by Ruth Dugdall
My parents had watched me read the letter, and were waiting for my reaction. Both of them had faces as blank as babies’, and I didn’t know what to make of it. Unless they’d both had some atenolol.
‘It’s all been arranged,’ Mum said, her voice taut with suppressed rage. ‘She’s not even asking for our permission.’
‘We don’t need to be there, though,’ Dad said, quickly. ‘She can’t make us go, Kath.’
I read the letter again. Mum was right: Penny wasn’t asking for our permission, but she did expect us to be there.
‘I’ve called Minsmere,’ Mum said to me. I saw that Dad already knew this; he put his hand up to his brow and leaned in. ‘Even if that fool Dr Gregg has told Penny that Jena is well enough to speak, I said we didn’t think so, and we’re her next of kin. I’ll see a solicitor if I have to. He’s meeting us later today. We need to persuade him to cancel the whole thing.’
‘But I don’t agree with you, Mum! This is the best way to solve everything.’
Her face paled, then mottled up with a blood rush. She shook her head, grabbed the letter from my hands and screwed it into a ball.
‘Sam, I’m trying to protect my family from more pain. You’ve got your GCSE exams; you just need to just concentrate on them.’
Everyone wanting to protect me. Remember to forget, Sammy. And Mum would find out when the results were issued that I hadn’t even turned up for the stupid exams.
‘I don’t need protection; I need justice for Jena. And the press conference is the answer.’
‘It’s cruel to put her through it. To put us through it.’ She took Dad’s hand, clasping it tightly over the kitchen table. ‘I want you at the meeting today, to support us. He’ll be getting all of his staff to say Jena is well enough for the press conference, and we need to persuade him otherwise.’
‘But, Mum, this conference could—’
Mum shook her head violently, and snapped, ‘Stop, Sam! It won’t make any difference; she can’t remember a thing.’
‘You’re wrong, Mum. Jena is painting her attacker. I think it’s Andy.’ I blurted it out, not even sure I believed it. I still hadn’t totally ruled out Douglas.
Mum touched her chest, heaving under the fluorescent layer. I could see she was trying to control her breathing.
‘Have you never wondered why he hasn’t visited Jena?’
She looked at Dad, as if he would answer, though he always left the speaking to her. ‘Stop it, Sam! Only close family have been visiting Jena, you know that! Why would he be allowed in? He’s only her boss . . .’
‘He was more than that. They were close, closer than you know.’
‘Rubbish! I won’t hear any talk like that.’ She shifted to try and get up, but anxiety had her in its grip. Suddenly she was taking shallow, panting breaths. She rocked herself, head down with nausea, words like tumbling gravel as Dad tried to steady her.
She held out a grasping hand to him for support. ‘Pass me my medicine, Sam.’
Standing over her, I felt again the strongest conviction that she was hiding things from me. I reached for the green-and-white packet, next to the letter, and closed it in my fist.
‘You don’t need this shit, you need answers! The press conference is our best chance, Mum. We get to say something publicly, something powerful. Who do you think attacked Jena?’
‘Give it. Please.’
She tried to stand up, but fell back down on to her chair awkwardly. Dad steadied her, and reached for my hand to get the pills, losing his grip on Mum as he did so. She fell on to the floor, hyperventilating, eyes rolling.
‘Oh Kath, love . . .’
I chucked the tablets at her where she lay on the carpet, Dad over her trying to help her sit up as her panic attack took hold and she retched.
Hot with guilt and anger, I grabbed my rucksack and headed for the front door, slamming it closed behind me.
As I walked down our front path, I had the sensation I was being watched, and turned to see Mrs Read, standing in her bedroom window, gazing down at me. She pressed her palm to the window, her face twisted with concern, her hand a gesture of stop.
Bike. Get on it and ride. Away. Away from Mum and her panic attack, from Mrs Read’s conspiracy theories. I rode hard, all the way to the docks, the air singing in my lungs as I struggled to breathe through swollen airways. I hadn’t showered or eaten in days; I was a mess, but none of that mattered. I had an address, a place I needed to be.
Andy’s penthouse was easy to find. It was eight floors up, a balcony across its width. Even from the ground I could see the view would be impressive.
The entrance lobby had a pond, with a few fish glimmering below the surface. There was an intercom buzzer, a panel of numbers. I pressed lucky number 7.
‘Hello?’ Andy’s voice.
‘It’s Sam Hoolihan.’
I could hear him breathing into the mouthpiece. I wondered if he was worried about what my arrival could mean. Questions. An accusation, maybe.
‘I’ll buzz you in. Take the lift.’
I had to wait while the lift swooped down, the doors opening terribly slowly. When it was fully open, there stood Monica, the drama student from college.
She was dressed in every shade of sunset: orange hair, yellow dress and red lips, eyeliner smudging down her face. She looked rough and tired, but still pretty.
‘Hey, Sam.’ She didn’t seem overly surprised to see me; then she noticed my face and became concerned. ‘Why you cry, hey?’
She pulled a tissue from her cleavage and blotted my cheeks. ‘Cheer up, it may not have happen, yes?’
‘It already has.’
‘Why you here?’ She looked me up and down. ‘You’re too skinny to be an actress. You come with me instead.’ She gripped my arm and started to tug me outside. ‘We go to Spoons Café, yes? Is good there, good cake, and I have money now. We have tea and talk.’
But I pulled away from her and stepped into the lift. ‘I can’t.’
I jabbed number 7, afraid she’d drag me away, but she remained outside, watching me as the door closed. She looked sad, and I felt like I was abandoning a friend.
The lift took me high; a glass panel revealed the world falling away beneath me. There was a ping as it reached the top floor and opened on to a small landing, with potted plants either side of its shiny surface. In front of me was a closed door. I pressed the doorbell, waiting a long minute until the door opened. A British bull terrier with a curved nose and a black patch over one eye bounded up to me, pushing its nose into my crotch. I tried to shove it away, but it was all muscle, sniffing into me.
‘Get back, Bullseye.’ Andy pulled it off me by its thick collar. I’d seen the dog before, with Monica at the police station. Andy must have been there, in one of the interview rooms. Was he one of the leads they were investigating? Or was he trying to set Douglas up, as Douglas claimed he had sixteen years ago for the rape?
A prickle of sweat on my scalp, under my hair. My heart pounding with nerves.
Bullseye whined, watching me, its pink tongue hanging wetly out; if Andy let go of the collar he would pounce on me. Andy pushed his cow-licked fringe to one side. He was dressed casually in skinny jeans and a Hollister T-shirt, young clothes for a man with a receding hairline and grey sideburns. He smelt of sweat.
‘Hi, Sam. This is a surprise. How did you find me?’
‘Your details are in Jena’s address book.’
Andy stepped back over the threshold, hands in pockets like it was just any encounter, though his face was tight, and I could see a muscle twitching near his eye, where crinkles had set in, probably decades ago. This was why Jena said their relationship was a secret; he was almost sixty, though he didn’t look it.
‘Come on in, then.’
Andy’s flat was picture-perfect. My eyes were greedy to take it all in: the famous monochrome print of a kissing couple by Robert Doisneau on the wall, the fluffy white rug. It was nice, in a predictable, Ikea kind of way.
I mean, way better than my home, but not what I’d have chosen if I had cash to flash. I thought about Sonia’s house, and wondered why he didn’t do more to help his sister out.
‘Well.’ He rocked, hands still in his pockets, wondering what to do with me. ‘Can I get you something? Milkshake?’
When Dad took Jena and me to Pleasurepark, back when I was a kid and she was still a teenager, we’d always drink milkshakes. They had a machine in the staff room to make it really frothy, but that felt a long time ago now.
‘Water’s fine.’
He walked to the far corner, where a door led into a kitchen. Silver and slick, it had a designer coffee maker, over-sized pepper grinder and a kettle with a spout shaped like a bird’s beak on the granite-tiled work surfaces. And a milkshake machine, just like the one at Pleasurepark.
He got my water from a cooler in the door of the huge American fridge. It was so cold my teeth ached.
‘Well, you found me.’ He leaned on the worktop, both hands returned to his pockets. He was watching me, wary but concerned. He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and his eyes were blurry.
‘Have you just got up?’
‘I wish! I’ve been awake all night. Working.’
‘What work?’ Not Pleasurepark. That place closed at six, even in high season.
‘New film. The actors didn’t leave till this morning.’
‘Is Monica one of the actors?’
His head jerked up. ‘Do you know her?’
‘She goes to my school. She’s in the sixth form.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember now. Your dad sent her photo to me, but I’d already talent-spotted her.’ He chuckled. ‘Ipswich is a small town for beauty.’
And then I remembered when I took that photo. ‘I saw her in the police station. With your dog.’ As if it knew it was being discussed, Bullseye gave a whimper and moved to Andy’s side, rubbing its nose on his leg. ‘Why were you there, Andy?’
‘The police are interviewing everyone who was close to Jena. And your sister’s on my team; I’ve known her for years, so . . .’ His sentence trailed off, hanging in mid-air. He smiled, like that was enough, and I realised he was used to people believing him, doing what he wanted.
I knelt on the floor, hiding my face in my hair, and Bullseye came to me. I reached to stroke him, and he gave a shiver of pleasure.
‘What sort of film is Monica acting in?’
He inspected his buffed nails then said, ‘Art house. Low-budget but high-quality. I have a studio at Pleasurepark; they let me work on my own stuff as long as it’s in my own time.’
Bullseye whined again, then gave a sharp bark.
‘All right, boy.’ Andy turned to me and said, ‘Problem with living in a flat. I just need to take him for a quick walk or he’ll piss on the floor. Why don’t you wait in the lounge? Switch on the TV if you like. I’ll only be a few minutes.’
Once I’d worked out how to use the remote control, the plasma screen blinked into colour and sound. Above the tagline Who’s the daddy? Jeremy Kyle was shouting at a weary and worn pregnant teenager, who sat between two scag-heads, presumably the potential fathers. Jeremy opened an envelope and waved the answer before reading it out, saying, ‘Well, well, well. The DNA test results show that . . .’ He paused dramatically, simpering into the camera. The audience waited and then, right on cue, they heckled and booed: it was neither of the men on stage. The woman hid her face in her hands.
I switched it off, disgusted with myself for no good reason. As if shoddy behaviour was contagious and I’d been touched by it.
I walked to the window. Outside was a balcony with white shiny chairs and a glass table, and a few oriental-looking plants in white square pots; red blossom had dripped on to the white tiles.
The flat gave nothing away. Everything was impersonal and perfect, and none of it satisfied my curiosity. A white, sturdy cabinet was against the wall, the kind that might be used for books or a home office. I wondered what Andy kept in there.
The cabinet opened soundlessly. Inside were bundles of wires and gadgets; so this was where he kept his film-making stuff. There was a tripod and a camcorder: top of the range, thin and ultra-sleek. On the floor was a wooden chest. I lifted the lid to reveal a bounty of tapes. I read labels and realised these were the films he made.
Hello Klitty (Nita), Breakfast with Fanny (Tracey), The Iceman Comes (Monica). The DVD covers were lurid, creepy rip-offs of better-known films, with pictures of girls in sexy clothes, showing flesh and smiling provocatively. The last DVD in the box was called Wedding Day. And the smiling girl in the picture, wearing a wedding dress, was Jena.
Just then, the door to the flat opened and Andy walked in with Bullseye. I was still on the floor in front of the open cabinet. He came towards me, Bullseye straining at his side to sniff my neck.
‘What are you doing, Sam?’ He closed the cabinet with a slam, and though his face remained genial his voice was threatening. ‘Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to snoop? You’d regret it if you watched those films.’
I pushed the dog away and stood up, unsteady.
‘Why? Are they porn?’
‘’Course not; they’re just a bit of entertainment. But you can’t just march in here and start nosing in my cupboards!’
I took a deep breath. ‘I know about the wedding, Andy.’
His jaw dropped so I could see his teeth, perfectly neat but sharp incisors. ‘Jena told you about the film?’
I shook my head, trying to straighten out my thoughts. ‘I know that you were moving in with her. That you were going to get married. I’ve seen the invites. And the dress.’
He stared at me like I was crazy, then he started to laugh. ‘We weren’t getting married. Your sister lives in a dream world, she always has; that’s what made her such an asset on the entertainment team.’
I couldn’t believe he was denying it. ‘Why would she lie?’
‘It’s not lying, is it, to have a little fantasy?’ He chuckled to himself, and stroked a preening hand down his T-shirt, where grey hair bloomed at the neck. ‘She’s a born actress. And I’m sorry about what happened to her, Sam, truly I am.’ Then he looked at me as if suddenly seeing me for the first time. His face changed, and his eyes seemed to be inspecting me.
‘Perhaps you’ve inherited the acting gene too? You’re very pretty, Sam. Maybe you’d like to be in one of my films? It’s just a bit of harmless fun and a good way to make money. Lots of money.’
He stepped towards me, smiling confidently, eyes alight with something like curiosity, and I pushed him away, hard on the chest so he stepped backwards in surprise, his mouth open, teeth glinting.
I had a premonition, a moment, when I saw another figure in a cape, with teeth like needles that wanted to sink into my flesh and kill me.
It was Andy. Oh God, it was him . . .
I stumbled to get away, tripping over my rucksack, frightened. I grabbed it and made for the door, struggling with the lock, as Andy came towards me, looking angry, and every instinct ordered me to get away from him, to get free.
The lift door was open, waiting, but he caught me up and held me by the arm. ‘Sam, what’s the problem? I’m sorry if I scared you.’
Panicked by his hands on me, thinking of what he did to Jena, I yelled, ‘Get off me!’
He dropped his grip, holding his hands up in submission, and I stepped into the lift just as the doors closed. As it began its descent, I could hear his voice, calling me back.
CHAPTER 30
26 January
Pearl is opposite me at the brown dining table, pretending to eat lunch. Sian’s our supervisor today, but she doesn’t take a seat. Instead, she stands over us at the head of the long pine table, leaning on it, fixing each of us in turn with her assessing eyes as we swallow each mouthful of water, each spoonful of soup. She’d have been better suited to working in a prison. Isn’t that ironic, given my own predicament?
Pearl lifts her English muffin to her mouth, but before sh
e takes a bite she squeezes the bread so that butter trickles down her arms, then she crumbles a bit off. She swishes her hair so that her fingers can hide the pieces of muffin in its tangles and under the crazily patterned woollen hat she has pulled low on her head. There is no colour in her face, and her eyes look bloodshot.
Sian doesn’t notice Pearl; she’s watching Stacey, who is struggling with even one mouthful. ‘Muffins are bad,’ she tells Sian, who replies that there is no such thing as bad food. Pearl tries her trick again, and gets away with it. Half of the muffin is gone now, and she hasn’t eaten any. Delighted, she winks at me, and despite my inner qualms we are conspirators.
As the twenty-five minutes tick past, I nibble around the edges of my own muffin, infuriating Sian.
‘Eat it, Sam, don’t play with it.’
I sip my water, and notice Pearl hasn’t touched hers. Does she want to get tubed?
‘Come on, Pearl!’ says Sian, who has also noticed. She has little patience generally, but for some reason even less with Pearl. ‘You can’t believe there are any calories in water?’
‘I do,’ says Pearl, fixing Sian with her large saucer eyes.
Sian’s own eyes narrow. ‘Really? Haven’t you ever read the back of a bottle? Zero calories.’
‘I’ve read it,’ says Pearl, sweetly. ‘But I don’t believe in labels.’
Later, Pearl joins me in my room. She sits cross-legged on the floor with her Sylvanian toys, a family of rabbits, each no taller than her thumb. The mother rabbit is distinguished by an apron, and Pearl has placed tiny plastic cooking implements into the rabbit’s paws. Mrs Rabbit is baking an invisible cake. I lie on the bed, watching.
‘Do you really believe there are calories in water?’
Pearl continues playing. ‘I used to think I could get fat just by smelling food. And I used to think water had calories because it made me feel heavy. But now I know that’s not true.’
‘So why not drink it? They’ll tube you if you don’t.’
