“If you’d read your fairy tales properly, you’d know that there’s always a terrible punishment for failing to appreciate a gift.”
I bump into the last person in the queue for the turnstile and mumble an apology.
“I didn’t know you were such good friends with Gary, Clarissa.”
I’d felt you on Saturday morning, following, spying, despite my not seeing you after I parted from Miss Norton. I noticed Gary looking over his shoulder as we walked into the café, as if he felt something, too.
“Did you like the chocolates, Clarissa?”
I’ve never known the procession through the ticket gates to move so slowly.
“It’s rude for you not to say thank you.”
You’re no longer held in check by the hope that you can win me over. Even you must see that you never will.
“It wasn’t polite of you not to invite me in, Clarissa.”
I remind myself that all you want is to get me to react. I won’t. No matter what you say or do, I won’t.
“I’m going to need to teach you some manners, Clarissa.”
I remind myself that I’m in a crowded place in broad daylight.
“I don’t appreciate having the door slammed in my face.”
I remind myself that you cannot touch me here.
“I don’t appreciate it at all.”
At last I am at the barrier, praying you won’t follow me. I know from the university timetable that you have a lecture at nine, so there’s a good chance you won’t. I feed my ticket in and push through the turnstile. But I can hear you, calling out from behind me.
“I don’t like that fireman, Clarissa. I saw you talking to him here last week. Stay away from that fireman.”
My breath catches. Already, you know who Robert is. You know what he does. It wouldn’t have been difficult to learn these things if you followed him home on Thursday night. You could have peeked through the letter box slot and seen his name on a piece of post, then searched for him on the Internet.
I’ve searched for him myself and found several news stories. Laying a Remembrance Day wreath in memory of serving firefighters who’d perished, with a photo of him looking so handsome and serious in his full dress uniform, medals and ribbons pinned over his heart. Part of a team that put out a fire in a tower block where six people died, and attending a memorial for them after. Rescuing a child from a burning house—to do such a thing must be sheer elation for a fireman. Ten years ago he’d been pulled from the rubble of a collapsed building and spent a week in hospital afterward; a fireman on his watch had died beside him.
Of course you don’t like Robert; you can’t fail to see that you’re no match for him.
I don’t falter in my step, walking away from you. I don’t look back. The leaflet people should video me. A short film: “How to Deal with Your Stalker When Severely Provoked.” I am exemplary. You don’t exist. You can say the most awful things, but you are a mere ghost talking to air. For now, the lecture keeps me safe. You do not follow.
SHE SAT ON the train, examining the special bag she’d made that weekend. She’d researched and planned and pattern drafted and sewed until very late each night. She thought of it as her anti-stalker bag, and was struck by how odd it was that something could look so beautiful yet have such an ugly function. As she inspected each of the inner pockets, and tested the security and accessibility of the things she’d slotted into them, she replayed what Gary had told her.
Rafe had lived with a woman ten years ago, in London. Gary’s source for this information was a friend who’d lectured in the same English department as Rafe then, at a different university. The woman had worked there, too, as a secretary, which is how she and Rafe met. As soon as Rafe got his lectureship in Bath, she left him and quit her job. Nobody knew what happened to her after they split up; she had vanished with absolute completeness.
But Clarissa had a name: Laura Betterton. She’d done some Internet searches over the weekend and found nothing. Somehow, she’d been expecting news stories about a missing person or even reports of an unsolved murder. But Betterton wasn’t that common a name. Even if she couldn’t find Laura, the online phonebook offered her an address and number for a James Betterton, in London. Not expecting anything, Clarissa dialed. A man answered, and she asked for Laura.
“Who is this?”
“You don’t know me, but—”
“Then why are you calling?”
“I’m trying to find her—I mean Laura.”
He grunted, almost a choked-back, bitter laugh. “And you can’t even tell me your name?” He put down the phone.
Lots of people were abrupt and irritable when interrupted by a wrong number. But she thought there was something else in the man’s voice. He’d sounded startled. Angry, too.
For now, though, she didn’t want to pester him with more phone calls—she knew all too well how upsetting that was. She realized also that the power of her desire to find someone who knew more of Laura’s story could make her imagine she was hearing something unsaid when there was nothing out of the ordinary there at all.
SALLY MARTIN FIDDLED with her Pre-Raphaelite red hair as Mr. Morden took her through the Saturday when she witnessed Lottie’s kidnapping. The defendants had made her direct them through Bath as they drove around searching for Lottie.
“They didn’t want anybody to see what they were going to do. They tracked her to her street. We’d only been there a minute when Tomlinson said, ‘Bingo.’ Sparkle said, ‘Get her in the van. Quick.’ They got her in the van so quick I hardly even saw it happen.”
The pencil slipped from Clarissa’s hand onto the floor beneath the table. She groped for it, bumping her head as she surfaced, blinking away reflex tears.
“She was dead white. I’d never seen anybody so frightened in my life. She was biting her lips. She was wringing her hands. Her head was down, trying not to look at anybody. After about ten minutes they drove into the end of my street, told me to get out.”
“Why are you crying, Miss Martin?”
“I could hear her screaming as the van pulled away. I was so relieved to be out myself, but I knew they’d hurt her. I still see her face. I’ll never forget it.”
MR. BELFORD WAS unmoved by Sally Martin’s tears. “One month before Miss Lockyer’s alleged kidnapping and assault, the police observed the two of you loitering and soliciting.”
Sally Martin was underawed by Mr. Belford’s erudition. “You know, I can see you’re super educated and you use big words and all that, but nobody can understand you.”
“Allow me to be more direct. Was Carlotta Lockyer a working girl?”
“Yeah. She was. So what? That doesn’t mean those men didn’t rape her.”
CLARISSA AND ANNIE were rushing down the stairs.
Annie grimaced. “Miss Martin’s probably the only person we’ll see in that room who will be just fine.”
“Not Miss Lockyer?” Clarissa said, holding her breath for the answer. “Miss Lockyer won’t be fine?”
“No,” said Annie. “No hope for Miss Lockyer.”
THEY WERE SITTING across from each other on the train with a table between them. The heaters were blowing lovely hot air. Clarissa squirmed out of her coat and put it beside her, smiling at Robert as she did.
This was normal. She was being normal. There was no Rafe. She and Robert were alone in the carriage. She was with a man she liked, being normal. She was almost happy, but she had to quell the pang of guilt that she’d put Robert on Rafe’s radar. She racked her brains for a way to warn him to be careful without telling him about Rafe.
Her first attempt wasn’t too inspired, but it was all she could come up with and probably better than nothing. “Do you think we need to be more aware of things, because of the trial?” she tried.
He looked puzzled.
“I mean, just to be more alert, to look around us more,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“In case, well, maybe someone mi
ght follow us or try to find out about us?” She was sounding more ridiculous by the minute.
“I’m not worried about the defendants, Clarissa. You shouldn’t be, either.”
She bit her lip, prepared to give up already. “You’re right.”
“The defendants aren’t going to bother you.”
Great job at warning him, she thought. Well done, Clarissa, she thought. “Of course they’re not,” she said. “I shouldn’t think like that.”
“It’s understandable you might be nervous. I could see you were the other night. I just want to reassure you.”
“You have.” She tried to tell herself that Robert was a big boy who could look after himself; if anyone had anything to fear, it wasn’t Robert.
“I saw you on the train that first day. You were on your mobile. Very”—he searched for the right word—“absorbed.”
She was secretly pleased that Robert had noticed her before she’d even been aware of his existence, and couldn’t help but acknowledge the difference to herself of how she felt about this man’s watching her when she didn’t know it, and Rafe’s doing it.
“Tell me about a fire,” she said, wishing that Rafe didn’t keep creeping into her thoughts. He’s not here, she told herself. Don’t let him spoil things when he’s not even here.
“They’re boring,” he said.
“You don’t think that. You know they’re not.”
“It’s your turn to tell me something. Why do you love sewing?”
She blinked at him, surprised by the question. “It’s not my turn.”
“Just the first hundred reasons. I want to know.” He had dimples. They deepened when he smiled.
“It’s a family thing, and I’ve caught it, I suppose. Or been brainwashed. My grandmother sewed absolutely everything. My mother is—she’s so incredibly good, such a passionate seamstress. She used to teach it. She knits, too. Have you noticed I have a lot of knitwear?”
He laughed. “You made that dress?”
It was blackberry-colored jersey, very fluid. The square neckline was low enough for a hint of her breasts to be visible. The bodice clung softly, a gently stretched accordion of vertical gathers, vaguely Grecian. The long sleeves were closely fitted—the marks on her wrist hadn’t quite disappeared yet. She felt her face grow warm. “I did.”
“It’s beautiful. It—” He stopped himself. “Why else?”
“It’s good for the soul, my mother says.” She laughed at herself. “But I think she’s right. It matters, taking time over things, making something with your own hands, creating something you can touch. My mother brought me up not to take for granted the value of materials, and what mass production does to people. Some people I know, they think it’s a waste of my talent.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“This is a test, isn’t it?” she said, gently avoiding his question—and the subject of Henry.
The train was pulling into Bath. They were slipping on their coats, standing, stepping onto the platform, saying good-bye for the night just outside the station.
She could see Rafe standing in the shadows across the road, wanting her to notice him watching. She refused to let him stop her. She would show him his threats and his spying didn’t matter. She would have her life. She would have a boyfriend, too, if she wanted one. What did it matter that Rafe knew who Robert was? It was no secret.
Robert was only a few feet away when she called out, “I won’t forget, Robert.”
“Forget what?”
“That it will be your turn, next time, to tell me something.”
He promised yes with a serious nod, and she walked away smiling, defiant in the face of Rafe, realizing that she’d made Robert stop and look back.
Monday, February 16, 6:45 p.m.
The two digits are flashing slower than the beat of my heart. After so many months of near blankness since Henry left, I’m startled by the red number on the display of my answering machine.
Forty. There are forty messages. Only you could leave forty messages. All the people I know put together couldn’t leave forty messages in one day.
I plunge my finger onto the button for the first message. Nothingness. Silence. I make myself listen to them all, surprising myself with a faint hope that there might be one from Rowena. But of course there isn’t. Of course they’re all from you; the caller ID draws blank on each one, which only confirms it. However shaky I feel, however short-lived my tiny victory over you at the station, I force myself to think calmly, logically.
I try to puzzle out how you got the number. You might have found some pretext for asking Rowena, but I think this would have sent her radar into alert mode. It’s more likely that my old habit of putting phone bills in the recycling box is to blame, which means you’ve had that bill for at least a week and a half. I was scrupulously careful three days ago when I sorted out what went into the recycling box and what I fed to my new shredder.
I am puzzled that you waited to use that number. I know I need to understand why this is. And then it comes to me. I see the control you can exercise when you want to. You are carefully measuring the doses of what you are doing, plotting your attacks in some careful order that only you understand, making sure they come regularly.
I’ll change my landline and set it to block all calls from hidden numbers.
I’ve been putting all of your things in the old wooden cupboard my father refurbished for me. That’s where the answering machine, with its forty blank messages, will go, too.
Proof is essential. Keep all evidence in a safe place.
Just as I reach for it, the phone rings. I let out a small scream and clamp my lips shut, furious that you’ve got to me again. But you’ve been watching. You know I’m home now; you know I’m listening to that ring. Another unknown caller, I can see on the handset display. I will not answer you.
Despite the sensation of being in a nightmare where I’ve been paralyzed, I fall onto my knees. I tear the phone plug from the connection in the wall before the answering machine can pick up. I cut you off, not giving you the satisfaction of getting through this time, not letting you into my bedroom. I will never let you into my bedroom again.
Tuesday
Tuesday, February 17, 8:05 a.m.
Don’t you have anything better to do? Don’t you get bored, and frozen, standing here morning after morning?
I don’t say these things when I find you outside my front door yet again. I don’t look at you. I make my way steadily toward the taxi.
“Your answering machine seems to be broken, Clarissa. Did you know that, Clarissa?”
If you say my name just one more time, I might punch you. You open the taxi door for me as if you are being courteous and well mannered. Small as I am, I quell my urge to give you a shove.
“I warned you to stay away from that fireman, Clarissa.”
I reach for the handle to shut the door behind me, telling the driver that you aren’t someone I want to share my journey with. He tells you to step away from his car.
“Certainly,” you say to him politely, man to man, as if you are reasonable, though you are still gripping the door and you don’t take your eyes off me. “I was just saying good-bye to my girlfriend. Did you know that when I miss you too much, Clarissa, I look at your photographs?” With that you release the door. It slams hard, all at once. But it isn’t the door’s slam that is ringing in my ears. It is your parting shot.
A SLIM WHITE-HAIRED gentlemanly-looking man was sitting behind the blue screen, very straight in his chair, when they filed into Court 12. Lottie’s grandfather.
“The jury will see that on Sunday, July twenty-ninth, at three thirty in the afternoon, a call went from Carlotta Lockyer’s mobile telephone to Mr. John Lockyer’s landline,” said Mr. Morden. “Do you recall the conversation, Mr. Lockyer?”
“Carlotta asked me for fifteen hundred pounds. She sounded scared. Upset. Extremely distressed.”
More external evidence that Lottie had bee
n kidnapped. That she did not want to be where she was and in the company she was in.
Mr. Lockyer bowed his neck and looked down at his hands. The gesture made Clarissa realize how old her own parents were, and that she must protect them from seeing her in pain or grief or fear.
Tuesday, February 17, 12:50 p.m.
I assume that I’m safe, over lunchtime, wandering through the secondhand bookshops in the dusty halls behind the court district’s central street. Surely your morning glimpse of me will be enough for the day. Even so, I am twisting my head all over the place, searching for you. I must look manic, as if I have some kind of nervous tic. I actually catch myself wondering where you are. This scares me even more: it makes me see that there is a danger of my becoming as fixated on you as you are on me. That is what you want, in your constant mission to keep my attention. I have to stop that from happening.
For a few minutes, I succeed. As I approach the court building, I’m thinking only of the new treasure in my hand, a precious volume of Anne Sexton’s Transformations. The goblin creature peeping out of the dust jacket is covered by the stallholder’s flowered paper bag, but its face stays with me. It’s that wizened face, tender and disturbing, that I’m thinking about as I walk. I’m not thinking of you at all. But then I see you standing just outside the revolving doors, and you are all I’m thinking of.
My vision is more acute. Everything is vivid. The sounds grow louder. A white prison van glides by; its exhaust fumes make the inside of my nose burn.
As if in slow motion, I see Robert rounding the corner from the opposite end of the road. He’s sixty feet away.
Passing you will be unavoidable. I make myself approach the revolving doors.
Robert is fifty feet away.
I am praying you will do nothing to make Robert notice you, do nothing to show there is any link between us.
Forty feet away.
Keeping as much distance between us as I can, I step past you. But I say quietly, without looking at you, “If you follow me, I’m telling the security guards.”
Your voice is low but easily discernible. “I’ve seen you as no other man has, Clarissa,” you say, and then I am through the doors.
The Book of You: A Novel Page 12
