Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  The urge to confide in her is strong. While I’ve more or less convinced myself that the incident at the beach huts and the thing with the T-shirt were nothing more than concoctions of my guilt-raddled mind, the contents of that envelope are something else altogether. I need to tell someone or I’ll go mad.

  I guess that’s the whole point of making friends with other addicts. Knowing you can offload to someone who’s also fucked up. Not just once, but over and over again. And Helen gets me. I know she does. All those things she said at the last meeting.

  Then again, her fuck-ups aren’t likely to be on the same scale as mine. She and I are from different planets.

  ‘No, I’d better go. Mum practically has a seizure if I’m back late. I mean, I understand why and I can’t really blame her, but …’ I sigh. ‘It’ll be too much hassle if I don’t leave now.’

  ‘Can’t you give her a quick ring and tell her you’re with a friend from AA?’

  ‘To be honest, that’s not likely to reassure her. She’ll worry that we’ll egg each other on to have a drink.’

  I drain my last mouthful of tea and stand up. ‘It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’m a thirty-two-year-old woman and I feel like a teenager on curfew.’

  Helen carries our cups over to the kitchen. ‘I’d offer you my number in case you want to get in touch between meetings,’ she says. ‘But you’ll probably just screw it up and throw it in a bin on the way home, like you did with Rosie’s.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  She puts the cups in the sink, then comes back over to the living area and scribbles it down on a sticky note. ‘You can put it in your pocket yourself,’ she says, smiling.

  She walks with me to the front door and watches from the top of the stairwell as I go down.

  ‘Astrid?’ she calls after me.

  I look up.

  ‘Let go and let God,’ she says, her voice strangely solemn all of a sudden.

  I stare at her in confusion. What the hell is she on about?

  She grins. ‘I googled those slogans you told me about. You’re right. There are loads of them.’

  Of course. She’s impersonating Rosie.

  I’m still laughing as I reach the main entrance, but when I see the black night waiting for me beyond the glass the laughter dies in my throat. Right now I don’t care if Mum does have another go at me. I just want to get home.

  I quicken my pace and take the shortest route. The background roar of the sea sounds particularly menacing tonight. My heart is hammering away so fast I feel sick. I don’t want to look over my shoulder because that feels like giving in to the fear. Maybe whoever’s doing this is behind me right now. Maybe that grey figure I saw earlier wasn’t Rosie after all. Maybe it was the person who sent me that photo and they’ve been waiting all this time, skulking in the shadows.

  I force myself to turn round just long enough to see there’s no one there, then I keep on walking and don’t look round again.

  She’s scared. It’s obvious from the way she’s walking. Charging forwards, chin pressed down on to her chest.

  I imagine a circle under her left shoulder blade – an optic viewfinder on a rifle.

  For a second I think she’s sensed me, like an animal senses danger. She stops dead in her tracks and spins round. I shrink back into the shadows till she starts up again, then follow her progress with my eyes.

  I reposition the viewfinder. My forefinger curls, then squeezes. The bullet hits its target and she slumps to the ground.

  Game over.

  Except it isn’t. Not yet. The game’s only just begun.

  15

  This time, Mum doesn’t pounce on me in the hallway like a wildcat; she stays in the living room, watching TV, or pretending to. I surprise myself, and her, by apologizing for not texting to say I’d be late. Then I perch on the edge of the settee and tell her about Helen and her cupboards full of chocolate and coffee.

  ‘It’s nice that you’re making friends,’ she says.

  She doesn’t even warn me to be careful and take things slowly, and I know she wants to. It feels like something has shifted, that the ice field between us is starting to shrink. Just a fraction of an inch, but even so …

  God knows, it’s not easy living here with Mum again, but she’s all I’ve got now.

  Upstairs, I sit on my bed and stare at my top drawer, where the envelope with the photo of Simon in it is stuffed under my socks and knickers. I’m not going to look at it again. I’m not. It was stupid of me to get all worked up like that. I’ve never been scared of walking alone at night and I’m not about to start now. The only thing I’ve got to be scared of is the darkness in my own mind. The black holes. My anonymous pen pal knows that too. They’re clever, whoever they are. They don’t need to physically harm me. They just need to sit back and watch me lose my mind. Well, I won’t give them the satisfaction.

  I take off my clothes and get into my pyjamas. Ten thirty at night and here I am, ready for bed like a good little mummy’s girl. I’m even hanging my clothes in the wardrobe instead of slinging them on the floor. Routine and structure. They used to bang on about that in rehab. Keep busy. Create new habits. Good ones, like hobbies and chores. Don’t give yourself time to get bored. Write in your journal every night.

  But the exercise book I’ve been using is in the same drawer as the envelope. Panic swells behind my breastbone as soon as I see it lying there. I think about tearing it up and throwing it away, or burning it in the garden. I could kick the embers into the soil and that would be that. But I can’t do either of those things because I can’t bring myself to tear up Simon’s beautiful, happy face and throw him out with the rubbish. I certainly can’t watch him being devoured by flames.

  Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. Grief sideswipes me so hard it’s like a physical blow. Sometimes I struggle to believe he’s really dead. Maybe if I’d been to his funeral, I’d have had some form of closure, if there is such a thing. But I was so ill, so out of it. I don’t even know if he was buried or cremated, or where his remains are. Why don’t I know these things? Why didn’t I try harder to find out? I should have said goodbye. It’s the least I could have done.

  I think about earlier, making love with Josh as if none of this had ever happened, and guilt presses down on me once more. But I can’t help the way I feel, can I? It’s chemistry, pure and simple. The need for love and intimacy, for sex. It’s what makes us human. It doesn’t mean I don’t still love Simon. The memory of him.

  I take hold of the envelope and go over to the wardrobe, stand on the tips of my toes and give the envelope a firm push so that it slides towards the back, out of reach. The arm of my coat is dangling over the edge where I threw it earlier, so I push that back too.

  I could have taken the photo out and had another look. I could have pulled the coat down and helped myself to a £20 note, then got dressed again and slipped out of the house when Mum wasn’t looking and bought some gin or vodka, something I could pour into my water glass to get me through the night. I wanted to. I still do. But I didn’t. I don’t. I sit on the bed again and focus on my breathing till the tightness in my chest recedes. I won’t be intimidated like this.

  The next morning, after I’ve washed my face and got dressed – I can’t face any breakfast – I reach up to the top of my wardrobe and grope along the edge till I grab a handful of coat and pull it towards me. The dreaded brown envelope comes down with it, but I put it up again, flicking it away from the edge. I hear it fluttering down the space between the back of the wardrobe and the wall. I exhale. I won’t be able to reach it now, not without dragging the heavy wardrobe out. Just as well.

  I put the coat on. The sooner I order those painting materials and get shot of this money, the better.

  ‘You won’t need that coat today,’ Mum says when I go downstairs. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous out there. They said on the news that a heatwave’s on its way.’

  ‘Really?’ I think of the last thing Josh said, about taki
ng me somewhere I could swim naked. Maybe that’ll happen sooner than I imagined.

  ‘I’ve got a swimming costume somewhere I don’t use any more,’ Mum says. ‘You can have it if you like. Unless you’ve already got one.’

  ‘I doubt it. I can’t remember the last time I went swimming.’

  Actually, I can. It was that holiday in Spain. I had a tiny red bikini that looked great with my tan. Simon had finally learned to juggle by then. I remember the crowd that gathered round to watch, the teenage girls fluttering their eyelashes at him and giving me envious, sidelong glances. He was so happy then, so alive. It seems like a lifetime ago. I miss him so much.

  ‘Shall I hunt it out for you?’ Mum says.

  I shake my head. The thought of Josh seeing me in one of Mum’s old cozzies is too embarrassing to contemplate. Does she seriously think I’d even consider wearing anything of hers?

  I hang my coat on one of the hooks in the porch and transfer the contents of my pockets into my rucksack. ‘You couldn’t lend me some money till my benefit comes through, could you? I don’t know what’s happened to all my summer clothes.’

  I hate asking her for more money; she’s already spent most of her savings on putting me through rehab, but if I have to wear these old jeans for much longer, they’ll be falling apart. Her eyebrows dip.

  ‘Forget it. I’ll make do with what I’ve got.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she says. ‘You do need some more clothes. I could come with you if you like?’

  ‘You can’t keep treating me like a child, Mum. I’m not going to buy any alcohol, okay? Just give me twenty-five quid, if you can afford it. I’ll pick up a few bits and pieces at one of the charity shops. But if you’d rather not, that’s fine. I understand.’

  I have a sudden urge to show her the £150, to thrust it under her nose and say, See? This is what Josh’s dad has given me to buy paint. Don’t you think I’d have spent some of it in the offie by now if I couldn’t be trusted? but of course I don’t. Because she’s right. I came so close yesterday. So close.

  She goes to where her handbag is hanging over the end of the banister and takes out her purse. It’s small with a silver clasp. I swallow hard. It reminds me of another purse. Another time. Opening it up and scooping the notes out with shaky fingers. Blood on my sleeve.

  The jagged images swim before my eyes like reflections in broken glass. No, don’t go there. Shut it down. Shut it down fast.

  ‘I’ll bring you the receipts,’ I say, but she shakes her head and hands me four £10 notes.

  ‘You can pay me back a tenner a week when your dole money comes through.’

  I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek, humiliated, resentful and grateful all at the same time.

  How has it come to this?

  Even though it’s broad daylight, I’m still anxious when I leave the cottage, my senses primed for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. But the fine weather has brought an influx of visitors and after a while I relax. Nothing’s going to happen to me with all these people around.

  An old-fashioned bell pings as I push open the door of the art shop. A seductive smorgasbord of familiar smells greets my nostrils: paint thinner and varnish, mint and lanolin from the bars of artist’s soap, the clay-like aroma of crayons and the deliciously pulpy scent of new paper and freshly stretched canvas. It reminds me of being in the studios and workshops at university, of building sets in empty theatres. It makes me want to cry.

  At first glance the shop looks thrown together, a higgledy-piggledy profusion of tubs and tubes and tins and brushes, all jostling for space on the shelves and display units. But as my eyes adjust to the gloomy interior, I know just by looking at the balding, brown-overalled man at the counter that he will be able to put his hands on anything I might ask for within a matter of seconds.

  He raises his eyes above his half-moon spectacles and says good morning. He doesn’t ask if there’s anything in particular I’m looking for, or whether he can help me in any way, and for that I’m grateful. I know exactly what I need because I spent hours thinking it through last night and making a long, detailed list. I also worked out a fee for the job – it’s probably way less than it should be, but it’s still a damn sight more than I’ll have earned in a long while. It was the only thing I could think of doing to calm me down after my scary walk home. The only thing other than drinking. But first I want to browse. I want to walk slowly up and down the aisles and feast my eyes on the glut of supplies.

  I want to feel the smooth handles of the brushes and test the bounce of the bristles on the backs of my hands. I want to reacquaint myself with the poetry of their names: the fans and the flats and the riggers, the lily-bristle mottlers, the brights and the filberts. I want to slide my eyes over the oils: linseed, poppy, safflower and walnut; oil of spike and copaiba balsam. Larch Venice turpentine. Dragon’s blood.

  I could stay here for ever, soaking it all up, running my fingers along the shelves, gazing at the sponges and palette knives as if my life depends on memorizing each and every item. It’s like a portal into my old life. If only I could step back in and do things differently this time.

  An hour later, after I’ve agreed to collect my purchases later today and with just a handful of change out of the £150 in one pocket, and the £40 Mum’s given me in the other, I head for the charity shops on Flinstead Road.

  No longer under the spell of the art shop, the old tension returns and I can’t help checking out every face I pass. Maybe one of them belongs to the person who sent me that photo. So when someone taps me on the shoulder as I’m waiting to cross the road, I flinch so hard I almost twist my neck.

  16

  ‘Astrid, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  It’s Rosie. So much for not acknowledging each other in public.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m a bundle of nerves today.’

  ‘Let me buy you a coffee, then,’ she says, already pulling her purse from her bag. ‘It’s the least I can do for scaring you half to death.’

  My heart sinks. ‘That’s really kind of you, but …’ I glance across the street for inspiration and see the steamed-up windows of the Fisherman’s Shack. ‘It’s just that’ – I tilt my head towards it – ‘I’m meant to be meeting a friend over there.’

  Rosie lifts her chin. A faint tinge of pink colours her neck. She knows I’m lying. ‘Oh, okay, no problem. I’ll see you around, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She goes to walk away, then stops and turns back. ‘I don’t suppose I could wait in there with you, just until your friend arrives? My shift doesn’t start for another half an hour.’

  For fuck’s sake. She’s not going to give up. I rack my brain for a good enough reason to say no, but nothing comes. Just as I’ve resigned myself to saying yes, a miracle appears in the form of Helen, walking briskly along the pavement, eyes looking straight ahead. She hasn’t seen us yet.

  ‘Hi, Helen,’ I call out to her, hoping she’ll pick up on the look of desperation in my eyes, the silent beam of communication I’m projecting on to her. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about our coffee.’

  For a split second she looks confused, but she doesn’t let me down. ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. I was just popping into the newsagent’s for a paper first. Oh, hello, Rosie.’

  Rosie gives her a tight smile.

  ‘Rosie was going to join us, but I’ve just remembered you wanted to go for a walk first, didn’t you, Helen?’ I smile brightly, hoping Rosie won’t be pushy enough to tag along for that too. ‘Maybe another time, eh?’

  Rosie nods, defeated. ‘Of course.’

  I wait till she’s walked far enough away not to hear us. ‘Sorry about that, but I really couldn’t face it.’

  ‘I do fancy a bit of a walk, as it happens,’ Helen says. ‘But I need to eat first.’

  I twist my head over my shoulder. Rosie is nowhere in sight, but I’ve the weirdest sensation that she’s watching us
from somewhere. Then I spot the man with bad acne coming out of the chemist’s. This is ridiculous. I can’t seem to go five minutes without seeing someone from AA. Who’d have thought there’d be so many of us in this sleepy little town? Although I guess not everyone in the group actually lives here. There are lots of small villages and hamlets in the surrounding countryside with even less going on than Flinstead. That’s enough to drive a person to drink in itself.

  I steer Helen across the road before he catches sight of us. Not that he’d come over even if he did. He always keeps himself to himself in meetings.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and get an egg-and-bacon buttie.’

  Now that we’re sitting opposite each other, steam rising from our mugs of coffee, a couple of crumbs and the odd twist of unwanted bacon rind the only thing left on our plates, I notice the deep furrow between Helen’s eyebrows and the prominent vein over her left temple. She’s tried to cover it with foundation but hasn’t blended it in properly at the hairline. And her lipstick’s the wrong colour for her face. It’s too red and is starting to feather into the fine lines on her upper lip.

  I stab the crumbs on my plate with my forefinger and suck them off. We’re two people whose paths would probably never have crossed were it not for AA, but now that they have I’m kind of glad. I do need a friend right now. Someone who knows what I’m struggling with. Someone I can confide in without fear of being judged or misunderstood.

  Simon’s face creeps into my head. The healthy, handsome face captured in that photo. Which means it isn’t long till the other picture – the one of the hand dripping with blood – floats across it like the grisly title sequence of a crime drama. What chance do I have of making something good happen with Josh when my past keeps rearing up to remind me of all my flaws, all my failures?

  And what if that picture is just the beginning? What if there’s more to come?

  ‘Astrid? What’s wrong?’