White Bodies: An Addictive Psychological Thriller

by Jane Robins

  Lavender cd not speak. But I no she is READY 2 leave! She’s really energized because she thinks Lavender might make a break for it with the children, and go to live in her mother’s house.

  All our conversations are anonymous, for obvious reasons. So Lavender is a made-up name, and so is Belle. Like me, she is a befriender—her job is to help a friend, support her in whatever way she can. And Lavender, like Tilda, is prey—a woman in a relationship with a dangerous, controlling man. The prey have on-screen names that are colors, and I gave Tilda the name Pink because I regard pink as optimistic. And we call all the men, the predators in our language, X. So, online, Lavender’s husband is called X, and I always refer to Felix as X. When Scarlet is around, she chats as though she is a befriender like Belle and me, but actually she is prey, trapped in a relationship with a control freak (although it’s complicated—she enjoys the weird sex games they do). At first the system seems odd, but you soon get used to it. And I’m Calliegirl, because I got involved before I knew you were supposed to disguise your true identity, and I haven’t told Scarlet and Belle that Callie is my real name.

  I’ve been bombarding both of them with questions about Felix, about the way he has come between Tilda and me, about those bruised arms, and the day that he pushed her to the bottom of the Thames, so casually, like it was a normal thing to do. Sometimes I think I’m prey to sinister imaginings, that I’m getting carried away, but Scarlet is direct and analytical, and says that, taken together, the signs are clear—Felix is a danger to Tilda. Belle, also, has no doubts.

  Eventually she says:

  Whats ur news?

  Saw Pink today and spoke to her.

  !!???!!?? Is she ok?

  Not so good. Very thin. Starey eyes, cut lips. I’m worried X is somehow starving her.

  Xtremely likely. Easy 2 do. Make sure NO food in house. Withhold money. Typical predator tactics!!

  She went out to buy cigarettes.

  Easy 4 prey to have skewed priorities. Maybe Pink has a few pence and craving nicoteen more than food!!

  She said she’ll come to my workplace tomorrow and we’ll have lunch together.

  !!! Without X????

  Yes. At least, she didn’t mention him. I’m hoping we’ll be able to have a proper chat about the danger she is in. About an exit strategy. And how I can help.

  It isn’t long before I remember why it is I prefer chatting to Scarlet. Belle’s spelling choices and random punctuation marks are distracting, and I can’t help wondering what she’s like at work in the hospital, on the old people’s wards. Hey, dude!!! It’s suppository time!!! or No WAY this is going to HURT, Mr. Rumbelow!!! Belle is a kind person, though, and she’s always looking out for Lavender, being protective, and also telling us work stories like I sang the whole of The Sound of Music to Mrs. Prakash, because it was her favorite, but then she went and died!!! Scarlet is the opposite—always serious, always holding something back, so I never feel that I know her well. Just as I’m thinking this, she pops up on the screen.

  Hello Belle. Hello Calliegirl. Can’t stop, X about to appear—wanting X-rated attention—but can we meet in the Zone at 7:30 p.m. tomorrow?

  Off COURSE!!

  Yes, fine with me. Seeing Pink tomorrow, so I can report back then.

  Good. Watch the news tonight. It will be informative. S

  It’s typical of Scarlet to have that commanding tone—telling us what to do. And I’ve noticed that these days she often redirects us to “the Zone,” which is a separate email exchange for the three of us to use when we don’t want strangers joining our conversation in the Controlling Men forum. We use it when we have private information to share, like Belle’s work anecdotes and Scarlet’s sex life. I understand her concern, because it often happens—a man comes on the site to tell us that women can be controlling too, or to swear at us and become aggressive, although the mediator deletes the worst abuse pretty promptly. But we have to be so vigilant—because it’s easy for a predator to infiltrate the forum as a spy. So we quiz new people hard, weighing them up. One time someone called Destini seemed genuine and for several weeks joined in our conversations, but then started to say that if the prey were more “feminine” and “appreciative” their “gripes” with predators would disappear. Not subtle. And when he was challenged, he used horrific swear words at us.

  Our topics can be specific, like giving advice to prey and befrienders in disastrous situations, and the same predictable old stories keep coming up, of predators suspecting their wives and girlfriends of being unfaithful, or preparing to leave, or of disrespecting them. The surprising part is the predators’ creative ideas about punishments. Violet has to “submit expenses” when she buys the household groceries and keep receipts for a bag of tomatoes or a box of eggs. And Sienna told a story of saving up to buy a dress in a silky yellow fabric. When she put it on and did a twirl, X told her she was mutton dressed as lamb, then he unzipped her and carefully cut up the dress into squares, for dusters. And we’re all worried about Lilac because she’s not allowed into her converted loft room. X has put a combination lock on the door and he spends most evenings in there busy with some mystery hobby that requires hammering and moving furniture about. Belle’s exclamation marks go crazy when she thinks about all the possibilities.

  We also discuss news stories that are relevant for our forum, and there are so many of them, even in these past few months. Like Steve Chase, the Swindon cabdriver with “a winning smile,” whose wife, Sheree, told him she wanted a divorce, so he chopped her up with an ax before he killed his children, four-year-old Lauren and two-year-old Bradley, and hanged himself in the garage. It’s gruesome stuff, but it keeps happening, so often in fact, that the Chase murders didn’t even make the newspapers’ front pages and were item seven on the BBC News website. In Controlling Men we realized that the signs were there all along. Sheree’s sister told the press how, at first, Steve had been a romantic boyfriend, showering Sheree with gifts, whisking her off to Amsterdam, turning up at her workplace with white roses. After the wedding, he had stayed in command—buying Sheree’s clothes for her, dictating when she could or couldn’t see her friends, forbidding her from driving the car.

  Then there was the Kansas kidnapping case. In the photos Wez Tremaine looked horrible, with his demented hair and monumental beer gut, but so did all his mates, the regular guys whose eyes went blank and bewildered when they spoke to TV reporters. Wez had had a couple of run-ins with the police for beating up Jaynina, the wife who eventually ran away, in 2004, after he knocked out two teeth and cracked six ribs, and it was common knowledge that he had a dark side. But no one guessed that he had two teenagers chained up in the cellar. There was no back chat from Leeanne and Joelle, no sneaking off for an X-ray when he showed them who’s boss, no excuses when he wanted sex. Wez did make front-page news, of course, all over the world because, after three years in the Tremaine hellhole, Leeanne and Joelle escaped, and everyone loves it when someone comes back from the dead.

  I’ve had so much help from Scarlet and Belle and others on the Controlling Men site, giving me advice about Felix, analyzing his actions to see how closely he fits the typical predator profile by being controlling and judgmental. I’m not surprised by the general agreement with my view, which is that Felix is isolating Tilda and taking over her life. I have the impression that he’s constantly monitoring her behavior. Also, it seems suspicious that Tilda hasn’t taken on any new work recently. Before Felix, she was always talking about the new roles she was considering; since Felix, nothing.

  Of course, I’m relieved that Felix hasn’t persuaded Tilda to marry him, or made her pregnant. But when I mentioned to Scarlet that I hoped Tilda would find a way of leaving Felix, she pointed out that because my sister is famous, he will always have a good chance of finding her. Someone will post something on Instagram saying they spotted her in a café or lying on a beach. Scarlet’s right, and sometimes I’m at my table under the window half the night, coming up with solut
ions. I wonder whether Tilda would be prepared to give up her acting career and take another identity—cut her hair short and dye it black, and move with me to Mexico or Australia. Or maybe take a French name and move to a big city like Marseilles or Bordeaux. Then I go online to check whether a change of name is a public document, wondering whether Felix would be able to track her down.

  I’m busy with this sort of internet research when I remember that Scarlet has told Belle and me to watch the news, so I go to the BBC website and see that this morning a young woman named Chloey Percival was working in the perfume department in Debenhams in York when a guy in a hoodie came in and commenced his attack, throwing bleach at her face, then stabbing her in the stomach. A middle-aged couple, Sandra and Trevor Abbott, happened to be shopping and did their best to pull him off and hold on to him, but he broke free and ran out of the store into a crowded street. The police are now looking for a suspect named Travis Scott, and Chloey is in intensive care in York hospital.

  I can see why Scarlet wanted to alert us. Her boyfriend is paranoid about some other man taking her away from him because she’s so pretty (she told us that in a matter-of-fact way, but I’ve never actually seen a picture of her). She could have been an actress or a model, she says, but X wouldn’t allow it, and made her give up trying. Like Chloey Percival, Scarlet works in a public place, doing tanning, waxing and nails in Manchester. X often shows up at her work, unannounced, and Belle thought it was hysterical to ask: Has X ever stormed in just as ur getting STUCK IN on a chalanging BIKINI WAX??!!

  But it’s not funny at all, and I suspect that Scarlet is feeling spooked by the Chloey Percival case, terrified that she’s next.

  9

  2000

  At school, I watch everything coming to life on the Peter Pan front. At break times Tilda spends most of her time with Hook, whose real name is Liam Brookes. The two of them sit on the stony ground in a corner of the playground, hugging their knees and going over their lines. When I stand close by I hear Tilda say: “First impressions are awfully important,” and the line she’s in love with, she says it so often: “To die will be an awfully big adventure.” Then she notices me and says, “Go away, Callie,” so I resume my tour of the edges of the playground.

  At home, Liam keeps coming up in conversation. At first it’s in the context of Peter Pan, which is now Tilda’s main interest in life, and which allows her to speak in her Peter voice, a constantly rising lilt so that she endlessly seems to be rallying her troops, once more my friends! We hear interminable stories of her scenes with Hook, and how their sword fight is so complicated and requires terrifying jumps from rock to ship and back to rock. Then Liam’s name starts coming up in everything else, so I hardly dare say anything for fear of prompting it, thinking that if I mention that I like peas, we’ll be treated to a long description of how Liam absolutely adores peas. Over our beans on toast one time, Tilda, out of the blue, tells us that Liam can swim twenty-five meters underwater and I slam my head down on the table and refuse to look up.

  Mum ignores my protest and picks up on Tilda’s hint. In a nonchalant way, like the thought has drifted into her head, she says, “Well, Liam could come along to swimming on Saturday if he’d like.” Tilda practically shoots out of her chair with: “Can I phone him now and ask?”

  I leave the table and stomp up the stairs, then I take Tilda’s diary from its pillowcase, and find little L’s in the margins and kisses and hearts, and she has been practicing the signature of the future Tilda Brookes. I can’t help it—I tear off a corner and eat it.

  On Saturday, when the doorbell rings I run to answer it and find Liam standing on the doorstep, his stripy towel rolled up under his bare brown arm, and serious-faced like a Cub Scout ready for inspection. I feel a surprising surge of warmth because of the undisguised element of expectation in his expression, as if he’s waiting to be liked, or questioned, or teased. Also, I notice that his dark hair stands up on end. He just stands on the doorstep, looking at me, and I see that his towel is faded and rough and frayed at the edges, and his red swimming trunks are poking out from the middle, like the jam in a Swiss roll.

  “You’d better come in,” I say.

  On the bus, Tilda sits with Liam, and Mum and I sit in the seat behind, with all our bags. I lean my head on Mum, and she puts her arm around me saying, “Chip, chip,” because she knows that makes me smile; then we both stay silent, trying to eavesdrop. But all they talk about is Peter Pan, and I realize that any other subject would be too much effort. And, in the pool, there’s no conversation other than about swimming.

  It turns out that Liam’s a better swimmer than both Tilda and me, stronger and quicker and—as previously advertised—particularly good at holding his breath (my specialty!). “Watch this!” he shouts, before he holds his nose and sinks down to sit cross-legged on the bottom. We start counting—one, two, three. At thirty, bubbles come up, and at seventy-two we’re still going. Then he bursts up in a great whoosh, looking like he’ll explode. Afterwards, he swims a width underwater, turns and comes halfway back, before coming up for air. On the way home, Liam asks Tilda if she knows how to roller-skate, and she says no but she wants to learn—so I expect a roller-skating invitation to come her way. After he leaves, Mum says, “That boy has intelligent eyes.”

  The days pass but the roller-skating invitation never arrives and, in its absence, Tilda becomes edgy if Liam’s name comes up, no longer wanting him to be a feature of every mealtime conversation. It’s in her character to be pushy and to ask Liam outright to teach her to skate, but either he puts her off or she keeps quiet. On my tours of the playground, I see that she and Liam still get together to prepare for Peter Pan, but I sense an awkwardness about their huddles that wasn’t there before. And, at home, Tilda is scratchy and moody with Mum and me, and starts spending long hours in our bedroom with the door shut. One evening, though, she calls me up to help her practice her lines and when I arrive I find her curled up in her bed, bloodshot eyes, runny nose, the sheets pulled up to her neck. “You look awful,” I say. “What’s the matter?”

  She puts her finger in her mouth and bites on it so hard that I expect to see a trickle of blood. Then she sits up and starts bashing her head against the wall.

  “Stop it!” I pull her away, thinking she’s gone insane, and we both collapse back under the covers heaving with emotion. I stroke her hair and try to reassure her.

  “Come on, it’ll be all right. Really. Remember you have me to look after you. . . . Remember that we’re the loved ones.”

  She manages a wet little smile. The loved ones is Mum’s name for us—ever since we were tiny.

  “And what about Peter Pan?” I say. “Think about Friday, and how wonderful you’ll be.”

  “I know.” She sounds despairing. “I have to be good on Friday. I have to . . .”

  • • •

  On Friday afternoon I keep an eye on her at school, fearing that she’ll be in meltdown mode. When I ask if she’s scared she just says, “Oh, no, I’m fine,” as if there’s no cause for concern; but I carry on worrying right up to 5:00 p.m., when the audience arrives. By five thirty the school hall is packed and buzzing and noisy, but the chat quiets down swiftly as the music starts and the curtains part to reveal the bedroom of the sleeping Darling children. A few minutes later, when Tilda appears, I feel sick.

  She walks shakily to the center of the stage, her face white, her eyes blank with fear, and I’m rooted to my spot by the wall, hardly able to breathe. But, from somewhere, my sister summons up her courage and starts to let rip with the Peter Pan voice, loud and clear. Soon she’s dominating the stage, jumping around as though the floor were on fire, waving her sword about. And it becomes clear that it’s Liam, not Tilda, who is shaken by the occasion. He was dynamic and swashbuckly in rehearsal, but is now somehow diminished by the spotlight. In every scene he’s outacted by Tilda. Sometimes she does little asides to the audience that have everyone laughing, and her performance causes several bu
rsts of spontaneous applause. At the end, when the parents clap and whistle, she glows as she bows, with Liam glancing at her, half admiring, half puzzled. Afterwards, Mrs. Brookes comes over to Mum, and I’m surprised to see that she’s obese and has a row of fat metal hoops that go all the way up one earlobe.

  “Right little actress, your Tilda,” she says, with a smile as wide and open as Liam’s. “I could see her going professional.”

  She turns to me: “What about you? Didn’t you want to be in the play?”

  I shrug. Liam joins us, and Mum says he gave Captain Hook a soulful side, and he must come to our house some time. As she’s speaking, Tilda arrives and we all go out to the car. “See you Monday,” Liam says. And Tilda beams, as though he’s mended everything between them.

  Later, when we’re back home, I go upstairs to our bedroom and rummage through the clothes in a drawer that is jam-packed full of my tops and T-shirts. There’s an old red woolen sweater, too small for me now, that I keep right at the back, well hidden; and I take out my dossier, which I keep wrapped inside the sweater. It’s no longer in the princess book I had when I was seven, but a smart notebook that I bought in WHSmith with my pocket money. I open it up and see that I haven’t added anything for six whole months; but now I get writing with the words coming into my head furiously and hard, like I’m under a waterfall that’s packed with words. I set out the details of how she fell in love with Liam and how it made her obsessed with him. Then I write about how she fell apart when she thought he didn’t like her anymore, crying herself to sleep at night and violently hurting herself, going nearly mad. Everything got better when she was acting, I add. She was an amazing Peter Pan and the whole audience loved her; I even think it made Liam want to be her friend again.

  10

  2017

  I wake up queasy, remembering that Tilda’s meeting me for lunch today. Partly I’m nervous about screwing up, and scaring her off. Also, I’m angsty about Daphne, who sits by the shop doorway, watching everything. My boss has a habit of irritating people with her inquiring, nosy personality, so I suppress thoughts of work while I shower, and instead concentrate on the questions I’ll ask Tilda. I tell myself, Don’t antagonize. Be subtle.