‘Glad you’re here, Jean love,’ Wobert said, focusing solely on her boobs and nothing else, ‘because I have you down as Miss Apwil in the Smiley’s calendar, and not only that, but this Saturday night I’ll need you to compete in the Miss Smiley beauty pageant. I’m comperwing it myself this year, you know. You can be Miss Fish Wharf. There’s even a sash in the locker woom that you can borwow.’
She just glared furiously at him, temper she’d been trying so hard to restrain now bubbling up to the surface like a volcano.
‘… And I have to tell you,’ he went on, seemingly oblivious to the furious bulging behind her eyes, ‘without undue favourwtism, that with legs like those, I weally do think the pageant would be a bweeze for you.’
And that was all it took. Break point.
‘Wobert,’ Jean said sarcastically. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I meant to say Robert. Suppose I tell you to go and fuck yourself? And your poxy Miss Fish Wharf sash?’
He looked at her, astonished.
‘If that’s how you feel, then suppose I tell you you’re fired?’
‘And suppose I hand you your poxy uniform right back? Here and now?’
Two seconds later, she’d whipped off her hated Smiley T-shirt and flung it across the desk right at him. It even knocked over a half-drunk glass of ‘wed wine’ on his desk, spilling it everywhere.
Score. She whooped defiantly, turned on her heel and slammed the door so hard the glass in it actually shook.
Two minutes later, she was winding her way through the bar in only her bra and electric blue shorts, head held high. ’Course, by the time she made it to the main exit, the roar of wolf whistles and catcalls from students drinking at the bar, who couldn’t believe their luck when they saw this beautiful, semi-naked woman stride by, was near-deafening.
And sure enough, Joe had been as good as his word. Two minutes later she was in the passenger seat of his luxuriously plush car, engine revving, sitting beside him in nothing more than her bra and shorts.
‘Jesus, do you know what the sight of you dressed like that is doing to me?’ he twinkled across at her. ‘Here,’ he added, whipping off his jacket and lightly tossing it over to her, ‘cover yourself up, will you? Otherwise, there’s a danger I might crash the car.’
‘Just drive, Joe. Get me the hell out of here.’
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘Fine by me,’ he grinned. ‘In that case, I’m taking you home.’
Chapter Eight
12 January, Kitty’s house
Don’t start work in the sandwich bar till next week, and at this stage, I nearly have the days counted. Swear to God, I never thought that looking forward to starting a menial job scrubbing floors and slicing onions would keep me going, but somehow it is. I so badly need to be active again, to be doing something, anything, other than sitting in front of Kitty’s computer screen stressing and fretting. Still no news, but, as Simon says, no more hoaxers or wild-goose chases either, which has to count for something. Means we’re finally starting to filter out the messers and time-wasters, if nothing else.
It’s just coming up to lunchtime and, seeing as how food is my drug of choice these days, I automatically head to the fridge on the scrounge. Larder’s pretty bare, though, so I’m just about to head out to grab a sambo when the doorbell rings.
Jack Crown. On his own and, unusually for him, not in uniform, just wearing jeans and a wintry navy jacket.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asks tentatively, but then I’ve been so snipey and horrible to him in the past, the poor guy is probably half terrified I’ll cut the snot off him.
‘No, not at all. Come in,’ I say, ushering him into the kitchen and making a silent vow to force myself to be polite, like everyone keeps telling me I should be. He stands there awkwardly; one of those guys who dwarfs a room just by being in it, then shoves away a clump of hair that’s fallen over his forehead and gives me what I can only describe as the weirdest look. Like he’s got something to say to me, but just doesn’t know where to begin.
Long, long pause while the two of us just look at each other.
‘Em, well … Simon’s at work,’ I eventually say, puzzled beyond belief as to why he’s here and what exactly is going on. Normally if Crown has news, he just phones. So what’s all this about?
Then, just for the sake of filling dead air, I stupidly tack on, ‘He won’t be back till tonight.’
‘That’s OK,’ Crown nods. ‘It’s actually you I came to see.’
Oh Christ. I find myself suddenly a bit panicky now; am I in some kind of trouble here? Do they now suspect me of burying Kitty under the patio out the back or something? And will people see me on the nine o’clock news being carted off in handcuffs to the Bridewell and mutter, ‘You see? It’s almost always a close friend who’ll turn out to be guilty as sin.’
‘It’s just,’ Crown begins uneasily as I stand opposite him, rooted to the spot and wondering what in hell he’s trying to say. ‘Well, I could be wrong, and forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn here, but I think that all of this is taking a huge toll on you. On an emotional level, that is.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Angie, it’s unthinkable what you’re going through, and of course what Simon is going through too, and I know it can be a nightmare to handle. But the thing is, the whole investigation has now taken yet another turn and we’ve reason to believe there might be news … And soon.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, panic suddenly making me weak-kneed. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Hey, are you OK?’ he says, looking seriously concerned now. ‘Look at you, you’re as white as a sheet. Do you want to sit down?’
‘No, I’m fine, really just … please … give me the last sentence first. If you know something or if any new information has come in since yesterday …’
‘At least let me get you some water,’ he says, going straight to a pile of clean glasses on the draining board and in a flash filling one from the tap for me. ‘Here, drink this. You’ll feel better.’
I gratefully take a gulp and nod my thanks.
‘Please,’ I find myself almost begging as he just looks worriedly back at me, ‘if you know something, don’t keep it from me.’
But he just shakes his head. ‘I wish I did, I really do. But at this point, I’m afraid there’s nothing, at least nothing concrete. And I’m sorry to be so vague, but as soon as I do, I’ll let you know immediately. In the meantime, though … well, I suppose what I’m ham-fistedly trying to say is that …’
‘Yes?’
‘You have to prepare yourself, Angie. And I’m so sorry to have to say this, but we have to be realistic here and ask you to brace yourself for news … that may not be what you were hoping for. But if you ever wanted to talk to someone, then please just know that I’m always here for you. I’ll give you my private mobile number and my home number too. Call anytime. But until there’s a concrete breakthrough, please try not to worry. Which I know is a bit like asking you not to breathe, but you’ll try, won’t you? You promise?’
‘Well … thank you,’ I manage to stammer. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I mean that, Angie. I’m here for you. No matter what the outcome of this.’
He leaves shortly after and, still a bit shell-shocked, I call Simon to fill him in.
A long pause while he digests it all.
‘Jesus,’ he eventually says in a weak voice, ‘Crown knows something, or at least he’s got wind that something we won’t necessarily like is about to be confirmed. He has to have done. Why else would he have gone to all the bother of calling to the house to warn you?’
Exactly what I was thinking myself. Something is most definitely coming. Not sure what, but one thing is for certain. Whatever it is, it won’t be a rose garden.
Outside Kitty’s, 6.35 p.m.
The worst day yet, by far. Can’t even eat, I’m such a ball of nervous tension and anxiety. Which for me is unhea
rd of. Ordinarily Armageddon could well be nigh and I’m someone that would still be found gnashing into rasher sandwich with a side of fries.
It feels like such an interminably long wait for Simon to get home that eventually I crack, think, shag this, and head out for a quick, brisk walk to try to clear my head. Need to get out of here, need air, need to do anything other than sit looking at the four walls, working myself up into a crescendo of worry.
I’m barely gone a half-hour, but when I get back, there’s a police car parked right outside the house, with Simon’s car right beside it.
Must be news, must be v. bad news, possibly the worst. And suddenly I can’t breathe. My chest constricts and my heart starts palpitating as I let myself in and race into the kitchen.
Jack Crown is inside in full uniform now, standing awkwardly beside Simon and looking gravely over at me while Simon’s on the couch, head in his hands. The minute I burst in, Simon reaches out to me and I instinctively go to him, sit beside him as he slips a protective arm around my shoulder, holding me tight.
‘What’s wrong?’ I nearly yell at them both. ‘For Christ’s sake, tell me what’s happened!’
‘Jesus, Angie,’ Simon says weakly, ‘I thought you’d never get here. You have to prepare yourself.’
He grips my hand and I steel myself for what’s coming.
‘Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’
Crown sits down opposite us and looks at me with huge sympathy.
‘Since I saw you earlier today,’ he says, sounding like he hates having to say every single word, ‘it seems there’s been a development. I don’t want you to get a shock, but I felt it was only right to come round here and tell you both in person.’
‘To tell us what?’
‘Can I get you some hot, sweet tea first?’
‘No, please! I’d far rather you just told me whatever the hell was going on!’
‘Angie, I’m really am so sorry to have to do this to you,’ Crown says gently, ‘but I’m afraid I have to ask.’
‘Ask what?’
‘Exactly how well did you know Kitty Hope?’
Nineteen and in love. He’d even asked her to move in with him. Which to her, back then, seemed like the height of real, proper romance. Movie love. And at the start, it had all been such a whirlwind. She’d never been in a proper relationship before, not like this, not with someone like him, so much older, so worldly and sophisticated. Fell for him hot and heavy right from the start, which, given how lost and vulnerable she’d been, took so very little on his part. A few dinners out, one or two trips away to places she’d dreamed of, but never seen. All he had to do was turn the full glare of his attention on her, show her a whole side of life she’d never seen before and she was his, all his.
It really was that easy.
It started out in the smallest of ways. Let’s not go out tonight, he’d say back in their early days, let’s just stay in, you and me. We don’t need anyone else, do we? Besides, I want you here, all to myself. And something inside her would just melt. It’s because he’s such a die-hard romantic who loves you so much, she thought. You, who’d always felt yourself so unworthy of being loved. And now here’s this man, who only wants to be with you and no one else. Whoever would have thought?
But as it turned out, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Because slowly over time, so imperceptibly she barely even noticed at first, he gradually weaned her away from even her closest friends. And she was a girl who had loads of mates; attracted them naturally. So when things got bad and when she really needed help, needed someone to pluck her out of this, there was no one left to listen. Without even realising it, he’d isolated her from every single person that she’d ever known or cared about.
With one exception. A guy her own age she knew from work, sweet guy called Sean, who’d frequently phone the flat and leave messages for her. All so pathetically innocent; they were just pals, nothing more. You free for a coffee or do you fancy a movie, he used to ask her, that kind of thing. Kids’ stuff.
It led to trouble, though. It got so she could practically sense his eyes glowering at her every time Sean would call the flat and he’d hand over the phone. ‘It’s that git for you again.’
And over time, he gradually became more and more jealous and possessive, accusing her of flirting with Sean, of leading him on. If she ever stayed out late, the questions would be sure to start, thick and heavy. Were you with him? Did you kiss him, do you fancy him, is that it? So is there something you want to tell me? What’s going on here that you won’t admit? I don’t do anything to upset you, so why are you putting me through this? Are you cheating on me behind my back? Why is it that I can’t trust you?
Which was so ridiculous, it was risible. She’d laughed in his face and told him she was starting to feel like she was coming home to an angry parent, not a boyfriend. You don’t own me, she’d spiritedly told him once, then for months afterwards marvelled at her own raw courage in doing it.
Wouldn’t dare do it now. She’d have more sense.
First time it happened, she’d come home about an hour later than she’d said she would. Sixty bloody minutes, no more. But that was all it took. The very minute she walked in the door, she could tell by his silent sulking that there’d be trouble. Turned out he’d been gauging the length of time she’d been gone for so accurately, he might as well have had a stopwatch in his paw, like some kind of an Olympic training coach. And sure enough, the usual barrage of questions started. Who were you out with, was it him? I know it was, so you might as well just come clean. You can’t lie to me, it’s written all over your face.
She’d pushed him away, told him to stop acting like this, that she was seriously starting to get sick of it. Besides, she’d only been out with a girlfriend, that was it. Which, as it happened, was the truth. She and her mate Becky had met up for a quick drink after work and the two of them had lost track of time, end of story. She remembered looking him in the eye and telling him to lighten up, that she was starting to get seriously fed up with having to face the Spanish Inquisition every time she came home a bloody hour later than she said she’d be.
‘Just back off, will you?’
She could still remember telling him that, before striding upstairs to let him cool down. Then defiantly throwing back over her shoulder, ‘You do realise you’re starting to sound like some kind of over-possessive nut job?’
But that was all it took. He came right after her, grabbing her leg as she was almost on the top stair and dragging her all the way back down again. Smashed her head off each banister rail as he pulled her towards him, then shouted in her face to own up to seeing someone else behind his back. And the more she screamed back at him, the more it continued, on and on. One slap after another, till she was aware of her face feeling soaking wet and a warm, sticky, metallic taste in her mouth. Took her a while to realise it was her own blood. Then came the blinding pain, so white hot and intense that it only stopped when she eventually blacked out.
He was actually apologetic after that first time. Utterly mortified, he told her, and she believed him. He did everything possible: bought her flowers, spoiled her, held her tight. Even rubbed antiseptic into the cuts on her face and tenderly put an ice pack on her swollen head. Jesus, I must be some kind of animal, he’d told her over and over. Your beautiful face, just look what I’ve done to your beautiful face. It was all the pressure he was under in work and he’d just cracked, he said. He’d never done anything like this before. Told her it was just because he loved her so much and was so frightened of losing her to anyone else.
It won’t happen again, though, he swore blind. I give you my solemn word, this was the one and only time.
Never again.
A full hemisphere away, she woke up sweating and panicking, having to stop herself from screaming out loud in case anyone overheard.
She could control where she was. Could change her name, her whole identity, even, to protect herself. But try as she m
ight, she could never stop the nightmares.
PART TWO
FORGET ME NOT …
Chapter Nine
Two years later
Cape Town was so beautiful at this time of year, Jean thought, stretched out on a sunlounger, her usual morning mug of extra strong coffee beside her. No humidity, not too hot, not too cool, just perfect, clear as crystal. On days like this, you could easily see all the way over to Table Mountain from the wraparound balcony of her third-floor apartment, where she lay surrounded by all the pots of forget-me-nots she’d planted. An appropriate flower, she always thought. For her.
It was just so peaceful here, blissful. Safe, even. She had to pinch herself every time she as much as allowed herself to use that word. Whoever would have thought?
She sipped at her coffee, nibbled at a half-eaten slice of yesterday’s leftover pizza she’d taken out to the balcony with her, then glanced down at her watch. Only an hour’s time difference between here and home, which sometimes made life a helluva lot easier. In little ways, like whenever she was on her way to work, she’d tell herself that Simon was probably doing exactly the same thing at roughly the same time. Imagined him in that silvery company Audi he was so proud of, the one she used to laugh at and tell him he looked like some kind of a gobshite pimp in.
Then she’d wonder what he was wearing, was he still going round in those sexy blue silk shirts she used to love so much on him? The colour brought out his green eyes, she always thought, remembering how she’d lazily run her hand up and down the back of his shirt while he was trying to get dressed early in the morning, loving the sensual feel of the silky fabric against her skin. ‘Look at you, trying to molest me on my way out the door to work,’ he’d grin suggestively at her. ‘Insatiable woman.’
’Course, more often than not, the minute she caught that hungry glint in his eyes, she’d drag him back into the cosy warm bed beside her and make him late for work. Small wonder the poor guy managed to hold on to his job at all, with her around.
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