by Jess Ryder
‘I’m sorry to hear you don’t believe in our students.’
‘Oh, give me a break…’ He can’t stand the word ‘believe’. Or ‘dream’, for that matter. In his view, the phrase ‘believe in your dreams’ should be universally banned, punishable by death.
‘You seem to be under a lot of stress at the moment,’ she continues. ‘I don’t want to intrude, but is there something going on in your private life? Obviously, I’m sympathetic, but I can’t have your problems impacting negatively on the students.’
‘There’s nothing going on,’ he mumbles.
‘Maybe you should see your GP, take some time off sick. Have you thought about counselling? Or Cognitive Behavioural Therapy? I’ve heard that can be very helpful.’
‘I’m fine. It’s the job that’s shit.’
‘Hmm…’ She puts down her pen and sits back in her chair. The snakes on her head shift slightly, as if waking up. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to issue you with a verbal warning.’
‘Whatever…’
‘Don’t come in tomorrow, Chris. Stay at home and reflect on what’s happened today. See a doctor. Think about what’s really bugging you, and what you can do about it. Okay?’ She nods towards the door, dismissing him.
Chapter Sixteen
Me
It’s Cake Club day. Every week, eight of us in the communications department – seven girls and a token man – take it in turns to bring in home-made calorie fests. Sponges, brownies, muffins, tartlets, tray bakes… Work stops promptly at twelve for the tasting, which eases nicely into lunch. They’re at it now, my fellow Cake Clubbers, gathered around the design assistant’s desk, picking crumbs off their lips, slurping at their fingers and saying, ‘I mean, like YUM, Amy!’ – agreeing that just one bite of her chocolate hazelnut torte is better than sex, which for a couple of them is probably true.
‘Come on, Meri, you’re missing out.’ Amy holds up a slice of torte, balanced precariously on a piece of kitchen towel. I smile and shake my head. It was my turn to bake this week but I managed to swap with her, thank God. I’ve got enough on my plate without making cupcakes.
I retreat to my computer screen, deleting the non-urgent or copied-in emails that have been pinging their way into my inbox over the last few days; deleting, filing or fraudulently marking them as read. Clicking and dumping, clicking and dumping. My body’s here but my mind’s gone AWOL; for all the use I am, I might as well have stayed at home. I’ve never felt so tired in my life.
I can’t sleep – keep having these really horrible dreams. Sometimes I’m wandering about, in a field or down a busy street, or even a shopping mall, searching for somebody, always searching. I don’t know who I’m looking for, because I never find them. In other dreams, I’m being chased. The locations change; sometimes I’m deep underground, or in a labyrinth with high walls, but usually I’m at Darkwater Pool. The sense of dread is overwhelming. I mean, absolutely terrifying. Somebody wants to hurt me, really badly. My life is at stake and I have to run. But I don’t know which way to go, can’t see a way out. I have to force myself to walk into the blackness, edging forward like a blind girl with my hands outstretched. I know I should just run, run as fast as I can, but I can’t see where I’m going. My steps shorten, then slow down, then stop… I’ve reached a dead end. My attacker is behind me. I can hear their footsteps, their heavy breath on the back of my neck. I want to see their face, keep trying to turn around, but it’s as if I’ve been paralysed, my feet welded to the ground. Then a dull pain hits me between my ribs and I fall to the ground, screaming. Last night my screams were so loud they woke Fay. She thought I was being raped in my bed and nearly called the police.
‘For God’s sake, don’t do that!’ she yelled from my bedroom doorway. ‘You scared the life out of me.’
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘Nightmare…’
She rolled her eyes at me. ‘It’s the third time this week. How old are you?’ This from a woman wearing a nightie appliquéd with a teddy hugging a pink heart.
I nearly told her, but it was obvious she wasn’t in the mood for a deep midnight chat. Fay doesn’t know about the videotape, or the murder case. I’ve been acting pretty strangely these past couple of months but she hasn’t once asked if I’m okay. That’s fair enough, I guess. We’re flatmates, not friends. Fay and Lizzie advertised my room when their other ‘bezzie’ went travelling. I think they were hoping I’d replace her, but for some reason – probably my fault – we haven’t bonded. Now that Lizzie’s virtually moved in with her boyfriend, Fay’s feeling pissed off and is taking it out on me.
It’s almost a week since I went to Birmingham, and there’s been no word from Eliot. I’m still feeling angry about the way he behaved. I know I shouldn’t have raided his briefcase, but he was being so pompous and patronising. Anyway, I’m not going to apologise for that unless he apologises to me first. And I can’t just give up on my search for Becca. I know her disappearance is connected to the murder case, I just haven’t worked out how yet. First I need to find out more about what happened all those years ago.
There is somebody I could talk to about it – somebody who knows almost more than anyone. Eliot would tell me to keep well away, but the longer the silence between us, the more inclined I am to risk it. I could do it today. This lunchtime, in fact. She’s only fifteen minutes’ walk away, been there all week, at the Scottish church, just behind Tottenham Court Road, rehearsing for her latest production – a radical adaptation of Jane Eyre.
Isobel Dalliday. Judging by her Twitter feed, she takes lunch between one and two, so if I’m going to do it today, I’ve got to leave within the next ten minutes. Why shouldn’t I? She can hardly blame me for accosting her, not when she announces her every movement to the entire world. She obviously thinks people are interested. I started following her after I saw the inscription on the bench at Darkwater Pool. Love you forever, Isobel. A very public declaration. But that’s what she’s like. She blogs and tweets continuously, turns up at loads of public events, and is an outspoken supporter of left-wing causes. I don’t have a problem with that; she just seems a bit too good to be true. But she was Cara’s best friend, she owned the house in Darkwater Terrace, knew Christopher Jay. She may even have known Becca.
‘Meeting a friend for lunch,’ I tell Amy and the girls, applying a quick swipe of lipstick and picking up my coat. ‘If I’m not back by two, say I’ve gone to a meeting, will you?’
I walk through Chinatown, cutting across Soho Square and emerging at the grubbier end of Oxford Street. It feels good, darting through the trudging tourists and hurrying shoppers, moving in the slipstream of the city’s energy. I weave through foreign students smoking outside a language school, get shouted at by a rickshaw driver as I cross and take one of the quiet fashionable side streets that run parallel to Tottenham Court Road. My pace is urgent, eyes on the target, my flat black pumps skimming the pavement. Every nerve is tingling as I take the dog-leg turn, then a small right, skip straight over at the junction, hang right again and finally double back. A smile twitches as I arrive in the windswept, littered square. I find the annexe at the back of the church and check the time: Isobel should be out in about ten minutes, assuming they stick to schedule. I sit on the cold concrete steps and run a silent rehearsal of my own – got to get the opening words right.
Virtually bang on one, the doors swing open and half a dozen scruffily dressed actors spill onto the steps, pulling on jackets and odd hats, all rapidly talking at once. Isobel isn’t among them. I stand up quickly, hoping to slip inside before the door closes, but I’m too late. I press my forehead to the window. What if she doesn’t go out for lunch? What if I’ve already missed her? The actors are ambling across the square in the direction of the pub. I think about running after them to ask if they know where she is. I don’t know what to do. My confidence is ebbing away and I’m about to give up when I see her walking into the foyer. She stands there in close conversation with an overweight guy in baggy, un
seasonal shorts – the stage manager perhaps? His phone rings and he holds up a hand in apology, turns and steps into a room to take the call, leaving Isobel on her own. Please come out now, I whisper, moving back onto the pavement.
Isobel puts on a long, beautiful cardigan – hand-knitted in heathery colours – and hitches a large leather bag onto her shoulder. She presses a button and pushes against the entrance door. As soon as she’s outside, she pauses, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. I stand there, blocking her way. She lights up and takes a long drag, looking at me suspiciously.
‘Excuse me, Ms Dalliday. I was wondering if… I mean, do you mind if… You see, I…’ I stall, feeling my cheeks turning pink. That’s not how I’d planned to start.
‘Please don’t ask for my autograph.’ Isobel signals at me to move out of her way. ‘It’s so naff.’
‘No, no, it’s not that. I was wondering if I could talk to you. It’s a personal matter.’
Isobel halts, pulling on her cigarette. ‘Oh dear,’ she sighs, exhaling a large white puff of smoke. ‘If you’re an actor, this is a really bad way to get my attention.’
I take a big breath, casting my line out far and deep. ‘I’m not an actor. I’m Rebecca Banks’s daughter.’
We sit in a little Italian café on a side street and I buy the coffees. As I carry them to the table, Isobel finishes sending a text and puts her phone away.
‘Okay, so what’s this about?’ Her deep blue eyes peer inquisitively from beneath her shiny black hair, expensively cut into a bob.
‘It’s a bit complicated to explain…’
She stirs the chocolate sprinkles into her cappuccino. ‘Well, I’ve only got forty-five minutes.’
So I tell her my story. It’s hard to know how and where to begin, hard to push the emotion to one side to let the facts – or fictions – speak for themselves. Isobel listens intently, her gaze never breaking away from mine. She doesn’t interrupt. Neither of us drinks our coffee. The words start to flow and I find myself going much further and much deeper than I intended: my childhood, Becca’s illness, the suicide attempts, the hospital visit, the disappearance… I tell her how Dad tried to make up for the loss, tried to wipe my mother’s memory from my mind, and almost succeeded. Then the videotape turned up. Now everything’s been turned upside down and I don’t know who’s telling the truth. Isobel keeps nodding like she completely understands.
‘I’d love to see the video,’ she says. ‘Can you email me a copy?’
‘Well, yes, but… why?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Because I want to see the moment you reveal you’re the reincarnation of Cara.’
I stare at her, stupefied. What? This is not the reaction I was expecting and absolutely not why I wanted to see her. ‘No… no – you don’t understand,’ I stammer. ‘I’m not saying I’m the reincarnation of Cara, not at all.’
‘Don’t just dismiss it out of hand,’ Isobel says, her tone slightly reproving. ‘A lot of people believe in reincarnation. Buddhists for a start.’
‘I know, but… My mother was psychotic, she’d lost all grip on reality…’
‘Honestly, I’ve read several books about it,’ she carries on, pausing briefly to sip her cold coffee. ‘There are thousands of cases of children with past lives; there’s even been proper academic research. Okay, so it’s in the States, but they’re not all idiots. And these families, they can’t all be telling lies.’
‘I still don’t think, in this particular case—’
‘I’ve always been fascinated by reincarnation.’ Isobel leans forward, beautifully aligned white teeth framed by scarlet lips. ‘I directed a play about it once, based on an incident in India. There was this boy who claimed he was a murdered shopkeeper; knew his name and everything, all about his wife and kids. He was six years old! He took his parents to a town a hundred miles away, knew exactly where to find the shop, and it was all true. Of course, then he was torn between the two families, it was agony for him. The play wasn’t great, if I’m honest, but it was an amazing story.’
I don’t know what to say.
She reaches out and grabs my arm. ‘Please, let me watch the video. I’ll tell you if it’s genuine or not. It’s virtually impossible to coach a four-year-old like that – I should know, I’ve worked with child actors.’ She lets out a short laugh. ‘Your mother wouldn’t make such a thing up, even if she was ill. You were her little girl. She loved you.’
You haven’t a clue about how this illness works, I think, but I don’t argue. Isobel’s clearly a bit bonkers, but at least I’ve got her interest and hopefully she can tell me more about what happened. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘If you want. But please don’t show it to anyone else.’ I give her my mobile number and she gives me her business card. I promise to email her the footage by the end of the day.
‘We’ll have a nice long lunch at my club next week and talk about it properly,’ Isobel says. ‘I’ll look at my diary and ping you a date.’ We stand up and she puts on her cardigan. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that we’ve met.’ She holds out her arms and hugs me into her soft, heaving bosom. I feel like a small animal about to be crushed with love. As I briefly suffocate against her woolly chest I decide I like Isobel Dalliday. She may have some way-out beliefs, but she’s the only one who understands how I feel.
‘I still miss Cara,’ she says softly in my ear. ‘I think about her every single day.’ As she pulls away, I see tears in her eyes. ‘Right,’ she sniffs. ‘Better get back to rehearsals.’ She swings her bag over her shoulder. ‘Send me the tape. Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Chapter Seventeen
Cara
May 1984
The weather had recently taken a turn for the better and they were holding their weekly company meeting in the garden, flattening the overgrown grass as they sat in a circle, their legs stretched towards the centre like the spokes of a wheel. Isobel was holding forth about everyone needing to get more involved in the marketing side of Purple Blaze – disappointingly, they still had no bookings for their show and it was virtually ready for performance. Cara was feeling hot and bothered. Jay had deliberately sat next to her and was lying back at an angle supported by his outstretched arms, his left hand so close to hers she could feel a current passing between their fingertips. He’d been in this mischievous mood all morning. The rules were no touching and no secret glances, rules she’d insisted on, but God, was he testing her resolve. She tried to focus on what Isobel was saying – something about publicity leaflets – but all she could think about was the night before and the night to come.
She felt as if she’d given birth to a new version of herself – a brave, daring, almost reckless Cara, whom she admired almost as much as she loved Jay. Their affair had been going on for three weeks now, and they were sure the others didn’t have a clue. Although the sex was amazing – nothing before had even come close – it was the secrecy that thrilled her most. It was like having a sixteen-hour-day acting job playing the old Cara – compliant, cautious, conventional – in front of Isobel and Toby, then reverting to her new, true self at night. Like being a vampire, she thought, trying not to grin. Sex with Jay was a bit on the rough side, but there hadn’t been any biting. Not yet. But who knew? In her current febrile state, she’d probably let him do anything.
That first weekend they’d done all their lovemaking in Cara’s bed, but it had proved impossible now that Isobel was there all the time. She rarely left the house, other than to go to the local shops, and appeared content to spend each evening alone with Cara, chatting about the day’s work and listening to music. They couldn’t go to Jay’s place because he lived with his mum, and, anyway, it would look very odd if Cara suddenly started disappearing for the evening. So they’d been meeting at the pool, late at night, after Isobel had gone to bed.
It was hours and hours till then; Cara didn’t think she could bear the wait. If only she could manufacture a reason for getting Jay indoors for a few minutes, s
o they could kiss and touch. I’ll make some more tea – Jay, would you mind helping? Could she say it without the edges of her mouth curving into a lustful smile? The mood Jay was in today, he might even refuse just to torment her. No, they had to stick to the rules, something that up to a few weeks ago had been second nature to her, but that didn’t suit the new Cara one bit. It was very confusing. All the elements of her personality had been thrown into the air and had landed awkwardly in a different place.
Cara drew her feet under her knees, hugging herself protectively. Toby was talking now and she turned her attention to him as he said, ‘I think we should forget theatre venues and take the show to the Yorkshire picket lines.’
‘But there’s so much violence going on, we might be arrested,’ said old Cara (compliant, cautious, conventional).
Jay rolled his eyes. ‘Who cares?’ he said. Good move, she thought. If they openly disagreed with each other, it would help to put Isobel off the scent. And it was Isobel that Cara was most concerned about.
‘We’ve got to show our support for the miners somehow.’ Toby looked around the group earnestly. ‘Perhaps we should do a play about the strike instead.’
‘That’s a great idea, but it’s too late to change now,’ said Isobel, ‘I’d love to do free shows for the community, but we can only do that if we’ve got proper funding.’ She turned to Cara, who gave her the expected nod of support. ‘As you know – and I really, really hate mentioning this – I’m subsidising the company—’
‘So’s the dole office,’ put in Jay. Toby belted out a laugh.
‘But it can’t go on indefinitely,’ said Isobel. ‘We need some income.’
‘What about running children’s parties?’ Cara heard herself pipe up. ‘People will pay good money to have someone take the kids off their hands.’
