by Jemma Wayne
“What’s the matter?” He sat up, shielding his eyes with his palm.
“Just a case I lost,” Sarah shrugged. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.”
David closed his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
But she shook her head, allowing him to drift back off as she stumbled into the bathroom where she brushed her teeth and wondered how she would justify the loss to her client. As she looked in the mirror, watching her brush move back and forth, she was unable to think of an explanation. Not one she could believe in. And as the morning continued, so did that feeling of disbelief, of spinning, of helplessness.
The people on the street seemed to sleepwalk through the sunlight, as though they had no idea that Right principles had that morning been ripped from beneath them. Most of them, she supposed, would never notice. They might never know that darkness and wrong could be validated, rewarded even, without consequence, and that anything, anything could happen after all.
Simone
Simone’s left arm has lost feeling. She’s lying on top of it, hidden behind a pair of bins on the other side of the road from the flat, a little way down. Her clothes are soaked through and her toes are crunched from cold. Heaving herself slowly to sitting, she tries to wriggle them, feeling the heavy deadness of her arm pull her sideways. Despite the many transgressions of her years, she does not think she has slept outside before, but she could not leave Terry unwatched. She could not let Dominic near him.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. For hours she had scrutinised the door, scoured the street, searched for signs of man or boy. But at some point she must have drifted. The last time she looked at her phone it was already gone 3am and now it is only six, so she can only hope – pray – that in the intervening hours, Dominic has not been back.
There is movement on the other side of the road and Simone sees Veronica’s husband leaving the house, soft leather briefcase slung across his shoulder, a skip in his step. The feeling is beginning to return to her arm and she arranges herself more carefully behind the bins. For another hour, two, she stares at the building across the street. Simone’s eyes are heavy and begin to close. Her stomach hurts with hunger. She is thirsty, and dirty, and she should check in on Jasmine. She wonders about returning to the refuge. But she cannot bring herself to leave. Until finally, the door of the neighbour’s house opens again, and this time Veronica emerges from it, merrily perching herself atop of her bike, cycling into the sunshine.
So Dominic is not with Veronica either, thinks Simone. And surely, surely, if Veronica had heard anything happening in the flat, by now there would be police at the door.
Jasmine is awake and bright-eyed when Simone appears at the refuge. She has two plaits in her hair, and she is happily dancing away to a pop song blaring through Lewa’s phone. Lewa has done her best to make the room homey. Jasmine’s princesses are lined up next to the bed. Simone sits heavily on the chair at the end of it.
“You didn’t find him,” says Lewa gently, pouring Simone a glass of water.
Simone gulps at the liquid. It is soothing, but not enough. “I’ll just sleep for an hour,” she tells Lewa. Jasmine’s podgy hand has crept onto her leg and with closed eyes, Simone squeezes it. She should pick the girl up, she should reassure her, she should tell Lewa what she did and didn’t find, but her eyes are already closed, and the dreams are coming now, the dreams and the nightmares. “Wake me in an hour,” she mutters.
Lewa hands her a blanket. “It’s okay,” she says. “You sleep for a bit. My turn now. My turn.”
Veronica
The day took on a surreal quality that Veronica was unable to quite pocket. She kept taking it out and examining it, drawing her focus from the children she was supposed to be instilling with number bonds and capital letters; but even they seemed to sit differently that day, as though the storm earlier in the week had somehow rendered them all in a new, untried state of being.
For Veronica, however, the day’s idiosyncrasies weren’t weather-made. There were three clearly identifiable sources.
First: the fact that she and George, un-coerced, had been at it like rabbits since their return from France. In bed that morning she had not even had to remind George that it was ovulation day.
Second: although she’d been taken aback by Terry’s aggression the day before, it hadn’t triggered the old anxiety. If anything, it had bolstered her with indignation, and the very fact of this had strengthened her more. Immediately after he’d slapped her window, she’d called the council, they’d made further assurances, and there hadn’t been a sound from Terry for the rest of the day. There was no untended, crying child during the night, she hadn’t seen Simone return, and a hopeful, optimistic sense was beginning to creep into Veronica’s psyche: the awful man was nearly dealt with; she herself had spoken up; Dominic and his sister were safe; and her and George’s haven was almost complete.
Third: Sarah. Out of everything, this had perhaps been the most surprising development, because Sarah had appeared out of the blue at drop-off that morning, with none of the friction of the past couple of weeks. It was as if she’d finally understood that in not following through on the parent-teacher meeting, or Amelia’s ‘problematic’ report, Veronica had retracted her manipulations, and was sorry. Veronica knew she should have found a way to actually vocalise this regret to Sarah – she’d been full of embarrassment about it – but that would have called for explanation, and as far as she’d come, she wasn’t yet ready.
Veronica went over to her immediately.
“Sarah.”
“It’s lovely to see you, Veronica,” Sarah smiled, a hand on her shoulder, an openness in her eyes, unguarded, enthusiastic, the image of her daughter. Veronica examined her.
“You too.”
“Letter still hasn’t arrived,” Sarah smiled.
“Oh—” Veronica began, but Sarah interrupted.
“No worries. We should catch up properly sometime, less formally.”
Veronica smiled. “We should.” She wanted to say: I’m sorry about Amelia, I’m sorry about Harry, I’m sorry for all the stupid, petty, jealousy-driven things. But instead, she ushered children through the door.
In the end, it was Sarah who said something. “Well, let me know when you’re free, we’ll do dinner, just the two of us, no husbands,” she suggested. “Lots to say.”
“I’d love that,” smiled Veronica again.
And the smile that Sarah had returned as she walked away, was warm, and determined, and feisty, just like the girl Veronica remembered from her youth, though laced too with a new, surreal something, fitting of the day, which Veronica pocketed and saved to examine later.
It was George who suggested she invite round a friend. When Veronica arrived home that afternoon, Terry was hanging out of his front door.
“Sent the cops round did you?” he leered as she hastily locked her bike, trying all the time to appear composed and not fearful. Even from a few metres away, it was easy to see that he was intoxicated on something. “Had two of them here this morning,” he carried on. “Thanks very much. Nothing to see then though, was there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” shrugged Veronica.
“Oh no? Not been putting ideas in my girlfriend’s silly little head then?” he sneered, taking a step forward from his door.
“Really, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated, acutely aware of the clipped tones of her voice, and glad of the passers-by as she made her way quickly inside.
Terry, however, wasn’t quite done. “You better fuck off!” he shouted after her. “Smug bitch.”
Inside, Veronica closed the front door firmly and checked the latch twice. Before anything else, she called their builder who promised to come the following morning. For the first time all day, a creeping anxiety was snaking back inside her. I’ll have you begging! I’ll have you begging! I’ll have you on your knees and broken. She couldn’t help hearing Terry’s refrain, ove
r and again, and with him standing guard at his door, it was no wonder that there was a return also of that foreboding sensation of being watched. Was it him? Had it always been him? What did he want from her? It wasn’t her fault that his family had gone. She replayed his words in her mind, wondering what he’d meant by there being nothing for the police to see then. Had there been something since then, or before then? Was something coming? Although she knew that Simone and Jasmine were a safe distance away, she realised suddenly that she hadn’t actually seen Dominic.
Veronica called the police. As well as fear, Terry had stirred up a deep, dormant anger. Who was he to try to intimidate her? Who was he to abuse and threaten? Who was any man?
The police dutifully added her complaint to the now open file on Terry.
George couldn’t come home. A meeting had run late and there was a conference call with New York, and it would be at least eleven before he made it.
“It’s fine,” said Veronica. “I’m going to order takeaway and go to bed,” then with a seductive smile that rippled through the phone line, added, “you can wake me up though…”
George, however, was concerned. “He’s probably in a pretty unhinged state now they’ve left,” he mulled. “I mean, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but I’d feel better if there was somebody at the house with you, after that.”
“George, I’m fine,” smiled Veronica.
“I know, but–”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Nothing, I’m sure. But what’s the harm of an evening with a friend? Didn’t you say something about seeing Sarah?”
Veronica exhaled dramatically. She’d been trying to embrace her new boldness, but he was probably right, and they were both done with hiding their fears – Rosie hadn’t itched in over a week. Besides, there was still that niggling scrutinised feeling, an unsheddable shadow. “I suppose I could invite Sarah,” she replied finally.
Sarah
Even to Sarah, who had planned it, the laughter felt real and contagious. They sat close on the sofa, clinking glasses of a dry white that Veronica had brought back from a recent holiday, taking turns to pick at the last of the sushi. If she hadn’t considered things so carefully in advance, Sarah may even have been lured in by the magic of it, hooked by the old Veronica charm, that intoxicating feeling of being illuminated in her gaze. They had so far stayed away from the topic of Amelia. Instead, Veronica’s stories were riddled with humour and scandal, and as they filled each other in on decades missed, Sarah felt in her veins the creeping return of the condition conjured so expertly by the other woman: a treacherous combination of jealousy, and admiration, and love. Veronica was, as always, wonderful company.
Sarah wondered how she did it. Perhaps it was marble-made tenor, or the brightness of blonde, or the easy, flirtatious dance she concocted. The quality was almost palpable, smelling of summer; and yet it was intangible too, not something you could actually hold or feel or copy. When Veronica was looking at you, listening to you, loving you, you felt queen of the world; but you weren’t queen, because she was queen. It had always been this way. And despite a new softness, or carefulness maybe, Veronica was largely unchanged from the girl Sarah had known. Feet curled onto the sofa beneath her, hair loose and wet from being washed, Veronica could almost have been wearing a frill-trimmed swimming costume and tugging the ends of her chlorinated locks. She could almost have been devising dares. She could almost have been sidling carelessly across the gulf between Sarah and her sister. Or slamming the door of the pool house and disappearing into thin air.
Sarah had to hurry, before her resolve abandoned her. She had to make Veronica confess: what she had done to Amelia; perhaps, even, what she’d done to Sarah too. At the very least, she had to unravel her somehow, expose the deviousness beneath.
But she didn’t seem to be getting drunk. It wasn’t working. Handling her alcohol was, apparently, yet another thing at which Veronica excelled. Sarah felt herself growing more and more desperate, laughing too loudly, drinking too much.
When Veronica went to the bathroom, Sarah reached into her handbag for her phone. It was already late. Time was running out. She stuffed the phone angrily back into the folds of leather. And that’s when her hand brushed against the small bag of sedatives that she had packed for the MRI scan. An unbidden thought raced through her mind, and almost out of it. But Sarah grabbed on. It was perfect: vindication coated in the consequences of Veronica’s own original sin. Quickly, Sarah crushed the pills with the end of her phone, then tipped the lot into Veronica’s drink.
“Let’s play,” Sarah smiled on Veronica’s return.
“What?” Flopping down on the sofa next to her, Veronica reached for her contaminated glass and eyed Sarah. “Play?”
“To save your family’s life… No, truth or dare. Actually, let’s say truth, or drink.”
Veronica smiled wistfully. “Okay. But you have to answer honestly.”
Sarah grinned. “And the questions have to be hard.”
Both women laughed, echoes of childhood stroking their skin. The evening was hot again, and the school term nearly over, the long expanse of summer stretching before them, as ever. Veronica leant forward and abruptly kissed Sarah on the cheek. The surprise of it made Sarah giggle with an unexpected pleasure, but she had a plan, and stuck to it.
“I’ll start,” said Sarah.
Veronica readied her wine glass defiantly, and waited. “Hard, Sarah,” she goaded teasingly.
But this time, Sarah was ready, and her first question came easily. “Okay. Why did you visit David at the museum?”
Immediately, Veronica’s face dropped. “I shouldn’t have,” she said. “I—”
“That’s not an answer,” Sarah interrupted. “Drink.”
Veronica took a deep sip from her glass. As she did so, she kept her eyes firmly on Sarah. “My turn,” she said when she came up for air. “Why didn’t you want to reconnect?”
“What?” Now it was Sarah who looked flustered.
“Why didn’t you want to see me? When we first saw each other at school, I was so happy to find you there. And I know you were avoiding me.”
It took Sarah a long, uncomfortable moment to work out how to reply to this without giving away her hidden fury, her deep-rooted resentments. But she was determined not to be pushed onto the back foot. “Because I didn’t want to be reminded of what used to be,” she answered eventually.
At this, Sarah noticed Veronica’s eyes cloud in confusion. “You don’t have good memories about us?”
“I have all sorts of memories,” answered Sarah. “Some good, some not. Some about you. Some about my sister Eliza. You know she died recently?”
“What?”
“She died. In a car crash. Picking me up because I’m too scared to take the tube.”
“What? Oh my God, Sarah. That’s awful. I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t seem relevant,” Sarah shrugged. “And I didn’t want you to pity me.”
“I would never pity you,” Veronica said meaningfully. “But I am sorry. I know how much you loved Eliza. She was, she was—”
“It’s my turn,” said Sarah.
Veronica’s eyes narrowed now, and without thinking she took another sip from her glass.
Sarah’s heart raced. The sedatives should kick in soon. She was doing this. She was actually doing this. She sat up and crossed her legs around themselves. “Okay, next question. Did you actually ever fancy that boy, Adam, at Eliza’s party, or were you just doing it to get closer to Eliza, to take her away from me?”
“What? Sarah, that was twenty years ago.”
“You did take her away from me, you know. Then. You did it on purpose. And later.”
“Are you serious?” Veronica pulled her damp hair off her shoulders and twisted it into a bun.
“Not an answer. Drink,” instructed Sarah.
Again Veronica drank, but now Sarah could see her mind working, her
guard going up, the open warmth of the previous hour altering.
“For the record, I did fancy him,” she said. “I think I did anyway, kind of. I don’t really remember. At least I fancied him more than some others, later.”
To her irritation, Sarah found herself intrigued by this last reference of unhappy coupling and she wanted to ask more, but she refused to break from her plan, her perimeters, and said nothing. Instead, she watched Veronica take a slow, collecting breath.
“Okay,” said Veronica finally. “Here’s something I want to know: you said you have some bad memories of us. Why?”
Sarah noticed that Veronica’s words were beginning to slur, only slightly but they were definitely loosening a little, losing their pristine marbled sheen. It wouldn’t take long now. “Because of what you did to me,” said Sarah. “Obviously.”
Veronica shook her head. “What I did to you?”
“Oh no, it’s my turn,” said Sarah. “If you want to ask more, that’ll cost you another drink.”
Defiantly, Veronica drank. A deep, bold sip. “What did I do to you?” she repeated. There was an attempt at assertion in the way she said this, but her eyelids closed for a little too long and she had to employ great effort to snap them open again. Half a glass in and at last she was beginning to unravel. Flopping backwards drowsily against the high back of the sofa, she tried again. “What did I do?”
“Do you seriously not remember?”
“What?” slurred Veronica. “Remember what?”
“The pool house?”
“Yes?”
“Locking me in it?”
“What? I mean, what?” It was too late now for a lucid answer. The sedatives had rapidly started their work. Still, Veronica raised her chin towards the ceiling and closed her eyes, either in thought, or sleep, or a pretence of one or the other.
Sarah took out her phone and fondled it in her hand.
“I locked you in?” The words slid heavily from Veronica’s lips.
