by Julie Corbin
‘This room doesn’t belong to someone without a self.’ I gesture at the walls, the bedspread and the vase of flowers on the table. ‘There’s so much love and care gone into this room.’
‘I’m playing the part of someone who has a room like this.’
‘Why? When you could be like the people you live with.’
‘I like to pretend I’m a different sort of girl. An Emily.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Your daughter thinks that you’re not a proper family any more because her father left her. But she has no idea how bad it can get.’
‘I know Lauren has found it difficult since Phil left, but she will come to terms with it.’
Kirsty picks up her parents’ photo and stares at it before looking back at me. ‘Do you believe in fairytales?’
‘Wicked stepmothers and handsome princes?’ I sigh. ‘Real life is never that black and white.’
‘Still, you might remember that in fairytales, bad deeds don’t go unpunished.’
‘Fairytales are stories, Kirsty. Nothing more.’ I know what she’s driving at and I don’t want to hear any more. I look at my watch again and stand up. ‘I’m sorry, but I really do need to go now.’ I’m going to be almost an hour late for O’Reilly.
‘You want your children to stay safe.’ Her eyes are challenging. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Of course. That’s what every mother wants.’ I glance across at Sandy’s photo. ‘Do you think your mother would want you to avenge her death in such a violent and dangerous way? Setting yourself on a path of prosecution and prison?’
‘I have no idea. I never knew my mother.’
‘Well, I did. I knew her. And she was full of beauty and light and love for everyone. But mostly for you, Kirsty.’ I pause, hoping that somewhere inside her wounded heart, my words will take root. ‘She wanted you more than she’d ever wanted anything or anybody in her whole life.’
I continue to talk about Sandy, but within moments Kirsty has stuck her fingers in her ears and started humming, all the time watching my lips, and when they’re no longer moving, she takes her fingers out and says airily, ‘You done with the eulogy?’
‘Kirsty—’
‘My mother’s dead – dead – while you’re a public figure with your City Women award. How can that be fair?’
‘Life isn’t fair. Life is complex and confusing. It’s unpredictable. There are no certainties and no forevers.’
‘That’s easy for you to say!’ She points a finger into my face. ‘You have it all!’
‘I don’t!’ I almost laugh. ‘Life has never been easy for me. I’ve worked hard for everything I have and still my marriage failed and still I’ve made mistakes that haunt me.’ Her frown softens. ‘I’m sorry that your life has been hard and I’m sorry that I played a part in that, but you have taken your revenge. You spiked Robbie’s drink and caused me to have the worst few hours of my life. You befriended my family under false pretences. You’ve lied to the police and used Tess as a shield.’
‘A lot of it was her idea.’
‘I don’t believe that.’ I take hold of her shoulders. ‘Kirsty, I know what it’s like to be a teenager and to get in over your head but really – you have to stop now.’
‘Or what? You’ll tell the police? Have me arrested?’ She’s trying for bravado but her lips are trembling. ‘They don’t have any hard evidence and I’ll deny everything you tell them.’
‘I’m not threatening you, Kirsty. I want you to see that this course of action is not healthy for you. Hard as it is, you need to let it go.’
‘I don’t think I can.’ It’s a whispered admission of weakness. ‘It feels too important.’
‘You don’t have to get through it alone. I could find you someone experienced to talk to. Someone who will help you put all of this into perspective.’ I reach for the door handle and pull. ‘Why don’t we meet up tomorrow and talk?’ I step into the hallway and into my shoes. ‘I promise you’ll get through this.’
‘You’ll call me tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’ I place a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. It’s all going to work out.’
13
I run from Kirsty’s flat back to my car and experience a further soaking, and now the car’s steamed up and the heater’s going full blast. I drive far too fast because I’m well over an hour late for my meeting at the police station. Phil will already be there with the children, pacing up and down, no doubt, and O’Reilly will be wondering what’s stopped me turning up this time.
I keep my shaky hands on the wheel as I negotiate my way through the late evening traffic, accelerating through amber lights that change to red just as I cross the intersection. A van driver sounds his horn and I fix my eyes up ahead. Despite the warm air that’s circulating through the car’s interior, my teeth are chattering. I feel drained from the emotional intensity of my meeting with Kirsty. Although I’m angry about what she did to Robbie, I can’t help but feel sorry for her. At times she was childlike, bitter about life’s inequalities and unwilling to accept the enormity of her own lies and acts of vengeance. But at other times, I could see through her mistrust and hurt feelings to the real girl underneath. I think she’ll respond well to counselling. The talking cure doesn’t work for everyone, but for Kirsty, who’s able to articulate her feelings, I think it will help her see her situation more clearly. Not only does she have her mother’s death to properly come to terms with, but her father is not going to recover. He may not live much longer, and that is bound to be another tipping point for her.
When I get to the police station, I can’t find a parking space. I have to park further along the road and then run back a hundred yards or more. Another drenching and I’m aware that by the time I enter the building I’m beyond bedraggled. My hair is both dripping on my shoulders and frizzing up over my skull like candyfloss. My skirt has been soaked twice and is now misshapen and flapping against my tights, which are splashed with dirty water.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ Phil shouts as I enter the foyer.
‘I’m sorry. I got stuck with a patient.’
‘You couldn’t have answered your phone?’
‘No,’ I say sharply, my eye catching that of the desk clerk, who’s clearly seen it all before. ‘Otherwise I would have done, wouldn’t I?’
‘You’re dripping wet.’ He’s frowning, shaking his head at my perceived incompetence. When we were married, this side of him manifested itself as solicitous and caring, but now it’s critical and nagging.
‘Where are the children?’ I say.
‘They’re in the staff room watching TV. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes calling you.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘Erika is waiting for me.’
I can’t help but roll my eyes. He doesn’t notice because he’s staring at the floor, twisting his ring on his finger – a present from Erika, it’s a signet ring embossed with a seal of some sort – his expression worried. ‘The children didn’t take the news well.’
‘What news?’ I say, a split second before it comes to me – his impending marriage.
‘What do you mean, what news?’ he snaps.
‘All right!’ I snap back. ‘I remember now. I’m sorry.’ My third apology in less than two minutes. I take a moment to slow down and try to see this from his point of view. He wants to be a good father and the children are upset that he’s remarrying. He needs me to help smooth the way. And I will. For the children’s sake, not for his. ‘So what did they say?’
It turns out Lauren burst into tears as soon as he told them, and Robbie sat with his arms crossed and refused to comment. ‘Neither of them spoke through dinner. Lauren ate nothing. Robbie wolfed his down and then ate Lauren’s as well.’
‘Good old Robbie!’ I say, trying to introduce a lighter note. ‘Nothing comes between him and his appetite.’
Phil manages a weak smile. ‘I’m not sure where to go from here.’
‘I’ll have a word with them,’ I say. ‘T
hey just need some time to get used to the idea.’
‘Thank you.’ He looks momentarily humbled. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘How very grown up we’re being!’ I say breezily and then, just like that, I remember what was written in Trevor’s diary. My face flushes and my eyes fill up with angry tears as Phil’s eighteen-year-old deception barges to the forefront of my mind.
‘I know this is difficult for you, Liv.’ Phil brings a tissue out of his pocket. ‘But my getting married—’
‘It’s not that.’ I take the tissue from him. I’m not crying but I use it to wipe the rainwater off my face. He’s watching me, his expression softer than I’ve seen in a long time but I’m not about to be diverted. ‘I want to talk to you about what’s been happening,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry.’ He lays a comforting hand on my upper arm. ‘O’Reilly is confident they’ve made a breakthrough. Forensic results have come through and there’s a positive match on prints with a girl called Tess Williamson. She came to your surgery, I believe?’
‘She didn’t do it.’ I shake my head. ‘She was bullied into taking part.’
‘Olivia, you can’t possibly know that.’
‘I do know that, actually. I do bloody know that and I’ll tell you why I know that. Because this,’ I hiss, my temper rising through me like steam, ‘this—’
‘Keep your voice down.’ He takes my elbow and leads me over to the side where we’re well out of the desk clerk’s earshot. ‘Why are you shaking?’
‘Because I’m angry, Phil. And shocked and hurt and . . .’ I bite my lip but it doesn’t stop me from spewing out, ‘Fucking, fucking furious with you.’ His face shuts down and he steps away from me. I hear O’Reilly’s voice further along the corridor and I reach for Phil’s lapels and say, ‘This is about Sandy Stewart’s death and the baby that you and Leila told me was dead.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ His expression is a sneer. ‘What can this possibly have to do with Sandy Stewart?’
‘Dr Somers, you made it.’ O’Reilly is coming towards me. He’s smiling. I can’t smile back.
‘You look like you had to battle through the rain to get here,’ O’Reilly says. ‘Toilets are that way if you want to freshen up.’
I take the cue and walk off in the direction of O’Reilly’s pointing hand. The toilet is just round the corner and as I push open the door, I’m greeted by a guffaw of laughter. There are two women in front of the mirror, applying make-up as if this is a nightclub not a police station. Their hilarity is exactly what I need to dispel my anger. I choose a sink next to the two of them and rummage in my bag for a hairbrush. I do intend to take Phil to task about his interference eighteen years ago, but I want to do it without losing my temper. I don’t want him to have the excuse of focusing on, not so much what I’m saying, but the way I’m saying it. He loves to take the high ground on ‘respectful communication’.
My eyes sting as I envisage Phil going home to Erika and telling her that I’m losing it, and all the more reason for him to have shared custody of the children. I can hear Erika playing devil’s advocate, being sympathetic to me because that’s how she sells herself – angelic, thoughtful, always willing to help the downtrodden. The fact that she stole another woman’s husband is conveniently forgotten – yes, I know Phil wouldn’t have gone if he wasn’t willing, and the way I feel about him now, she’s more than welcome to him – but still, she did that. She came between a husband and his wife and now they’re planning their wedding.
‘You get caught in the rain without a brolly?’ one of the women asks me.
‘And some,’ I say, staring at the horror that is my hair. Frizzy and flyaway at the best of times, it looks as if I’ve deliberately combed it into a bird’s nest tangle for Halloween fancy dress. I spend a couple of minutes brushing it out and the two women tell me why they’re at the police station. They are mother and daughter, and the daughter’s soon-to-be ex-husband has been harassing them. They took matters into their own hands and slashed his car tyres.
‘Not very mature,’ the mother says. ‘But ever so satisfying. You married?’
‘Not any more,’ I say. ‘My husband’s out there doing his best to make me want to stab him. He makes me so mad.’
‘Ignore him,’ the daughter says. ‘Even better, build yourself some armour. This is what I do, I look in the mirror and I say “Dave Smith is an arse”.’ She turns to me and gives me a quizzical look. ‘And who wants to be married to an arse?’
I smile. ‘Not me.’
‘There you go then. You try it.’
‘Okay.’ I’m willing to try anything. I square my shoulders in front of the mirror, take a breath and say quietly, ‘Phil Somers is an arse.’
‘You have to mean it,’ the mother says, nudging me. ‘Have another go.’
So I say it three more times and find that they’re right – it’s surprisingly helpful. It hardens me up. Makes me see that he has no control over me any more. It’s not all about what he thinks and – truthfully – he does behave like an arse. It’s worth reminding myself of that.
By the time I leave the bathroom, I’m smiling. O’Reilly is still in the foyer waiting for me. ‘You look better.’
‘I was having some therapy in the toilets,’ I say.
‘Oh?’
‘A couple of women are championing the way forward for women without men.’
‘All men are useless and all women are fools for putting up with them, is that it?’
‘Not exactly. But it is about not feeling cowed by their opinion. Phil is in the habit of making me feel small,’ I say, as if O’Reilly hasn’t witnessed it for himself. ‘I have to be careful not to take it on board because he always uses it against me.’
‘Good for you,’ he says, not in an offhand way, but with a sincerity that lets me know he means it.
I walk along the corridor with him and into a bare, grey-walled room with a metal table and three metal chairs, all of which are screwed into the floor.
‘Is this one of the interrogation rooms?’ I say, my eyes drawn towards the camera in the corner.
‘These days we call them interview rooms. But, don’t worry, the camera isn’t switched on.’ He waves his arm. ‘Take a seat.’ I sit down at the table and he sits opposite me. ‘I hear you called me this afternoon?’ he says.
‘You were in court.’
‘Was there a problem?’
‘No. Not really.’
‘We have some good news.’ He smiles. ‘Forensic results came back on the fingerprints. Tess Williamson’s were found in two places in your house: on the living-room wall and on the door handle.’
‘Phil told me.’
‘We’ll pick her up this evening and charge her with breaking and entering. We can’t tie her to the drink spiking yet but—’
‘I don’t think you should charge Tess,’ I say loudly.
‘And why’s that?’
‘Emily . . . Kirsty texted me earlier and asked me to meet her.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes.’
His eyes narrow. He has a pen in his hand and he taps it several times on the table.
‘That was why I called you,’ I say. ‘To ask you whether you thought it was wise for me to meet up with her. But I couldn’t reach you, and I remembered that all you’d said was that I should be wary of her and not let her in my house.’
The look on his face tells me that this doesn’t quite get me off the hook. He clears his throat. ‘So what did she say?’
‘A lot.’ I summarise about half of what was said, telling him about her bitterness towards me for ending her mother’s life but also the softer side of her and the vulnerability she showed when talking about her parents. ‘I think she could do with some counselling. There’s a very good chance she’ll be able to get past this—’
‘Did she say she was planning on taking more action against you and your family?’
‘No.’
‘Di
d she admit to coming to your house?’
‘She told me that she and Tess did it together.’
‘Did she admit that she spiked Robbie’s drink?’
‘Yes.’
He bangs the palms of his hands on the table – not that loud and not that hard, but the room is otherwise quiet and I jump. ‘I’m sorry.’ He stands up. ‘Excuse me a moment. Until I have the whole story, I need to stop Bullworks from bringing Tess in.’
He leaves the door open and goes off along the corridor, clearly irritated. I imagine myself in his position: he’s busy – too many cases and not enough time; members of the public blundering their way around his investigations; it has to be annoying. It’s like patients who ask for an NHS referral. I spend time sourcing treatment, writing emails, checking budgets and then I find out, almost by the way, that they’ve changed their mind or are getting it done privately and all my effort has been for nothing.
When O’Reilly comes back into the room he has an A4 pad with him. ‘Okay. Let’s just write down exactly what was said.’
‘I hope I haven’t caused you more work.’
‘Dr Somers, I think it’s important you don’t lose sight of what Kirsty did to Robbie.’ His face is serious. ‘This could have been a murder investigation.’
‘I know.’ I swallow quickly. ‘I haven’t forgotten that, but I think Kirsty got out of her depth with the drink spiking. She said she didn’t intend to give Robbie enough to make him lose consciousness. It was malicious, but she didn’t mean any real harm. She was trying to upset me. She perceives me as being someone who has everything, and that’s made her bitter.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t share your bleeding heart,’ O’Reilly says tartly. ‘But this is a girl who has a sustained ability to lie, to assume another persona and to bully an accomplice into aiding and abetting her. She doesn’t need counselling; she needs some time in a prison cell.’
‘I said I would talk with her tomorrow and . . .’ I trail off and look around the room. ‘Is that not a good idea?’
