Watching You

by Lisa Jewell

  Blue, she thought, her hand against the unyielding lace of a £4.99 Primark push-up bra. Blue, she thought, putting the blue bra into the cloth shopping basket looped over her arm. Blue.

  54

  TEENAGE GIRL SUICIDE VERDICT

  Schoolteacher held for questioning

  A verdict of suicide was passed yesterday after the death of local schoolgirl, Genevieve Hart, 14. Genevieve – who was known as Viva to her friends and family – was found dead last April in an abandoned chicken restaurant in Waterloo Street in the town centre. She had hanged herself using a pair of her school tights. A male teacher from Miss Hart’s school, who has not been named, was questioned by police shortly after the schoolgirl’s death after entries in her diary suggested that they might have been having an affair, but he was released after half an hour without charge. Sources close to the schoolgirl say that she had been the subject of a prolonged campaign of bullying at her school. They also say that Miss Hart left no note, and had cut off her hair with a pair of scissors shortly before taking her own life.

  Jenna blinked slowly, trying to dislodge the image stuck in her head: a young girl, hanging from her own tights, a pool of her own hair on the floor beneath her swaying feet. Subconsciously she touched her own hair, imagining how it might feel to hold it in one hand while hacking it off with the other. She imagined the feel of it, the sound of it. It was unthinkable, barbaric, almost. She gulped and brought her fist to her mouth. ‘It’s so sad.’

  Freddie nodded. ‘It’s horrible.’ But then he straightened and said, ‘But it wasn’t my dad. Was it?’

  She looked at the article and thought that people not being charged with crimes didn’t mean they hadn’t committed them. It just meant that no one could find enough evidence to say that they had. But she didn’t say that. She smiled instead and said, ‘Doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘She was being bullied,’ he continued, pointing at the relevant section. ‘That’s probably why she did it. That happens a lot, doesn’t it? People being bullied at school and killing themselves?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said vaguely, ‘yes it does.’

  ‘So, that’s probably what happened. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said again. But if that was the case then why was Viva’s mother hitting Mr Fitzwilliam? Why was she not hitting the bullies who had hounded her daughter to her death? What was in Viva’s diary that had made her mother believe that Mr Fitzwilliam was to blame for her death? There was no way of knowing. The only people who would know what was written in Viva’s diary were her family. The Harts.

  ‘Here,’ she said, turning the screen towards herself again and pressing the back button. ‘Let’s see what else we can find.’ She scanned through the search results until she found an article accompanied by a photograph. She zoomed right in on the photo and stared for a while at the image: a pretty girl with long, very dark hair, big eyes and an air about her of imminent hilarity. She looked kind, Jenna felt, and thoughtful. It was impossible to imagine this girl taking herself to a dank old chicken shop, chopping off all her beautiful hair with a pair of scissors and hanging herself with a pair of tights. It was impossible to imagine her being dead.

  The mother’s name was given in this article. She was called Sandra. No father was mentioned. She typed in Sandra Hart but it brought her full circle back to the newspaper articles about her daughter. Then she went on to Facebook and clicked on a few ‘Sandra Harts’, but each turned out to be too young or too old or to have no connection with anyone or anything apposite to any elements of the Genevieve Hart story. And then she clicked on a Sandra Hart who lived in Sheffield and had been born in Derby in 1957. Her page was set to private, so Jenna clicked on the only link that was available: her friends’ list.

  She only had twenty-two. Jenna went through them one by one until she got to the profile of a younger woman called Rebecca Louise Hart. Her page was also set to private but her personal information was available, and Jenna learned that she was born in Burton-on-Trent in 1981 and was a systems analyst for Charter Redwood Financial Management.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Freddie, leaning in towards the screen. ‘I know that woman. I know her! I … I … Hold on.’ He pulled his phone out of his blazer pocket and switched it on. He swiped through some photos, all of which, as far as Jenna could tell from this angle, were of the same person: a pretty girl with chestnut hair and a royal-blue school blazer. ‘Look,’ he said, turning the phone to face her.

  It was a long-range shot of a woman in a big black coat, talking to Jenna’s mum at the bus stop outside the Melville.

  ‘Look. It’s her. Isn’t it? The same woman? And she’s talking to your mum.’

  ‘Wait. Wait.’ Jenna reeled away from the screen and closed her eyes for a brief moment. ‘This is … I don’t understand.’ She looked at the screen again and let her eyes confirm what she had seen. That was definitely her mother and that was definitely the same woman as the woman in the Facebook profile photo and they were definitely both standing outside the Melville.

  ‘When was this?’ she said.

  ‘Yesterday,’ he replied.

  ‘And why …’ She cupped her temples with her hands. ‘Why do you have a photograph of it?’

  ‘Because it was interesting.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Yes. I find your mother interesting. I find your mother talking to people interesting.’

  ‘So you do …’ she said, awareness flooding through her, ‘… you do take pictures of my mother? You actually do?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But not often. Hardly ever in fact.’

  ‘She always said you were up here watching her from your window and I always told her she was imagining it.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t imagining it. I was. But she’s as bad, you know. She’s always down there looking up at us. All the time. Sometimes she even sits outside our house. At least I don’t do that.’

  Jenna shook her head slightly from left to right. She couldn’t process all this right now. She brought her thoughts back to the issue at hand.

  ‘I wonder where she lives, that woman. She looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen her around.’

  ‘Well, she’d be hard to miss, I reckon. She’s pretty fat.’

  Jenna looked at the photo and tutted at Freddie. ‘She’s not fat,’ she said incredulously. ‘Look.’ She pointed at the outline of her black coat, the ‘B’ shape of her profile. ‘She’s pregnant.’

  Freddie peered closer and then looked at Jenna and said, ‘God. You’re right. Of course!’ He clicked his fingers together. ‘Now I know exactly who she is. She lives two doors down. She’s practically my next door neighbour!’

  Jenna went straight from Freddie’s to Bess’s house. Her hands shook as she pressed the intercom button and her heart pounded. Bess’s mum answered.

  ‘Hi, Heather, it’s me, Jenna. Is Bess at home?’

  ‘Yup! Come up, sweetheart!’

  Bess was sitting on her big double bed, surrounded by fake astrakhan cushions in sorbet colours and haloed by hanging fairy lights. A red scented candle glowed in a glass jar on her bedside table, making her room smell like Christmas. ‘What’s up?’ she said, seeing Jenna’s anxious expression.

  ‘Bess. This is really, really serious. You have to listen to me. And you have got to be honest with me.’

  She saw Bess swallow and then shrug. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a really, really long story. But the short version is this. There’s a woman who lives up there’ – she pointed – ‘in Melville Heights, and when she was younger her sister killed herself. And do you know why she killed herself?’

  Bess shrugged again. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she was having an affair with Mr Fitzwilliam.’

  Bess narrowed her eyes at her. ‘What?’

  ‘She and her sister were at a school up north and Mr Fitzwilliam was a teacher there and her sister was having some kind of an affair with him, and then one day she was found dead. And not only t
hat, but apparently Mr Fitzwilliam beats his wife.’

  Bess gave her a look askance. ‘And you’re telling me this because?’

  Jenna sighed. ‘You know why, Bess. You know exactly why.’

  ‘Er, no. Actually, I don’t?’

  ‘Bess. Please. Stop lying to me. You and Mr Fitzwilliam and what’s been going on between you.’

  Bess stared at Jenna blankly. ‘God. Wow. Jen. Nothing has been going on between us. Are you on glue?’

  ‘So what’s with all the secret meetings?’

  ‘There haven’t been any secret meetings!’

  ‘Yes, there have! That night, when I saw you and him outside the pharmacy at, like, eleven o’clock. And earlier today, I saw you coming out of his office and he was, like, touching your arm.’

  ‘Oh my fucking God, Jen. We were talking about you.’

  Jenna stiffened. ‘About me?’

  ‘Yeah. About your mum. About what would happen to you if your mum got sectioned or something. He wanted to know if me and Mum would be able to have you live with us. Here. So that you could stay on at the Academy and not have to move down to your dad’s place. That is all. Literally. And I couldn’t tell you because I knew you’d lose the plot over it. I told you, Jen, he’s such a caring man! And I don’t know who this woman is in Melville Heights and I’m sorry for what happened to her sister, but, I swear, there’s no way that Mr Fitzwilliam had anything to do with it. No way.’

  ‘But what about this …’ Jenna pointed at Bess’s stomach. ‘This pregnancy thing. I mean, whose baby is it then?’

  ‘There is no baby!’

  ‘But … I don’t …’

  ‘Look.’ Bess sighed and pushed her hair behind her ears. ‘I was just … I met a lad. Ruby’s cousin. Jed. And we went quite far. Like, really quite far. And some of his, you know, his stuff, it sort of …’

  Jenna wrinkled her nose. She really didn’t want to think of Jed’s stuff.

  ‘It went on my belly. And then when my period didn’t come I just freaked out. I thought, maybe, you know, it had somehow got all the way down there. And I knew I was being stupid. I knew I was. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to you about it. Because I knew you’d tell me I was an idiot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t!’

  ‘Yeah, you would. But that’s fine because you’re you and I’m me and that’s how we roll. And anyway. My period started this morning. So. You know. Yay.’

  ‘So, you’re still a virgin?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m still a virgin.’

  ‘And you’re not pregnant?’

  ‘No. I’m not pregnant.’

  ‘And you’re not having an affair with Mr Fitzwilliam?’

  ‘No. I’m not. And I never would because I love him too much and it would spoil everything if we did something like that.’

  ‘Has he ever, you know, tried …?’

  ‘No! Never.’

  ‘And you and Jed. Is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘No. I told you. He’s a dick. But he’s so good-looking. I just wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss someone that handsome. And then it just went a bit further than I thought it would. But it was a one-off. We’re just mates now.’ She stopped and smiled at Jenna.

  But Jenna had one more question. ‘In the toilets the other day. When I hugged you. You flinched. You pulled away. Like it hurt. Like you were injured? What was that?’

  Bess shrugged. ‘Probably just sore boobs. Because they were – oh, God, they were so sore. So so sore.’

  Jenna gazed at her friend for a moment. Her sweet Bess. The greatest girl in the world. Suddenly the terrible distance between them seemed to ping back like an elastic band. Suddenly it was like the past weeks hadn’t happened.

  She put her arms out and Bess put hers out and they hugged.

  ‘I’m sorry I made you worry,’ said Bess.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Jenna. ‘I like worrying about you. It gives me something to do.’

  Bess laughed and then she stopped and she said, ‘By the way, my mum says it’s totally OK for you to come and live with us, if anything, you know, if your mum …’

  ‘I know,’ said Jenna. ‘And thank you. I hope it doesn’t happen. But if it does …’ She hugged her again. ‘I love you, Bess Ridley.’

  ‘And I love you, Jenna Tripp.’

  She held her best friend in her arms for a while, relief that she was safe flooding through her. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the dreadful image of Genevieve Hart hanging from a ceiling, her beautiful dark hair strewn across a dirty floor.

  55

  Freddie felt a bit bad about barging in to his mum’s bedroom and talking to her about horrible things while she was supposedly ill. But there was too much stuff surging and lurching around in his head. It needed to go somewhere otherwise he was going to drown in it all.

  He brought her an old-looking banana from the fruit bowl in the kitchen and a cup of cranberry and raspberry tea. The curtains were closed and the room smelled of thick breath and used sheets. He placed the tea carefully on her bedside table and offered her the banana. She shook her head and groaned slightly.

  ‘I’ve got loads I need to talk to you about, Mum,’ he began, lowering himself on to the edge of the bed. He couldn’t see any reason to pussyfoot about. It was nearly seven and his dad might be home any minute.

  ‘Oh, love. I’m not sure I’m up for a big chat.’

  He put the palm of his hand to her forehead and then to his own and then back to hers again. ‘You’re not hot,’ he said, ‘so you’re probably not as ill as you think you are.’

  ‘I just took some paracetamols,’ she said. ‘They’ve brought my temperature down. I promise you, I feel awful.’

  ‘Well, I’m not asking you to do anything difficult. ‘

  She groaned again. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Number one,’ he began, ‘do I or do I not have Asperger’s?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Asperger’s. Do I have it? Because I met someone today who does have it and they said they thought I might too and it reminded me of something that happened when I was at infant school. That teacher, Miss Morrison or whatever her name was, who thought there might be something wrong with me. And you took me out for tea after and Dad said I mustn’t ever accept a label, that I must just focus on being clever and not worry about what other people said I was or wasn’t. And I’m sure he said the word Asperger’s. And I’ve been googling it and it makes sense and I just think that maybe you and Dad didn’t think I should have a label, but that maybe it would be good if I did. Because Max at school thinks I’m like him, and I am not like him. Because he’s not special. He’s not an Aspie. And I think I probably am.’

  His mother edged her way up the bed as he spoke, and then sat straight and gazed at him. He saw the fog lifting behind her eyes, the pretence at ‘being ill’ falling away. ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘A girl. I asked her to be my date for the dance tomorrow. I think she’s going to say yes.’

  ‘And she’s got Asperger’s?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘And she’s not scared of having a label.’

  She sighed. ‘Well, that’s good for her. But for me and your father—’

  He cut across her. ‘Not you,’ he said firmly. ‘It was Dad who said I shouldn’t have a label. You just went along with it. Like you go along with everything Dad says.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘It is true. You know it’s true. I mean, look at you. You’re lying here in this cold room. Pretending to be ill. Because of whatever the hell it was that happened last week. Something he did.’

  ‘I am n—’

  ‘You are. And your whole life is all about Dad. Dad, Dad, Dad. And you act like he’s the only person in the whole world who matters. Like he’s the only person who hurts or the only person who gets sad. Or hungry. Or hot. Or cold. Like everyone else is just … peripheral. But yet – he doesn’t seem to make you happy. He doesn�
�t make you laugh. He never does anything nice for you. Or takes you out. He just leaves you here in this big, cold house, and I saw you when that Alfie guy was here and he made you laugh and he made you happy. And I never see you like that. Ever. So it’s not as if you can’t have fun. It’s more like you wake up every morning and choose not to.’

  ‘God, Freddie! I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You do, though, I know you do. Mum, you know – you know that Dad’s not a good man. You know that he’s done bad things. He hurts you.’

  ‘Hurts me?’

  ‘Yes. And he hurts other people. He made that girl kill herself.’

  ‘What girl? Freddie? What girl?’

  ‘You know what girl. Viva. That girl. I’ve seen the news articles about it. In black and white. And you always told me that that woman at the Lakes was just a loony. But she wasn’t a loony. She was Viva’s mum. And Viva was at the school where Dad taught when he was in Burton upon Trent. Where he met you, Mum. I mean, God. You probably even knew her! She might even have been in your class. You were probably there when it was all happening. When it was in the papers. When Dad got taken in for questioning. Everyone must have been talking about it. So don’t say you don’t know what girl I’m talking about because you totally, a million and ten per cent, know.’