‘I’ve never been diagnosed with mental health problems.’
She stops writing and looks around.
‘But I thought … with all this and the divorce papers …’
She has looked into this. She’s read your statement about me. What you thought was wrong with me. The language you and your solicitor used. Mad. Disturbed. Crazy.
‘You can check my medical records. And ask my employers. I’ve never been diagnosed with a mental illness. All my colleagues are psychologists. Experts in mental health. Do you think I’d be allowed to work if I had? Go and ask them. So there’s nothing to trigger. I’m upset about Jack and his mother stopping me seeing my children, obviously. It isn’t fair. That’s what this is about. I’m lonely. That’s why I pick men up. But I’m not mentally ill.’
She makes a note to check my records. She’s frowning and tapping her pencil on the table.
‘Look, he’s coming after you for this bag. Tell me the truth. Have you got it or not?’
Her eyes say ‘off the record’. Her body language tells me that she’s on my side. I can understand why she’s conflicted – I’m the usual suspect, the most likely person to have the bag.
‘I haven’t got it. I can’t say I have when I haven’t.’
I need to get rid of that fucking bag. She shuts the notebook.
‘OK. I believe you. But he and his solicitor don’t. I’d advise you to get your own counsel. You’ll be called as a witness for the Premier Inn cases so it might be wise.’
She gets up and I follow her to the door. She suddenly turns around and touches my arm.
‘Look, I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what’s going on here at all. It all seems interconnected but …’
I feel the anger creep up inside me. Interconnected. I don’t want her getting ideas about you being the one who is sending the photographs to me. That you are the common denominator. I want her to keep thinking it’s about me, keep the focus on me, until Facebook proves what a fucking lying cheating piece of shit you are.
‘I know. It’s really spooking me to think that some stranger has been following me around. Then Jack accusing me of this. It makes me feel … vulnerable.’
This is the magic word to all agencies. Vulnerable. It’s an invisible signal that you are very near the point where you will accuse them of harassment or abuse. That they need to be careful because you are now sensitive to them and their methods. She stares at me again.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …’
‘No, no. You’re just doing your job. Perhaps I will get a solicitor.’
Yes, Lorraine, back the fuck off. So I can move my plan to its conclusion and we’ll all know where we are.
She leaves and I wait half an hour, then go to work. When I arrive I go straight to my office but Eileen waylays me on the corridor. She’s looking very excited. I can always tell when she’s got a secret to share because her thin lips stretch across her conspiratorial expression. She’s done her hair differently, less ‘just got up’ and more ‘professor’. She hurries towards me.
‘Oh my God, Caroline. You’ll never guess what. I just got out of a meeting and your latest piece of research has won mega funding. They’re so impressed with it that they’re using it as the showcase for the department.’
I smile widely, which hides my ‘how the fuck did that happen?’ sinking feeling inside. That will mean more meetings and less time to research. Or avenge myself against my philandering ex. On the other hand, it also means that, despite everything that has happened, my work is still excellent. I feel a stab of pride, puncturing the anger that had built up since I spoke to DS Percy.
‘That’s brilliant! Which part in particular? Did they say?’
She beams.
‘It was the piece you did on the Hare scale. How psychopathology can be high functioning. They felt like you had an enlightened approach and it was the best piece of reflexive work they had seen for a long time.’
She hugs me and follows me to my office and I wish she would just fuck off, but she doesn’t. She sits down. I need to check Frances’s phone but I can’t. Not here. I need to find out if you are warning people about me, if DS Percy is onto me.
‘… so they want you to move offices, into the Dolan Suite. Someone will take care of it, of course. But you might have to work somewhere else for the next couple of days. Is that OK?’
It’s more than OK. It’s perfect.
‘Oh. Well. I suppose so. I’ll find somewhere.’
She claps her hands.
‘Great.’ Her lips purse and now she’s serious. ‘Of course, there will be a national press release. This is the sort of thing the tabloids love. Psychopaths. They’re all over it. That’ll give your ex something to think about, won’t it?’
I smile and nod. This can go two ways for me. Either it can make me look like I’ve been working very hard and social services will believe that I am a reformed character. Or it will look like I’m trying to support my quest for revenge. I can see it now. ‘Obsessed, she was. Obsessed with trying to prove he’s a psychopath.’
‘I don’t want a lot of fuss. After all, lots of people have worked on this.’
Eileen clasps her hands in front of her.
‘My God, Caroline. You are so humble. Such a good person. That bloody ex of yours should be ashamed of himself. If he knew what you’d achieved …’
That was part of the problem. He did know what I’d achieved. So did everyone else. And that made it all the more difficult for people to believe me. Dr Caroline Atkinson, esteemed senior research psychologist? Surely, you of all people, Caroline, would have known about and been able to resist the gradual chipping away at your self-esteem until you hardly knew who you were?
Caroline, professional fixer extraordinaire, would have been able to spot the signs of someone conditioning her into control? It’s almost as if no one could believe that Jack could do this to me, as if I had some magical professional shield that protects me from manipulative psychopaths. But at home we were just Jack and Caroline.
You had your little tricks. As well as the emotional withdrawal you criticised everything. You never said I looked nice, you just pulled a little face. Told me the things you arranged without telling me were for my own good. Told me I was a slut if I made sexual advances. It all adds up. The insistence on joint bank accounts. Staying completely calm when I argued with you, and ignoring me.
You carefully calculated the effect it had on me, then you made it worse by implying that if I mentioned any of this to anyone you would leave. Or worse. The paranoia set in as you related stories of ‘someone at work’ whose wife pushed him over the edge and he just … snapped. You never hit me. You didn’t have to. Award-winning psychologist or not, you scared the shit out of me. That’s when I started to give up. What could I do when no one believed me? I’m not doing this because I’m crazy. I’m doing it so everyone will believe me and it can be over.
Eileen leaves and I slump in my chair. I switch on the radio in my office and wait for the news to come on. For them to report that a woman’s bag was stolen from her shop. Was that newsworthy these days? I’m so out of touch. But the police would be called and that’s mainly where the news comes from, blue-light chasers. I read a paper on it years ago.
One thing’s for sure, I need to do an afternoon’s work then think of a way to offload your holdall. Once it’s found it will all be a big mistake. I’ll be in the clear and they’ll be looking for someone else. I don’t need your fucking journal now. I’ve got my flash drive and, anyway, the contents are branded into my memory. I know the running order and every infidelity you committed. I could recite them. Luckily no one can read my mind, but I’m going to make sure that someone reads your fucking journal so everyone can finally know what a piece of work you really are.
Chapter Seventeen
By six o’clock I’ve finished an abstract for a new paper and read over my study ready for submission to the funding panel. They’re hap
py with the outline for the new psychopath scale and they want something more formal. They want to increase my salary. I suddenly realise what the next step is. Professor. It’s almost in the bag now.
This is very good. Very good indeed. It proves that I’m a balanced individual who can perform to high levels. That, according to my colleagues, I am in the top 1 per cent of my profession. Not the neurotic bundle of paranoia you labelled me. Not at all.
I’m feeling pleased with myself until I check Frances’s phone as I’m parked up in a layby on the way home. Her mother has phoned twice and someone called Elliot has texted her to say he’s been round with her scones but she’s not in. She must have closed the shop. Good.
I worry for a moment that she knows it’s me and she’s phoned you. Poor, newly divorced Frances. Just your type. Instead of calling the police, have you convinced her to have a cup of tea and forget about it? With your endless fucking charm and powers of persuasion? Looking into her eyes like in the photos where she was holding my baby son?
I suddenly don’t feel worried any more. She deserves to suffer. She’ll lose money. People will be wondering why the café’s not open, won’t they?
I drive the rest of the way home in despair. Today’s been a nightmare, really, despite the funding news. I’m completely exhausted and when I get home my next-door neighbour, owner of the fucking dog, is standing in my drive. I get out of the car and smile at her.
‘Police been round. Earlier on. Asking if you were in this morning.’
She’s lived next door to me long enough to know that my kids are gone. And to see the delivery man and my early-morning drunken returns. This bodes well. Frances must have guessed it was me and they’re checking my whereabouts. I shouldn’t have posted the crickets on Monica’s header. Damn. Great.
‘Yeah. Jack’s up to his old tricks again. You know …’
She rolls her eyes, crosses her oversized cardy over her false boobs and flicks her hair extensions.
‘Bastard. Anyways, I told them you were here all morning cos I didn’t hear Rover barking.’
Fucking Rover. Good boy.
‘I was here. I was doing a bit of work at home while the skip came. Time to get my act together. Having a spring clean.’
She perks up.
‘Ooo, throw anything you don’t want my way, yeah?’
She’s obviously seen the endless procession of boxes coming in and the delivery men walking away shaking their heads. I nod and she backs off.
‘Why did they want to know if I’d seen some suitcases going in?’
They’re asking around. Fuck you, Jack. You’re making them poke this monster.
‘Just some mix-up with deliveries. Jack’s been away and his cases got delivered here. Then he tried to say it was something to do with me. Can you believe it?’
She shakes her head. ‘I can believe anything of him. Shady fucker.’ She shifts from foot to foot and kicks some gravel on my drive. Then, avoiding my eyes, ‘Tried it on with me once. I said no, obviously. I’m a married woman. Made me think that it wasn’t the first time he’d done that, though. Then I saw him …’
I see red. Blinding fury. I hold onto the skip and clench my fists until my knuckles are white.
‘Yeah, I know. That’s why we’re divorced.’
She nods deeply and does a ‘smashed it’ fist.
‘Stay strong, sister. Stay strong.’
I’ll stay fucking strong, all right. I retreat past the skip and scan the kitchen for alcohol. I haven’t bought any since all this happened and I’m desperate now. Desperate for something to numb this pain. When it’s isolated inside me – hidden – it’s manageable. It’s the leaking out into public spaces that I find hard to cope with. Very fucking hard.
Now even my neighbours are telling me that Jack is a bastard. I open the drawer and there are the Tramadol you were prescribed when you had a bad back. It’s no wonder you had a bad back, is it? I know why now. I stare at the tablets. This is all supposed to make me feel better, not worse. So why do I feel like I’m taking a step in the wrong direction?
The tablets are already in my hand and I’m pouring a glass of water when I stop dead. This isn’t going to take the pain away. The only way I can deal with this is to offload the holdall and get the police off my back. Then I can ring social services and set up a meeting with them. Then I can see Charlie and Laura.
Of course, the nagging doubt in my head comes in the form of your mother. She’ll do anything she can to discredit me and put a stop to social services’ arrangements. It suddenly strikes me that that’s the reason she was round here the other day, taking photos through my back window. She’s trying to find a reason.
I look out of the hallway window at the skip on my drive. If I can make a start on clearing things, when they come round to inspect the house ready for the kids to come they’ll see that I’m making an effort. Because I am.
I drop the Tramadol into the sink and run the water. They disappear in a swirl and the pain is still there. I walk up to the main road and check Frances’s phone again and there are two text messages from her friends: U OK hun? and Got that bug? Of course, the shop would still be shut. But all this has given me an idea.
I cheer up a bit and order a pizza as I walk back home. While waiting for it to come, I Google ‘How to unlock an Android phone’ on made-up Monica’s mobile. It’s a choice between losing any data that’s not on the SD card and being able to read Frances’s messages and listen to her calls from now on. And have access to her social networking, hopefully.
Until now I’ve had the battery and SIM card out while I’m at home or at work. I know all about ‘Find my phone’. So I walk down to the tram stop at the park and jump on the next tram. After three stops I prise open the back and take out the SD card. Fingers crossed all her numbers are on there. I hold the volume up, home and power buttons together, take a deep breath and choose ‘wipe all data’.
It reboots and I go through the motions, switching off, reinserting the SD card and switching on again. Yes. The contacts button reveals all Frances’s contacts. The call log and texts are gone but never mind, I’ll be able to fully see what’s going on now. Almost immediately the phone rings and I let it go to answerphone. When I listen to the message, it’s another friend.
‘Hi, Franny. Just wondered what happened to you today? I thought you were coming round? Give us a call.’
It’s someone called Julia. I flick through Frances’s pictures and see that she likes a night out. Her with friends drinking champagne. Her in a restaurant with a different set of friends. Smiling. Her with her cat. Her beautiful house in the background. Probably the same house you and she took Charlie to.
I could text Julia. Tell her Franny has the flu. She’s in bed. When clearly she’ll be frantically trying to get rid of the crickets and the mice before environmental health swoop. Frantic Fran. I almost giggle, but then I remember the pain I felt when I saw her holding my baby son.
As predicted, the phone has a Facebook icon right on the front and I click on it. The app opens and suddenly I have access to all her photographs. As if I hadn’t tortured myself enough, I scroll through them and eventually come to the ones of you and Charlie. These are different from the ones in the journal. Those are self-conscious, the look of lovers trying to look their best, but these are more natural. Selfies. Big smiles. Then I find it. A video. I see your face frozen on the front of it with the ‘play’ white arrow urging me to press it.
I wait a second then I press it. It’s you, talking to the camera. Telling it that you are happy. Happy. And you’re not the only one. You turn the phone around to Frances and she’s there. Holding Charlie. She’s laughing, you’re laughing and then, Charlie is laughing. His beautiful baby chuckle rings out on the tram. I let it play. She’s tickling him and you’re tickling her. It’s a family scene, except she’s not family and I am.
It goes on and on and I have to stop it. I feel hysterical inside with the pain of my son in another
woman’s arms, but I see myself in the tram window, calm and collected. I look back at the phone and I’m pressing the share button. I’m tagging you in it and writing ‘#notmybaby #notmyman’. I know this will fucking incriminate me even more but they would have to catch me with the phone to do that.
I take the battery and SIM card out of the phone and jump off at the next stop. I cross the tracks and jump on a tram back home. Adele tells me that never mind I’ll find someone like you and I fast forward to ‘Irreplaceable’ and think how right Beyoncé is. It’s dark now and I look around, ever aware of you following me. You must have. You couldn’t have known about my Premier Inn habit otherwise. I walk across the open ground beside the park and no one is following me. No one is around at all.
Then I walk home. Halfway there I realise that I don’t really want to go indoors. My insides tremble and I know that things have got out of hand. Not that it’s my fault. This is a means to an end to me, to get my children back. But I never meant anyone to get hurt. I never meant to steal anything at all. I need to remind myself why I did that, because things are certainly becoming muddled.
I double back to the car and retrieve Monica’s laptop and the flash drive. I sit in the dark under an oak tree and fire it up. I watch as the bats dip through the last of the sunset and fly back into the trees.
I scroll through the scanned images of you and your women until I reach you and Frances again. The picture of her holding baby Charlie. I was right. The following pictures show you in her house, the same one she lives in now. I reach the end of the sequence and skip over scanned cinema tickets and a receipt for a diamond tennis bracelet. I’m thinking that I’m desensitised to this now until the next pictures flash up in front of me and my mouth falls open involuntarily.
Pam Harding. She’s beautiful. I admit that. Dark hair curled right down her back. Ruby rosebud lips. Dark eyes. But in the fifth picture she’s wearing a wedding dress. My hands shake as I flick through the pictures. Wedding dress. Smirk. Smirk over the shoulder. Blowing a kiss. There’s no bouquet. I recognise that tiara. Wedding dress undone. Naked in my wedding tiara. In my bedroom.
Perfect Ten Page 12
