by K. L. Slater
I can see from your expression you’re shocked. But it’s true that every single thing I did or didn’t do… it was all in his power and I didn’t even realise it. The list just goes on. Incredible, isn’t it, that I didn’t understand what was happening… that I thought everything that was wrong in my life was my own doing? Incredible and pathetic.
Esme: There are thousands of people out there who will recognise everything you’re talking about. There are thousands more who will hear this podcast and wake up to what’s happening to them, too.
Simone: I hope so. If nothing else comes of this, then just one person realising what’s happening to them… that they’re not going crazy, but someone is doing this to them. Then it will be worth it.
END OF EXTRACT
Two
HMP BRONZEFIELD
ESME
After my interview with Simone, an officer accompanied me back to the foyer of the prison. There was a small seating area there, tucked away behind a wall of artificial plants in white containers. There were people milling around but nobody in that particular space, so I sat down for a few minutes. I didn’t quite feel ready to leave the prison and Simone’s words were still replaying in my head.
I still can’t believe how I blindly accepted everything he told me, how he played my insecurities in his own favour.
I’d had a feeling this podcast was going to be a good one and I wanted to savour it while it lasted. The difficult subject matter, the truth about Simone’s marriage, had the potential to help a lot of people.
Prior to the first episode there had been some toing and froing between myself and Simone. A combination of a milestone of spending ten years behind bars and my work highlighting miscarriages of justice in Women in Prison, a popular side project I ran at my old job at Sky News, had seemed to change Simone’s mind about letting the media help her at last.
I’d always been fascinated by the case and when I started The Speaking Fox, I’d decided it would make the perfect debut podcast.
The first recording had gone well. Simone had been open and candid and I really liked her as a person. Some of the things she’d talked about grabbed me on a visceral level that I hadn’t been expecting.
Incredible, isn’t it, that I didn’t understand what was happening… that I thought everything that was wrong in my life was my own doing?
I sat for a few more minutes, just thinking about it. I felt sympathy for Simone and relief for myself that I’d never been in an abusive, controlling relationship with someone like Grant Fischer.
When I left the prison building and made my way to the car, I felt a knot of discomfort in my stomach. I couldn’t seem to put my finger on precisely what felt so wrong.
I was halfway home before the feeling began to fade.
Three
SUNDAY 8.35 a.m.
ESME
The frantic knocking started as part of my dream. But I was soon shaken from my slumber, eyes snapping open. I glanced at the clock and felt shocked at how long we’d overslept.
Zachary had had a bad night, the first in a while, and I’d been up with him a few times. Eventually, he’d dropped off but I couldn’t get back to sleep. I’d popped in my ear pods and listened yet again to the first episode of my debut podcast series, The Fischer Files, which had aired globally just a few days ago. I’d also reflected on my thoughts about the interview afterwards. Finally, I’d slept, too.
But now the knocks downstairs morphed into thumps. Fists, instead of knuckles. Big whacking thuds on the front door.
I swung my legs out of bed at the same time as my phone lit up. Like always, I’d turned it to silent just before I went to sleep but now the screen was full of missed call notifications, text messages and voicemail alerts.
I staggered across the room and reached for the fleecy dressing gown I’d thrown over the chair before getting into bed last night.
The door opened and light from the landing flooded in.
‘Mum?’ Nine-year-old Zachary’s pyjama-clad form appeared in the doorway. His voice sounded shaky, his eyes wide with alarm. My eyes were instantly drawn to his maimed leg, cruelly silhouetted against the hall light. The thin, striped cotton of his PJ bottoms flared out and my heart squeezed in on itself.
He’d cried out in pain at two o’clock and I’d made him some warm milk. I sat up with him for two hours until the painkillers kicked in and the terrible aching in his hip joint finally faded enough for him to get some rest again.
Someone shouted through the letterbox. A man’s voice, muffled and urgent. I couldn’t decipher what he was saying.
‘Don’t worry, Zachary.’ I kept my voice light, even though my throat felt dry and my heart was racing. ‘It’ll be something and nothing, you’ll see.’
But Zachary did look worried. He’d already been through so much suffering after the accident. My boy was not stupid. He could tell from the raw panic stamped all over his mother’s face and the ferocity of the banging downstairs that there was definitely something happening.
I ran past him onto the landing. ‘You stay up here while I see what’s going on.’ I thundered downstairs.
I glanced back up and saw my son, limping without his stick. He arrived at the top of the stairs. I wanted to tell him it was OK, but that would amount to lying. It was not OK at all.
With trembling hands I unbolted the locks, top and bottom, and turned the catch. I opened the door with the chain on.
Two suited men stood on the step.
‘Esme Fox?’ the tall one asked, making an effort to soften his tone.
‘Yes?’ My voice came out as a whisper.
He held up ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Peter Sharpe and this is my colleague, Detective Sergeant Jon Lewis. You reported your sister, Michelle Fox, as a missing person, two days ago?’
I nodded and they glanced at each other. I knew then that they’d found her.
Four
THREE DAYS EARLIER
It wasn’t much of a party, just a few drinks in the office to celebrate the unexpected success of the first episode of the podcast a couple of days ago. Yes, we’d hoped for a decent number of downloads and it didn’t take much to make an impact. It wouldn’t take that many to get us in the top fifty percent of podcasts but what we didn’t expect was 10,000 global downloads in a matter of days after the first episode had aired.
We pushed the desks and chairs back against the wall and created a bit of space.
Michelle splashed cheap fizz into a glass and missed, stepping back and squealing with laughter. I’d seen her earlier, drinking with our researcher, Justine, at about three o’clock that afternoon. Now, it was nearly six.
I took the glass from her and carefully filled it as a new track started on the clubbing playlist Mo had put together, a booming bass beat vibrating through my body.
‘You did it,’ Michelle said, slightly too loud, too obvious. ‘It’s official, you’re a genius.’
‘We did it. The whole team.’ I smiled, then added for devilment, ‘But I suppose you’re right about the genius bit.’
We both laughed but I had this uncomfortable feeling that we were perhaps celebrating slightly prematurely. Only one episode of The Fischer Files had been produced and released. At the cutting edge of podcasting, anything could happen. Granted, the streaming numbers were beyond our wildest dreams and had created a buzz in the podcast world, but still… there was a way to go before The Fischer Files could be counted a runaway success.
I looked over and saw Toby, our new production assistant, standing alone by the drinks table. He looked so downcast, lost in his thoughts.
‘Are you actually listening to me?’ Michelle said loudly in my ear, making me jump.
‘Sorry, I was just…’ I leaned closer so I didn’t have to shout above the music. ‘Is Toby OK, do you know? He looks a bit subdued.’
Michelle rolled her eyes. ‘You just can’t help it, can you? Do you enjoy being in a state of angst, even when things are going brilliantl
y?’
My sister could get argumentative when she drank. I gave her one of my looks.
‘Relax, Esme. That’s all I’m saying. It’s not always up to you to fix other people’s problems. This is supposed to be your big celebration!’ She raised her glass up in the air too quickly and cava slopped over the rim.
The music dipped then disappeared completely and my production manager, Mohammed Khaleed, clapped his hands. ‘OK, people, listen up!’ The chatter died down. ‘We just had a tip-off the announcement is going live on Entertainment Radio in the next sixty seconds.’ He pressed a button and the presenter’s voice rang out.
Mo turned up the volume and Michelle squeezed my upper arm. Over by the drinks table, I noticed Toby glance at me and then help himself to another bottle of beer.
Now, here’s something you don’t hear every day. A former Sky News journalist is celebrating the global hit of her controversial investigative podcast that throws new light on the Simone Fischer case. Fischer, who stabbed her husband of twenty years to death in their kitchen while their young son played computer games in the room next door, has always steadfastly refused to give a single interview… until now.
Esme Fox, director of her own eponymous small media company, The Speaking Fox, announced plans for The Fischer Files earlier this year. Fischer has never denied killing her husband and has maintained a stoic silence since the day of his death. Even in court she refused to give details of the marriage she says drove her to act with diminished responsibility. Fischer was sentenced to life imprisonment after the trial jury came to a unanimous guilty verdict. The judge ruled she should serve a minimum of twelve years without chance of parole.
Fox spoke to Entertainment Radio and told us that The Fischer Files was produced and released only a year after leaving her job as an investigative journalist for Sky News.
Podcast listeners have unanimously described the first instalment as ‘addictive’ and ‘compulsive’ after word quickly spread via social media channels. Its mainstream appeal sent listening figures soaring into the tens of thousands, and downloads are expected to double when the second episode is released next week. Industry insiders are predicting that The Fischer Files is set to smash both podcast-streaming and downloading records.
Fox said, ‘I’m naturally beyond thrilled at the response to the first episode. I’m also truly delighted that Simone Fischer’s voice will finally be heard. Women in our society are treated particularly harshly in cases like this, and often the story of abuse and vilification that lies behind a case such as this one remains ignored. That’s happily not the case for Simone. After years of silence, The Fischer Files is finally giving her the chance to tell her story to the world.’
Well done, Esme! Tune in next week for an update on episode two of The Fischer Files.
Now, moving on to the eventful social life of popular soap actress…
Mo turned off the broadcast and the room erupted.
‘Congratulations, Esme.’ Mo appeared at my side and clinked his glass against mine. ‘Is everything prepared for tomorrow’s big meeting? Need me to do anything?’
‘I’ve got everything under control,’ Michelle remarked. ‘We’re ready.’
It had to be ready. TrueLife Media was a successful television production company who had approached me the day after episode one of The Fischer Files aired. Based on that single episode, their CEO Damon Yorke called with a proposal to make a TV docuseries following the podcast. ‘I’ve just got a tremendous feeling about this, Esme. Our legal guys think there’s a real chance the Supreme Court may review Fischer’s case but even if they don’t, the public have an appetite for this story. With you at the helm, we can bring Simone’s case to a whole new audience.’
What he really meant was that I probably had the power to influence Simone to take part in the series after years of her cold-shouldering the media.
But the right deal with TrueLife could send the figure at the bottom of the business balance sheet soaring beyond our ambitions, securing the future of the company and everyone’s jobs. Yorke was right in that it could help Simone’s case, too. It was an excellent opportunity and we couldn’t afford to waste it, and yet I knew it would be a tremendous amount of work on top of pulling myself in a thousand different directions as it was.
A deal with TrueLife would cement The Speaking Fox into the industry. Although podcasts were relatively new in the world of media, since the release of the mega-successful Serial podcast in 2014, hundreds, maybe even thousands of companies, had jumped on the bandwagon. Missing out on the fabulous opportunity TrueLife were offering would be utter madness – this opportunity would guarantee I could give Zachary the future he deserved, helping to compensate for the injuries he’d be forced to take with him into adulthood.
‘It’s the best reason for us to get an early night, I think.’ I looked at Michelle. ‘Drink up, girlfriend.’
I waved goodbye to everyone and they all cheered. Even Toby appeared from a side door and raised his hand. It was a great atmosphere and we left the party in Mo’s capable hands.
At least, I thought that’s what I was doing.
Five
In the cab, I felt relieved when Michelle quietened down a bit. She was merry, but far from wasted – which was a good thing, because she needed to be on the ball first thing tomorrow morning.
I checked my emails. Another two unsolicited hate messages judging by the subject lines, and both from email addresses I didn’t recognise. I opened the first one.
Simone Fischer is a cold-blooded murderer. Have you no conscience at all? What about her poor victim?
The subject line of the second one read: How do you sleep at night? I didn’t bother opening it.
‘Trolls,’ I said by way of explanation when Michelle looked over. ‘Direct to the spam box they shall go.’
I’d been getting them since announcing the new podcast months ago but they’d really ramped up now the first episode had aired.
‘What’s your impression of Simone Fischer, really?’ Michelle said, the edges of her words slightly blunted. ‘As a person, I mean?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I feel sympathy with her.’
‘Right. God only knows what she had to put up with in that marriage.’ Michelle stared out of the window. ‘We’ll soon find out, I suppose.’
‘Mostly, I wonder how an intelligent, independent woman, like Simone was when she met Grant Fischer, could not realise she was being played and controlled. She could have got out while it was still fairly easy but she seemed completely oblivious to what he was up to.’
‘Fascinating. I think a lot of people are probably in that same situation.’ She paused. ‘Guess that’s why TrueLife are sniffing for a piece of the action. Sometimes I think we should do more with it. I mean, rather than bring TrueLife in, look at expanding the story ourselves.’
I pushed my phone into my coat pocket. ‘First things first,’ I told her, not for the first time. ‘We need to walk before we can run.’
I applauded her ambition but sometimes, her ideas bordered on unrealistic.
Michelle and I both lurched suddenly forward, our seatbelts straining as the cab driver slammed on his brakes.
‘Idiot!’ He cursed as a silver sports car swerved dangerously close in front of us and then immediately took off again to skirt around the next vehicle.
I gasped, grabbing the seat in front, seeing a scene unfold again in front of my eyes… the police cars, the ambulance… my son’s broken body in the road, the sound of my own screams. I felt the same wave of dread rising up in me and I swallowed hard in an effort to battle the nausea.
‘You OK?’ Michelle touched my arm and I blinked, clearing the awful pictures from my head.
I sat bolt upright, my hands clenched, staring straight ahead. I took a breath to ease the tightness in my chest.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, pulling at my seatbelt to loosen it again.
‘You’re still so nervous in cars after what hap
pened to Zach,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should see someone. Just a thought.’
Eighteen months before, when he was seven, my son had been the victim of a hit and run. Some crazed idiot had sped by a side road near the school and mowed Zachary down. Despite a local appeal and a cash reward put up by my ex-husband’s wealthy parents, Brooke and Eric, no witnesses came forward and the driver had never been found.
Zachary’s injuries were comprehensive. His left leg was shattered and, for the first week, amputation was a real possibility. He also suffered a head injury when he hit the asphalt, which brought about ongoing mood swings that he hadn’t had prior to the accident. Thankfully, over time, he had made excellent recovery but after a year, doctors gave us the bad news that his leg would be permanently bowed, and certain sports would remain beyond him for the rest of his life.
Whenever I thought of what he’d been left to face for years to come by some cruel, anonymous coward who was still out there enjoying life, I found it difficult to cope with the ensuing feelings. The fury and sadness merged to create an emotion so strong and powerful, I couldn’t even name it. But it always ended the same way: me blaming myself that I failed in my duty to pick him up on time. Failed in my duty to keep him safe.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I reached for it and Michelle rolled her eyes when she saw my ex-husband’s name lighting up the screen. I answered it on loudspeaker by accident and then managed to drop the phone on the floor of the cab.
