his head and glanced over at Juliet, who was sitting, as always, by the window. I was in my usual place in front of her. I don’t know why none of us had moved over the years, as we progressed from GCSEs to A-levels. It was just the pattern of things. The same group of people, the same seats.

  ‘Today he left his jumper behind in English,’ Juliet began. ‘It gave me a little thrill. I loitered behind at the end of the lesson and picked it up on the pretence of returning it to him. I don’t think he remembered where he left it. Another item for my Charles collection.’

  Those were my words. From my journal. Where had she got it? The panic was heavy, pulling me down into my seat, the heat of it staining my face like ink.

  I stared down at my desk as if it could tell me what to do.

  Leave, Fran, I thought. Get up. Go.

  Mrs Fyson frowned. ‘What is this?’

  ‘I suppose you’d call it a love letter,’ Juliet replied innocently. She didn’t pause for long. ‘I wore it in bed that night after Lights Out,’ she continued. ‘It st
ill smelled of him. I wrapped my arms around myself and pretended it was Charles Fry holding me.’

  The class started to titter. Perhaps because of my burning complexion, a couple of people began to glance from Juliet to me.

  Charles hissed: ‘For fuck’s sake. Stop.’

  ‘Yes, Juliet,’ Mrs Fyson agreed, forgetting to upbraid him for his language. ‘That’s quite enough of that.’

  Juliet got to her feet, raising her voice. ‘I have no experience of physical passions, but in his strong arms I would be as Jane Eyre to his Mr Rochester. I would melt like ice at his manly touch.’

  I knew what was coming next, knew, too, that I had to stop it. Without thinking, I was on my feet, launching myself at my precious journal. In the intervening scuffle, Juliet somehow managed to carry on, shrieking: ‘I, Francesca Knight, would sacrifice my virginity for such a love.’ She held the book away from me. ‘But it must be a meeting of spirits as well as bodies.’

  She was taller than me, so she had the advantage, stretching the book high above her head so she could continue with this definitive performance – a way of keeping Charles’s eyes on her, as usual. At a time when he’d started to pull away.

  It’s true that in that moment, when the red mist took over, I didn’t care what happened to either of us. I saw nothing but my journal, my determination to get it back, to keep my secrets safe. But I didn’t make her do it. It was still an accident.

  I leapt for the book and she whipped it away from me without looking at what she was doing. There was a terrible sound as she punched her hand, holding my journal, through the window next to her. Shattering the glass. Slashing her wrist. There was a moment of quiet before the classroom erupted. As if we were all waiting for some silent instruction on what to do next.

  Juliet looked down at the blood pulsating from her wrist and made an unholy noise; Mrs Fyson scrabbled in the drawers of her desk, crying out for a first aid kit; I looked to Charles in panic, but Charles had frozen in horror.