‘I . . . Bye, Pieta,’ he eventually said.
‘Bye, Jason.’
I shut the door and tried to walk. Tried to move. But I couldn’t. That had taken all my energy. Being normal had zapped every last bit of strength I had. My knees buckled.
The sound of my body hitting the ground was loud, violent. I lay in my corridor, unable to do anything except stay very still and wait for the ability to do anything to come back to me.
Monday, 10 June
‘All right, who wants a cup of tea and who wants a coffee, and who wants to tell me quick before I change my mind?’ I say when I return to the features desk.
Our office is divided into what I like to think of as zones. Nearest the frosted glass, security protected doors, is the zone with the four people in our online team. They are pushed up against the back wall where they work on the BN Sussex website, uploading stories, sending out social media updates, constantly trying to stoke interest in the magazine and newspaper.
Next are the four women who work at the fashion and beauty desks. All of them are impossibly well turned-out; I rarely see any of them having a bad-looks day, even if I know they’re going through a personal crisis. Lippy and make-up seem to hide many, many things. Their desks face each other and are situated opposite the beauty and fashion cupboard where they store the dresses and outfits they are sent for cover photo-shoots, fashion stories and beauty features. The cupboard is also unofficially known as Lillian’s personal boutique. As more people have left and new ones arrived, Lillian has got less and less bothered about hiding the fact she ‘borrows’ the designer outfits sent in for shoots and misappropriates the expensive products that are sent in for review. Nowadays, she walks into the small room at the side of our office demanding service like she is on Bond Street in London. It got so bad at one point – where we had to delay shoots because key pieces had disappeared – I told the team to hide stuff. If it was important, I advised, don’t let it be there for Lillian to find.
The next bank of desks belongs to the art department; they shape and define the look of the magazine to the tiniest detail – design the pages, arrange the photo-shoots and illustrations, decide the fonts, the size of headlines and the placement of text. Opposite them is the flatplan of the magazine. The pages we need to fill are printed out as portrait rectangles and tacked up on the side of the fashion cupboard so they can instantly see what they’ve done and what they’ve still got to do.
Beside them are the subs. The sub-editors, the people who check the spellings, write the headlines, write the big quotes, the intros, and check every fact to within an inch of its life. I started there, at BN Sussex. I’d been writing freelance articles for the magazine for nearly two years when Lillian called me in a crisis asking if I knew anyone who could sub-edit as all her subs had been struck down by the same illness on the same day. I told her that I’d been a chief sub-editor back in London and she asked me to come in and do a few shifts. Sazz had been all too happy to look after Kobi a few more days a week, so I’d come in. Fresh-faced and eager to help out, to maybe get a full-time job. Obviously Lillian neglected to tell me her subs desk had all contracted Lillianitis and had all individually decided they couldn’t put up with her a moment longer.
At the other end of the office is Lillian’s desk, and outside her glass walls is the features department, where I sit. Now that I’m the deputy editor, I sit at the desk closest to her office and I have to angle my screen so she can’t look out and see what I’m up to. I’m not given to doing much of anything but work in work hours, but I still don’t like the idea of Lillian watching me so I do what I can to keep my computer private. Across the way from the features desk, nestled in the little cove made by the end of the fashion cupboard and the back wall, is the lifestyle desk. They cover homes and health, as well as the travel that the features department don’t deal with. There’s a lot of crossover and unspoken rivalry between the features and lifestyle desks and I’ve wanted, more than once, to suggest we merge them to stop it, but I’m leaving that conversation for a day when Lillian doesn’t come into work wearing her ‘just try me’ face. It’s been eighteen months and counting waiting for that day.
‘Skinny latte with soya milk,’ Tiffany says without raising her head.
‘Café mocha with almond milk,’ Avril chimes in.
‘Organic, hand-roasted beans with steamed milk and half a teaspoon of agave syrup for me,’ Connie adds.
‘So, that’s coffee from the jar in the kitchen all round, is it?’ I say to them.
‘Yeah,’ they all reply.
I grab my reusable bamboo ‘Mama Needs Coffee’ cup that Kobi bought me in the great plastic cull of 2018. He’d been mortified when my eyes filled with tears and I covered his face in kisses saying thank you. I embarrass my son at least ten times a day just by being me.
I walk the length of the office, smiling at my colleagues, at the chaos of their desks, the plans for the next issue, the propped-open door to the cupboard, the pile of filing that sits on top of the filing cabinets. I belong here. I fit in, I enjoy myself and, despite certain Lillian moments, I wouldn’t want this to end. But something has become quite clear since I heard about that woman – I can’t interview her. I can’t sit in the same room as another survivor. Not when I know that it could be my fault because I didn’t tell the police what had happened. And definitely not when it could lead to everyone knowing I was there, too.
Yes, I want to find out if it really is the same guy that I’ve lightly investigated over the years, but at the same time, I can’t. I simply can’t.
I love this job, but I’m going to have to resign. That’s all there is to it. I can’t speak to that woman so I have to leave.
Thursday, 30 April, 2009
It’s Thursday.
Knocking at the door means it’s Thursday.
Knock, knock, knock. Again.
It couldn’t be Jason. I was sure he wouldn’t come back. The phone had been ringing and the answer machine was full. Ring, ring, ring. Now knock, knock, knock.
My door didn’t have a peephole so I was answering the door without knowing who would be on the other side.
The who on the other side were two police officers. One male, one female.
‘Hello,’ the female officer said. ‘Are you Pi-eta Rawlings?’
‘It’s pronounced “Peter” like the boy’s name. But yes, that’s me.’
‘Can we come in, Miss Rawlings?’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing, now that we’ve found you,’ she said.
‘Was I missing?’ I replied. I knew I was missing, but did anyone else?
She smiled. ‘Can we come in?’
I’d rather they didn’t. I didn’t know who was watching, but I couldn’t say that to the police. I stepped back and the two police officers crossed the threshold. They were about my age, but suddenly, with their uniforms and boots, and radios, truncheons and handcuffs, I felt like I was nine years old. I don’t know why nine and not ten, or eight, but there it was. I felt young, immature and small in their presence.
We stepped into the living area and I immediately pulled my cardigan around myself. I’d got dressed. Wednesday. Wednesday was getting dressed day. And Thursday. I got dressed on Thursday too. Although Thursday was knocking at the door day as well.
‘We had a report that you were missing,’ the police officer stated.
I stared at her. Is he watching? Would this count as going to the police even though I didn’t call them? Would he know that, though? If he’s watching me, all he would know is they arrived here.
‘I’m PC Jerrand,’ the male police officer said. ‘This is PC Koit.’
‘Yes, sorry, I’m PC Koit. I’m a bit surprised, really, you’re the first person I’ve found so easily.’
‘Who told you I was missing?’ I asked.
‘Can we sit down?’ was PC Jerrand’s reply.
The living room was quite dark since I’d kept the blinds do
wn. I craved the light, wanted my eyes to have lots of it flooding in, but I wasn’t sure if he was out there watching me. If he was, I didn’t want him to see me any more. He’d watched me for the whole time he had me. I didn’t want his eyes on me any more.
I indicated to the sofa and to the seats, set in a formation that meant you could see the television from wherever you sat. While they settled themselves, I went to the low, circular coffee table, picked up the black remote and snapped off the television. I hadn’t really been watching it, more staring through it.
This was better than when Jason had arrived, I realised. I wasn’t so scattered, disassembled. I could do this now – I could speak to people, answer questions.
‘Who said I was missing?’ I asked for the third time.
‘Your mother reported you missing on Saturday evening,’ PC Koit replied. She and her colleague kept looking around as though searching for something, while wondering what I had to hide by having the blinds down on such a glorious day.
‘My mother.’
Mum worried about me. I was single and I lived alone and if I didn’t speak to her every other day, she immediately thought I’d fallen and I was lying in my single person’s house unable to reach the phone to call for help. She would ring and ring and ring. Then she would send my dad to get the two buses and a train to come over to double-check I was still breathing.
I was still breathing.
Despite everything, I was still breathing.
Both police officers peered at me in the gloom, waiting for me to say something else. I thought it was easier than speaking to Jason, but it was not. It was harder, so much harder in completely different ways. I had to focus now. I had to appear normal and as though I had nothing to hide.
‘My mum does this. If I don’t answer the phone she sends my dad over. This is the first time she’s actually called the police, though.’
‘Is that because this is the first time you’ve not been here when your father has called round?’ PC Koit replied. ‘It wasn’t that you just didn’t answer your phone – your mobile was handed into a police station late Friday night, early Saturday morning in East London. Did you know that?’
‘My mobile?’ I was on my mobile just before it happened. ‘OK.’
‘When your mother reported you missing, we spoke to the most frequently called numbers on your phone and we spoke to a man called Jason Breechner? Your partner?’
‘He’s not my partner,’ I said. ‘He was barely a boyfriend.’
‘He said you were meant to come over to his flat on Saturday but you didn’t show up. Didn’t answer your phone, when you always do. Can we ask where you were?’
‘I thought someone had to be missing forty-eight hours before the police would get involved?’ I said to stall for time. I couldn’t tell them, of course I couldn’t tell them.
‘That’s not actually true,’ PC Jerrand said. ‘It’s a common misconception. We get involved if someone does something completely out of the ordinary with no real explanation. For example, if a woman who always answers her phone and lets people know when she’s going away suddenly disappears, we would get involved if no one knows where she is. Especially when she’s lost her mobile and doesn’t seem to have noticed and tried calling it to find it.’
I studied him for a moment. A moment was all I needed, though. He was a tall man. He was muscular. He had no discernable scent. His voice sounded normal. It could be him. He was tall. He was muscular. He seemed to have a normal voice that he disguised by husking it while he spoke. It could be him, sitting on my sofa, telling me why they knew I was missing. This could be it. The test. The reason he decided to come after me again. He told me he would know if I went to the police and said he would be back if I did.
I stopped surveying the police officer, tugged my cardigan tighter across my body.
It could be him.
‘Where were you?’ PC Koit asked gently.
‘I, erm, kind of . . . I went on a bit of a bender.’ Jason had said I looked like I’d been on one, and that would explain away a lot.
My knee started to jiggle, though, the lies making it move. I got to my feet to hide it, even though they wouldn’t know that this was a giveaway because they didn’t know me. ‘I didn’t offer you tea. Would you like one?’
They both shook their heads. ‘If we get this sorted out, we can get out of your hair and allow you to move on with your day.’
I tugged my cardigan more tightly around myself, folded my arms more firmly across my chest and braced myself to lie again. ‘I went on a bender.’
‘What sort of bender?’ PC Jerrand asked.
‘You know, the bender kind.’ Smile. Smile and act normal, Pieta. ‘I’m not sure that telling the police what I got up to on a bender is the wisest thing.’
‘We’re all adults, and we’re not going to arrest you for doing something adults do,’ PC Koit said.
‘Just tell us,’ he insisted.
It could be him.
‘All right. Erm, it was drink, mainly. Some drugs. Sitting up late most nights and talking absolute shite. And, of course, eating terrible takeaways.’
‘Why didn’t you go to work?’ the male officer asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That was why we took it seriously,’ he explained. ‘We were told you haven’t been to work all week. Haven’t called in sick. In fact, we came here to search for a clue as to where you were. We weren’t expecting you to be here.’
‘I, erm, well . . . I work in the media. On a magazine. It’s really obvious to my editor – my boss – which people are on a comedown. I did not want my reputation as a good girl to be tarnished.’
My words, burdened as they were with lies, fell flat. We could all hear the echo of mendacity, but they couldn’t argue with it.
It could be him, I thought again. All the muscles in my body contracted, causing a flare of pain to ignite through me, especially on my back where . . .
‘Miss Rawlings—’ the policeman began.
‘Ewan, give us a minute, would you?’ PC Koit cut in.
Frowning, he turned to her. She jerked her head to the door, telling him to leave.
‘Thank you, Miss Rawlings,’ he said as he got to his feet. Standing, I could see all of his height and it ricocheted more terror through me. I instinctively stepped back to make sure I was out of easy reach. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’
I nodded at him but didn’t dare look in his direction as he vacated my space.
The woman PC didn’t say anything, but I could feel her light-coloured eyes on me, openly studying me, until my front door clicked shut behind her partner. Are they in it together? I wondered. Is this where the other part of the test begins? It could have been him, but it could be her with him, too.
‘I’ll know if you talk to the police,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll know and I’ll come for you.’
‘Are you all right, Miss Rawlings?’ the PC asked gently once we were alone.
‘Yes, of course, why?’
She stood up and came towards me. ‘Did something happen to you this weekend?’ she asked, just as carefully.
Alarmed, I took a couple of steps back to keep the same distance between us. I didn’t want her any closer, and I didn’t want to answer her question. Is this her trying to draw me out? Is she working with him, trying to see if I will tell someone everything the first chance I get? Or did I give myself away? Was I not pretending hard enough? I had to pull myself together. If a stranger could tell, then everyone else would. And that would mean . . .
‘I . . . erm . . . I don’t understand.’ I injected as much confusion and normality into my voice as I could. ‘I told you I was on a bender.’
‘Forgive me if I seem to be overstepping the line a little, but you’re showing several signs of being in post-traumatic distress. Did something happen to you this weekend? Were you assaulted or similar?’
No.
I wasn’t assaulted or similar.
I was
taken.
I was held.
I was strapped down.
I was . . .
I shook my head, slowly at first, then faster, more firmly.
No, actually, that didn’t happen to me. I was not going to have let that happen to me. None of it. Not to me. And I had to act that out. I had to show this person that it didn’t happen to me. If I could convince her, I could convince other people. I could maybe even convince myself.
‘I’m fine,’ I stated. ‘I told you, I’m the good girl, everyone knows it. Always have been. Drugs aren’t my usual thing. I’m, erm, I’m sorry I wasted your time. And worried everyone. I have a lot of making up to do.’
She bobbed her head up and down, openly unconvinced by what I was saying.
‘So much for “just say no” to drugs, eh?’ I joked with a smile. ‘If I’d stuck to that, like I have since I was in school, we wouldn’t be here now and you wouldn’t have wasted your precious resources on me.’
PC Koit looked for a moment as though she was going to say something more, try to coax whatever I was telling her wasn’t there out of me. Instead, she reached into her uniform pocket. ‘This is my business card. Call me if you want to talk. You don’t have to report anything, explain anything, just come in for a chat. Or just to let me know how you’re getting on.’
‘How I’m getting on? What do you mean?’
‘Just take my card.’ She smiled at me. ‘I can always pop back to talk to you, if you’d rather not come to the station in the first instance.’
Smile, I ordered myself. Smile. Take the card. My fingers groped the distance between us until I gripped the small white rectangle. She hung on to it for the smallest fraction of a moment, connecting us, allowing her the type of access I didn’t want to give any more.
Our gazes connected in that fraction of a moment, and I knew she could see. And I knew why he had done it. Shut off that part of me for a weekend.
Tell Me Your Secret Page 6
