My hands tremble as I climb the stairs to my flat, tearing open the box as I move, tripping on the landing at the sight of the ring I was caught by that night back in November, as if under a spell. You would never have bought it if you’d known I was thinking of Henry while I looked at it. I wasn’t thinking of you. Not you. Never you. My visions of you are only dark.
Madly, I think that the tips of my fingers will bleed as they brush over the small circle of cold platinum and the tiny diamonds that encrust it. The ring has flown to me like an evil boomerang.
As soon as I’m in my flat, I shove it all back into the envelope, including the card, slapping on parcel tape and fresh stamps, scribbling your name and the university address on it, crossing out my own. Above all else, I can’t let you think I’ve accepted something so costly from you. I’ll post it back to you first thing tomorrow morning.
But as soon as I begin to stuff the parcel into my bag in readiness, one of the leaflet’s commands freezes my hand.
Retain all letters, packages, and items, even if they are alarming or distressing.
I have to hold on to the ring, however much money you spent on it. The ring is a gift, after all. Just not in the way you intended. I will add it to my growing collection of evidence. A grim assortment but not yet irrefutable as proof.
WEEK TWO
The Fire Dance
Monday
CLARISSA WAS WATCHING Robert. He was leafing through the jury file. He stopped at a photo of the van’s interior, studied it, and scribbled a note for the usher to take to the judge.
Mr. Belford was peering dubiously at Miss Lockyer. “A story,” he was saying, “of systematic beatings and torture, and violent acts of rape and forcible restraint. But hardly a mark on the victim.”
The judge interrupted with his usual formal courtesy, asking them to look at Robert’s photo. Behind the driver’s seat, nestled on top of a greasy and crumpled fast-food wrapping, was a green disposable lighter.
Mr. Morden was beaming at Robert. Nobody had noticed that lighter before. It exactly fit with Miss Lockyer’s account of Godfrey burning her earring in the van.
IT WAS ANOTHER of the many breaks occasioned by Mr. Morden and Mr. Belford’s whispered arguments. Clarissa sat in her usual chair. Robert had taken to sitting opposite her, in the corner of the unnaturally bright, glaringly white little annex.
“Poor girl,” Robert said, not in the least afraid to state his sympathy directly.
Clarissa wondered how many men would speak up like that, in front of the others. “Yes,” she said, nodding a little, her expression slightly sad. “Poor thing.” And then, “I can’t believe you found that lighter. Are you a detective in your day job?”
“I’m a fireman.” He shrugged it off, modestly. “Most people don’t look around for potential causes of fires. It’s what I’ve been doing since I was twenty. Half my life.”
The usher was back already, calling them to return.
Clarissa picked up her bag and cardigan. She’d never met a fireman before. She’d surrounded herself with academics, though she’d decided not to be one herself. But it wasn’t lost on her that she’d run straight into the arms of one, in Henry, even if he was mostly a poet. She thought what Robert did was interesting and important.
“It’s just a job,” he said, as if he’d read her mind and was putting her straight. He spoke matter-of-factly, but in his friendly, even way. “We all do our part.”
“YOU ARE YOURSELF capable of violence, aren’t you, Miss Lockyer?”
Miss Lockyer shook her head at Mr. Belford’s question as if it wasn’t worthy of an answer, Mr. Morden jumped to his feet to object in absolute fury, and the jury found themselves walking out once more.
AGAIN CLARISSA WAS seated opposite Annie and Robert in the little annex.
She was remembering Wednesday night. The soap dispenser slipping from her fingers and shattering against the cloakroom tiles instead of Rafe’s skull.
You’d never be able to hurt me, Clarissa. I know you.
“I’m not sure I’d be able to damage another person,” she said, “but I’m beginning to wish I could.”
“You don’t look like you could damage a moth,” Annie said.
Robert was looking hard at Clarissa. “Hurting someone isn’t about physical strength. You’ve never been in a situation where you’ve had to. Anyone could do violence, Clarissa. I promise you could, too, if you needed to.”
“Have you, Robert?” Annie asked.
His face was expressionless. He didn’t answer.
“I didn’t really need to ask,” Annie said. “Of course you have.”
MR. BELFORD GAVE the impression that he hadn’t taken his eyes off Miss Lockyer during the jury’s absence—a kestrel hovering above a field mouse, waiting for his chance.
“Is it correct that your ex-partner has a new girlfriend?”
Clarissa looked in concern at Annie, whose husband had just left her for another woman. She thought of Rowena, too. And of Henry’s wife.
Miss Lockyer gazed at her hands.
Clarissa wondered what she would feel when Henry found someone else. She knew she’d feel a stab if he went through successful fertility treatment with a new girlfriend, and she should be bigger than that. Not that he’d be quick to put himself through such a thing again. Henry wanted people to think testosterone oozed from his every pore. He’d made her vow never to tell anyone that his small population of misshapen sperm all possessed five heads and ten tails and swam in demented circles, bumping into each other.
Mr. Belford prompted the still-silent Miss Lockyer. “Did you threaten to kill her?”
“Of course not.”
He shook his head, making it clear that her responses were so absurd it was not worth speaking further to her.
SHE’D BEEN SO focused on Miss Lockyer and Mr. Belford and her note-taking, she hadn’t looked at the public gallery. A movement in the back row caught her attention.
A pale man leaned forward from where he’d been resting his pale head against the pale wall, looking only at Clarissa, forcing her to see him looking.
As Robert paused to let her exit the jury box before him, she stumbled, her cheeks growing warm, her breath speeding up, her heart pumping so fast she thought it must be visible, pounding beneath her dress.
Monday, February 9, 5:55 p.m.
I sit in the jurors’ room, pretending to be so lost in my book I don’t notice that everyone has gone. The jury officer is looking at me, loudly packing up her things. Finally, she tells me that the room needs to be vacated for the night and I see I cannot put you off anymore.
Just as I expect, you are waiting for me right outside the court building. I march past you to the end of the road and turn left, acting as if you aren’t here.
“Clarissa.” You’ve caught up to me. “It’s ridiculous of you not to speak to me, Clarissa.”
I halt in front of the coffee stall, closed for the day now like everything else. I have never seen it so quiet, but there are a few people around. It still gives me the safety of public space.
“Darling, please talk to me.”
I can’t help myself. The leaflets’ commands of silence are impossible. “I’m not your darling.” You step closer. “Don’t come near me.” My voice is shrill. I try to lower it. “Don’t you ever come here again. You had no right.”
“It’s a public gallery.”
Unless I stop you from ever coming again, I won’t be able to enter that jury box and continue with the trial. Court 12 will become a trap, a place where I’m pinned down and on display for you. I realize how powerfully I care about the trial, how much it matters, that I’m actually immensely proud to be serving on a jury—it’s something I’d always hoped to do. Corny thoughts about public duty and citizenship are banging around in my head even in your presence.
“If you come again, I’ll tell them I know you. They may call off the whole trial. They don’t want jurors disturbed by people they know. I n
eed to concentrate.”
“The testimony upset you, Clarissa—I saw that it did.”
You are right. I hate your being right about me. I hate that I wasn’t even aware of you, watching. I hate that I don’t quite know what I would have done if I’d noticed you there while Court 12 was still in the throes of its ugly business instead of its last seconds.
“There’s no law against the friends of jurors sitting in the public gallery.”
“You aren’t my friend.”
“You’re right.” You correct yourself. “Lover.”
“You’re not—” I bite my lip. You look so sad anyone else would pity you.
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“I’m not.” It isn’t so difficult to be mean. I’m almost shaking with anger. My mother never could have imagined a man like you.
“I’m not seeing Rowena anymore.”
“I don’t care who you see or don’t see.”
“You’re cruel, Clarissa. I was worried. You were ill.”
“I lied to you. I wasn’t ill. I didn’t want you to follow me that morning. I didn’t want you to find me. I didn’t want you to know I was here. I have a right for you not to know where I am. I don’t like being followed.” This is better: firm and honest.
“That was an evil thing to do. I thought better of you.”
“I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t want you to think of me at all.”
“Your mobile still isn’t on.”
“I changed the number. You’re the reason I changed it. I want nothing to do with you. I’ve told you this a million times.”
“I went into every courtroom in the building until I found you.”
I move my head slowly from side to side. “Don’t you see that that’s not normal?”
“No. No, I don’t. It shows how much you mean to me.”
You hold your arms out, as if expecting for me to fall into them, and I step back. How can you imagine that I’d want that? “Did you like the ring, Clarissa?”
“No.”
“You’ve kept it, though. So you must like it.”
“Don’t send me any more things. I want you to stay away from me.” As I start to walk away, you grab my arm. I jerk it free. “Don’t touch me. You make me sick. The things you do make me sick.”
“You can’t just sleep with me and then change your mind. You can’t make me feel what you have and then ignore me.”
A phrase from one of the leaflets stabs at me.
One-third of all stalkers have been intimate with their victim.
“It was only one night. It meant nothing to me. It was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t been drunk. Or worse. Was there something worse?” For once you don’t have anything to say. “Why can’t I remember any of it?” And still nothing. “Why were there marks on me?” For once I have more to say than you do. “Why was I so sick afterward?”
At last you speak, though I wish for your silence again as soon as the words are out of your mouth. “You were crazy with passion for me, Clarissa. You were out of control, the way you responded, the things you begged me to do to you.”
“I was unconscious.” I clutch my bag, trying to stop my hands from trembling. The coffee I drank during lunch is halfway up my throat. I swallow it back down. “Did you put something in my wine?”
“Now you’re sounding mad. You wanted me, Clarissa. You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Why are you trying to deny it? You were lying back and enjoying it.”
“I didn’t want you. Not then and certainly not now.”
Your mouth twists. Your hands are in fists, releasing, clenching, releasing again. “Bitch.” Your face is scrunched in hatred, but you struggle to smooth it away. “I didn’t mean that, Clarissa. I’m sorry. You’ve upset me too much. Say you forgive me. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
The leaflets stab at me again.
Eight women die every month in England as a result of domestic abuse.
I wish those leaflets didn’t keep ambushing me. I don’t want to think about them. I don’t want to imagine they can be right. The leaflets are like friends whispering uncomfortable truths that I don’t want to hear. I want to think that those numbers are just made up. Eight women die every month.
“I’m going now. If you follow me, I’ll walk straight back into the court building and tell the security guards. They haven’t left yet.”
“Say you forgive me and I’ll go.”
“I’ll never forgive you. If I ever see you in that courtroom again, I’ll report you to the judge.”
“I didn’t mean it, Clarissa, calling you that.”
“And I’ll tell them at work, too, that you did it, that you followed me here, that you upset me so much I couldn’t go through with something so important.” I am merciless. I am no longer quaking, and the nausea has gone. I know what I need to say to keep you out of Court 12. “I’ll make a formal complaint to Personnel. They take seriously their responsibilities to employees who are on jury service.” This is perfectly true. “I can see that you don’t want work to know what you’re doing.” And this is true, too. Your eyes light up, confirming I’m right—you never send me emails on the university system.
“You are a bitch. You’re not the woman I thought you were.”
“You’re right. I’m not. You don’t know me at all. Just leave me alone. That’s all I want from you.”
I walk away, and this time you don’t follow.
They say you shouldn’t equivocate. They say you should be direct and firm. They say you should never try to soften the blow. They say that “No!” is a one-word sentence. They say to use it with force. They say you should never elaborate on “No.”
Tuesday
CLARISSA WAS WAITING for the train to start its journey from Bath when Robert stepped on, only just making it before the doors locked, but he didn’t look as if he’d rushed. She was in the aisle seat, and watched him walk toward her, thinking how rare it was for someone to move so sure-footedly in a lurching carriage.
The seat across the aisle from her was empty. He took it and smiled good morning over the narrow passage. “Fancy seeing you here,” he said. “Going anywhere interesting?”
She affected a mysterious appearance. “Maybe.”
“On your way to work, perhaps?”
“I thought I’d skip work today. Just a whim. In fact, I’ve decided to skip it for the next six weeks.”
“So have I,” he said.
“What a coincidence,” she said.
“But seriously.” He stretched his long legs into the aisle, relaxed but alert; she knew he’d move them out of the way if anyone needed to pass, before they needed to ask. “You know I’m a fireman. Am I right in thinking you’re an academic? I heard you telling Annie you worked at the university.”
She shook her head, as if shocked and horrified by the idea. “I nearly was, but no. I’m an administrator.” She paused. “My father—he wanted me to be an academic. He was a schoolteacher. He taught English before he retired.” She laughed at herself. “It’s too early in the morning for true confessions.”
“Never too early for that. But I’m interested in why you changed your chosen path so dramatically.” He appeared to be mulling it over. “Every time I see you you’re reading. Or writing.”
She nodded. “Academics never escape work. Nights . . . weekends . . . There are always essays to mark, or articles to write, or research papers to read, or forms to fill in, or students to email. Not to mention the teaching and meetings. It’s unremitting. Some people love that life, but the idea of it made me feel trapped. I wanted to leave work behind at the end of the day when I went home. And I wanted my imaginative life to be my own—I didn’t want to have to account for it to other people.” She bit her lip, surprised to find herself telling him this. “So I abandoned my PhD.”
“What was it about?”
“How Pre-Raphaelite painters responded to
Romantic poetry. Henry—my ex-partner—thought the Pre-Raphaelites were absurd. He was probably right, but I can’t help but love them.”
“Did you and Henry like any of the same poets?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Henry made me fall in love with Yeats.” She didn’t say that Henry used to whisper whole verses of Yeats to her in bed.
“You don’t strike me as someone who gives up on things.”
She didn’t want to bore him with the story of her father’s heart bypass in her second year of the PhD, and how the research seemed meaningless after she helped her mother to nurse him. But she knew her father’s close brush with death only hastened an inevitable admission that she wasn’t cut out for a life of abstraction and sterility, of thinking endlessly about other people’s ideas and words in an alien language; academic conferences and journals just made her head hurt. She’d rather look at the paintings and read the poems than theorize about them. And she needed to use her hands, to make things herself.
“Those Pre-Raphaelites did paint some beautiful dresses,” she said, “and fabrics. I like to sew, you see. So I was spending all my time re-creating those dresses instead of writing my PhD thesis.”
“I can see the temptation,” he said, making her laugh. “You should have done a PhD in textiles instead. Is there such a thing?”
“Probably. I think you can get one in pretty much anything these days.”
“The history of the fire engine?”
“Almost certainly,” she said. “But that’s not good as a facetious example—that’s actually something important.”
The train had arrived in Bristol. His dark-blue backpack was on the floor in front of him. It appeared huge and heavy, but he lifted it with one hand as if it contained nothing more than feathers, and the two of them made their way out.
Just past the ticket gates was a man dressed as a chicken. Thinking of the addict on the bridge, Clarissa dropped a worn and slightly torn five-pound note into his cup. It was all the cash she had. But Robert added five more.
The Book of You: A Novel Page 7
