‘You shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘You know me – I get caught up once I open a recipe book. I thought it was better to keep the chaos here and then we can eat like civilised beings at Michael’s when he gets home. You know how he hates mess.’
‘Sounds a plan. Is there anything I can do though? Chop stuff? Feed cough drops to Flossie?’
‘Ridiculous dog.’ I can hear the spaniel whining in the back of the house, scrabbling at the door to get out to greet me. ‘Oh, I know what you can do. I’ve cheated on the bread.’ She passes me a packet of part-cooked rolls she has ready by the front door for transportation. ‘Can you put these in the oven at eight?’
‘Contrary to Michael’s opinion, I’m not entirely clueless. I think I can just about manage that.’
‘Jess, I know you’re not clueless. Thanks.’
I take the keys and let myself into what was once my home. Weird – it smells different somehow, some kind of heavy cleaning spray lingers in the air. The alarm buzzes, bringing with it all those unpleasant memories of the accusations Michael levelled at me. I punch in the code and open the door to go through to the kitchen. Colette scampers in – at least she is pleased to see me. I lift her to my lap and bury my face in her fur.
‘Colly, I’ve made such a mess of everything.’
She kneads my thighs in pinprick punishment.
‘Yeah, you’re right. I should feed you.’ She transfers her attention to the kibble I pour her and then I set the bread out on a baking tray. Lizzy has picked a pretty pinwheel of different buns, some seeded, some with a glaze. They look too good to eat. Jeez, what is wrong with me? I’m weeping because we’re going to spoil the pattern. Biting a knuckle to bring me back to some semblance of calm, I check my watch. It’s close to eight. I decide to delay putting them in as the instructions say they only take six minutes.
Don’t stop. That’s when the thoughts come. So, what next?
I lay the table as asked. Lizzy has already put out the things we’ll need, even down to the tablecloth, wine-red napkins, and candles, so it is just a question of piling Michael’s papers up on the sideboard. I flick through them, of course, and note that his new book is nearly finished. Ironically the title is The Pathology of a Killer. His publisher must be anticipating bigger-than-average sales thanks to his notoriety.
Killer, killer, who is the killer? I realise I’m chanting it like some playground rhyme. Focus. Knives and forks. I then set three places, light the candles, dim the overhead lights and sit down to see what it all looks like at table level. I don’t like this, being alone here. Where is everyone? Still hearing no one at the door, I open the bottle of red to let it breathe. I persuade myself that it also needs tasting so I help myself to a healthy glug in one of the big-bowled glasses Michael prefers. They were a wedding present, he once said.
Sitting with the wine in my hand, mesmerised by the ruby glow, it dawns on me that this is the first time I’ve sat here and done nothing for weeks. It’s an odd position to be in sole occupation of the house from which I was thrown out so unceremoniously. The oven hums away to itself on its ascent to the required temperature. The refrigerator joins in with a smoother purr. Even Colette butts in as she circles on my knee and sits down to rumble her happiness on my lap. I’m horribly reminded of Jacob, sitting with his final whisky. Was he alone or did he have company for that last drink? I’m still thinking he was his own killer. It was some weird way of committing suicide – lace the fatal drink as a ‘sod you’ to Michael, miscalculate the dose so he had time for doubts, stumble to front door, hit head somehow and end up killing self in an unintended manner.
A little Byzantine maybe, but it is plausible. His behaviour trying to frame Michael shows an obsessive, possibly depressive man flailing about for some kind of payback. The real cause of his grief was dead though, so he was always going to miss his true target.
‘Tell me about Emma and Katy,’ I murmur, scratching Colette under her chin. ‘What really happened to them?’ Jacob said in his files that he had found no record of Emma’s treatment, but then he was looking for her under the name Ali, or variations on that. But what about Katy? Was she Jacob’s child? I listen hard, almost persuading myself I can hear the cries of that lost girl in the walls of the house, or shut in the basement. Michael had dismissed that question but he doesn’t appear to have pressed Emma for an explanation as to who the father was, and Emma is very cagey in the diary entries I’ve read. I think Jacob was the parent. It would certainly explain his desperation to find the answers if he was fighting to reclaim his daughter. Where did she go after Emma’s death? Off with that Biff person? From the evidence in the diary, Emma and she were thick as thieves. Biff was a she, wasn’t she? I can’t remember now if Emma ever said. I was reading backwards in the diary and only got two-thirds of the way through. Maybe if I got home early enough tonight I’d have another go at finishing it off. I hadn’t taken very good photos of the pages so it has been slow going. I thought I’d have more time but my other life, keeping Max happy, is taking up my evenings. From what I’ve got through, Emma spends a lot of time complaining about living in the woods, so it’s frankly got less interesting than the later entries about her marriage and experience of cancer treatment that I read first. I liked that Emma. I’m not so sure what to think about the earlier one I’m meeting now.
I no longer think we’d get on.
It’s no good. My mind circles back to the thought I’ve been avoiding all evening. What am I going to do? I had a chance a few days back, a life raft with Drew, but instead I’m hanging off the side, doing a Jack from Titanic. Drew can’t pull me in because my messed-up sex life is dragging me down. I do the wrong thing, the thing I don’t want to do each and every time. I should tell Max ‘so sue me’ but I can’t because he’s got his hooks in. He knows it’s not just about the money for me. Some shameful part of me wants to be fucked over by him – and I hate that. I can see that if I don’t change, don’t kick free, I’m going to die. Not literally – I’ll keep breathing – but inside.
It is getting dark. The kitchen clock hands are halfway to the splits, pointing to eight-twenty. I used to be able to do the splits when I was a kid – fat chance of that now. Shut up, brain. Think happy thoughts for once. Should I go back and knock on Lizzy’s door again, see what the hold-up is? Maybe I could even talk to her about all this, unburden myself? She was a good listener after Eastfields. I should’ve thought of her earlier. I don’t move even though I don’t like sitting here on my own in the conservatory. I’d asked Michael to get blinds but he hadn’t wanted to change anything, saying roof ones were enough, that we weren’t overlooked. How does he know that? With all the lights on, I’d be visible to someone outside like a fish in an aquarium. Anyone can see that I’m alone, creep up on me and…
Oh God, I’ve conjured him up again – the screaming ghost. I knuckle my eyes, trying to drive him away.
‘I will not think about him. I will not think about him.’
My heart is racing, pulse pounding in my ears. Not going there. I take a Valium, trying to muffle the noise inside, slow everything down. How long will it take to kick in? Too effing long. I don’t want Michael, or Lizzy for that matter, to see me like this. I must stop sabotaging myself by summoning up these demons as soon as I sit still for a few moments. Leave the past in the past.
Colette doesn’t like the way I’m holding on to her and jumps in disgust from my knee. She disappears into the laundry room.
I brush the fur from my lap. Calm down, Jessica. Calm. Down.
I close my eyes and try the breathing Drew has been telling me to practise. In, two, three. Out, two, three. It does help. My heart goes from canter to gallop. Slowly I lift my chin and open my eyes.
A dead white face is pushed up against the glass, mouth a black O of horror, staring right at me. I have time to register the glint of the eyes in the cut-outs before my screaming begins. The ghost steps back into the darkness. It vanishes as quickly as it
came.
Oh my God, oh my God. I crumple onto my knees and crawl under the table, pulling the tablecloth with me with a crash of crockery and glass. I want to run but I’m too scared to go outside. I want Drew. I grope in my pocket and try his number but he doesn’t pick up. Why doesn’t he pick up? Oh God, God. The screaming won’t stop.
Chapter 35
Michael
I meet Lizzy on the step. She’s trying to juggle a casserole dish and knock at the same time.
‘Oh, good timing, Michael. I can’t get a reply from Jessica and she’s got my key.’
Grimly, I get out my own set. The last thing I feel like tonight is a merry dinner party with my ex who shopped me to the press and my current girlfriend with her chipper attitude, but Lizzy is difficult to divert once she decides on something. Personally, all I want to do is drown my sorrows. I’m going to throw them both out, after telling Jessica what the fuck she’s done. The Principal told me my contract will be terminated for inappropriate behaviour with a student. Congratulations, Jessica, you got your revenge and I am completely destroyed. I won’t even be able to get a job in an FE college now.
Aware that I’m a little too angry, I open the door to let Lizzy through to the kitchen. Giving myself a moment to regain control, I pause to take off my shoes.
‘Jessica?’ Lizzy calls. ‘Michael, come quickly!’
I find the conservatory half of the kitchen in a shambles. The best white tablecloth, my grandmother’s Irish linen, has been dragged onto the floor and under the table. Plates, glasses and cutlery are smashed but the worst damage is done by the lake of red wine.
‘Damn it, Lizzy! These tiles are limestone – porous – I’ll never get that stain out.’
‘Shut up about the tiles, Michael. It’s Jessica. She’s under there.’ Lizzy is kneeling now and reaching towards what I now see is a white bundle of person. ‘Jessica, it’s us – Michael and me. Are you OK?’
Jessica’s reply is a whimper.
Lizzy turns to look up at me. ‘Have you ever seen her like this before?’
‘Only once, the day I checked her into the clinic at Willowbank.’ I fear Jessica has finally cracked but it’s bloody awkward that she’s chosen to do so on my turf. I’m bound to get the blame somehow. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’
‘Let’s find out if she’s hurt first.’ Lizzy pats Jessica’s ankle. ‘Are you injured, honey?’ I hear the voice that she must use for tumbles in the playground. ‘Can you come out of there so we can check?’ She gently pulls the tablecloth away from Jessica’s face. ‘I only left you here on your own for half an hour. What happened?’
Jessica looks so pale and exhausted. The clock is reset to February, when I picked her up from the headteacher’s office at Eastfields. ‘I saw something in the garden,’ she whispers. She’s shaking violently.
Lizzy glances at me so I do what is expected and look outside the back door. It reminds me of how my father used to check the wardrobe and under my bed when I was five and haunted by the idea of monsters.
‘Nope, nothing there.’ I almost say that she must have been imagining it but bite back the words. I can see that it was real to her, just as a boy’s night-time fears were to me.
‘What did you see, Jessica?’ asks Lizzy softly.
‘The Scream. Ghost face against the window.’
Lizzy looks to me for explanation.
‘That’s one of Jessica’s nightmares. She must’ve dropped off to sleep and confused a dream with reality,’ I suggest.
‘No, he was there – really there.’
‘Where?’
‘Middle window.’
I take a closer look at the pane. There does seem to be some kind of smudge on the glass, I’ll give her that, but what caused it is impossible to say. Could’ve been me getting my balance to put on wellingtons, or when Lizzy knocked on the window yesterday to be let in. Had her imagination taken the smudge and transformed it into her bogeyman? ‘He’s definitely gone if he was there,’ I say, remembering that the one thing I wanted from my father was certainty to drive off the monsters. ‘You’re safe.’
‘Oh God, why is this happening to me?’ Jessica puts her head on Lizzy’s shoulder and sobs.
I have to get her out of here. I’m the last person in a fit state to help her. ‘I’ll phone Charles.’ It’s a sign of how broken she is that Jessica doesn’t protest. I make the call from my study, explaining the situation.
‘It’s probably been too much for her – finding the body, our argument, the accusations,’ I say.
Charles is, as ever, a pillar of strength for me, reacting without fuss. ‘I’ll come and collect her. We’ll keep her in Willowbank for a day or two on complete rest, see how she is in the morning. Will she come willingly or will I need to persuade her?’
I suspect right now Jessica is as malleable as Plasticine. An ugly part of me is glad she is suffering as much as I am at the moment. ‘I think she just wants to feel safe.’
‘We can do that but I can only legally remove her from the premises if she agrees. She dismissed me as her clinician, remember?’
‘Thanks, Charles.’
‘No need to thank me, Michael. We’ve been friends long enough now for you to know that. You’d do the same for me if the position was reversed.’
I return to the kitchen. Jessica is bundled up in a blanket on the sofa. I have a disconcerting flashback to how Emma looked, sitting in that exact spot. Even at the end she was never as fragile as Jessica.
‘Jessica, Charles is coming.’
Her eyes go to mine. She looks helpless – shattered. I shouldn’t be irritated but I am.
‘I know you don’t trust him completely but he really does have your best interests at heart. If you can’t take my word for it, just think that his professional reputation is at stake. He’ll treat you as he would any patient. He thinks you need to rest. At Willowbank.’
She rubs her face with a hand. ‘I can’t go back to Drew’s alone – he’s there too.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘The Scream face.’
‘Right, OK.’ I exchange a glance with Lizzy. ‘It sounds like Willowbank is a good option then.’
‘I don’t want to be locked in – not again.’
‘You won’t be – I promise. Just bedrest.’
‘One night only – just tonight.’
‘That’s right: just a night.’ Tomorrow it would be Charles’ job to persuade her for a longer stay if she needs it. To be honest, I need her to bounce back quickly as she is doing a far better job of clearing up the confusion around those girls than the police. ‘And don’t worry about the bill. I’ll cover it.’
She closes her eyes and rests her forehead on her knees. ‘Thanks. Tell Drew for me?’
Lizzy eases Jessica’s phone out of her hand. ‘Is he on this?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll send him a text, giving him my number. It might be easier for him to call me than Michael.’
‘He hates Michael’s guts. Thinks he’s a prick.’
I’m a little relieved by the insults. Sounds like Jessica is getting her feet back under her. ‘The sentiment is reciprocated,’ I say.
‘That’s what I told him.’
Jessica doesn’t speak much after that. She barely registers Charles’ arrival and follows him, docile as a lamb, out to his car. I listen in on what little conversation she does hold with him. I can’t escort them all the way to the vehicle in case the press are watching but I remain just inside so I can see that they get away without intrusive questioning. ‘Sex Pest’s girlfriend in emotional collapse’ is not a story I want on the next twenty-four-hour news cycle.
‘Is he really there – the screaming ghost?’ she asks. ‘He feels so real – I can’t tell the difference.’
‘I don’t know what you saw, Jessica, but I do know that ghosts aren’t real. I’m wondering if we need to adjust your medication.’ Charles opens the door for her. ‘You might be reacting
badly to the Ritalin. It can have side effects in some patients, including hallucinations.’
‘So I’m not going mad? It’s the pills?’
‘That’s my hunch. Your mind is dwelling on those stories in the news about murder – of course all the horrors in your past will surface – it’s a natural reaction. But let’s get you to Willowbank and do a complete assessment.’
They get in the back and the car pulls away. I wonder how much all this will end up costing me. Bloody ironic that I’m footing the bill for the woman who just lost me my income. But at least she’s gone.
I return to the kitchen and find that Lizzy has made a start on cleaning up the mess. She’s staring at the wine stain, hands on hips. Despite her attempts to mop it up, there’s a distinct pink tinge to the slabs.
‘Any ideas what we can do about this?’ she asks.
‘Leave it. I’ll ask a flooring expert when I can be bothered.’
‘There’s supper if you can manage it.’
We both look at the casserole, neither of us making a move.
‘I’ve never seen her like that,’ Lizzy admits. ‘It shocked me.’
‘Jessica does a fairly good job of hiding how fragile she is most of the time. People never believe me when I try and tell them.’ Kicking myself mentally into action, I open a cupboard and take out two plates. ‘Let’s eat. No point letting it go to waste.’
‘OK. You serve. I’ve just had a text back from Jessica’s Drew. He wants to know where she is.’
‘It’s best Jessica has a quiet night. Tell him she’s receiving care and you’ll send him the address when you get it in the morning.’
‘But she’s at Willowbank, isn’t she?’
‘Yes – and do you know the address?’
‘No, but you do.’
‘And I’ll tell you in the morning. That way, you don’t even have to lie.’
Lizzy doesn’t look too happy but sends the text. ‘I’ll have to put it on do not disturb or he’s going to be ringing me next.’
Don’t Trust Me Page 23