Five Strangers Page 22

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘Don’t cry.’

  She bent down and reached out to comfort me. I blinked through my tears and realised it was the girl who had just moved into the street.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  The palms of my hands were stinging. My knees were bleeding a little. My mouth was wetter than normal and tasted funny.

  She pulled out a tissue from her pocket and gave it to me. Instead of wiping away my tears, I used it to mop up the blood on my knees, clamping my mouth shut in an effort to control the pain. There was something about the colour of the blood, standing so bright against the white of the tissue, that fascinated me. I watched as the blood seeped through until it had stained the whole tissue red.

  ‘You were going really fast,’ she said. ‘The fastest I’ve ever seen, faster than any boy. What’s your name?’

  ‘Becky,’ I said.

  ‘I’m Alice. Alice Jarvis. I’ve just moved in. This is my house here.’ She pointed to a house that looked exactly like ours. ‘Do you want to come inside? My mum could put a plaster on your knees.’

  I nodded and she helped me get up. Suddenly I felt sick, but didn’t want to do it near Alice. I stumbled away from her, towards the kerb. My bike was lying at an awkward angle, its front wheel twisted, its frame scratched. I opened my mouth to vomit, but nothing came out apart from spit and blood – I realised I must have bitten my tongue.

  ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll make you a nice cold drink and you’ll feel better in no time,’ said Alice, in what sounded like an imitation of what her mum would say to her. ‘Come on.’

  She picked up my bike and, after making sure that the Westie was okay, I trailed behind her into her house. Although it looked the same from the outside, as soon as I stepped inside I realised that everything about Alice’s home was different to mine. It was neater, cleaner, calmer. Even though I’d just fallen off my bike and my hands and knees still smarted, I felt happier here. Alice called for her mum and told her what had happened. The first thing I noticed as the lady swooped down on me with a first aid kit was that she smelt nice, like fresh flowers. She got a bowl of warm water and some soap and bathed my wounds. She had a kind smile and a nice, soothing voice.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked as she applied a plaster to my knee.

  ‘She’s called Becky,’ answered Alice for me.

  ‘Do you live on the close?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Which number?’

  I didn’t want to tell her because for the first time, and without quite knowing why, I felt ashamed of where I lived.

  ‘What’s your dad do?’ asked Alice.

  ‘He paints people’s houses.’

  ‘My dad works in an office!’ she boasted. ‘Mum, can Becky stay for tea? I could show her my room and my toys. And then there’s Digby, she’d love Digby.’

  ‘He’s the family guinea pig,’ explained Becky’s mum.

  ‘Can she, Mum? She can, can’t she?’

  ‘Of course, just as long as Becky’s mum and dad are okay with that.’

  Dad. I remembered what he said, what he warned me against. But the family seemed lovely.

  ‘I can ask them, but I’m sure they’d think that was fine,’ I lied.

  Alice could hardly contain herself and started to talk quickly about how pleased she was that she’d found a new friend, how worried she’d been about moving, how much she’d loved her old house, how hard Digby had found it all. I told them that I’d go and ask Mum and Dad and be right back. I walked over to my house, but I knew I wasn’t going to go inside. I peered through the window. Mum was still sitting in her chair, asleep. Dad was drinking from a can and watching the telly. I counted to ten once, twice, three times. Then I ran back to Alice’s house. There, I lost myself in a daze of happiness: playing with dolls, making a den, talking to the long-haired guinea pig, trying to squeal like Digby, eating cake and drinking lemonade. It was nearly four o’clock when the front door opened and a tall man with dark wavy hair walked into the house. I felt my tummy jump. I didn’t think that I had ever seen anyone more handsome.

  ‘Daddy!’ shouted Alice, running into his arms.

  He was all smiles and cuddles as Alice tried to explain the presence of a new girl in the house. Becky was simply her best friend in the world. She nearly died when she fell off her bike, but she made a miraculous recovery after Mummy tended to her injuries. And she was going to stay for tea. Just then there was a knock at the door. I felt something die inside me, which I later realised was hope. Again the knock, louder, more violent.

  ‘I wonder who that could be?’ asked Alice’s mum, as she came in from the kitchen.

  I knew who it was. I didn’t want a scene. I would do anything to stop him from … ‘I think it might be my …’ I said, jumping up to try to answer the door.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Alice’s dad, Mr Jarvis. ‘Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be scared about.’

  For a moment I really believed him. But then as he opened the door my fear returned. It was Dad. His face was red and full of fury.

  ‘So there you are,’ he bellowed as he pushed his way into the house.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Mr Jarvis. ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Get out of my fucking way.’

  I felt his fat hand grab the skin on the back of my neck. He pushed me towards him and told me he was taking me home.

  Mr Jarvis started to speak, ‘I don’t think that’s called for—’

  But he was cut off by Dad. ‘I think you should stay away from me and my family, don’t you?’ He looked down at me. ‘It looks like you’ve done enough damage already.’

  Now it was Alice’s mum’s turn to try to calm down Dad. ‘But Becky fell off her bike. She said she’d checked with you and that it was okay to have her tea here.’

  I started to blush. Alice began to cry.

  ‘Did she now?’

  Dad grabbed my arm so tightly it hurt. But I knew better than to say anything.

  ‘Look – you’re upsetting everyone here,’ said Mr Jarvis. ‘My daughter, your daughter. I don’t think it’s the best way to—’

  Dad took a step towards the man and squared up to him. ‘Best way to do what?’

  Mr Jarvis raised his hands towards his face in a gesture of defeat. ‘Mate, listen, I’m just—’

  Dad’s eyes were like two ball bearings, hard and steely.

  ‘Why don’t we all try to stay calm?’ said Mrs Jarvis. ‘I’m sure we don’t want to cause any trouble, do we Alan?’ She looked at her husband and then my dad.

  The men continued to stare at one another, before Dad mumbled something under his breath and pushed me towards the door. Before I left I cast one last look at Alice, whose face was wet with tears. Outside, I bent down to grab my bike and ran with it back to the house. I heard the slam of the door, the anger in my dad’s voice. I smelt fear in the air.

  I knew what was coming next.

  57

  JEN

  I take a sip of water and breathe deeply. The witnesses are due to start arriving at Penelope’s house, all apart from Julia Jones who has sent me a message to say she’s running a bit late, signing off with, ‘Who’d go into politics, eh?’

  Nick at the Mail had agreed with the editor that the paper would make a donation of £5,000 to Julia’s mental health charity. It had been this grand gesture that had finally forced everyone – even the reluctant Ayesha Ahmed – to take part. Although I didn’t want to know how Penelope had found it, she had unearthed the address for Steven Walker’s mother and she had written to her seeking her permission for her son to take part, outlining not only the donation to charity but the promise of a sizeable fee, which Penelope said she would pay out of her own pocket. The next post had brought a faded envelope containing a scrappy sheet of paper bearing a shaky signature from Leonora Walker.

  We’d spent the morning getting the house ready, and Penelope suggested that her large
study on the top floor might be the best place for the one-to-one chats. Towards the end of the week a photographer would take some individual and group shots on Kite Hill. It wouldn’t be easy for the witnesses to go through with this, to rake through the painful memories and to return to the place where the horrific attack occurred, but the fee to the mental health charity would mean that hopefully something good might come out of it.

  Jamie Blackwood is the first to arrive, with his Weimaraner.

  ‘I know you said you didn’t mind if I brought Freddie,’ he says.

  I look behind him, expecting to see Alex.

  ‘Alex? Oh, he’s not coming, I’ll tell you everything. Big drama.’

  I take him through to the kitchen and introduce him to Penelope. She adores his dog, makes a real fuss over him and settles him into a sunny spot by the French windows. Over tea, Penelope and Jamie get on so well that I practically have to drag Jamie up the stairs and into the study.

  ‘God, I love that woman,’ he says. ‘If I’m ever reincarnated, I want to come back as Penelope Frasier.’

  ‘I know what you mean. She really is something.’ I’m conscious of time and so I get down to business. I turn on the tape recorder, which sits on a small table between us. ‘So, it’s a shame about Alex.’

  ‘Yes, it is, it was,’ he replies. ‘You’re probably not surprised to learn that he wasn’t a big fan of me doing this … talking to you.’

  ‘I’m sorry if this feature has caused trouble. I hope—’

  He cuts me off. ‘Don’t worry, we were having problems before that.’ He runs a hand through his auburn hair, now shining gold in the morning sun. ‘Anyway, Alex has moved out. It’s over.’

  I wait for him to continue.

  ‘We went out the other night, we’d had a few drinks. We came back to the house and started an argument about … well, about us doing this. Although I told you that he was up for it, he wasn’t that keen. In fact, he was dead set against it. I was adamant that it was a good idea and I tried to persuade him. He accused me of not listening to him, bulldozing away his opinions, his feelings. I’d been doing a lot of thinking since it all happened, since we saw what we saw on the Heath. They might be clichés, but they’re true. About how we only have one life. How we have to make sure it matters. That we can’t let ourselves live a lie. God only knows, I did enough lying to myself when I was younger.’ He clears his throat. ‘Anyway, witnessing the incident on the Heath, and then also thinking of talking to you, really forced me to address a few things, things I’d been trying to hide from.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘I wasn’t in love with Alex. I fancied him, God yeah, but that wasn’t the same as love. And I think he knew that. During the argument he kept going on about how, despite the promise of marriage, I found it difficult to commit. How I didn’t look at him the right kind of way. How I didn’t allow myself to be loved. He wondered whether it was something to do with the amount of drugs I had taken at one point. He even asked whether I am still using. I told him that I’m not, which was the truth, but perhaps I should have led him to believe that. That might have spared his feelings. It might have been easier to bear. He said he wanted to hear the truth, but when I told him … well, I wondered whether he was robust enough to deal with it. He fell to pieces. He was broken. He talked about how much he’d been looking forward to a future with me. With Freddie. Perhaps with kids.’

  ‘And what is the truth? What did you tell him?’

  ‘I’m still in love with Sam … in love with a dead man.’ The irony of the situation is not lost on him and he emits a half-laugh, half-cry. ‘I suppose I’ve always known I was. And perhaps I’m just in love with an idea of him. No doubt if he’d lived I might feel differently. But I suppose Alex felt there was no way he could compete with someone who wasn’t even here. Anyway, I don’t know how much of this you want to put in your piece. I’m fine with it all, obviously. But I think Alex would rather you left his name out of it.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  He gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘How have you been? How’s it affected you? Sorry – I know you’re supposed to be asking the questions.’

  I wonder how much I should tell him. ‘No, don’t worry. I don’t mind. It’s been hard. Nightmares. Anxiety. I … I wasn’t in a good place to begin with. I’d lost my job. I’d had a relationship breakdown. And a few other problems too. So no, it’s not been the best time for me either.’ I try to get the interview back on track. I ask about the wounds to his hands, his business, his sleeping habits, his dreams. I ask about whether he thinks about Victoria Da Silva and her murderer, Daniel Oliver. He tells me about how he used money as a way to protect himself, as a substitute for love. He doubts whether he’ll ever love another person again the way he loved Sam. But he’ll be fine, he says. He has his dog, Freddie, and his friends. He ends by talking about the man he saw jogging that day.

  ‘I do wonder if it would have made any difference if that guy had stopped to help,’ he says. ‘But then, of course, Alex refused to step forward. Perhaps that changed my view of him. If more of us had laid into him, into Daniel, then Vicky might have survived. I still see her, lying there, on the ground: covered in blood, gasping for breath, that desperate expression in her eyes. That’s the thing that keeps me awake at night. How things might have turned out if the jogger had stopped to help. Do you know: did the police ever get hold of him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think they have, not yet,’ I say.

  58

  BEX

  It was just another typical Friday afternoon. I’d come home from secondary school and taken refuge in my bedroom. I tried putting my hands over my ears, squashing the pillow around my head, but I could still hear Mum and Dad arguing so loudly their voices seemed to echo through my brain. When it got like this we had complaints from the neighbours – people would bang on the walls, ring the telephone, stand outside and threaten to phone the police – but Dad would just tell them to fuck off and mind their own business. There were some well-meaning women on the close who tried to help, offered to put Mum in touch with organisations that specialised in domestic violence, but she told them that she didn’t need their help. Brian never laid a finger on her, she said.

  Although I tried not to hear, odd words broke through. Fucking bitch. Slut. Dad had got it into his head that Mum had taken a fancy to Alice’s dad, Mr Jarvis. Looking back, it all made sense. Why Dad had told me not to play with Alice, why he’d behaved so strangely that day when I’d gone over to her house against his wishes, why he’d banned me from stepping inside her home ever again. Alice’s father was a handsome man. Even I could see that. Perhaps Mum thought so too. But I’d certainly never seen her show any interest in him. Dad was convinced she had what he called ‘the hots’ for him. And he was determined to punish her for it. When he came back from work he questioned her about her movements: where she’d been, who she’d talked to, even whether she’d stepped outside the front door.

  Dad was convinced he could smell Alan. He said the house stank of sex. Of course, I knew about sex, well, I’d read about it, talked about it at school, but I didn’t want to hear my parents discussing it at home. It made me feel sick. The thought of them doing it was repulsive enough, but Mum and Alice’s dad? Although my dad was convinced, I didn’t believe it. He went around the house searching for evidence. Pulling back the duvet to examine the bedsheets. Checking Mum’s pockets. Looking in the bathroom. Pulling out old tissues from the bin and sniffing them.

  If Mum told him he was mad – that there was nothing to it, all she’d ever done was say ‘hello’ to the man in the street, nod and smile as she walked past him – he’d get mad and hit her. That sound, the thud of his fist against the bone of her cheek, would make me want to scratch his eyes out. But I knew better. Once, in the middle of a horrible row, I tried to hit him on his back, but he turned to me, eyes blazing with crazy anger, grabbed me around the neck and nearly squeezed the life out of me. I think it was only
when he believed there was a risk that I was in danger of passing out that he let me go, falling choking and coughing onto the carpet. As I gasped for air I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t let him get away with this.

  That day I remembered the sound of glass breaking. Mum never screamed – she didn’t want to make Dad angrier than he already was – but I heard her call out my name. I jumped out from the bed and, with hands that trembled, opened the door. Another wave of noise hit me like a brick around the head. I stood at the top of the stairs, digging my nails into the bannister to prevent myself from running down to attack him.

  ‘Becky!’

  ‘There’s no point calling for her – anyway, she’s just as much a slut as you.’

  ‘Don’t you say that. Don’t you say another word about my daughter.’

  ‘I’ve seen the way she looks at boys, at men. She got that from you.’

  ‘Leave her alone.’

  ‘She’s a slag. A slag like you.’

  ‘I said don’t you talk about her like that.’

  ‘What – she’s your little darling now, is she?’

  Mum didn’t say anything.

  Dad’s tone was sneering, sarcastic. ‘Your little precious one?’

  There was an uncertainty to Mum’s voice. ‘She – she’s always been precious.’