by Niki Mackay
I know where Kate lives. I followed her back home a few days ago. I’d had to tread carefully. She kept looking over her shoulder, as though my hatred had a life of its own, one that whispered in her ear, making her aware of me, my footsteps in her shadow, my eyes watching her. The thought cheers me up a little and a giggle escapes from my mouth. A little tinkly bubble. I haven’t told Damian about following Kate, and I’m not going to. He doesn’t care. He said as much. When we were told initially he’d shrugged and said, ‘Well she has to live somewhere.’ In that second I hated him even more than usual and I always hate him a bit. For getting over it, for letting Naomi go.
Naomi. Just the thought of that precious name makes me ache in ways I hadn’t known were possible. I can only liken it to the pain I’d experienced before Naomi was conceived, when I kept losing babies. One minute my womb would be full, ripe with promises it didn’t keep. Until her. My absolute beloved. A miracle just for surviving thirty-seven weeks. Thirty-seven whole weeks in my old, drying up, uninhabitable body. Naomi. I feel a red ache now – anger. Kate, out and about, carrying on as though she hasn’t a care in the world. We’ll see about that! I want to know what that girl’s up to and I’m going to find out, no matter what. Then I’m going to make her pay.
14.
Madison Attallee
Jessica Mason was more than just a teacher to me and Barnaby’s was more than just a school. My father was a myth of whom I have no recollection. My mother is a hopeless alcoholic. When my mum told her parents she was pregnant at nineteen they told her they wanted her to ‘sort it out’. To abort it. She, however, was stubborn and dead set on keeping me. There have been many times since I was sorry that she had.
She had plans, I think, my mother. My early memories are of a vibrant, determined woman, quick to smile. A woman I loved fiercely. Her descent into the bottom of a bottle was probably gradual. I don’t know at exactly what age I learned to hide empties, or call her work to say she was sick until she got sacked and it stopped mattering.
By the time I was ten I still had some hope. I focused on being a good girl, at home, at school. It didn’t work though, and she took to going out. Something I’d once longed for quickly became my worst nightmare. She didn’t go to the places I had fantasised that she would – to work, to pick me up from school, to chat with other mums. In fact, she rarely went out in the day. She headed to the pub, taking whatever there was of our dole cheque with her.
Then she started bringing people back. Men mainly. Ones who scared me. They were like her: wobbly, loud. She’d often promise to sort it out, sober up.
By the time I started at Barnaby’s I’d stopped believing it and so had she. We accepted our often terrifying lives as being the norm. Horror stories were every day. My mother screaming and hitting me, trips to the hospital for cuts and falls, the odd broken bone. Endless outings to the off-licence.
I was tested at the start of my secondary education and streamed into the top groups, but by then I’d stopped trying to be good, and the rage seeped out of me, escaping from every pore and landing me in all kinds of trouble. Ms Mason took over as head at the start of my second year there. The first time I was sent to her office was for fighting with another girl. I didn’t have friends but I was feared. This meant that largely I was left alone, and I left other people alone, too. This particular day was a mufti day. I had forgotten and turned up in uniform, akin to social death at that age. I overheard Marianne Branning laughing about it. On another day I would have ignored her but I’d been up most of the previous night because Mum had had a house full of people. I don’t remember the whole thing but rage overtook me and by the time I was dragged off her she was a bloody mess on the floor.
That day, I was quite certain of my expulsion. I hadn’t met Jessica Mason yet and she wasn’t what I had expected at all. She was the most elegant-looking woman I had ever seen, one I’ve tried to emulate since. I flinched when I sat down opposite her, eyes carefully not meeting hers.
Jessica said, ‘I’ve been looking at some of your work. Some of it is exceptional, though sadly inconsistent.’
I had remained silent.
‘You miss homework assignments frequently, though judging by what you can achieve in class in a short space of time, I’m surprised. I would have thought it would have been quite easy for you.’
I shrugged.
‘You had the highest setting scores that I’ve seen for years.’ She stared at me, narrow eyed. I didn’t speak.
‘You seem to have a lot of sick days. Are you unwell?’
‘Sometimes.’
Her index fingers met in an arch over her lips, a pose I would later come to understand meant she was thinking.
‘I don’t believe you. Would you like to tell me what’s actually going on?’
I had no intention of doing any such thing. I was a minor. I knew that if social services took me, Mum would have been dead, or worse, and I had come to understand by then that there were worse things than death.
‘No.’
She raised her eyebrows at that but didn’t push it. She told me, ‘Marianne has been taken to hospital. Most of her injuries are superficial though she has a nasty cut on her eyebrow. She’ll need stitches. My guess is she’ll be scarred for life.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
‘Her parents are at the hospital. Surprisingly they have decided not to press charges.’
I hadn’t even contemplated the police.
She went on, ‘Her mother says she knows your mother. Apparently they used to work together many years ago. She thinks you may be having a troubling time at home, hence why they won’t be involving the police. She sounds quite reasonable, luckily for you.’
I had no idea why she was telling me this.
‘I’m sorry.’ It was barely whispered and not really meant. I didn’t have the space for remorse at that time.
Our eyes met and her gaze held mine. I felt naked in that moment, exposed in a way I had never been before.
‘Marianne won’t be in until the end of the week. You will apologise to her. Here in my office, a safe environment for her. You will give her a chance to tell you how she feels about being attacked. You will also come to my office every single day for the foreseeable future until half past four. You will bring your homework with you and do it here. I will witness you doing it. I expect you to turn up to school every single day. If, for any reason, you cannot make it, you will phone me directly. You, not your mother, or you pretending to be your mother.’
I think about that meeting as I drive and it still conjures up a hundred different feelings. That day was the day I was brought back to life, and I hadn’t even known I was dead. My meetings with Jessica continued throughout school life, and during my degree I emailed and called her regularly. When I got home, we had dinner once a month. She was at my wedding, standing in the photos, proudly holding my hand in exactly the spot where my mum should have been if she’d bothered to show up. She is Molly’s godmother and the first person Rob rang when I was sent to rehab. She visited me once and would have come again had I not refused her. It’s been nearly a year since we last spoke. Funny where life takes you, and how.
Lizzie stands and hugs me, fussing to take my coat and get me a drink. I knock on Jessica’s door and get the usual ‘come’. I sit and we stare at each other. Her index fingers over her lips. We’d hug if we were different kinds of people.
She says, ‘You look a lot better than when we last met.’
‘I think I’ve put on a few stone.’
‘You needed to.’
I nod.
She says, ‘I haven’t heard from you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She smiles. ‘Me too. How’s Molly?’
‘She seems okay. I’m only allowed to visit her under supervision.’
‘For now. We email, you kn
ow.’
‘I do. I’m glad, thank you.’
She smiles again. ‘This too shall pass, my dear.’
I feel tears prick behind my eyes. The same words she has spoken to me so many times before. She’s always been right but I’m not sure if Molly will ever forgive me, or if she should.
‘You’re not here to discuss Molly, are you?’
‘No. I’m working on a case,’ I reply.
‘Oh good. You’re still in private practice?’
I grin; she has a way of making everything I do sound better than the reality. ‘I’m still not allowed back on the force, if that’s what you mean.’
‘You know full well it’s not.’ She sounds stern but her eyes are soft.
‘I’ve been employed by Kate Reynolds.’ I wait to see if the name registers.
‘Ahhh, the angelic teen slasher, as the Comet dubbed her.’
‘The very one.’
‘I suspect you won’t tell me too much, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. She was at Warrene, I believe?’
‘She was, which is what led me here. Do you have a Martin Wilson working for you?’
‘Ah yes, Martin is an excellent English teacher. I’m sure we pay him half what Warrene did, but he claims to be happier, so who am I to argue?’
‘Having met his former boss I can see where he’s coming from.’
Jessica laughs. ‘Hilary Anselm. Not the most fun character.’
‘You know her?’
‘We mingle professionally; I don’t know her well.’
‘I wouldn’t think you’re missing much.’
She laughs again, not commenting either way, ever the diplomat. ‘So you’re after a chat with Martin?’
I nod as she glances at her watch.
‘You’re probably in luck. He should be heading out on break any minute. I’ll walk you over to his class. See if we can’t catch him before the bell goes.’
She points out various awards and displays as she goes. I feel at ease in her company and wonder why I have shut her out this past year. The bell blasts just as we arrive at his class and a mass of teenagers push past us.
‘Slow down,’ she calls out. Mutters of ‘sorry, miss’ respond as she rolls her eyes at me. I am greeted inside the classroom by a clean-cut, nice-looking man. He must have been newly qualified when he was at Warrene. I guess him to be at least five years younger than me.
‘Ms Mason, hello.’
‘Hello, Mr Wilson. Now, I’m sure you’re very busy but this is Madison Attallee, an ex-pupil here and an ex-police-officer turned private eye.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘I know – terribly exciting, isn’t it? Anyway, she’s working on a case and would like a chat. Would you mind?’
‘Of course not, as long as you don’t mind talking while I photocopy?’ He grins and waves a stack of papers at me.
‘Fine by me.’
Jessica turns to me. ‘I look forward to hearing from you, Madison. We ought to arrange our next dinner date.’
I agree and smile at Jessica. I’ve missed her more than I realised. I follow Martin into a small room. It’s full of shelves and a large complicated-looking photocopier. If he recognises me he doesn’t show it. Hopefully I’m old news these days. He gets the machine going.
‘How can I help?’
‘I believe you taught Kate Reynolds and Naomi Andrews?’
‘The miserable Warrene years. Yes, I taught them.’
‘It looks like a beautiful school . . .’
‘Yes, it does, but it’s pretty ugly on the inside. I nearly left teaching altogether at one point.’
‘You switched to the state sector instead?’
‘I did.’
‘For less pay?’
He looks surprised at the question but nods. ‘But more reward. Jessica reminded me why I got into the profession in the first place. Barnaby’s may not be shiny, but it has substance. Although I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t do with more cash.’ He grins. ‘Anyway, about Naomi and Kate?’
‘Kate’s been released.’
‘Yes, I saw it in the paper.’
‘I’m looking into her case again.’
‘I thought it was pretty cut and dried?’
‘Just tying up a few loose ends.’
His eyes narrow at that but he doesn’t pry.
I say, ‘I heard from Mrs Anselm that you had raised concerns about Kate?’
He sighs. ‘I had, yes. Not that it did any good.’
‘What concerned you?’
‘Lots of things – the truanting, acting out in class. I saw her meeting a man after school, kissing him, and I say man not boy – this must have been when she was in year 11 – I’m quite sure she was just sixteen. He looked to be in his early twenties.’
Oliver.
He continues. ‘I’d taught Martha before so I knew the family were troubled. Kate and Naomi’s friendship was too clingy. Naomi was a very forceful girl. Kate certainly could have done with a bit of breathing space.’
‘What did Mrs Anselm suggest?’
‘Letting it go, as long as grades were met and fees were paid.’ He shakes his head.
‘What would you have done?’
‘Tried to get them help. Kate had been through a lot. Naomi was a very strong personality and Kate was needy. They were suffering from opposite problems, so to speak.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Kate was starved of attention, which made her meek and eager to please. Naomi was drowning in it which made her grandiose and difficult. Naomi’s mother, Anthea, was absolutely convinced of her daughter’s greatness, and as a result so was Naomi.’ He shrugs. ‘I guess the girls each fulfilled a need in the other.’
‘Naomi wanted hero-worshipping and Kate was happy to provide?’
He chuckles. ‘Put simply. Yes.’
I ask him, ‘Were you surprised when you found out about Naomi?’
‘Of course. I thought their friendship was unhealthy, but not fatal.’
‘But do you think Kate was angry, under the surface?’
He grabs a pile of photocopies and loads another piece of paper, pressing various buttons. ‘I can only guess, but yes, I suspect she probably was. She was bound to snap at some point.’
‘You sensed something was imminent?’
He tilts his head, quiet for a moment. ‘I suppose I did, though God knows I’d never have guessed what. I just knew nothing good was going to happen anytime soon unless they were helped. I think I would have dealt with them better now. Or I hope I would, with some experience under my belt.’
If only someone older and more experienced had been paying more attention to the two girls, perhaps things would have turned out differently.
15.
Kate Reynolds
I wake up with a shock to my phone ringing. I grapple with my bedside table and answer it before it rings out.
‘Hello.’ I know it’s Oliver before he speaks, it’s a withheld number again.
He sounds annoyed. ‘Hi.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly eight.’
‘I overslept.’
‘It happens.’ Not to me. Not for six years. I don’t think I’ve slept for longer than three hours at a time since I went in. Prisons are noisy and none of the noises meant anything good.
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Okay I guess. You?’
‘Yes, I’m all right. I’m on my way to work.’
‘Where’s work?’ And then realise I know from his LinkedIn page.
‘On the outskirts of town. I’m in the car.’
I wonder if he’s being vague on purpose. ‘Do you live in Kingston?’ I ask him.
‘I’m not far, where are y
ou?’
‘Surbiton.’
‘Nice – one of Daddy’s flats?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right for some.’
‘What?’
‘I said it’s all right for some.’ He’s laughing. I don’t join in.
‘I, uh, got cut off the other day,’ he says.
‘Yes I know, I don’t have your number or I’d have called you back . . .’
‘Well, that’s the thing . . .’
He’s so quiet I think he’s gone. I say, ‘Oliver?’
‘Sorry. Yes . . . Um. Thank you for looking me up. It’s . . . sweet, I suppose.’ And then I know what’s coming. I’m so stupid.
‘You’re not happy to hear from me.’ I say flatly.
He pauses again. I snap, ‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll leave you alone.’ I hang up before he can say anything. Then I burst into tears.
I replay the conversation in my head. I replay the conversation from the other day. I wonder how I’d invented some kind of happy reunion. I think about the dig he made about the flat and am pleased to find the tears drying up and a wave of annoyance in their place. Oliver always found it vaguely amusing that my dad had money. Amusing and useful. I remember paying for a lot of drinks and tickets. It didn’t annoy me then. It’s annoying me now – the implication that I somehow have a cushy deal. I’ve lived the past six years on a knife edge. I’m still living on a bloody knife edge. Flat or no flat, I’d rather be broke and have my family than this. And have him. Oliver. I’m irritated to find I’m crying again. I wipe away the tears. Useless. I should know that by now. Crying rarely helps.
I shower. I over-bought products but I manage to find a use for every one and I take far longer than necessary. By the time I get out I feel a little better. There’s no point letting Oliver’s insensitive comments and lack of interest get to me.
I’m going to meet Claudia today. My sister-in-law, being sent to connect with me in place of my siblings. My sister hasn’t called me back. I try not to take Martha’s silence personally – she’s in a psychiatric ward, for God’s sake, no matter how Marcus wants to describe it. It can’t be nice. Funny that I used to envy her.