by Naomi Joy
‘Yes, just me,’ I reply, forcing a smile and following the waitress inside. ‘Actually, could I take this table?’ I ask, hopeful.
I withhold the fact that I’ve been loitering outside the restaurant for half an hour waiting for this particular table to become available.
‘Sure,’ she says breezily and clears the lipstick-stained glasses and dirty tableware from the table-for-two behind Mandy and her friend.
This is why I am here.
I’d paid a visit to my favourite Battersea residence after work today, arriving just in time to see Mandy shooting out of the door. I’d noticed the lights were off in the rest of the house which meant Rick wasn’t home yet. I’d wondered where she was going, all dressed up, hair straightened, the bruises I’d given her painted over, faded skinny jeans seemingly sprayed to her legs, and had thought, just for a moment, that she might be meeting another man. I was wrong, though. Tonight was just dinner with a girlfriend. ‘Table for two’, one of them will have said to the same waitress earlier on, her request met with a nod and silent social acceptance. Dinner with a friend is good, really good, the sign of all being well, of normal adults enjoying one another’s company, the waitress would have wanted Mandy and her pal to think she was one of them so she’d have smiled, joked with them, asked them how they were doing tonight. She’d frowned at me, of course, she’d wanted me to know that she wasn’t a table-for-one kind of girl, not like me. I imagine she’s already bitching about me to another waitress.
I sit facing them, Mandy’s back to me and, as soon as the waitress leaves, I edge the table closer so I can overhear their conversation. I check my face in my compact mirror: I’ve probably overdone it on the lip fillers recently, but the doll look is in fashion, so I’m lucky. I’ve drawn my eyebrows in long arches across my brow bones and parted my hair centrally, so I look a little different. I imagine my name would be something like Jodie, or Josephine. I duck my lashes to the mirror as I close it, hide half of my face behind my sweeping, two-tone hair, and lean on my palm, elbow on the table, as I edge closer, hoping I’m not too late for the gossip. I note that they’ve already eaten, their main courses cleared, but a half-drunk bottle of wine sits expectantly on the table.
‘It’s one thing after the next for you, darling,’ says Mandy’s friend, chocolate corkscrew curls looping down her back. ‘You just can’t catch a break. Poor duck.’
As I listen, I’m handed a menu and told the specials are tikka turkey, lamb rolls and pork stew.
‘I’m pescatarian, actually, do you have anything?’
I don’t mind the idea of eating fish, swimming in fresh water most of their lives, but the thought of ingesting pigs and chickens and cattle, forced to live in cages ridden with their own excrement, is just, frankly, revolting. I struggle with vegetables from manured fields, too. I refuse to buy organic. I’d much rather my vegetables grow thanks to chemical intervention than being coated with faecal matter.
‘Oh yah, of course, the grilled cod is good or, the black bean potato bake?’ replies the waitress, her pseudo-posh accent jarring with the rest of her look: tattoos, pink hair, large-framed glasses.
‘Great, I’ll get the cod.’ I hesitate for a moment, but know I have to ask, ‘This is an odd request… but, could you make sure the separate parts of the meal don’t touch?’
She pauses for a moment. God knows what she’s thinking. Then she replies, saying far too much to reassure me.
‘Absolutely, no problem at all. Separate, like, cod one side, lentils the other, kale at the bottom. I get it, believe me, I’ve had much stranger requests than that.’ She hasn’t.
‘I’ll get that going for you right away, miss,’ she says, pity in her eyes.
‘Thanks so much,’ I reply, embarrassed, unwrapping my scarf from my neck, static buzzing in its fibres.
I wonder what Rick’s doing for dinner tonight.
I turn my attention back to Mandy and, now that I’m able to get a proper look, I can see she’s emotional about something.
‘There’s nothing I can do to change your mind?’ Mandy pleads, her sleeve under her nose, slimy trail left behind. ‘I just want to go back, you know, undo it all.’
Her friend grabs her hand and I look away, close my eyes, focus only on what she’s saying to Mandy, doing my best to drown out the background noise. ‘I’m sorry, Mandy, but the feedback has been the same for a while. Production companies won’t touch you with your association to a suspected killer, especially with this podcast blowing up.’ This is her agent, not her friend. ‘You’ve been standing by him since the break-in and all it does is make you look culpable. Times have changed, bad publicity isn’t better than no publicity in 2020. My advice is to get out, move abroad and start again somewhere else. Canada, perhaps, there’s good work to be had over there. I’m sorry, Mandy, but I can’t help you anymore.’
*
I follow Mandy home, the patter of rain against my umbrella, and hang back when I reach her cul-de-sac, taking a moment to let her get ahead – women are far more aware of people following them, so I have to be careful. Once I’m confident she’s inside, I power-walk along the pavement, check the couple at number 50 haven’t returned from holiday yet, then head determinedly for their garden. I creak their shed door open to shelter from the weather, careful not to attract any unwanted attention, hit by the faint smell of moss, then settle down to the perfect view of my favourite house.
I watch Mandy flit between rooms, curling her hair into a twisty bun on the back of her head, pouring a glass of water, snacking on something small from the refrigerator and sighing as she picks up her phone, reading something on the screen with increasing irritation. I can only imagine what it might say: Sorry. Working late tonight. And tomorrow. Don’t wait up. R.
Rick
Thirteen Years Ago – 2007
The ambulance sped through the centre of Oxford to the hospital, the roads cramped with people and vehicles, Tabby gurgling from the stretcher, me rattling in the jump seat by her side, my hands pressed hard against my head, trying to keep it in place.
Tabby was punch-drunk and pill-filled, her cheeks covered with bile, her legs covered with blood. I wanted to hit her, shout at her. Are you fucking crazy? Not that I needed the answer.
I’d arrived at her foster parents’ place, breathless. She’d sent me a strange text, then a voicemail, and, as soon as I heard her slurring, I ran over to make sure she was OK. The spectacled face of her foster dad eyed me up on the way in. Ever since Tabby fell pregnant, the milk was somewhat spilt, so they’d given up trying to keep me from her, but it didn’t mean they had to like me, or let me in. I didn’t give them much of a chance when I arrived, barging past her father and taking the stairs up to her bedroom two at a time. I’d thumped on her door to shouts of, ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ behind me. When she didn’t answer, I tried to force it open, and, when that didn’t work, I tried to kick it down, shouting at her slack-jawed parents to call for help. The wood splintered under my heavy shoe and I didn’t have to step into the room to know something was horribly wrong. It almost hummed, a silent chant of foreboding that linked with the dark orange glow of her bedside lamp. I poked my head closer and what I saw sent a jackhammer scream from my body. I froze, for a moment, with the shock.
Tabby was leaking ruby-red blood, some of it thick and black, onto the carpet, empty packets of pills by her side, a bottle of vodka in her hand. Drip, drip, drip, it went.
‘What have you done?’ I half-screamed, half-cried at her burbling body, and the angry, protective father that had been developing somewhere inside me wanted to strangle her for hurting our child. Instead, I picked her up, twitching and urgent, a vein throbbing over her foster father’s temple as I’d shouted at him to move!
Her head had lolled backwards as we’d passed him, then jerked up, spraying blood all over me in vengeful protest as I’d carried her outside. I’d waited on the pavement for the ambulance, Tabby fading in my arms, my shirt
stained in her mistake.
I watched the Oxford lights fade into the distance, the blue from the sirens overhead the only thing I could see, that and miles of tarmacked road stretching out ahead.
‘Your girlfriend… she’s going to be OK,’ the paramedic said, her luminous jacket too big for her body. Tabby groaned in the bed as we lurched over a bump in the road – clumsy and confuddled.
‘What about the baby?’ I asked.
‘We’ll have to wait for the scan,’ she replied, smiling bravely at me. ‘You be strong for her, OK, lad?’
She took in the blood splatter all over my top and read me wrongly, thought I could handle this, that I was someone who’d be strong enough to step up. Actions speak louder than words. She saw me faltering and drew close. ‘Listen, lad, people don’t try to kill themselves because they want to, they do it because they feel as though they don’t have any other choice. Go easy on her when she wakes up.’
Was she right? I look at Tabby’s milk-white face and imagine what she’d say if she could speak. You chose Saskia once, I accused you of rape. You chose Saskia twice, I killed our baby.
How long did she want to keep doing this dance?
How long did I?
Annabella
Now
An alert flashes bright on my phone screen, barely morning outside, the blue light making me squint. Breaking News, Live Episode.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Kay says, her tone solemn. ‘Further details about the body found buried on Brimley Farm in Dartford have been released.’
It’s Kay’s first live episode, and I have to say I like the immediacy of it, the up-to-the-minute reporting that ensures her show isn’t left behind.
‘Police say the victim’s hands and teeth had been removed before burial, they believe this was a deliberate effort to obscure the victim’s identity. The body itself is in a bad state of decomposition and police can only identify the victim as a white female with a small oval-shaped birthmark on her stomach.’
My heart pounds, pushing blood from my head to my gut. I try to remember if Tabby had a small birthmark on her stomach but can’t be sure. What had the killer done to her face that meant it couldn’t be identified?
‘In a further development, a police dog team are in action at Brimley Farm this morning… I suppose the authorities are wondering if this is the only body on the property.’
*
After the broadcast, I send a Kay a message.
Do you have any more info that you couldn’t say on air?
That’s it. But the gambler in me guesses the body is Tabby’s mother. We haven’t been able to track her down and the way Ernie spoke about her… it still chills me.
There’s a brief pause as Kay types out the second part of her message.
While we wait for more on the body… I have news for you.
I sit up, awaiting my instructions.
Mandy’s a member of some running club in Battersea. She goes every Saturday. A decent number of them belong to the run club’s Facebook group. Anyway, I spoke to a few… Mandy’s been out of acting work for a while, apparently. And, according to the people I spoke to, she keeps her private life very private. They know she’s in a long-term relationship but, from what they were saying, she doesn’t speak about Rick. At all.
I read Kay’s message wondering where she is. I can never imagine her calming down enough to sleep so, even though it’s early morning, I struggle to picture her in bed. I suspect she lies there every night, for a while, then has an idea too good to forget so springs out again, grabbing a scrap piece of paper from the myriad littering the floor to jot it down. She probably repeats the process until the sun rises and she can get going all over again.
You found all this out from a Facebook group?
Don’t sound so surprised! I know how to get information from people… it’s what I do. Anyway, you’re going there today. You have two hours. Grab your running shoes.
I scroll down to another message, from Rick.
Dinner this week? X
*
The run club’s Saturday jog loops a series of pretty parks in South London. Green open spaces, tree-lined and grassy, the vista slightly frosty in the winter air. Mandy’s figure is all muscle in front of me, save for a crazed halo of hair, pulled scrappily into a ponytail. She wears full-length leggings, svelte over her angles, and a money belt that bobs in time with her strides.
Though Kay had thought about joining us on the loop, she’d decided that taking part in physical activity might blow her cover. ‘I haven’t exercised in years,’ she told me. ‘I don’t think I could run for five minutes let alone five kilometres! You stick with her, but not too close, give her space, but talk to her, let her know you like her shoes or something, or ask for help. Tell her you work in TV – so she thinks you might be able to help her career – and that you’re newly single – make sure she knows you’re single, she might reach out to you about her failing relationship – but don’t leave her with the impression you’re hitting on her.’
I’d ended our conversation a little confused and told Kay I’d try my best. She clearly didn’t think that was good enough so she told me she’d sit in a car at the start/finish of the loop so we could catch up afterwards. I imagined her now in her burgundy Volvo, a near-PI-parody pair of dark glasses covering most of her face, baseball cap pulled low to her nose, fiddling with the wind-down windows, adjusting her shirt, unable to sit still.
Mandy and I, along with twenty or so other runners, pound the tarmac back to the starting point and, though I’m almost last, I am proud that I have manged to keep up with them. An older man whose shorts are white and nappy-like, with droopy skin that’s slipped down his face and gathered at his jaw – gravity from the constant up down, up down, of running pulling hard at his features – accosts me as I pace over to Mandy.
‘Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?’ he asks, sweat fizzing across his forehead.
‘Oh, that’s sweet, thank you,’ I reply through a quarter-smile, wondering, genuinely, where he thinks this conversation will go next. And then I have an idea – use it to my advantage.
‘You know, my boyfriend used to, but he dumped me four months ago so…’ I almost shout the line, hoping Mandy will hear.
‘Why would anyone get rid of a pretty thing like you?’
My skin crawls as the man draws closer, his words sticking to me like blood-thirsty leeches. It’s then that Mandy turns – her features finally facing me – and I assess quickly that, in addition to the Botox, she’s had a nose job. It doesn’t suit the round of the rest of her face – it’s too tiny and pinched and it unbalances her. She should have come to me for a consultation, I’d have advised her to keep more width, personally. Her eyes are dark and she’s wearing false lashes – even for a run – and, if I wanted to sum her up after this second first impression, I’d go for… insecure.
She turns to me, looks me dead in the eyes, and – just for a second, I think she’s going to intervene, to ask if I need any help – but instead she looks horrified and walks away.
I hesitate, my legs stuck for a moment before gathering myself to race in her direction, nappy-man bleating something about catching up next week. I can’t let her slip through my fingers; Kay would be furious.
‘Hey,’ I pant, running after her. ‘Do you mind if I join you for a moment? That guy…’ I gesture behind me. ‘He won’t leave me alone.’
She doesn’t make eye contact. ‘Sure,’ she says, though I can tell she’s uneasy about speaking to me. She’d be even less keen to speak to me if she knew how much time I’d been spending with Rick.
‘I was actually hoping to talk to you earlier,’ I blurt, my mouth moving before my brain has a chance to engage.
‘You were?’ she asks, audibly surprised. ‘About…?’
‘Your leggings, I wanted to ask where you got them from. They’re gorgeous.’
We look down at her black leggings simultaneously. They’re ni
ce, sure, but they’re not particularly special. They’re certainly not gorgeous.
Kay’s voice rings between my ears: Make sure you don’t come off like you’re hitting on her.
Mandy shrugs, the breeze fluttering at her ponytail, and I can tell she’s trying to figure me out: lesbian, true-crime fan-girl, psycho, or… hopefully just a nervous newbie? My brain plays me an unhelpful reminder of the last time we were stood in such proximity: the night I’d caved in her skull and left her bleeding on the carpet. If Mandy knew all that I had done to her, she would wish me dead.
‘Nike,’ she replies curtly, revealing the obvious white swoosh on the right side of the design. This only serves to make me look more stupid and I realise I have to think on my feet, like Kay does, find Mandy’s weakness, feel my way into the corners of her mind.
The problem is, if it is Mandy behind the messages, as Kay suspects, then what if she followed Rick the other night and saw me? If I’m not honest about who I am and what I want, I could well lose my chance to speak to her.
‘Listen,’ I begin. ‘I know this is going to sound bizarre, but I’m part of a team making a podcast about the disappearance of Tabitha Rice.’
Mandy’s expression completely changes when I say these words, her anxious half-smile replaced with one hard line, and she takes a step backwards. She wants to get away from me.
‘I don’t want to scare you, I just think we could use your help. We’ve found some things out about Rick that might interest you. Our lead reporter is just around the corner. She’d love to talk to you.’ Mandy’s eyes dart to the corners of their sockets as she looks. ‘What do you say?’ I ask. ‘Do you want to meet her? Do you want to help?’