Jessamine did the maths. ‘But that means she would have to have been there when she was – what? Thirteen, fourteen?’
‘Like I said,’ said Miguel, ‘that’s the question.’
Monday 30 January
Present day
Jessamine
Six thirty a.m., and Jessamine was in a lift with Jitesh, on her way up to the second floor of Broadcasting House. The early start had been her idea. Still on suspension, technically she wasn’t allowed to be there. This way Jitesh could sign her in and out while the place was still relatively quiet.
She’d come to take a look at the section of the building Cassie had sketched in her diagram. She already knew it well, having worked in and around this particular floor for years, but today she wanted to try to view it through fresh eyes in case something might help her figure out how Cassie had come to be there as a teenager. Not only that. Leaving Miguel’s office last night, she’d remembered something one of the parents had said that day in the playground at Matteo’s school. The dad with the two sets of twins. Cassie had gone on a school trip to the BBC earlier in the year, and when she had entered Broadcasting House she had got upset and started acting bizarrely. It was too much of a coincidence. The two had to be connected.
Luca had been brought in for questioning the night before. Marnie had done as Jessamine asked and made a statement about what had happened to her as a teenager and what she believed still to be happening to the young girls in his care. Luca’s mother, Matteo’s grandmother, had flown over from Rome immediately. Jessamine had found it a small comfort to know that Cassie’s son would not end up as she once had, in the care of the state.
As the lift doors opened Jitesh handed her a sheaf of A4. ‘The l-l-logs you asked for.’
Miguel had told her that although the BBC had relocated most of their shows during the 2003 renovation, they had managed to keep a few studios in play. He’d also been kind enough to track down the dates when the walls had been in that particular configuration. Curious to know what had been recorded during the time period in which Cassie must have been present, Jessamine had asked Jitesh to search the bookings archive.
She scanned the printouts. It seemed that In Our Time and a variety of World Service and pre-recorded Radio 2 specials had continued to operate out of the main building throughout the construction work. Jessamine ran her finger down the page, searching for the dates in question. The log listed the producer and presenter or DJ involved in each show. One name in particular stood out.
‘Oh.’ Jessamine had been holding the paper up close to her face but now, repulsed, she moved it to arm’s length.
‘I-I-I know.’
‘Him.’
Jitesh nodded.
They crossed the open-plan area and headed for the relevant corridor. The studios and meeting room were empty so Jessamine was able to set about comparing Cassie’s diagram against the current layout without bothering anyone.
Miguel had explained how, in the original plans, there had been only one dividing wall between the two studios. The builders had erected the wooden frames and plasterboard accordingly but they had been up for just a few weeks when the project manager decided to tear them down and replace them with a new configuration that accommodated two much smaller studios, a meeting room and a voice-recording booth.
At some point during that time, a fourteen-year-old Cassie had been in the building and sketched the original layout. And now it transpired that in the same period a DJ had been recording a show here, a DJ known to have been a cruel and prolific sexual predator.
She looked again at the two studios. She knew one well, having recorded many of her shows there. It contained the bronze bust of Lord Reith. Cassie had denoted the bust on her diagram with a face. Miguel said that the bust was a hangover from the original building layout, and that although its position in the studio was inconvenient and incongruous they had decided to leave it where it was for fear of damaging its fragile marble plinth.
The X Cassie had marked on her map corresponded to a point on the wall directly behind the bust.
‘When I showed Queenie Cassie’s map she started talking about a man. She said he was hiding something. That he had done something to upset Cassie.’
Cassie’s friend Erin had mentioned the circles they moved in. Had the DJ on that booking log brought Cassie here and abused her on the premises? Was that what Queenie had been referring to? Was that why Cassie had become so distressed when she’d revisited the building years later, as a grown woman?
‘W-w-what are you thinking?’ asked Jitesh.
Jessamine shoved the booking log into her bag, ready to leave. The building was starting to fill with people. She wanted to go before her presence was noted. ‘Honestly, I have no bloody idea.’
2003
Rowena
I spend the afternoon in my room, doing the same thing I’ve done every day since that night at the birthday party: sipping vodka and texting Millie. She doesn’t reply. She never does. I tell myself it’s because she’s gone back to boarding school.
Leo called yesterday, two weeks after he’d found me elbow-deep in cake at his breakfast bar. He told me that, if he had anything to do with it, he’d never lay eyes on me again, but that someone had asked that I be there tonight. Someone important. He said that, as a favour, he’d agreed to bring me along one last time. Then he wanted me gone for good.
By the time he arrives to pick me up I’m well on my way to being drunk. I stumble into the back of the car, lie flat on the seat and close my eyes. He’s never been a big one for conversation on our way to and from places but today there’s something deliberate about his silence. It makes the journey into London feel longer than usual. We seem to go across roundabout after roundabout and soon I start to feel sick.
I can feel the vodka sloshing around in my belly. I breathe through my nose and try to distract myself by looking at the mess scattered near my head. There is a copy of Millie’s new favourite book, Northern Lights, an empty water bottle, a tennis ball and the usual scrum of parking tickets, pens and scraps of paper.
I pick up the Philip Pullman. Millie’s name is written inside. In its first week of release she read it twice cover to cover. I notice that the corner of page 240 is folded over. It seems she’s reading it for the third time.
I grab a pen and one of the pieces of notepaper sliding around under my head and put them in my pocket. Millie won’t reply to my text messages so I’ll write her a letter instead. Tonight, in the bathroom at the party. As soon as I get a few minutes to myself. Then, on the way home, once I’m back in the car, I’ll hide it in her book. Page 241.
I have no idea what I’m going to write, what I might say to bring her back to me, but I enjoy the thought of her finding the note the next time she picks up the novel. Her smile, at the surprise, at the words I’ll leave for her to find.
Thursday 2 February
Present day
Jessamine
For the second time in a week Jessamine clipped a Broadcasting House visitors’ pass to her jacket and went to wait by the lifts. Standing next to The Sower she looked at the statue’s hand, thrust into the pouch of seeds around his waist, and felt for her own pumpkin seeds, now a permanent fixture in the depths of her coat pocket.
The lift dinged open and, taking a breath, she stepped inside. Yesterday, after weeks of waiting, she’d finally got the call she’d been waiting for. The BBC had made a decision about her future at the corporation. HR had asked if she could come in at her earliest convenience. Judging by their tone, the news wasn’t good.
Not wanting to catch the eye of any of her fellow passengers she made sure to keep her gaze directed at the floor. She needn’t have worried. They were all too busy looking at their phones to waste time gawping at a disgraced radio journalist. She was grateful, and as they began their ascent, she said a small prayer in thanks to Steve Jobs.
A tap on the shoulder.
‘W-w-what are you d-doing here?’
/>
Jitesh.
She appraised the ten or so BBC staff surrounding them. They might have been engrossed in their phones but she knew how they worked: any whiff of gossip and their ears would prick up. Jessamine decided to throw caution to the wind. So what if they heard? They’d know her fate soon enough.
‘I think I’m about to be fired.’
A ripple travelled through the group. Some opted for a furtive glance. Others were more brazen and abandoned scrolling Twitter in favour of staring at a lamb on the way to slaughter.
Jessamine and Jitesh registered the shift in atmosphere with a shared smile.
They reached the second floor and the doors opened to reveal Giles from HR and Faye, the union rep. Jitesh followed her out. ‘M-m-m-maybe I’ll see you at the weekend.’
Giles and Faye looked from Jitesh to Jessamine, confused.
‘Saturday? I could do with the company. Sarah’s on a school trip. I’m going to the Passport Office after I’m done here. Hers has expired. I was supposed to do it ages ago – she’s very cross I’ve left it till the last minute.’
Giles from HR tugged at the lanyard around his neck.
‘Sch-school trip?’
‘When you’re quite ready,’ said Giles, guiding Jessamine down the corridor, ‘Kimmy is waiting.’
Rowena
We’re in the flat in the big square. It’s an odd crowd tonight, all fake laughter and jittery hand movements. There’s no sign of Queenie or Erin and I don’t recognise any of the other girls or boys. Leo said someone asked specially for me but none of the men seem interested.
I slide my finger into my back pocket and feel the paper and pen. I wonder what I should write in my note to Millie. I want to tell her I miss her and ask her if we’re still friends.
I’m working my way round the flat, stealing drinks wherever I can, when the celebrity and his brother arrive. This is the second time I’ve seen them, and as soon as they enter the room the atmosphere changes. It’s like the feeling that comes just before a thunderstorm. It makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
The celebrity is wearing a pale blue polo shirt and white linen trousers, an arrangement of brightly coloured love beads around his neck. The polo shirt is made out of the same soft jersey material used to make Babygros and clings to his arms and upper body. Despite the mild weather, his brother is wearing a woollen coat, its fleece collar a grubby, bobbled white.
Leo approaches them. ‘How are you?’
The celebrity has a mouth full of chewing gum. The sound of it against his teeth makes a soft, clacking sound. ‘You know. Up and down, round and round, back and forward.’
‘Oh,’ says Leo, clearly not sure what to make of this.
‘More importantly, how are you?’ He reaches inside his mouth, removes the gum and starts rolling it around his thumb and forefinger.
‘I’m good, I think. Yes, good.’
‘Marvellous,’ says the celebrity. The chewing gum is now a ball of white. He holds it up close, considers it, and then, with a neat flick of the wrist, he launches it onto the floor in the corner. He reaches in his pocket for a fresh stick of gum, opens it and pops it into his mouth. I sniff the air. His gum smells of strawberries, sweet and fresh. I like it.
‘I’ve not had the best day, truth be told,’ he says. Everyone in the room gathers round. They form a circle and hang on his every word. ‘Been recording a new show. For the radio.’ His mouth is like a machine-gun, pow-pow-powing his words into our ears. ‘Thirty years I’ve worked for those people. But do they treat me with any respect?’ He says each word with such individual emphasis that it’s easy to forget it’s part of a complete sentence. ‘I turn up to do my bit and what do I find? Chaos. The place was a bloody building site.’ No one can tell if he’s joking, whether they should laugh, if this story is nothing more than the build up to a punchline. ‘They’re changing the place. Modernising.’ He says the last word in disgust. ‘Dust everywhere.’ He brushes at the knee of his linen trousers as if to rid himself of the dirt still there. ‘Time was I had my own trailer. Right outside the front door. My own sofa.’ He winks at the girls in the circle. Drops his voice. ‘My own bed.’ A few laugh. ‘Not today. And after everything I’ve done for them.’ There is a new force to his words. ‘No. Bloody. Respect.’ The circle, who until now had been enjoying this brush with fame, pull back a little. He senses the change in mood and, with a quick shake of his shoulders, his grin is back, his teeth gapped and yellowing. ‘So many beautiful ladies here tonight.’ He grabs the hand of the girl next to him and kisses it. His mouth lingers against her skin and his tongue darts out, small and pink. He licks her once across the knuckles.
I decide now is the time to write my note. The celebrity being here is the perfect distraction. I go to the bathroom but the door is locked. I plan to try again later and am about to return to the living room when I notice another door, opposite the bathroom. The cupboard. I opened it once by mistake at a previous party and was greeted with a shallow space containing a vacuum cleaner, a mop and an ironing board. More than enough room for me to sit on the floor and compose my letter to Millie in peace. All I need to do is keep the door cracked open and I’ll have light by which to write.
I check the entrance to the living room and, once I’m certain no one is looking, I turn the handle. I move to step inside but then I stop. Billy is crouched on the floor next to the vacuum. Playing on his Game Boy, he is wearing a T-shirt, shorts and navy sandals, the front straps decorated with three tiny racing cars, one red, one yellow, one green. His toes are dirty, the underside of his nails caked with grime. He sees me and smiles, as though I’ve just discovered him after a long game of hide and seek. Before I can ask what he’s doing there, he crawls between my legs and scurries away.
I wedge myself into the spot he has just left and pull the door to. Inside the cupboard, it’s warm and smells faintly of bleach. Almost immediately I start to yawn, the booze taking its toll. I get the notepaper and pen from my back pocket and try to work out how best to begin. There are words printed in black ink across the top of the paper that I hadn’t noticed in the car. Millie’s address. I’ve picked up a piece of headed notepaper. It’s no matter. I can tear off the top strip once I’m done. I try out a few opening lines in my head, but they all feel wrong. I swallow another yawn and force myself to concentrate. This letter is important. I need to say something she won’t be able to ignore, something that will put our friendship back on track. But before long my eyes start to close. I pass out, slumped against the ironing board, the paper in my lap still blank.
When I wake up I’m confused. At some point the door has clicked shut leaving me in darkness. My mouth is dry and my neck hurts from lying at a funny angle. Then I smell the bleach and I remember. I put the notepaper and pen back into my pocket, open the door and walk into the living room. It’s empty. Everyone has gone. Including Leo. How many hours have I been asleep?
I look at the sofa and wonder if it would be okay for me to stay here until morning when I’ll walk to Paddington and sneak on the first train back to Oxford. If you jump the barrier and hide in the toilets you can travel without a ticket.
Then I hear it. Voices coming from one of the bedrooms.
I move back towards the hall. I can’t make out the words but I recognise the machine-gun delivery.
The other voice replies, high and panicky.
I have no idea what’s going on but, whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good. I decide it’s best not to stay here after all and move towards the door.
The voices stop.
I freeze, and after a few seconds I can hear whispering. Again, I creep towards the door. I’m reaching for the handle when I hear someone behind me.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
It’s him. The celebrity.
He’s no longer wearing his polo shirt. His chest is covered with black hair and dotted with moles, his linen trousers scrunched high around his hips. One of the strands of love bea
ds has broken and the remaining string hangs limp and frayed against his collarbone.
‘Home?’
He laughs and looks back towards the bedroom from which he came.
‘We can’t let a young thing like you go wandering the streets in the dead of night. I’ll give you a lift, make sure you get back safe.’
He goes back into the bedroom. There is more whispering and then he reappears, his polo shirt back on. His brother follows behind, wheeling a suitcase. I try to remember if he arrived with one but the evening’s edges are blurry, the exact sequence of events confused.
The celebrity starts humming a song. Some theme tune I don’t know the name of.
My eyes flick to the suitcase but something tells me I should pretend I haven’t noticed it and I look away. ‘You don’t need to give me a lift. I can take care of myself.’
Too late.
He follows my gaze. Then he turns to me and leans in close.
‘No, really,’ he says, wagging his finger. Up close I can smell his breath, sweet, like strawberries. ‘I insist.’
Jessamine
After it was done Jessamine walked out of the controller’s office, feeling lighter than she had in years. In the course of her firing there’d been a few sneery remarks about the podcast, followed by some patronising shit about how they wished her every success as an indie broadcaster. They’d told her that Potentially Dangerous People would continue with a new host, a perky and much younger journalist named Camilla Medwynter. Strangely, this hadn’t riled her because, for the first time in ages, she felt free.
‘I’ll see you out,’ said Giles from HR, hustling alongside her.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, a new spring to her step. ‘I know the way. Besides, it would be nice to say a proper goodbye.’
That was a lie. In truth she wanted to take one last look in and around the studio from Cassie’s diagram. The one with the bust of Lord Reith.
The Dangerous Kind Page 25