by Dan Malakin
Was that a joke? His expression was peculiar, his fallen-in face tricky to read. A scar coming off the bottom left of his lip gave him a permanent smirk. He waited a moment longer, then took the chair for himself, groaning like he’d finished a fourteen-hour shift.
‘I’d offer you a drink,’ he said, waving behind to a door, swollen with damp, that she supposed headed to the kitchen. ‘But unless you want to squeeze a piss out of one of the mice, you’re out of luck.’ He retrieved a can of Special Brew from beside his chair and shook it at her. ‘Got a few gulps of backwash.’
She stayed tensed, hand hovered by her waist, in reach of the pepper spray. What was his game? Where was the trap? He looked barely strong enough to beat Lily in an arm wrestle.
Griffin clicked off the television with the remote and chucked it on the floor. The batteries bounced out of the back, and he mouthed my life. He drank from the can, slurping louder than he had to, like he was taunting her.
There wasn’t any joy, or even satisfaction, at what prison had done to him; it was a Wizard of Oz moment, the curtain pulled back, but instead of a god there was a feeble old man.
‘I’m not scared of you,’ she said.
He held the can upside down over his mouth, his tongue worming around the hole for the last drops. ‘Why should you be?’ he asked, casual.
‘You didn’t think I’d come,’ she said. ‘You thought I’d be too scared to leave the house. You thought…’
He lowered his can. She didn’t like the way he was appraising her, his head to the side, like someone watching a rare insect trapped in a jar. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What else did I think?’
‘I’m not going to let you ruin my life again.’
He dismissed her with a wave and an eye roll. ‘Trust me. You are of no interest.’
Something wasn’t right. He’d stolen over two thousand pounds from her, so why was he in this horrible house? Why was he dressed like a hobo fallen on hard times, searching for the last dregs of beer in an empty can? Even if he didn’t want to spend it on fast cars, loose women, and at least one clean change of clothes – although more than likely he used it to pay the hackers to delete her eMAR records – he would surely have at least enough put aside to buy a four-pack when he wanted. It wasn’t just the money, but his attitude too. Of all the scenarios she’d considered, an amused dismissal of any involvement was not one she’d planned for.
Unless… he’d guessed she’d be recording him, and this was part of the act. If anyone listened to it afterward, they’d say she was the aggressive one, that he was being harassed by her. What now? What now?
‘Uhh, shit,’ said Griffin. ‘I really did a number on you. Look…’ He made a noise like a groan, but more strangled, his fingers going to the scars on his neck. ‘Maybe it’s not a bad thing you’re here. I know the importance of closure.’
‘What closure? I want you to leave me the fuck alone.’
He glanced at her like he hadn’t caught what she’d said. ‘I don’t blame you for hating me, you and the rest of them. I deserved it. Prison, everything.’ He lifted his beer, but stopped halfway, remembering it was empty. ‘There are no excuses, but you can hear them anyway. It’s the least you deserve.’
Griffin pushed his filthy fingers to his eyes and sniffed hard.
Was he crying?
‘I’ve got girls of my own,’ he said, and gulped down a quivery breath. ‘Carrie and Fran. Carrie’s about your age. You look… she’s tall as well. Maybe that’s why I chose you. I’m sick, I know that. My wife left me when they were young, and she turned them against me. By the time they were teenagers, they wouldn’t even see me. I… I was depressed. The doctors tried me on all kinds of drugs, but they didn’t do much. For years I held it together, but then I read about these new pills you could get in America, and like an idiot I bought them online. I don’t know what they were, but they fucked my head something proper. I wasn’t me anymore. Totally psychotic.’
He caught Rachel’s eye. It felt as though she were in a boat, gripping the sides as it tilted viciously in the water, threatening to capsize. What was he doing? Was she supposed to feel sorry for him?
‘You got it worse than the rest,’ Griffin went on. ‘I saw that picture you put online, you know, the one in your room, and… I fell for you. I was in love. Then you rushed out of the house, screaming how I was a dirty pervert, and I thought, what a bitch. What a prick-teasing bitch. I hated you so much. Pathetic, I know, but, well…’ He tapped his chest. ‘I am pathetic. Don’t you think?’
He paused again. Did he want her to agree with him? She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This… this ridiculous confession.
‘Here’s the thing,’ he went on. ‘Someone set me up with that kiddie porn, but what got me sent to Broadmoor were things I wrote, these stories about torturing young girls. Those were all me – I was having terrible thoughts. I was even thinking about… doing some of it. Whoever stitched me up did the world a favour.’ He fingered the rim of the can. ‘If I could find out who got me sent down, I’d thank them.’
So that was it. He wanted her to admit she was involved in planting the photos on his computer. This place, his dishevelled state, they were part of the ruse. The whole place was probably wired for sound. Well, she’d turn his little trick back on him.
‘I know you stole my money,’ she said, voice raised. ‘And hid a camera in my house.’
‘Hid a what?’
The incredulity on his face couldn’t have been more fake if he were wearing a rubber mask.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘And I have evidence.’
‘Evidence? What evidence?’ He tensed his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘What the fuck do you want with me?’
His hapless air had gone. He was looking at her sharply, as though timing his strike. Spence was right – she was crazy coming here. What was she thinking? Griffin had been in prison. She took a step back, going for her pocket, feeling the outline of the spray bottle. ‘I want you to leave me alone.’
‘Are you fucking mental?’
She held out the spray bottle. ‘Stay out of my life. I’m warning you.’
‘Oh, you’re warning me now, are you?’
‘If you do anything else to me,’ she said, hearing the hysteria in her voice. ‘I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you before I let you ruin my life again.’
Was this what he wanted? For her to assault him? So he could go to the police to have her arrested? She scanned the walls and ceiling for cameras. Was he filming her now?
‘Get out,’ Griffin said, pulling himself up. She saw something glint in his hand. ‘Get your crazy fucking arse out of my house. Or I’ll get the police.’
‘I want my money back,’ she said. ‘And I want you to leave me alone!’
He swung his arm around. Razor blades, melted in the head of a cheap toothbrush. ‘Make me, cunt.’
Rachel pushed down on the spray, sending an arc of liquid into his face.
Griffin shrieked and covered his eyes. ‘You fucking bitch! You crazy fucking bitch!’
She turned and ran into the hallway, and out the open front door – behind her, he was hollering, ‘And if I ever see you again, I’ll…’ – but she was already down the street, breaking into a sprint before she could hear the rest.
Chapter Thirty-One
JustForYou
Rachel clung to the bus stop, sucking in breath. Where was she? A road beside a field, the air thick with the smell of waterlogged mud. What if she’d gone the wrong way? What if there was no bus back to Reading? She scanned the timetable, looking for clues, but the plastic covering was scratched, as though rubbed with wire wool, and she couldn’t even see what time the next bus was coming, let alone if it was going the right way. She pulled out her phone, hoping to load a map, but she had no Internet. It was after one, over half an hour since she rang Spence.
‘Oh my god,’ he said, his voice agitated. ‘I was calling nine nine nine when you rang. M
issing, presumed dead.’
‘Thank heavens for Spence’s home-made pepper spray.’
‘No!’
She smiled at the memory. It’d been pretty much the only thing she did right. ‘Between the eyes.’
‘Money shot!’ Spence’s laugh sounded more like a yelp. ‘How are you?’
Rachel glanced around. The sky was miserable, but not falling in. As long as she got to the train station by three, she’d miss the commuter rush and be back in London at a reasonable hour. ‘As well as can be expected. Lil okay?’
‘If by okay you mean filling my phone with pictures of us as every known animal in the ark, and some that should have drowned in the flood, then yes. She’s okay.’
‘Have you put on Frozen yet?’ As Rachel asked that, she heard the orchestral opening.
‘This time I get to be Anna,’ he replied. He lowered his voice. ‘Get home safe, okay?’
She told him not to worry and hung up. The dark clouds over the nearby hills were approaching fast. Rachel zipped her jacket to her chin and prayed for luck. Or failing that, a bus.
Forty-five minutes later, soaked and desolate, she got on the bus, a cold shuddering strip-lit throwback to a time when such journeys were a test of endurance as well as a way to get somewhere. She sat down shivering, and stayed that way as they meandered past dry-stone walls, brown pastures, farm buildings rising in the distant murk. On the front it had just said Reading. She’d asked the driver if they were going to the train station, but his grunt and muttered ‘near to’ didn’t fill her with confidence.
She put her head against the cold window and watched the thick lines of rain roll down the glass. Her phone – it was still recording. She played back the audio, holding the handset to her ear like she was on a call. Her voice was clearer than his, but she caught most of what he said. It only worsened her mood. He just didn’t sound guilty. It was only at the end, when he threatened her, that he showed what he was really about. And that story, those pills from America. If I could find out who got me sent down, I’d thank them. Did he think she was so stupid as to come out and admit what she’d done? Then again, hadn’t she wanted him to do the same?
Still, it didn’t feel right.
Considering how the day was going, it was no surprise that the driver’s definition of near to was different to her own. Radically different. Emmers Green, the last stop, while technically in Reading, was three miles from the train station. Rather than risk another bus, Rachel jogged along the A road to the city, jacket clasped at the neck, the rain whipping through the gap in her hood.
She hit the station after half three, exhausted, stomach squirming with hunger. The back of her head had begun to tingle and she stumbled on the curb. Something seemed to be approaching very quickly from behind her eyes. She staggered into Boots, looking for a protein drink, but they only had Slimfast shakes. She bought a strawberry one, although it tasted more like fusty cardboard than fruit, and sipped it while searching the Departures board.
Her phone vibrated. Probably Spence shrieking with horror at the Disney overload. She checked the screen – No, it couldn’t be. A LinkedIn message.
She opened the app. It was from him!
Hi Sophie,
Thanks so much for getting in touch. Sorry for not replying sooner, but I don’t have a phone at the moment, and it’s not always easy to get online. Let me know where and when to meet for an interview, and I’ll be there.
I appreciate this chance more than you could ever know. I promise I won’t let you down.
Alan Griffin.
Even after the third read, Rachel didn’t get it. Was he being sarcastic? Or did he really not know it was her? Perhaps he wasn’t watching when she wrote the message.
The crowd in the concourse was clearing. Rachel checked the board – her train was leaving in three minutes. She raced to the platform and managed to squeeze on. Perfect. Just perfect. Packed in a scrum of suits and office skirts, close enough to inhale sweat and perfume and stale coffee with every breath. She grasped a ceiling strap and tried to keep it together. Today had solved nothing. If anything, she’d made it worse – he knew he was getting to her. Condensation ran down the inside of the windows; the bodies pressed against her gave off a suffocating heat; the Slimfast shake lurched around her stomach as though it had come alive and was looking for the exit. Would she ever get her life back? Or was this it? Endless terror until she snapped. It felt as though it had been her world forever. There was no way out. She squeezed her eyes shut; the tracks clattered, don’t pan-ic, don’t pan-ic, don’t pan-ic; the brakes screeched and she glanced around. Everyone seemed to be looking away, but she knew they’d been watching her, amused by her performance. They all thought she was mad.
From Paddington, it took another hour to get back. By the time she barged through the front door at home, it was six. Spence had been looking after Lily for eight hours. A huge amount of time to fill with someone else’s kid – a huge amount to fill with your own kid.
‘Lily!’ she cried. ‘Mummy’s home!’
Dread flooded her body so fast it felt like drowning. The lights were off upstairs. No sounds from the kitchen. Were they playing hide and seek? She called again, and waited, not moving. Silence. She touched the back of the television. Cold. That was the trap. Spence was in on it. They wanted to lure her away so he could take Lily. She fumbled out her phone. A couple of missed calls from Mark, and a WhatsApp message from Spence. They were in the park. He’d sent a picture of Lily by the small algae-filled duck pond, dropping sunflower seeds into the water. Rachel flung the phone onto the sofa and slumped against the wall, hands to her chest.
The phone leapt to life. Mark’s name flashed on the screen. She debated whether to take it – she was desperate for a glass of warm milk, a hot shower and a change of clothes – but she’d put this off long enough. After what happened today, Mark had to know about Griffin.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I need to tell–’
He cut her off. ‘You at home?’
‘Sure, I–’
‘Do not move. I’m coming over. Right now.’ He hung up before she could reply.
Rachel went through to the kitchen and got the milk from the fridge. It splashed over the side of the glass as she poured. She heated it for thirty seconds then drank it slowly, waiting for it to settle in her stomach between sips. The slow hand-to-mouth motion was calming, although her head still hurt like someone was forcing their thumb into the soft matter at the front of her brain. She was seriously dehydrated.
She heard the front door open and froze. Lily’s high childish laugh came from the living room. Rachel rushed through and grabbed her into an embrace, holding her as tightly as if she’d nearly been hit by a car.
‘I fed the ducks,’ Lily said.
‘I know.’ Rachel smiled at Spence. ‘I saw the photo.’
‘Do you know what ducks say when you feed them?’ Lily asked.
‘What’s that, sweetness?’
Lily reared back and gripped her mother’s cheeks, squeezing the skin hard enough to hurt. Her face was cold and serious, like something from a horror film, the moment before the cute little girl explains in a demonic voice how great it is to love Satan. Lily leaned in, until her nose was touching Rachel’s and, eyes unflinching, screeched, ‘QUAAAAAAAAK!’
She let go and fell back, laughing. Rachel touched her cheek. Her hand was shaking. That was it, she’d broken her daughter. She’d tried so hard, she’d wanted so much to be different to her parents, but the evidence of her failure was right there, screaming in her face.
‘Say sorry to Mummy,’ Rachel pleaded, but Lily was caught up with trying to look at the heel of her wellington boot. Rachel grabbed her arm. ‘I asked you to–’
‘No!’ Spence tried to release her grip. ‘It’s a joke. You’re hurting her.’
Rachel shot him a look. ‘It’s not a joke.’
He worked her last fingers free. ‘It’s something I used to do with my brother as a kid. I
just–’
The front door flew open. Rachel scrambled to cover Lily, pushing her to the carpet and lying on top, as though the entrance had been blasted off.
‘Oh, you are alive then?’
Mark’s voice. Rachel glanced around. He was edging towards them, each step dropping him lower into a crouch. Spence backed out of the way.
‘Let go of Lily,’ Mark said, gently. ‘Please?’
Rachel lifted her hands, and Lily crawled from under her. Whimpering, she ran to her father, who hoisted her up. He turned her around, as though inspecting her for damage.
‘I’m sorry. I – I thought…’ Rachel shook her head. ‘I just thought…’
Mark deposited Lily onto the sofa, then held his hand out for Rachel. ‘Can we have a chat?’ he asked, helping her up. ‘In the kitchen.’
She followed him through. He went to lean against the counter, but seeing the mess of spills and crockery, thought better of it and stood with his hands on his hips. ‘What the actual hell?’
‘She screamed in my face,’ Rachel muttered, more to herself than Mark.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Lily, before you came in.’
‘What are you talking about? God, you’re driving me nuts. What’s happening to you? Do you have any idea how worried your dad’s been?’
Rachel’s face was humming, her throat prickling. She groped for the edge of table. Did she have an Oxy on the train back, or was she just exhausted? She couldn’t remember. ‘I don’t… My dad?’
‘He was supposed to pick up Lily? From nursery?’
‘Oh, no. I meant to call them, but–’
‘When they said she hadn’t been in, and they hadn’t heard from you, he came round here and found the place empty. He was frantic by the time he got to mine. I know…’ Mark scratched the back of his neck. ‘I know you’ve got your, you know, with your dad. I get it. But don’t punish the old bloke.’
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t… I didn’t…’
