I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘No. Apparently not. Not on the basis of a couple of phone calls. They don’t have the resources, Tom.’

  ‘So you just drove straight home?’ He glances at the door as if someone could be out there right now watching us.

  ‘No. I drove around a bit actually. Took a couple of detours. Just in case.’ I do not want to tell him that I actually drove several miles in ridiculous circles for the best part of an hour, taking random eleventh-hour turns this way and that, just in case someone was following me.

  ‘Right. I’ll cancel dinner. Obviously. We can order in.’ He is back alongside me, holding his palm to my cheek, and I look into his face and feel the guilt I always feel when Tom looks at me this way.

  It makes me think of that other face. From years back. Also Jack’s face. Stop it, Alice. I glance across to the other side of the room and feel another punch of guilt before I turn back to Tom.

  I need a moment and so I ask him to make me a coffee. My house is open-plan downstairs and I watch him move over to the kitchen area, staring at his back as he flicks on the kettle and reaches for the coffee canister on the shelf above the cooker. I realise that what I feel, along with all the confusion, is still this powerful disappointment in myself.

  I am someone who has always admired resilience in people. I see it often in my job. Write about it regularly. The truth? I had hoped and believed that deep down I was tougher than this. I have interviewed people who have had their lives utterly devastated and yet have risen above it. A man who had his foot blown off in Afghanistan and went on to run a marathon. A woman who threw herself in front of three children when a drunk driver mounted a pavement. I watch Tom’s back as he pours the boiling water into two mugs, and I think of so many stories. So much courage.

  And the first time I am tested?

  ‘No, Tom. We should go out as planned. I need to get a bloody grip. This is completely ridiculous. Precisely what he wants.’

  ‘Dinner doesn’t matter.’ Tom carries the drinks back to the sitting room area and places them on the coffee table.

  ‘It does matter, Tom.’ The booking this evening – Tom’s favourite restaurant – was supposed to celebrate things going so well for him at work. He’s pushed incredibly hard the last couple of months, working long hours to win a big new corporate client. His firm is delighted.

  I sip my drink, new emotions pushing to the fore. Anger now. ‘That’s precisely what this creep wants. To mess with my head.’

  ‘I honestly don’t mind about this evening, Alice. We can order in. Chinese. Thai. Whatever you fancy.’

  ‘No. I mean it. I’ll have a shower. Get changed. Stuff the saddos of this world – we’re going out.’

  For all my bravado, I find – on the way to the restaurant – that I keep turning to check the cars behind us. By the time we reach the parking area, I’m almost dizzy with the flip-flop of emotions. Afraid then angry. Worried then furious. Yes. Livid, actually, that someone on the end of a telephone for less than a minute could do this to me.

  So that, once we’ve ordered, I come clean. ‘Do you know what, Tom? I feel ashamed. Me – always banging on about the resilience of people, and look at me.’ I hold out my hand to show him that it is actually trembling.

  ‘Oh, Alice. Why always so hard on yourself? It’s no wonder you’re shaken. It was nasty, what he said. Anyone would be shaken.’

  I do not answer. I try not to think of the deli; of the wire slicing slowly through the slab of cheese. I wonder what would make someone say that – such a horrible image. I tear at my bread roll and spread far too much butter on it.

  ‘OK. So has the paper upset anyone recently – any trolling online? Complaints about any of your copy? Court cases? Anything like that?’ He is using his lawyer tone, practical and steady now, leaning in so I can see my reflection in his glasses.

  I shake my head. The police asked this too, but I can’t think of anything or anyone; I haven’t covered court or crime for ages.

  ‘I’ve been on features mainly – busy on the Maple Field House campaign.’

  ‘And no one has kicked off about that? The campaign?’

  ‘A few local politicians are still embarrassed to have been shown up. Otherwise, quite the contrary. Everyone’s delighted how it’s turned out. I mean, I shouldn’t be taking the credit. The residents have driven the campaign. I just wrote it all up.’

  Tom lets out a sigh of exasperation and fidgets as if trying to think of some other motive.

  The truth is I’ve been so busy on Maple Field House stories that I haven’t done any meaty news for ages. I’ve been the lead reporter on the campaign for the best part of a year, and Ted’s been delighted to have so much copy out of it.

  Maple Field House is a dreary and dated U-shaped mall of shops with three storeys of flats. In its heyday, it was apparently quite smart; the shops busy and successful. But changes in customer habits and the poor building design have taken their toll.

  Most of the shops are now empty – just a few converted to charity shops. The flats above them are extremely damp and dreary, with all manner of structural problems. They’re owned by the local council, but the block hasn’t been upgraded in years because the housing committee couldn’t decide whether to reinvest in the flats or relocate the residents to a new low-rise development of houses and maisonettes.

  Because of the indecision, conditions got worse and worse. The whole building has some kind of dry rot. The communal rubbish chutes kept getting blocked. Fed-up residents started a campaign for the whole place to be demolished. It was largely ignored until I started to run features on the damp affecting children’s health – especially the kids with asthma.

  Finally it all came to a head – the council got tired of the embarrassment caused by all the stories in our paper, the South Devon Informer. The housing committee agreed to demolition and the relocation of all the residents. Plans for a joint scheme were swiftly drawn up with a housing association.

  Everyone is now in temporary accommodation, and the first families are moving into the early phase of the new development.

  To be honest, it’s made for easy copy for me. The constant roll of story updates keeps me busy; it’s good to work on something worthwhile and it keeps my editor happy too.

  ‘You know I’ve been off the court rota at work for ages,’ I add. ‘People are always upset with the paper, Tom – you know that – but I’ve not personally covered anything controversial for ages. At least not that I can think of.’

  I stare at my fish. Sea bass with perfect crispy skin. I separate the flakes with my fork but then find myself staring at the glinting metal.

  I am going to use cheese wire on you . . .

  ‘Not hungry?’

  ‘I think I just had too much at lunchtime.’ I put the fork down.

  He finds a smile. ‘Well, you’re right. Probably just a nutter you won’t hear from again.’ Tom saws into his steak. ‘Though if you’d like to stay at mine – or me at yours – until we’re sure?’

  He isn’t looking at me and I don’t know how to respond. The truth is I don’t like the idea of sleeping on my own, but we normally stay over only on weekends or after dates like this. Tom’s now in commercial law. His work takes him to London quite often and that rather suits me. I’m not ready to live with anyone. Not again . . .

  ‘How about you stay over at mine tonight as planned and then see how we go?’ I say. ‘I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow. Probably just a one-off. It’ll all settle once I know it was a one-off.’

  ‘OK. So long as you’re not just being brave.’ He pauses and tilts his head with a smile. ‘Or stubborn.’

  ‘Moi?’

  We both laugh, and I realise it’s the first moment I’ve relaxed since I took the wretched phone call. And that feels good; like some tiny triumph.

  Tom smiles at me again and I want to fast-forward to the day when we can look back on this as a dinner party anecdote. You remember that nutter who tried to spook you . . . ? />
  Yes. I feel defiant suddenly. I pick up my fork again. I scoop a large flake of fish into my mouth and find that it is delicious.

  Everything will be back to normal very soon.

  CHAPTER 3

  ALICE

  The box arrives the following Wednesday. Courier. Ten a.m.

  It is a bakery box with a sticker on the top from a local firm which recently won an award. I did a feature on the owner just last week, and she emailed to say how thrilled they all were with the coverage.

  ‘Someone get the coffees in.’ I raise my voice and stand to make a little show of the gift. ‘It’s from that award-winning bakery. Should be good.’

  I am pleased to be feeling my old self today. For the first forty-eight hours after that stupid phone call, I was all over the place. Nervous in the car. Nervous in the office; afraid to answer the blessed phone. But as the days passed – Thursday, Friday, the weekend – the impact of the phone call faded. I felt more and more foolish for overreacting.

  I went to the gym as normal on Saturday afternoon. Visited mum Sunday morning and had a cinema date with Tom in the evening. Then, on Monday, I stopped thinking about it so much, and yesterday I covered stories as normal. Answered the phone. Even went to the café next door.

  I am thinking of all of this as I look at the box, pleased to have a treat to share with my colleagues. The only question going through my head is – will it be one large cake or individual cakes? Ipso facto, will I need to find a knife?

  The top of the box has a kind of envelope closure – the paper slotted neatly into slits like the lens on a camera. I carefully pull out one flap, then a second.

  By this time Jack is next to me – standing close to get a good view. A cake lover. Hollow legs. I open the final flaps.

  The shock that it isn’t a cake inside takes a moment to sink in. By now there are three of us peering into the box – Jack, the editor’s secretary Samantha, and Nigel, one of the older photographers.

  ‘Flowers?’ It is Samantha’s voice first, her tone all puzzlement. ‘But they’re completely ruined. Look at the stems. How odd.’

  ‘Oh no . . .’ Jack moves forward and begins to close the top of the lid to try to stop me seeing, but I move my hand to push him back.

  ‘I want to see.’

  ‘No, Alice. It’s another wind-up. We need to phone the police. There may be fingerprints.’

  Again I push his hand away.

  Pink peonies. My mother’s favourite.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ted has come out of his cubicle.

  ‘Oh – so is this from the cheese wire guy?’ It is Samantha’s voice again, her hand up to her mouth.

  I stare at the flowers. How the hell does he know about peonies? These are deep pink and shaped as if for a hand-tied bouquet, but the stems have been tightly wrapped with wire – a cheese wire with little wooden handles, the type used in professional delis – so that most of the stems have been deliberately severed and the flowers are all dying.

  Worse, there is a large card inside . . .

  ‘Christ. Right.’ Ted lets out a huff of air. ‘Leave the box there. I’ll phone Alan again. Get someone down here from CID. See if they can’t rustle up someone a bit more senior this time.’

  ‘Seriously. We shouldn’t touch it, Alice. It’s evidence,’ Jack is saying, but I can’t help myself; I push his hand away again to pick up the card and start to read it.

  ‘Dear Lord. My mother.’ The message on the card is such a shock that my heart is immediately pounding and my whole body temperature seems to change. First hot. Then cold. Then back to hot. ‘I need to check my mother is OK.’ My hand is trembling and I have to sit as I reach for my phone to dial.

  ‘Why? What is it, Alice? What does the card say?’

  ‘Shh. Shh.’ I wave my hand for quiet as I wait for the line to connect – come on, come on – I press the receiver closer to my ear as I read the rest of the card.

  And that’s when I realise for the first time, my heart still pounding with fear for my mother, that the day is significant.

  Wednesday.

  Also that the phone call last Wednesday wasn’t the beginning of this.

  CHAPTER 4

  HIM – BEFORE

  He sits on the end of his bed staring at the rockets and stars which zoom and flash across the duvet. He is five years old and his gran says he is growing up way too fast.

  My little rocket man.

  It is his gran’s voice inside his head right this minute, which is odd because she is really next door in the kitchen. He gets this strange little punch in his stomach as he remembers the day they picked out the duvet cover in the special shop where everything is cheap. It was in a big, bright red plastic bin. Like a dustbin, only smarter. SALE. He remembers trying to spell out the letters, with his gran helping. So proud.

  You’re such a clever boy . . .

  He gets this odd and confusing explosion of feelings inside. Like the noise and the flash when a rocket launches. Sort of muddled and loud and strange. He doesn’t know if he is angry or not. Mad. Sad. Bad?

  My brave little soldier.

  It is the other thing his gran calls him. He stares up at the door as there is some kind of clattering from the kitchen. She always says that on Wednesday . . .

  He gets chocolate flakes for breakfast on Wednesdays. And ice cream after his tea. She is making it now – fish fingers, chips and beans. His favourite.

  And ice cream with chocolate sauce for my brave little soldier.

  Only he isn’t brave, is he?

  That’s the problem.

  In school they are learning to read in groups and he is in the top group. Red Group. The best in the whole class. He has a book about a girl who is frightened of the dark and who meets a bear who is frightened of the dark too.

  He wanted to tell the teacher this morning that he’s frightened of the dark as well. But he’s not allowed. It’s a secret.

  Wednesdays are their secret. Him and gran . . .

  ‘You OK in there, lovely?’

  He realises that he wants to kick something very, very hard and is a wicked boy. Mostly he loves his gran. Mostly he wants to throw his arms around her and hold on tight, tight, tight.

  But on Wednesdays he doesn’t understand grown-ups at all. He wants to kick and bite and scream at the whole world.

  He can feel tears coming right this minute, and he thinks of last Wednesday in school when Patrick caught him crying in the library corner. And he had to push Patrick right off his stool.

  He is six next birthday, and he wonders if he will feel braver when he is six.

  CHAPTER 5

  MATTHEW

  Matthew Hill stares at his daughter lying on the ground in the middle of the biscuit aisle. He’s on the verge of giving in. The shameful whisper – don’t tell Mummy – right on the tip of his tongue. But there is suddenly a problem; Amelie’s spectacular lungs have attracted an audience. Several shoppers are staring at him now, apparently waiting for his next move.

  Matthew tries to calm his face for the crowd – his options all at once limited. No one warns you, he is thinking. Just six months back his daughter was a cherub in floral dresses.

  ‘I hate you!’ Amelie again stamps both feet in turn on the ground, her little fists clenched into tight, angry knots. Knuckles white. She flips her back up and down off the floor like some furious seal.

  Matthew looks once more at the spectators; bribery sadly off the table. Too many witnesses.

  ‘Daddy’s going to leave now, Amelie. Are you going to stay and live in this supermarket or do you want to come home with me?’

  ‘I want Pippy Pocket biscuits.’

  Matthew glances at the display on the shelf as two middle-aged women widen their eyes, apparently eager to see if he will fold.

  ‘And if you had been a good girl, you might have been allowed Pippy Pocket biscuits. But this is the fifth time you’ve lain on the floor, Amelie. So no Pippy Pocket anything today. We’re g
oing to pay and leave.’

  The screaming, once it starts up again, is spectacular both in volume and pitch. Matthew instinctively raises both his arms and swings to face the little crowd. ‘Look. Not guilty. Not touching her.’

  ‘Terrible twos?’ The voice from just behind him sounds older. Its owner then steps forward to stand right alongside him, and he turns to take in the white hair. Thick coat despite the mild day.

  Matthew tries to find a small smile – any expression which might suggest he’s coping.

  The truth? If there were no audience, he would definitely go with the bribe. He would buy the sodding biscuits just to get the child up off the floor and out of the store. But he can already hear his wife Sally’s voice in his ear.

  You mustn’t give into the tantrums, Matt. If you keep giving in, we’re doomed.

  The word resonates. Doomed. He stares at the child on the floor and wonders what happened to the angel baby placed into his arms. The sweet girl with blonde curls in a high chair who was always smiling. As a new couple peer around the end of the aisle to find the source of the screaming, Matthew reflects that the word doomed pretty much sums up his life right now.

  ‘How about you walk off and pay and I keep an eye on her. She’ll throw in the towel.’ The overdressed gran has moved closer to whisper her proposed strategy.

  Matthew looks at the woman more carefully. She doesn’t look like a child-snatcher. The problem is, his years in the police force and now as a private detective make him suspicious of everyone. ‘We’re fine, thank you.’

  ‘Up to you, but she looks settled in for the night to me.’ The woman is watching Amelie, still kicking her feet on the floor. ‘I had one like that. Especially stubborn, I mean. Expect she’s bright? Yes?’

  Matthew narrows his eyes. He glances at the till and realises that the reflection in the window beyond will save the day, allowing him to monitor his daughter and the granny child-snatcher quite safely.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispers finally. ‘I appreciate it.’