The Life I Left Behind

by Colette McBeth

  ‘Eve … oh hang on a minute. Steve, watch out, that car’s reversing. Hello, love, how was Glastonbury?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘We’re just setting off from Cheshire.’

  ‘Cheshire?’

  ‘Yes, I told you, remember our old neighbours Derek and Liz, we’ve been to see them this weekend. Lovely part of the world, really, you should see their house. Beautiful … and the garden they’ve got. Harriet said to say hello.’

  ‘Harriet?’

  ‘Harriet, who you sat next to in school for three years, you know, your old best friend. You feeling a bit delicate from the weekend then?’

  ‘Mum, have you been in my flat?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Over the weekend? Any time from Friday?’

  ‘Eve, I just told you we’ve been in Cheshire, don’t you listen to a word I say?’

  I tried calling Kira but remembered her battery had died on the way home, so I spoke to Nat instead.

  ‘You sound rough.’

  ‘A few hours of sleep won’t go amiss.’

  ‘Worth it though?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose it was.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘This is going to sound mad, but the mugs in my kitchen have been moved and the towels are all neatly arranged in the cupboard. White then grey, white then grey.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yup, that’s weird, isn’t it? You don’t think …?’

  He laughed. I held my breath again.

  ‘Jesus, Eve,’ he said, ‘what were you two taking over the weekend?’

  I showered quickly, scrubbed at my body to remove the mud, watched brown water trickle off my legs. Drying myself, I felt revived, like I had been given a new layer of skin. Lack of sleep can mess with your head, I told myself. I made a sandwich and ate it in bed reading a book. I mustn’t have read more than a page before sleep weighted down my eyes and dragged me away. It was only when I woke hours later with a pain in my neck that I realised my favourite pillow had gone. It was a week later before I found it in the same cupboard as the towels, hidden behind the once symmetrical arrangement.

  That was the first time I registered the intrusion. There were others, countless occasions, moments when I noticed something was missing, slightly askew, but not once were they accompanied by any proof that someone had been in my flat. A dress missing from the washing line, tulips in a vase on my return that hadn’t been there when I left, the disappearance of my Obi-Wan Kenobi Russian nest doll, given to me by my dad on my fourteenth birthday, the last birthday I shared with him. It had pride of place on my bedside table. When that went I knew something was either seriously wrong or I was losing my marbles, each turn of the screw tipping me more towards paranoia. ‘I wish someone would break into my flat with flowers and organise my towels,’ Nat joked. He’d come round after Obi-Wan Kenobi went awol. He checked the locks, windows, doors. ‘I think you’ve been watching too much CSI,’ he concluded when he couldn’t find any sign of a break-in.

  So I shut up, kept it to myself and tried to put it out of my mind. But one thing changed: I became strict about sending Nat my files, extracting a promise from him not to hit delete as soon as they landed in his inbox.

  ‘I’m like the online equivalent of one of those containers where you put all the shit you’ll never need,’ he moaned.

  But he kept his promise, and on that everything else pivoted. If he hadn’t, Melody wouldn’t have read it and where would she have been then?

  But there I go hypothesising again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Melody

  MELODY HAS PUNCHED in his number four times so far only for her courage to desert her before she hits the call button. What is she going to say? What exactly does she expect him to say? Why did he give her his number in the first place?

  After each abortive mission she follows the same routine: makes a cup of coffee, wipes the work surface clean, chops a few more vegetables in preparation for supper in eight hours’ time. Then she walks to the huge windows and stares out. Directly off the kitchen is a patio paved with the same light grey tiles as the kitchen floor. When the doors are open you have the sense that there is no delineation between outside and in, so Sam says. The two spaces effectively merge together – this from the architect. It is all bollocks, of course. Melody looks out. The wind must be up: white clouds scud across the sky, the bare branches of the cherry tree lean to the right. When she’s indoors she has a ceiling above her head, walls that enclose her, the temperature remains a constant 22°C thanks to the thermostat. If she was outdoors she would feel the wind snatch the breath from her, the temperature would dip by at least five degrees, yet at the same time she would feel her insides broiling. Matching tiles or not, any fool can tell the difference between the two.

  She paces back to the counter where she pours another cup of coffee into a fresh mug just for the hell of it. She imagines the tarry black liquid flushing through her system. Does she drink too much coffee? If she swapped it for say fennel tea as Erin has suggested would it silence the noise in her head? Could it be one of those simple switches where the reward is proportionally greater than the effort involved?

  Would it stop the thoughts exploding like bang snaps in her head?

  She puts the mug down.

  It’s curiosity that’s driving her, she decides. No. It’s not that. Curiosity is too gentle a word to convey the urge that has gripped her, which is raw and visceral. She needs to know what Eve Elliot discovered – if she discovered anything at all; she has to find out why Eve was targeted and killed. Given time, the police will come up with a version of events just like they did in Mel’s own case. She suspects that version is already being written. They’ve arrested him, haven’t they? But it’s not enough. She wants to work it out herself, get it straight in her own head. She wants to feel it and believe it this time, not have an outside party impose their truth on her. Until then her imagination will run riot, producing ever more wild and vivid scenarios that she struggles to discount. It’s as if she is surrounded by a swarm of wasps; every time she swats one away, ten more buzz around her face.

  If there is the slimmest chance that Nathaniel Jenkins might be able to help her get some answers, she has to take it.

  ‘Is that Nathaniel?’ she asks unnecessarily. Who else would be answering his mobile?

  ‘Uh huh.’ He sounds wary, like she might be about to launch into a spiel to sell him life insurance or double glazing.

  ‘This is Melody Pieterson.’ Having dispensed with this statement of fact she finds she is at a loss.

  ‘Oh …’ he says. She hears him chew and gulp as if he’s quickly swallowing whatever was in his mouth so he can talk. ‘I … I didn’t expect you to call.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘But I’m pleased you did.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I think so.’

  She emits a nervous laugh. ‘That’s not convincing me.’

  ‘Sorry … I am really.’

  ‘Now you’re going to ask me why I’ve called and …’ She feels the words slip away from her, words that only a few seconds ago were all loaded up in her mind ready to fire. ‘I don’t have a clue what to say.’

  ‘You want to know how far she’d got with David Alden … with the investigation, I’m assuming.’

  She heaves a sigh of relief on hearing him summarise it so succinctly. ‘How did you know?’ It’s not really a question, more a quip, but he answers it.

  ‘Because I want to know the same thing.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. His admission has dashed whatever hopes she had pinned on Nathaniel. What did she expect from him? Some kind of magic, a golden key that would unlock the mystery? He’s just as stumped as she is.

  ‘I have it all in front of me,’ he says.

  ‘What … what do you have in front of you?’

  ‘All h
er work. Well, everything she noted down, and knowing Eve, that would be everything. She’s a bit anal like that, you know. There’s tons of it … runs to more than a hundred pages.’ He tries to laugh but she hears it break. He’s still talking about her in the present tense.

  ‘You have it?’ Her pulse is up, her breaths come shallow and fast. A second ago Mel was despairing; now she’s flying again. Her stomach feels like it’s come away from her, suspended in mid air. ‘Why would you have it?’ She tries to sound relaxed but her mind is already leaping ahead.

  ‘Because Eve loses everything and I’m very careful.’ He has an accent she’s trying to place, one that makes his sentences rise at the end. Welsh? Geordie? ‘Because she sent me the file every time she updated it in case …’ Geordie, she thinks, definitely from the north. In case anything happened. She completes his sentence in her head.

  She hears him sigh, and when he speaks next his voice is a note higher. ‘She was worried someone was … I don’t know. There was never anything concrete, just weird shit happening, like mugs moved around, or her washing taken from the line, if you know what I mean.’

  She does.

  Mel feels like someone has just kicked dust up in her eyes.

  She knows very well.

  ‘Phone calls you answer only to find there’s no one on the line. Knocks on your door.’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘Nathaniel,’ she says gently. ‘It wasn’t a question. I was telling you what has happened to me.’

  ‘Oh … right.’

  ‘Everyone thinks I’ve been going out of my mind.’

  ‘No one believes you?’

  ‘There’s never any proof, just my word.’

  ‘I didn’t believe Eve, not really. I thought it was …’

  ‘All in her head?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says quietly. ‘I hate myself.’

  ‘Shame we never met, Eve and I … … I mean, that would have been weird … but you know, maybe we would have understood each other … then again, I probably would have told her to get lost and stop interfering.’

  ‘You’re convinced David Alden is guilty?’

  Am I? Am I a hundred per cent convinced?

  She had believed David Alden attacked her. It was a truth, an absolute handed to her in a neat package. Not one she had wanted to accept at first, but she had no choice. And over time she came to see that it gave her a narrative to explain what had happened, offered her a full stop at the end of the story. A chance to move on, rebuild her life: wasn’t that what the DI had said to the press. And she had built something – the house, a relationship with Sam – but she couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t her life, but someone else’s, someone who looked like her, talked like her, but was nothing like the person she had left behind.

  ‘I thought I was.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m convinced of anything any more. Do you think he did it?’

  ‘I thought Eve was under pressure, a bit paranoid. But I trust her judgement. Her instincts were almost always right. I think she might have found out too much.’

  Mel considers this. Her own instincts are telling her what she needs to do now. If she thinks about the consequences for too long she won’t act on them. ‘Do you think I could see it … Eve’s work, I mean?’ she asks.

  She counts the seconds before he answers.

  ‘You’re sure you want it?’

  ‘I am,’ she says with certainty.

  She recites her email address, spells out her name so Nat takes it down correctly.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I should warn you there’s a lot of it. If you need anything … or you want a chat … give me a call.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says.

  Two minutes later, Eve’s file lands in her inbox.

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Eve

  DID DAVID ALDEN attack Melody Pieterson? The question bugged me from the moment I watched him walk out of the pub in Notting Hill. I caught myself wishing, as I always did on APPEAL, for special powers that would transport me back to the moment of the attack so I could see for myself the face of the person who tried to kill her.

  Six months later I got to look him in the eye because the same person wanted to kill me too. The only difference was, this time he succeeded.

  Why, you might ask, couldn’t I have speculated on David Alden’s innocence or guilt for a few moments, hours even, discussed it with a mate and then moved on? Certainly amongst my circle of friends that would have been the normal response. Why did I have to take it further and start meddling in something that frankly was none of my business?

  Ideally I’d say my interest was piqued at the sniff of injustice. I’d wave my CV in your face as proof of my experience and expertise in this area of work. I could point to the fact I sponsored a child called Frank in the Democratic Republic of Congo as evidence of my bleeding-heart liberalism. I could say that basically I was just a very nice person.

  I’d be lying.

  My motives were far more selfish than I cared to admit.

  My job on APPEAL was part of my identity. Sad, yes, but true. I had been part of a team, my work mattered. We’d overturned three wrongful convictions in my time there. Three lives changed. When they pulled the plug on it, it wasn’t a case of picking up a job at a rival programme. APPEAL was the last programme of its kind. (Don’t get me started on that: not sexy enough, no celeb value, etc.) So I found myself picking up shifts on consumer programmes investigating dodgy TV repair men, or holiday villages with shit and urine on the bedding and cockroaches in the shower. Then I’d be booking the spokesman from said holiday village to come on the show and either deny everything or apologise profusely depending on what they’d been advised to do in their media training session. I’m not knocking the work, but it didn’t speak to me like my old job. I wasn’t changing lives, just the quality of holiday accommodation.

  Then David came along with his story and his claim of innocence and the old rush of curiosity and intrigue hit me, too intoxicating to resist.

  After my encounter with David on the Friday night, I stayed home for the rest of the weekend. Snow had fallen overnight and settled thick on the ground. To my relief his plumber friend had come to fix the boiler on Saturday afternoon. Sludge in the system apparently; all he needed to do was flush it out. ‘I’ll charge you for the chemicals, nothing else,’ he said, ‘since you’re a friend of David’s.’

  I didn’t have the heart, or the cash, to correct him.

  I spent my time replaying our conversation from every angle. David seemed like a nice guy, if a little damaged, which could be excused if he was telling the truth. Did I believe that he was? He had been out … what … a few weeks, and it seemed his sole focus was clearing his name. If you were guilty, would you do that, after you had served your time?

  I searched the internet for newspaper stories from the time of the attack. I typed in Melody Pieterson and saw her image appear before me.

  She was blond, her hair a similar shade and length to mine. In the photograph she wore it half up, half down, held back by an ornate clip adorned with crystals. The neckline of her dress was low, gathered in a cowl neck. It was cerise pink, silk perhaps, a shiny material that caught the light. She had the gloss of a big occasion about her, perfect hair and make-up. Was she at a wedding? In an attempt to study her face I made the image full screen. Her eyes were the palest green, pupils circled by rings of orange.

  There was a picture of David too. THE FACE OF EVIL: DJ FOUND GUILTY OF VICIOUS ATTACK ON FRIEND AND NEIGHBOUR. And a photograph of a police officer, DI Stuart Stirling. His quote embedded in the body of the story. ‘David Alden attacked his neighbour and then left her for dead, a woman who trusted him, classed him as friend, all because she spurned his advances. He lied about his involvement again and again. Today the jury returned the right verdict and we hope this sentence will allow Ms Pieterson and her family to move on and rebuild their
lives.’

  Most people age a bit in six years. New lines appear, existing ones grow deeper, hair might start to show a few flecks of grey. David Alden’s face had changed more profoundly. He was still recognisable from the old online photographs but he seemed to have jumped a decade, more. Gone was the healthy, ruddy complexion, the roundness of his face. His cheeks had been hollowed out, his features sharpened and his eyes had lost their brightness. All that was left were dark pools of despair.

  Had prison done that to him? Or was it the injustice that had eaten away at him until there was nothing left?

  I phoned Annie on Monday. She wasn’t the kind of friend I called, more of a recent acquaintance, a friend of Kira’s from university who’d moved back to London after a few years abroad.

  ‘Your brother …’ I began after we got the pre-emptive chat out of the way.

  ‘He said you’d met the other night. Life and soul, was he? Look, I’m sorry if it freaked you out, but he’s not dangerous …’ She gave a nervous hollow laugh. ‘I sound like one of those dog owners who tells you their Rottweiler isn’t going to bite.’

  ‘Annie, I …’

  ‘He didn’t do it. You’d expect me to say that, I know, but he didn’t. His legal team were hopeless at the trial. He’s trying to find himself a decent solicitor this time to help him clear his name. Actually, I remember Kira saying you worked on that programme … Do you know of any good ones you could recommend?’