by Niki Mackay
‘Mistaken for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘The papers said I had a sister, I read them; everyone knew I was locked up.’
He shrugs. ‘Not everyone reads the detail. Look at the picture, skim the headline. Teenager murders best friend in drug-fuelled frenzy. Two and two make five, or six, or whatever. You’ve always looked alike.’
I close my eyes, needing a break from his gaze. ‘Was she frightened?’
‘Absolutely terrified. Wouldn’t stop screaming. The police were called. They called Dad. She was locked up for six months that time. She’s a danger to herself, isn’t she? Always has been. That’s the thing, it’s hard to protect her; it’s not like Dad and I haven’t tried.’
Is there an accusation in his tone, in his words? I choose to ignore it. My heart is pounding. I keep my face neutral and watch him down a second glass of wine as Claudia comes in with a tray of food.
11.
Claudia Reynolds
When I walk into the dining room I realise I have missed something. The atmosphere is tense; Marcus’s glass is empty. I put the food down in front of them and refill Marcus’s drink. I have made a simple starter of avocado and prawn salad. Marcus couldn’t remember what Kate liked but muttered something about avocados.
We start to eat. I force the green sludge in, follow it with a fleshy prawn; I chew and chew. I find food a chore. I spend so much of my time distracted by it. Marcus is a foodie. He likes everything fresh and well prepared. When we met I was a student and I could barely boil an egg. He used to invite me to his flat and make elaborate, delicious meals. Succulent meats and tender vegetables. Things I hadn’t tried before.
He sent me on a cookery course shortly after we married and I do most of it now. I can piece together flavours and textures. I serve plates of colourful, tasty fare matched with just the right wine. He cooks on a Sunday and insists on Bethany joining us. It’s the only day of the week we all eat together. I dread Sundays. Her palate is a baby’s – not sophisticated enough yet to enjoy what he offers her. But like me, she makes the correct noises, she doesn’t criticise. My poor daughter with her haunted eyes and bowed head. I had wanted better for her, expected better. I suppose everyone feels that way about their children. Still, she won’t be here forever. She’ll be able to fly the nest one day. I hope she leaves and doesn’t look back.
Marcus is speaking about business now. His increasing portfolio of property. He jokes that he owns half of London. Kate’s chuckle seems as half-hearted as my own. I suppose the business must be part of the fabric of her childhood. Selling houses to the rich. Her father, a self-made man from humble beginnings. A builder once. I don’t think she’ll be heading into the company herself, though Marcus said that at one point James was quite sure she would take the reins. Marcus is playing nice but I know her mere presence has him fuming. I wonder if she knows it. There was a time when I wouldn’t have wanted to meet her. She was a scary, dangerous part of Marcus’s history. My parents were horrified when they found out she was his sister, and who can blame them? They got over it. Won over by Marcus’s charm and obvious affection for me, their only child. He stopped bothering a few years ago and I’ve stopped taking their calls. They likely think I don’t want to talk to them, when actually there’s nothing I’d like more. But the conversations are marred by all the things I can’t say. The things I daren’t mention.
She seems nice. I’m surprised to even think it, but she does. She looks a lot like Martha, but somehow she’s more real. Martha gives the impression that she may shatter at any moment, as though if you touched her even lightly, she might fall to the floor in fragments. Kate is solid, substantial. Bethany liked her. She doesn’t know the story yet though. We’re going to have to tell her, of course we are. There is a piece in the local paper already. It will spread further, and there will be repercussions. I almost agree with Marcus on that; it probably is inconsiderate of her to have come back to Kingston. But where else was she to go?
I clear away plates, refill Marcus’s glass. Bring mineral water for Kate, surprised she isn’t a big drinker. The meat is ready, beef bourguignon, dripping in heavy red wine and flavour. I blanche and sauté the greens, make sure the plates are heated and then I serve.
‘Good grief, Claudia, this food is incredible.’
I smile. Marcus looks pleased and pats my hand as he would a small child. ‘She’s quite the cook, eh?’
I beam at him. I am a good pet; easily trained, easily rewarded. I think of standing, picking up the plate, throwing it at his head. I often have these kind of thoughts. A ‘what-if?’ sort of a game I play in my own mind. So many what-ifs. I never carry them out though. I cook, and clean and smile.
I say, ‘Is it strange being back in your hometown, Kate?’
She nods. ‘Do you know, it is. It’s changed but quite a few shops are the same.’
‘We’ve got something ridiculous like twenty-two coffee shops – did you notice?’
Kate laughs. ‘It’s a wonder they all stay in business, isn’t it?’
Marcus smiles and says, ‘Coffee’s terribly trendy, you know.’
‘It is.’ I nod.
We all giggle and I’m almost enjoying myself. Marcus signals the plates with a hand wave and I get up and start clearing. He puts a tender hand on the small of my back and I beam at him. It takes me less than ten minutes but when I come back into the room the atmosphere has changed again.
‘I was just saying to Kate that you don’t do much in the days.’
I continue to grin, resisting the urge to list the many mindless chores I undertake in a twenty-four-hour period.
‘Perhaps you two might meet for a coffee in one of the trendy caffs?’
I nearly choke on a sip of water. I don’t socialise, not ever. I haven’t done so since Bethany was born. Probably even before. I see Marcus and his colleagues, occasionally his dad. I take things to Martha on request.
‘Oh, I would love that. How about Monday, Claudia?’
I look at Marcus who nods.
‘Monday would be fine. Perhaps after I drop Bethany at nursery?’ I say tentatively, still not understanding what Marcus wants from me here.
We eat pudding, the tension between them palpable. When we part ways I hug Kate to me and re-confirm our plans to meet. Marcus drops her home and I clear everything away. When he gets back his mood has darkened.
‘You did well tonight, Claudia.’
I almost relax. The anger is not at me. He nods to himself, stalking around the living room. I’m curled up on the sofa. Thinking, trying to be one step ahead. He’s praising me, pleased, but I remain on guard. Things can change so quickly.
‘She’s cracked, finally bloody cracked.’
‘Oh?’
He stops, drops down near me, taking my hands in his. ‘Bloody bitch has decided she’s innocent, reckons she remembers things.’
I hold my breath, squeezing his hands back, unsure how I ought to react. Unsure why that isn’t a good thing.
He pulls me into his arms. His thick hand unpins my hair, I feel it curl down my back and I remain still. He lifts it gently then drops it whoosh in my ear. He washes it for me sometimes. I used to think it was the sexiest thing ever.
‘You’ll be able to keep an eye on her, find out what she’s up to. She’s hired a fucking private detective,’ he snorts. ‘We’ll have them poking about. For fuck’s sake.’ He’s pulling at my hair now. It’s just a step away from hurting.
‘She seemed . . . nice.’
He looks at me and I stop breathing. He manoeuvres me somehow so I’m facing him. He is staring intently. ‘Don’t ever forget what she did, darling. Naomi was her best friend. I wouldn’t even consider sending you to coffee but I need someone to keep an eye on her. She’ll make trouble for us all, mark my words.’
I nod and he reaches out to touch my face. Th
ere are tears in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I’m so hard on you sometimes. You’re a wonderful wife. I know I never say it. I just so want everything to be perfect.’
He’s drunk. I feel tears prick my own eyes. My arms circle his body. I feel it, coming off him in waves. Pain, all that pain. I knew he was damaged goods. Stupid, stupid little girl that I was. I thought I could fix him, take it all away. We sit like that for a long time. My arms wrapped around him. I feel his tears pool on my chest and I hold him tighter.
12.
Madison Attallee
I am at Warrene Academy, sitting in front of Hilary Anselm, the same head-teacher I met six years ago. Time has not been kind and it took me a moment to recognise her. She knew who I was instantly and ushered me into her office. Though I had explained to her secretary quite clearly that I was now a private investigator, I think the head has assumed I am still in the employ of the force. I don’t correct her when she calls me Detective. My chair is slightly lower than hers, a cheap psychological trick I’ve used myself during interrogations. I wonder if her students are scared of her or if they can see through her bullshit.
‘This is about Kate Reynolds, you say?’ I had been careful not to mention she was my employer.
I nod and she peers at me over half-moon glasses. ‘I see she’s out of prison. Poor Anthea is beside herself. They’ve already had a run-in. Awful, just awful.’
I know about the run-in but I play dumb. ‘You mean Anthea Andrews?’
‘Yes. She’s never recovered.’
‘It must be awful for her.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll be doing anything about it?’
I am cautious but tell her, ‘Kate Reynolds isn’t restricted under the terms of her release, she can live anywhere within the UK.’
‘If you say so.’ Her lips are pursed.
I dislike being glared at over the half-moons but I do my best to smile sympathetically.
‘I’d like to get some background information on Kate and Naomi, if I may?’
‘What an earth for?’
‘I’m just going over some old territory, we’d like to gather as much information as possible.’
‘Are you trying to get her to move herself somewhere more appropriate?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’
She smiles in a conspiratorial way. ‘It’s good to know that the public may have a say. Perhaps you people are taking some notice of poor Anthea’s petition after all.’
I am unsettled by the fact that this daft woman is a headmistress. Of a fee-paying school, which parents must spend a fortune for their children to attend. My own head-teacher has been a driving force in my life. This woman strikes me as stupid, prissy and unlikeable. I let her think what she wants, no longer feeling guilt for not being clearer on my status. If she listened, she’d know.
She says, ‘What can I tell you?’
‘I’d like to know a little bit about her and Naomi at that time. The dynamic of their friendship, any concerns you may have had. I’m sure you’ve been over it before.’
‘Yes, I have.’ She sighs as though to punctuate what an inconvenience it all is. ‘She was a very difficult girl.’
‘Kate?’
‘Yes.’
I ask, ‘And Naomi?’
‘In trouble too, though obviously led astray by Kate.’
That’s not the version I’ve got so far. ‘They were both allowed back in for sixth form with conditions?’
She nods. ‘They were, yes.’
‘Though you felt Kate was more to blame?’
She nods. ‘Oh yes. Naomi started later in year seven. The Reynolds girl was already troublesome.’
‘Troublesome how?’
‘Laziness mainly. It was hard to know if she was awake half the time. They used to play truant as well, you know.’
In light of everything Kate had going on at home, I’m surprised she made it out of bed in the morning. I don’t say that though. I nod sympathetically and ask, ‘But you caught them?’
‘Oh, yes. They were awfully brazen about the whole thing. Didn’t bother trying to hide the days off. Poor Anthea and Damian were here endlessly.’
‘What about Kate’s parents?’
‘No, never saw them. Her mother had passed by this time, of course.’
‘James didn’t come in?’
‘No, and we sent plenty of letters home. You can’t do much when the family is that way, can you?’
I imagine James torn apart by grief, Kate acting out on hers. I wonder if the letters ever made it to him. I wonder why the school didn’t try harder. Kate had been written off. I think of my own bumpy start, of missing lessons, looking after my mother. Trying to hold us both together. Had it not been for the kindness and interest of teachers, where might I have been? I contain my anger and nod at the righteous woman before me.
‘Kate’s mother died just after she started here?’
‘Yes, yes, awful, terrible tragedy.’ Not enough to cut Kate some slack, mind.
‘Do you think that might have contributed to her behavioural problems?’
‘Maybe. Perhaps the mental health problems were genetic. We had her sister here, too, before her.’
That’s not what I meant but I nod and ask, ‘Martha?’
‘Yes, very odd girl.’
‘In what way?’
‘Didn’t join in, only ever spoke to Kate really. It’s not what we encourage here at Warrene. We need team spirit. The whole ethos is based on it. She wasn’t a joiner.’
‘Martha didn’t come back for sixth form?’
‘No, though she was due to. Kate would have been in year eleven by then. Her father sent the required notice – I think he paid for a whole term she didn’t attend. Her attendance was always awful though. She was very unwell. To the point where the other girls were laughing at her.’
So they had pushed her out; she was an embarrassment. I remember feeling sorry for her when we tried to question her. She had been like a startled deer caught in headlights.
‘How did Kate do, academically?’
Mrs Anselm sniffs. ‘She did okay. It saved her from expulsion, if I’m honest.’
Ah, the league tables – the school’s biggest selling point.
‘Naomi as well?’
‘Oh yes, Naomi was incredibly bright, she ought to have been looking into Oxbridge really. Both girls truanted, as I said, but Naomi could always catch up. It was much harder for Kate. Naomi’s attendance also improved drastically after we spoke to her mother and father.’ Mrs Anselm takes off the awful glasses and wipes them, perching them back on her pointy nose. ‘Kate was a bad apple from the start – but she was brought in to me before her mother’s untimely death so we can’t go around blaming that, can we? She was good at evoking pity on it though. Her old English teacher thought I was too hard on her but I told him at the time she was no good.’ She tuts. ‘Turns out I was spot on.’
I nod, internally rolling my eyes. ‘What was the name of her teacher?’
‘Martin Wilson. Left ages ago, thank goodness. I believe he’s at Barnaby’s.’ She wrinkles her nose at the mention of my old school. I suppress the urge to smile – good for Mr Wilson!
‘Thank you for your help today, Mrs Anselm.’
‘Not at all.’
I am shown out by her PA who looks miserable, as do all the girls I pass in the corridors. I used to envy the children who went here. They were expected to go on and do well, by right of birth and finance. I wouldn’t have done well. I would have been what Mrs Anselm would have thought of as bad stock.
I place a quick call to Barnaby’s and am greeted warmly by Lizzy Munroe, the receptionist. She was pretty old-school when I started there twenty-five years ago. She must be ancient by now. She says that Jessica Mason, the head, is up to her neck in pape
rwork but that I ought to head over anyway. ‘I’m sure she’d welcome the break, love.’
13.
Anthea Andrews
Damian is trying to manage me. I watch him from under my paper. I am torn, as I always am by my husband, between annoyance and shame. Annoyance usually wins out. He’s so careful, it drives me mad. He’s smiling and he leans in to kiss me on my head to say goodbye. I avoid flinching just in time. I hate to be touched now. It feels ugly and inappropriate. I remember the first time he had tried for sex after Naomi was gone. I slapped his hands away. Disgusted that he would think I’d want to. What was the point? He’d tried a few more times. Now he doesn’t bother.
I hear his car start and wonder if he feels relief as he drives away. He has never been career-minded, though he’s always earned well. He used to go in because it paid the bills, but he was out the door at five o’clock. Keen to get home to me, his loving wife, and then his wife and daughter. For a while things had seemed complete. Now he is the first in and often the last one out of the office. Ironically he’s been promoted twice since his daughter has been killed. He is earning more money than we know what to do with. Not that he has anything to spend it on. We are on an enforced penance, as he likes to put it. No holidays. No gifts. I can’t see the point in any of it. He bought me jewellery and I burst into hot, angry tears. I told him he was mad to think I’d want it. Anything that sparkled was anathema to the memory of the life we’d lost. The one that had ended mine but seemingly not his.
I push the insistent thoughts away, always tinged with guilt. He expects me to still be here, to somehow be the woman I once was. She’s far away now, that woman, dying a little more each day. I shower and chuck on jeans, a hoodie and trainers. My uniform these days. I used to work in an office managing people. I used to wear suits and make-up. I find it odd now that once a chipped nail could have ruined my day. I don’t even look at my hands any more.