I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘It’s a horrible thing to say. Deeply unpleasant. But it’s also unusual, Alice. And I want to know if there is any reason – any person or any incident that you think could be connected? Someone who works in a deli? On a cheese counter? Does anyone come to mind?’

  I shake my head, not wanting to think about it. The image of cheese wire – razor-sharp – slicing not just through cheese . . .

  I am going to use cheese wire on you.

  ‘I’m sorry. Could I have some water? There’s a dispenser in the newsroom.’ I glance at the partition glass, and the detective sergeant moves from the office to fetch a cup.

  DI Sanders continues. ‘So – have a think, Alice. Have you done any stories on any cheese companies? A delicatessen? Anything like that?’

  Again I shake my head.

  ‘And you don’t use cheese wire at home, Alice?’

  I find myself rubbing my hands suddenly. I really, really wish she would stop talking about this. I mean, I know she has a job to do. But . . .

  ‘No, no. Goodness. I just use a knife. I mean – I’ve seen it used. Cheese wire. They use it at the local deli. And at my supermarket. But I’ve never seen anyone use it at home.’

  ‘Right. We’ll need to take the names of the supermarket and deli that you use, Alice. Just a long shot. Just ticking boxes.’

  ‘Right.’

  The sergeant reappears with a plastic cup of water, which I sip.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate what you’re doing. Really I do. It’s just . . .’ I try to sound calm but find that it suddenly all feels too much. I try pinching my lips tightly together but it’s no good.

  ‘It’s OK, Alice.’

  Her kindness makes it worse.

  ‘Sorry.’ I put the cup down and start scrabbling in my pocket for a tissue. I glance up again at the window through to the main office. Two people turn away as if embarrassed, but I can’t make out who.

  ‘Don’t apologise. It’s a lot to take in. But we’re here for you. We’re going to check all of this out, and we will find this man. And stop this.’

  She is looking me right in the eye and I see that she means this. Or rather that she wants to mean it.

  But I am still struggling to believe she is any more in control of this new nightmare than I am.

  CHAPTER 7

  ALICE

  Four days later – a Sunday – and I am staring at my sister, thinking how much she looks like our mother. I can almost predict what she is about to say. I ready myself for the little punch of indignation at the word I so hate.

  Don’t be so stubborn.

  I close my eyes and hear the echo of my mother’s voice; buzz-buzzing right up close as I pouted my way through all those petty childhood disputes – anything from a challenge to try a new food to a row over household chores. I remember even when I was really small feeling this fury building inside me whenever the label was applied. Not brave. Not heroic. Not all those things I wished I could be . . .

  Stubborn.

  Back then, and again right now, I want to rip the word right off me – to feel the sting of its removal, like a plaster worn too long.

  I feel the same hurt and the same defensiveness as I dig in deeper and deeper, while my sister Leanne stares back at me with the familiar exasperation that bridges love and every sibling argument we have ever had.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell them.’ Leanne tops up my coffee mug from the large cafetière on the table. I stare at her coffee jug and think that it sums up every difference in our lives. It is designer. Beautiful. A sleek stainless-steel, double-skinned wonder which keeps the coffee hot while simultaneously looking magnificent. My plastic cafetière is from the local supermarket. Cheap. Cheerful. Serves me cold coffee with an orange, plastic grin.

  ‘It’s not relevant, Leanne.’

  ‘How can you be so sure – so bloody stubborn – about this, Alice?’

  I wince. Buzz, buzz.

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ She raises both arms as if surrendering. ‘I didn’t mean to sound cross. With everything you’re going through – but I’m so worried and I think you’re wrong about this. You need to tell the police absolutely everything.’

  We’ve been going round and round in circles like this for maybe half an hour, and I need her to move on from this. It’s bad enough being grilled by the police and not having the right answers.

  For now we have decided not to move Mum from her home near me in Devon. In the initial panic, we thought this might be necessary. Urgent, even. Leanne was especially keen to have Mum in London but the police seem happy with the Devon home’s security. And we don’t want Mum upset, not unless she is truly in danger.

  ‘So. Are you still OK to drive us to see Mum, Leanne? Is that OK?’ I hold her stare as a warning that I need her, please, to stop grilling me on what I have and have not told the police. I am so tired of thinking of nothing else but this wretched and faceless man. This stranger who in such a short spell has turned my life upside down. Turfed me from my home. My job.

  Leanne nods and I reach out to touch her hand as a thank you. My olive-branch fingers brushing hers ever so briefly. I wonder how love can nestle so close to hate some days. No, not hate. But irritation, certainly. We dance always between the two – me and Leanne. Love – and something other.

  As we finish our coffees, I look around her huge kitchen. Black polished marble worktops gleam in contrast to the white cupboards with their stylish handles – twisty knots of stainless steel. The blue double-width Aga displays no evidence of cooking. Not a single fingerprint on its perfect surface. My sister’s shiny life.

  Am I jealous? No. It isn’t jealousy . . .

  ‘I’m so grateful for you driving down, Leanne.’ I mean it. She has dropped everything to join me here – leaving my niece and nephew with their nanny and their dad Jonathan in London. This is their second home – a gorgeous thatched cliché in Dorset. Security gates. Security cameras. Safe.

  ‘You can stay here as long as you need, or come up to London. Whatever you prefer. I’m just sorry I can’t stay down here longer myself.’ She pauses. ‘Jonathan was wondering if you wanted someone else here? I mean, the cleaner pops in a couple of times a week but I don’t really like the idea of you here alone once I go back to town. Until they find this guy. Sort it out.’

  ‘Who do you mean – someone else?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She blushes. Clearly she’s been discussing a range of options with Jonathan. ‘Security guard? Bodyguard? We could put the cost on the company. You mustn’t worry about the cost.’

  ‘And now you’re sounding like Tom. I’m not a bloody pop star. I don’t want a bodyguard. I want my life back, Leanne.’

  ‘I know that, honey. It’s just, we’re all so worried.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But four days. No word from him for four days. That’s good, don’t you think? Maybe he’s given up.’ I try to sound hopeful but am convincing no one.

  It’s Sunday, I remind myself. The day we visit mum. A good day. A safe day.

  It’s not Sundays this man seems to be interested in.

  In the car, I try very hard not to glance behind us; this new and constant worry that someone may be following me. Leanne is playing classical music. I don’t know the composer but it is soothing. Beautiful.

  I turn to look out of the passenger window – the blur of trees and sunshine blinking through the gaps as we head south. The pulse of the flashes of light makes me narrow my eyes and I am wondering if I remembered to put my sunglasses in my bag.

  It was a rush, packing up.

  When the police team confirmed that the light bulb was missing from my house, everything seemed to step up a gear. My landlord said he hadn’t sent anyone round; hadn’t given anyone access to a key. It made no sense . . .

  Tom was grilled. The neighbour with a spare key was grilled. My colleagues at the paper were questioned too. Every decent person I know seems suddenly to be a suspect while the real culprit is heav
en knows where.

  But then – a new complication. The police discovered that a junior member of staff at the estate agents has been secretly breaking protocol for over a year. She’s been letting workmen take keys to rental homes without being accompanied, to save her time. Strictly against the rules. I’ve had a few repairs over the past year – central heating and so on. It basically means anyone could have copied a key to my house. There was a huge meltdown over it – disciplinary action and a flurry of activity to change locks for a string of properties.

  The police keep me updated but don’t seem to have any real leads yet. The cheese wire enclosed with the flowers is readily available on the net. A cheap import from China with hundreds of reviews online. I checked them myself. One couple said they bought a set with handles to cut their wedding cake, would you believe. I was shocked; I had absolutely no idea that you could buy it so easily. That anyone would want to.

  There were no fingerprints at the house or on the cake box. The courier was paid cash with a false name for the delivery and there is no joy yet regarding the fake florist’s business card left on my car. Seems my ‘stalker’ is clever. Going to a lot of trouble. DI Sanders seems certain they’re reading my columns and using the information in them to wind me up. The question is why. Who the hell have I upset so badly?

  Leanne and I have rather worn ourselves out with the dilemma over whether we need to move Mum to a different nursing home. It was Mum who chose Devon – to be near the sea – rather than London. She likes it. The police theory is that this man, whoever he is, doesn’t know where she is. Was just twisting the knife by mentioning her in his message after reading my columns.

  I really don’t know what to think; I just want to be sure that my mother is safe.

  Tom meantime is losing all patience with the police and has arranged for me to see some private detective tomorrow. A guy based in Exeter who comes highly recommended. Like Leanne, Tom wants the reassurance of extra security while I’m on my own. I think he would have preferred me to move in with him immediately but I’m still not keen. I mean – he has to work in London so often these days that it wouldn’t really be a solution. He can’t be responsible for me 24/7; I wouldn’t want that. And I’m not ready to live with him. With anyone. Not again . . .

  No. For now, this Dorset house is a better option. It’s like Fort Knox. Downside of being in the money, I guess – worrying about burglars. Though heaven knows how I’m going to juggle the geography once I’m back at work. The office for the South Devon Informer is between Plymouth and Ivybridge, about twenty minutes from my rented house. But it’s a long haul from Dorset.

  ‘How long did you say you’re taking off work?’

  I turn to Leanne. It’s as if she can read my mind – or maybe my expression. And I’ve been going on about it because it’s the thing that is bugging me the most. My editor has insisted I take all the holiday I have spare. Lieu days – the lot. He says it’s sensible all round. But I feel this is like giving in – like punishing me.

  ‘If it were up to me, I’d be back at work tomorrow.’

  ‘Stubborn.’

  ‘No. Not stubborn. I just want to see the Maple Field House campaign stories through. They’re planning the demolition right now. There’s loads happening and I don’t see why I should have my life so disrupted. Have him stop me doing what I love.’

  ‘It’s only temporary. Just go with it, Alice. Please. Keep your head down and keep yourself safe until the police find this guy. Like I said, you can always come and stay in London, if you don’t mind the chaos.’

  ‘You know I hate London.’

  ‘Great journalist you make. A reporter who hates London.’

  ‘And what does that mean? The world doesn’t revolve around the capital, you know. There are really good stories everywhere. Just as important. More so, actually, because they get overlooked. Never make it into the nationals.’

  Leanne gives me one of her glares.

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to rant.’ It’s another thing my mother and sister tease me about. On one of your soapboxes.

  We are nearing the nursing home now, and I get the familiar contradiction of love and dread all mixed up together. I love seeing my mother. Hate seeing her here.

  And I thought it was cancer that smokers needed to be afraid of . . .

  Inside we sign into the visitors’ book and I’m pleased to see a member of staff posted on reception, monitoring the main door and checking guest passes. I’m reassured yet again about the security in place. The back door has a special lock which requires a PIN. All of this was explained when we first checked out the place for Mum two months back.

  ‘Your mother is safe with us.’ The woman with Wendy on her badge is smiling. ‘We look after all our guests. Security is always a priority.’

  I smile back, but am afraid to speak in case my voice cracks.

  Leanne is holding the bunch of peonies and I look at them – a gorgeous soft pink – remembering our garden back in Hastings when we were little. Peonies in every colour you can imagine.

  Mind the flowers with your tennis, you girls. You mind the peonies . . .

  ‘Ready?’ Leanne takes a deep breath for us both. She touches my arm and I just nod, trying not to think of that single flower on my car. The peonies tied with cheese wire in the cake box . . .

  My mother is in her room, sitting in a deep red, high-backed chair, looking out on to the garden. There’s a book on the small table next to her and a glass of water. She is dressed in a lovely pale aqua blouse and matching skirt, her hair up in a neat chignon. It is only as she turns and smiles that the evidence of her new reality slaps my face. The heaving of her chest with every breath. The little tubes into her nose. The oxygen paraphernalia alongside her chair.

  ‘Hello, my darlings.’ She is beaming but has to pause to take a few breaths. Just three words can be a strain these days. She smiles but I read the frustration in her eyes that she wants to say so much more but cannot.

  And so we move across to kiss her cheek in turn, and she reaches out towards the flowers. Next we play the game where for the most part we talk and she listens – joining in when she feels that she can. Each of us pretending that this is normal. Two daughters filling the silence because their mother cannot talk and breathe at the same time anymore.

  ‘Gorgeous, aren’t they? Every colour I see, I think – that’s my new favourite. Until I see the next colour Leanne finds.’ My voice has this almost sing-song tone. Trying too hard. I pause to check myself.

  ‘Me too. Though I have to say this baby pink is hard to beat.’ Leanne moves forward so our mother can stroke the petals for a while. Then she points to the corner. A shelf with books and two empty vases. Leanne nods and moves across to busy herself with the arrangement near the little sink. She takes a pair of scissors from her handbag, and I think how typical of my sister. To remember to bring scissors.

  We chatter, the two sisters, about our lives, editing out anything but the pleasant. I do not, of course, mention my stalker. Instead we say that Leanne and I fancied a little break together and so are at the Dorset house, catching up.

  ‘Not falling out?’ My mother’s expression says more than her words. She has learned that she can manage just three at a time. Words. Her speech is like waltzing now. One, two, three . . .

  ‘Not too much. I haven’t broken anything yet. Smashed any mirrors.’

  My mother is almost laughing but has to stop herself. The breathing even more of a struggle when she’s excited. Try to keep things fairly neutral, the nurse said once. I know it’s hard, but too much excitement can bring on an episode.

  I wondered what she meant by an episode. We soon found out.

  My mother has end-stage COPD. It means her lung disease is in its final chapter. The oxygen is merely buying us all some time. Soon – we don’t quite know when – no amount of oxygen will be enough.

  Meantime, an ‘episode’ can see temporary transfer to hospital. The nursing home can
cope with day-to-day care but doesn’t seem to want to be held responsible for anything too serious.

  We are equipped to handle your mother’s condition while she is stable, the senior nurse told us in a meeting. But you know that we don’t offer end-of-life care here. We’ll need to talk again if . . . well – when things change.

  So, quietly, Leanne and I have been looking into the local hospice and arguing over whether London – near my sister – would be better. Working out secretly where my mother should die.

  I try so hard to put that future, that inevitability out of my mind – to spend every visit in the present – but it is a trick I have yet to learn. The cruel paradox for me especially is my mother is still so very beautiful; she looks strangely, almost hauntingly well in other ways. Her skin is good. Her hair shines.

  I think of her packet of cigarettes on the kitchen counter and want to go back in time and snatch them away from her.

  Instead I chatter, and when Leanne has finished the flowers, I suggest we find a nice spot in the garden so that I can read to her.

  ‘This book. Yes?’ I pick up the faded copy of Wuthering Heights and check to find a postcard marking the chapter I reached when I visited last week.

  Leanne fetches a wheelchair from the corridor and we transfer my mother easily between us, placing the oxygen in the little pouch hanging off the back of the chair. We weave our way out of the room and along the corridors, to fetch a nurse who uses her pass to let us out into the garden.

  Good, I think. They are true to their word; being careful about security.

  Outside we find a bench for me and Leanne, overlooking the fountain centrepiece of the garden. A spot where you can just catch sight of the sea in the distance. And so I pick up where I left off last week. It is the chapter where Heathcliff runs away.

  We stay in the garden for maybe an hour – Leanne fetching tea and biscuits as an interlude. My mother’s breathing is still laboured but seems a tad steadier outside. Maybe that is my imagination, or maybe it is because she knows that she will not have to talk. Or walk. Or do anything much. She just watches the fountain and listens to me reading.