by Lesley Kara
too sketchy and inadequate. The emphasis is all wrong, but I
have to keep going. One by one, the facts emerge.
‘He’d been dry for eight and a half months.’
I stare straight ahead of me, but it’s not the beach I’m seeing.
It’s Simon’s face that day in the park. Proud, confident. Hand-
some. If he hadn’t seen me first and come over, I doubt I’d even
have recognized him. He could have walked straight past me
while I sat on the bench in my beer- soaked reverie.
‘I told him I was impressed, but really I was jealous. There he
was, getting himself sorted out at last. He even had a job on a
building site, only as a labourer, but it was clearly doing him
good. He looked so fit and healthy it made me ache inside. I
wanted him back.’
I pause to take a few deep breaths.
‘He was talking about some work he had coming up, as an
extra on a film. It wasn’t much, but he was so excited about it.
He thought it might lead to something else.’ My voice breaks.
‘Maybe if he hadn’t met me again, he’d have had the chance to
make something of his life, fulfil his dreams.’
I don’t fight the urge to cry this time. It all spills out in snotty sobs and heaving gulps. Helen pats me gently on my shoulders
till I recover enough to go on.
‘It was a really hot day, a bit like today. I had six cans of ice-
cold lager in my rucksack.’
I take a deep breath. Even now, I can still see the little drops
of condensation clinging to the outside of the cans. The sun
beats down on the back of my neck. I sneak a look at Helen
from the corner of my eye, see the tip of her tongue slide across
her bottom lip. It isn’t a great time to be talking about cold
lagers, but I can’t stop now.
100
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 100
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
WHO DID YOU TELL?
‘Maybe I had him at the little hissing noise as I pulled back
the tab. Or maybe it was when I took one long, greedy gulp. I
was probably crass enough to waggle one under his nose. I can
almost hear myself telling him that one little drink wouldn’t
hurt and that we should celebrate his good fortune.’
Helen makes one of those cynical little noises in the back of
her throat.
‘The truth is, I don’t know how it happened. But it was my
fault. All of it. All I can remember is waking up, sick and jittery, God knows how many hours later, with Simon passed out on
the floor next to me. He came to, eventually, but he kept throw-
ing up and passing out again. He had it really bad, the worst
DTs I’ve ever seen, thought his skin was crawling with maggots,
kept tearing at his flesh with his nails.’
We’ve reached the headland now and run out of beach, so
we walk up the ramp and on to the promenade in front of the
beach huts. Helen points to a bench and we sit down. I light a
cigarette and draw on it deeply.
‘I remember taking slugs of vodka to calm my nerves and
then, the next thing I knew, two paramedics were hammering
on the door. Somehow or other, I must have got myself together
enough to phone for an ambulance. I don’t even remember
doing it, but I must have done. It was the only decent thing
I did.’
I feel light- headed all of a sudden. Nauseous. Instinctively, I
lean forward and put my head between my knees. I take long,
deep lungfuls of air and focus on the concrete between my feet
and the crack that runs through it. Helen’s hand is on the back
of my neck.
‘Go on,’ she says, her voice soft, encouraging.
‘Two weeks later, after he’d been discharged, Simon threw
himself off Seaford Head in Sussex.’
Her hand falls away. ‘Oh my God! Oh, Astrid!’
101
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 101
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
LESLEY K AR A
‘I read about it in the paper. That’s how I found out. So yes,
whoever sent me that photo is right. There is blood on my
hands. I didn’t push Simon off that cliff, but I might just as well
have done.’
I sniff to clear my nose, but it’s completely blocked. Helen
passes me a tissue.
‘Everyone says I shouldn’t think that way. Counsellors, and
people like that. But I can’t help the way I feel, can I? ‘
‘Of course you can’t.’
‘And even if they’re right and it isn’t my fault, it doesn’t make
it any better. He’s still dead.’
Helen turns to face me. ‘Where is it, this photo? Can I see it?’
I think of the brown envelope gathering dust and bits of car-
pet fluff at the back of my wardrobe and my palms start to
sweat.
‘No, I left it at home.’
‘Have you thought about going to the police?’
I swallow hard. The very thought of walking into a police
station makes me cringe.
‘I doubt they’d take much notice of an ex- addict, do you?
And if they start asking me a load of questions . . . well, let’s
just say, I haven’t exactly been a model citizen. I’ve . . .’
Shit. I wish I hadn’t started this now. It’s all coming out. The
wreckage of my life, spilling out in a great ugly heap. I know if
I’m going to do this Twelve Step thing properly, then at some
point I’m going to have to confess all this anyway, and the rest
of it. It’s one of the stages you have to work through. But some
secrets are too shameful to share with anyone. Even more
shameful than goading Simon to take a drink. In fact, they’re
so off limits that when they creep into my head at night I ward
them off before they can torment me, crowd them out with
other thoughts, other images.
‘I’ve taken things that weren’t mine,’ I say. Keep it vague,
102
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 102
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
WHO DID YOU TELL?
Astrid. ‘Things I could sell to buy booze. I know the police are never going to find out and there’s bugger all they could do
about it now, but still . . . I’d feel uneasy talking to them. Guilty conscience, I suppose.’
Helen rests her hand on my forearm again. ‘We’ve all done
things we’re not proud of. I know I have. But remember’ – she makes the inverted- commas sign with her fingers and adopts
the familiar, smug tone that I instantly recognize as her impres-
sion of Rosie – ‘we’re only as sick as our secrets.’
It feels good to laugh after the emotional intensity of the last
half- hour.
Helen pats my hand. ‘The sort of haters who post anony-
mous mail through people’s letterboxes are usually cowards at
heart. They’re like internet trolls. They get pleasure from upset-
ting people.’ A crease appears between her eyebrows. ‘It’s a
particularly vindictive thing to do. Was there anyone else, do
you know? Another woman, perhaps?’
‘After me, do you mean? I don’t think so. There was an ex
who kept sending him Facebook messages. An old schoolfriend
who used to have a crush on h
im. I think he was seeing her
when he met me, actually, but it wasn’t serious.’
‘Well, whoever it is, they’ve made their nasty little point now.
I doubt you’ll be hearing from them again.’
‘I hope you’re right, Helen. I really do.’
103
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 103
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
18
Filled with a fresh resolve not to be intimidated by some pathetic
saddo’s twisted mind game, I say goodbye to Helen and head for
the British Red Cross shop. Flinstead has more than its fair share
of charity shops so I’m bound to find something I like.
Soon, I’ve bought a pair of Next shorts that look almost
brand new, some cropped linen trousers that’ll look great with
my trainers, and two Zara T- shirts – a real find. The only new
things I’ve shelled out for are some Rizlas and tobacco – I can’t
afford to keep buying cigarettes – and a cheap swimming cos-
tume from Peacocks. Just in case Josh suggests a swim.
I was going to ignore the Oxfam shop so I don’t have to face
Rosie again, but I can’t stop myself looking in the window. The
creepy mannequin is now sporting white chinos, a navy blazer
and a panama hat. It still freaks me out, thinking about that
T- shirt. It’s amazing the tricks a mind can play, even without
alcohol, and yet, now that someone’s sending me nasty mes-
sages, someone who knows about Simon and me, I can’t help
wondering whether the mannequin was a message too. No,
that’s ridiculous. I’m just being paranoid.
My eyes wander over to a 60s smock dress on a dressmaker’s
104
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 104
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
WHO DID YOU TELL?
dummy. It’s exquisite, and only £6.99. It’s too much of a bar-
gain. I’m going to have to go in.
The customer Rosie’s serving says goodbye. Now it’s just the
two of us. Her mouth twists into a smile.
‘Good walk?’ she says.
I nod. Why the hell did I have to look in the window in the
first place?
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it, that dress you were looking at? My daugh-
ter used to have one just like it.’
Her daughter. Somehow, I didn’t imagine Rosie as a mother.
She comes out from behind the counter. ‘It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen her wearing it, though.’ She exhales slowly. ‘It’s
been a long time since I’ve seen her full stop.’ She gives a wry
smile. ‘She can’t forgive me, you see. For ruining her childhood.’
I don’t know how to respond to this, or even if I want to. She
acts as if we’re already friends, assumes there’s some kind of
intimacy between us. As if the fact that we’re both alcoholics
automatically binds us together. Or maybe it’s a ploy to draw
me into conversation, and I know exactly what will happen if I
let her. She’ll start asking me questions and smiling at me in
that smug way of hers, as if she already knows the answers.
‘You can try it on if you like,’ she says. ‘There’s a changing
room at the back.’
‘Erm . . .’
‘Go on. It’ll look great on you.’
She peels the dress off the dummy and gestures towards a
changing cubicle at the back of the shop, just off the room
where all the donations are stored and sorted. It’s tiny and dark,
with stained carpet tiles. I tug the flimsy curtain across, but it
doesn’t fit the frame properly so there’s a gap of about an inch
on one side.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rosie calls out. ‘There’s nobody else here.’
I squeeze out of my jeans and take my top off, then wriggle
105
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 105
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
LESLEY K AR A
into the dress. It fits perfectly. I peer at myself in the mirror, but it’s so gloomy in here it’s hard to get a good look. I’m sure I
noticed a bigger, full- length mirror propped against the wall in
the back room, near the workstation and the PC. I step outside
and almost bump into Rosie. She must have been standing
behind the curtain the whole time.
‘Stunning,’ she says. ‘You look like a young Mia Farrow.’
She stares at my body for a beat too long and my mind returns
to when she pressed her phone number on me, tucked it into
my shirt pocket, her fingers brushing my left breast. I feel her
eyes on me as I pick my way past all the donations heaped on
the floor. The fusty scent of old books and second- hand clothes
is even riper back here. Some attempt has been made to freshen
things up with one of those floral room sprays. There’s an under-
tone of something else too, though I can’t put my finger on what
it is. It reminds me of some of the squats I’ve dossed in.
On a large table in the centre of the room things are being
grouped into categories: men’s jackets and old suits, ladies’
woollen jumpers and cardigans, a heap of shoes and strappy
sandals. It makes me think of one of those hideous old photo-
graphs from the Holocaust – the possessions of the dead. I
blink the image away.
It’s been a long while since I’ve worn a dress. I feel exposed,
vulnerable, although I know it looks good on me. Short, but not
too short. Sexy, but not in an obvious, provocative way. I wish Rosie would go away and leave me to decide on my own, but
she’s still right here next to me, nodding and smiling. Telling me
how great I look in it, how for £6.99 it’s a no‑ brainer. Christ, talk about hard sell. Anyone would think we were in an expensive
boutique and she was on commission.
At last, another customer comes in and Rosie goes off to deal
with them. Her reluctance at leaving me here on my own is
obvious. I take one last look at myself in the mirror. The dress
106
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 106
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
WHO DID YOU TELL?
is great. I’ll buy it. But just as I’m about to return to the cubicle to take it off I hear Richard Carter’s voice. He’s dropping off a
bag of old clothes. The second this week by the sound of it.
‘I think that’s the lot now,’ he says.
I linger by the mirror, unwilling to walk over to the cubicle
in case he spots me. The last thing I want is for these two com-
pletely separate parts of my world to collide.
My eyes drift round the room as I wait for him to leave. They
settle first on the PC that’s been left open on the Word template
screen, and then travel down to the floor and Rosie’s cloth bag,
the one with the patchwork design she always has with her at
AA meetings. It’s stuffed behind the mirror and I can’t help
noticing that there’s a rolled- up sleeping bag in there with a
toothbrush and tube of toothpaste sticking out the top. There’s
something else in there too: a torch.
Didn’t she say something a while back about looking for
somewhere to stay?
At last, Richard leaves and I dash back into the cubicle to
change. I suppose if you ha
d the keys to a small shop like this
and knew what you were doing, you could get away with it, as
long as you covered your tracks and cleared out before the
morning- shift person turned up. Is that what Rosie’s been
doing? Why else would she be lugging a sleeping bag and
torch around with her? I know I’ve dossed on a fair few floors
in my time, but to still be doing it in your sixties? How tragic
is that?
When I come back into the shop she’s sifting through a mas-
sive laundry bag, her dyed hair hanging in front of her face. She
straightens up at my approach and walks towards the till. I put
the dress down and rootle around in my pocket for my last ten-
ner. Where the hell is it?
I empty my rucksack on to the counter, heat staining my
cheeks: a packet of green Rizlas, a pouch of Golden Virginia,
107
9781787630055_WhoDidYouTell.indd 107
6/26/19 2:47:19 PM
LESLEY K AR A
Simon’s juggling ball and a handful of screwed- up tissues. The
ball rolls towards Rosie and, just as I’m about to grab it, she
picks it up and gives it a squeeze. Damn. It won’t be the same
any more, not now she’s touched it. Why the hell did I have to bring it out with me in the first place?
‘Here.’
I place the tenner on to the counter in front of her and put
the tissues and Rizlas back into my rucksack. She’s still play-
ing with the ball, tossing it slowly and rhythmically from one
hand to the other, a strange trance- like expression on her face.
I want to grab it back, but all I can do is wait till she takes my
money.
Eventually, almost reluctantly, she puts it down and I grab
hold of it. It’s ruined now. I won’t be able to hold it for comfort
any more, or bring it to my face at night and kid myself it smells
of Simon, because her hands have been all over it.
She drops the dress into a brown paper bag.
‘I bet your new fella’s going to love you in this,’ she says. ‘He
is your new fella, isn’t he? The good- looking guy with the blond hair?’
How does she know what Josh looks like? She must have
seen me come out of the Fisherman’s Shack with him that time,
or else she’s seen us down on the beach. That’s the trouble with
a town this small. Everyone knows your business. Thank God
Richard isn’t still here. I’d have died from embarrassment if
he’d heard her say that.
