Swimming in the Shadows

by Diane Janes

  ‘That actress who’s been in Emmerdale.’

  ‘And Coronation Street … and Casualty,’ Dr Millington put in. His tone was mischievous and he was trying to catch my eye, share in a joke, but who was the butt of it?

  ‘Only in certain ways, of course.’ The Trainspotter had caught his expression too and appeared to be ruffled. Maureen was in awe of all the doctors and hated the idea that one of them might be laughing at her, particularly for some reason she could not understand.

  ‘You get these likenesses, don’t you?’ the Trollop put in. ‘Our Joe’s boy was the spit of David Essex at one time – you know, when he was younger – but he grew out of it. Doesn’t look a bit like him now.’

  ‘Everybody’s supposed to have a double,’ the Trainspotter remarked. ‘Though I must say, I pity mine, whoever she is. Is coffee included in the price, do you remember? Mind, I don’t want coffee, I want a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’d rather have tea an all,’ agreed the Trollop.

  ‘I’ll go up to the bar, shall I, and see about it?’ The Trainspotter pushed her chair back and heaved herself to her feet.

  And that’s it, I thought. Bomb defused. Panic over. Maureen doesn’t think I look like Jennifer Reynolds, she thinks the actress playing Jennifer Reynolds looks a bit like me. Of course they don’t think I’m Jennifer Reynolds, because that would be ridiculous, far-fetched, extreme. Someone who’s mentioned in a TV documentary doesn’t turn up on your doorstep in Lasthwaite any more than your numbers come up on the pools or Michael Caine drops into the pub for a pie and a pint. These things happen to other people. You don’t seriously expect them to happen to you. You don’t seriously remark on a likeness because you think your colleague is a mystery woman, leading a double life. You dismiss it as a coincidence, because coincidences – unlike Michael Caine dropping in to the local pub – happen all the time.

  ‘They won’t find that missing practice manager anyway,’ Helen, sitting on the other side of me and previously silent, cut in on my thoughts, ‘because she’ll be long dead by now. That’s what the chappy was saying in the papers.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the Trollop. ‘There’s always some poor lass copping it somewhere.’

  The group fell silent, no doubt remembering one poor lass in particular.

  ‘So … how many wants coffee and how many tea?’ asked Maureen.

  After that the conversation turned to more cheerful matters: forthcoming holidays and how long each of them had to go before retirement. Any mention at all of the dreaded TV programme and my resemblance to the actress in the reconstruction, and therefore by definition to the missing woman herself, ought to have shaken me, but I left the pub feeling elated. I had done it. I had changed my appearance just enough. No one suspected. I was safe. As I drove home I experienced a lightness of heart which I hadn’t known in weeks.

  I drove past Rosecroft, where a light was showing behind a grubby downstairs window pane, pulled up outside Heb’s Cottage and let myself in. Not knowing how long Moira’s ‘do’ would go on for, I hadn’t arranged to see Rob that evening, and it struck me that it would be very nice to have a long, lazy bath, complete with fancy oils and scented candles, and maybe a glass of wine while I lay soaking. Indulgence won out. I paused to go through the mail before heading upstairs to undress, and one bath later I was back upstairs and had just finished drying my hair when the doorbell rang. The sound of his car must have been drowned out by the hairdryer, but I knew it would be Rob, come to surprise me, so I barely secured my dressing gown before I ran downstairs and flung open the door.

  Surprise crackled through me like an electric shock.

  Terry Millington leered at me from the doorstep. ‘Evening,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’

  He stepped forward decisively as he spoke and I automatically stepped back to make way for him, one hand on the door and the other dragging my dressing gown further together, conscious of my near nakedness and his unexpected proximity.

  He strode confidently into the sitting room then turned to face me, his back to the fireplace. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘It’s very quiet up here, isn’t it?’

  Even from a few feet away, I could smell the drink on his breath. There had been a couple of previous occasions when he had appeared for morning surgery looking suspiciously the worse for wear – something which I assumed the doctors would have flagged up – but if any of them had had a word with him about his alcohol consumption there was no sign that it had taken effect.

  ‘I … look … it’s not a very good time. What do you want?’

  He gave me a silly, sideways look as he said, ‘Funny place for a woman to live. You must get lonely up here, all on your own.’

  Oh my God, what was this? Was he coming on to me? Surely not. I was at least ten years his age. He must have known that I had a regular boyfriend – or did he? How well attuned was he to the local grapevine? He had a room at Pat Metcalf’s, but how much notice would he have taken of her running commentary on local affairs? I adjusted my dressing gown so that it was no more revealing than my normal working attire, but I still felt very exposed. He carried on standing there, grinning stupidly at me, clearly poised on that level of intoxicated recklessness that can lead almost anywhere. There had to be a way of defusing the situation without embarrassment. My job, my precious security – I couldn’t afford to slap him down and thereby make an enemy of him. Even half-baked GP trainees could be surprisingly dangerous. How could I, in any case? He hadn’t really said anything to be slapped down about.

  ‘If there’s something you want to discuss,’ I said, ‘then we can do it in the office, tomorrow.’

  His face took on a mischievous expression. ‘What I’ve got in mind isn’t suitable for a discussion in the office.’

  He’s really, really drunk, I thought. His voice had become a drawl, with a hint of an accent that I couldn’t quite place – something he’d managed to lose at uni, I supposed, suppressing it so as not to betray common origins.

  ‘Nice little dinner we all had this evening,’ he said, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘All very friendly. Not so friendly now. No offer of a drink.’

  ‘I told you, it’s not a good time.’

  ‘Nice little chat. Film … TV programmes … actresses … actresses who look like you.’

  He could not fail to take in my sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Went back to my digs, after the pub. Not much else to do round here, is there? I was on duty the night they showed that programme. Taped it, though. Hadn’t got round to watching, but I fast forwarded to the bit with the actress … the one who looks like you.’

  He left the words hanging in the air, but when I said nothing, he continued: ‘Wonder what you’d be willing to do to stop too many people making that connection?’

  I gripped the lapels of my dressing gown together. I couldn’t decide what he meant, what he might be threatening. A particularly awful scenario began to suggest itself, in which I could imagine myself having to explain how it was that he came to be inside my home in the first place; defend myself against the accusation that I had encouraged him, led him on. Except that I knew there couldn’t be any defending myself, any complaint or accusation. Susan McCarthy could not take a colleague to court, because Susan McCarthy was dead. He could do with me whatever he chose and I could not risk saying a word. Did he know that? Had he really discovered my secret and decided to take advantage of it? Or could I talk him out of it? Persuade him that he was mistaken? I had mentally configured many scenarios in which someone recognized or challenged me, but none of them had ever panned out quite like this. I glanced down at my feet and wondered if I was going to be sick.

  The doorbell sounded so loudly in the confined space of my tiny hall that I gave a little scream. Terry Millington appeared equally startled. I spun round and opened the door.

  It was Jim Fox, his purplish-red complexion awash with worry beneath his shiny cap. ‘Beg pardon, but Bob was going down t’lane in t’Land Rover and saw yon
car parked outside yours. Didn’t recognize un and thought t’were a bit funny like. Took a bit of a liberty, comin’ up to see as all’s well.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Jim.’ I felt like throwing my arms around his neck. ‘Will you come in? It’s Doctor Millington’s car. He called in unexpectedly … to ask me if I’ve got a spare set of keys for the surgery.’

  Clearly taken aback by my attire, Jim looked even more embarrassed than usual. ‘Aye,’ he said, backing away from the door. ‘Doctor Millington’s car. I know it now. Bob should’ve recognized it an all. Very sorry …’

  ‘No, no. You did the right thing. Thank you – thank you very much.’ I stepped back invitingly, willing him to enter. ‘Please, come in.’

  But Jim was already turning away.

  ‘Thank you,’ I called helplessly after his retreating form and received a raised arm in return as he headed back down the lane. I stood on the step, trying to come up with a plausible reason for calling Jim back, or even running after him, but what could I say? My colleague has menaced me by mentioning my resemblance to a television actress and asking if he could stay for a drink?’

  I reluctantly closed the door and turned back to face the sitting room, where my visitor was still standing with his back to the fireplace, smiling at me; a knowing smile, like a captor who enjoys a joke at the hapless prisoner’s expense before tying him on the rack.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, taking care to retain as much distance between us as possible when I re-entered the sitting room, ‘Jim and Bob are the eyes and ears of the world. I expect the fact that your car was seen parked outside my cottage will be all over the pub by ten o’clock this evening.’

  I looked him in the eye, hoping the import of my words had sunk in. He was a young doctor hoping to go into general practice, for goodness’ sake. He couldn’t afford to have rumours of impropriety circulating around the district.

  ‘Jim or Bob always come up to have a last look round at night, too,’ I lied. ‘I didn’t ask them to but since Julie Peacock was killed they’ve started checking up on me. It’s very sweet of them.’

  Among the banshee panics screaming through my mind was the thought that Dr Millington had been the on-call doctor on the evening Julie died, and that he had no alibi, but he didn’t react when I mentioned her name, just continued to regard me speculatively before saying, ‘Plenty of time for a drink before then.’

  I didn’t know what to do. One part of me just wanted him to go away, but I knew that locking the door on him solved nothing. Had he worked it out? Or maybe it was just a fishing expedition? How was I to know? What on earth was I going to do?

  ‘A nice little drink and a chat … about actresses.’

  He made as if to take a seat, but missed his footing and had to grab the back of the chair for support before pulling himself upright. He was further gone than I thought.

  ‘You’ve had quite enough to drink.’ I recognized that sharp, reproving voice. I had never realized before that I could sound just like my mother. ‘I suggest you drive home very carefully. If you leave now, we can both try to forget this ever happened.’

  A look of uncertainty crossed his face for the first time, encouraging me to push my possible advantage. ‘If you leave now, we’ll consider this episode closed. The doctors are already concerned about your drinking. You can’t afford to have them know you’ve been turning up drunk on my doorstep, making all kinds of weird suggestions. Doctor Mac may come across as a soft touch but he’s a stickler when it comes to the reputation of the practice.’ I was getting into my stride now, sounding more and more confident. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t want the hassle of reporting this, but nor do I want it going all round the practice that you’ve been up here after work, so if I hear another word about any of it I’ll be making a formal report.’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I had the bit firmly between my teeth. ‘It isn’t the first time you’ve been drunk when you were supposed to be on duty. The night Julie Peacock was murdered, for one. That’s why the duty book couldn’t be found, and then turned up in a mess. And why the tape was incomprehensible.’

  ‘That’s crap …’ he began.

  ‘The evidence is right there in the book. Writing all over the place – you can’t read a word of it’ – just like most doctors, I thought – ‘and no proper times entered in the arrival column. It’s lucky for you there were no real emergencies that night, but sooner or later you’re going to pick the wrong night to go AWOL in the pub, and then the shit will really hit the fan.’

  And it isn’t just the pub, I thought. He’s a lot drunker now than he was when we left The Bull. He must drink alone in his digs too.

  He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The effect of the alcohol was kicking in hard and he was looking a lot less confident in the face of my offensive. I opened the front door and held it for him. ‘Goodnight, Terry.’ It was a masterful impression of a confident woman, in control of the situation.

  He regarded me doubtfully then lurched across the room towards the open door. I sidestepped neatly to make way for him.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, drive carefully on the way home.’ My voice was kinder now. ‘The police have stepped up patrols round here, since … since it happened. You can’t afford to lose your licence.’

  ‘You …’ he began, but I cut across him with a firmly repeated, ‘Good night.’

  ‘Take care,’ I called again, after his retreating form. Then I closed the door and leant against it, but only for a moment. I took the stairs two at a time and once in the bedroom dragged my suitcase from the top of the wardrobe on to the bed.

  EIGHTEEN

  Run, I had to run. Before he had time to phone someone, alert someone, spill the beans. I undid the outer straps, unzipped the case and opened it wide. Then I stopped. What should I take? How much could I fit into the case? How much into the car? As if from another world I heard his car revving and then shunting to and fro beneath my window as he turned it preparatory to renegotiating the narrow lane. He was so drunk he might well write himself off on the way home. That was a terrible thought. I had not wished for that – not really.

  But he was very drunk. Drunk enough not to remember in the morning? That was, as he had succinctly put it himself, ‘crap’. It was very rare that people genuinely suffered complete amnesia after drinking. Particularly if they were habitual drinkers.

  Why are you still standing here? Pack up, get out, don’t stand here thinking about it when every minute brings the hounds a bit closer at your heels.

  What about Rob?

  In the past I had always thought to run. That had been my default plan, although I had never needed to put it into operation. But in the past there had been no Rob. Tears sprang into my eyes at the thought of leaving him. It would be as if he were dead – a sudden bereavement. I flopped down beside the suitcase, reaching for a tissue from the bedside box to scrub my eyes.

  Damn Terry Millington, damn him, damn him. But did he actually know? Or did he only suspect? And when he sobered up, would he doubt the reality of his suspicions? Think, think calmly. And where are you going to run to? There’s no place prepared and the hunt would be on. Running away would only confirm Terry Millington’s suspicions and ensure that he reported me – fresh publicity had given a new impetus to the case. It would be as bad as when I originally left Alan. And it was harder now – there were more CCTV cameras, more identity checks. I would have to abandon the car and my bank accounts – anything traceable to Susan McCarthy. I would have to start all over again. And maybe all for nothing.

  There’s no time for this, I argued with myself. You have to go – now. Every minute you waste here …

  But even if he goes straight back to Mrs Metcalf’s house and rings the police, they’re hardly going to take much notice of a drunk. They won’t do anything until tomorrow morning at the earliest. Who starts checking up on identity theft at this time of night? Stop panicking and start thinking clearly. That’s the way forward.
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  I forced myself to go back to the conversation in the pub. The Trollop and the Trainspotter had evidently watched at least part of Disappeared! but they had seemingly both dismissed any resemblance as coincidental – after all, the BBC had located an actress who looked a bit like Jennifer Reynolds, so why was it difficult to believe that there might not equally be some superficial resemblance between the actress and me? They were used to me being Susan. Terry Millington, on the other hand, had fewer fixed perceptions. He had only known any of us for a matter of weeks and that might have made him more open to the idea that I could be someone else. Their discussion had probably made him curious to watch the programme, not because he suspected that I was the missing woman, but because he was intrigued to see just how much I looked like the actress. Only then, when he watched the programme, he must have realized what that resemblance really meant.

  He had the programme on tape. That meant he could rewind and watch it again and again, comparing my face to … my face. Go now, pleaded that voice in my head again. You have to go now.

  But he couldn’t be sure. I did some mental rewinding of my own. I had given nothing away. In fact I had behaved pretty much as an innocent person – a genuine Susan McCarthy – might have done. I had ignored his references to actresses, as if they meant nothing to me and I didn’t even know what he was talking about.

  I had a lot to lose, but so did he. Complaints about drunkenness on duty might see his placement curtailed altogether. It would be a black mark on his record. Would unmasking Susan McCarthy be worth it? Why should it matter to him what I called myself? Of course, if I did complain about him, he might do it out of revenge … Had he thought I was striking a bargain with him: silence for silence? Or merely expressing the genuine sentiments of a practice manager startled by the arrival of a drunken medic on her doorstep talking nonsense?

  And how sure was he anyway? In the cold light of day, he might conclude that he was mistaken. I did not see how he could check up on me without embarrassing himself if he turned out to be wrong. Wrongful accusations against a colleague were liable to couple ‘drink problem’ with ‘unhinged’. I closed the suitcase lid and refastened the zip in slow motion.