‘I’ve been so busy at work lately and I’m exhausted,’ she says. ‘I could have gone to an Arctic Monkeys gig tonight but I’m giving it a miss.’
As she talks, I tap through the call sheets as quietly as I can. All our information is anonymised unless our callers need us to act on their behalf with other agencies, and only then will we create a case file. Gemma’s calls don’t fall under that category and haven’t been cross-referenced. Discounting the cluster of five put-down calls on Monday, there have been only seven calls since my last shift and I quickly dismiss the ones from previous callers who had seen Ruth on TV and wanted to thank us for our help, and another from a young man.
The two remaining sheets clearly relate to Gemma; one is the call Ruth mentioned Alison taking last Friday and the other is a call Gill took on Monday evening. The details in each are scant but the message is clear. Ryan wants back into Gemma’s life.
‘I should have given you the tickets,’ Gemma continues.
‘I’m more of a Harry Styles girl myself,’ I tell her.
Gemma laughs. ‘Eugh, I forgot you liked him. Well, if ever I get tickets for Harry, they’re yours,’ she says, making me smile. We don’t give out personal details to our callers beyond our first names, and any contact outside of the scope of the helpline, even to pick up concert tickets, wouldn’t be condoned, but despite these limitations, Gemma and I have formed a friendships of sorts.
‘So why didn’t you want to go to the gig?’ I ask. ‘Were you just tired or was there another reason?’
‘Did you know Ryan’s been messaging me?’
‘I was just checking the note of your last call. Are you still ignoring him?’ Please say yes, I silently pray as I wait for her reply, which isn’t immediately forthcoming.
‘I keep looking at the checklist on your website about how to spot dating abuse and it’s not like Ryan did anything particularly bad. OK, it was a bit overwhelming sometimes but that’s only because I’m not used to people paying me that much attention. I’m not saying Mum doesn’t do her best, and she made all these promises about us doing more stuff together after I split up with him, but it turned out that meant joining Tinder, so if anything, she’s the one taking risks by going out on actual dates and I should be getting her to phone you.’
I wait until Gemma takes a breath. ‘Have you replied to him?’
‘He was the one who sent me the tickets. He said they were for me and Mum but I’d told him ages ago that she hates music gigs. I know what he’s like,’ she says with not nearly enough alarm in her voice. ‘He would have bought an extra ticket and been there waiting for me.’
‘What do you think would have happened if you had gone?’
‘I’ll never know,’ Gemma says softly. ‘I told him I wasn’t going. It was only fair. I said I’d leave the tickets at the box office if he wanted someone else to use them.’
So she has replied to him, I realise. ‘How did he react?’
‘He was fine about it, and said he didn’t want anyone else to have them. He said, if I was too tired to go, he’d pay to have the Arctic Monkeys come to the house for a private performance.’
I try to form an image of the man who loves Gemma too much, but it’s Lewis’s leering face that springs to mind. ‘How old is Ryan?’ I ask. ‘I can’t quite picture him.’
‘He’s in his late twenties, and he’s really fit. You should see him, Jen. He has a six-pack and everything,’ Gemma says, making my heart clench. ‘It’s not like he tries either. It’s because of his job.’
I don’t want to ask. I really don’t want to ask. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s a builder, so he doesn’t earn enough to pay a busker off Church Street to serenade me, let alone the Arctic Monkeys.’
With some relief, I let go of my paranoia and concentrate on picking up where Gill left off on Monday, by reminding Gemma of the behaviours that made her call us in the first place. ‘How often is Ryan texting you?’
‘Well, I’ve had two messages since I’ve been on the phone to you,’ she says by way of an answer.
‘That sounds familiar. I remember how often he’d interrupt our calls when you were actually dating, and back then he’d expect an immediate reply.’
She makes a non-committal noise. ‘Or he’d start panicking because he was scared something had happened to me. I know he has insecurities, Jen, and I’ve told him if he wants me back, things have to change.’
I’m shaking my head as I see where this is leading. ‘And how do you imagine things changing if you did get back together?’
‘For a start, I’ve told him he can’t interrogate me every time I go out with friends.’
‘And do you think he would be comfortable with that? I wonder how he’d react to you going out for a pub lunch with your work mates,’ I ask, knowing this was something he had put a stop to early on in their relationship.
‘He knows his jealousy was part of the problem,’ Gemma says. ‘I’m not daft, Jen. You must hear the most awful stories about women who get fooled into thinking their boyfriends will change, only they don’t and the abuse gets worse. But that isn’t me. I’m not rushing into anything. I promise.’
‘Just remember that he’ll be on his best behaviour until he has you back under his control.’
‘I know,’ Gemma says, but there’s a note of resignation in her voice that I don’t like. ‘Sorry, I’d better go.’
I want to ask how many more messages she’s received, but I don’t. Gemma can recognise the familiar patterns of obsession for herself.
‘You will call again, won’t you? Before you make any drastic decisions.’
‘You’ve all been so good to me. Of course I will.’
The phone cuts off and as I replace it gently on the receiver, I’m replaying our conversation in my head. Did I say too much, or should I have said more? We’d built up a good relationship over the last month or so but that doesn’t mean I can tell her what to do. She has to decide for herself.
As I write up the call sheet, I notice a message flash up on my muted phone. It’s from Mum, inviting me and Charlie over for Sunday dinner. I’m still annoyed with her for what she said about Ruth and if I go over there, one of us is bound to say something we’ll regret and it will probably be me.
I send a swift excuse before returning to my computer to check my Facebook page. Meathead has accepted my friend request so I go straight to his list of friends. Lewis’s name isn’t amongst them and none of the thumbnail photos jump out at me. I go through the list again, line by line until I come across someone called Lewis McQueen whose profile picture is a team photo – very sporty. I click on the name to reveal a small collection of public photos and my heart leaps in my throat. Lewis has aged, unlike my Meg.
I click on a photo of Lewis standing on a beach. His sea-salty hair is long enough to tie back and his pale complexion concealed by a glowing tan. Of more interest to me is the woman he has his arm around in a proprietorial pose. She doesn’t look much older than Meg.
When the phone rings again, I snatch it up.
‘Hello?’ I ask.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone and I calm myself. ‘You’re through to the Lean On Me helpline. How can I help?’
There’s another pause and I’m expecting a put-down, but then, ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Jen. Can I take—’
There’s a small intake of breath. ‘You are Megan’s cousin?’
The next pause is of my making. The caller is another young woman, possibly around Gemma’s age but with an Eastern European accent. I think she might be Polish but I’m less concerned with her nationality than the question she just posed. I decide to stay professional but cautious. ‘Could you tell me why you’re calling today?’
‘I saw the helpline on the news,’ she says, confirming she must be in the North West to have seen the piece on TV. ‘It’s very bad what happened to Megan. Her mother should not have to go through such a thing. No mother
should.’
‘No, they shouldn’t. That’s why we set up the helpline,’ I reply. I’m trying not to prejudge the situation, but it crosses my mind that I could be dealing with a freelance journalist in search of a scoop after Ruth’s revelations, or else a member of the public with a morbid curiosity. I’ve had my fair share of crank calls but, for the moment, I can’t discount the possibility that this girl has recognised herself in Meg’s story and needs our help.
‘It must be hard for you,’ she says.
‘Would you like to give me your name?’ I ask. Unsurprised by her hesitation, I add, ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name. What you tell me is confidential unless you say otherwise.’
‘What do you mean otherwise?’
‘We’re here to listen and we’ll do that for as long as you need us,’ I reply. If she is a reporter, she can at least hear the full sales pitch. ‘We can’t offer practical help but, if you need it and are happy for us to act on your behalf, we can speak to other agencies – people who might be able to give you the extra support you need.’
‘You can call me Ellie.’
‘And you were affected by the news story about Megan?’
‘Yes.’
I leave a pause for Ellie to fill.
‘What was she like?’
She was a contradiction, I reply in my head. She was the tomboy and the princess, the captain of the team and the recluse. She was irrepressible and she was repressed. Megan McCoy wasn’t only my cousin, she was my best friend and after all this time, I still feel the gaping hole she left in my life. ‘I’d rather talk about you,’ I say.
‘I do not know what to say.’
‘Tell me about yourself. What do you like about your life?’ I ask as a prompt.
‘I like living in Liverpool,’ she says.
‘And where are you from originally?’
‘Romania.’
‘But you’ve settled into the area? You like the people?’ I ask as I search for a rhythm in the conversation to keep it flowing.
‘I work a lot of the time,’ she replies, offering no insight to why she might be calling.
‘And what is it that you do?’
There’s a pause. She doesn’t want to tell me. ‘I work in a shop. Not very exciting.’
‘Do you live with anyone?’ I ask, hoping that I’m edging closer to where the problem lies.
‘I shared a house but now I live by myself.’
‘You’re not in a relationship?’
‘It is not important.’
I lean forward in my seat. I want to get closer to her so that I can work out why she’s making me feel so uncomfortable. ‘Then what is important, Ellie?’
‘The truth,’ she says simply. When I don’t respond, she adds, ‘Megan’s boyfriend did not hurt her.’
My jaw clenches. I’ve been trying to work Ellie out and I think I just have. She’s not a reporter, or any other sort of ghoul, but neither is she a genuine caller. ‘Has someone asked you to phone?’
‘No, it was when I saw the news. Mrs McCoy is wrong.’
‘Why is she wrong?’ I ask, a little too sharply. ‘Do you know Megan’s boyfriend? Is that why you’re defending him?’
‘I do not mean to upset you. And I do not want to upset Mrs McCoy. I thought you should know that Megan had other problems.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told but I can’t discuss what happened to Megan with you. If you’re having difficulties of your own, I’m happy to listen. And if someone’s pressurising you or intimidating you in any way, I can help.’
‘No, I do not think you can. I am sorry, I should not have phoned. Please, do not say anything to Mrs McCoy. I will go. Goodbye, Jen.’
The phone goes dead and I’m left stunned.
‘The bastard,’ I hiss as I jump up from my seat and start to pace. ‘The utter bastard.’
Lights flicker on, tracing my path through the maze of empty desks as I gather my thoughts. Lewis has to be behind the call. Why else would Ellie phone up to defend him? Is she the girlfriend in the beach photo? How easy would it be to convince her that it was Meg who had the problem? Whoever this woman is, she doesn’t know the real Lewis, and for her sake, I’m glad.
When I return to my pod, the entire office is ablaze with light. I feel exposed to the darkening city and crouch behind the privacy screen as I type up the call sheet. The one thing Ellie and I do agree upon is that Ruth shouldn’t know what passed between us, so I keep the note vague – a general enquiry from someone who had seen Ruth’s interview.
At eight o’clock, I close down my computer and shrug into my cotton jacket before escaping through the double doors and down the stairs. I don’t want to think about Lewis but thoughts of him follow me as I leave the office. It’s normally a ten-minute walk home along the Strand but I turn away from the bright lights and the city centre hotels, and head for the waterfront. There’s a sharp breeze that tastes of sea salt as I follow the promenade along the curve of the river, past the Albert Dock and the Echo Arena. My path is dimly lit but I prefer the shadows. Ruth was right. We do have his attention and her interview has set a spotlight on us all.
6
Jen
‘Did you get the sour cream?’
‘The what?’ Charlie’s question startles me as I stagger into the apartment after assailing the stairs to the seventh floor.
My jacket hangs off my shoulders and I let it drop to the floor with my bag. The gulp of air I take is spiced with cumin and makes me want to heave.
‘You forgot it, didn’t you?’ he asks as curls of steam rise up from the pan he’s stirring, wrapping around his face so I can’t read his expression.
‘Sorry, it went straight out my head.’
‘Too busy checking Facebook, by any chance?’
‘What?’ I ask, glancing longingly at the bedroom door which is where I’d been heading. I want to change into my pyjamas and crawl beneath the bedcovers until the storm in my head passes, but from the way Charlie tilts his head to one side, I see the clouds are still gathering.
‘I had a message from Jay. He’s asking if he should accept your friend request.’
I curse Jay under my breath as I take a step closer to the bedroom door. I should have known this would happen. The tight group of friends we formed at school might have disbanded, but some of those old loyalties managed to survive. Jay thinks he’s watching Charlie’s back.
‘Is there a reason why we shouldn’t be friends?’ I ask casually.
‘Yes there is, and I quote, “Jay’s an embarrassment and I don’t want any of my friends knowing I associate with morons.”’
I ignore the annoying way he mimics my voice, and keep my head held high. ‘People change.’
‘Last time I said that, you bit my head off,’ he reminds me.
‘That was different, Charlie.’
‘Of course it was. And I’m sure it’s pure coincidence that you’ve decided to contact the one person you know who’s in touch with Lewis again. Correction, two people. I hear Meathead had a similar request.’
The apartment is silent except for the gentle rattle of a bubbling pot. ‘I’m not going to do anything,’ I say at last. ‘I just wanted to know what Lewis was up to so I can stay one step ahead.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t steer yourself onto the same path at all.’
‘He’s the one who came back to Liverpool.’
‘It’s a big city.’
‘But it’s a small world,’ I tell him as my thoughts turn from Lewis to my last call.
‘Don’t get involved,’ Charlie warns. ‘Please, Jen.’
‘Fine!’ I snap before retreating to the bedroom. I shut the door firmly but Charlie opens it again as I’m unbuttoning my shirt.
‘I don’t want you doing something stupid, that’s all.’
‘I’m not going to do anything stupid,’ I reply, my tone abrasive to his soothing words.
Charlie moves closer. ‘
You look tired.’
‘I feel it,’ I reply as the last of my strength is carried away with trembling words.
‘Need some help?’ he asks with warmth in his eyes as he takes over undoing my buttons.
My arms drop to my sides. ‘We can live without the sour cream, can’t we?’
‘It’s not a deal breaker.’
His fingers stroke the curve of my breast as he takes hold of my shirt to slip it off my shoulders. When he kisses my neck, he feels my body stiffen and slides his hands to rest comfortably around my back instead.
‘Bad day?’
Rather than answer immediately, I rest my hand on Charlie’s shoulder and step out of my skirt. ‘I feel so helpless sometimes,’ I tell him. ‘We have no way of knowing who’s at the end of the line or what’s going to happen to them once they’ve hung up.’
Charlie sits down on the bed. He’s watching me closely as I begin slipping into my Minnie Mouse pyjamas. ‘A difficult caller?’
‘More like a difficult call,’ I correct him. ‘And I’m still not sure what to think of the caller herself.’
Charlie purses his lips. He knows I can’t talk about the calls we receive so he doesn’t ask. He waits for me to straighten my vest top before pulling me into his arms. I straddle him and cup his face, grateful that I have someone I love and trust.
‘Ruth said something the other day that’s been bugging me,’ I tell him. ‘What happens if we get a call from someone who’s being manipulated the way Meg was?’
‘I thought that was the whole point of the helpline?’
I lower my head until our foreheads touch. ‘It is, but …’ I take a breath. Assuming my leap of faith is correct and Ellie is who I think she is, she could be being abused by Lewis, if not now, then in the future. She asked me not to tell anyone and I won’t, but I can still theorise without breaking that trust. ‘What if one of our calls was from Lewis’s girlfriend?’
Charlie draws back so he can look me in the eye. ‘For a start, I’d say it would be one huge coincidence.’
Don't Turn Around Page 5
