I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

by Teresa Driscoll

  way? The place is all set. Fully wired. There’s another

  security guard watching the front. We’re in charge until

  the demo team return.’

  Matthew then turns to Jack. ‘Right, Jack. You stay

  right here and you tell the police everything when they

  arrive.’

  ‘No. I want to come with you. I need to find Alice.’

  ‘You can be more help here, Jack. I need you to meet

  the police. Get the details of the demolition company and

  get them on site immediately. Yes? It’s very important.’

  Finally Jack nods, and then Matthew heads towards

  the gap in the wire fence.

  ‘Oh no, no, no. You can’t go in there. No way.’ The

  security guard tone’s is firm but he doesn’t challenge

  Matthew physically. Instead he’s dialling his phone. ‘I’m

  warning you. This is a dangerous site. I’m serious. You

  absolutely cannot go in there…’

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  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Alice

  ‘You really have no idea, Alice?’ The voice through the

  software sounds so very menacing. Like something from

  a film. Still he is in the shadows so I cannot see his eyes.

  In, one, two … out, one, two.

  I close my own eyes to tune out his voice and con-

  centrate on my breathing. Again, the struggle to fill my

  lungs properly makes me think of my mother.

  I picture her in her new home with its lovely staff.

  The vase of roses on her table. I picture the copy of

  Wuthering Heights on the shelf, waiting for me. I try to think of other family scenes. Better pictures. Lying on

  the grass, making daisy chains. My mother calling us –

  Leanne and me – over to the picnic rug. Lunch, girls. Egg sandwiches – smelly but delicious. Ice-cold drinks poured

  from a thermos into red plastic beakers.

  I summon more scenes. Grey school socks and scuffed

  shoes. My mother standing behind me, plaiting my hair.

  My mother singing to me. Stroking my hair after a night-

  mare. It’s going to be all right, my darling. Just a dream. It’s going to be all right…

  ‘I used to live here, Alice. In this flat. With my

  grandmother.’

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  I don’t know what to think. What’s he saying? I open

  my eyes to look at him again. I don’t understand.

  ‘She killed herself in this very room, Alice. Because

  of you. ’

  I feel utter shock. I have no idea what on earth he’s

  talking about. I have done nothing. I don’t know what

  he means. He’s making this up. He’s mad. He must be

  entirely mad.

  And then very slowly he puts the phone back into his

  pocket and he takes off the balaclava.

  My left eye starts twitching now. Like a tic. I can’t

  take in the picture, even in this gloom. I can’t make any

  of it fit.

  It’s Tom.

  I can see that it’s him. It’s his face. And his hair. And

  his mouth. But my brain is saying that it can’t be Tom.

  Tom is at the flat. Hurt at the flat. This man hurt him.

  Took me. I don’t understand.

  He is laughing. And now it is Tom’s laugh. Still, I

  can’t process this. My eye is still twitching.

  ‘You really had no idea, did you?’ He’s shaking his

  head from side to side. Tom’s voice. A version of Tom

  that seems full of hate. Tom. But not Tom.

  ‘You bought it all. The parents on a trip around the

  world. The smart family. The smart life.’ He pauses. ‘That

  photo by my bed? I took it from a magazine, Alice.’ I can

  feel my breathing getting worse. ‘And the Skyping? I just

  made that up. I knew you’d never want to say hello to them.’

  He is actually laughing now.

  ‘Oh, and hiring Matthew? Genius move, don’t you

  think? Hidden in plain sight. I’ve enjoyed that.’ There

  is a longer pause and he looks at the kitchen area now.

  ‘I paid the security guard to let me in here. He thinks

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  I’m recovering family mementos that were accidentally

  left behind.’ And now he looks back at me. ‘Your paper

  didn’t even cover the story. The inquest. She died. My

  grandmother died and none of you cared.’

  In one two. Out one two. Don’t black out, Alice. Don’t

  black out.

  ‘Open your eyes and look at me when I’m talking to

  you, Alice.’

  I do as he says, my whole body trembling.

  ‘She took tablets, Alice. And she put her head in that

  oven. All because of you. You and your stupid stories.’

  I let out this strange puff of air next, which feels hot

  with the gag; my lungs even more strained. Too empty.

  I can’t seem to suck in the air. And I can’t make any

  sense of what he’s saying. There was no opposition to the

  campaign; what on earth is he talking about?

  I glance across at the oven and at the shelves in the

  corner of the kitchen area. There are pots and pans and

  various kitchen implements, and on the left at the end

  of the row something else. I stare for a moment and feel

  a pang of new horror as I slowly make out the shape. A

  wooden board with a metal arm. Dear Lord. Oh no. It’s

  a special cheese cutter. A little board with cheese wire…

  He sees me looking, follows my glance to the shelving

  and the small board and then he’s laughing again.

  ‘That scare you, does it?’ He narrows his eyes, burn-

  ing his stare into me and clearly enjoying my fear. ‘My

  gran told me she used that to make sandwiches for my

  grandfather which he ate on a bench outside. Every day.

  Cheese and pickle.’ He pauses. ‘And he liked his cheese

  sliced thinly. Wire’s so much better than a knife.’

  He is speaking more slowly now. Still he is staring. I

  can feel tears coming. Feel faint.

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  I am going to use cheese wire on you…

  ‘Oh, Alice. Awful, isn’t it? Dreading something. But

  here’s the thing. Here’s the beauty of it.’ He pauses again.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t need to hurt you.’

  I have no idea what to think now. Whether to be

  relieved. Is he saying that he’s going to let me go? Did he

  just want to frighten me? Is this just about claiming my

  fear … or is this another trick? Some new taunt.

  ‘You are going to kill yourself, Alice.’ He laughs. ‘In the same place.’ He looks across at the oven again.

  What now? I picture him forcing me over there.

  Towards the oven. I try not to think but I imagine that

  he is going to give me pills. Fake my suicide. Is that it?

  This mad person. This mad version of Tom.

  He leans forward and seems to examine my face.

  ‘You still not getting it?’ Again there is a low laugh. ‘I

  am simply going to leave you here, Alice. I’m going to

  text the guard to confirm I’m out. And they are going

  to blow this place up. Boom. With you in it.’

  Suddenly my heart is thumping even harder. The

  demolition. Oh dear Lord.
>
  ‘After all, it’s what you wanted, Alice, isn’t it? This

  place gone.’

  And now, all of a sudden, I start to see it. I have no

  idea why he’s doing this. I have no idea how this version

  of Tom even exists. This narrative about his grandmother.

  This background so far from the story he told me. But

  I do understand where I am now. Maple Field House. I

  also know what is going to happen.

  There is a pause in which he just stares at me as if

  trying to read my reaction. But the bigger shock for me

  is that my fear does not grow. I picture what is going to

  happen and with that picture comes the shock of relief

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  that it is going to be quick. Somehow, blackly and bi-

  zarrely, this helps. Yes. Knowing at last – after all these

  weeks – what I am dealing with.

  There is a long silence, and in the hole of stillness,

  my next thoughts are another complete surprise to me.

  There is this jolt. A chemical surge. Almost like euphoria.

  Like a cloud lifting.

  If he is here, seeing this through, he cannot be with

  my mother; he cannot hurt my mother. That is not what

  this is about. It’s about me, not her.

  The realisation that it is just about me is both terrify-ing and strangely reassuring. So that the next emotion is

  the final and the biggest shock. Relief.

  Yes. Relief that he is not going to hurt my mother.

  I feel tears welling in my eyes because I realise suddenly

  that I love her so much more than I care about myself.

  I am afraid – yes. But my fear is suddenly less signifi-

  cant. Because it matters so much more to me that she is

  OK. That he is not going to hurt her.

  I feel something I never thought I would feel. Especially

  not here. Like this.

  I feel brave.

  Yes. I am actually trembling with the shock of dis-

  covering that I am not a coward after all.

  This man, this twisted version of Tom, cannot do any

  more to me. Because he does not understand the relief I

  feel. He doesn’t understand love.

  I picture my mother with her nurse and her cosy

  room. White roses on the table and Wuthering Heights

  on the shelf.

  I feel strangely jubilant now. Resigned. Relieved.

  Nothing matters now. My mother is safe. And so I start

  kicking with my foot against the table in front of me to

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  make a noise. Maybe someone will hear. I don’t know. I

  don’t care. It doesn’t actually matter anymore.

  ‘You need to stop that, Alice.’

  I kick some more, harder and louder. He moves to

  pull the table away from me but I twist to reach to the

  left to kick the sideboard instead.

  ‘Stop that, Alice. I’m warning you.’

  I kick louder and louder until he roars like a wounded

  animal. He leaps forward and puts his hands around my

  throat but still I kick.

  His grasp around my neck is tighter but I don’t care.

  My mother is safe. My mother is safe. I don’t care about him.

  Kick, kick, kick.

  And then suddenly there is this huge crashing noise.

  For a moment I fear it is one of the explosions being trig-

  gered too early. I feel faint from the struggle to breathe.

  My neck is so very sore and I want it to be over.

  I manage to move my head to the right. Is it the

  explosion? Is it all happening early? But there is no dust.

  No. It is not the demolition. It’s the door. Something is

  smashing – bang, bang, bang – against the door. Three huge blows until the wood is finally splintered.

  I am fading now. It feels like falling. Blackness on

  the periphery of my vision. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I

  am falling, falling, and when I manage to open my eyes

  again, I still can’t take it in.

  Somehow, Matthew is in the room now. Yes – it’s

  Matthew with a fire extinguisher in his hand. He swings it to hit Tom in the back.

  The hands around my neck are released but I feel

  giddy. Trying to get enough oxygen. Falling still.

  Through a haze I watch them fighting. I see Tom

  strike Matthew hard and then pull away. Tom is trying

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  to open the window in the kitchen. I see him stepping

  up on the sink. I think he is going to jump and I think:

  Good. Jump.

  But Matthew pulls him back down. There is more

  struggling. They are on the floor. The sound of blows.

  Flesh hitting flesh. Groaning. And finally, through the haze

  and the dimness, I hear Matthew talking to me. He has

  Tom pinned to the floor, over by the kitchen units now.

  ‘Alice. You need to try to breathe slowly for me. Can

  you do that, Alice?’

  I can hear sirens. Still I am falling. Fading. Through the

  gag across my mouth, I call out for her. For my mother…

  ‘The police are here. It’s going to be all right, Alice.

  You need to breathe slowly and hang in there, Alice.’

  Not his voice now. My mother’s hand stroking my

  hair. Her voice in my ear.

  It’s going to be all right, darling.

  329

  EPILOGUE

  Alice

  It is one of those classic October days – a mostly clear sky

  but surprisingly cold, with a strong breeze that sends the

  few clouds scurrying across the blue as if late for an ap-

  pointment. I watch them in their billowy haste as laughter

  ripples through the small crowd.

  The mayor is still speaking; he must have told a joke

  but I am no longer listening. I am mesmerised by the

  sunlight catching his chain and also the steel of the scis-

  sors in his hand, sending starbursts of gold patterning

  across the coats of the children, huddled near the front

  and clearly eager to be allowed to play.

  There is a yellow ribbon waiting for those scissors. It

  is tied in an ostentatious bow across the entrance to the

  new park – the final phase of the redevelopment project

  for the former residents of Maple Field House.

  There is applause, and at last the ribbon is cut and the

  children are ushered through the entrance by smiling

  parents. I watch the photographer from the paper that

  was once mine calling for smiles and posing little groups

  at each piece of new equipment. A double slide set on

  a tasteful bed of bark clippings. Little wooden animals

  on huge springs with handles shaped as ears. All carved

  in muted shades. Yes. All so beautifully designed, and a

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  million miles from the rising damp and the boarded-up

  shops of Maple Field House.

  And now, as the crowd begins to scatter, I see Matthew

  approaching and he gives me a small wave. Ah. He said he

  might come along but I did wonder. He has his daughter with

  him. She is quite lovely – golden ringlets to her shoulders.

  She is pointing, eager to try the slide, but Matthew is telling the photographer: ‘No pictures. Not my daughter. Sorry .’

/>   I move towards them. ‘You came.’

  ‘I wanted to see how it turned out. And to see you

  too, Alice. How are you doing?’

  I shrug. ‘Better.’

  ‘Good.’

  We watch his daughter negotiate the steps to the smaller

  of the slides. Matthew moves closer, saying, ‘Sorry, Alice.

  Excuse me.’ He is all at once distracted and stands protectively behind the wooden ladder, then rushes around

  to the front to greet her at the bottom of the shiny steel.

  His daughter repeats the cycle three times and then agrees

  to try the swing where it is a little easier for us to talk.

  ‘So are you still staying locally, Alice?’

  ‘Some of the time. I’ve been travelling a bit. With my

  sister and her children.’

  ‘Good. Yes. I remember you saying.’

  ‘How’s Melanie, by the way? Did you give her my best?’

  ‘I did. In fact – here.’ He takes his phone from his

  pocket and skims through several pages before holding

  the screen out to me. The picture is a close-up – Melanie

  laughing with a smiling, chubby-faced baby on her knee.

  ‘Oh wow. He looks gorgeous. Big.’ I laugh. ‘So how

  is Melanie coping?’

  ‘She’s exhausted, permanently covered in sick. And

  very, very happy.’

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  ‘I’m so pleased.’

  We pause as he puts the phone away and pushes the

  swing higher still.

  ‘You know, I’ve never really thanked you, Matthew. I

  mean – not properly. I was a bit of state through the court

  case.’ It’s been a long haul – the legal process moving so

  slowly. Matthew turns away from me, his gaze fixed on

  the swing.

  I watch him, guessing what he’s thinking. At first,

  he wouldn’t even let Leanne settle his bill. He blamed

  himself for not seeing through Tom. But it was no one’s

  fault. Even the judge said that.

  An unlucky cycle of trust. Matthew trusted in DI

  Sanders’ checks on Tom. But she’d delegated the back-

  ground checks on Tom to a DS. He said he’d done a

  thorough job but in truth cut corners; he made the mis-

  take of allowing Tom’s lawyer colleagues to vouch for

  him. A single phone call to the private school Tom never

  attended would have rumbled him.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t Melanie Sanders’

  fault either. He was very clever,’ I say. ‘He fooled every-

  one, Matthew. Even the judge commented on that in his

  summing up.’ I remember the words. You went to extra-