Five Strangers Page 26

  ‘I’ve just had enough of this, Penelope.’

  ‘And the CCTV map in your pocket?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on in your life right now, Jen. But I’m worried that Bex has something to do with it, that she’s trying to control or manipulate you in some way. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it would fit the pattern. You see—’

  Just then Julia walks up the top flight of stairs, face flushed, glass in hand. How much of the argument has she heard?

  ‘Sorry, hope I’m not interrupting, Jen. It’s just that I wondered if you wanted to finish the interview. I’ve just had a call – they need me back at my office soon.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I say. ‘And don’t worry, you’re not interrupting. Penelope was just about to go back downstairs to ask if anyone else needed any more food.’

  We stare at each other in a silent battle of wills. Finally, Penelope smiles and tells me that she will talk to me once the interview with Julia is over. She grips the file of documents close to her chest and nods as she passes Julia. In turn, Julia apologises to me for taking so long. She tells me about her craving for cigarettes, a habit she thought she’d kicked years back, and we take our places in the study. I switch on the tape recorder again and we pick up where we left off. She tells me more about the nightmares, about Harry, about how much she misses him, about how the death of her son created an ocean of grief between her and her first husband, but as she talks I realise I’m not listening. All I can think about are Penelope’s words of warning and the possible contents of that green file.

  Once it’s over, I lead Julia back downstairs. Everyone has breathed a collective sigh of relief: the interviews are over. The group, their spirits lifted by the champagne, discuss the seemingly never-ending drama of the current political situation, where things seem to change by the hour, but luckily the conversation doesn’t descend into unpleasant Brexit bickering. As Penelope glides around her large kitchen, offering coffee, I’m conscious of her watching me. I know she’s just waiting for everyone to leave so she can talk to me again. But I’m not going to hang around.

  I still can’t forgive her for rifling through my coat pocket the other day. So what if she’d found that marked-up map of the Heath? It told her nothing. I could easily be writing a feature about the presence and absence of security in public places. And how could she say those things about Bex? There was no way I’d let my friend call here now. She’s vulnerable enough as it is without an interrogation from Penelope Frasier. I take out my phone and text Bex to say that the interviews are overrunning and it’ll be best if I meet her back at the flat.

  I make an effort to go around and thank everyone in person – Jamie, Julia, Ayesha, Steven – and reassure them that what they’ve told me will be handled sensitively. People start to say their goodbyes. I don’t want a scene with Penelope – it would be awful if any of the interviewees saw that – and so I move towards the door. I latch onto Julia and suggest we walk across the Heath together. She’s going back to her office, she tells me, but I go through the motions of leaving with her just so I don’t get drawn back into the house. But just as we near the front door Penelope calls out.

  ‘Jennifer? I need to talk to you about something. Do you remember?’

  ‘I’m just leaving with Julia.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ says Julia. ‘I’m going into town now. You’re very welcome to a lift, but I thought you said you were going—’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I’m meeting a friend,’ I shout back in an overly-polite manner so that Penelope can hear.

  ‘It won’t take a moment,’ says Penelope. ‘But it is important. It’s something to do with—’

  There’s actual distress if not an edge of panic in Penelope’s voice now, but I say I’m sorry, that I’ll call her, and I slip out of the door.

  68

  BEX

  One of the things Louise, my counsellor, was always banging on about was cause and effect. Just because I was the daughter of my parents it didn’t mean that I was to blame for their deaths, she said. If only she knew.

  I could have talked to her about how I really felt and the reasons why I did what I did. I kept silent not just because of the consequences – the truth would result in me being sent to prison or some kind of psychiatric ward – but also because there was something delicious about keeping it all to myself.

  At night, I would replay the lead-up to the events of that Valentine’s Day over and over in my head. I would see everything in slow motion: the never-ending spritz of the aftershave, the droplets spreading slowly through the room, hiding those cards from the Italian restaurant, practising the handwriting over and over again, and finally writing that card and placing it in that shoebox in the wardrobe. I remembered the thrill I felt while I was waiting for Dad to find the card, the chord of ecstasy that played up and down my spine as I counted down the minutes. The anticipation, as always, was just as thrilling as the actual event, the deaths that followed.

  Of course, over the years I did ask myself what lay behind it all. And the answer was so simple even my counsellor could have understood it if I’d told her. How would she have felt if she’d heard that her mother tried to abort her before she was born? That she’d never been wanted, never been loved? That she feared the spectre of rejection with such a primal dread that she was prepared to do anything – she was even prepared to kill – rather than risk its approach? Sometimes, during these sessions I’d be talking about how hard I was finding it to fit in at school (a lie) and wondering whether I’d ever be happy (another lie) when inside I’d be conducting a different kind of confession. I’d play both roles – those of counsellor and subject – myself, silently asking and then answering a series of questions.

  Q: Do you think you’re damaged?

  A: Yes, I’m sure I am, but I don’t care. In fact, I think I can use it to my advantage.

  Q: What do you think was the source of that damage?

  A: I don’t know. Perhaps what my mum tried to do to me when I was in her womb. Was it something to do with that? I’ll never know. Or was it living with them? Growing up in a violent home? Watching my mum being beaten. Seeing her turn herself invisible through the drinking. Knowing I wasn’t loved?

  Q: What do you think of your mother and father now?

  A: I’m pleased they’re both dead. They deserved it. If they didn’t want to bring me into this world, why did they?

  Q: How do you see your future?

  A: As bright as the sun on a summer’s day, almost impossible to look at.

  Q: What did you feel when you were planning it all?

  A: Alive. More alive than I’ve ever felt before.

  Q: Did you hate them? Is that why you did it?

  A: I suppose so, but it went deeper than hate.

  Q: What do you mean?

  A: I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.

  Q: And why did you choose Valentine’s Day?

  A: All that hearts and flowers shit … It’s all fake. I mean, I suppose it’s about love, isn’t it? Or the lack of it.

  Q: Will you do it again in the future?

  A: It depends.

  Q: On what?

  A: …

  Q: On what?

  A: If nobody wants me. If someone tells me they don’t love me. If I feel I’m going to be cast aside.

  69

  JEN

  I’m sitting on a bench on Kite Hill, the place where it all began. But I’m not thinking about the attack now. Instead, I’m holding two sheets of paper, the ones I picked up from the landing on the first floor. I suppose when Penelope had gone down the stairs earlier she must not have seen them lying there. Or had Penelope deliberately left them there for me to find?

  After the interview with Julia was over I had come downstairs and quickly bent down to sweep the papers up. I had said goodbye to Julia and, instead of going straight to the flat, I’d come back to the viewing point. After
the day of interviews I needed some time to myself.

  Words jump out at me like nasty little tacks, but I try to remain calm. Part of me wants to tear the sheets into the smallest pieces possible, so I never have to read their contents, but I realise I have no choice but to confront what’s in front of me. The typed pages take the form of an interview transcript, presumably carried out by Penelope, with a woman whose name I don’t know – it looks like I’m missing the beginning and end of the interview. It’s only as I read, that I begin to understand.

  —and he was a lovely little boy. No trouble at all. Always was beautiful, even as a baby. But of course he grew up to be proper handsome. A real heartbreaker. The girls couldn’t get enough of him and he got through plenty, especially when he was a teenager. Some of the scenes I had to witness, you wouldn’t believe. Tears. Phone calls in the middle of the night. Oh, the drama of it all. He was a bright little thing too. Wanted to go places. Wanted more, much more, than what we could give him. And always good with money, even from when he was small. Such a little businessman he was, always trying to sell you something. Me and his dad used to joke about how he’d get his own market stall one day, but of course he went and did better, a lot better, than that. We were so proud of him. Of course, he had his problems, we knew that.

  What kind of problems were they?

  Like I told you before, the last time you came, it was drugs. Cocaine mostly. Helped him with his job, he said. Gave him an edge, or something like that. I told him it was bad for him. I could see it was making him worse. Nervous. Anxious. Paranoid. And his jealousy. Like I said, that was always a thing with him. Something you had to watch. Of course, it was endearing when he was a boy. A sign of his passionate nature. A sign that he cared. Do you know what I mean? When I was young and I was courting his father he could be just the same. I suppose that’s where Dan got it from. That temperament. Having said that, I never expected that Dan would do … what he did.

  [Sound of crying, sniffing.]

  No, that was something completely out of the blue. I don’t know what pushed him over the edge. I suppose Vicky wasn’t right for him. Probably a cut above him, if you know what I mean. He probably would have felt happier with someone from his own background. But that was typical Dan, always wanting more. And what he did to Vicky was horrible. But I suppose it was his jealousy, like I said. He must have discovered that Vicky was having a relationship with another bloke.

  Do you know who that was?

  No, I never did find out. And now they’re saying she was pregnant. No wonder Dan lost it. I mean, as I say that’s no excuse for what he did. But you’ve got to put yourself in his shoes, haven’t you? He was in love with her, with Vicky I mean. I know that. And to suspect that the love of his life might have been carrying another man’s child. Well, that must have hit him hard. Like any red-blooded man. If Vicky told him that she wanted to leave him for this other man, this man might be the father of her child, that would have pushed him over the edge.

  The last time I came to see you, you told me about Daniel’s infatuation with an older woman. Can you tell me a little more about that?

  Did I? I can’t really remember. Oh you mean with – yes, of course. I do remember telling you now. Yes, Dan did get into a bit of trouble there. I suppose it was the other way round – the opposite of what Vicky did to him. He was the one who ended it all, or tried to end it.

  And what happened?

  Oh, there was such a scene. He’d had enough of her. I think he’d secretly taken up with another girl on his course. He was only at college, you see. Only 18 or so. And this woman – the one who caused all the trouble – she was older than him. I think she was a friend of Tina’s – that’s my daughter, the one who lives in Australia. But when he tried to break it off with her, she threatened all sorts of things. Said that she’d kill herself if he left her. He thought that she was just pretending, that they were empty gestures, but she did it – or nearly did it, I should say. They found her just in time I believe. He felt sorry for her, I think. Said that he wouldn’t leave her. But of course, he’d fallen head-over-heels in love with this other girl. That didn’t last neither.

  Do you know what became of this woman?

  What, the one he fell for at college?

  No, the one you said was older. The one who attempted suicide?

  I don’t know. She moved away I think. Never liked her, though. Had cold eyes. Like she was always scheming.

  [I take out the photo and show it to her.]

  Is this her?

  [She is shown the photo.]

  Yes, that’s her all right. [Karen pauses.] Anyway, what’s this got to do with all that happened on Hampstead Heath? What’s Becky got to do with—

  Becky. The name was there in black and white, but this couldn’t be my Becky. I knew that Bex had grown up in Essex, but this couldn’t be her. No, not Bex.

  I’m walking back to the flat when my phone pings. Another message. Before I even open it I look around me to check the street for any sign of him. I scan the faces around me. Nothing. I hear a scream. I jump and turn around only to see a gaggle of schoolgirls who’ve come out of La Sainte Union. I stop in the street and raise my phone.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter It’s nearly time.

  With shaking fingers I follow the address and tap out a direct message.

  @onlyoneJenHunter For what?

  As I wait, I continue to look around me. The girls disperse, their screams fading away into the distance. A cyclist – male, balding, rake thin – speeds past. At the end of the street I see a jogger, a man. I squint past the cars, the other pedestrians. I take a couple of steps and feel the prick of a yew hedge on the back of my neck. He can’t do anything here, I tell myself. It’s daytime. There are people around. I edge towards the gate. Is there anyone inside the house? I strain my head to look up. The jogger is coming closer. I can only see his legs pounding along the pavement as the rest of him is obscured by a couple of mums pushing what seem like excessively large prams. My phone pings.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter You know.

  @onlyoneJenHunter WHAT??

  And then the messages come thick and fast.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter You saw what happened on the Heath.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter You know how easy it is. How quick it is.

  I feel all my strength seep out of me as if my blood has already been spilled. I sink back against the hedge and slip down on the ground. I hear the sound of running coming towards me.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter I’m going to slaughter you like a pig.

  I realise then, as I slump down onto the tarmac, that I don’t want to die like this. I’m not ready. Laurence has already nearly destroyed me. He’s taken away my job, my home. He’s attacked me on the Heath. He’s raped my best friend. I whisper the word ‘No’ to myself, repeating it as a mantra. I’m not going to take this any more. I swallow a great gulp of air and push myself back up. I look around for something – anything. I search my pockets and my bag for a makeshift weapon. My fingers wrap themselves around my set of keys. I clasp my hand behind my back. It’s not much, but I figure I could stab him in the eye.

  @ImStillWatchingYouJenHunter By the time I’ve finished with you you’ll be begging for me to kill you.

  Just then as I dig the edge of a key into the palm of my hand, priming myself with pain, readying myself to strike, the sound of running intensifies. I focus, open my mouth to scream, but as the jogger speeds towards me I realise it’s not Laurence: he’s blond, younger by a good decade. He casts me an odd sideways look as he dashes past, and disappears.

  The tension in my body feels as though it could break me into a thousand pieces. I let out an almighty exhalation of breath. I can’t carry on like this. I don’t want to be a victim. It’s time to fight back. It’s time to kill Laurence.

  70

  BEX

  The door opens and Jen rushes into the room. It’s obvious she’s got the messages. She�
��s raging. Her eyes have taken on a crazed look and her blonde hair is a mess, cascading down over her face.

  She doesn’t so much spit the words as spew them out. ‘If he thinks he can fuck with me … If he reckons for one second he can get away with this … I’m not going to stand back and let him do this to me any more – not for one fucking second.’ Spittle forms in the corner of her mouth. ‘I can’t stand this a moment longer … I am literally going—’

  ‘Jen, Jen – you need to calm down. Come and sit down. Tell me what’s happened.’

  She pushes her phone at me. ‘Read them – read what the fucker sent me. He wants … he says he’s going to … slaughter me like a … like a pig.’

  I take her phone and scroll through the messages. ‘Jesus. This means we can go to the police now. This is a blatant threat. The police will be able—’

  ‘No police. I’m not going down that route. If we do that then nothing will change. They’ll give him a warning at best – that’s if they can trace the messages to him. By which point he will have deleted his account. No, that might make it worse. That will …’ She looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. ‘Fuck, Bex. How could I have been so unfeeling? You must think I’m a complete shit.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She envelops me in her arms. ‘I’m so wrapped up in all of this – the messages – I’m so full of anger for him that I haven’t stopped to think about you. What he did to you.’

  I start to cry and tell her that I’m sorry, that I should have told her sooner, but that I didn’t have the words.

  ‘I know you liked him … I shouldn’t have done it … I’m such a bad friend,’ I manage to rasp out between sobs.

  ‘What are you talking about? He’s the one who should be sorry. All you did was go into his house and accept a late-night drink. You shouldn’t feel guilty for doing that.’ She stands back, holds my shoulders and looks into my tear-filled eyes. ‘If I’d known what he’d done to you, I would have killed him back then. You know that, don’t you?’