by Deborah Bee
He leaves. Without a nod or a goodbye or anything.
DS Clarke has a surprised look on her face.
Her email pings.
It’s from PC Chapman.
‘I know you’re at work,’ it says in the title box.
Her phone buzzes.
‘DS Clarke? It’s Chapman.’
‘Chapman, thanks,’ she says. ‘Look, sorry to bother you but did anyone do a background check on Kitty? You know, Little Miss Tricksy at York Gate.’
‘No. Emma Tudor confirmed that she was diagnosed narcissistic disorder last year.’
‘What’s her interest in Clare, then? And Sal?’
‘Oh, she’s only interested if someone’s getting more attention than her. She’s nuts. Narcissists feel superior consciously. So, they like, tell themselves, all the time, that they are better than anyone else. But deep down they feel extremely insecure, despite how self-loving they look on the surface. It’s usually something to do with their parenting. Neglect, you know. You don’t get born that way. She can’t really be blamed.’
DS Clarke thinks to herself that lots of people get scarred by their parents, but they don’t all turn into . . .
‘And did Emma have any further stuff on Clare?’
‘Clare’s diagnosed PTSD. That’s what Emma Tudor says. It’s completely different.’
‘How completely different?’
‘She’s got all the symptoms. Negativity. Feelings of distress. Avoidance of conversations. Feeling distant. Bursts of anger. All the doctors agree.’
‘What about hearing voices – is that typical PTSD?’ says DS Clarke.
‘I think that’s something else,’ says PC Chapman. ‘I think that’s called psychosis.’
“Hmm. So properly nuts.”
Forty
Clare
‘Come for a fag.’
I don’t know how she got in. I don’t even care.
‘Come for a fag. I’ve got menthol.’
Tell her to fuck off.
‘Fuck off.’
‘You’ll feel better! I’ve got Diet Coke.’
Tell Kitty to fuck off.
‘Kitty. Fuck off.’
‘Stop being a dick. You’ll feel better with a Coke and a fag. Get up and shut up feeling sorry for yourself.’
She yanks the dressing gown that’s over my head.
‘The alarms will go off again.’
‘We can get up on the roof. No one will know. Come on.’
‘The roof?’ I say, sitting up.
‘It’s a nice day. Why not?’ she says.
She’s carrying a towel and wearing a red bikini top, cut-off denim shorts, mirrored aviators and a white cotton peaked cap with ‘I came to break hearts’ sewn on it in pink letters. Her ponytail is clipped through the hole in the back of the cap, and looks like a My Little Pony tail. All cutesy. If you had to guess you’d think she worked in an American carwash in some dodgy eighties film.
‘Want some?’ she says, applying another layer of red sparkly lip-gloss over her mouth, then holding out the tube. ‘It’s SPF 50.’
‘What about the rest of you?’ I say, looking at her glistening pink skin, covered in oil.
‘I wanna get brown, don’t I?’ she says.
I shrug.
‘Come on. Wear shoes. The attic is full of mice shit.’
*
Kitty has removed the entire contents of the airing cupboard in her bathroom, including the shelves.
It’s all lined up on the floor of her bedroom.
In between skinny pink G-strings, and mounds of preformed bra cups.
And plates of half-eaten food.
‘Not surprising about the mice,’ I say, nodding at the plates.
She shrugs.
She’s covered the boiler with a towel and squeezes past it to a half-door, with wooden steps behind.
‘Attic,’ she says, taking off her cap and sunglasses, making sure I’m following.
She dips down through the doorway so I can only see her pink Converse, which run up the steps on the other side.
The small amount of light in the attic comes in slim, diagonal shafts through the cracks in the tiled roof, criss-crossed by wooden roof joists that look like they need replacing.
It’s empty, just dust and droppings, from mice and birds, I guess.
‘Come on, it’s this way,’ says Kitty, climbing up a short metal ladder, and through a trapdoor.
The roof is a long strip of asphalt behind a low wall, which runs along the side of the pitched red slates.
It’s not ideal for sunbathing. You can’t even lie side by side.
‘You can bring a towel up too, next time,’ she says, lying down flat on hers, undoing her shorts a bit to expose her stomach more.
‘Diet Coke,’ she says, unhooking one from a pack of six that she’s stashed under a magazine and a T-shirt.
‘Fag,’ she says, flicking open a white and green packet and handing me a white cigarette with a silver band around it.
Posh cigarettes.
Minty.
I prop my back against the roof.
Just enough space between me and the wall to cross my legs under me.
Face out over the wall.
Camden rooftops.
Look nice in the sun.
There’s the market.
The canal.
That building Louisa said I should get a flat in.
A long time ago.
Sun on my hair.
Breeze.
Warm for May.
I’m trying to work out where my house is.
Wonder where Gareth is.
Breathe out slowly.
‘Met someone who knows you,’ she says.
Just like that.
‘Oh yeah?’ I say.
Heart thumping.
Hey, babe.
Don’t tell me you forgot me for a minute.
‘A man.’
I take another drag on the cigarette.
Another mouthful of Coke.
‘Described you completely. Even got your dressing gown right.’
Bathrobe.
Tell her it’s a fucking bathrobe.
‘Got your hair right. Fair. Your build right. Thin. Your height. Model height by the way.’
‘Yeah?’ I say.
Your tits are still saggy.
‘But he said your name was Coco.’
Because you look like a Coco, babe.
You ain’t no Clare.
I told you, Clare is like a shit name.
Someone like me wouldn’t go out with someone called Clare.
‘Must have the wrong person then,’ I say.
PANIC.
PANIC.
CAN’T BREATHE.
‘You know what, I think I’m going back down.’
‘Hey, don’t go. Finish your cigarette. I need some company.’
‘I’m not feeling so good. Bit hot for me,’ I say.
Can’t breathe.
‘Wear my cap,’ she says. ‘I bought it online. Rihanna has the same one.’
I pull her cap on.
‘Do you see this mark on my leg?’ she says, suddenly sitting up. ‘Do you think it’s a bite or like eczema or what? Do you think I should show Mrs H?’
There’s a small circle of red skin on her calf. About the size of a polo mint. It looks dry and itchy.
‘Go to Boots,’ I say. ‘It’s just ringworm.’
Breathe.
‘Shut up,’ she says. ‘SHUT UP! Ring fucking worm. I’ve got worms?’
‘Ringworm is just a fungal infection. Like athlete’s foot.’
‘I’ve got a fucking worm.’
She’s freaking out.
‘Do I need to get it removed?’
She’s standing up, bouncing from one foot to the other like she’s been bitten by a snake or something.
I start to laugh.
‘What!’ she says. ‘What’s so fucking funny?’
‘It’s not a
worm, you moron. It’s an infection. Put cream on it, it’ll go in a day. Two days max.’
‘How come you’re the world expert on ringworm?’ she says, sitting back down and picking at the skin on her leg.
What is this cream? Babe?
This cream.
Anti-fungal.
What you got that’s fungal?
I thought we agreed no more shopping on your own.
Give me your key now.
NOW.
KEY.
Don’t you fucking lie to me, slag.
Don’t mess with my fucking mind.
What infection have you got?
Says here it’s for thrush.
You got thrush you dirty slag?
It is PRINTED ON THE OUTSIDE OF THE FUCKING BOX.
Thrush.
THRUSH.
Don’t lie.
DON’T LIE.
There’s nothing on your arm.
That’s just a spot on your arm.
You’ve got thrush, ain’t you?
Ain’t you?
You got thrush cos you’ve been fucking all those guys at work.
I know what you get up to.
I see you.
I know what you do all day.
Pretend you’re working.
Pretend you don’t even like these guys.
Give me your phone.
GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING PHONE.
GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING PHONE AND YOUR FUCKING KEY.
You dirty bitch.
DIRTY BITCH.
Who’s Simon? I’m going to kill him.
Remember that, babe?
‘GO AWAY.’
‘Hey, don’t take it out on me,’ Kitty says, pinching off a piece of dry skin between her scarlet-painted nails. ‘Not my fault some guy wants to know if you’re OK. Even if he did get your name wrong.’
‘Look, Kitty,’ I say, starting to feel faint.
Need to get downstairs.
‘Seemed more interested in Sally.’
‘I think you’ve got all this confused,’ I say.
‘Look, I met this guy out front, from the squat at the end. When I told him we was a refuge, that this whole thing is a refuge, he said that he thought there might be a girl here called Coco. I said there weren’t any girls called Coco. And then he described you. Well, actually, it was the dressing gown that did it.’
‘What’d he look like?’
‘He was old. Like a drunk. Said he saw you in the police station. That you smelt of paraffin. He called you the girl with the bare feet.’
‘I don’t remember anything about the police station.’
Feels like a dream.
‘Said he helped you, cos you were falling over.’
‘Some tramp guy?’
‘Yeah, he’s some tramp guy all right. But he’s not stupid. God knows how he ended up like that.’
‘I don’t really remember much about that day to be honest,’ I say, steadying myself by resting my hand against the wall. ‘He’s in a squat?’
‘At the far end. They’re all squats down there. As I say, though, he was more interested in Sally.’
‘What, my Sally? Sal?’
‘Said there was another girl in the station at the same time. Called Sally. That’s what he said.’
‘Sally’s hardly a girl.’
‘That’s what I said. He said, “It’s all relative.” Dunno what that means. Anyway, he said that she was looking after you in the station. And that maybe you might know where she was cos he met someone who was looking for her. Her brother. Long-lost brother. She’s been missing for years, apparently, and this guy had come all the way from Liverpool to find her. After all those years. Sweet, eh?’
‘Sally wasn’t at the station. He’s got the wrong person.’
‘It was definitely her. From Liverpool, ain’t she? Hasn’t been back in twenty years. She told me that herself. And he said she’s been friends with the policewoman at the station all that time. That Susan woman. They go back. Best friends forever. That’s what he said.’
And I don’t want to believe her. But it all adds up. Sally and DS Clarke best friends.
And that’s the thing, babe.
Just when you think you can trust someone, they fuck with your brain.
Forty-One
Sally
I saw Barney today, staggering down the road out front of the refuge, off his face it looked like, with his massive coat pulled up round his ears, doing Dr Zhivago or something, like he hasn’t even noticed that it’s nearly summer.
PC Chapman was giving me a lift back from the police station, you know, and I saw him right outside and when we stopped I thought I might as well say hello because what difference does it make anyway, whether some old dropout knows where I live or not, whatever Sue says.
He didn’t see me at first, he was so busy sticking his nose over the front wall, looking through the windows, so when I said, ‘Barney,’ even though I said it quietly, he nearly jumped right out of his skin.
‘So, this is where you’ve been hiding yourself, is it?’ he says, when he’s recovered himself, slurring more than I remember.
‘You all right there are you, Barney?’ I say, slightly shocked by how rough he’s got in a matter of days. He wipes his nose on his sleeve.
His eyes are half closed.
‘You living round here, then, Barney?’ I say, and he looks around him, like he’s surprised where he is, then looks up at the sky, like he’s surprised that’s there too. He picks a scab on his face, a little purple scab by the side of his nostril, but all his skin looks red and mottled, like corned beef, nothing like it did before.
‘So, you’re looking well,’ he says, like he just woke up. ‘Been nice seeing you, girl,’ he says, and wanders off up the road.
‘You still on the programme?’ I shout after him. ‘Barney, you still on the programme, are you?’ But I knew he weren’t still on the programme.
He waves his arm in the air, not turning round.
PC Chapman slams the car door.
‘Bad timing,’ she says. ‘He was asking about you the other day at the station. Saying he hadn’t seen you. You shouldn’t let anyone know where you are, Sal. You never know who he might speak to.’
‘Don’t look as if he could string more than two sentences together if you ask me,’ I say. He wasn’t like that the last time I saw him, and if you were to ask me I’d say that if he is still on the recovery programme, he’s topping up on something else. Told you it never worked.
‘Well,’ I say to Chapman, ‘we’re back home, safe and sound now, aren’t we? So there’s nothing for you to worry about.’ And I flash my key fob at the panel by the front door and it swings open.
‘You want me to come in?’ she says.
‘I think I can manage from here, just about, but thanks for the lift,’ I say as she walks back down the front path.
Security buzz me through the next door, and I’m only just in reception when Kitty appears, out of nowhere, and it’s like she’s on uppers or something.
‘I’ve been scouted!’ She’s frantically brushing her hair with her head upside down. ‘And it’s a really big deal, probably international sessions and everything. Met this totally cute guy called Axel in the pub at lunchtime. He’s not an actual scout, but he knows everything about modelling and he has all the contacts and he wants to meet me tonight to discuss getting a contract with Storm or something. Just got the call,’ she says, flicking her head over so her hair forms a halo of golden static. ‘Graduated’ golden static. ‘I’m gonna get a portfolio together and we’re gonna go on some go-sees.’
‘What’s a go-see?’ I say, cos that’s got to be made up, like the rest of her story. No doubt about that.
‘You go see people,’ she sneers, as if everybody knows what a go-see is. ‘You think this jacket makes my bum look big?’ she says, turning around to show me her bum, and she looks over her shoulder, pouting her glittery lip-gloss.
‘Enormous,’
I say, walking off in the opposite direction.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Oh, yeah, Sally, I told Coco, by the way. It is Coco, ain’t it, Sally?’
I ignore her. Little bitch, I think, but I don’t say anything, I just keep on going.
‘Last time I saw Clare, she was talking to herself. No, hang on, she was SHOUTING AT HERSELF,’ Kitty calls.
The front door buzzes again and she flounces off down the path, her hair bouncing along like she’s in a TV commercial.
She was right, though, when I get up to our flat front door, I can hear Clare talking to herself before I even open it.
*
Clare is sitting on the top of the wardrobe, in her bedroom. She’s tucked herself into the corner, folded herself up really small. She looks like a tiny bird that’s terrified and broken its wing.
‘Nice weather up there, is it?’ I say, because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with someone on the top of a wardrobe, and I want to try and get her down safely. I mean, what do you say to someone who’s sitting on top of a wardrobe? I’m at a bit of a loss here.
‘Fuck off! You’re not here. Fuck off. I can’t hear you,’ she says, real quiet, but threatening.
I’m worried that she’s going to fall off the wardrobe, or worse fall off the wardrobe and through the window, and break her neck or something. But that’s not the really weird bit. The really weird bit is she sounds like a proper mad person, like she’s got the devil is inside her.
She won’t look at me.
‘Clare, why don’t you come down and we can talk about everything?’
She stares out the window, big eyes, from behind her drawn-up knees, but she doesn’t look at me.
‘Clare,’ I say, but she doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge.
‘CLARE!’ I shout, and she glares right at me.
‘I hate you,’ she says. ‘I fucking hate all of you.’
‘I know you know about Sue. Detective Sergeant Clarke,’ I say.
