by Naomi Joy
‘I Googled you the other day,’ I tell him, a bottle of red wine reaching our table shortly afterwards.
‘You did?’ Rick asks, tentative.
‘I wanted to read about what you’ve been through these past few years. What you’ve had to put up with.’
Rick takes my wine glass and pours me a large glass, filling his with half the amount. Interesting tactic. I will have to drink slowly, I won’t let him top me up again. I won’t go to the toilet in case he puts something in my glass.
‘I read about a break-in…’
‘Mmm,’ he replies. ‘I thought you might find out about that.’ There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. ‘You’ve probably been wondering about me and Mandy.’
I bring the wine to my lips. ‘You let me assume you were single.’
‘Mandy and I have an arrangement.’
My mind flashes back to the bank statements I’d held between gloved fingers in the middle of the night, of the separate bedrooms they slept in.
‘What kind?’
‘It’s complicated.’
I cock an eyebrow.
I think back to my months of surveillance. It would certainly explain the look he gives the spin-class instructor as she ups the resistance on her bike, how the barista at his favourite coffee shop flirts with him, the way he acts in front of me now, lusty eyed and hard jawed.
‘What would happen if Mandy knew where you were tonight?’
‘She wouldn’t care,’ he replies. ‘We can see other people, we just have to be careful.’
‘Is that what you’d say we’re doing?’ I ask. ‘Seeing each other?’
Rick crosses his legs and laughs nervously to cover his embarrassment. ‘I’m not sure what I’d call it. Do you have any ideas?’
I tuck my lips and look up at the ceiling. ‘It’s been nice.’
‘You want to be careful, giving me compliments as gushing as that,’ Rick jokes. ‘But seriously, whatever this is, meeting up, catching up, why do we have to define it? We’re enjoying each other’s company. Why don’t we leave the subject of Tabby alone tonight? Why don’t we just pretend we’re normal?’
*
We talk long into the night, the numbers in the bar thinning, the bubbles from the prosecco Rick’s just ordered bursting behind my eyes. I learn that Rick’s family haven’t forgiven him for the rape charge Tabby filed against him at university, that people in the small community he comes from still call him names. Apparently, his younger brother was scouted for Norwich City Football Club when he was fifteen but, when headlines about Rick’s rape made the papers, the club dropped his brother in favour of another rising star. ‘That’s the real reason they’ve never forgiven me,’ Rick says. ‘I go home once a year, for Christmas, deposit a load of shiny gifts then leave as quickly as I arrived. Behind my back they accuse me of “trying to buy their love” but when the shiny gifts aren’t shiny enough, similarly accuse me of being “cheap” and “not caring about them anymore.” It’s lose-lose and one of these days I’m going to have to stop trying.’
I tell him I come from an unhappy family too.
Later, the bar grows rowdier, and he leads me outside, his palm wrapped tight to mine.
‘I really like you, Annabella,’ he says, curling a hand round my ear, bringing it down to my chin.
My stomach clenches and I take a moment before I reply.
‘I’ve had a wonderful night.’
He breathes out, smiles at me, and I notice the way his cheekbones catch the light.
‘Me too.’
He loops an arm behind my back and pulls me closer and, though I know I should be scared, because of the wine I find that I’m not. I lean into him, holding him in return and, as our bodies press into each other, I feel the outline of his phone in his jacket pocket. The zip is sagging open, the phone within my reach. He looks down at me and lunges for my lips and, though my initial instinct is to pull away, in the rush, in the distraction, I use it to my advantage and press my fingers into his jacket and sneak his phone into the sleeve of my coat. I hold my lips against his for a second longer then release.
‘Sorry,’ he says, breaking away. ‘I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t want to make this more complicated than it already is.’
‘It’s OK,’ I reassure him. ‘Life’s complicated. Let’s just take things slowly.’
He smiles at me, a sigh of relief leaving his puffed-up chest as I tell him not to worry, as I convince him that I feel the same way he feels about me. We part ways and I watch him walk into the night, his taste on my lips, his phone up my sleeve.
*
I know how this must look: late night following date night, four glasses of prosecco and half a bottle of wine down, sad mid-thirties woman installing a spyware app on her would-be lover’s mobile phone round the corner from the bar he’s just left her at. My mind spins with questions of whether I’m doing the right thing – but this will confirm it. If Rick isn’t lying, he’ll have nothing to hide.
I must be quick. I key in the code I’d memorised the day I’d gone to Rick’s spin class and watched him type it in. 303030.
Annabella never forgets.
I install the programme Kay suggested – i-Spy – and click through the various approvals, then I hide the app in a folder marked ‘iPhone programmes’ alongside a whole trove of apps Rick clearly never uses – Assistant, Watch, Voice memos – then I go back into the bar. I curl my hair up into a scruffy bun and take off my jacket – just in case someone remembers me – then head up to the manager whose finely-trimmed facial hair follows the curve of his jaw in rigid, right-angles.
‘I found this on the table at the back,’ I say, wide-eyed. ‘Thought I should hand it in.’
I take a seat at the far end of the establishment, the opposite side to where Rick and I sat. I order a sparkling water from the server. I haven’t been drunk for a long time and I need to sober up quickly, I must not let the alcohol get to me.
Fifteen minutes later, Rick appears, drizzle stuck to his face, vein pulsating over his forehead with the stress. I wonder if he’d been thinking about texting me and had gone for his pocket to pick up his phone, his brain running draft messages, the words clumping together, replaced with worry when he found it wasn’t there. I sink lower into my seat and angle my body behind a group in front of me, my eyes glued to Rick as his powerful arms gesticulate towards the manager.
Before he can finish his sentence, the man with the finely trimmed beard bends beneath the desk and, between the menus and the extra cutlery, fishes for Rick’s phone. He hands it back to him with a wide smile.
‘That was lucky,’ I watch him mouth, over-excited.
I wait until I’ve finished my water and, just as I’m swallowing the dregs, a plum-faced early-twenties ex-Rugby boy with drowsy eyes makes his way towards me, slamming a half-swigged pint of lager on my table, his mouth halfway to opening. ‘What’s a girl like you doing all alone on a night like—’
I leave.
The rain is coming down harder now and I let it soak me, sumptuous drops splashing my face as I stride home. I can’t stop thinking about Rick. We kissed. I didn’t pull away. Then I betrayed him. The solid lines I’d drawn between the real me and the me who sees Rick are blurring, the rain running the ink together so it’s impossible to see where one ends and the other begins. What do I think about him now? Who do I trust?
I power down the final home-straight, cars blinking, the wider London skyline sparkling to the East, high-rises glittering through the darkness.
I push my palm into my key, twisting it to the left, then open the door. My phone buzzes in my pocket, a message from i-Spy, sent to Rick’s phone then forwarded to mine, glows:
Stop what you’re doing, Rick. Trust me, this path doesn’t end well for you.
Tabby
Thirteen Years Ago – 2007
I locked the door to my bubble-gum bedroom and sat in the dark by myself, the baby kicking up against my ribs. I felt you
ng here, childlike, far too young to be carrying a baby of my own.
I’d gone to a refuge when I’d found out I was pregnant, stayed with Rick in between, then came crawling back to my foster parents when it all imploded. At first, they weren’t interested in helping me. They saw it like this: now that I was pregnant, I was an adult. Now that I was pregnant, I was bringing them another mouth to feed, another burden to bear, another problem to solve, more forms to fill in. Then, when I threatened to tell the council that I’d been living away and that they’d been claiming their allowance fraudulently, they let me back in. Said I could stay for a few nights while we worked things out.
It had only been a week, but they’d made their feelings clear: they wanted me gone. They’d called my bluff, spoke to our local authority, and told them I’d been in and out of their care for the last few months, that they hadn’t known that I was pregnant, that I’d run away and come back more times than they could keep up with, that I was behaving erratically and that they couldn’t cope anymore. They needed me gone. As soon as possible.
My biological parents. My grandfather. My boyfriend. My foster parents. All of them have left me. And, even though it’s not here yet, the baby will too. The baby will be taken away as soon as it arrives, and I’ll be alone.
I imagined Marie, my real mother, coming to me tonight, turning up on the front door with a giant teddy bear, a bag of sweets, and the news that she’d won the lottery.
‘Sorry I abandoned you, baby,’ she’d whisper, and I’d hold my head, blurry-eyed, against her body, warmth radiating from her. Home.
Knowing that would never happen pushed me to a darker place. I never asked for this life and, honestly, I was sick of it. No one wanted me here.
I sifted through the boxes under my bed, looking in all of my old hiding places for something I could use. In the first box, I found a pen knife. I unfurled it, a little rusty, and pressed the blade against my skin, poking holes in my hand, wincing as I dared myself to dig in and draw blood. I kitten-yowled as a perfect ruby appeared beneath the tip of it, pricking the end of my index finger, testing the limits of my bravery and coming up short.
I stuck my hand in to the next box and pulled out a newspaper article. Marie Rice, 38, is wanted in connection with a number of robberies in the East London area, but has skipped bail and is on the run. I clutched it and red glistened beneath my grip on one side, spoiling the article. I threw it down and jammed my finger into my mouth, blood on my lips, rolling down my chin.
In the next box, I found an ancient bottle of vodka, the label flaking away. I opened it, brought it to my lips, then chugged it, brightening as the liquid roared at the pit of my stomach.
‘What are you waiting for?’ my foster mother hissed at me, her long, wiry hair curling round my neck like a boa constrictor, tying me tighter, my face changing from pink to blue. A hallucination. It must have been.
I staggered to standing, dribbling on my sweater, the vodka rushing to my head. I pulled open the drawer beneath my bedside table and retrieved a packet of pills I’d been given for my acne when I was a teenager. I’d stopped taking them a year ago and there was a warning on the front. The first thing you saw when you picked this medication up: Roaccutane can seriously harm unborn babies. Women must use effective contraception when using this drug. I pulled out some other pills from underneath, painkillers, mostly.
I burst the seals, took the vodka, wanting to escape, wanting all of this to end. I dialled Rick after it was done.
‘I’m sorry,’ I slurred, or texted, I can’t remember which, maybe both. Then I downed the rest of the bottle and closed my eyes, waiting for someone to lead me out of this life and into a better one.
Annabella
Now
‘Someone’s threatening Rick,’ I rush to tell Kay, breathless into the mouthpiece as I catch a cab to see her.
‘What? Slow down. Who?’
‘I just got back from drinks with Rick and… shit.’ I swear, not a particular habit of mine, but it’s hard to find the words.
‘Come over,’ Kay told me. ‘Quick as you can.’
She hangs up and I try to steady my breath, the cab driver’s eyes twitching over me. My mind rushes to Rick and I think about calling him to check he’s not in trouble. I steady myself. That’s not the right thing to do.
‘You OK?’ the taxi driver asks from the front, the intercom system clicking on and off.
‘Fine,’ I tell him, rubbing my hand against my forehead.
Am I OK?
*
Drained of energy, I head inside Kay’s home for the second time in as many weeks. Ever since Kay had taken my hand and pulled me deeper into this case, my perceptions have tilted, shifted on their axis, and I’m beginning to wonder if this is going to end the way I’d planned, the way I’d hoped.
Sitting at Kay’s kitchen table in the middle of the night – sweater sleeves pulled into my fists to avoid touching its surface – I show her the message.
Her sleepy eyes fall to the screen in front of us and she pushes highlighted articles and overfilled folders out of the way to bring it towards her. Kay’s always working on a million projects at once – commissions, consulting for TV documentaries, sniffing for stories for her podcast series – but still she finds the time for me. She’s a good friend, and an even better detective.
‘It’s very threatening, isn’t it?’ Kay marvels. ‘Though I hate to say it, death threats aren’t uncommon in these types of investigations. We should take it as good news; it means we’re getting closer. Have you run the number?’
‘No,’ I tell her.
Kay takes the phone from the table, squinting at the number, then runs it through an online database. A few moments later, she scowls at the screen. ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Not that I’m surprised.’
‘On my way over, I was wondering, what if it’s the same person as the doctor? What if he’s out to get them both?’ I can hear the panic in my voice. ‘What if Rick had nothing to do with Tabby’s disappearance? What if this message proves it?’
‘Slow down,’ Kay tells me. ‘Let’s be logical,’ she says. ‘And I want you to bear something in mind: we only know about the doctor in the first place because we’re taking Rick’s word for it.’
I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘He didn’t know I knew about Turkey. That’s how I know he’s telling the truth.’ I can’t believe I’m sticking up for him, but here we are.
‘Let’s rewind for a moment,’ Kay says, focused on the message in front of her. ‘The night you found those bank statements. What if the payments Rick made have something to do with this message? Whoever he’s paying could well be blackmailing him in other ways.’
I jump on the thread, filling Kay in with the details from our dinner. ‘Rick told me something,’ I say, recalling his words. ‘He was cagey with the details, but admitted that he and Mandy have some sort of arrangement.’
Kay scrawls Mandy’s name on her notepad. Her image comes to me then: the damsel who I’d distressed, crushing her petrified face in on itself the night I broke into her home. I can’t stop thinking about what I have done to get here, flashes of myself that night play in maddening loops. When I open my eyes, Kay’s partner Tom is standing at the threshold of the kitchen door in navy blue pyjamas.
‘Sorry, I’m keeping you both up,’ I rush to say, embarrassed by my presence in their home at this time of night.
‘No not to worry, you’re doing important work, don’t mind me,’ he says reassuringly, moving towards Kay to say goodnight. She doesn’t lose her focus as he leans in to kiss her forehead, but mumbles something to him about being up in a minute. When he pulls away, I notice his fingernails are dirty, black crescent-moons on each tip. My stomach loosens, but I bite through my queasiness to wish him goodnight, reminding myself that he likes to work in the garden and that I’m one with the problem, not him.
Kay looks up at me. ‘This is what I think,’ Kay says, pouring herself a glass of water from the cloudy p
itcher on the table – goodness knows how long it’s been there. ‘I think Mandy knows what happened to Tabby and Rick’s paying her to keep quiet. What if they were together for a while, then, I don’t know, Mandy found something Rick couldn’t explain away. After that, he had no choice but to tell her what happened. He couldn’t kill her, that would be too obvious. So now he pays for her silence and their relationship is… well, like he said, it’s more of an arrangement.’
The tips of my fingers ice.
‘And now she’s worried the pipeline’s about to be switched off,’ Kay says. ‘Because of you.’
Kay flips back to the first page of her pad, drawing a circle round Mandy’s name. ‘All roads lead to Mandy. We need to find her.’
*
There’s something acutely embarrassing about going to dinner alone.
‘Table for one?’ the waitress asks, purely in the hope I’ll correct her as I loiter by the Please wait to be seated sign. It’s not as bad at lunchtime, completely acceptable over coffee, but dinner by yourself is, frankly, indulgent. Suspicious. Why would anyone choose to sit in a sweaty mass of people if the other option is a home-cooked meal and a night in front of the TV? Unless you’re travelling, of course, in which case… why not get room service? There must be something very, very wrong if what you’ve decided to do with your evening is spend it isolated in the noisy company of strangers. All these thoughts run through my head as I reply to the bespectacled waitress, cursing Kay for being at some ‘concert’ she couldn’t miss. I like the idea that the concert isn’t her choice, but her teenager daughter’s, and that Kay’s catatonic in a mass of squawking girls, each screaming slightly different lyrics at the top of their lungs to a clutch of baby-faced popstars. Kay loves these missions, if it wasn’t something like that, she’d have dropped everything to join me, even though I only asked her thirty minutes ago.