guy knows your name? Could actually be watching you?’
‘Possibly. Probably not. The police reckon it could be
a lucky guess. Or the caller may have done some research
just to spook me.’
‘But he used your name?’
‘Yes.’
There is a pause, and Tom’s expression is changing.
He stands and is at first still. He seems to be thinking
and then starts pacing.
‘So this guy targets you – you specifically – and the police just let you drive home in your car on your own?
To just wait and see what happens?’
I tell him that the office offered to arrange a taxi but
I didn’t want to leave my car behind. And I felt reassured
by the police. A bit, anyway. I explain that at this stage there isn’t really anything they can do. It may just be
random. He may never call again.
‘No, no. I don’t like that he knew you were at the café.
What if some nutter is watching you? Followed you here?
They shouldn’t have let you just drive off, Alice. Not after
two phone calls like that. A voice changer, for Christ’s sake.’
I don’t tell him that Jack offered to bring me home
and wait with me.
‘Can’t the police give you some kind of protection?
Surveillance or something? At least until we know if this
is a grudge against the paper. Or a grudge against you
personally.’
‘No. Apparently not. Not on the basis of a couple of
phone calls. They don’t have the resources, Tom.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘So you just drove straight home?’ He glances at the
door as if someone could be out there right now watch-
ing us.
‘No. I drove around a bit actually. Took a couple of
detours. Just in case.’ I do not want to tell him that I
actually drove several miles in ridiculous circles for the
best part of an hour, taking random eleventh-hour turns
this way and that, just in case someone was following me.
‘Right. I’ll cancel dinner. Obviously. We can order
in.’ He is back alongside me, holding his palm to my
cheek, and I look into his face and feel the guilt I always
feel when Tom looks at me this way.
It makes me think of that other face. From years back.
Also Jack’s face. Stop it, Alice. I glance across to the other side of the room and feel another punch of guilt before
I turn back to Tom.
I need a moment and so I ask him to make me a coffee.
My house is open-plan downstairs and I watch him move
over to the kitchen area, staring at his back as he flicks on the kettle and reaches for the coffee canister on the shelf
above the cooker. I realise that what I feel, along with all the confusion, is still this powerful disappointment in myself.
I am someone who has always admired resilience in
people. I see it often in my job. Write about it regularly.
The truth? I had hoped and believed that deep down I was
tougher than this. I have interviewed people who have had
their lives utterly devastated and yet have risen above it. A man who had his foot blown off in Afghanistan and went
on to run a marathon. A woman who threw herself in front
of three children when a drunk driver mounted a pavement.
I watch Tom’s back as he pours the boiling water into two
mugs, and I think of so many stories. So much courage.
And the first time I am tested?
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I Will Make You Pay
‘No, Tom. We should go out as planned. I need to
get a bloody grip. This is completely ridiculous. Precisely
what he wants.’
‘Dinner doesn’t matter.’ Tom carries the drinks back to
the sitting room area and places them on the coffee table.
‘It does matter, Tom.’ The booking this evening –
Tom’s favourite restaurant – was supposed to celebrate
things going so well for him at work. He’s pushed incred-
ibly hard the last couple of months, working long hours
to win a big new corporate client. His firm is delighted.
I sip my drink, new emotions pushing to the fore.
Anger now. ‘That’s precisely what this creep wants. To
mess with my head.’
‘I honestly don’t mind about this evening, Alice. We
can order in. Chinese. Thai. Whatever you fancy.’
‘No. I mean it. I’ll have a shower. Get changed. Stuff
the saddos of this world – we’re going out.’
* * *
For all my bravado, I find – on the way to the restaurant –
that I keep turning to check the cars behind us. By the time
we reach the parking area, I’m almost dizzy with the flip-
flop of emotions. Afraid then angry. Worried then furious.
Yes. Livid, actually, that someone on the end of a telephone
for less than a minute could do this to me.
So that, once we’ve ordered, I come clean. ‘Do you
know what, Tom? I feel ashamed. Me – always banging
on about the resilience of people, and look at me.’ I hold
out my hand to show him that it is actually trembling.
‘Oh, Alice. Why always so hard on yourself? It’s no
wonder you’re shaken. It was nasty, what he said. Anyone
would be shaken.’
13
Teresa Driscoll
I do not answer. I try not to think of the deli; of the
wire slicing slowly through the slab of cheese. I wonder
what would make someone say that – such a horrible image.
I tear at my bread roll and spread far too much butter on it.
‘OK. So has the paper upset anyone recently – any
trolling online? Complaints about any of your copy?
Court cases? Anything like that?’ He is using his lawyer
tone, practical and steady now, leaning in so I can see my
reflection in his glasses.
I shake my head. The police asked this too, but I can’t
think of anything or anyone; I haven’t covered court or
crime for ages.
‘I’ve been on features mainly – busy on the Maple
Field House campaign.’
‘And no one has kicked off about that? The campaign?’
‘A few local politicians are still embarrassed to have
been shown up. Otherwise, quite the contrary. Everyone’s
delighted how it’s turned out. I mean, I shouldn’t be tak-
ing the credit. The residents have driven the campaign.
I just wrote it all up.’
Tom lets out a sigh of exasperation and fidgets as if
trying to think of some other motive.
The truth is I’ve been so busy on Maple Field House
stories that I haven’t done any meaty news for ages. I’ve been the lead reporter on the campaign for the best part of a year, and Ted’s been delighted to have so much copy out of it.
Maple Field House is a dreary and dated U-shaped
mall of shops with three storeys of flats. In its heyday, it
was apparently quite smart; the shops busy and successful.
But changes in customer habits and the poor building
design have taken their toll.
Most of the shops are now empty – just a few converted
to charity shops. The flats above them are extremely damp
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I Will Make You Pay
and d
reary, with all manner of structural problems. They’re
owned by the local council, but the block hasn’t been up-
graded in years because the housing committee couldn’t
decide whether to reinvest in the flats or relocate the residents to a new low-rise development of houses and maisonettes.
Because of the indecision, conditions got worse and
worse. The whole building has some kind of dry rot. The
communal rubbish chutes kept getting blocked. Fed-up
residents started a campaign for the whole place to be
demolished. It was largely ignored until I started to run
features on the damp affecting children’s health – espe-
cially the kids with asthma.
Finally it all came to a head – the council got tired of
the embarrassment caused by all the stories in our paper,
the South Devon Informer. The housing committee agreed to demolition and the relocation of all the residents. Plans
for a joint scheme were swiftly drawn up with a housing
association.
Everyone is now in temporary accommodation, and
the first families are moving into the early phase of the
new development.
To be honest, it’s made for easy copy for me. The
constant roll of story updates keeps me busy; it’s good to
work on something worthwhile and it keeps my editor
happy too.
‘You know I’ve been off the court rota at work for
ages,’ I add. ‘People are always upset with the paper, Tom –
you know that – but I’ve not personally covered anything
controversial for ages. At least not that I can think of.’
I stare at my fish. Sea bass with perfect crispy skin.
I separate the flakes with my fork but then find myself
staring at the glinting metal.
I am going to use cheese wire on you…
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Not hungry?’
‘I think I just had too much at lunchtime.’ I put the
fork down.
He finds a smile. ‘Well, you’re right. Probably just
a nutter you won’t hear from again.’ Tom saws into his
steak. ‘Though if you’d like to stay at mine – or me at
yours – until we’re sure?’
He isn’t looking at me and I don’t know how to re-
spond. The truth is I don’t like the idea of sleeping on
my own, but we normally stay over only on weekends or
after dates like this. Tom’s now in commercial law. His
work takes him to London quite often and that rather
suits me. I’m not ready to live with anyone. Not again…
‘How about you stay over at mine tonight as planned
and then see how we go?’ I say. ‘I’m sure I’ll feel better
tomorrow. Probably just a one-off. It’ll all settle once I
know it was a one-off.’
‘OK. So long as you’re not just being brave.’ He pauses
and tilts his head with a smile. ‘Or stubborn.’
‘ Moi? ’
We both laugh, and I realise it’s the first moment I’ve
relaxed since I took the wretched phone call. And that
feels good; like some tiny triumph.
Tom smiles at me again and I want to fast-forward to
the day when we can look back on this as a dinner party
anecdote. You remember that nutter who tried to spook you… ?
Yes. I feel defiant suddenly. I pick up my fork again.
I scoop a large flake of fish into my mouth and find that
it is delicious.
Everything will be back to normal very soon.
16
CHAPTER THREE
Alice
The box arrives the following Wednesday. Courier. Ten
a.m.
It is a bakery box with a sticker on the top from a
local firm which recently won an award. I did a feature
on the owner just last week, and she emailed to say how
thrilled they all were with the coverage.
‘Someone get the coffees in.’ I raise my voice and stand
to make a little show of the gift. ‘It’s from that award-
winning bakery. Should be good.’
I am pleased to be feeling my old self today. For the
first forty-eight hours after that stupid phone call, I was
all over the place. Nervous in the car. Nervous in the of-
fice; afraid to answer the blessed phone. But as the days
passed – Thursday, Friday, the weekend – the impact of
the phone call faded. I felt more and more foolish for
overreacting.
I went to the gym as normal on Saturday afternoon.
Visited mum Sunday morning and had a cinema date
with Tom in the evening. Then, on Monday, I stopped
thinking about it so much, and yesterday I covered stories
as normal. Answered the phone. Even went to the café
next door.
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Teresa Driscoll
I am thinking of all of this as I look at the box, pleased
to have a treat to share with my colleagues. The only
question going through my head is – will it be one large
cake or individual cakes? Ipso facto, will I need to find
a knife?
The top of the box has a kind of envelope closure – the
paper slotted neatly into slits like the lens on a camera. I
carefully pull out one flap, then a second.
By this time Jack is next to me – standing close to
get a good view. A cake lover. Hollow legs. I open the
final flaps.
The shock that it isn’t a cake inside takes a moment
to sink in. By now there are three of us peering into the
box – Jack, the editor’s secretary Samantha, and Nigel,
one of the older photographers.
‘Flowers?’ It is Samantha’s voice first, her tone all
puzzlement. ‘But they’re completely ruined. Look at the
stems. How odd.’
‘Oh no…’ Jack moves forward and begins to close the
top of the lid to try to stop me seeing, but I move my
hand to push him back.
‘I want to see.’
‘No, Alice. It’s another wind-up. We need to phone
the police. There may be fingerprints.’
Again I push his hand away.
Pink peonies. My mother’s favourite.
‘What’s going on?’ Ted has come out of his cubicle.
‘Oh – so is this from the cheese wire guy?’ It is Samantha’s voice again, her hand up to her mouth.
I stare at the flowers. How the hell does he know about
peonies? These are deep pink and shaped as if for a hand-tied bouquet, but the stems have been tightly wrapped
with wire – a cheese wire with little wooden handles,
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I Will Make You Pay
the type used in professional delis – so that most of the
stems have been deliberately severed and the flowers are
all dying.
Worse, there is a large card inside…
‘Christ. Right.’ Ted lets out a huff of air. ‘Leave the
box there. I’ll phone Alan again. Get someone down
here from CID. See if they can’t rustle up someone a bit
more senior this time.’
‘Seriously. We shouldn’t touch it, Alice. It’s evidence,’
Jack is saying, but I can’t help myself; I push his hand away again to pick up the card and start to read it.
‘Dear Lord. My mother.’ The message on the car
d is
such a shock that my heart is immediately pounding and
my whole body temperature seems to change. First hot.
Then cold. Then back to hot. ‘I need to check my mother
is OK.’ My hand is trembling and I have to sit as I reach
for my phone to dial.
‘Why? What is it, Alice? What does the card say?’
‘Shh. Shh.’ I wave my hand for quiet as I wait for the
line to connect – come on, come on – I press the receiver closer to my ear as I read the rest of the card.
And that’s when I realise for the first time, my heart
still pounding with fear for my mother, that the day is
significant.
Wednesday.
Also that the phone call last Wednesday wasn’t the
beginning of this.
19
CHAPTER FOUR
Him – before
He sits on the end of his bed staring at the rockets and
stars which zoom and flash across the duvet. He is five
years old and his gran says he is growing up way too fast.
My little rocket man.
It is his gran’s voice inside his head right this minute,
which is odd because she is really next door in the kitchen. He gets this strange little punch in his stomach as he remembers the day they picked out the duvet cover in the special shop
where everything is cheap. It was in a big, bright red plastic bin. Like a dustbin, only smarter. sale. He remembers trying to spell out the letters, with his gran helping. So proud.
You’re such a clever boy…
He gets this odd and confusing explosion of feelings
inside. Like the noise and the flash when a rocket launches.
Sort of muddled and loud and strange. He doesn’t know
if he is angry or not. Mad. Sad. Bad?
My brave little soldier.
It is the other thing his gran calls him. He stares up
at the door as there is some kind of clattering from the
kitchen. She always says that on Wednesday…
He gets chocolate flakes for breakfast on Wednesdays.
And ice cream after his tea. She is making it now – fish
fingers, chips and beans. His favourite.
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I Will Make You Pay
And ice cream with chocolate sauce for my brave little soldier.
Only he isn’t brave, is he?
That’s the problem.
In school they are learning to read in groups and he is
in the top group. Red Group. The best in the whole class.
He has a book about a girl who is frightened of the dark
and who meets a bear who is frightened of the dark too.
He wanted to tell the teacher this morning that he’s
I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 2
