The Dangerous Kind

by Deborah O'Connor

  As she put down her phone she caught Sarah’s eye. ‘What?’ she said, going back to her laptop.

  Sarah smiled.

  ‘What is it?’ Jessamine was torn between annoyance at being mocked and delight that Sarah was behaving like her old self.

  She ignored the question and nodded at the open laptop. ‘You’re looking into it, then? That missing woman?’

  ‘I’m going to do it as a podcast.’

  ‘That was my idea.’ She smiled.

  ‘It was.’ She remembered the look on Mick’s face when she’d told him her plans. ‘A very good one.’

  Sarah’s smile grew wider. ‘Have you found out why she disappeared from the CCTV?’

  ‘Not yet, but I did find this.’ She brought up the picture she’d taken of the diagram she’d discovered at the back of Cassie’s diary and showed it to Sarah.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘No clue. It could be everything or nothing.’

  ‘Have you checked her social media?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Sarah scooched up the bed until she was lying next to Jessamine. ‘Give me the computer.’ Jessamine did as she asked. ‘Let’s see.’

  Sarah began searching for Cassie on a variety of sites, some of which Jessamine recognised and some of which she’d never heard of. ‘That’s strange,’ she said, after a few minutes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Most people are at least on Facebook. Not your woman, though. When it comes to the internet she’s a ghost. Almost like she’s made a point of it.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything. I’m not on social media.’

  Sarah shrugged and started skim-reading the Marnie transcription. Next to her, Jessamine could feel the warmth coming through her pyjamas. She uncrossed her legs and stretched out under the covers so that she lay alongside Sarah and propped herself up on one elbow. ‘We still haven’t talked about that call you made to Ellen before Christmas. You asked to see your file.’ Jessamine waited for Sarah to respond. ‘Is everything okay?’ She reached for her hand. ‘Whatever it is, you can talk to me.’

  Up close Jessamine could smell Sarah’s breath. Sweet with a tang of stale garlic, it was unpleasant and she wanted to move her head back, but she worried that that would alert Sarah to her distaste.

  She’d once read an article in which a journalist had described her surprise at the lack of revulsion she felt for her offspring’s piss, shit and vomit. The journalist had theorised it was primal, that because the children were a biological extension of her, everything they did or produced, no matter how rank, was the same as if she had done or produced it herself. Jessamine loved Sarah, deeply and keenly, but she often worried that, because they weren’t blood-related, she would never experience the connection the woman had described.

  ‘Why did you lose it on air?’ Sarah shook off her hand. ‘The real reason, not the rubbish one you gave the Beeb.’

  Jessamine considered telling her the truth, about what had happened to Tasha, how it had thrown her totally off kilter. But that would lead to more questions, about how and why Tasha had died, which in turn would lead to inevitable parallels with Sarah’s birth mother.

  ‘The caller said some horrible things. I lost my temper.’

  Sarah shut the laptop and faced her. She held her gaze without blinking. Jessamine was the first to look away. Sarah nodded, vindicated, then got out of bed and left the room.

  Jessamine reached out and pressed the spot where Sarah had just been. The mattress was already cold.

  Saturday 31 December

  Present day

  Jessamine

  New Year’s Eve, and Jessamine was busy emptying bed sheets from the washing-machine. She patted inside the drum, checking she’d got everything, then separated the duvet cover from the pillowcases and arranged them on the airer.

  The thirty-first of December: ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot’. Clocks striking midnight. When it came to Jessamine’s least favourite day this was right up there in the number-one spot, closely followed by her birthday. It was the expectation that surrounded it, the forced jollity, the way it seemed to expose the parts of your life – relationships, family, friendships or lack thereof – that weren’t quite up to scratch. Parts that, in the normal day-to-day routine, you could ignore.

  That and the fact that it marked an anniversary she’d rather forget.

  By the time her first New Year with Sarah rolled around they’d been a family for two months, during which Sarah had pined continuously for her old foster-mum. She took out her feelings on Jessamine, kicking and shouting and, worse, withdrawing quietly to the corner of the room. Jessamine had been prepared for this, but still she had struggled to see her daughter in distress. She’d started to lose faith in the adoption and in her own abilities as a mother. Then she’d done something terrible, and even though Ellen had reassured her it was just a blip, something she and the other social workers had come across countless times before, Jessamine had never been able to forgive herself.

  The duvet was now arranged across the top of the airer but some of the edges were stuck on the lower rungs. She set to work freeing the snags and stood back to admire her handiwork.

  She usually spent New Year’s Eve on the sofa, eating a takeaway and watching movies with Sarah. Tonight, though, she’d be alone: Sarah was going to a party at Paris’s house.

  Her eye caught on the leg of air-dried ham, wrapped in foil on the kitchen counter. O’Brien had given it to her nearly a month ago and, although she’d never imagined that she and Sarah would ever be able to get through that amount of meat, it was almost gone.

  She picked up her phone and dialled.

  He answered after two rings. ‘Jessamine?’

  ‘O’Brien.’

  ‘Ha-ha-ha. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Short notice, but I wondered what you’re up to. Tonight, I mean.’

  A pause.

  ‘Me?’

  She cringed.

  ‘Sounds lovely and you know I never miss a chance to see you, but . . .’ Again he went quiet. ‘It’s just I’ve already got plans.’ His tone was apologetic. ‘Susan. It’s early days but she’s nice. An optometrist.’

  ‘Of course.’ She remembered his awkwardness on the phone the other day. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this case. The missing woman,’ she lied. ‘To tell you where I’m at with it.’

  ‘Another time?’ he said kindly.

  She said goodbye, hung up and returned to the washing basket. Reaching for a pillow case she shook it out, snapping the fabric straight. This day. This bloody day. She didn’t want to be this person. She wasn’t this person. She resolved to treat it like any other night. To embrace the chance for a little solitude. She’d order her favourite Szechuan chicken and sticky rice, indulge in a Hitchcock movie marathon.

  Her phone beeped. She thought it might be a text from O’Brien, telling her he’d changed his mind and wanted to meet up after all. But instead she was greeted by a message from Dougie, the guy she’d met that day in the Riding House Café: I’d like to see you again. Tonight? You and me? What do you say?

  She scrolled back up his message history to the sweet but also weirdly sexual picture of the jasmine flower he’d sent a week or so earlier. She’d received it on the morning of her suspension. Distracted by everything she’d had going on at the time, she’d never replied.

  She reread his most recent message. She couldn’t take seriously the prospect of any kind of relationship with him but maybe that didn’t matter. Maybe she should think of him as a ‘for one night only’ experience. Someone she could hang out and have fun with. What was the expression – living in the now? You’re on. But no standing in the cold watching fireworks, no crowded pubs where it’s impossible to get a drink and/or use the loo, and absolutely no Auld Lang Syne.

  He replied instantly: Deal.

  She smiled and reached for the last of the pillowcases. Before she hung it up to dry she brought the material close
to her face and breathed in its fresh, newly washed smell. Szechuan chicken and sticky rice would have to wait.

  *

  Eight fifty, and Jessamine stood outside Farringdon Tube station, waiting for Dougie. She wasn’t sure where they were headed. He’d said he wanted to keep the details of their final destination a surprise.

  Around her, the streets were full of women wearing winter coats over sparkly dresses and vertiginous heels. They moved in packs, chattering and whooping as they contended with the bumpy stretch of cobbles to Jessamine’s left. Across the road from where she stood there was a pub, its windows vibrating with the bassline of old Christmas hits. Whenever the door opened she’d hear a snatch of Wizzard or Cliff Richard over the roar of the crowd inside.

  At nine o’clock exactly, Dougie appeared around the corner.

  He looked her up and down, nodded appreciatively and offered her his arm. ‘Shall we?’

  Dressed in a camel coat and navy scarf, his hair was slick with product, pushed back from his forehead.

  She linked her arm through his. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, as they set off towards Cowcross Street.

  They walked in silence. Now and again Jessamine sneaked a glance at his profile. His jaw was clean, a neat line that ran from his earlobe to his chin. He was freshly shaved but she could already see tiny black buds, new bristles, pushing their way up through the surface of his skin.

  They were almost at Smithfield Market when he guided her to the right, into a small side-street. ‘Here we are.’

  Jessamine scanned the row of Georgian houses, puzzled. All the windows were shuttered and, apart from a small light over the third door down, the place seemed deserted.

  Dougie stopped outside the house with the light, knocked twice and stood back to wait.

  A few moments later the door opened. A young woman wearing a white shirt and black skirt ushered them inside. After taking their coats she motioned for them to climb the stairs.

  ‘What is this place?’

  The walls were bare, the stairs painted white.

  ‘My dad was a butcher,’ said Dougie, as they followed the landing round to the next flight up. ‘The pubs opposite the meat market open at dawn but those places have been ruined by tourists. Here, we’re off the radar and the trade likes to keep it that way. It stays open all night every night.’ He winked. ‘Even New Year’s Eve.’

  On the next landing there was an open door. Jessamine wavered on the threshold so Dougie took her hand. Pulling her close, he led her inside.

  A large high-ceilinged room, where candles and a dim electric bulb over the small bar in the corner were the only source of light, the air smelt of blood and the floor was covered with sawdust. An array of tables, dining chairs, sofas and armchairs were occupied by people, mainly men, talking and drinking.

  Dougie settled her at a table in the corner and went to get a round in.

  She looked around the room intrigued. She’d expected a pub or maybe a table at a restaurant. Something obvious. This was a genuinely original first-date location. Maybe there was more to Dougie than she’d thought.

  As he returned with their drinks he caught her sending a text to Sarah. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘My daughter. She’s at a party.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Fourteen. It’s at her friend’s house. The parents are there to supervise, but still.’

  ‘You two close?’

  ‘As close as anyone can get to a hormonal teenage girl.’

  ‘They grow up so quickly.’

  ‘They do.’

  Her earlier flash of optimism started to fade. Five minutes in and they’d already lapsed into platitudes and small-talk. She gulped her white wine and was trying to think of something else to say when a man in bloodied white overalls approached. ‘Dougie? Dougie Winston? As I live and breathe.’

  Dougie’s face dropped. Not wanting to get involved in their conversation, Jessamine got up to go to the loo. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

  In the Ladies she steadied herself at the washbasin and tried to remind herself why she was there. So what if the conversation wasn’t up to much? Tonight was a one-off, a chance to have fun with someone she’d never planned on seeing again.

  Back at the table Dougie was alone with another round of drinks. She retook her seat and sipped at her wine. They sat there in silence, both of them apparently at a loss as to what to say next.

  ‘Any new-year resolutions?’ he asked eventually.

  Jessamine hesitated. She could carry on with the small-talk and give him some pat cliché or she could tell him the truth. ‘I’m going to try to be braver and do something I’ve been avoiding for years.’

  ‘Sounds serious.’

  Jessamine considered him, sitting there in this strange bar. Once tonight was over they’d never see each other again. It would be a relief to tell someone, to say it out loud.

  ‘My daughter Sarah, she’s adopted. When she first came to live with me . . .’ she faltered, not sure how to put those first few months into words ‘. . . it was hard. Harder than I’d ever imagined. I persevered, of course. You can’t expect to bond overnight. It takes time. But in the end it got so bad I called the social worker. Told her I wasn’t sure I could continue. Sarah had already been through so much. I suggested that maybe, as she’d obviously had such a close relationship with her foster-family, it might make sense and be fairer to Sarah if they were to bring her into their family on a more permanent basis. I didn’t tell Sarah but I packed her things and arranged for them to collect her the next morning.’

  Dougie reached for her hand and squeezed it, encouraging her to go on.

  ‘But then that night, for the first time, I felt this little person crawl into the bed. Sarah. She didn’t lie next to me, instead she curled up near my feet and hugged one of my legs close. She needed me . . . and I needed her. It would be hard but we could do it, we could make it work. I called the social worker first thing. Told her I’d changed my mind.’

  ‘Does your daughter know any of this?’

  ‘No, but she needs to. The whole sorry incident was logged in her file. It’s standard protocol. When she reaches the age of eighteen she’ll be given access to it. Whether I like it or not, she’ll see how close I came to letting her down, how easily I almost gave up on her and us. Next year I’m going to tell her. I want her to hear it from me.’

  As soon as she finished speaking she felt as if a weight had been lifted but the admission had cost her. She tried to pick up her wine glass but her hands were shaking too much to get a proper grip. Her whole body felt febrile, her insides drained. She wanted to go home.

  ‘I’m sorry but I’m not feeling well.’ She got to her feet. ‘I need to leave.’

  Dougie looked concerned and went to accompany her but she waved him off. ‘Stay.’ She motioned to the guy who had come over to say hello at the start of the night. ‘Hang out with your friends. I’ll get an Uber.’

  Stumbling towards the stairs she asked the girl for her coat and made her way out into the night.

  Wednesday 4 January

  Present day

  Jessamine

  Jessamine poured herself another coffee from the Thermos, returned the flask to the footwell and went back to staring at the front door of Cassie Scolari’s house. The maisonette was dark, curtains closed, a white van branded with the DPD home delivery logo, presumably belonging to Luca, parked outside. She’d been here since six. It was now almost seven o’clock and, although the sun had yet to rise, the other buildings in the cul-de-sac were slowly coming to life.

  She was there because Luca had yet to respond to any of her voicemails. His account of what had happened the day Cassie went missing was key and so, tired of waiting, she’d decided to try approaching him in person.

  At home the script for her first ever podcast sat waiting on her laptop. She’d finished writing it last night, and although she’d found it trick
y – it had been so long since she’d worked solo on a project – she’d started to enjoy herself. She’d realised that the number of unanswered questions that still surrounded Cassie’s disappearance was the case’s strength, not its weakness, and so, at various points during the show, she had made sure to solicit the help of listeners. Of course, those inclusions presumed that somebody would download the podcast. She’d find out soon enough. Tomorrow she’d arranged for Jitesh to come to the flat and help with the recording. He’d promised it would be only a matter of days before it was edited and available on iTunes.

  Her phone beeped. A text from Dougie. She’d messaged him the morning after their disastrous New Year’s Eve date and apologised for having run off but had heard nothing since. Now she saw that he’d sent her a stock picture of a candle-lit dinner for two and his address in south London: Saturday night. You, me and a bottle wine? I’ll cook. xx

  She was about to decline – they weren’t suited, even in the short term – when across the street, the door to Cassie’s maisonette opened. A rectangle of yellow light. She dumped her coffee dregs out of the window, put her phone away and sat up a little straighter. It was too early for Luca to be taking Matteo to school. Maybe he went to the breakfast club. But it wasn’t Luca or Matteo who appeared in the doorway. It was a young girl. A teenager. She stooped down to tuck her jogging bottoms into the sides of her Uggs, zipped up her coat and stepped out into the morning. She ambled down the street, turned the corner and was gone. Jessamine looked back to the maisonette. There was now a light on upstairs and in the living room.

  Who was she? A relative? A babysitter? Five minutes later, she reappeared at the mouth of the cul-de-sac carrying a pint of milk and a loaf of bread. She headed back towards the maisonette and was admitted.

  Jessamine got out of the car and knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately and she found herself face to face with the girl. Jessamine saw that what she’d thought were jogging bottoms were pyjamas.