Five Strangers Page 8

  I try to think it through. How else can I settle this once and for all? I know it’s probably unwise, but I can’t see any other way. And so I take a few deep breaths. As I look up I notice that I’m standing outside the purple-coloured house that bears an English Heritage ceramic blue plaque to Sylvia Plath. It’s not the house where she killed herself – that one is in Fitzroy Road, around the corner – but it is the one where she lived with Ted Hughes between 1960 and 1961.

  I’d been mad on Plath as a teenager and young woman. I couldn’t get enough of the confessional mode of her writing – the blood jet of poetry – and although I know I’m not in the same league, I’m sure that reading her shaped my decision to become a professional oversharer. Sylvia’s suicide was a tragic end to the story, but I suppose Plath and Hughes had always lived at such an intense pace. One only had to think of their extraordinary first meeting. The way he ravished her with such force her silver earrings fell to the floor. How she bit him hard on the cheek, drawing blood.

  Had that scene played some part in what happened that night, the night Laurence and I broke up? I try to push the memory out of my mind as I walk on. It’s too painful to think about. At the time Laurence had told me that he never wanted to see me again. And I had agreed that that would be for the best. But recently I was sure things had been getting better between us. There had been the friendly emails and sweet texts, and then the real breakthrough, the agreement that we should meet up. But now I knew he was the jogger, that he had been there the other day. That changed things. How could I trust him? I had to find out what the fuck was going on. I had a right to know. And I was doing my job. I was a journalist following a lead for my story.

  I pace ahead, but as I turn a corner onto Regent’s Park Road, I feel the heel of my shoe slip underneath me on a pile of wet, rotting leaves. Luckily, I manage to right myself before I fall. I take a moment to swap my heels for the trainers I’ve been carrying in my bag. I see a 393 drive past and run for it, managing to flag it down just in time. On the bus I think about what to say to Laurence, but every opening gambit sounds mad.

  It was you. I know it was you. That day. Jogging past.

  I know you’re the mystery jogger. Why didn’t you say anything?

  What were you doing up there, on Parliament Hill Fields?

  Are you @WatchingYouJenHunter?

  Have you been spying on me?

  What do you want from me?

  Do you still love me?

  I take some deeper breaths and I nearly convince myself that this is a bad idea. But I’m determined to find out the truth.

  I take out my phone. There are some missed calls from Bex, and a text, asking me what is going on. Shit. She’d arrived in Primrose Hill and found me gone. I can’t tell her what I’m about to do – she would be furious with me – and so I message back to say I’m sorry. I’d had another panic attack in the street. I’m safe now. I’ve gone back to Penelope’s. I will call her later.

  I get off the bus at the stop before Tufnell Park station and walk through the network of streets towards Laurence’s house. How do I know he’ll even be in? Won’t he just take one look at me and slam the door in my face? I push the doubts away and carry on regardless until I’m standing outside his house. I ring his bell. Nothing. I ring it again, leave my finger on the button, until I hear footsteps coming from the top of the house.

  ‘All right,’ he shouts. ‘I’m coming.’

  I prepare myself for the encounter. I haven’t seen him since that awful weekend when everything went wrong. I have to stop myself from just melting into grateful submissiveness. I need to remain strong. He opens the door, his face drops as he sees me. He looks awful, like he hasn’t slept, and dark circles shadow his eyes. Has he been grieving for me? Does he miss me that much?

  ‘Jen – what are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to ask you something.’

  ‘I thought we were going to meet up next week?’

  ‘I couldn’t wait until then. I want to ask you about what happened on the Heath.’

  ‘You know I was sorry to hear about that – are you okay?’ He takes another look at me – he can see how upset I am. ‘Look, you’d better come in.’

  He stands back as I enter the house and touches his left arm, a fleshy spot just below his elbow. I push memories of the last night I was here from my mind, but the sensation of coming home is almost too much to bear. The familiar smell of beeswax lingers in the air. The coloured parallelograms of light cast by the stained glass in the front door, squares of ruby red, ochre yellow, and sapphire blue shimmering on the wooden floor. He leads me into the huge kitchen and I see cups and glasses I used to drink from. I notice the big salad bowl I bought for him from Heal’s. The enormous Vitra glass vase he gave me for Christmas is gathering dust on the shelf. It stands empty. When I left I didn’t want anything from him or the house.

  The memories of our time together – happy times, mostly – insist on flooding back and I have to do everything in my power to keep myself from falling apart.

  ‘So what’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘Sorry, stupid question. I mean, how have you been?’

  ‘Okay, and thanks for sending that email,’ I say. ‘It means a lot.’

  It’s difficult for him to get the words out. ‘It must have been … awful for you to witness something like that.’

  I pause as I feel the anger building inside me. I bite my lip, almost tasting blood.

  ‘But I wasn’t the only person to witness it,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, I saw – that MP, what’s her name? And so brave of that guy to try to intervene. Is he okay now?’

  ‘Just minor injuries to his hands, nothing more, but perhaps the whole thing could have been different had he had some extra help.’

  He can’t meet my eye. He turns from me as he walks towards the worktop. ‘Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. You know, there was one thing that never made sense to me – about the attack, I mean.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he says, as he feeds a coffee pod into the machine and then puts an espresso cup underneath.

  ‘There was a jogger up there that day and when Jamie pleaded with him to stop, to try to help, he just carried on running.’

  Laurence remains silent, pretending to be preoccupied with making the coffee.

  ‘I think if Jamie had had some support he really could have taken down Daniel Oliver,’ I say. ‘And Victoria Da Silva might still be alive.’

  The kitchen fills with the sound of the coffee machine.

  ‘I mean what kind of man would come across something like that – an attack like that – and refuse to help?’

  Laurence waits for the last drips of coffee to come through.

  ‘I suppose he must be a coward, that can be the only explanation,’ I say. ‘I even tried to confront Daniel. He still had a broken champagne bottle in his hand. He was waving it around in the air, threatening to cut up anyone who came near him. Do you know that? When I tried to get Victoria away I got kicked in the stomach. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I could have been stabbed to death.’

  Finally Laurence turns to me, his face drained of colour.

  ‘But I don’t suppose you care whether I live or die,’ I say. ‘After all, you more or less said as much to my face.’

  ‘Look, Jen, if we’re going to get into all of that then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ He speaks in the measured voice of the supremely logical man he is, a patronising tone that I have learned to loathe.

  ‘Just cut out the crap, Laurence,’ I snap.

  ‘Okay, I’ve tried to be sympathetic, about what you’ve just been through, but I don’t see how—’

  ‘I know it was you, Laurence. I’ve seen a film.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He raises the cup to his lips and takes a sip. ‘I don’t know whether the therapy isn’t working, but—’

  ‘Shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare give me that.’

  ‘W
hat? It’s not my fault that you’ve got … issues.’

  ‘This is not about me!’ I scream. ‘It’s about you. About what you did – or didn’t do. You were there, on the Heath, on Thursday. You were jogging up past the viewing point when it happened. Jamie called out for you to stop, to help, but you just ran past us, leaving us … leaving that poor girl to die.’

  ‘Honestly, this is ridiculous,’ he says, slamming his cup down onto the work surface. ‘I’ve just about had enough. Is there anyone I can call? Your doctor? Therapist? What about Bex?’

  I refuse to let myself be sidetracked. ‘Jamie’s boyfriend, Alex, was taking photos that day,’ I say. ‘And his phone turned itself into video mode. Without knowing it he took a film. It’s shaky, not great quality, but it clearly shows you. You may have been trying to hide from me, but you couldn’t hide from the camera.’

  ‘Jen – I don’t know what you’ve seen. But I was at work on Thursday. I’ve got colleagues who—’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ I say. I’d always had my suspicions that he was attracted to Zoe, a sexy thing with a fondness for high heels who works with him at his practice. I knew he had been seeing someone new, perhaps it was her. ‘But what do they say? The camera never lies.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, this is unbelievable,’ he says, taking out his mobile phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ I ask, pushing my hand into my pocket for my own phone.

  ‘Someone who can help you,’ he says. ‘It’s obvious you aren’t well. You must realise I still care about you, I still worry about you. It’s me you’re talking to, Jen. I know all about the problems you’ve had. But you know what needs to happen when you get like this.’

  My fingers shake as I open WhatsApp and find the message from Alex. ‘Before you call anyone, I suggest you take a look at this.’

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s the video that Alex took of the crime.’

  ‘I’m not watching that,’ he says, pushing the phone away from me.

  I grab his phone. I look at the screen. He was about to call Bex.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, Jen?’

  ‘I want you to watch the film. I’ll give you back your phone when you’ve seen it.’

  ‘For God’s sake, is this really necessary?’

  ‘Just watch it,’ I say. ‘And then we can talk.’

  I open the file, click on the arrow to play the video, and hold the phone in front of his face. Laurence blinks in protest, and he winces as the noise of the screaming fills up his kitchen. He tries to look away, but I tell him he has to continue watching until the end. I wait for the telltale signs of guilt, a hardening of the eyes or a blush of the cheeks.

  ‘So what do you have to say for yourself?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ he says.

  ‘What were you doing there? Why didn’t you tell me you were there? And why didn’t you stop?’

  ‘Really, Jen, I know how much stress you’ve been under, and it must have been a terrible thing to witness,’ he says, passing the phone back to me. ‘I can see why you think that jogger was me. There’s a superficial resemblance, I suppose. But I promise you, it wasn’t me.’

  I feel my throat beginning to close up. The familiar signs of panic are invading my body once more.

  ‘How can you stand there and say that?’ I ask, my voice rising. ‘I know it was you. You were there.’

  ‘You said if I watched the film I could have my phone back,’ he says, holding out his hand.

  I slam his phone into his palm. He immediately calls Bex.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m calling someone who can help you,’ he says. ‘It’s either Bex or … and I’m sure you don’t want to go through that again.’

  The memory of that night fills me with shame. I see myself, but not as myself, more as a stranger, throwing things, swearing. I have a vague memory of biting something, someone. I feel hands on my shoulders, something being pushed into my mouth.

  ‘Okay, call Bex, and I’m sure that when she sees the video she’ll tell me what I already know – that the jogger up there on the Heath last week was you.’

  Laurence presses a button and waits for Bex to pick up. I try to listen to her voice, but can’t make out what she’s saying.

  ‘Yes, I’m pleased you feel the same way,’ he says. ‘I’m worried too. Okay, see you soon.’

  He cuts the connection and looks at me as if I’m a sick dog that should be put down. ‘She’s on her way,’ he says. ‘She was actually coming here, because—’

  I try to speak, but he shouts me down.

  ‘She was worried, Jen, don’t you see that?’ he says. ‘You said you were in Primrose Hill, but when she arrived there was no sign of you. And so she thought you might try to call in on me. Thank God she’s only five minutes away.’

  ‘She’s nearly here?’

  ‘Yes, she’s walking down St George’s Avenue now.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. I clutch the phone nearer to me so he can’t take it. ‘She’ll put a stop to this. Once she sees this she and everyone else will know the truth. Just you wait.’

  We fall into silence. Laurence sighs and turns his back on me. I start to play the video again. Once it finishes, I press play again. I see his shoulders tense, watch as his hands grip the edge of the work surface.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jen, can’t you give it a rest!’ He swivels around, anger making his face ugly. He storms towards me. ‘Can’t you see it’s not me! I know you probably want it to be me, for some reason of your own. You know what the sad thing is? I actually thought we might stand a chance of getting back together. Laughable, isn’t it?’

  Suddenly, I wish I’d never come to his house. I want to wipe the last few minutes from my personal history. Why did I fuck up everything?

  ‘We could still—’

  ‘Are you joking? Do you think we’ve got any kind of future together? After you come around here and start to accuse me of—’

  ‘I know I probably shouldn’t have just sprung this on you like this. But if we could just talk about it.’

  ‘Get it into your head – that … that jogger is, was, not me!’ He moves towards me to try to do something – I don’t know what, take the phone from me, or perhaps even threaten me. As he lunges towards me my throat constricts and my insides turn liquid. What is he really capable of? Just then the bell goes. He freezes and then takes a step back.

  ‘That will be Bex,’ he says. He gives me a warning stare and then goes to answer the door.

  I hear some whispering and then the sound of running footsteps.

  ‘Jen? Oh my God, Jen, are you okay?’ calls Bex as she rushes down the hallway.

  ‘Sorry, I know I should have told you I was going to come here, but—’

  ‘Let’s not talk about that,’ she says. ‘The main thing is that you’re safe.’ She turns to Laurence. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I hold out my phone. ‘This – look – I’ve got proof,’ I say. I press play and hand the phone to her.

  Bex forces herself to watch the horror. If she’d been on time that day she would have seen it all for real. She presses play again, this time moving the phone closer to her face to get a better view of Laurence. She watches it for a third time, squints, and then compares the image with the man standing in front of her.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I ask. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  Bex takes hold of my hand and smiles sympathetically. ‘I can see why you might think it was him, but—’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Bex. You know it’s him.’

  I grab the phone from her and press play again. ‘Look,’ I say, waiting for the moment when the jogger turns towards the camera and his hoodie falls back. ‘See here,’ I say, pausing the video and jabbing my finger at the screen. ‘It’s him!’

  ‘It does look a lot like Laurence,’ she says, softly. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t think it’s him. Oh my darling, I’m so sorry.’

>   16

  BEX

  I lead Jen out of Laurence’s house, holding her by the hand like a lost child. For a moment back then, when I told her I didn’t think the jogger in the video was Laurence, I thought Jen would collapse. But instead of falling to the floor Jen went into some kind of shock. We left without a scene and Laurence asked me to keep him informed on Jen’s progress. Even after their relationship had broken down, Laurence said he still cared for Jen’s well-being and I was only too happy to keep a close eye on her and report back to him. Eventually, I told him the truth about how Jen had lost her column, and the lies she had written about her parents. He was shocked, said that she was even more messed up than he realised, and, although he didn’t confess it to me, I’m sure that he was relieved that they were no longer living together.

  Jen didn’t seem to mind that I remained on friendly terms with him, as I think she liked to keep up to date with what was happening in his life. I thought it would be for the best if I kept from her the fact that Laurence and I had had a one-night stand. I didn’t want to alienate Laurence, and so, one day when Jen had left us alone together, I reassured him that I didn’t bear him any ill feelings. We’d had a fun night together, we were both drunk, and there was no point in ruining what each of us had with Jen because of that. And, truth be told, if I was a bloke I’d much rather go out with Jen than with me. That had made him laugh and had put to rest any concerns he might have had. From that moment, we became friends of sorts. Even after he and Jen had split up, we’d meet up for the occasional drink or coffee, and sometimes he’d ask me to check on his house when he was away on work trips or on holiday. I often remember the happy times when Jen lived there with Laurence. She had seemed so happy then, so carefree, her voice ringing around the house like a familiar melody.

  But now, as we stand on the pavement outside the house, Jen is mute. Even though my flat is only ten minutes’ walk from here, I don’t think she could make it. She has all the energy of a rag doll. And so I order an Uber. The radio’s on in the car and suddenly ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’ by Sinéad O’Connor blasts through the speakers. I listen to the haunting lyrics, but I can’t allow myself to be dragged back into the past and so force the memory out of my mind. I snap at the driver and ask him to turn off the radio and we sit in silence until we pull into my street. I open the main door, lead Jen up the flight of shared stairs to the attic space, and guide her into an armchair. I kneel down by her feet and take her hands. She looks hollow and drawn.