Perfect Ten

by Jacqueline Ward

  Someone from school, Trevor Dane, had chipped in, telling him to ‘calm down, it was years ago’. So he’s threatened him as well. A sub-post has started about Monica, some girls I hardly knew wondering who she was and did anyone actually remember her?

  Someone does, of course. Auto-suggestion powers much of social networking and someone posts that Monica was on the running team and good at geography. Someone else posts that she was the best friend of another girl who doesn’t appear to be on Facebook and wonders if Monica still sees her.

  I flick between the photos and Facebook. I’m getting no work done and I’m dying to check Monica’s messages, so I call it a day and set off home. At the tram stop I wonder if the police will be waiting for me at home. If that guy had reported his credit card missing and now someone knew I had been at the hotel with him. Had proof. If I’d left something in the hotel. A hair. Likely. DNA. Almost certainly. But surely that would take a while to determine? I damn myself for being so fucking stupid and breathe deeply as the familiar feeling of inevitability sinks in.

  Obviously this is your doing. An eye for an eye. Is this the way you want to play it, then? You know I have the journal so you’re threatening me with my pissed-up performances. It doesn’t explain the photos from my previous excursions. Have you been watching me for a while? Building evidence against me? The thought shocks me. All the more reason to prove you were lying. And quickly. It’s all happening for a reason, this, and it’s to make me hurry up and prove my innocence.

  I hop onto the tram and take the single seat near the door. I can’t open made-up Monica’s laptop quickly enough and log on. When I do I’m delighted to find an inbox full of messages from school friends, all claiming to remember her. Asking if she was on the school trip to France, if she was on the hockey team? Some couldn’t quite place her. I marvel at the power of the human brain to fill in the gaps. Schema theory. It works both for me and against me.

  In this case, for me. Give them five facts and they’ll find a sixth degree of separation. But it’ll probably work against me when the police go sneaking around the Premier Inn.

  I open Monica’s timeline and Christine’s got involved. She’s made a comment under the photograph.

  ‘I just want to make it perfectly clear that this photograph is completely innocent. I met Jack at work and we were about to go out for a meal. I’m sure “Monica” will confirm this, as she was there to take the photograph.’

  She’s trying to protect herself. Naturally. I wouldn’t expect anything less of the scheming, cheating bitch. She’s forced my hand, really. I was going to leave it at that, but it’s like a game of chess. Some people might actually think that the situation was innocent. And I don’t want that at all. I want them all to know that you fucked her.

  So I open the flash drive and find a picture of you having sex. Of course, it’s very painful for me to look at. You’re in the bedroom at the Ibis and obviously having a lot of fun, before I spoiled it. I think for a moment, think about what it would have been like if I had just walked away from you when I realised you were being unfaithful. If, that day in London, I had gone home and packed a bag. Where I’d be now. But all I can see is … nothing.

  When I look up at the screen, I’ve uploaded the photograph. It’s there, right on Monica’s page. Can you see it? Can you see yourself being unfaithful? Are you shrugging and smiling now? Or are you uncomfortable and pissed off? I know you, Jack. You’ll be livid. And you’ll know that this is just the start. And you know me. You know I’ll stop at nothing.

  I log off and I’ve missed my stop. I’m fuming and still a little bit afraid that someone will be waiting for me at home, so I get off at the next stop and walk through the park. There’s a huge glass greenhouse at one end of the park where they grow exotic plants and I hurry inside. I need to think.

  The windows are steamy and I take off my coat. I love places like this. Completely anonymous. And safe. No one can know I’m here and no one can persecute me. The plants nod at each other, weighed down with droplets. Their leafy hands wave slowly and I almost smile.

  Everything has a price; I know that more than anyone. It’s almost as if when you do something good, something bad happens to balance it out. My good for today is exposing you. The bad is that someone is watching me. Here, in the quiet, steamy hothouse, I flick back through the previous night, in stills, and then, as I focus deeper, in scenes I would prefer to forget.

  I run through what isn’t still vodka-soaked and I can’t find a single moment when I was aware of someone following me. I didn’t notice anything. I cast back, weeks ago, to another purple room and another married businessman. Same. No memory at all. Would it be too much of a coincidence for them to be just CCTV or something?

  Of course it fucking would. But why would someone do this? None of it makes sense. There’s always the possibility that I completely blacked out and someone took the pictures then. But some of them were taken in the bar, at the end of the night when things were getting really steamy. I usually remember most of the night, even if it is fuzzy, the next day. I would have remembered if the same person had been there, wouldn’t I? I don’t deserve this. I don’t.

  I wait for half an hour, until I would be due to get home, and then I hide Monica’s laptop behind a plastic panel in the greenhouse. I don’t want whoever is waiting for me when I get home to find it. Even if I am arrested, there will be nothing to connect me with Monica.

  It’s about a quarter of a mile walk through the park and then a nice housing estate to my house. No one is waiting for me when I arrive, so I just let myself in. I stack up today’s takeaway menus on top of the enormous pile at the end of the hallway and then I flick on my own laptop and look at Christine’s timeline.

  Oh dear. Christine’s marriage seems to be going the same way as mine now it’s all out in the open. Her husband is furious and he’s threatening to kill you and Christine. And Monica. I’m suddenly alert to the fact that if you’ve reported Monica’s profile to the police and Christine’s husband brings it to their attention, they might, just might, start snooping. I’m covered so far, but I’d better be careful.

  I look at the photos again. I’m in deep shit here. This isn’t just blackmail. I only ever used the credit cards I took once, just to make them know they had done something wrong. To punish them, I suppose. I check the background, so familiar, but now I’m looking for cameras. I spot one, the bulb panoramic type, and another by the fire exit. They’d be everywhere and I’d definitely be seen leaving. But no one can prove I took those cards. All they can prove is that I was there.

  I need to think about this. I can’t just sit here and do nothing about it, but I need to turn it over and look at it from all sides. You’re setting me up. Pushing me to do something rash. Something that will implicate me. Or maybe you’re not. Maybe this is meant to scare me. Which is quite funny in a way because, after what I’ve been through, you would need to try a lot harder.

  I know you, Jack. You think like me. You would have taken those photographs thinking that I would never, ever report you because of, you know, the shame. The shame of being caught. That’s where you are wrong. Maybe I would have been ashamed if we were still married, but we’re not, are we? I’m too far gone now to be ashamed. Too numb from missing my babies.

  No. I’m going to call your bluff. You’ve upped the stakes, thinking I will back down now. Thinking I will give the journal back, drop trying to get my kids back. But I never will. No. What I’m going to do is play you at your own game. Two can play at this little fucked-up game. Tit for tat, is it? There’s only one thing for it. It’s risky and I don’t really want to do it but you’ve left me no choice. You have to take risks to get what you want and I want retribution. I take my mobile phone and dial.

  ‘DS Percy.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘Oh, hi, Lorraine. That’s OK, is it, Lorraine? I just wanted to … Well, this is all a bit awkward.’

  ‘Go on.’

 
I know the rules. Take the risk. Always pre-empt.

  ‘Well, the thing is … I’ve received some photos. Of me and … and … some men.’

  There’s silence as she processes it.

  ‘OK. What sort of photographs?’

  ‘They’re the type of photographs that could be used to blackmail me. Sexual. And there’s a message. Saying someone is watching me. I’m quite scared.’

  It’s not a lie. I am quite scared. But that’s nothing new. And when I’m scared I spiral off at a tangent, but not this time. Not when DS Percy can be so useful to me.

  ‘So do you know the person in the picture?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Well, I, er, I slept with him last night. And there was one from a couple of weeks ago. Look, I want to make an Official complaint. This is harassment. I’d like to make a statement.’

  She sighs. ‘Of course you do. And your husband is complaining about some missing bag. The thing is, Caroline, this isn’t the sort of thing we spend a lot of time on. I can give you a crime number and you can come and see me tomorrow. Just give me some details now and I’ll give you a crime number.’

  She’s not biting. Damn.

  ‘Well, I was at the Premier Inn on Halton Street last night with this man. And the other week I was at the Premier Inn on Walker Street.’

  ‘With a different man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There’s a silence and the flip of pages. The tap of keys.

  ‘Was this man last night called Peter Daubney?’

  I flash back to the credit card in my hand. His introduction. Peter. Daubney. Shit. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He’s reported the credit card. She’s already linked it.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it was. How …?’

  I hear rustling and a chair scraping roughly.

  ‘OK, look, are you at home? I’ll come round. Stay where you are.’

  She’s gone and I sit at the table and wait for her, knowing that you’ll be trying to get hold of her as well. You’ll be trying to report me for faking a Facebook account. So I go outside and take a pay-as-you-go mobile out of the hole. Its battery and chip are tied to it by an elastic band, and I quickly set it up and log into Monica’s Facebook. I set it up ready to post a comment under the picture. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to cause all this fuss. It was just a laugh.’ And a smiley face, naturally. Then I slip it into the bottom of the grill pan that’s resting on top of the cooker. This is working out well. I can use the police to set you up and after this they’ll be absolutely sure it’s not me posting because they’ll be here when made-up Monica presses the button. God, this is tricky, but it’ll be worth it when they don’t believe anything you say.

  The doorbell sounds. She’s already here. So quickly. I flick on the kettle and let her in. She’s got a younger plain-clothes officer with her.

  ‘Hello, Dr Atkinson. This is DS Smith. So, can you tell me exactly what happened last night?’

  DS Smith goes to stand by the back door, presumably to stop me making a run for it. But I’m staying right here.

  ‘Oh. Caroline, please. It’s a little bit embarrassing really. You see I … I … look. Can I make you a coffee?’

  They look at each other and she raises her eyebrows at him. Then she nods.

  ‘Yes, OK.’

  I flick the kettle back on and it takes only a second to boil. Meanwhile, I’m putting coffee in cups, enquiring about sugar and secretly posting Monica’s comment. They’re so busy checking out the shit that I’ve piled everywhere that they don’t notice me lift the grill pan slightly and push the send button.

  ‘There. So, as I said, it’s a little bit embarrassing. I was in the Premier Inn bar and I got talking to this man. Next thing I knew we were in his room. Having … er …’

  ‘Intercourse?’

  She looks mildly shocked.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I was very drunk, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Right. And what time did you leave?’

  I pretend to think.

  ‘About six o’clock. I ordered a taxi and came straight home. Then when I got to work these pictures had been left in the common room. So how did you know it was him?’

  She looks puzzled. As if she was expecting to ask the questions.

  ‘We had a report from him earlier today. So I have to ask you—’

  Her phone rings. She looks at it and sighs, looking for somewhere more private to take the call. Not much space here, so she moves into the hallway. I smile at DS Smith but he doesn’t smile back. He just stands staring at me, hands in front. I can hear her, though.

  ‘Yes, Mr Atkinson. So you said. And when was the last activity?’

  A pause. I hear her sigh. She’s getting more and more pissed off with this by the minute. I wait for it. I know you, Jack.

  ‘Well, that’s impossible. Because I’m with Mrs Atkinson right now. In her home. I’ve been here for the past fifteen minutes so it’s impossible.’

  Another pause. I know you. You’ll be one step ahead, wondering how I did it. You’ll be Googling timed comments and wondering if I got someone to do it for me. She returns.

  ‘Right. Someone’s been posting pictures of your husband on Facebook without his permission and he wants to press charges. Invasion of privacy.’

  I frown at her.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Well, he thinks it’s you. He thinks that you have his bag and you’re doing it. But here I am. You don’t have the bag and you’re nowhere near Facebook.’

  I nod.

  ‘Oh dear. This is a proper mess. What’s going on here?’

  She doesn’t know. I can tell by her face. But she persists.

  ‘Look, I have to ask you. Do you know anything about some property taken from Peter Daubney?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘No. Of course not. What property? Shouldn’t you be asking whoever took these photographs? I phoned you about these photographs and now you’re accusing me?’

  She and DS Smith exchange glances.

  ‘Not exactly. Anyway, could I ask you to stay around? We might want to ask you more questions over the next few days.’

  ‘Oh. I hope I’m not a suspect.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Not at the moment. We’ll have to review the CCTV again, but not at the moment. Like I said, stay around.’

  Chapter Eight

  Of course I’m a fucking suspect. Even I suspect me. But until they have something on me, I’ll carry on as normal. Or as normal as I can be.

  They take my statement and leave with the photographs, which naturally I’ve photographed with my mobile phone beforehand.

  The best thing that came out of this mess is that she swallowed the comment trick. Nice work, even if I say so myself. So what now? What, now the police won’t take any notice of you? By the look on DS Percy’s face she thought you were a little bit hysterical. Accusing your ex-wife of posting pictures of you on Facebook.

  Of course, it does add up. The missing bag, delivered here. The pictures. The journal. You would have had to go through the embarrassing motions of explaining what was in the journal. Who knows? They could look back over the old casenotes and see that, in fact, I was telling the truth. What then?

  But it doesn’t quell the horrible feeling that my time is up. That I’m eventually going to be arrested for theft. Fraud, probably. I grab a bottle of very cheap wine from my cooking rack and sink down behind the front door. I open the wine and gulp it down. The lull washes over me, then the sharpness hits. I take another big swig and someone’s banging on the door.

  I sit stock still with my feet on a pile of unopened DVDs. Another hard knock. The footsteps around the side. Oh God. What if that’s them? Come to arrest me for spending someone’s cheating fucking husband’s money? But it isn’t.

  ‘Caroline. Caroline, I know you’re in there. Open the door.’

  It’s your mother. No doubt she’s here to side with you like she did before. Telling me I’ve always been a bit unbalanced and why don’t I keep my mouth shut, or you will leave.<
br />
  ‘Caroline, open this door now. I need to talk to you.’ Silence for a moment. ‘I’ve got the children here.’

  The children. That old chestnut. Most of me knows she hasn’t got the children there. But it’s positive reinforcement and I’m reaching for the switch that flicks on the CCTV screen across from the door. It’s one of the only Amazon purchases that I’ve actually used. I search the screen for my children, but, of course, they’re not there.

  I take another, larger swig of the wine and she’s banging again.

  ‘Have it your way, then. But you’re in big trouble, lady. Big trouble. Jack’s going to press charges this time. Properly. Not the civil courts. No injunctions. You’ll end up in prison.’

  I tell her to fuck off under my breath. What does she know? Her cosy little chats with you will have, like always, opened up only one side of the story. Your side. No doubt Charlie and Laura have been brainwashed by how great their absent father is and how bad their crazy mother is.

  They said it would only be for a few months. Till I got myself sorted out. It’s been a year. A full year. As if to confirm it I glance at the calendar, which is, like everything else here, and my whole fucking life, stuck on that day a full year ago.

  And she’s enjoying it. She’s always been a martyr and she’s always sided with you; even when she knows you’re wrong. Oedipus and all that Freudian theory has a lot to answer for. I wonder how she’ll feel when she finds out you’ve been shagging my sister?

  She knocks again and then I can hear her talking on her phone. I press my ear against the door but I can’t hear what she’s saying. It’s getting fainter and then it disappears, leaving me in the free-falling void that everything I do is carefully designed to avoid. The children. Charlie and Laura. I could have faced everything else, but not that.