by Lesley Kara
But before I can open the front door she’s back on her feet
and pulling me down on to the floor, kneeling on my stomach.
She’s got another wine bottle in her hand – an unopened one
this time. She raises it aloft, a look of such hatred on her face
that I know it’s only a matter of seconds before that bottle
comes slamming down on my head.
‘All the deaths I had planned for you . . . What right have you
to go on living, when my boy is dead? And that poor young
mother too. I should have strangled you while I had the chance.
I came so close. So bloody close. One more twist round your
neck and you’d have gone.’
I think of those tights, draped over the table earlier. Oh God.
I shut my eyes and brace myself. With Helen’s full weight kneel-
ing on top of me I’m powerless to roll away.
‘Simon didn’t love you. He might have said he did, when he
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
was drinking. But if he loved you so much, why did he leave
you? Not once, but twice. He left you for good. For ever.’ Her face changes. ‘He chose death over you.’
I can barely breathe with her kneeling on my stomach, but
somehow I manage to force the words out. ‘He chose death
over you too.’
She starts to shake. At first I think it’s fury. Then I realize
she’s crying, her whole body heaving with emotion.
‘He didn’t. He didn’t! You think you know everything, but
you’re wrong! You’re wrong! ’
She rocks back on her heels and hurls the bottle at the wall
with all her strength. Shards of wet glass shower down over
both of us.
I take my chance. I scrabble to my feet and wrench the front
door open, launch myself down the stairwell without looking
back. I’ve reached the bottom now and I catch sight of myself
in the glass door. A bedraggled, filthy mess. I smell my sweat
and the stench of stale booze and vomit wafting off me. I’ve got
to get away from here, get myself cleaned up before Mum gets
home. Or I’ll lose her as well as Josh. I’ll have nothing left.
Nowhere to go.
I run out on to the street, the concrete cold against the soles
of my feet, bits of grit digging into them and making me wince,
but I don’t stop. I run until I can’t run any more and I’m crouch-
ing at the edge of the pavement, throwing up into the road,
people shaking their heads and tutting as they walk past.
‘Disgraceful,’ says an old lady.
The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of shed-
ding these vile clothes straight into the washing machine, of
sinking into a long, hot bath. Then I’ll drink as much water as
I can pour down my throat, make a large mug of coffee and
climb into bed with it. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, but if I can
just rest and get my head together before Mum comes home,
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maybe she won’t realize I’ve been drinking. I can pretend I’ve
got the flu.
At last I’m at the front door of the cottage, and my hand
reaches up for the key round my neck. My insides fall away in
a sickening thump. Where is it? Where’s my key chain? I grope
under my T- shirt, hoping by some miracle that it’s still there,
caught in my bra or under the waistband of my jeans but, even
as I’m scrabbling around, I know it isn’t. The key is gone. She
must have pulled the chain off when she tried to strangle me
with her tights.
I slump against the porch door, defeated. I’m going to have
to wait here like this till Mum gets home this evening, and
she’ll see the state of my clothes. The state of me. She’ll know straight away I’ve been drinking and that’ll be that.
I make one last, futile attempt to check for the key, pulling
out the pockets of my jeans, even though I know it can’t be
there. Tears stream down my face. Why is this happening to
me? How is it possible that I’m standing in my mother’s front
garden, in damp, vomit- stained clothes, with no keys, no
money and no phone, with no shoes or socks and filthy, bleed-
ing feet?
Think, Astrid. Think. I’ll have to go back to the shop and find Rosie. It’s Sunday, but the charity shops stay open in the summer months, to catch the tourist trade. What the hell am I
waiting for?
Dizzy and trembling, I set off back towards Flinstead Road.
People are staring at me as I pass, at my stained clothes and
dirty bare feet. Some of them actually stop in their tracks
and glare at me as if I’m some kind of criminal. Every so often
I have to stop and retch into the road. Not one single person
asks if I’m okay. Of course they don’t. I stink of booze and
vomit. I look like a tramp.
By the time I get to the shop I’m breathless and light- headed.
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WHO DID YOU TELL?
I think I’m going to faint. I push open the door of the shop,
praying that Rosie will be there behind the counter, that she’ll
take one look at me and usher me straight to the room at the
back. I’ll be able to wash at the little sink outside the toilet and find some clothes to put on, something to put on my feet. But
Rosie isn’t there. It’s a woman I’ve never seen before, and she’s
looking at me as if I’m something the cat’s just dragged in. So
are the other customers. They’re literally moving out of my
way, as if I’m contaminated.
‘Please, I need to see Rosie. Is she here?’
‘No. It’s not her day to come in.’ The woman’s nostrils wrinkle
in distaste. She makes darting glances at the other customers.
‘Can you ring her for me? It’s really urgent I speak to her.’
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have her number.’
‘But you must have. Please.’
‘Do you need any assistance here?’ The voice is familiar. I
look round and see, to my dismay, that it’s one of the stout
women I met at the beach huts the other day, the ones who saw
me climbing out of the broken doorway with a bottle of brandy
in my hands.
‘You again,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I’m going to phone
the—’
‘But I’m not doing anything. I just need to see Rosie. I’ve
been . . . I’ve been . . .’
‘You’ve been drinking too much, young lady. That’s what
you’ve been doing. Now stop bothering this poor woman and—’
‘Please, you don’t understand. I’m the victim of . . .’
I gulp for air. What am I the victim of? What can I tell them
that would make sense? Whatever I say is just going to sound
preposterous. And why would they believe a dirty, smelly drunk
like me anyway? I blunder past the racks of clothes and the other
customers and back on to the street. The weekend tourists are
out in force. I can’t bear the way they look at me, the way they
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nudge their companions, the comments they make under their
breath. I see myself through their eyes. A dirty, half- clad woman, reeking of drink. I might just as well be naked.
The bossy woman with the walking stick is now shouting
after me. I have to get away from her. Get away from all of
them. But I’ve nowhere to go. No money in my pockets. No
phone. No way of contacting Rosie, or anyone else. This is all my
own fault. I’ve brought everything on myself. Helen deceived
me, yes. She pretended to be my friend, my confidante. She
waited for an opportunity to hurt me, and she did. She has. But
she didn’t pour that wine down my throat. I drank it myself.
She might have encouraged me, but I could have said no. I
could have walked away, and I didn’t. I didn’t.
And this is how I’ve ended up. How I always end up when
I’ve been drinking. Out of control. Sick. Disgusted with myself.
A woman is dead because of me. Simon too.
I head for the beach. It isn’t a conscious decision, more a case
of my legs taking over and carrying me away. Muscle memory.
Where else can I go?
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47
Weak with exhaustion, I hunker down on the sand, my back
pressed into the curve of the sea wall, arms hugging my knees.
Somehow, I’ve made it to the farthest end of the beach, where,
apart from a solitary walker heading back towards town, it’s
deserted. Thoughts bang about in my head, one in particular. I
try to push it away, but the more I do, the louder and more
insistent it becomes, till it roars like the waves and demands
my attention.
Drowning. It’s meant to be painless if you’re brave enough to
do it right. To take a deep breath as soon as the water closes
over your head. Except that’s not what people do. They struggle
and panic and hold their breath till their lungs burn. We’re pro-
grammed to cling on to life till the last possible second. To
survive at all costs.
Well, I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to struggle. Not
any more. I’ve gone and done it again. After all the promises
I’ve made. To Mum. To myself. This is my pathetic life. It’s
always going be like this. And how can I live with myself now
I know what I’ve done?
I’m worthless. Despicable. Incapable of holding on to anything
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of value. I take a deep inhalation. The wind has picked up. The tide is on the turn, heading out to sea. My hangover will retreat too,
in time. In a while, I might feel well enough to walk back to the
house and sit on the step to wait for Mum. She’ll give me time to
wash and pack. She might even cook me a meal and let me sleep
it off. But in the morning I’ll have to leave. There’s no question
about that. No question at all.
I see her face as clearly as if it’s right in front of me. The grim
set of her mouth. Those disappointed but determined eyes. The
time for hysterical threats has gone. She’s loved me as only
the mother of a broken child – a damaged child – could. But
everyone has their limit, and this will be hers.
All the times she’s picked me up when I’ve fallen. But not
this time. This time will be different. She’s changed, grown
stronger.
But I haven’t. I deserve everything that’s happened to me.
Like a pinball, I’ve ricocheted from one crisis to the next, and
here I am again. I can’t do this any more.
The walker is long gone now. This section of the beach is
empty. Just me and a few gulls wading in the shallows. The sea
has an inviting, milky sheen to it. The wind is whipping it up
into drifts of froth that cling to the wooden breakers. I imagine
walking into it and not stopping, soft, wet sand soothing the
grazed soles of my feet. Walking all the way out until my head
goes under, or the undertow drags me down, whichever is soon-
est. Until my lungs fill with water and my ears ring and the last
shreds of memory and thought peel away and dissolve. For
ever. The bliss of oblivion. Only this time there’ll be no shame
in the morning. No sickness. No self- loathing.
And now I’m on my feet and walking to the water’s edge.
Because I’m too tired not to. Too tired to walk home and wait
for Mum. Too tired to see that mouth, those eyes. Too tired to
stuff my tatty things into a backpack and start all over again,
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someplace else. Because wherever I go and whatever I do, I’ll
still be part of the package.
The water is cold, but I’m used to it now. I like the way it
chills my bones and makes me shiver. I wade through it in my
jeans, not daring to slow down. The deeper I get, the harder it
is to walk. It’s almost at my hips. Soon it will rise above the top
of my jeans and hit the mottled flesh of my belly as it creeps
icily under my T- shirt and up towards the swell of my breasts.
It feels like I’m moving towards something better. Something
peaceful. The sweet pull of the outgoing tide.
The water heaves sluggishly towards me, undulating against
my chest, rocking me gently in its sway. The further I walk, the
more slippery it becomes underfoot. There are more hazards to
negotiate. Embedded rocks and stones, the slimy fingers of sea-
weed clinging to my ankles and twisting round my toes.
The spray hits my face. I lick my lips and taste the salt. Dying
is easy; it’s life that’s so hard. Simon must have felt the exact
same way I’m feeling now. I think of him standing on the edge
of that cliff, swaying in the breeze in the last few seconds of his
life, the swoosh of the waves below. I miss him so much.
The sudden swell of a large grey wave appears from nowhere.
It rolls implacably towards me. I steel myself for the impact, just
as he must have steeled himself for that final step. The one that
sent him plummeting down. I’ve never felt closer to him than I
do right now. The wave engulfs me, knocks me sideways. Water
rushes up my nostrils and down the back of my throat. I splutter
and gag. My ears pound. This is where I should give in, let the sea
consume me, but it’s not as easy as it looks in films. Something
inside me’s still fighting, and my body takes over. Muscle mem-
ory again. The will to live.
Another wave strikes me and down I go again. I raise my head,
try to breathe, but water fills my mouth. I tread water and tilt my
head back, gulp for air. So much for the long, slow walk into
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oblivion, the water closing above my head like a trapd
oor. The
waves are more powerful out here. Moving walls of water, one
after the other. I’m being pushed back at the same time as being
dragged out. It’s chaotic and terrifying. A relentless battering. My sodden jeans cling to my legs like wet cement, dragging me down.
So this is it. This is how it ends. Josh’s words come back to
me. ‘You’d be a fool not to fear the sea, Astrid. It can turn on
you in an instant.’
And it has. It’s swallowing me whole, sucking me down to my
watery grave. Cold, brown water. The stench of brine and sul-
phur, the searing burn of salt at the back of my throat and nose.
No! I can’t die like this. If I drown, Helen’s won. Simon didn’t
blame me for anything. Simon loved me. I know he did. He
wouldn’t have written me a suicide letter if he didn’t. What did
Laura say? That she didn’t want me to read his lovely words, to
know that I was the one he was thinking of, right up to the end.
If he hated me so much, if he thought I’d killed a young mother
just to get hold of her purse, he’d never have written me a letter.
Why should I believe what Helen said when she’s been lying to
me all along?
Oh, Simon, I should have been brave enough to read it. You
wanted me to, and I didn’t. I have to get back to shore. I have to
stay alive.
With one almighty surge of adrenalin, I kick my legs behind
me and propel myself into motion. I can’t see which way I’m
headed. The waves are too big. They seem to be coming in both
directions now. I mustn’t panic. I try to remember everything
Josh has told me about surviving in the water.
But a current is coming at me from the side, forcing me back
out to sea. I roll on to my back to rest and take a breath but, as
I do, a wave comes crashing down on top of me. I’m spinning
like a doll in a washing machine. Which way is up? I can’t get
my balance. I can’t breathe. I can’t . . . breathe.
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My chest is bursting. I have to take a breath, but I’m still
under water. Don’t panic. You’ll rise in a minute. Keep faith, Astrid.
Keep faith. And here it is. The surface at last. I gulp air into my lungs, but now I’m under again. Something’s dragging me
down, sucking me deeper. It’s no good. I can’t hold on any
longer. The pressure in my chest is crushing me. I’m going to
