Real fear now pierced the skin of Donna’s hung-over panic. Still she resisted the understanding that was already easing into her mind. She waited again for an answer, this time heart pounding.
‘I’d had enough.’ Angela fisted tears from her eyes and sniffed, looked up at the ceiling. ‘I didn’t want it anymore … I didn’t like it.’
‘Darling,’ said Donna, taking Angela by the shoulders, ‘who touched you? And what do you mean … touched?’
She was crying so hard that the sleeves of her sweatshirt were wet with her tears. ‘Touched me down there, but I don’t like it.’
Donna squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. ‘Who did this? Is it a boy at school?’
Angela shook her head, choking.
‘Is it someone your age or someone older?’
‘Older.’
‘I’ll skin him alive and kill him with my bare hands. Tell me now.’
‘I … can’t,’ Angela was almost hyperventilating.
Donna stood up and folded her arms. ‘You have to tell me right now, young lady. If someone’s hurt you, we need to call the police. Can you imagine what your father’ll have to say about this? He’ll have him strung up.’
Angela crossed her arms over her body, protective.
‘Tell me who it was. Angela, please sweetheart, I have to have a name.’
Angela wiped her face with both hands and looked at her mother. Donna saw the red face as at once defiant and vulnerable. Angela gasped little convulsive sips of air, trying to control her breathing.
‘Who?’ Donna prompted again, the pain in her temples now so dark and incisive that it felt as if there were a knife in her skull. ‘If someone has touched you, we need to tell the police. Your dad’ll make sure the right thing’s done.’
The taxi horn suddenly, jovial, intrusive.
Donna pressed Angela into her. She was shaking, trying to say something into her shoulder and so Donna pushed her away, smoothed the hair off her wet face.
‘Who touched you? Tell me, darling, tell me now.’
‘It was … Mr Dean.’
‘Who the hell is Mr Dean?’
5
Nick
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ Nick whispered, kissing Marina’s hair. ‘We’ll sort this out. Don’t worry.’ He didn’t believe his own words, but consoling her helped calm him.
‘Don’t worry?’ she repeated. ‘How can I not?’ Tugging gently on his T-shirt.
Nick sat and put on his shoes, looking around the kitchen at the glasses still stained with red wine, the kitchen redolent of garlic and onion, twisted napkins spotted with tomato, breadcrumbs on the table. The spoils of their happiness. A dark thought shifted over him, that everything was about to change.
The unmarked police car in the drive was a black BMW. Nick sat in the back seat, hands between his knees, his mind a turning kaleidoscope of concern slicing into fear.
He wondered who had accused him, and of what exactly? A sex offence – what was that? Assault – rape? A thousand interactions flipped through his mind, clumsy stills of encouraging hands on young shoulders, casual touches that had been part of drama scenes or not part of scenes. Off-the-cuff remarks. Conversations that could have been misconstrued: jokes about rap lyrics, trying to be cool.
The police officers were silent. Brookes drove and Weston sat in the back seat with Nick. The hulk of the man was silently domineering. The dashboard of the car had a radio and some kind of computer system that was flashing. Nick let his head rest on the back of the seat behind him, wondering if he smelled of alcohol or the joint. It was Friday night, for Christ’s sake.
The laptop computers were in the boot of the car. Nick’s stomach lurched again as he looked out of the window at the suburban darkness, punctuated briefly by lit windows and LED lights on well-kept lawns. What would they find on his computer? When was the last time he had cleared his history? Did it matter if the history was cleared or was it all still embedded in the hard drive? He closed his eyes, trying not to remember late-night searches.
The lights of Farnham town centre came into view and then passed. Darkness again as they drove alongside Hankley Common, its green at night a stretch of nothingness blacker than the sky. They were in the car for no more than twenty minutes, but it felt like an hour as they drove to Guildford and Surrey Police Headquarters. Nick was suddenly very thirsty, his head throbbing.
Brookes parked, and they asked him to get out. Nick followed them round the back of the police station, a tired, three-storey 1960s block.
‘Wait here and the duty sergeant will book you in,’ said Detective Sergeant Brookes.
Nick waited at a reception desk. The duty sergeant, an older woman with a heavy, resigned expression was speaking loudly and repetitively to a young woman altered by drink or drugs.
A middle-aged man with a florid complexion and small eyes was sitting on a plastic chair in handcuffs. He watched as Nick clicked his knuckles and looked around for water.
The young woman was led away and then the sergeant turned her attention to Nick. Up close the duty sergeant smelled of the same perfume Nick’s mother wore. He couldn’t remember what it was called.
Detective Constable Weston came out of a door behind reception and stood as Sergeant Warner laboriously typed Nick’s details into an on-screen form. Name. Address. Date of birth.
‘Twelfth of August 1981,’ Nick answered, clearing his throat, wanting to ask for water but deciding to wait.
The badge on the sergeant’s white shirt said that her name was Pamela Warner. Nick was standing only a foot from her, yet she was still speaking as loudly as she had been when talking to the drunk woman, asking if he had been advised of his rights and if he had any physical or mental health conditions, any specific dietary or religious requirements.
Nick tried to keep his voice even and his breathing in check as he answered, although it felt as if his whole body was trembling.
Suddenly, Sergeant Warner narrowed her eyes and regarded him.
‘You look familiar.’
Nick swallowed.
‘Have you been on TV?’
Nick felt his shoulders sag. ‘Yes, I’m an actor.’
Sergeant Warner’s face suddenly broke into a smile. She had big white teeth and the sight of them changed her face entirely, brightening it, if only for a moment.
‘Hang on, were you in that murder mystery series, Shetland?’
‘No, that was Douglas Henshall. I get it a lot.’
‘I didn’t think that series was very realistic,’ said Sergeant Warner, raising her eyebrows as her lips turned down.
Nick shrugged, unsure what to say, trying hard not to scream at her as the young woman had earlier.
‘And the reason for arrest … ?’ Warner said loudly.
Weston straightened, and spoke to Sergeant Warner’s computer screen. ‘Allegation of sexual assault of an under-thirteen …’
‘Sexual assault,’ Warner repeated as she typed.
Nick pressed his teeth together, not daring to look over his shoulder at the others in the waiting room and the staff in the office. He could feel the man with the small eyes watching him.
‘Sexual assault of an under-thirteen,’ Warner said again.
Nick wiped some beads of perspiration from his hairline. It was like a farce, only so serious it was terrifying. He looked over his shoulder. The man with the small eyes could be a murderer and yet Nick felt his accusation. The eyes of everyone in the room regarded him: the man who was sexually attracted to under thirteens.
‘A solicitor called Mr Faldane just called to say your wife has asked him to represent you. Can you indicate if you accept this solicitor? You are entitled to another of your choosing, or a duty solicitor can be allocated to your case.’
Faldane. The name was familiar.
‘The one that my wife has arranged is fine,’ Nick almost whispered.
Sergeant Warner asked Nick to empty his pockets. He only had his house keys and some money on him an
d Sergeant Warner put these in a bag before taking him to the cells. She unlocked a door which revealed a small, bare room with a thin, blue plastic mattress on a concrete bench.
‘Take off your shoes and leave them here.’
‘My shoes?’ said Nick, at first misunderstanding, then realising that his shoelaces could be considered dangerous. He hoped he wouldn’t be in the cell long enough to think about harming himself.
When the door closed, Nick pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and stayed like that for a few moments – darkness and bright lights, and a pain deep in his head. He let his hands fall to his sides and sat.
Faldane – Nick remembered the name – a friend of his brother Mike’s. Nick hoped that Marina hadn’t called Mike in Thailand to ask for the contact details. If so, his parents would now be aware of the situation. He pitched forward, head in his hands. Mum and Dad. He felt sick, deep in his gut.
Without his watch he couldn’t tell, but after what felt like an hour, Nick was taken to an area where he could meet the lawyer, and gratefully accepted a plastic cup of water that he downed and crushed as soon as the door was closed. He sat there alone for a few moments. The room was bare, wooden table and chairs. There was nothing to look at, no window or poster. He clasped his hands on the table and felt the nerves rippling through his body. He was still thirsty. He told himself to calm down. Thank God for Marina. She was always one step ahead of him. He needed a solicitor now, he realised, not because he was guilty but because he felt guilty. He didn’t know what to do, or say.
No smoke without fire.
Mud sticks.
He took a deep breath in, from his abdomen, and out again, as he had been trained to do before going on stage. It didn’t help and so he tried to focus and repeat. Just then, his lawyer entered and closed the door behind him. He was about five foot eight, in a suit that was just too small for him, a double chin when he smiled and a briefcase so full it didn’t quite close.
‘Hi, are you Nicholas?’
Nick nodded imperceptibly, getting to his feet.
‘I’m your solicitor, Bob Faldane. Your wife called me.’
They shook hands.
‘You got here quickly.’
‘l live not far from here. You’re Mark’s little brother?’ said Bob with an expansive grin, as if they were meeting at a wedding.
Nick nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard your name mentioned. How do you know Mark?’
‘Met him in the union bar in Freshers’ week at Leeds.’ Bob’s face lit up with nostalgia. ‘I love him. Don’t see him enough.’
Nick nodded, hands on his hips, trying to smile.
‘The arresting officers are going to interview you shortly and take your statement. Is there anything you need to tell me before they begin?’
Nick looked the man in the eye. His eyes were grey and looked tired, full up with stories.
‘I didn’t do it,’ Nick said plainly. ‘I don’t even understand what I’m being accused of …’
‘All right. Well, let’s get started and then we’ll know what we’re up against.’
In the interview room, Brookes sat opposite Nick, while Weston turned on a recording machine in the corner. Nick noticed there was a camera fixed to the ceiling. Weston dragged his chair out noisily and sat down.
Nick felt his armpits dampen with sweat. It was now after ten at night and he felt underdressed in his T-shirt. Brookes had a closed brown file before her. It was too bright in the room and Nick felt exposed.
Two hours ago he had been eating dinner and thinking about making love to his wife; now here he was.
Brookes clasped her hands, mirroring Nick’s posture.
‘This morning we received a complaint that you had sexually assaulted a child under the age of thirteen,’ she began.
‘Who said that?’ Nick’s heart pounded. ‘Which child made the allegation?’
Faldane raised a hand that Nick understood to mean he should calm down. ‘You are currently working as a drama teacher at Croydon Academy?’
‘No, I’m a private contractor, giving a series of drama workshops. I don’t work at the school.’
‘You are currently teaching drama to children in the lower school at Croydon Academy?’
‘Yes,’ said Nick, so weary that the skin on his face felt heavy.
‘One of the children, Angela Furness, has alleged that you sexually assaulted her during drama class.’
Angela. Not Angela?
Nick’s mind turned and jammed, like slides stuck in a projector. He saw her face – the mean little mouth and sneer. He didn’t understand. They had barely been alone.
‘Angela … nothing happened – nothing happened at all. She’s just a difficult girl in the group.’
Brookes glanced at her notes briefly and then met Nick’s eye. She had a blue biro in her hand and she repeatedly pressed on the lid with her thumb as if she were a nurse dispensing drugs.
‘Difficult how?’
‘She’s disruptive, that’s all. Combative. Likes attention.’
‘Likes your attention?’
‘Yes … but not what you’re suggesting. She’s just an outspoken, attention-seeking child, that’s all.’
‘Angela has alleged that you asked her to go behind the stage to help you retrieve a gym mattress, and that when you were then alone together you pressed her against the wall and covered her mouth with one hand while you put your hand under her skirt and underwear and fondled her private parts.’
Detective Brookes’ face as she delivered this information was devoid of any emotion. She did not even blink.
Nick opened his mouth in shock. He was trembling. It occurred to him that this was the one time in his life when he needed to act, needed to appear other than he was, but he couldn’t.
Angela’s face was stuck in his mind, a single still. A white moon of a face and her uncombed dark hair framing it. School uniform too tight. She looked younger than twelve. She still had that careless disregard for her physical appearance. Hair needing to be brushed, scuffed shoes, tummy pushing at the buttons of her shirt.
‘Perhaps you could tell us in your own words what did happen,’ said Brookes, her face expressionless, her blue eyes cold and reflective.
Nick looked at his lawyer, Faldane, who nodded in response.
He unclasped his hands and put them face-up on the table. ‘What can I say, except that nothing happened? What she said is not true. The last part, anyway. I’ve no idea why she would say such a thing. I’ve been teaching this group for the past couple of weeks and I’m still getting to know them. I know Angela … but I can’t think why she would say that about me, as none of it is true. I did ask her to help me get the gym mattress from behind the stage.’ Nicholas was warming to his story and the narrative in itself gave him more confidence, direction. ‘We used it for trust falls and I used Angela as an example, so she was the first to fall. I joined her classmates in catching her and I touched her in that way. I caught her just as the other children did. I might have helped to right her and put a hand on her shoulder to check she was all right, but apart from that I never laid a finger on her.’
Nick looked down at his hands and realised that his fists were clenched.
‘Trust fall?’ said Weston, his expression blank.
‘It’s a common thing in drama and self-esteem workshops. It’s often used as a warmer, to build trust and empathy in the group …’ Nick began, feeling the breath uneven in his throat and aware of his still-trembling fingers. He wasn’t sure if he had enough breath in him to explain. ‘A person falls backwards without trying to stop themselves and the group catches them. It helps people feel supported – physically and mentally.’
‘So if the group catches the person falling, why did you need a gym mattress?’
‘I … I shouldn’t have needed it,’ Nick stammered, ‘it was just in case. Extra safety measure. They were a quiet group, a difficult bunch. They didn’t seem to gel somehow. I used the trust game specificall
y to try and pull them together more as a group – to open them up. I set it up so the kids fell from the stage, which is a foot or so high. It is a fair distance – not the same as falling backwards from standing. I wanted a safety net.’
Safety net. The syllables and vowels of those words reverberated in the room.
For a moment, Nick felt as if he was falling backwards, gravity sucking him down to the earth.
‘So you did ask Angela to meet you behind the stage to help you get the mattress?’
‘Yes, well, no … we went together, but then we picked up the mattress and that was it. We threw it down off the stage and that was it.’
‘So you admit being alone with her?’
‘I was alone with her for the shortest of moments.’ Nick put a hand through his hair, trying to laugh but only managing a strangled sigh.
‘Why did you ask Angela to help you get the mattress?’ Weston asked, his fish eyes fixed on Nick. ‘Why her?’
‘She was disrupting the group. She had been … challenging from the very first day,’ Nick said, trying to smile again. ‘I think I asked her because I thought if I involved her more she might behave better. She seemed to like attention. A lot of her behaviour was negative but attention-seeking. I think I thought it would be better to use her desire to be centre stage. That was the most I thought about it.’
‘And you have disclosure for this post at the school, I see. No previous convictions.’
‘Enhanced disclosure. Absolutely no convictions. Even my driving licence is clean.’
There was a pause. Squeaky clean. Was it too much?
Brookes leaned forward on the table and smiled. ‘So … you’re married with children.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about Marina.’
Nick held his breath. The question was innocent but invasive. ‘She’s my wife,’ he said, castigating himself the minute he said it. It sounded stupid, superfluous. ‘She’s wonderful. Smart. Funny.’ Words that he did not voice sounded in his head. Beloved. Protector.
‘And you’ve been married for how many years?’
‘Seven.’
Seven-year itch.
‘And you’re happily married?’
‘Very.’
Little Liar Page 4