Looking for JJ

by Anne Cassidy

  “Don’t bother following me!” Michelle said, without turning round. “You and me aren’t friends any more!”

  She would have no friends. Just her mum and her. Alone together. Her mum who loved her enough to offer her to Mr Cottis. She felt a sudden sense of loss; as if everything important was walking away. She raised her hand to stop it, to reach out and pull it back. Be my friend, she wanted to say, she might have even said it as she raised the baseball bat and swung it at the back of Michelle’s head.

  Everything froze for a second and she swung it again.

  Stop, she wanted to say. Don’t leave me. And Michelle didn’t. She dropped like a stone on the ground before her.

  Silence filled up the air and Jennifer stood uncertainly, blinking back the tears, looking round at the trees and the water and the rocks. She saw the cat then, creeping out of the bushes, standing for a moment over by the empty tin box. A wild cat. Its bones shining through its thin coat, like a skeleton in the sunlight, raising a single paw and licking it with relish.

  It was a witness. It had seen everything.

  part three: Alice Tully

  The trip to Brighton didn’t take long. Once they’d packed the car up and got through the afternoon traffic it was less than an hour’s drive. Frankie’s home was in the outskirts of Brighton and it took a few minutes for them to find the right street. They pulled up across the road from Frankie’s parents’ house and sat for a moment, the engine idling. On the back seat was Alice’s holdall. Beside it was a smaller bag, and some boots in case Frankie wanted them to go walking.

  “It’ll do you good to have a break,” Rosie said, talking above the music station that was playing. “You’re thinking about it all too much. I told you we’d work something out, that it would be all right!”

  “I know,” Alice said, her thumbnail pushed against her front teeth.

  “It’s a good compromise,” Rosie said.

  “Yeah, course.”

  Neither of them moved and Alice looked across the road at Frankie’s home. It was a big, Victorian house with bay windows. On the front of the roof she could see the skylights. The loft where Frankie’s room was. It was something she had been excited about. Now it hardly mattered.

  “Do you want to go in?” Rosie said.

  “Not really,” Alice said.

  “Why not? You’ve been looking forward to this!”

  Rosie opened the driver’s door and got out, brushing down her wrinkled dress and fixing her beads. Then she walked around the car and opened the passenger door and stood, like a chauffeur waiting for Alice to get out.

  “I haven’t got to winkle you out, have I?” she said, cheerfully.

  Alice felt a moment’s annoyance. Rosie was making a scene. People would see her standing there in the orange flowery dress that she said she had rescued from a charity shop a week or so before. Neighbours might be looking out of their windows wondering who this big lady was, her skirts dripping on the pavement, her beads swaying from side to side as she walked. There might even be members of Frankie’s family wondering what the sudden noise was, Rosie’s laugh and her gentle attempts to dislodge Alice from the car.

  Alice got out.

  “Shush,” she said, sharply, “I don’t want the whole world to know I’ve arrived!”

  There was a flicker of hurt on Rosie’s face but she covered it up in a flash, leaning past Alice to get her things out of the back. The car door clicked shut and the two of them walked across the street towards Frankie’s house. Before they got there the front door opened and a girl with glasses stood in front of them. She was tall, almost as tall as Alice. Her face was young though, scrubbed and freckled.

  “Hi! I’m Sophie! Don’t believe a thing Frank says about me. You must be Alice!”

  Alice faltered. She wasn’t sure whether to hold her hand out or not. How was she supposed to greet the ten-year-old sister of her boyfriend? She didn’t know. Rosie made up for her disarray by giving Sophie a hug.

  “Frankie’s only said good things about you,” Rosie said.

  “Yeah, I wish,” Sophie said, a slow blush creeping up her cheeks. “Come in! My mum and dad are in the garden. Frankie’s upstairs. Wait a sec. That sounds like him now.”

  Footsteps sounded from above, gaining in speed as Frankie appeared at the top of the stairs. In a flash he was there in front of her, grabbing her with both arms.

  “Hi Rosie,” he said, burying his face in Alice’s neck.

  “Give the girl a chance, Frank!”

  Alice saw Frankie’s dad over his shoulder. Behind him was a woman in jeans and a loose shirt. She walked to within a metre of them and stood waiting until Frankie let Alice go.

  “I take it you’re Alice? I’m Jan,” she said. “You’ve met Peter, my husband.” Smiling, she held her hand out for Alice to shake. “And you must be Rosie,” she said, turning to the side.

  Rosie gave Jan a hearty handshake.

  “Come into the garden. Sophie will make the tea, won’t you darling?”

  Sophie nodded her head enthusiastically and Alice and Rosie followed Frankie and his parents through the house and out of the French doors into a large back garden. Frankie flopped down on a blanket on the grass and Alice joined him. The others sat in cane chairs, in the shade of a giant white umbrella. Frankie’s parents were talking to Rosie about the journey, the traffic jams, the problems of living in a popular seaside town. Alice could hardly concentrate on their words because Frankie had slipped his fingers up the back of her T-shirt and was stroking her skin and playing with her bra strap. Through tight lips she told him to Stop it but he ignored her, joining in with his parents’ conversation from time to time.

  After a while Sophie appeared at the French doors, holding a tray in her hands. On it were cups and saucers and a two-tier plate stacked with cakes. It looked heavy and Alice wondered if anyone would move to help her. No one did and Sophie took each step carefully, her arms and shoulders tensing until she reached the table.

  “There!” she said, pleased with herself.

  “How lovely!” Rosie said, putting her fingers out to touch the two-tier plate. “I’ve always wanted one of these.”

  “It used to be my mother’s,” Jan said. “You don’t see them in the shops these days. Now, Sophie. What have we got?”

  “Right,” Sophie said, straightening her glasses, “fairy cakes, scones and cream, and chocolate chip muffins.”

  “Did you make these?” Rosie said, her face beaming.

  Sophie nodded proudly, took her glasses off and cleaned them with the end of her T-shirt. Alice turned to Frankie. His face was breaking into a smile.

  “What can I say? Sister of the year! She only does it to make me look bad!”

  While the others were still sitting in the garden Jan showed Alice upstairs to a pretty little bedroom next to Sophie’s and told her how pleased she was that Frankie had found such a nice girlfriend. On the pillow there was a gift-wrapped package which Jan told her to open. Inside was an old-fashioned white cotton nightdress, with real lace around the sleeves and neck. Alice held it up against her, the hem touching her ankles.

  “Frankie told us you were tiny so I bought the smallest size.”

  “Thanks so much,” Alice said, embarrassed. She hadn’t brought any gifts with her.

  “It’s nothing. We just want you to make yourself at home while you’re here. And don’t mind Sophie. She’s been dying to meet you and she’ll probably drive you mad! You know what ten year olds are like!”

  Just then the door opened and Sophie was there.

  “Mum! I’m nearly eleven,” she said, looking shyly at Alice.

  Rosie left soon after, carrying a bunch of flowers picked from the garden and a handwritten recipe for chocolate chip muffins. Sophie had scribbled it out, drawing a row of muffins across the bottom of the page. Rosie seemed relaxed, more like her old self than she had been in days. Frankie’s family had welcomed them with open arms. It made Alice feel a little overwhelm
ed. Standing by the car, as Rosie started the engine, she had an urge to get in beside her, to drive away, back to Croydon. There was something unnerving about being greeted so enthusiastically.

  “And don’t worry about anything. I’m seeing Sara Wright in a couple of days to finalize the arrangements for the interview. It’s going to be all right. I’ll ring you and let you know what she says.”

  Alice nodded. Rosie called the newspaper reporter Sara Wright now, in a formal way, as if she was a stranger; not someone who had lived close and become a sort of friend.

  “Bye,” Alice said, as Rosie’s car drove off up the street.

  There were footsteps behind her and then Frankie’s arms around her, hugging her to him.

  “Come up and see my loft,” he whispered, kissing the back of her neck.

  She waited until Rosie’s car turned right and then disappeared before turning round and returning Frankie’s embrace. She stood on tiptoes and gave him a long kiss on the lips. She was lucky to have him, she knew that.

  The loft had only been built a year or so before and still had a new smell. Frankie showed it off with the flourish of an estate agent.

  “You can see the sea from this skylight! And down here is a tiny window seat. Look, it opens. When I’m home I read there and sometimes have a smoke.”

  He had his own shower room and built-in wardrobes.

  “Look at this!” he said, excitedly, pointing to a miniature fridge. “The mini-bar!”

  She had to smile. He was so full of it, so pleased with himself.

  “It’s like my own flat,” he said, pulling her by the arm over to his double bed. “And much better than that dump in Croydon.”

  She found herself half sitting, half lying on the bed, Frankie flat on his back. She braced herself, expecting him to start kissing her, to roll over on top of her. Sex with Frankie. It was something she had wanted right from when she first met him. The first kiss outside the Coffee Pot when he’d waited hours for her to finish her shift. She’d held on to him with her mouth and felt a surge of energy racing through her making her skin tingle and breasts harden. That had been months before. She’d made him wait a long time and he’d become impatient. What he had never understood was that it wasn’t him she’d been trying to hold back but herself. Did she deserve that kind of pleasure? She didn’t think so.

  Frankie pulled her towards him so that she was lying across his chest. She could feel his heart thumping, his ribs digging into her face. Now she was ready. More than ready, a heavy ache across her chest when she thought about the two of them together. It wasn’t that she deserved it now. It was just that since Sara Wright had come into her life there was an urgency about everything she did. As if she had to fit a lot of things into a small amount of time.

  He was stroking her short hair, his fingers like the teeth of a comb. She moved her hand and put it under his T-shirt, rubbing at the hairs on his chest, her knee moving up to lie across his legs. He let out a groan and she felt a powerful rush as if she were in charge. It was time.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She raised her head, feeling dazed. Did he want to stop?

  “Wait. Thing is,” he gasped, sitting up, “thing is since you said that you were a virgin. I’ve been feeling odd, funny. Like there’s a lot of pressure. . .”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like it’s got to be right. It’s got to be special.”

  “But it would be special. With you.”

  “That’s the thing. If I hadn’t known. . . Now I feel awkward. I’m worried. I’ve never been with a virgin before. I don’t know what it would be like. I might hurt you. It’s making me feel. . .”

  “You mean it’s put you off.”

  “Not put me off you. I just think we shouldn’t rush it.”

  Alice sat up. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or insulted. The sound of footsteps could be heard running up the stairs. A tiny knock on the door made Frankie sigh.

  “That’s the other problem,” he whispered. “Sophie thinks you’ve come to visit her, not me. While she’s awake we’ll have no peace.”

  “It’s great,” Alice said. “I like her. I like all your family,” she added truthfully.

  The door opened and Sophie stepped into the room, carrying an armful of books and files.

  “I wanted to show Alice my project on Elizabeth the First. You did say she was an expert at history.”

  Frankie lay back on the bed as his sister came in carrying a big ringbinder and some books.

  “Ah,” he said, “Elizabeth the First, the virgin queen. How interesting!”

  Alice nudged Frankie, her face breaking into a mischievous smile.

  “What’s funny?” Sophie said. “I don’t get it!”

  “Nothing. Your brother’s an idiot, that’s all.”

  “I knew that!” Sophie said, lowering herself on to the floor, her books and folders scattering at the last minute.

  The family had a special meal for Alice’s first night. It was at eight o’clock on the patio outside the French doors. The big umbrella had been closed up and the dining table carried outside with candles dotted all over it.

  “We usually eat in front of the telly,” Frankie said.

  “No we don’t!” His mum slapped his arm.

  “Takeaways and pizzas,” Peter said, joining in.

  “We never have takeaways!” Sophie said. “Do we, Mum?”

  They had three courses and two different types of wine. Sophie was allowed a glass of each and she grimaced as she drank the first sip. After they’d finished eating Sophie insisted on making the coffee and the sound of beans being ground up reached their ears.

  “Where did we get that girl?” Jan asked.

  “We stole her from a well-balanced family so that she could be our servant,” Peter said.

  Later, when the dishes had been cleared away and Jan and Peter had gone inside, taking a reluctant Sophie with them, Frankie and Alice were left alone on the patio. Frankie pulled out a couple of the garden loungers and sat them side by side. The sound of classical music spilled out into the night and they sat in the dark looking out at the dense shapes of the garden and the lights of other houses in the distance. It was a perfect night. Alice stretched her arms up until her bones cracked. A few days before she had thought that such a night was out of reach for her. When Sara had come into the flat and said that she knew the truth, Alice had thought that everything she and Rosie had built over the past six months was over.

  She’d been wrong.

  There had been hasty conferences between Rosie, Jill Newton and Sara. The three women sat round the table in Rosie’s kitchen, trying to salvage a future of some sort for Alice Tully. Alice wandered around the flat in her pyjamas peering cautiously through the windows. There were phone calls between solicitors and newspaper editors; between senior probation workers and Patricia Coffey. There had been long faces and angry words. Rosie’s kitchen, once a place of warmth, pungent with the aroma of herbs and spices, now smelled of compromises and deals.

  They couldn’t just ignore Sara and her newspaper. The scoop was too good for the editor to pass on. While the rest of the press thought Jennifer Jones was in Holland, they knew the truth, and they had the right, they thought, to splash it across their front page. The threat of an injunction did not seem to worry them. They had a sister paper in Scotland and would publish there.

  Unless Alice Tully agreed to be interviewed.

  They would withhold her name and whereabouts if she was prepared to tell her side of the story; the killing of Michelle Livingstone, her life in Monksgrove, her new life in society. It would be an intelligent piece of investigative journalism and it would lead to a book which would be published in a year or so. The information in the book would be thorough, leaving no stone unturned. But none of it would break Alice’s cover.

  Rosie had been unconvinced. Wearing the same clothes two days running, she slumped across the table looking tired. Sara Wright, arriv
ing punctually, wore crisp suits and carried a wafer-thin laptop. On the third visit she closed the laptop until it gave a soft click. She looked from Rosie to Jill and then round to Alice.

  “The press are only interested in you because you are such a mystery. If you let me interview you, write up your story from your point of view, you’ll cease to be a mystery and they will give up on you.”

  Rosie looked up. Jill Newton picked up her glasses off the table and put them on.

  “The newspapers are racing with each other. Once they see that we’ve won they won’t be so keen for Alice’s story. It’ll be yesterday’s news.”

  Sara tapped her nails on the laptop and looked at Rosie and Jill. Both women looked weary, Rosie fiddling with her earring.

  “I’ll do it,” Alice said suddenly. “Just one interview. I’ll answer your questions but then you’ll leave us alone. You won’t come back for any more?”

  Sara Wright shook her head.

  The one interview was to be a whole-day affair, on the Saturday after she got back from Frankie’s. It was to take place in a hotel in the centre of London and there would just be Sara, Alice and Rosie. The article would appear about a week later. Then it would be over.

  “Hey, you two.” A voice broke into Alice’s thoughts. “Come in and play charades. Girls against boys!”

  Sophie was standing at the French doors, one leg on the patio.

  “My family!” Frankie said, under his breath.

  “Don’t say that!” Alice said, standing up, using her hand to pull Frankie back on his feet. “I think they’re lovely.”

  The house was dark when Alice heard the patter of footsteps coming down the stairs from the loft. She’d been awake for a while, lying in the strange bed looking around the room. Even though she was exhausted and a little woozy from the wine she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes closed for more than a few seconds. She was troubled. Her conversation with the reporter was weighing heavily on her. It was years since she had talked about Berwick Waters.

  The footsteps reached her door. It was Frankie, she knew.