Who Did You Tell (ARC)
Page 15
right.
‘When did she say she lived here?’
‘Sometime in the early 90s, I think she said.’
‘Don’t you think that’s odd? I’d be surprised if the decor in
here isn’t exactly as it was twenty, maybe even thirty years ago.’
Mum shrugs. ‘If you say so, dear. The furniture and curtains
will have been different, though, and the layout. I expect that’s
what she meant.’
‘I thought you told me once that the previous owner was
really old. A widower, you said.’
Mum stands up and starts stacking the cups. ‘Yes, that’s right.
He got too frail and had to go into a home.’
‘So how could a little girl have been living here?’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Astrid. I don’t know. Maybe she was
his granddaughter.’
‘Did she go upstairs?’
Mum walks out into the hall with the cups and saucers. ‘Of
course. She wanted to see her old room. She was only up there
a couple of minutes.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t like the
thought of a stranger coming to the house when Mum’s on her
own. She’s too trusting. It could have been anyone.
I follow her out. ‘You mean she was up there alone?’
‘Yes.’
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‘Jeez, Mum! You let a complete stranger wander round the
house on her own?’
Mum makes an exasperated snorting noise. ‘Astrid, why do
you always think the worst of people?’
‘I don’t, I just . . .’
‘She was only up there a few minutes, and then she left.’
‘Did she tell you her name?’
‘Laura.’
‘Laura what?’
‘I don’t know, dear. She didn’t say.’
‘And you didn’t think to ask?’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Perhaps I should have checked her ID
before letting her over the doorstep. Oh, by the way, I forgot to
tell you. Your DWP letter’s arrived. I’ve left it on the stairs on
top of some other bits and pieces that need sorting through for
recycling.’
My stomach muscles tighten at the thought of another brown
envelope and what it might contain, but when I see what she’s
talking about my fears dissolve. This is what I’ve been waiting
for. I recognize the official logo. I tear the envelope open and
scan the letter inside, relief flooding through me. Mum looks at
me expectantly.
‘They’ve given me a date to sign on. About time.’
I scoop up the little pile that’s left and head for the recycling
box in the porch, sifting through them as I go. A flyer about
pizza delivery. The little magazine full of adverts for local ser-
vices and tradespeople. Something from Flinstead parish church
detailing service times and various other groups and clubs –
nothing about AA meetings, I notice, although I guess that’s not
the sort of thing they tend to shout about – and . . . and another brown envelope with the same curly green handwriting as
before. My ears begin to buzz. My gut feels as if it’s being wrung
out like a towel.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
Mum’s still standing there. ‘Did I miss something impor-
tant? I thought the rest was all junk mail.’
I force myself to think of a response. ‘It’s from someone I met
in rehab. I recognize her writing.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realize you were keeping in touch with anyone.’
‘She said she’d drop me a line sometime.’ My voice sounds
distant and tinny, as if it’s being squeezed through a narrow
tube.
‘Right, I’d better get on with our supper.’ Mum heads towards
the kitchen. ‘Could you close the window in the front room,
please? I don’t know what perfume that girl was wearing, but it
was really overpowering.’
Something niggles at the back of my mind. Like the trace of
a dream I can’t quite remember. The sense that I’ve overlooked
something. An important detail. And then it comes to me.
‘What did she look like? Can you describe her?’
Mum stops and turns round, an irritated look on her face.
‘Why are you obsessing over this? She was about your age, I
think. Pale skin. Dark hair.’
My scalp shrinks. There’s a strange, tightening sensation in
my chest. ‘What was she wearing?’
‘What is this, Astrid? An interrogation?’ She sighs. ‘Jeans, I
think. Grey jeans. Oh, and she had a sort of quilted anorak on.
I remember thinking she must be far too hot in it, but she
wouldn’t take it off.’
The tightness in my chest intensifies. ‘Do you mean a puffa
jacket?’
‘I’ve no idea what a puffa jacket is, dear. It was grey and
quilted, that’s all I can remember. Why are you asking me all
these questions?’
‘Someone at AA mentioned there’s been a spate of house
burglaries recently and they all reported having strange house
calls a few days before.’
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The lie sounds plausible enough.
Mum makes one of her little harrumphing noises as she sets
off for the kitchen again. ‘I’m not in my dotage yet, dear. I’m
perfectly capable of using my own judgement.’
I stare at the green writing on the envelope. Why didn’t I
make the connection before? The first time I noticed the smell
was the night I saw Simon’s ghost running past me. There was
someone else there too, wasn’t there? A girl tying her laces. A
girl in a grey puffa jacket. I almost tripped over her.
I take the stairs two at a time and lock myself in the toilet.
The handwriting on the envelope taunts me with its extrava-
gant loops and curls. With its psychopathic greenness. This time, there’s no postmark.
And that’s not the only time I’ve seen her. I’m sure it was her
eating chocolate when I was in the Fisherman’s Shack waiting
for Josh. And I’ve seen her at the beach too. Those times I’ve
caught the scent on the breeze . . . the scent that must have
acted like a trigger in my mind and made me hallucinate. All
this time, she’s been following me. It wasn’t the postman after
all. And now she’s been inside this house! She must have
slipped this into the pile of post on her way upstairs when
Mum wasn’t looking.
As before, there’s just one piece of paper inside. Gingerly, I
draw it out, unfold it slowly. It’s a page torn from a local news-
paper with the name blacked out – a family- announcement page – and there, in the deaths section, someone has crossed
out one of the names of the deceased and written something
above it, in tiny neat letters.
I peer a little closer. It says ‘Hilary Phelps’.
The walls close in on me and my eyes grow fuzzy. Someone
wants me dead.
The sheet of newspaper flutters to the floor. And that’s when
I see the large green letters scrawled on the back:
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
You’d better not get too comfortable in sleepy little Flinstead.
You’d better keep your wits about you from now on. What goes
around comes around. And now it’s time. It’s time to pay for
what you’ve done . . . Because it’s not just Simon on your con-
science, is it?
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I open my eyes. I’m scrunched up on the toilet floor, face
squashed against the rubbery cork tiles. What the hell hap-
pened here? I must have passed out.
Then I remember, and it’s like a switch has been flicked on in
my brain. All the bad neurons firing at once.
You need a drink. It’s the only way out of this.
I can’t allow myself to listen to this voice, but it’s so persis-
tent. So persuasive.
You know how good it will taste. Just one little drink. You can
handle it.
I can’t. I really can’t.
Oh, but you can. You’ll know when to stop this time.
No! I just have to ride the compulsion out. I can resist it. I
can. Whoever’s doing this to me wants this to happen. They
want me to fall apart. But I won’t. I can’t. Not this time. I’ve got too much to lose.
Too much to lose? Don’t make me laugh. You’ve lost it already. You don’t for one minute think this thing with Josh has got legs, do you? It’s doomed, and you know it. He won’t want anything to do with you once he knows what kind of person you are.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
It’s true. I can’t deny that.
Pretending your mother’s depressed and that you’re here to look
after her. How low can you get? Hah! Daft question. We both know how low you can get, and it’s much, much lower than that. You’re a disgrace, a pathetic excuse for a human being. A waste of space.
I snatch the piece of paper from the floor and rip it up, tear-
ing into it till it’s completely destroyed, till there’s no way I
could piece it together again, even if I wanted to. Then I scoop
every last scrap of it into my hands and throw the whole lot
down the loo and flush the chain.
It hasn’t gone away, though. How could it? I’ll never unsee
those words.
Because it’s not just Simon on your conscience, is it?
The young woman from my nightmare appears behind my
eyes, struggling to her feet and pointing her finger. I shake
my head to force the image away. Simon wouldn’t have told
anyone else. We made a pact when we sobered up. He was as
disgusted with himself as I was. As I still am. The self- loathing.
The guilt. These things don’t lessen with time, they get worse.
They fester inside you like a cancerous growth. It was the one
thing we couldn’t talk about, either of us, ever again.
What goes around comes around. And now it’s time. It’s time to
pay for what you’ve done.
As if I don’t pay for it every day. As if it isn’t always hovering at the back of my mind, ready to ambush me at any given moment.
I take a deep breath. My mind won’t stop now. It’s doing
what it always does, flinging me straight back to the horrors of
that night – what bits of it I can remember. The pictures in my
head collide and blur. The horrified shape of her mouth. Her
knuckles white against the brown leather strap of her bag. The
child in the pushchair screaming and kicking its legs.
Now that I’ve conjured the fragments of memory I’m piecing
them together like I always do, trying to find the right order, to
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make sense of the noise and confusion in my brain. The push-
ing and shoving. That sickening crack. The rising note of terror
in the child’s wail.
My heart pounds. The rest is blurred, like a film on fast
forward. Simon pulling me away. The pain in my chest from
running. The fluorescent light in the late- night Spar. More
cheap wine. More cider. Then . . . nothing. I must have blacked
out. When I came to there was blood on my sleeve, but it wasn’t
mine. It wasn’t mine. What the hell did I do to that poor woman?
I force myself to breathe more deeply, to return to the here and
now. I retch into the toilet. It’s the patchy nature of my memories
that’s so hard to bear. The not knowing. It was down by the river
somewhere. Blue railings, that’s all I can remember. She must
have fought back or she wouldn’t have fallen. Why the hell did
she fight back? She had a child with her, for Christ’s sake!
Was it her head that hit the paving stones? She could have
died! And what about the child? How long was it screaming
before someone came to help? We scoured the news reports
when we sobered up, desperate for information, but we couldn’t
find it reported anywhere, not even one small paragraph in the
local news.
I unlock the toilet door and go into my bedroom. My eyes
travel slowly round the room. At first glance, it looks exactly
the same, but something in this eight- by- ten- foot space is sub-
tly different. Like in one of those spot- the- difference pictures.
I draw back my duvet and stare at the bottom sheet and the
pillow. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but whatever
gruesome discovery my subconscious anticipates – a dead rat;
a horse’s head – the bed harbours nothing but my own folded
T- shirt.
I run my hands over my bedside cabinet. The small travel
clock, my lip salve and box of tissues. What’s wrong with this
picture?
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
And then I see it, the Big Book with its marker sticking out,
and something clicks into place. Of course! I grab hold of it and
flip through the chapters with trembling fingers till I come to the
section I’m searching for. I need to check the exact wording.
Here it is. Step 5: ‘Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.’
I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. Oh, Simon,
dear Simon. You weren’t messing about, were you? You really
were following the programme. You were working the steps
properly. To the letter.
The question is: who did you tell?
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pa rt thr e e
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Mum bangs on the bathroom door. I flinch at the noise.
�
�Astrid, you’ve been in there for ages! What are you doing?’
I dry myself with one of her rock- hard bath towels. My skin
feels raw and sensitive and every bone in my body aches from
lack of sleep.
‘I’ll be out in two minutes.’
I stare at the dark hollows under my eyes, my grey complex-
ion. I should text Josh and tell him I can’t work on the painting
today. Tell him I’m ill. But what will I do if I stay home all day?
Go crazy, that’s what. I need the distraction. Now more than
ever. Besides, I’ve agreed to do the painting – I can’t let them
down.
Back in my bedroom, I’m in the middle of fastening my bra
when I see it. Or rather, when I don’t see it. The gold juggling ball. It’s missing from my bedside table.
I knew something was different in here. She’s taken it. She’s been in my room and stolen Simon’s juggling ball. The only
thing of his I have left. My heart thumps. I bend down to look
under the bed, just in case I’m mistaken and it’s rolled off, but
it isn’t there. I pull open drawers and rifle through them, even
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though I know I won’t find it. I even open my wardrobe and go
through all my pockets.
It isn’t anywhere. It’s gone.
This girl has wormed her way into the house when I wasn’t
here. She’s had the nerve to sit on my mum’s settee, drinking
her tea and feeding her lies. She’s left her poisonous note on
the stairs and nosed around in my room. The very air feels con-
taminated. It’s all too close for comfort now. What does she
want with me?
Down in the kitchen, as I wait for the kettle to boil, a bitter
anger floods through me. I can’t blame Simon for working
through the Twelve Steps. I’m doing it myself, or trying to. But
he must have given this girl, whoever she is, my name – my
real name. How else would she have tracked me down? My
fingers curl into fists. It was our shameful secret – it bonded us together like glue. We said we’d take it to our graves. What
were you thinking, Simon? How could you be so stupid? So
careless.
Mum comes in with her arms full of dirty washing for the
machine. I pretend to be reading the small print on the back of
the box of teabags. There’s no way I can tell her, because I know
exactly what she’ll say if she knows I’m being stalked and
threatened. She’ll tell me to go to the police. She’ll insist upon