The Girl Who Turned a Blind Eye

by Diana Wilkinson

  ‘Beverley. How are you getting on? Perhaps you’d like to tell the group how you’ve been coping.’ It’s my cue and I’m quickly out of the blocks.

  ‘I’ve received threats; by post, email and text. I’ve had my new car defaced with bright-red painted obscenities and received a dead bloodied animal in the post and am up all night long taking phone calls from an unknown madman. Or woman. I haven’t slept since I was last in therapy.’ It sounds very dramatic, especially as I don’t pause for breath but it gets everyone’s attention.

  There’s a long silence as the circle members simultaneously look down at their feet, apart from Bob and Ms Evans. They weren’t expecting such a blunt melodramatic tirade as I’m usually the reluctant in-control storyteller.

  ‘Jeez. Perhaps the sad git who has been trying to murder me has moved on to you!’ Bob throws his head back and roars like a lion.

  ‘That’s enough, Bob. Carry on, Beverley.’

  ‘It’s just that…’ I look directly at Bob at this point. ‘It was when I was visiting a friend at the hospital that my car got red paint sprayed along the side. Perhaps you saw something, Bob, because you were coming out of the hospital as I was going in?’

  The laughing stops as if a big game hunter’s dart has found its mark. Tamsin is jolted out of her self-obsession and peels her eyes off the floor. I stare at Bob and he takes forever to answer.

  ‘When was this? Jesus, that’s dreadful. I was at the hospital; a couple of weeks ago. I was with a friend visiting her sick husband.’ Bob blushes, as if he’s been caught out.

  ‘That’s right. A couple of weeks ago. Let me see. I think it was a Thursday? Late afternoon. The car park wasn’t that busy. Maybe you saw my car? The blue Mini with the white stripes? It’s hard to miss.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t see it. I got the bus back.’

  ‘You didn’t go home with your friend?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t going my way.’

  He could have waited until Queenie left, turned round and gone back to my car. There’s still the possibility that Queenie went back after he left and sprayed my car herself. The one thing that does ring true is that they weren’t in it together. If one of them is my stalker, they were working alone. If neither of them did the damage, then someone else must have followed me to the hospital separately.

  It’s also possible that the red paint incident has nothing whatsoever to do with my stalker but a one-off payback, from either Queenie or Bob, for having an affair with Travis.

  ‘It sounds as if you have indeed got your own stalker, Beverley,’ Ms Evans continues, diverting the conversation away from my veiled accusations. ‘That must be very unsettling.’ She’s biting the inside of her cheek, chewing on a smile.

  ‘Do you think that this person who’s on your tail, might in any way have been affected by your own stalking behaviour? You have admitted to following quite a few people in the past. Perhaps someone is getting their own back? Being stalked is a very upsetting and disturbing form of persecution. Maybe you never realised how harmful and distressing being spied on can be.’ It’s a long speech for Ms Evans but she’s trying to ram the point home, no sign of subtlety.

  ‘Be careful, Beverley. Predatory stalkers can be very dangerous. They have intent. Often can be deadly intent.’ Manuel speaks in pidgin English and the group members all turn his way, having taken a second to work out who has spoken.

  His Spanish accent is thick, his voice deep but the delivery is perfect. Manuel has been the best deceiver of us all. He has understood everything we’ve been saying and yet chosen not to join in, until now, keeping his secrets close to his chest.

  But that’s not what has caught my attention. Manuel is telling me he has worked things out and his narrowed eyes alert me to suspicions which he won’t, perhaps can’t, voice in front of the rest of the group.

  47

  ‘Dead Head. Head Dead. Dead Heading. Head Deading.’

  Chanting was cathartic. The words were gritty, purposeful and reinforced my determination. I composed a tune which I hummed in accompaniment as I practised my moves. Dead heading plants was a skilled art, origami without the neatly folded lines, and it left the carved-up flora bedraggled and contorted.

  My classmates had started laughing at me; pointing and whispering behind filthy little hands. They tried to muffle their giggles when I walked past but I egged them on, babbling out loud to myself. But they soon sidestepped when I approached and stared unwaveringly back. It was the deadly intent that made them back off and their fear spurred me on.

  Friday 13 July finally came around. It was the day earmarked for Dead Heading. The teacher on duty, Miss Forshaw, smiled as I hurried outside when the bell rang. She must have wondered why I wasn’t hiding in the cloakroom but today, she didn’t need to coax.

  ‘Have a good weekend. Enjoy the sunshine.’ She mustn’t have read the forecast because thunderstorms and heavy rain were on their way. The next couple of days would be a washout and I couldn’t wait.

  ‘You too, Miss Forshaw.’

  It was 3.45 before I realised something was up. Uncle Chuck was nowhere to be seen. I sat jittering on the bench as the minutes ticked by. How many times had I prayed that he wouldn’t turn up? In two years he’d never missed a Friday.

  I decided not to wait. As Miss Forshaw headed in my direction, I hurtled out the gates and veered left towards Uncle Chuck’s house. I ran so fast I thought my lungs would burst. Uncle Chuck would have had no need to chivvy me that day nor pull me reluctantly along behind. I had wanted him to be excited by my eagerness and speed.

  ‘You promised we were going to be dead heading today. I’ve been looking forward to it.’ He would have believed me. Today he said I could have one go with the scythe. ‘Just one, mind.’ He’d shown me what to do. I was growing up after all. ‘Ready for some adult tasks.’

  When I reached his house, the small pebble-dashed semi on the corner of Holdenhurst Avenue, I peered in through the window. The panes were caked in greasy green slime but I was able to make out the slumped shape on top of a dirty maroon sofa. Uncle Chuck looked like a beached whale, grey rolls of blubber splaying out over his trouser tops. He was asleep.

  It was then that I remembered he hadn’t been feeling well the week before. ‘A summer cold. No worries. I’ll be right as rain in no time.’

  I counted to ten then banged hard at the window. It had to be today. I couldn’t wait any longer. I banged again, this time with both fists. There was no movement and for a few seconds I wondered if he might already be dead.

  But his eyelids peeled back and he looked out the window.

  ‘Snippet? Is that you?’ His voice was weak, crackling like a foggy radio transmission and a hacking cough rattled the glass.

  ‘Let me in. Let me in. I’ve been waiting.’ I waved frantically and then went and banged even harder on the front door. I closed my eyes and looked heavenwards. That was the first and last time I prayed.

  ‘Please, God. Let him be well enough to open the door. Let me have my chance today. Please, God.’ An eternity passed before he appeared.

  ‘Come in. What a nice surprise. I thought you’d have gone straight home or waited at school. Come in. Come in.’ He sounded like a croaking frog.

  I followed him across the rough flooring, stepping gingerly over beer cans and empty McDonald’s cartons. In the kitchen, he took my hand. His had the icy feel of death.

  ‘We’ll give the shed a miss today, Snippet. I’ve not been too well.’

  ‘You promised. I’ve been practising my dead heading. You promised.’

  I managed to cry, a large blubbery deluge. I’m not sure how I was so skilled in the art of stagecraft but it was as if the water had been stored in a reservoir and someone had unlocked the dam. I pleaded, eyes wide, appealing to his perverted sense of caring.

  ‘You can’t let me down. You promised. You promised.’ I didn’t stop. Dirty dribbling snot mingled with wet rivulets and he handed me some kitchen roll. When he r
eached across and took the key from the rack, I knew it was going to work out.

  ‘Okay. Just one go then.’

  I walked along the length of the garden, behind the monster, counting my steps. Twenty-two paces to the door. I almost turned back and ran but remembered that there would be another Friday; and then another. Fridays had defined my life. Today would be the last.

  Uncle Chuck was wearing baggy striped pyjamas and dirty black slippers. The white cord which held up the trousers dangled down, fighting a losing battle to stay closed around the mountains of flesh. He kept wiping his brow, wet with fever, and his thinning hair was stuck fast and damp to the top of his head.

  God had listened. He had made Uncle Chuck sick and weakened to make my task easier. I told him to sit on the sofa while I practised with the tool. I wouldn’t be long; just a few plants. I’d be careful, that was a promise.

  ‘Okay. I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind. Help yourself to biscuits. I’ll sit a while.’ His breathing was laboured, heavy as he slumped down into the sofa. I managed to extricate the tool by standing on a wooden crate and gripped it firmly in both hands. My sunny delight drew a watery smile.

  ‘It’s okay. After I’ve had a go, I’ll put it back. See, I can squeeze in behind you and reach up. Look? I’ve grown.’ I stood up on tiptoes. Up and down. Up and down. It was hard to keep his attention as he drifted in and out of sleep.

  ‘Good. I’ll close my eyes awhile.’

  I didn’t want him to close his eyes. But he’d open them wide, I was certain, when I sneaked back round behind him.

  ‘Dead Head. Head Dead. Dead Heading. Head Deading.’

  He heard me, a slight spasm of his lips gave confirmation, but no words came.

  Not until I screeched into his gaping eardrums.

  ‘Boo. Boo. Boo.’ From one ear to the other and back again. ‘Boo. Boo. Boo.’

  ‘Shit. What the fuck?’

  He was sluggish, slumped too low to react. I held the scythe aloft behind him with both hands and teased him to look.

  ‘This Dead Head is for you, Uncle Chuck. It just takes one clean slash, right? You’ve taught me well.’

  One deft splice was all it took, like cutting the top off a boiled egg. I flicked my right wrist twice before releasing my left hand and with an almighty sweep sliced through the carotid artery. The runny egg yolk turned red.

  He tried to talk through the bubbling seeping spurts of blood as I revelled in his lingering realisation of what I’d done, my glee bursting out like exploding fizzing champagne.

  ‘What’s that? Sorry, I can’t hear you. I’ll get going once I’ve tidied up. I know you don’t like a mess.’

  I stuffed a couple of biscuits in my mouth as I cleaned up. His eyes didn’t leave me as I wiped the scythe down with a cloth. The gardening gloves had kept my prints clear from the tool and with my school shoes neatly placed outside, I was certain there would be no tell-tale traces of me inside the shed. The weekend rain would wash away lingering clues. I had made notes, one to ten, in black ink in my school jotter as I planned the perfect murder.

  ‘Who says children are stupid?’

  I talked out loud, relief washing over me like a tsunami. I hovered for a minute to make sure he couldn’t get up but I knew he was dying. The life was literally pouring out of him. I averted my eyes from his penis which was on display, the flimsy cord no longer holding his trousers up. It looked like a shrivelled raisin from one of the boxes of dried fruit I ate at break times.

  I locked the door behind me, and buried the key under the cabbages. I wondered how long it would be till anyone came looking for Uncle Chuck. It could be a long time because he didn’t have any friends and never spoke to his neighbours and the other garden shed children certainly wouldn’t come looking. I was their saviour.

  I took one last glance through the window at the wet and fading eyes. I waved, with a little trill of my fingers, and mouthed, ‘Bye, Uncle Chuck. You fat bastard.’

  I skipped away; not yet done with skipping.

  48

  She strode down Hampstead High Street, checking her watch every couple of minutes. Time was tight, in five minutes she’d be late and Olga was a stickler for punctuality.

  Queenie’s tardiness had been the cause of many spats over the years, but after today there’d be no more clandestine meetings; no more cloak and dagger skulduggery. She was going to give Olga the good news, news that her lover had been waiting years to hear.

  When Travis had come into Queenie’s life, his ardour spurred on by her apparent apathy, she realised that he might provide answers to her dilemmas and offer a cloak of respectability. Standing out from the crowd, announcing her deviances to the world wasn’t an option. Success and survival depended on the façade of normality.

  But things had changed. Now Travis was back home, physically weakened and contrite, she realised that throwing him out after his sad tawdry dalliances would give her more respectability in the eyes of the outside world rather than letting him stay. To be a cuckold in the eyes of her colleagues wasn’t the way forward.

  She pushed open the door of the café, chock-a-block with boisterous customers but she didn’t need to sift through the faces, Olga was always early and Queenie knew she’d be sitting in the same seat she had done every Monday for the last ten years. There would be a spare chair pulled up alongside, reserved with an old canvas rucksack on top.

  ‘Hi, hon. You’re late.’ Olga feigned a scowl, patted the seat as her girlfriend approached and then threw her bag under the table.

  Queenie leant in and kissed Olga full on the lips, lingering longer than usual.

  ‘My. You’re pleased to see me then?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Queenie sat down and took Olga’s hands between her own.

  ‘Go on. What’s up?’ Olga motioned for the waitress. ‘Let’s order our coffees before you drop it on me.’

  As the waitress set down their drinks Queenie began.

  ‘I’m throwing Travis out. I want you to move in.’ She took a sip of coffee and waited. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Shit. Where’s this come from?’ Olga set her mug down, fell back heavily into the faux leather seat and let out a deep breath. A film of tears rimmed her eyes and Queenie handed her a tissue.

  ‘It’s a long story. Please say you will.’ Queenie tensed, for a second fearing rejection. She had kept her girlfriend waiting, dangling on a string for so long but Olga pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows and burst out laughing.

  ‘Try stopping me.’ She leant across and pulled Queenie close, kissing her passionately and pushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ears. ‘I love you, you silly mare. Just say when and I’ll pack my case.’

  ‘There’s a few loose ends to tie up, the kids to deal with, but this weekend I’ll start the ball rolling. You see, Travis was having another affair. This time with a girl named Beverley. She’s a complete psycho and he soon crawled back home when he realised she was deranged. She’s been coming to me for therapy as well, if you can believe it.’

  ‘I always told you he was a loser. I’ll not let you down. I promise. Good for this Beverley then. Even if she is mad she’s done me a few favours.’

  ‘Egg and soldiers? My treat?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  ‘And a glass of champagne? This calls for a celebration.’

  It was around 11.30 when they said their goodbyes. Olga promised to wait for the nod to pack her bags and Queenie was already planning how to decorate the bedroom once Travis had gone. She and Olga would do it together. Also, the kids loved Olga who was like a grown-up best friend although, as yet, they had no idea she was their mother’s lover. All in good time.

  Queenie strolled towards the Tube station, light-headed with the enormity of her decision. For the first time in so long, it felt good to take back control.

  At the top of the High Street she paused outside a kitchen shop tucked neatly between NatWest bank and a delicatessen. She would pack up th
e old china of Travis’ mother and the sad collection of mugs and glasses jammed higgledy-piggledy in the cupboards and make sure Travis took it all with him. She and Olga would start afresh; a whole new beginning.

  Suddenly she froze. The outline reflection in the shop window was ill-defined but sharp enough to make out the jogger on the other side of the road, heading towards the Tube, headphone cables dangling. It was Beverley, dressed in bright sports gear and it was the third time that week that Queenie had spotted her.

  Queenie put a hand out to steady herself and pulled off her jacket. The sun scorched her head and as she glanced down a drop of sweat landed at her feet.

  In her imagination she heard the relentless beat of music that Beverley was listening to. Bruce Springsteen. Queenie knew Beverley’s playlist by heart. She also knew far too much about her patient’s unbalanced state of mind. Stalking ex-lovers was one thing, but letting Freddie play with a lethal weapon had been something else entirely.

  The silent late-night phone calls, threatening email messages and weird random packages arriving at both Queenie’s home and office had been logged as actions of an unhinged patient. She’d treated many over the years, male and female, and had mostly managed to ignore threats, knowing they would eventually abate. It was one of the downsides to the job.

  Yet the recent barrage of menaces was escalating, the content increasingly personal and sinister, and Queenie didn’t know which way to turn. She didn’t want to confide in Olga and scare her off but the recent sightings of Beverley weren’t random, they were more than coincidence.

  When she dared to look back across the road, Beverley had disappeared. Queenie looked up and down the High Street, but she’d vanished. Or had she? Perhaps she was hiding in a doorway or had started her descent into the bowels of the underground.

  As a migraine intensified, Queenie staggered to find shade from the relentless heat under the cool of an office doorway, where she slumped against the cold concrete. As her guts churned, the egg and soldiers lost their battle and she threw up.