Me and You

by Claudia Carroll

  While I’m at it, I make sure to lay it on pretty thick about that sub-human git and Jean’s exact reason for her even contemplating doing what she had to in the first place. I tell him that the girl quite honestly felt she’d no choice. It was either survive or smother. So she chose survival.

  ‘I see,’ Crown nods slowly when am finally finished yabbering on, looking a bit relieved, to my surprise. ‘Well, I’m certainly glad that none of this is coming as a shock to you. Or, I hope to your friend Simon.’

  Friend. V. ironic description of him at this point in time, I think to myself, but keep my mouth shut. Somehow sensing there’s still something more to come.

  ‘But I’m afraid that’s not all.’

  Ha! Knew it. I find myself sitting up now, thinking, so … what next? What can possibly be left to tell that she hasn’t filled us in on already? Jean’s really the illegitimate love child of the Grand Duchess Anastasia, last of the Romanovs, and Lord Lucan?

  ‘As soon as the news landed on my desk,’ Jack goes on, ‘of course I went to alert both you and Simon. He wasn’t answering the contact number I have for him, but I did leave a message for him. You’ve changed your mobile number since it seems …’

  ‘… But you were able to trace me through The Chocolate Bar?’

  ‘Yup. I’d seen a fantastic review in one of the papers when you first opened up here and remembered you so well. You must be very proud. You’ve achieved so much since the last time I saw you.’

  ‘Thanks, but … you did say there was something else?’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m so sorry to have to land this on you. But unfortunately I will need to see Jean Simpson at her earliest possible convenience. So I came here to ask that if you heard from her, that you’d let me know immediately. I hate troubling you, only I can’t stress how important it is.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, but …’

  Suddenly, I start getting bit defensive on Jean’s behalf.

  ‘Now just hang on a minute, Jack. You’re not thinking of arresting her or anything? Because you just couldn’t! I mean, she hasn’t actually done anything wrong! OK, so she changed her name, but she did it for her own protection! That’s hardly a crime, is it? You can’t just haul her in and … And clamp her in handcuffs and lock her up for what she did! She’s only just buried her foster mother and she’s unbelievably fragile … Plus, the girl’s already in bits over all the worry she caused us back then, she genuinely is. You wouldn’t make this any worse for her, you couldn’t! It would be … cruel! And … a miscarriage of justice!’

  And now, suddenly, Jack’s grinning, actually grinning at me, like he thinks this is hilarious and I’m a prize moron. A big, broad, freckly, warm grin.

  ‘Angie, would I be right in thinking that you watch a lot of those crime dramas on telly? Of course Jean isn’t in any trouble. Come on now, do you honestly think we’d put the woman through any worse than she’s already been through? We’re police all right, but we’re not entirely inhuman and void of all emotion, you know.’

  ‘But … you said …’

  ‘Jeez, I thought you were about to start banging on tables and demanding to ring your lawyer there for a sec.’

  ‘So why is it that you need to see her then?’

  ‘Because as soon as I heard news of her being back in the country, I naturally ran a trace on Joe McGuinness, as a matter of urgency.’

  No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

  ‘You did what?’ I snap across table at him. ‘Because if he ever got wind of the fact she was back in the country, you can be sure she’d join a convent of nuns and move out to Namibia on witness protection!’

  ‘Wait, Angie,’ he says, making ‘calm down’ hand gestures at me. ‘Just calm down and hear me out. You have to understand that I needed to know where the guy was. In case she ever wanted to press charges against him, I’d have to have tabs on him. Our first priority at all times is to keep any woman who we suspect has been in an abusive relationship as safe as we possibly can. Plus, there’s the distinct possibility that he could track her down for himself, and God knows what could happen then. As you yourself said, he’d done it once before.’

  ‘And what happened? What did you find out when you ran the trace?’

  My head’s starting to thump now and I’m beginning to feel cold, clammy beads of worry-sweat slowly trickle from under my arms right the way down to my ribcage.

  ‘Well, you see, this is why I’m anxious to speak to Jean as soon as possible. To tell her she has absolutely nothing to fear from that guy any more.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It seems that roughly six months ago, McGuinness’s company went to the wall, owing well over a million. He has a list of creditors he owes money to the length of your arm. But instead of dealing with the problem upfront or possibly even declaring bankruptcy, he upped sticks and emigrated to New Zealand.’

  I slump back into my chair, gobsmacked.

  ‘In other words …’

  ‘I’d be astonished if Jean Simpson ever so much as hears from McGuinness again in this lifetime. If he ever shows his face in the country, there’s a long list of creditors he owes a fortune to, not to mention a probable fraud case pending against him. In other words, she’s as good as safe now, Angie. I need to see that woman to tell her that after everything she’s been through and put her friends through, she’s finally free.’

  I try to speak, but for some reason, no words will come out.

  Dame Street, right outside The Chocolate Bar, 10.15 p.m.

  Jack’s still here, even stays with me as I finally lock up and switch on the alarm, etc.

  ‘It’s getting late and I know you must have an early start in the morning,’ he says, helping me to pull down the security shutters outside the place. I’m actually v. grateful for his help, the shutters weigh a bleeding tonne.

  ‘Generally, I’d be up at about six-ish,’ I tell him, as we start to walk down the street together, passing gangs of revellers smoking outside a pub that’s belting out ‘Moves like Jagger’. ‘Funny thing is, though, after a while you just get used to the total sleep deprivation. Bit like having a baby, I imagine.’

  He smiles down at me. And again, it’s a nice, warm smile.

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly been through the emotional wringer over the past few days, Angie. You must be absolutely exhausted. Least I can do is offer you a lift home, if you’d like? My car’s just here. Yet another advantage of being a cop. You can park wherever it suits you.’

  The feet are nearly blistered off me and think if I have to walk one more step, I’ll possibly end up taking off my shoes altogether and going home barefoot and I won’t even care. Taking a lift from Jack is a total no-brainer.

  Outside my building on Essex Street, 10.31 p.m.

  Temple Bar is always mayhem, but it’s really, seriously heaving tonight. There’s an exceptional number of stag nights on the prowl, plus gangs of college students on piss-ups, are screeching at each other at top of their lungs and calling each other wankers. V., v. glad to be inside a snug, warm car. And I keep having to resist the urge to stick my head out the window at the whole shower of messers and yell, ‘Look at me, I’m with a copper! A very senior detective, as it happens! He could arrest any one of you at minute’s notice and on a whim! Now shut the feck up and let me get some actual SLEEP tonight!!’

  ‘Fantastic place to live,’ Jack nods towards my building, as we pull up beside it in his neat little Peugeot. ‘So central and handy for everything. Must be amazing to have the whole city centre right on your doorstep. You could eat out any time you wanted or, better yet, just take a short stroll and see a different movie every night of the week. That would be my idea of heaven, but then I’m a complete movie buff.’

  ‘Are you? Me too. Went to film school and everything.’

  ‘Film school? Wow, very impressive,’ he smiles, glancing over at me. ‘And living here, you must get to the cinema all the time, I’d say. I envy you.’

  I have to res
ist urge not throw my head back and guffaw at that.

  ‘Are you kidding? Nothing I’d love more, but right now I’m doing well if I get to see a decent flicker every couple of months, what with work being so mental. And even if I do get a night off, I’m so bush-whacked, I usually just end up crashed out in front of the telly watching I’m a Celebrity or similar, and eating crappy take-out grub.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he smiles, and again, it surprises me by being a big, open, warm smile. ‘I think I could recite the take-out menu from my local Dominos Pizza in my sleep.’

  OK, time for me to go.

  ‘Well, thanks so much again for the lift,’ I tell him, unfastening seat belt and hopping out of the car.

  ‘Sleep well,’ he says, leaning forward and starting to fumble around the glove compartment. ‘Don’t forget to let me know when you hear from Jean next, OK? Here’s my card, with my direct number and my mobile on it, just in case you need it.’

  ‘Ta very much,’ I say, sticking my hand back inside the window and taking the offered card from him.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he grins, then waits till I’m safely inside the building. A nice touch, I think. Polite.

  Two minutes later, I’m back upstairs in my cosy, warm little flat, greeted by an ever-growing mound of ironing still waiting to be attacked.

  Strange, strange evening, I think, kicking off my shoes and going into my tiny galley kitchen to make tea. Crown ‘call-me-Jack’ turning out to be so different from the way I first had him pegged, all of two long years ago. Plus, never thought I’d say this, but actually being so easy to chat to outside of a cop shop.

  You know, normal, ordinary, down-to-earth.

  I stick the kettle on, then flush a bit remembering back to all the times I was so downright rude to his face while roundly abusing him behind his back for, as I saw it then, not doing enough in search for Jean. I can even remember Simon calling me on it and urging me to be a bit more civil to him.

  Now? I feel a tad guilty over that. Especially seeing as how the whole police search turned out to be a classic waste of time and police resources, you name it.

  Because Jack Crown was … no other way to put it … warm and friendly tonight. Easy-going and laid back. Relaxed and even funny. Not the same person I first had him pegged down as at all. I shrug; decide that sometimes I’m v. happy to be wrong about people, then head to the hall table, to fish my phone out from the bowels of my handbag.

  I dial Simon’s number, to fill him in. Dying to finally talk to him. I’ve so much news, I feel like the latest edition of something.

  It rings. And rings. Rings again. So I leave a voicemail message, asking him to call me the minute he gets this. Then every ten minutes after that, I keep jumping, thinking I heard it beep beep with a message and that it’s him and that he’ll just get in his car and come over and we’ll talk the night away and that everything will be just fine.

  But my phone stays resolutely silent.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Most bizarre experience yet, Jean thought, walking down Berkeley Street, where she’d once lived and been so happy for such a long time. Beyond strange being back, when she could still remember the terror she’d felt on that very last night she left here. How afraid she was that Joe would somehow trace her, may even have followed her, even though she knew it was highly unlikely then and even less so now. Jesus, but it still sent a flare of panic through her, even saying his name. And it caught at her throat to think that coming back home to Ireland had actually taken her this far, when she’d vowed to get on and off the island as fast as she possibly could.

  What made it all doubly weird was that there was precious little she didn’t remember about Berkeley Street; she’d certainly played it back in her head enough times, so often in fact, she could practically recognise each and every crack in the paving stones. Back in Cape Town, even being able to remember tiny little things could be a real comfort; it helped no end to get her through the worst days.

  She’d remember the neighbours, one by one, right down to lovely, warm-hearted Mrs Butterly from next door and all seventeen of her grandkids, or whatever it was at last count. And the warm, loving way she almost saw herself as a surrogate mammy for Jean. How she’d hammer on Jean’s door every Sunday at lunchtime and say, ‘Come on in and have a bit of roast beef with us, love. Put a few pounds on you! Sure, I’ve seen more weight on a butcher’s pencil.’

  Then there was the way her grandsons would team up with gangloads of other local kids and turn the whole street into one giant soccer pitch, more often than not smashing the odd neighbour’s window while they were at it, then making a run for it, screeching, ‘Wasn’t me, honest, it was him!’ for all they were worth.

  Jean smiled a bit at that one. Funny, the tiny things you missed.

  It was just gone half-nine at night, late-ish to be calling, she knew, but she couldn’t risk Simon’s not being there. Because she had to talk to him, just this one last time. Somehow she had to try to explain to him, even if she’d never be able to make him fully understand. Nothing on earth, she knew, could possibly be worse than the hard, cold, flinty way he’d practically glared at her yesterday.

  She couldn’t – just couldn’t – bring herself to fly back to Cape Town and know that he was living his life in another hemisphere and thinking ill of her. So now here she was, in good faith, prepared to make peace at any price, or certainly to try. And if he didn’t accept her heartfelt apology or maybe if he even refused to hear her out, then at the very least, she’d have made a bloody effort, wouldn’t she?

  Taking a deep breath, she stood outside her old house, girding her loins and only praying that he’d answer. She pressed the doorbell and took a good step back, waiting. Marvelling at how little the place had changed in two years, from the outside, at least. Except, if anything, it looked more cared for than it ever had when she’d lived there, which admittedly wouldn’t have been all that hard. Windows were gleaming, the brasses on the door had been polished; there was even a neat row of geraniums planted in a box outside. All Simon’s doing, no doubt, she smiled quietly to herself.

  But then, he was always the neat, organised, efficient one, not her. He was the one who always put out bins, remembered to pay bills on time and made sure there was fresh milk in the fridge. Whereas, left to her, the electricity would regularly get cut off while they sat shivering in winter, with no gas to heat the place and nothing to live off except a box of stale corn flakes.

  Still no answer, so she took a deep breath and knocked this time, knowing right well he was home; his car was parked outside. Same car he’d had from two years ago, she thought, as this time another very different memory surfaced. But then it was hard to forget all the times he’d driven her back home from yet another one of his boring work dos and the way she’d suggestively lean over and start kissing him while he was behind the wheel, just for the laugh. Purposely trying to distract him, teasing him. There were even a few nights when things got so hot and heavy between them, that they’d ended up having a quickie shag on the back seat, parked on the side of a deserted country road.

  She blushed a bit at the thought, wondered if it was something he still remembered too, then looked up sharply, as the door was opened.

  Simon. Arms folded, not even registering surprise, almost as if her visit hadn’t been entirely unexpected. And for a split second, it was like time stood still. A throbbing moment while she looked at him and he looked right back at her and no one spoke.

  Shit, she silently cursed herself. What had happened to her carefully worked-out speech? She knew she had literally dozens of these mortifying, sackcloth and ashes, ‘prodigal daughter returns and begs forgiveness’ scenes ahead of her, and what’s more, with dozens of other people. So why now, face to face with the one person she’d probably hurt the most, did she have to go completely blank?

  Simon, ever the gentleman, though, made it that bit easier for her.

  ‘Jean,’ he nodded flatly. ‘You sh
ould have let me know you were coming round.’

  Subtext: so I could have made sure I was in a different county.

  ‘Sorry about that, but I wanted to make sure you were home,’ was all she managed to get out in reply. Subtext read and clearly understood. If you’d known I was on my way, chances are you’d be half way up a faraway mountain by now. Anything rather than face a one-on-one conversation with me. So this was my one and only option.

  ‘You’re here for your things, no doubt,’ he said coolly, stepping aside to let her in.

  ‘No, actually. I came here to talk to you.’

  She went into her old hallway, struck by the twin illusion of familiarity and estrangement, like she was remembering it all from a déja vu.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she couldn’t help exclaiming as she followed him on through to her old sitting room. ‘Everything’s almost exactly as it used to be … Simon, you even hung on to my old books!’ she added, as her eye fell on a pile of English course texts she’d needed for her night classes.

  It was completely uncanny. Apart from the place looking a helluva lot tidier than it ever had when she was around, it was largely unchanged. Her pictures were still on the wall, her plants were still in full bloom on the windowsill, looking well watered and cared for. All the furniture was exactly the way she’d always arranged it, which basically meant that everything pointed towards the telly. She could even see a stack of her old DVDs piled in a corner, as if she’d just dumped them there, then wandered off to do something else.

  You’d swear she still lived here. You’d almost think that the past two years hadn’t happened and that she’d just hauled herself home from Byrne & Sacetti, stuck a pizza in the microwave and was about to plonk herself down in front of the telly, tin of beer clamped in one hand. God, all the scene needed to finish it off was that little stray cat she used to feed, Magic, to amble in on the scrounge for grub, like she used to all that time ago.