The radio chattered away in the background, announcing it would soon be time for the three o’clock news, before launching into a jingle about a mattress warehouse. Jessie tried to remember the last time she’d managed to sleep soundly since moving into Maver Place, but couldn’t. Her body seemed stuck in a permanent state of fatigue, eyelids constantly threatening to close whilst she sat at her desk, sipping on yet another stale coffee. She’d spent most of the day deliberating looking her flatmates up on the database, not only put off by the thought of losing her income if she got caught, but also of what she might find. Who was she really living with? How well did she actually know them? She had thought she and Lauren knew one another intimately – they shared everything from dinners to a tube of toothpaste, for God’s sake – but even Lauren was starting to act shiftily and her behaviour around the police yesterday was odd.
Jessie knew exactly how dark and tangled the human mind could become; it surrounded her every day in this very office. She’d recently processed admittance reports for a woman who started her day off by drinking a bottle of vodka, before smashing it and pushing fragments of the fractured glass deep into her vulnerable wrists. She’d typed letters to general practitioners informing them that a patient registered with their surgery was convinced that the devil was trapped inside their head, and that they’d been prescribed a hefty dose of Chlorpromazine for the foreseeable future. Jessie had covered for Cheryl on reception, looking these people in the eyes, sometimes unable to distinguish who was a client and who was the supportive family member. It often came down to the most subtle of signs that somebody was seriously unwell, their body language, the pitch of their voice. She knew more than most that bad thoughts and harmful actions came disguised in all shapes and sizes. The newsreader on the radio moved on to a story about a car accident at the bottom of Elm Grove, killing a pedestrian earlier that morning. Lately the news felt more sinister than ever, or perhaps she had just begun to notice it more. Jessie listened hard for an update on Magda’s case but there wasn’t one; then, slowly, began to type Marcus’s name into the search bar of the patient database. She held her breath. No! There were no matches, which came as a surprise. She double-checked the spelling of his surname. R-a-t-c-l-i-f-f-e. Still nothing.
She leant back on her chair. Who to try next? Sofie Chang. Sofie, the woman who had steadily been stripping off bits of Jessie’s identity and absorbing them into her own. The hair, the outfits, the mannerisms. Was it possible she could have some kind of personality disorder? Jessie typed Sofie’s name in and a file flashed up. Her heart jumped, until she realised the date of birth didn’t match up. The Sofie Chang on the system had been born in 1976. Jessie’s jaw was beginning to ache from clenching. She’d try Henry next. Jessie had already seen his file on Juliette’s desk once before, so she knew that there’d definitely be something to unearth about him. She typed his name deliberately, then watched the system load up. Henry Goldsmith-Blume, there he was. Right in front of her, his file waiting to be opened. Jessie peered over the top of her computer. Juliette was busy reading case notes, humming along to a Simply Red song through a mouthful of Jaffa Cake. Jessie’s eyes scanned the latest entry on Henry’s file. He had been receiving therapy, it said, for mild depression stemming from ‘difficult familial relationships, most notably with his father’. She was on guard for Sofie’s name, or her own, but there was no mention of either. There were, however, lots of mentions of him repressing his emotions, feeling like he had to be strong for his mother. Nothing relating to Maver Place. She sighed. All this power she’d thought she had at her fingertips? In reality, it amounted to nothing so far. And the only person left to look up on the database was the last person on earth that she wanted to.
A file with Lauren’s name and a matching date of birth appeared. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then tentatively double-clicked on it. The rainbow-coloured pinwheel indicated that the information held within was probably extensive so Jessie checked again that Pamela was nowhere to be seen, ditto any of the doctors. The most recent entry had been made just a few weeks ago – a letter to Lauren’s GP added onto the system by Dr Statham. Jessie clicked the ‘read more’ button and scanned the page, her heart racing, stomach plummeting. The words ‘obsessive’ and ‘violence’ leapt out at her. Her eyes blurred, trying to take everything in at speed, while remaining on guard. As she read on, her body became bloodless:
This female patient, aged 27 years of age, with no physical ailments, experiences intense depressive, manic and violent episodes. She reports symptoms of psychosis and aggression and is prone to high-risk behaviours (including substance abuse), and was previously an in-patient at Mill View Hospital following the death of her sister. She has been known to form unhealthy attachments to romantic partners and obsessive friendships, fearing rejection and loss of the other party, and admits to being manipulative.
In the past Miss McCormack has undergone talking therapies and has been recommended further grief counselling. However she has since been dismissed from these services following a succession of missed appointments. We have been unable to contact Miss McCormack despite numerous attempts. It’s also of primary concern that her latest repeat prescription has not been collected from—
Pamela’s hand met Jessie’s upper back.
‘Have you seen my email?’
Jessie quickly clicked off the screen, then cursed herself for making it so obvious that she’d been looking at something she wasn’t supposed to be.
‘S-sorry. Which one?’ Jessie replied, hoping her manager wouldn’t notice the sheen of sweat that had sprung up above her top lip.
Lauren had never mentioned having a sister before. A sister who’d died. That wasn’t normal. Did Marcus and Sofie know? Substance abuse. Violence. Aggression. Jessie thought back to the Christmas present Lauren had given her, addressed to ‘my little sister’ and a shockwave passed through her. That wasn’t normal either. She wiped the sweat away with the back of her sleeve, the same silk shirt she’d put on when the police had arrived yesterday. They hadn’t called with any more news yet. She almost didn’t want them to now.
‘About the bake sale, naturally! All for a good cause,’ Pamela trilled. ‘Will you come and give me a hand setting up, please? We’ll miss cashing in on the mid-afternoon sugar slump if we don’t get a wriggle on.’
Cheryl had coerced them all into selling lacklustre cupcakes to other members of staff to raise money for a local hospice. Last week Jessie had promised to whip up a load of brownies, but with everything that had happened yesterday, she’d clean forgotten.
She followed Pamela into the open space behind the reception area, where a spare desk had been covered with a disposable tablecloth, and began unpacking the multiple Tupperware boxes that Pamela had bought in from home, packed with flapjacks. The scent of golden syrup wafting out of them made her feel sick. Everything was moving in slow motion as she tried to piece her thoughts back together. The word violent resounded over and over. But Lauren would never do anything to hurt her. Would she? Pamela tutted and handed Jessie some of the shop-bought cookies that someone else had donated – probably one of the doctors, who also didn’t have time to pull anything together from scratch either.
As she tried to arrange the biscuits somewhat artfully onto some paper plates, Jessie ran through everything she knew about manic episodes, which often saw patients go on shopping sprees and spending money they didn’t have. She thought back to the charm bracelet Lauren had bought her for Christmas, all those takeaways, the beauty products she’d been so insistent on buying, and realised that actually, Lauren had never let her pay for anything. She remembered the way Lauren’s hand had moved so deftly, throwing all those items in the basket, without pausing for a moment to tally up the cost, the way her words had fired off at a thousand miles per hour as she described everything she wanted to purchase too. Jessie had never seen her like that before. Sure, Lauren was chatty, but that had been something entirely different.
‘Lazy, isn’t it?’ Pamela whispered, with a conspiratorial chuckle.
She was wearing a powder-blue mohair jumper today, her hair as coiffed as ever.
‘What’s that?’ Jessie replied, blinking herself back into the room.
How could she go back to Maver Place after work? Knowing that she would have to sleep mere metres away from somebody like Lauren, who, according to what she’d read in the file, could fly off the handle at any moment. Somebody refusing to take their medication and missing appointments. No wonder Magda had left. Maybe that’s what Magda had wanted to talk to her about, not Marcus. The penny was finally starting to drop. Could Lauren even be behind the attack somehow? Jessie touched the lump on the back of her skull, where the fracture was still slowly healing, and felt sick to her stomach. At this stage, she couldn’t confidently rule anybody out.
‘The packet of Maryland Cookies.’
Jessie looked at Pamela blankly, and she frowned slightly in return.
‘Dr Statham has only donated these,’ Pamela clarified.
Who cares? The man works unrelenting hours, she wanted to scream. Jessie battled the urge to overturn the table and race towards the exit. She’d have to stay at Priya’s tonight. Or maybe getting out of Brighton altogether would be a better idea? She desperately wanted to run towards the fortress of her parents’ house and be a little girl again, who slept under sheets that never smelled of damp because they’d been dried in a flat with crap ventilation. She longed to walk into a kitchen and not be faced with an overflowing bin that other people had continuously tried to squash more rubbish into, rather than bothering to empty. She missed having a shower curtain that wasn’t streaked orange with mould and a home where she could fully relax, no matter who else was inside it. A home where people don’t lie about who they are.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jessie pushed her way to the front of the bus queue and watched her knees jitter throughout the duration of the journey. It was starting to get lighter again in the evenings and the sky was just about clinging on to the last remains of the day. Stepping off the bus, she froze. Was it worth going back to the flat to grab some clothes, or should she just head straight to the station and jump on the first train heading in the direction of her parents’ house? She could phone them on the way, frame it as a surprise visit. She still had plenty of clothes in her old bedroom there that she could wear over the next couple of days, having been unable to fit them all under her bed at Maver Place. It’d be easier to not let on that anything was amiss – if she divulged any of what she’d come to learn about Lauren, her mum would never let her flat-share, or leave home, again. She was an only child, her parents’ pride and joy. That was why she’d never fully disclosed how bad things had become with Matthew either, never wanting to upset them or reveal the terrible choices she’d made. Her mum would only find a way to shoulder the blame herself. There were plenty of other people she needed to call, too. Nicole, her oldest friend, for starters, to talk to her all about how Matthew had been seeing her younger sister, Demi-Leigh. Then Sofie, who she wanted to grill about Lauren. Had she known about their flatmate’s history of violence and obsessive nature? Then Marcus, for the same reason. It was entirely possible that they were in the dark too. Lauren was obviously very adept at keeping her problems well hidden, which was as pitiable as it was terrifying.
Brighton’s main station, which had trains direct to Chesterbury, was only a fifteen-minute walk away. Jessie knew she could do it in ten if she upped her pace and used a shortcut that led her to the back entrance. She kept her eyes down as she ran, wishing she’d worn more layers to work that day. Her trench coat, more fashionable than practical, gaped open in the wind. She put her card in the ticket machine and bought a single, not return, ticket, her head still swimming from the revelations about Lauren, thoughts all jostling for space. Jessie needed to get out of the city to think about what she really wanted. Did she even want to stay in Brighton at all? Perhaps it had never been a good idea moving there in the first place. Going to her parents’ house would buy some time to figure it all out. The machine hummed from deep within, in no real hurry to spit out her orange ticket and receipt. She could hear the man behind her, next in the queue, tutting loudly. He was doing it on purpose, tapping a shiny brogue impatiently. The ticket dropped into the glass window in the bottom of the machine. Jessie snatched it up, shot the man a disdainful look and put her hand over her eyes, in the hopes it would help her see the departures board. She stepped closer and saw it was a half-an-hour wait until the next train home. She rummaged in her bag for her medication and dry-swallowed another tiny anti-anxiety tablet, desperate to find some calm.
It was cold in the station, even colder than outside somehow. Jessie sat on one of the wooden benches and watched a man attempt to play something on the infamous piano positioned by the entrance. It was open to all who were so inclined, an initiative by the council to ‘raise the spirits of commuters’. The man wasn’t very good. Pigeons bobbed their heads in time to the haphazard melody, an interpretation of an old nursery rhyme, and pecked at the crumbs of a forgotten croissant on the floor. Jessie grew restless. Now that she had decided to leave town, she wanted to get the literal wheels in motion, to be sitting on a speeding train. She debated buying a Cornish pasty, just to have something to occupy her mind and hands with for a while, then her ringtone sounded. It was a call from a withheld number. She ignored it. No good news has ever been shared via a call from a withheld number. A text from Lauren appeared.
Hey babe, call me when you can! What shall we make for dinner tonight?
Jessie felt the hairs on her neck stand on end and put her phone away. Eventually the announcement for her train to Chesterbury was called, and she watched the green and white string of carriages pull in. Salvation. She took a seat opposite a pregnant woman with tight ginger curls and considered all the things she’d left back at Maver Place, things that she would really need. Her laptop and jewellery, for starters. She batted those thoughts away. Blurred snapshots of countryside soon started whizzing past the window and Jessie took her phone out and searched for Sofie’s number. It was time to start getting some answers.
‘Hey, Jess,’ Sofie answered in her usual sing-song. ‘How’s it going?’
Jessie wasn’t sure how to begin. She couldn’t accuse Sofie of keeping potentially life-threatening secrets from her straight away. She needed to suss out how much she knew, work out who had really betrayed her trust the most.
‘Are you in the flat at the moment?’ she asked, her tone serious.
Sofie immediately recognised that something was wrong. She put down the dishcloth she’d been using to wipe a counter in the café. The last customer had just left, leaving her alone to lock up and tally up the day’s takings.
‘I’m just wrapping up at work. You sound a bit stressed?’
Sofie blew heavily into the air, making her fringe flutter. She’d fast developed a hatred of it and couldn’t wait for the damn thing to grow out. There’d been a breakthrough: she and Henry had spoken at length the previous night about how she shouldn’t feel the need to change herself to please him. He’d cupped her chin and looked her square in the eyes and told her she was perfect, exactly as she was, no matter what colour her hair was or how many tattoos she had on display. In fact, they were just a couple of the things he liked about her, out of a very long list. He didn’t want anybody like his sister’s friends. He just wanted her. She’d spent the day feeling grateful for him and foolish for ever having assumed he’d love her more for wearing roll-neck jumpers. Her tattoos were little works of art, she was proud of them, and even though Henry would never dare to get one himself, he loved them too, because they were a part of her. And so what if his mother made it clear she found them repulsive? She didn’t like Henry’s mother all that much herself, truth be told. But finally, it seemed that he was ready to move out of his bachelor pad and look for a home of their own together. Mrs Goldsmith-Blume was never going to get better, Henry
understood that now – he’d started meeting with a counsellor and recognised that he needed to start putting his own needs first. Start dealing with his emotions more head-on. Doing that didn’t mean he was ‘soft’, or that he didn’t care for his mother still, just that he had to take care of himself too.
‘I am,’ Jessie said, feeling her upset and anger at the thought of being lied to rising within her. ‘I know I shouldn’t have, but I read Lauren’s file at work today. I know all about her history.’
The other end of the line fell silent.
‘However, the thing I want to know now is why you didn’t tell me about it? You and Marcus both let me move in with a woman who is severely mentally unstable. How could you have kept this a secret from me for so long?’
The pregnant woman sitting opposite Jessie looked up from her crossword puzzle and adjusted her glasses.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Sofie finally said.
It was true. She spent the majority of her time at Henry’s or at work, trying to scrape together enough money to maybe put a deposit down on her own place, somewhere she could burn incense without receiving a text from anyone about the flat starting to smell like a shop that sells crystals.
‘I knew she was in absolute bits after …’ her voice trailed off.
‘It’s okay, Sofie. You can say it. After her sister?’ Jessie persisted.
The Wrong Move Page 23
