I groan, my head spinning. I can’t work it out, any of it, and now my phone’s ringing again. I don’t even look at the display this time. My eyes are swollen and sore from crying and my voice is weak and weary even to my own ears as I say hello.
‘Beth, it’s Gabby from work.’
She sounds cold, brisk, so unlike her usual warm, smiley self that a chill runs through me, and I suddenly realise that what has happened today isn’t just about embarrassment and humiliation. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people have seen Fairfield Surgery’s practice manager naked on the internet.
This is serious, isn’t it? As Ruth said earlier, I could lose my job over this, my livelihood. And what then? Jacob will never let me have the kids back, never …
Gabby’s still speaking, her tone terse and business like.
‘Beth, I know Ruth spoke to you earlier, and that you’re claiming your Facebook account has been hacked. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what to believe, especially after the concerns about your mental health raised by that letter earlier in the week. It’s something we need to talk through with you in person, and we’d like you to come in for a meeting at seven-thirty on Monday, so we can discuss it before morning surgery, so please put that in your diary. But I also have to tell you that I received a telephone call earlier from a tabloid news reporter who somehow tracked down my home number and who told me he’d received a tip-off that our practice manager was “moonlighting as a porn star”, as he put it. I managed to put him off and told him it was all a misunderstanding, but I’m not sure he’ll drop it, Beth. These people can be very persistent, and there’s every chance he’ll run a story anyway. The link to the website appearing on our Facebook page was bad enough, but if the practice ends up in the papers, well …’
‘Oh God, Gabby! I’m so sorry, but I don’t know. I have no idea …’
I’m crying again, great gulping sobs now, and on the other end of the phone there’s a pause, a few seconds of silence, before Gabby speaks again, a little more gently this time, telling me to calm down and asking me if I’ve eaten today, if I’m alone.
‘No … no … Mum … Mum’s here. Downstairs,’ I manage. She tells me to go downstairs, to stop sitting in my room dwelling on it, and to try to distract myself.
‘Put a movie on – something funny. Don’t drink any alcohol, and make yourself eat, OK? Promise me, Beth? I’m very, very worried about you. I’m going to call you again tomorrow and I’ll see you first thing Monday, right? I’m going to go now, but do as I’ve said, OK?’
‘I will. Thanks Gabby. I’m so, so sorry,’ I whisper, and she says goodbye and ends the call. I think about going downstairs but Mum seems to have finally given up calling me to come down so instead I just sit there, huddled on my bed, my mind blank and my cheeks still damp with tears. And then, quite unexpectedly, there’s a little pop in my head, like a light coming on, and it comes to me, clear as a summer sky, as I remember again those words on the Facebook post: a tribute to my friend, Daphne Blake.
Daphne Blake. I know who Daphne Blake is.
I grab my phone again and type the name into Google. And there it is.
Daphne Blake is a fictional character in the Scooby-Doo franchise …
Daphne Blake. Daphne and her friend Velma. And her friends Fred and Shaggy, and Shaggy’s dog Scooby-Doo. Daphne Blake is Daphne from Scooby-Doo.
I stare at the page, fear prickling my skin. You see, Daphne isn’t just a cartoon character. Back in the day, back at school, it was somebody’s nickname. Just an occasional nickname, but a nickname, nonetheless. A nickname for a girl who, now and again, wore her shoulder-length hair pulled back with a purple headband, just like Daphne did in the cartoons we’d watch at home on Saturday mornings.
‘Hey, it’s Daphne!’ people would say, and laugh, and she’d smile shyly, enjoying the unaccustomed attention.
Daphne. Daphne Blake.
Daphne Blake was Lucy Allen’s nickname.
Chapter 26
I killed Lucy Allen.
Well, that’s what I always believed, anyway. I still do.
The official inquest verdict was, of course, suicide. But I knew that I’d killed her just as surely as if I’d put that noose around her neck myself and pulled it tight. She did it because of me. She died, at thirteen years of age, because of me. Because of the things I said, the things I did.
Years later, when I was in therapy, talking it all through with Rita, she suggested that maybe I didn’t know the whole truth, that maybe there were other things going on in Lucy’s life, that maybe what I’d done to her at school was just a tiny part of a bigger, darker whole. Rita was right about many things but I disagreed with her on that one. I knew she was trying to tell me that unless I knew all the facts, I shouldn’t shoulder the entire burden of guilt myself; that it may, after all, not have been entirely my fault. But I knew it was. And I knew that, no matter what I did, I could never fix it. Instead of directing my anger and frustration at my mother for leaving me, I directed it elsewhere, and that was my choice. That was down to me.
The only person I ever told was my dad. In the days after she died, after the headteacher sent letters to all the parents telling them what had happened, I fell apart. And when my poor, puzzled father finally realised that this couldn’t just be grief, that it didn’t make sense for me to be so desperately upset about the death of a girl I barely knew, when he sat me down and made me talk to him, I told him everything. I think I confessed because I wanted to be punished, because I felt I should be made to suffer for what I’d done.
He was horrified, of course, horrified and ashamed. And then, hours later, while he was still processing it all, still trying to work out what to do, he got the phone call. The phone call from Lucy’s distraught mother, screaming at him. Lucy had left no note but they’d found her diary. And in it she’d detailed it all. The things I’d whispered in her ear, the photograph I’d pinned to the board. And the family were, she said, taking it straight to the police.
‘Your little bitch of a daughter is going to pay for what she’s done,’ she said.
And I did. I paid for years, knowing what a vile, worthless person I was, watching every word I said, terrified of hurting someone else. Avoiding getting close to anyone, convinced I didn’t deserve happiness or love. Even believing, for a very long time, that I didn’t deserve to have children because I’d caused the death of another woman’s child and how, then, could I ever be worthy of motherhood myself? Yes, I paid. But … officially? Formally? Publicly? No. No, I didn’t. I didn’t pay at all.
The Allens did go to the police and I was questioned. I know now that I was lucky, that taking and pinning up that photograph of Lucy was actually a criminal offence; I shared an indecent image of a child, and if it had been today, if I’d put it on social media for example, I may well have been prosecuted. But it was a long time ago and I was a child myself; it was one photo, pinned on a noticeboard for a short time, and I was let off with a warning. Mrs Allen wanted me to be charged with manslaughter, but in the end no charges were ever brought. Lack of evidence that it was actually my bullying – and that of course, is exactly what I was: a nasty, vindictive little bully – that tipped her over the edge. Lucy’s diaries, although they detailed what I’d done to her, were full of all kinds of teenage angst: how stressed she was about exams, how sad she was that Tony, her first crush, seemed to have no interest in her, all the usual stuff. There was, it was concluded, no proof that she’d taken her own life because of me; that although my behaviour probably did play a role in her death, it was impossible to know how significant that role was.
It was exactly what Rita tried to tell me when I finally sought counselling all those years later, but I didn’t believe it at thirteen and I still didn’t believe it then. I knew it was me. And her family knew it was me too. I still remember their faces when we saw them, her dad and a woman – an aunt maybe – in the corridor at the police station after I was questioned. I remember the malevolen
ce in her father’s eyes as he stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze following me as I shrank behind my dad and shuffled past him; I remember the venom in his voice as he said, ‘That’s her, look.’ I remember the way she glanced at me too then, and immediately averted her eyes, as if I was something disgusting, too loathsome to look at for more than a second.
When the entire school filed into the church for the funeral, I was told I wasn’t welcome. I never went back to Fairbridge after that. We moved away, Dad and I, started over yet again at another new school in Cheltenham where nobody knew me, or what I’d done. And, although for years I feared that one of Lucy’s family or friends would come after me, would make me pay, they never did.
‘They’ll want to put it behind them,’ Dad told me. ‘They’ll want her to rest in peace, Beth. And you need to find some peace too.’
And I did eventually. Although I never stopped worrying that one day my past would find me, over the years I did find peace, of a sort. Rita’s counselling helped; she never made excuses for me, for my bullying behaviour, but she helped me to understand why I’d done it, to understand that it was all a horribly misguided attempt to banish my own anger, my frustration, my jealousy. And so, as time passed, I healed. I changed. I left it all behind me.
Or I thought I did.
Chapter 27
Somehow, I sleep until after seven. I wake with a dull headache because, despite Gabby’s advice on the phone, I did drink last night. I opened a bottle of red wine with dinner and downed the entire thing myself while Mum contented herself with one gin and slimline tonic and watched me from across the room with concern in her eyes. When I finally emerged from my room yesterday I made light of it all, telling her I was fine, that everything had now been deleted, and that the videos were obviously someone’s idea of a silly joke which had backfired somewhat. I even managed to laugh as I told her that one of my friends was going to be in big trouble when I found out which of them had planted the hidden cameras.
‘Ooh, I’ll get them back,’ I said. ‘They’ve hidden them so well I can’t even find them, can you believe that? I’m going to have to get someone in. Best practical joke ever, isn’t it!’
She raised an eyebrow and shook her head disapprovingly, telling me it wasn’t her idea of a joke and that she wouldn’t have taken it so well if anyone had dared to do that to her. But she left it at that, offering to cook dinner. She rustled up a salmon and pea pasta which smelled delicious but which I pushed aside after two mouthfuls because I was still feeling sick.
I excused myself from the table and called Ruth. I told her again that my account must have been hacked, described how everything had snowballed after her call, and mentioned the meeting Gabby had demanded. She was hesitant at first, but she finally sounded as if she believed me and wondered aloud who on earth could have been behind it, finally telling me she was there for me if I needed her. I didn’t tell her about Jacob and the kids though. I didn’t trust myself not to break down, and I knew that if I started crying I simply wouldn’t be able to stop.
Jacob had appeared at the door just before we ate, pushing wordlessly past me and marching upstairs to fill bags with extra clothes and toys for the children, grimly muttering, ‘Just leave it, Beth. I can’t talk to you, not now. I can’t even look at you,’ when I tried to reason with him.
He wouldn’t even let me help pack the bags, and by then I was too tired, too mentally exhausted, for another row. When he’d gone again, I fobbed Mum off (‘They’re going to stay at Jacob’s for a few days. He’s decided to take some leave so he might as well have them; they’re off on Easter holidays this week anyway …’) and opened the wine. It went down better than the food, taking the edge off the anguish and helping me to fall into a restless sleep. There was no way I was sleeping in my own room, not while those cameras were unaccounted for, so I moved into Eloise’s. Her small single bed was strangely comforting, like sleeping in a soft cotton cocoon. Her pink starry duvet cover smelt of cherry-blossom shampoo and of her. As I lie here now, slowly coming to, unwilling to get up and face a Sunday with just me and Mum and knowing that I’m going to spend it feeling ill and anxious about my meeting at work tomorrow, I think about Daphne Blake again, and I shiver. My nightmares last night were more like hallucinations, dark and twisted, my body paralysed with fear. Images of Lucy Allen and Daphne Blake flashed through my mind, their faces merging and blending, until I woke, screaming, as if a demon were being unleashed from my soul. My mother must have been deeply asleep because she didn’t come, and I lay there panting, bathed in a cold sweat. I wondered if the scream had been part of the dream, although the ache in my throat made me think otherwise.
And now, now that I can think more clearly, now that the daylight is streaming in through the gap in Eloise’s fuchsia velvet curtains, I’m starting to work it out.
Daphne Blake. The only reason anyone would use that name would be if they knew about Lucy Allen, knew that Daphne Blake had been her occasional nickname. And I took a photo of Lucy, didn’t I? Twenty-seven years ago, I took a polaroid photo of her naked and pinned it up at school with the sole object of humiliating her. Now somebody’s basically done the same to me, only it’s not noticeboards but the internet. Now it’s online, for the whole world to see. My punishment, finally.
I sit up slowly, pushing back the duvet and swinging my legs over the side of the little bed. What I don’t know yet is why now? Why wait so long? But I almost don’t care about that because what I need to do, and do urgently, is find out who. Because it’s now become abundantly clear that somebody I know, someone with access to my home, knows all about Lucy Allen. Knows all about me, about my past, about the thing I’ve tried so desperately to keep hidden from everyone I’ve met, from everyone I’ve loved, for nearly three decades.
I’m on my feet now, walking slowly to the window. My limbs are heavy as I draw the curtains open. Eloise’s room is at the front of the house and the road outside is empty and quiet this early on a Sunday morning. I watch listlessly as a squirrel scampers across the small square front lawn of the house opposite and spirals itself up the trunk of the nearest tree like a tiny grey acrobat, then I lean my hot forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.
Who then? Of those who’ve been in my house in recent weeks, who could it be? They must be responsible for the anonymous letter and the videos, mustn’t they? And maybe some of the other things that have gone wrong recently too. And – the thought strikes me suddenly, my eyes snapping open – is it because Mum’s come back that they, whoever they are, have chosen now to do this? It’s perfect timing after all, because this should be one of the happiest times of my life – my mother back with me, my family reunited. If you want to punish someone for destroying your family, or the family of someone you’re close to, why not pick a time when they’re extra happy? It makes watching them fall apart even sweeter, doesn’t it?
But who? Who? Right now, I think I’ve narrowed it down to the three most likely suspects, and I run through the names in my head.
Deborah. Barbara. Robin. They’re the ones who’ve been acting strangely recently. But could one of them really have some connection with Lucy or with her family?
None of them have contacted me since the videos went online, and while Robin, if she’s innocent, may not know about the Facebook post, the other two surely must – Ruth will have told Deborah, and Brenda will have told Barbara – and their silence has been deafening. But if it was one of them, that means they’ve known all about me and what I did to Lucy from the very beginning, doesn’t it? It would mean they came into my life deliberately and then bided their time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, to take their revenge. They waited months. Years. The thought of that makes me shiver again, and I wonder if this is all just too far-fetched. There must be some other explanation, but I can’t think of one, can’t think of anything else that could explain this. Barring a break-in, of which there’s been absolutely no sign, only a handful of people have had access to my
bedroom. And whoever did this used the name Daphne Blake, which can only be a reference to Lucy Allen. There’s nothing else that makes any sense. Unless …
I think about Mike again. He’s the only other possibility, but if he knew about Lucy he’d have told Mum, I’m pretty sure of that. Even so, I’m wondering now if it’s time to confront him, to ask him straight. Time to take control of it before it takes control of me. Before it destroys me. I shiver again and turn away from the window.
Yes, I did what I did to Lucy Allen. And if someone’s decided to punish me now, properly, all these years later, fine. Well done, you’ve done a bloody good job. My reputation, my livelihood, my friends, my family, my sanity … but enough. Enough, now. I can’t take any more. Somehow, I have to make it stop.
Chapter 28
I sacked Robin last night. I’m driving to work, feeling sick at the thought of my seven-thirty meeting, and even sicker about Robin. I had a long chat with Mum yesterday afternoon and that was the outcome – a phone call to the woman who’s been my right arm for the past eighteen months to tell her I no longer require her services.
‘So you’re not going to the police about it then?’ Mum said, and my stomach flipped. We were sitting on the sofa, mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits on the go. No booze yesterday, because although by the evening I could have murdered a drink, I knew it would be a dreadful idea, especially with what I’m facing this morning.
‘No! No need for that; it was just a prank,’ I replied with a smile, as inside my head a little voice issued a stern warning.
The Happy Family Page 19