I Will Make You Pay (ARC)

by Teresa Driscoll

  ordinary lengths to reinvent yourself and to weave a particularly wicked web of lies.

  Tom had been in the drama society at university, we

  learned, and had taken voice coaching to achieve a middle

  England tone. None of his legal pals rumbled him.

  ‘Not everyone would have come in to that building

  after me. I am grateful, Matthew.’

  He keeps pushing the swing and then at last reaches

  between beats to gently touch my arm. ‘No need for

  thanks, Alice.’

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  The gesture – touching my arm – makes tears prick

  the back of my eyes and so I say nothing more. Just nod.

  I see a counsellor still – once a fortnight, struggling to

  trust my judgement. Taken in by Alex then Tom. Leanne

  and my counsellor say it’s because I’m a good person and

  see the best in people. They say the self-doubt will pass.

  I also have this terrible phobia now about colds.

  Anything blocking my nose. I have become a bit obses-

  sive about it – every night using sprays to try to keep my

  nose as clear as possible.

  Breathe, two, three. Breathe, two, three.

  Tom is serving life now but the trial was terrible. He

  pleaded not guilty to everything and simply refused to

  answer any questions at all. As if his silence could some-

  how defeat us.

  At first we could only surmise Tom’s motive. He

  refused in all police interviews to fully explain himself.

  His grandmother did indeed kill herself, just as he told

  me in the flat, but initially no one understood why. The grandmother had some of my cuttings in a file but that’s

  all anyone knew. The only link to me. Her inquest wasn’t

  covered by the paper as we were short of staff that day.

  But the inquest records were checked and the motive for

  the grandmother’s suicide was never clear.

  Then a search of Tom’s home found a letter and the

  gran’s diary, which finally explained it all. Tom’s grand-

  mother apparently loved her flat and desperately wanted to

  stay there. It sent a shiver right through me when I found that out. We honestly had no idea that anyone opposed the

  demolition campaign. I knocked on so many doors to get the

  full picture but don’t remember ever speaking to her. The

  campaigners were certainly never aware of any opposition.

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  The diary suggests only Tom knew his gran’s true

  feelings. And the timing confirms Tom targeted me quite

  deliberately. We started dating just a few weeks after his

  gran’s inquest. I go cold when I think of it. Those early

  dates. Me in his flat. Me in his bed. Unaware of the mask.

  All that hatred…

  He used accomplices, the police discovered. Mostly

  young criminals he met through his early years as a duty

  lawyer. Turns out he paid someone to spray that water

  in my face. To buy the plant for my mother. To call that

  morning at his flat, pretending to be a courier. And he

  paid off the security guards so he could drag me into the

  building. CCTV shows a large diving bag – a huge zip-

  up affair on wheels. I feel faint just thinking about it. I

  could have died in that bag.

  And then came the even bigger shock that stalking

  was not the only charge. When Tom’s DNA was taken,

  it matched evidence at the scene of an unsolved murder.

  Some loner who lived next door to his gran – bludgeoned

  in an alley a few years back.

  We have no idea why.

  Just as we still don’t know why Wednesdays. Why did

  he have a thing about Wednesday? The police asked over

  and over. But he refused to say.

  * * *

  The breeze is suddenly stronger, blowing my hair across

  my face. I move a strand and then find myself staring at

  my right hand.

  Now there’s this shudder right through me as I picture

  it exactly. Her hand in mine…

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  I was called to London just three days after Tom at-

  tacked me. We stayed by Mum’s bed – Leanne on a little

  camp bed on the left and me on the right. I held one hand

  and she held the other.

  They had to give Mum a lot of drugs to keep her com-

  fortable and so she slipped into a coma. I lay on my little

  bed on the floor, reaching up to hold her hand. All night

  I watched her chest rise and fall and I was counting and

  chanting in my head. Breathe, one, two. Breathe, one, two.

  When the chest was finally still, I was utterly bereft. I

  thought I would be relieved for her but I wasn’t. I made

  so much noise that people came running.

  ‘You have to calm down, darling.’ Leanne was dis-

  traught to see me like that. ‘Please, Alice. You have to

  calm down.’

  * * *

  I put my hand in my pocket now and look up to see

  Matthew signalling with his head that I should look

  behind me.

  Goodness. Jack.

  Matthew lifts his daughter from the swing and says

  his goodbyes. They are meeting Sally, his wife, for lunch.

  Have to hurry.

  I watch them leave, Amelie on her father’s hip, as Jack

  moves over, putting his notebook and pen in his pocket.

  ‘So you’re covering this?’

  ‘Yeah. Got everything I need. Nice pictures.’ He glances

  at the park, a dozen children still enjoying the new equip-

  ment, some of the parents sitting on the smart new benches.

  ‘It’s nice that there’s plenty of seating,’ I say.

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  ‘Yes. They transferred some plaques from those rickety

  benches in the centre of the grass at the old place. Nice

  touch. Dedicated to some of the first residents, apparently.’

  I just nod. I didn’t know that. I am taking in how well

  Jack looks. It’s an odd sensation. He looks so familiar and

  yet it feels strange to be in the same space as him again.

  I get this a lot – a sense of not quite fitting in the world

  as I should. Some days it feels as if I drift through scenes, watching them rather than taking part. The counsellor

  says it is a phase of adjustment and will pass.

  ‘Thank you for all your texts, Jack. I’m sorry I don’t

  always reply. I’ve been travelling a bit.’

  ‘That’s OK. I saw your piece, by the way, in the

  Sunday Herald. The exposé on that stalker charity. The alarm scam. Really good work, Alice.’

  ‘Thank you. It was nice to have something to do.

  Take my mind off the trial.’

  ‘Right. Good. Yes, of course. So – have you been of-

  fered a contract off the back of that? In London, I mean?’

  ‘No, no. Not sure journalism is right for me any-

  more, actually.’ I am very aware that Jack must know,

  as everyone knows now, about my name change. About

  Alex and what happened in my past. It all came out in

  the media coverage of Tom’s case. Not quite sure how,

  but it doesn’t matter now.

  ‘Really? So what are your plans then? Are you still


  local?’ He sounds wary. Maybe disappointed. I can’t tell.

  ‘I’m using Leanne’s place in Dorset at the moment.’

  ‘Ah. Slumming it, then?’

  I laugh. He smiles.

  ‘I’m doing some comms work with a charity now.

  A proper charity, supporting research into lung disease.’

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  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘Want to put something back for a bit. While I work

  out what to do long-term.’

  He just nods.

  Once again the wind whips up suddenly and I have

  to take my hands out of my pockets again to tuck my

  hair into the back of my coat collar.

  ‘Look, Alice, you must absolutely say if this is too

  soon. Or inappropriate. Or a bad idea.’

  I clench my right hand so that the nails are just dig-

  ging into the palm; I am thinking once again of how

  terribly I behaved with Jack at that Italian restaurant all

  that time ago. I think of him losing his wife. Letting go

  of her hand as I had to let go of my mother’s. You need to calm down, Alice. Please.

  What was I thinking? How crass of me. I want to in-

  terrupt him to say sorry again; that I understand a little

  better now.

  But he’s blushing. ‘Look, if it’s too soon you must say,

  but I was wondering if we could meet up. Try dinner

  again?’

  I am a little shaken now and stare into his face. ‘ Dinner? ’

  Surprised – yes. So that I don’t know quite what to

  say. I look down at my left hand. It looks pale in the cold.

  Jack’s right hand is alongside mine. Pinker.

  ‘As friends, you mean?’ I desperately want him to

  know that I’m sorry I upset him that last time. That I

  truly understand a little better now.

  ‘Well, no. Actually.’ The flush on his neck deepens so

  that you can see the red emerge just above his tartan scarf,

  creeping upwards towards his chin. ‘I meant like a date,

  actually. Like I say – if it’s too soon, you must absolutely

  say, Alice.’ He is talking much too quickly. Gabbling

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  almost. ‘I bolted the last time because I wasn’t ready. I

  mean – I still miss my wife, Alice. I’m not going to lie.

  But the thing is, I really care about you very much. And

  I’d really like to see if—’

  I move my hand just a fraction and he clasps it sud-

  denly. Tight. His flesh so much warmer than mine.

  ‘Sorry. Cold hands…’ I say.

  ‘Warm heart. Is that a yes, Alice?’

  I just nod and look down at our two hands, joined.

  Grief, I learn, is the strangest thing. Sometimes I am

  convinced that I see her. My mother. I conjure up her

  ghost and I fancy that she turns to wave at me from across

  the street. And sometimes in the quiet and the stillness of

  the night, I am certain that I hear her voice.

  Jack is staring at me and I am listening hard because

  deep inside me I fancy that I hear her voice right this min-

  ute. A whisper like a shell held up tight, tight to my ear.

  It is going to be all right, my darling girl.

  Jack is smiling at me now.

  I am smiling too.

  It is going to be all right.

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  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I was a young reporter just starting out, I really did

  take a threatening call – just like Alice in this story. My

  caller rang me three times … the same day each week.

  First he threatened me. Then he taunted me over where

  I had been that day. And then finally (and bizarrely) he

  apologised for upsetting me. He said he had been going

  through a rough time and was very sorry to have taken

  it out on me. He promised he meant me no harm … and

  I never heard from him again.

  I remember feeling so relieved that this horrid spell

  was over. But the experience never left me. I was very

  afraid during those few weeks when I did not know what

  the calls were about. Or how serious they were.

  When I realised all these decades later that I wanted

  to examine this theme in an entirely fictional story, I

  promised myself that I would only do so if I could counter

  the negative with a celebration of courage and love. And

  that’s why I put Alice and her mother’s love at the heart

  of this story…

  Because fear is a terrible thing. But, as I know from

  my many years in journalism, courage and love are thank-

  fully always more powerful in the end.

  Thank you again for reading I Will Make You Pay. If

  you have enjoyed the novel, I would enormously appreciate

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  Teresa Driscoll

  a review on Amazon. They really do help other people

  to discover my books.

  I also love to hear from readers, so feel free to get

  in touch. You can find my website at www.teresa-

  driscoll.com and also say hello on Twitter @teresad-

  riscoll or via my Facebook author page: www.facebook/

  TeresaDriscollAuthor.

  Warm wishes to you all,

  Teresa

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There should be a special award for the families of writers

  who never know which version of the author they will

  meet each day. The confident one. The panicked one.

  The one declaring that a deadline simply cannot be met.

  So above all I send my thanks and love to my gorgeous

  folk – Pete and James and Ed – with my eternal gratitude

  for your patience and support. I would like to tell you

  that I will be so much calmer over the next book. But

  we all know better!

  A special thank you next to the amazing folk at Thomas

  & Mercer, who champion my novels with extraordinary

  energy and expertise – with a special shout-out to my

  truly wonderful editors, Jane Snelgrove and Ian Pindar.

  My eternal gratitude as always to my lovely agent

  Madeleine Milburn and her team, whose support, ex-

  pertise and cheerleading skills are just incredible.

  A group hug also to the warm and wonderful writing

  community – by which I mean those fellow authors who

  so generously share wisdom (along with virtual, late-night

  clinking of glasses when things are going awry).

  And finally – a thank you from the bottom of my heart

  to all my lovely readers. Your reviews and your messages

  really do mean the world.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  For more than twenty-five years as a

  journalist – including fifteen years as

  a BBC TV news presenter – Teresa

  Driscoll followed stories into the

  apher]

  togr

  shadows of life. Covering crime for

  hoP

  so long, she watched and was deeply

  moved by all the ripples each case

  ear] [Y [

  caused, and the haunting impact on

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  the families, friends and witnesses

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  involved. It’s those ripples that she

  explores in her darker fiction.

  Teresa lives in beautiful
Devon with her family. She

  writes women’s fiction as well as thrillers and her novels

  have been sold for translation in twenty languages. You

  can find out more about her books on her website www

  .teresadriscoll.com or by following her on Twitter @

  TeresaDriscoll or on Facebook at www.facebook.com

  /TeresaDriscollAuthor.

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