I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

by Teresa Driscoll

  because I don’t want to imagine yet more trauma. Today.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Who knows how this kind

  of mind works? But we can’t assume nothing else will

  happen today. We need to be vigilant. And the important

  thing now is to talk through how we go forward from

  this, Alice. After today, I mean. And what’s happening

  about the plan to return to work. I take it you’re recon-

  sidering that?’

  ‘No choice, actually. My editor’s been in touch. Asked

  me to take another week off, minimum. Until we hear

  more from the fire investigation team. I think he’s wor-

  ried they’ll burn the office down. Or that the stalker will

  pose as an interviewee. Something like that.’

  Matthew exchanges a glance with Tom and I feel some

  new tension in the room – something I can’t quite read.

  ‘What? What’s going on between you two?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just we were talking, when you had a

  nap.’ Tom is trying to soften his voice. He glances again

  at Matthew. ‘And we were just wondering if you should

  maybe get away for a bit, Alice. Complete change of scene.’

  ‘What – run away, you mean?’

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  ‘No. But – look, my parents are still on this cruise,

  as you know. They’re just about to spend some time in

  Italy. How about we join them for a bit? Meet up for a

  few days in Italy.’

  ‘On the cruise?’

  ‘No, not the cruise. We could get a hotel on the coast

  somewhere and just meet up with them. Relax. De-stress

  a bit while the police look into this.’

  I don’t know why I feel so cross at this suggestion. Tom

  has wanted me to meet his parents before – in Paris. I said

  no to that too. It’s too soon. One day I walked in on him

  Skyping them and he asked if I wanted to say hi, and I

  made an excuse. I felt he was cornering me. It’s too full on.

  Meeting the parents. It makes me think of my time with

  Alex. The engagement ring. The whole blessed nonsense.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Italy. I don’t want to run away. I

  mean – how long would I have to keep running? Hiding?

  This is ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong and yet it’s my

  life that’s been completely turned upside down.’ I can feel

  tears coming and that’s not what I want either. ‘Anyway,

  my mother’s not good. The nursing staff are worried.

  Leanne just brought me up to date. I can’t be going on

  trips. I need to visit her this weekend as normal. There’s

  no way I’m missing the visit to my mother.’

  Again they exchange a strange look. More resigned.

  More worried.

  ‘Of course. Sorry. It was just an idea.’ Tom’s tone is

  apologetic. ‘Shall I make some more coffee?’

  ‘If I drink any more coffee, I suspect I’ll start bounc-

  ing off these walls.’

  ‘OK. Peppermint tea it is.’ He heads over to the kettle

  and I stare at his back as he tries two drawers, looking

  for cutlery.

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  I hate peppermint tea but Tom is doing his best. I am

  being a cow. I can’t help it because I’m not sure how much

  more of this I can take. This feeling of utter helplessness.

  Playing the sitting duck.

  ‘Actually, can we forget the tea? I think I’m going to

  take a bath. Try to calm myself down. Any more from

  Melanie Sanders?’ I look again at Matthew, who checks

  his phone and shakes his head.

  I don’t know why I keep clinging to the hope the police

  inquiry will come good. Alex has been questioned again

  but is still refusing to cooperate. To make matters worse, I

  mentioned to Matthew about Claire Hardy at the charity

  and that has now backfired on me. He’s informed Melanie

  Sanders as if Claire might be a suspect in my own stalking.

  Ridiculous. She’s trying to con people as far as I can see,

  not stalk them. I made it clear that I made contact with

  the charity, not the other way around, but Matthew says

  they could have used Facebook ads to target my stream

  – to put the name of the charity in my mind. They can’t

  afford to miss any possible line of inquiry. And Claire

  has a dicey boyfriend. So they’re now checking her out.

  Complete waste of police time, if you ask me.

  I watch Matthew put his phone away in his pocket

  and head upstairs.

  Leanne’s Dorset home has four bedrooms with their

  own bathrooms, plus a huge separate guest bathroom with

  a beautiful roll-top bath. I decide against the small shower

  adjoining my bedroom, as I feel a bit more nervous in

  there. The guest bathroom is off the main landing and

  somehow feels better. This is what my life has become.

  Worrying which bathroom feels safer…

  I lock the door and glance to make sure the window

  is closed. I find some bath oil on the shelf and fill the

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  tub to three-quarters so I can sink right in. The scent is

  lovely. Vanilla with some other note I can’t quite make

  out. The warmth of the water does indeed feel soothing

  and for a moment I feel better. But then as I sweep the

  bubbles over my arms there is suddenly a strange tapping

  noise at the window. I freeze. I listen – hoping I imagined

  it. But no. There it is again.

  Now I sit bolt upright, the water surging as I do so

  – creating a wave which sends water splashing over the

  top on to the marble floor tiles. I want to leap out of the

  bath but am worried I’ll slip on the wet floor. I have to

  twist my neck awkwardly to get a view of the window.

  And now – a myriad of emotions. Because the moment I

  look at the window, I see the ridiculous truth. The clear

  shadow of a branch from a tree, simply tapping against

  the glass in the wind.

  It is then that the tears come. The shame of the depths

  of my fear. My overreaction. Frightened by a mere branch.

  The horror burning a stamp on my flesh that my life has

  been reduced to this. I can’t work. I can’t function. My

  home has been burned down. My mother is sick. I hon-

  estly can’t imagine that my life will ever be normal again.

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  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Him – before

  When the police turn up at his home, he imagines it’s

  about Brian. After all these years, he wonders what has

  finally led them here. Some new forensic discovery? Some

  witness who never came forward before?

  He’s settled in a new job now and his mind is all at once

  buzzing. What mistake did he make? What have they found?

  Most of all he’s worried about his gran. Who will look out

  for his gran if he’s arrested? His mind is in overdrive and

  his heart is pumping but he keeps his face calm. Maybe

  there is still some way out of this. He will admit nothing.

  He will say nothing.

  He allows them into his home. They stand in his sit-

  ting room, gl
ancing around. And then the female officer

  says that she is very sorry but there is ‘some bad news

  about your gran’.

  The two officers exchange a strange look. He thinks

  it might be pity. He doesn’t understand. And then he can

  feel his head twitching and there is this strange dizziness

  deep within him. They are still speaking but he’s now in

  this bubble so their words cannot quite reach him.

  He is looking at their mouths, watching their lips move

  and willing them out of his home. He does not want them

  here. Does not need to hear any more of this rubbish.

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  ‘You must have made a mistake. I’m sorry but I’m

  going to have to ask you to leave now.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry but there’s no mistake. Can I perhaps

  make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No.’

  * * *

  Much later he is in this terrible place which smells of

  chemicals and some other floral scent that is perhaps sup-

  posed to cover up the chemical smell. It fails. They have

  tried to make the room look respectful and calm. They

  have wasted their time.

  It looks as terrible a place as he can ever imagine.

  There is a sheet over the face of the woman who is

  dead. Still he is certain there has been some mistake.

  His gran would not do this. He’s warned again that the

  circumstances of death have led to a distortion of her

  appearance. He must brace himself. They need him to

  identify her. They are very, very sorry.

  The sheet is lifted back and there is that terrible twitch-

  ing of his head again. He cannot believe it and so he closes

  his eyes. It is as if time is this long, slim tunnel and he is being sucked away from this room – back, back, back.

  He is a small boy blowing out the candles of his birthday

  cake – his gran smiling at him. He is in the park on the

  slide – his gran waiting at the bottom, beaming. He is

  in his bedroom, knees curled up to his chin, dreading

  the knock-knocking on the door on a Wednesday night.

  There is a voice now. He opens his eyes to find they are

  asking him if he is able to confirm this is his grandmother.

  He’s back in the bubble and they repeat themselves and

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  so he nods. They move to replace the sheet but he shakes

  his head and holds up his hand to stop them.

  He looks some more.

  He cannot believe what has happened to her. He looks

  at the dark distortion that was once his grandmother’s

  beautiful, soft and ever-smiling face, and he swears deep

  inside himself that he will find who made her do this.

  He will make them pay.

  He will go to the ends of the earth until he has under-

  stood who drove her to this terrible thing. And he will

  make … them … pay.

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  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Alice

  Leanne has sent their company driver to take me to London

  this time. No more trains. It’s Friday and the traffic is

  dreadful. I feel a bit ridiculous sitting in the back, to be

  honest. Like royalty or something. But the chauffeur is a

  nice bloke; he drives well and, though he’s friendly, he’s

  taken the hint that I don’t want to chat.

  We are only about ten minutes away from Mum’s new

  nursing home, and so I message Jack again. He tipped

  me off early this morning that he’s now been pencilled

  in on the news desk diary to cover the demolition of the

  Maple Field flats in my place. He feels bad about this; he’s

  worried I’ll be upset with him for taking on my story. My position? Quite frankly I’m furious with Ted, but there’s

  also this small relief that he chose Jack – as I would still

  like to find a way to quietly play a part. Somehow.

  I’ve bounced this past Jack and asked him to keep

  it under his hat. Tom and Matthew will go nuts if I

  share this plan too soon. But Jack is more nervous than

  I anticipated. He’s like an echo of Ted now – worrying

  about my safety. The demolition is Wednesday, after all.

  My thinking is I will go along – low-key and entirely in

  the background – if Matthew can be persuaded to come

  too. That story means a lot to me. I’d just like to see it

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  through. See the wretched place come down. The look

  on the campaigners’ faces.

  I won’t step forward. I won’t make any kind of fuss.

  I just want to be there.

  ‘Right. Here we are. My instructions are to walk you

  inside. That OK?’ The chauffeur is unclicking his seat belt.

  ‘Fine by me. Thank you.’

  He gets out and opens my door. Again, it feels a bit

  formal, but I don’t want to cause offence. Good of Leanne

  to arrange this. She means well.

  Inside I am pleased to see they follow strict procedure

  at reception, checking my ID before issuing a visitor pass.

  They also confirm that rules about deliveries are in place

  regarding my mother. Good.

  I am escorted to the lift and up to the second floor

  by a second member of staff. Not sure if this is the norm

  or they are trying to impress, given the police have been

  in touch too.

  My mother’s room is as lovely as I remember it from

  the last visit. I glance at the little table in the corner where there are fresh white roses in a glass vase. I feel worried for a moment, remembering the pot plant and the concealed

  camera at the last home, but the nurse follows my gaze and

  confirms that Leanne brought them with her yesterday.

  And then I turn to my mother. Who is still in bed in

  a pale blue nightie, propped up with pillows.

  ‘She’s feeling a little weak today so we’re going to

  leave it a bit longer before she’s dressed. Is that a problem?

  Were you planning to go out into the garden?’

  I shake my head. No. I don’t have the courage to take my mother outside. Not with all this unresolved.

  There is a pale pink velvet chair alongside the bed,

  and I find it is unbelievably comfortable.

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  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  Her eyes open instantly at my voice.

  ‘My lovely girl.’

  Three words. Still her maximum.

  I smile, fighting the surge of tears inside at seeing her

  deterioration. For the first time, her skin looks the wrong

  colour. Her lips have a bluish tinge. Leanne warned me

  about all of this on the phone, but every change with

  every visit still shocks me.

  My mother nods towards the bedside table where

  Wuthering Heights is ready. We always keep to this deal.

  Leanne will sometimes play cards with my mother. Or

  Scrabble. Other times they will sketch together – a skill

  I do not have. But the reading job is mine.

  ‘So. Where were we?’ I open the book. There is a new

  bookmark at Chapter Twenty. It’s a child’s effort and it

  takes me a moment to recognise it. Pressed flowers – pink

  and purple – under some kind
of plastic covering. Not

  properly laminated; this is like the cruder covering we

  used to use for schoolbooks. Yes. I remember now these

  sheets, with paper which you had to peel off the back.

  There is a hole punched in the bottom of the marker and

  a faded pink ribbon tied through it in a bow. I tied that

  ribbon myself. Primary school? I was probably no more

  than eight.

  ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘The box.’ My mother tilts her head again. By the

  fireplace on the opposite wall there is a silver storage box

  which Leanne must have brought on her visit. I picture it

  in a different place – stored at my mother’s home under

  the stairs. We haven’t rooted through that box for years.

  It’s full of all sorts of family memorabilia, mostly things

  that Leanne and I made in school.

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  ‘You getting sentimental?’ I try to make my tone

  teasing, but in truth I am thinking of all those precious

  letters that I lost in the fire. I don’t want my mother to

  know any of my nightmare so I fight the tears and find

  a smile instead. My mother shrugs before smiling back

  and signalling with her hand that I should start reading.

  She closes her eyes. Wheezes. Her chest barely rising at

  all with each breath. Lips still too blue.

  I read for no more than fifteen minutes before she falls

  asleep again. I ring the button and the nurse arrives to con-

  firm that this is the normal pattern now. My mother finds

  it difficult to stay awake for very long. The lack of oxygen.

  ‘We talked about this?’ The nurse is searching my face

  as if to check if I’m facing up to what is really going on

  here. I just nod. Can’t speak.

  I ask her to say goodbye for me and to tell my mother

  that I’ll visit again very soon, then I carefully place the

  book with my bookmark back on the table. I press my

  hand on the cover for quite some time before I feel ready

  to peel myself away.

  Outside, I tell the driver that we need to take a small

  detour on the way back to Leanne’s home, and give him

  the postcode for Claire’s mother’s address. She may not

  be home and she may refuse to see me, but I am still a

  journalist, even if they won’t allow me back into the of-

  fice just yet, so working on this story feels like the right

  thing to do. If Claire and her partner are trying to rip off

  the victims of stalkers, I have to do something.