The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘Oh. How did you wind him up?’

  I still don’t know. I loved him, kept trying to please him but when he had a drink he became aggressive. He attacked me with words but never his fist; that he kept for Mum. The harder I tried the worse he got.

  When I don’t reply, Ms Evans carries on. ‘Did you blame yourself?’ Of course; that’s what kids do, isn’t it? It comes with the territory. When Dad got cross I’d beg him to swing me round in the air because he smiled when he did and all was right with the world again. As I got older and the swinging stopped, the smiles dried up.

  ‘Yes,’ I answer. Who else was there to blame?

  ‘Are you attracted to men like your father? Do your boyfriends remind you of him?’

  What a ridiculous question! Jeremy, Scott and Travis are nothing like my father. ‘No, of course not,’ I snort.

  ‘If they treat you badly have you learnt to walk away?’ She knows I haven’t. After all, that’s why I’m here. I squirm on the couch as she starts digging for shit.

  ‘I find it hard to let go. When something has been so good, you can’t just give up.’ But I did eventually walk away after Mum successfully overdosed, death removing the blindfold.

  The clock chimes the hour and I open my eyes. Thank goodness. The sun has popped out from behind a cloud; like the policemen who will be popping round for tea and biscuits.

  Ms Evans has gone quiet. She’s staring at her phone, her mind elsewhere and reading a message with a grim set to her jaw. Her legs are uncrossed and her right foot is tapping up and down.

  ‘Okay?’ I’m the one to ask a question.

  She types, fast angry taps with a finely manicured finger, before pressing the send button.

  ‘Sorry. A minor emergency.’ She sets her phone down. ‘Well done, Beverley. I think we got somewhere today, don’t you?’ She hasn’t written anything down but is going through the motions like a well-programmed robot.

  ‘Whatever. We didn’t manage to solve the mystery of the parcel though.’ Light-hearted humour is aimed at levelling the playing field. ‘Bye. I’ll see you next week.’

  ‘Bye, Beverley.’

  I walk out through the grounds and pass Ms Evans’ room again on the way. She’s standing by the open window, eyes closed, gently breathing in and out. Probably trying to relax. Listening to other peoples’ problems must be exhausting and I wonder if I’m to blame for today’s stoop in her body. Perhaps it was the random text message, but there’s definitely something bothering her.

  Through the open window, music blasts out from deep inside the hospital and Ms Evans lips mime the words from Carmen’s ‘The Toreador’.

  Le cirque est plein, c'est jour de fête

  Le cirque est plein du haut en bas,

  Les spectateurs, perdant la tête,

  Les spectateurs s'interpellent, a grand fracas!

  As she sings along, oblivious to my attention, she looks slightly deranged and I smile to think that I’m the one telling her my problems. Perhaps it should be the other way round as I know she has plenty of problems of her own.

  27

  I think at first my phone’s ringing, but the screen is blank. My dry eyes and the rancid taste in my mouth remind me that it’s Saturday morning. I reach for the paracetamol, using my fingernail to slit open the capsules, and dig out two. My mouth is so dry that I drink a whole glass of water before I can swallow them.

  As I slink back down under the duvet the doorbell rings again. It’s only 10.03. My stomach is in revolt from the end of week excesses and I suddenly remember the cheese, chocolate and toast. The pounding in my head is the red wine. On the third ring I struggle up and scoop out my dressing gown from under a heap of discarded clothes.

  ‘Coming. Hang on.’ My voice echoes off the bare walls like a volley of shots in a rifle range but a sudden explosive bang at the door shocks my eyes wide open.

  ‘For Christ’s sake. I’m coming.’

  At the front door I can make out, through the frosted glass, two callers on the porch. Despite the distorted images I know they are policemen from their outfits. The man is dressed in a suit and the woman in a black-and-white uniform. I pull my dressing gown tight and open the door.

  DCI Colgate hasn’t changed much, his sharp little teeth not as white as his name would suggest. A sprinkle of grey now feathers his short back and sides but the eyes are still fierce and intense, and I know he means business.

  ‘Miss Digby. Good morning. It’s been a long time. Do you mind if we come in?’

  ‘What’s this about? What’s happened?’ There’s no one in my life who would make me the first port of call in an emergency so I can’t work out a reason for the visit. Then I remember Ms Evans said they’d be popping round. I’d been in such a heavy sleep I’d forgotten.

  Colgate’s colleague is a pretty young woman who looks to be fresh out of school. Her polished black shoes cover weirdly small feet and her hair is swept back under the tight fitting cap.

  ‘If you’d let PC Lindsay and myself in, we’ll tell you.’ He forces me to step aside as he indicates for Lindsay to enter. ‘After you.’ The charm’s still in place, along with the concrete smile and the viper’s tongue which flicks in and out.

  ‘I’ll go and put some clothes on if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ he says. ‘We’re in no hurry.’

  I leave them in the kitchen and race upstairs. My sweatpants are tangled up in the duvet and I recoil from the smell of the T-shirt, stuck with tell-tale remnants of crisps, but slip it on anyway, anxious to get back downstairs. In the bathroom I pull a brush through my hair and clean my teeth, spitting violently to expel the dregs.

  ‘Nice house you’ve got, Miss Digby. Have you moved in recently?’ When I reappear, Colgate is holding up a paintbrush and running his fingers across the hardened ends of the bristle.

  ‘It’s my family home.’ None of his business. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’ He’ll try to confuse me with small talk, aiming to trip me up by moving quickly from one subject to another. He’s like a snake in the grass, slithering this way and that.

  ‘We need you to take a look at these.’ He extracts a couple of photos from his jacket, sets them down on the table. Memories come flooding back of other photographs.

  Last night’s cheese, curdled Stilton, regurgitates near the back of my throat. I daren’t look. I remember the pictures of Danielle lying on the hard grey slabs of the stairwell, her right arm twisted back at a weird angle. She’d landed on her side, her protuberance like a Swiss exercise ball which probably saved her life, but not the baby’s. That was the last time DCI Colgate shared his snaps.

  His beady hawk eyes bore through me and he guesses that I’m remembering.

  ‘Go on. Have a look.’ PC Lindsay stands back, visibly uncomfortable, as her boss thrusts the pictures under my nose. I wonder if it’s his confrontational nature that makes her uneasy or sympathy at my sickly appearance.

  It’s the red pictures, the dead badger snaps; the ones I’ve already seen. Did Ms Evans hand them to Colgate or did he give her copies? Perhaps Scott took them directly to the police station, Cosette by his side, but my head’s too fuzzy to work things out.

  Colgate knows I’m in therapy after the Danielle incident. He hounded me till the end, insisting that prison was a more apt punishment than lying on a couch. But without proof, all he was able to pin on me was a blatant disregard for authority. ‘Lock her up. She’s a lying bitch.’ Colgate’s courtroom outburst had warranted a caution and played into my hands, forcing him to slink off with his tail between his legs and for the case to be dropped. He’s been sharpening his claws ever since, furious at being made a fool of, especially by a woman. ‘I’ve already seen these. Ms Evans showed them to me. She’s my therapist.’ I make it sound as if she’s my significant other, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach.

  ‘Do you know what they are?’

  ‘Ms Evans told me. A dead badger or something. What are they to do w
ith me?’ I clench my fists.

  ‘You tell me.’ His sarcastic smile brims with innuendo.

  I could tell him about the pizza boxes and show him the scribbled warning an intruder left on my own back door, but I don’t. The more I tell him, the more time he’ll have to spend with me, digging and delving and he’d not believe me anyway if I try to turn the tables; that’s what hardened criminals do and he’d latch on.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I’ve no idea what you’re on about,’ I say. I tell him I don’t know where the badger came from; only that Scott would have been the most likely sender. I was only returning an unwanted package which appeared on my doorstep. ‘Ask my neighbour if you don’t believe me,’ I add.

  Colgate glances across at his blushing colleague. ‘Lindsay. Please can you read out the other accusations Mr Barry has made against Miss Digby.’ He wanders round the room, running his fingers across the marbled surfaces, looking for dirt.

  ‘Mr Barry claims that you’re still following him and his new girlfriend,’ she begins.

  ‘Rephrase that, please, Lindsay. Stalking, not following, was the word he used.’

  ‘Mr Barry says you are stalking him and his girlfriend. He’s kept a careful note of the dates and times of the incidences.’ The evidence has been jotted down in a little black book and Colgate interrupts his colleague as she goes to read on from the notes.

  ‘That’s okay for now, thank you, Lindsay.’ Colgate prefers the sound of his own voice. ‘Suffice to say, this is a warning, Miss Digby. Given your previous record, I would advise you not to go within five miles of Mr Barry and his girlfriend. Any more dead badgers and you’re looking at a stint inside.’

  Colgate nods at Lindsay that proceedings have come to an end.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of your weekend and a couple of raw eggs might help with the hangover. Might make you throw up but perhaps a clean-out of the system would be a good thing.’ He smirks.

  As I follow them down the hall, my bare feet suck up dirt from the dusty floorboards. Colgate unlatches the door, ushers his colleague out in front of him, and leaves me to close it in their wake. I flop down hard against the wall, my heartbeat pulsing in my head.

  Scott is a snivelling little weasel. I know the pizza boxes were from him. The badger does appear a bit extreme for someone with his inherent apathy but I’ll not be taking the blame for the bloodied animal. Two can point fingers, and he shouldn’t keep winding me up.

  28

  Travis turned and twisted the key, this way and that, jiggling it carefully so as not to break it off. He pulled it out and tried again before peering into the hole of the lock, looking for a clue but the key was intact, no tiny shards having sheared off.

  He shivered in the heat, wiping the back of his hand across his brow and scanned the empty cul-de-sac. His eyes rested on their own front garden which was raggedy, parched. Queenie’s pot plants were bare, no sign of the bright colourful arrays. Sticky green weeds with serrated edges clung stubbornly to the topsoil, the red geraniums having disintegrated into straggling pieces of string. Funny he hadn’t noticed before.

  Although he knew Queenie was at work, the kids at school, he peered through the ground-floor window.

  ‘All okay?’

  His neighbour’s voice startled him.

  ‘Mrs Walker. Yes, everything’s fine.’

  Mrs Walker stood by the gate, her skeletal fingers, like stiff wiry pipe cleaners, rested on top of the metal frame as rust flaked to the ground.

  ‘Be careful of the gate. I need to mend it,’ Travis said, eyeing the one hinge that held it weakly in place. Mrs Walker’s wet rheumy eyes looked down as she lifted her hand away and Travis wondered when Queenie had stopped nagging him to mend the gate.

  ‘I thought you might need this.’ His neighbour dangled a spare key, tagged to Freddie’s Mickey Mouse keyring. Travis coughed as the old woman’s gaze challenged him.

  ‘Thanks. Brilliant. You shouldn’t have come out though, I could have called round.’ He took the key, jangled it in the air before popping it in his pocket and moved back towards the gate where Mrs Walker stood firm.

  ‘Do you want to try it? Make sure it fits?’

  Bitch. She’d been watching. She knew Queenie had changed the locks, probably knew why and had more than willingly accepted a new spare key, like a winner’s medal. The first time a suitcase had landed at his feet, Mrs Walker had looked away but he’d seen the sly smirk, comeuppance written bold.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll fit fine. I’ve got to pop to the shops. Thanks again and enjoy the sunshine.’

  Wrinkles circled the old crow’s neck and crevices round her mouth were like weathered striations in hardened rock. Lines in her forehead reminded him of an old school jotter. ‘But don’t fall asleep again,’ he joked, remembering the sunstroke Mrs Walker had suffered after a snooze in the midday sun the previous summer.

  His neighbour shuffled away along the pavement, her movements not so cocky and when she disappeared from view, Travis headed towards Southgate Tube station, and back to the office.

  It was rush hour, but in reverse. The smattering of people on the platform was relaxed, heading up to London for a fun night out. There was no sign of uptight commuters weighed down by mortgages and responsibilities and the gentle buzz of conversations lacked urgency; work clothes replaced by softer lines and easy fabrics.

  Travis stood uneasily in his grey pinstriped suit. He stuffed his tie into a pocket, took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. A hoot of forced laughter rang out from a group of young people, bursting with noise and energy, and one of the girls caught his eye, a pretty brunette in skinny jeans and leopard-print top. He smiled back but, without his glasses, it took a minute to register that her eyes were focused on the approaching train.

  ‘Come on, guys. All aboard. First round’s on me.’

  Travis moved to the end carriage, away from the partygoers and chose a seat by the window, his back against the wall. He’d call Queenie later, not let on he’d got home early and let her tell him about the locks. He’d been married long enough to know that not asking questions was the best way to get information.

  The doors hissed closed, latecomers filling up vacant seats. Everyone was clutching a mobile phone or wearing earphones. If their lives weren’t full of meaning, at least no one would be any the wiser. An elegant woman took a seat across the aisle and her eyes stared past Travis out the window, as her head, encased by dangling wires, nodded rhythmically. Travis used to engage with strangers, in an easy way. Queenie called him a charmer, a man whose smooth words slipped easily off the tongue. He used to pick seats next to pretty women and brush his hard thighs against their legs, alleviating the boredom of the daily commute. But nowadays he was more hesitant, concerned his friendly smiles might be misconstrued.

  Yet it was hard not to be drawn to the sheer black stockings which caressed the woman’s shapely legs, tightly crossed and closed for business. He forced his gaze away and dug out his phone. Gigi still hadn’t picked up and he’d not been able to get hold of Queenie, despite the messages and even Beverley was unusually quiet.

  As the bleak tunnels of the Piccadilly line swallowed him up, mobile screens went blank and eyes collectively closed. The dank, filthy cables that ran along outside the window confirmed they were deep underground and suddenly he became engulfed by panic. Everything went dark. What if Queenie had thrown him out? Changed the locks for good? Perhaps she’d found out about Beverley and this time wouldn’t let him come home? He had nowhere to go; no backup plan.

  If Beverley had sent the happy family snap to Gigi, perhaps she’d sent something similar to Queenie? He tried to think of pictures Beverley and he had taken together, a couple of selfies on a night out. He’d been careful but Beverley, sneaky and determined, could have taken pictures when he wasn’t looking. He had dozed off more than once after lovemaking and she could easily have snapped them lying naked, side by side.

  ‘Can you
hear me? Are you all right? What’s your name?’

  A light flickered on and off overhead. There was a hushed silence, like the aftershock of some catastrophe as the train ground to a halt. Perhaps there’d been an incident.

  ‘We’ll be at the station in a minute. Here, have some water.’ It was a man’s voice; deep, husky. A water bottle was thrust towards Travis’ lips and he sipped but someone else’s hand guided it. He wasn’t sure if he was shivering or shaking. Perhaps he was in shock from an explosion or terror attack.

  ‘Do you think he’s had a heart attack?’ She spoke in a refined foreign accent, French or perhaps Swiss. It was the lady with the sheer black stockings, holding her earphones to one side and standing over him. Her bosoms dangled above his face and before he blacked out he imagined leaning a bit further forward, raising himself up and nestling his cheeks between their naked warmth.

  29

  A rustle in the trees, it’s the wind. That’s all.

  Superstition keeps me on the right, the dark woods to the left. Hide and seek. Boo. Now you see me, now you don’t.

  Watch the pavement cracks, take off my shoes; lighten my tread. Move carefully over the ragged lines. I speed up, suddenly, but it was only an owl. Stop. Listen. I feel foolish, childish. It was nothing. What a hoot. Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Take another breath. You know the ropes.

  Then he’s walking towards you. Tall, straight backed, Caucasian. Or is he? It’s too dark to be sure under the dull watery street lights.

  ‘Hi. Can you tell me where Willian Street is?’ He looks nice, pleasant and his voice is cultured. You know where it is but should you tell? Engage? His hands are covered but it’s much too hot for gloves and the soft leather grain gives you doubts. The observation might come in useful later on. Note it down. Times and dates. Anything you can think of. Facts are key.