Greenwich Park

by Katherine Faulkner

DCI Carter stares down at the table. ‘Katie, I appreciate your concern for Rachel but …’ He scratches the back of his head. ‘We’re talking here about stuff that might not even be in the case files.’

  ‘You’d have it, though. You’d have the names. In your notebooks. Wouldn’t you?’ I know I’m right. ‘You wouldn’t close a file on a case like that. They’d be somewhere. You know they would.’

  DCI Carter shakes his head, holds his hands up. ‘Katie, I can’t help you,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve said too much already.’

  I stand up. I feel heat rising to my face. ‘Fine,’ I say.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going back to Greenwich. If you’re not going to tell me, then I’ll just have to ask them myself.’

  ‘Katie, wait –’

  I get in my car and start the engine. I pull my steering wheel round and speed out of the car park, snowflakes swirling on my windscreen. Before I pull off, I see him still at the table, turning his phone over and over in front of him.

  KATIE

  The pavements on Maze Hill aren’t gritted. The steps up to her house shine like icy mirrors. I bang the elegant knocker, then ring the bell. Nothing. The painted shutters in the bay window are closed, the lavender on the windowsills in grey-green hibernation. There are lumps of snow nestled on the soil inside the pot.

  Irritated, I lean over and bash on the glass of the spotless bay window. The sound seems to echo around the cold, quiet street. There are no cars on the drive, no one on the pavements. Fuck, I think. Rory must still be at the police station. But where is Serena?

  Then I remember – her studio. I’ve never actually been there, but I’m sure Helen said it was around here somewhere. I bet she’s there. I call Helen, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. Fuck. I’ll have to go round and ask her. She’ll have the address.

  As I get back to my car, my phone rings.

  ‘Katie? It’s Mark Carter.’

  I switch the phone between my elbow and my ear so that I can rub my freezing hands together.

  Carter is breathing rapidly. I hear a rustle of paper, the noise of the wind in the background – he has to lift his voice to speak over it. ‘I had a quick look. I haven’t got access to everything. I don’t have a record of the woman – not that I can get to easily,’ he says. ‘But I found the guy, all right?’ He pauses. ‘The guy’s name wasn’t Rory. It was a Daniel. Daniel Thorpe. Is that the Daniel you mentioned?’

  I stare across the road. You can see the park gates from here. Children in hats and scarves, people with bags of Christmas shopping.

  ‘Look, between us, Katie – I’ve called homicide, spoke to the SIO. I’ve passed the information on. That’s all I can do. But listen. If you think this Thorpe could be involved, Katie – do me a favour. Don’t approach him.’

  I think about Helen. About the set of house keys she pressed into my hands. The look on her face, almost as if she knew that something bad was going to happen. I turn on the ignition. Her house is only five minutes from here. Less in the car.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Katie? This Daniel Thorpe. I don’t want you to approach him, OK? Katie? Katie?’

  I hang up, throw my phone into the passenger footwell. Then I start to drive.

  HELEN

  I lean against the wall, rest my forehead on the back of my hands, and rock my hips from side to side, as if to move them out of the way of the pain. But it chases me, to and fro, stronger every time. And then I feel a wetness. I try to get to the bathroom but I’m forced to crawl. There is fluid on my legs.

  When I get to the bathroom I see the black-green marks. The waters should be clear. Not like this. I have read the books. I know this is a bad sign, a warning. I need to get to the hospital.

  I stumble back into the spare room and pick up my phone. It’s charged up a bit now, but there is nothing from Daniel. I call Katie once, then twice, but there’s no answer from her either. In desperation, I dial 999. The pain comes again, and I put the phone on speaker while I grip the sides of the chair, try to breathe through it. It rings and rings. Come on, I think. Come on.

  I’m listening so hard for the operator to pick up that I don’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, the floorboards on the landing creak. I don’t hear anything at all until he is there, with me, in the room.

  As soon as I see him, I’m flooded with relief.

  ‘Oh, Daniel, thank God,’ I say. I feel a sob rising in my chest. ‘Thank God you came. I think we need to call the police and … and I think the baby is coming.’

  I’m already anticipating the familiar, woody smell of him, the smell of his pencil shavings and ink, the smell of books and clean sheets and safety. But then I see there is something strange about his face. The bags under his eyes are so deep now, he almost looks like someone else. But it’s not that. It’s something in the eyes themselves. Something I have never seen before.

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen,’ he says quietly.

  ‘What?’

  And only then do I notice that he is holding something in his hands. The vase.

  There is a white flash of pain as it slams against my skull. And then everything goes black.

  KATIE

  There’s no answer at Helen’s house. All the blinds are pulled down, the shutters closed. I call Helen’s mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail. Perhaps she has turned it off so she can sleep. I suppose she could have gone into labour. I wonder if I should walk away, give her a ring later. But something makes me stop. Their car is on the drive. It’s too early for Daniel to be home. Something feels wrong. Something I can’t put my finger on.

  I kneel at the door and push open the brass flap to look inside. Helen’s hospital bag is sitting by the door, neatly packed. Her maternity notes are sticking out of the top in their blue folder. I know Helen – she doesn’t go anywhere without that bag. Not now. She dragged it all the way to Dartmouth Park with her the other night. No, Helen is here. She must be. I’ll just check she’s all right.

  I feel for the spare set of keys she gave me the other day. It takes me a few moments to work the unfamiliar lock, but with a final twist, the catch gives way. As I cross the threshold, the atmosphere changes, the silence inside feels heavy.

  ‘Hello? Helen? Are you here?’

  Daniel appears at the top of the stairs. He stares at me. He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Oh, hi, Daniel,’ I say. ‘Is Helen here?’

  Daniel’s face changes. He smiles. ‘Katie!’ He jogs lightly down the stairs. ‘Hello. I didn’t know you had a key.’

  ‘Helen gave me one,’ I say, as he leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Just to feed the cat and stuff, when you’re in the hospital.’ I pause. ‘I guess Serena is nearer but um …’

  Daniel seems to flinch at the mention of Serena’s name. Did I imagine that? I wonder.

  I look at his face. He looks exhausted, the bags under his eyes leaden. His cheeks are weirdly flushed, as if he’s been working out. Sweat glistens on his brow. He is standing ever so slightly too close to me.

  ‘Is she all right?’ I ask.

  ‘Who? Serena?’

  I stare at Daniel. ‘No,’ I say, blinking. ‘Helen. Is she OK? Is she here?’

  ‘Oh yeah, of course,’ he says distractedly. He pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘She’s just sleeping. Upstairs.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I say.

  I look over Daniel’s shoulder but he moves forward. Blocks my view.

  ‘Is someone else here?’

  Daniel clears his throat. He doesn’t move. He speaks too quickly, too loudly.

  ‘To be honest, Katie, it’s not a great time.’ He wipes at the sweat on his brow. ‘Helen really needs quiet. She needs to have a bit of a rest. Can I get her to give you a ring later?’

  As he speaks, the phone he is holding in his hand starts ringing. The words ‘Brian Mortgage Adviser’ flash up. The phone is in a case with a cutesy, flowery pattern. I don’t think it is Daniel’s phone. In fact, I a
m pretty sure it is Helen’s.

  Daniel looks at the screen. He hits cancel, smiles at me. But within seconds, the same number flashes up again.

  ‘Maybe you should get that,’ I say quietly. ‘Might be important.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s fine.’ He presses cancel again, shoves the phone into his back pocket.

  The air in the house feels thick, the silence heavy.

  ‘Daniel, are you sure everything’s OK?’

  He looks at me through his glasses.

  ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’

  The phone rings again. I look at Daniel. He looks at me. And then I decide. Fuck you, Daniel. Fuck you.

  I step past him as if I’m headed to their kitchen. He flips an arm out to stop me, and as he does, I run straight up the stairs.

  ‘Katie?’

  I can hear in his voice he is trying to stay calm.

  ‘Just using the loo,’ I call. ‘That’s OK, isn’t it? I won’t wake her.’

  The phone is still ringing. Daniel throws it on the floor. I hear it smash as it hits the stone tiles. The crack is like a starting gun. Daniel has started to follow me up the stairs.

  ‘Katie,’ he is saying. His voice is different now. ‘It’s really not a good time. Really. Katie!’ His voice is desperate now, his footsteps heavier.

  I am on the first landing. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I am throwing doors open – a bathroom, a study. Then I push open the door to the spare bedroom, the one where Rachel was staying. And there is Helen, slumped on the floor, one arm outstretched, another round her belly. Her eyes are closed, and as I come closer, I see there is a cut on her head, blooming red. A smashed vase lies in jagged pieces around her.

  I spin round, but he is too fast. His hand is at the back of my head, his fist in my hair. I feel a sharp wrench of pain at the back of my head, another arm around my waist. He is strong, too strong for me.

  ‘Daniel, what the fuck have you done?’

  ‘Be quiet, Katie,’ he mutters, dragging me backwards.

  ‘Daniel, call a fucking ambulance. That’s your wife, your baby!’

  ‘I said be quiet,’ he snaps.

  I kick frantically, elbows flying, but nothing works. He is taking me upstairs. The pain at the back of my head is unbearable. I see a floating curtain, an open window. And then I am in fresh air, my body held over a steep drop.

  I see roof tiles, a rotten gutter. The green of the gardens far below, divided up into neat little squares that, from here, look no bigger than allotments. The landscape wheels in front of my eyes, the dark outlines of trees against a pale sky, the wonky rooftops. The pain at the back of my head.

  ‘Let me go, Daniel! Let me go!’ But my voice is hoarse and I am screaming into thin air. I am screaming into nothing.

  Daniel is panting. ‘This is your fault, Katie,’ he hisses. ‘I told you. I told you to go home. Didn’t I? But you don’t listen. You never listen.’

  He pulls my face closer to his, so I can see his eyes, the deep hollows underneath. And in that moment, I wonder if I have seen this before, this ugliness in my friend’s husband. If I have detected this in him, before now. And deep down, I know the answer is yes. That I have seen it in the pencil lines of his face, in the blankness behind his eyes. And I did nothing. Because he seemed normal. And because you don’t. Because it’s awkward. And because how do you say? How can you?

  And now this. Now this. Because of me.

  And then he lets me go. My stomach collapses in on itself, my breath escapes my lungs. I close my eyes, wait for the slam as my body hits the ground. But it doesn’t come, and instead I seem to swing, as if I’m caught. And I realise that before I knew my hands had even moved, they have gripped, tightly, around something. The steel rings of the gutter. I am here, still here. But my hands are weak, and the metal is hard, and every muscle in my body says let go, I can’t hold on. I can’t, I can’t.

  Nothing about this moment feels real. The smell of the bricks, of the moss in the gutters. The cool silence of the air. And then he is back. I see his vacant face, and his hand, a hammer in his hand. He is grimacing, as if in physical pain, as he holds the hammer up, just above my fingers, where they are gripped around the metal of the roof.

  ‘Daniel,’ I cry, ‘don’t do this!’

  Daniel’s face is blank, as if he is looking straight through me. The hand holding the hammer is trembling. My fingers are holding tight, but I can feel the metal give way slightly, almost imperceptibly. It is over, I know that now. This will soon be over.

  ‘You should have listened, Katie,’ Daniel says again. His expression hardens. He pulls his arm back, preparing to slam down the hammer. I grip tight, close my eyes.

  There is a bang, a slam. But the impact I am braced for hasn’t come. Shouts, voices. When I open my eyes, there is a voice I know.

  ‘Katie? Katie?’

  There are hands reaching out. More shouting. The voice is calling my name. I know I have to let go, to reach my hand up. But I am too afraid. My cheeks are wet. I feel the wind in my hair. It’s so high, and I can’t let go. I can’t.

  ONE YEAR LATER

  HMP Bowood

  20 November 2019

  You used to talk about that day often, and we were all forced to listen. And I suppose it was perfect, to you. You just never knew the truth.

  There really was something about it, a sort of golden quality. The light on the water dazzling, like diamonds. We’d all been so drunk, on the sun, our youth. Each other.

  You didn’t see us on the opposite bank, under the willows. You couldn’t see past the leaves, under the surface. I wish I could say that was the first time. But it started long before that.

  At the back of the theatre, after a rehearsal one night. Everyone else had gone home. It had been building for weeks. She tormented me. I couldn’t stop thinking about her, that Red Riding Hood cloak. When I was awake. When I was asleep. When I was fucking you, Helen. I am sorry to cause you pain. But that was how it was. I couldn’t stop.

  It was raining, the night it happened. I was hanging around on purpose, hoping she’d be doing the same. I’d heard the scrape of a chair, footsteps, slipper-soft. And she was there, at the back of the empty stage. Still in her costume, but her feet were bare. She’d pulled her hood down. Let her hair fall over one shoulder. Until then I hadn’t known she felt that way. That first time. The sound of the rain, the smell of the stage paint. It felt like a revelation. I’m not trying to hurt you, Helen. I just want you to understand. I had never felt anything like it. And the more I had of Serena, the more I wanted. And that day, when I reached for her, under the water by the punt, she reached for me too.

  When she said she didn’t mind taking the boat back, and she looked at me, I knew then what would happen.

  We were on the floor, on a canvas sheet, when we heard them. I could see their stupid Ravens ties. I knew one of them. Rory’s mate. There was no time. They were going to catch us, they’d tell Rory. They knew we had taken the boat.

  Serena started going mad then. Saying, hide, I don’t want them finding us here. We’ll be sent down. I laughed. I was high, giddy with her. I told her not to be so stupid. We’d sat our exams, we’d paid the fees. They weren’t going to send us down for taking a boat. But she insisted. Just stand the fuck back there. Stay in the shadow until they’ve gone. They won’t see us.

  It took a while before we could see what they were doing. But we did. We saw. And Serena was right, they didn’t see us. The girl did, though. She looked right at me, her eyes locked on mine, her lips parted, trying to say something. And I didn’t do anything.

  And she saw that, too.

  Serena didn’t touch me again that day. I knew what we’d just seen. What we’d witnessed. But Serena saw it differently. She wanted to stay out of it – said we didn’t know the whole story. And anyway, she said, there would be questions. About why we hadn’t helped. Why we had done nothing.

  You insiste
d we all go out that night. You were so happy, Helen, and it was like it would make it all OK again, if we all went along with you. I remember in the queue of the club, looking at your face, your innocence. You were so pure, so beautiful. I kissed you like you were my child, buried my cheek in your red hair. I’d wanted to be good again, like you. But all I could think of was the girl in the boathouse. How she’d cried. How she’d wriggled, struggled underneath the boy. How her glassy eyes had found mine, asking for help.

  The next day, the police came round. You’ll remember this part, of course. Someone they’d questioned had seen us on the river, noticed the college crest on the punt. Mentioned it to the cops. The cops figured we’d have had to go to the boathouse to take it back. They had no evidence. I think, though, they knew it was us.

  The four of us were in your room when the officers came. I’m sure you remember how it went. Serena spoke first. Yes, officer, we were at the boathouse, she said. My friend Daniel and I. But it must have been before, there was no one there when we took the boat back. Or when we left.

  The police officer frowned. The victim knew she’d seen witnesses. One a girl. Blonde. Another a bloke, with spectacles. The officer gave me a long stare and I felt like I was made of glass, that I was about to shatter into pieces. I felt if I could just keep every muscle firm, every tiny part of my body still, I’d be safe.

  You’re sure you didn’t see anything, he asked again. And I said no. That I was sorry. That I wished I could help. And you squeezed my arm, Helen. Believing me. And I had felt like the worst person on earth. I remember the detective, as he left the room. He glanced back. First at me. Then at Serena.

  I tried to ignore the coverage of the trial, but it was impossible. The jury took so long over the verdict. It was too late, of course, by then. I had been praying they’d have enough, without us. Of course they will, Serena said. Haven’t you heard of DNA? But it wasn’t enough. They didn’t believe her.

  I remember listening to it in the radio in the car, sitting outside my mum’s house, a fly buzzing in the wing mirror. Her knocking on the window, asking what I was doing. When it came back not guilty, I had opened the door and leaned over to be sick.