I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  The feeling on the investigating team was that the guy was probably harmless and the crush would blow over. Matthew remembers the signal from the old-timers that they were probably wasting their time . . .

  Until Rachel Allen was found strangled in her shower. Matthew has never forgotten the photographs.

  The bartender had climbed in through a window of her flat and lost it when she screamed for help. He strangled her with the belt of her dressing gown. In his interview he said that he knew that they were destined to be together. But Rachel kept fighting it . . .

  ‘OK, Matt.’ Melanie’s face has darkened and Matthew wonders if she is remembering those dreadful photographs too. ‘Ideal world we find this guy while I can still waddle. We keep Alice safe and get enough evidence for a prosecution. That will also get me brownie points with the boss so I can go off on maternity leave to eat a lot more carrot cake. Which means that anything you can do to help me, I’ll be grateful.’

  ‘I’ll stay in touch, Mel. Anything I get, I’ll share. Let’s see how this Wednesday goes and talk again.’

  ‘Good. Thank you. And dare I ask how your Sally managed to have such a neat little bump? I seem to remember she was barely showing at this stage.’ Mel is staring, crestfallen, at the huge expanse stretching her shirt to the limit of the fabric and forcing her to sit back from the table.

  ‘Absolutely no idea. But if it’s any consolation, the neat little bump that was Amelie has suddenly turned into the devil child. Strictly between us, I have an exorcism booked for Monday.’

  CHAPTER 12

  HIM – BEFORE

  His gran talks a lot about ‘work’ but he doesn’t understand any of it. He can see that teaching is a job. And driving a bus and being an astronaut or a superhero. But he can’t see how making cups of tea and sandwiches can be a job.

  That’s what his gran says she does on Wednesday nights. She does it in the daytime too on Monday, Tuesday and Friday, but Wednesday is different. She says it’s called a night shift. My job is to make sure everyone is comfortable. Sometimes people can’t sleep so I make cups of tea and sandwiches. Help take people to the bathroom. That sort of thing.

  He asked his gran why she couldn’t stay home and make him cups of tea and sandwiches and call that her job but she said, Life doesn’t work like that.

  I do things for you because you’re my little soldier and I love you. I don’t get paid for doing things for you, darling. I do it because I love you. A job is when you’re paid for things. So I can pay our bills – for the flat and the food and your football club.

  He had said lots of times that he would pay her to stay home on Wednesday nights. They could go to the thingy in the wall which gives out money. He could pay her lots more than the stupid job. But she said it didn’t work like that. And there wasn’t enough money in the thingy in the wall.

  He loves his gran ever so much but he gets fed up when adults say the same things over and over again.

  Life doesn’t work like that . . .

  He feels in his pocket to find a sweet that George gave him in school at break-time. Good. He is sitting on his bed in his room with his little rucksack, ready for their new secret. Gran says he has to promise to be quieter than a mouse. And brave. They are going to play a sort of game – like hide-and-seek but he will have to hide and snuggle up for a sleep for quite a few hours. So he has two juice cartons in his little rucksack and a packet of biscuits and a torch. And the sweet which George made him promise to save so they wouldn’t get in trouble in class. He looks at the rucksack and worries that his gran has told him to pack a torch. He hates the dark but she has told him not to worry – that the torch is just in case.

  ‘You ready, my little soldier?’ His gran’s voice through the doorway sounds a little bit weird. And when he walks through to their little kitchen and sitting room, her eyes have that funny look when the words and the feelings don’t quite match. Like a lie, but not a wicked lie like a robber or a murderer. Just a lie to avoid trouble, like when he told the teacher everything was fine at home. He looks at his gran and decides not to say anything more just now about the dark and the torch. He will ask about that when they get there.

  They walk down the stairs holding hands. He hates the stairs because they smell of toilets and you have to mind your feet. And then afterwards they walk right along the high street for miles and miles to the bus stop. This makes the funny feeling in his tummy come back. When his gran goes to work on Wednesday nights, she always says that she isn’t too far away. He used to sleep at a lady called Jan’s flat on Wednesday nights, but Jan has moved away so he can’t stay over anymore. His gran can’t find anyone else, and that’s why they have to keep their secret. She says there will be terrible trouble if he tells anyone she can’t find a new babysitter, and people will come to take him away.

  For weeks and weeks his gran has said he must just be brave; and that when she was a little girl on the family farm, she often had to stay on her own when her dad was out lambing at night. It was perfectly safe, and so he is to go to sleep like a good boy in his bedroom and he mustn’t answer the door or ever, ever tell anyone their secret – and she will be back before he knows it. Before he wakes up. But he sees now that it isn’t true about her working nearby. It’s miles and miles away . . .

  He has been trying to figure out if he could run and run and find it in the dark but he can’t remember the turnings already. Too many.

  The bus is a double-decker and his gran lets them sit upstairs. It’s cold and it also smells a bit like the stairs and the toilets in school, but his gran puts her arm around his shoulders and they play I Spy. And he wins.

  When they get off there is a lot more walking, and then they get to the place his gran works. It’s called the Daisy Lawn Nursing Home but he can’t see any daisies or even any grass. It looks a little bit like a school but with no playground. He wonders if the people who live here don’t get to play.

  They go in through a door around the back so no one will see. His gran has a special card to scan to get in, which she wears on a ribbon round her neck. She puts her finger up to her mouth to say that they must be quiet like mice and she leads him along a corridor to a small room.

  The room does not have a window but has lots of shelves with all sorts of things. Blankets and pillows and boxes and stuff.

  His gran takes down some pillows and blankets and spreads them out in the corner to make a sort of bed for him. She says this is where he will sleep for the new secret but he is to be ever so quiet and ever so good.

  He doesn’t like the little room. Not at all; it is even smaller than his bedroom and he hates that it has no window.

  ‘Can’t I come and help you with the tea and the sandwiches? I’ll be very good.’

  ‘No, darling. You’re not really supposed to be here when I’m working but I need you to get more sleep so you’re not so tired in school. It has to be our secret, so you need to go to sleep now and I’ll come and check on you whenever I can.’

  ‘What if I need the toilet?’

  ‘Do you need the toilet now?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ He keeps very still and tries to think for a moment – to feel properly, deep inside, if he needs a wee. He shakes his head. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘OK. Good. I’ll come back soon and ask you again. How does that sound?’

  ‘Can you leave the light on?’

  ‘Yes – of course. And if there’s any problem, you have your torch.’

  ‘What problem?’

  ‘Never mind. Try to go to sleep now so you won’t be tired in school. I have to go and do my work. Be a good boy for your gran. Yes?’

  Once she is gone, he looks around the room and can hear his heart in his left ear. He used to worry that his heart had moved up into his head and that it would explode but his gran says this happens when it’s too quiet and he’s not to worry. It’s normal. He looks at the towels on the shelves and he counts the towels and then he tries to count sheep.


  It doesn’t work. He is sort of tired but also not tired. He takes the sweet from his pocket and pops it in his mouth. It is pink but is not the strawberry flavour he was expecting and it tastes a bit like cough medicine. At first it is just a bit odd but then it gets hotter and hotter in his mouth until he feels that his mouth is on fire and he is going to choke. He sits up, coughing and spluttering and realises it is a joke sweet. Some of the other boys were talking about this very thing last week. George has played a prank on him. He is furious and spits out the sweet on to the blanket but it is too late. His mouth is burning. Hot like a volcano.

  He tries to be quiet but it’s no good. As he coughs and wheezes, the door of the room swings open. He is terrified that his gran is going to be ever so cross but it is worse.

  It is not his gran. It is a very fat man with a bright red face, wearing some kind of uniform. The man steps to the right, so he can see him properly around all the shelving.

  ‘So what the hell is going on in here?’

  CHAPTER 13

  ALICE

  I check the window to see Matthew Hill’s car still parked outside. Wednesday. I wave and he flashes the lights in reply. He texted at 6 a.m. when he first arrived, and I offered coffee but his message said he has a flask and will wait on the drive unless I need him.

  I let go of the curtain and sit back on the bed in Leanne’s guest room. I feel utterly exhausted. Couldn’t sleep. I remember the glow of the digital clock by the bed: 3 a.m., 4 a.m., 5 a.m., blinking in green digits on black. I check my watch – 8 a.m. now. Plenty of time for a shower to try to wake myself up a bit, then a final check of my notes before I set off for the interview.

  Under the stream of hot water, I try so hard not to think of the day. Of that man. I think instead about the actress Melinda Belstroy and wonder what she will be like in the flesh. You can never tell. I’ve called it wrong so many times – looking forward to meeting a celebrity, only to find them dull. And on other occasions being surprised to sit laughing and enjoying the company of someone whose politics make me shudder.

  Melinda Belstroy is fronting a new campaign for a bipolar charity, seeking support and tolerance in the workplace. She has only just admitted to having the condition and I’ve been lucky to secure this interview in person. The people in Melinda’s league normally only meet the national press. We’re lucky in the provinces to secure a quick phone call with someone like her. But Melinda apparently saw a feature I did on mental-health awareness in schools. She retweeted it and we’ve chatted on Twitter quite a bit since. So I got lucky when I bid for this chat. There was no way I was going to hand this interview over to someone else, just because the editor wants me to take a break. In my ideal world I’ll be pitching again soon for some shifts on the nationals, and this will be good for my cuttings.

  Dry and finally dressed, I check my iPad for my research notes and questions. Last night I watched that documentary again by Stephen Fry. The one where he questioned whether he would press the button which would allow him to be free of bipolar disorder. I will ask Melinda at the end of the interview. Yes. A bit of a cliché perhaps – but it will round things off nicely.

  Downstairs, I check the wall unit which operates the alarms and cameras as Leanne taught me, to make sure that everything is fine before I leave.

  Outside, Matthew winds down his window and says that he will drive me but I shake my head. He remonstrates but I’m really determined. I’ve agreed that he can follow me all day but I don’t want to have to explain to Melinda what’s going on. I want Matthew to be discreet. I promise him that I will keep his car in sight and he finally gives in.

  The traffic isn’t too bad. I feel nervous – this is the fifth Wednesday after all. The light bulb, the flower on my car, the phone call and then the cake box. Will he do something today?

  I bite my bottom lip and glance in the rear-view mirror to see Matthew directly behind. He’s ex-police and has a good reputation. He must do a lot of surveillance. This will be OK, Alice.

  I am meeting Melinda at her agent’s holiday home near Salcombe, and as the satnav steers me to the private drive, I can hardly believe it. The house has three storeys with huge balconies to make the most of the glorious view over a small bay. Like Leanne’s home, there are private gates, which open after I confirm my name into the little speaker. I say that Matthew in the car behind is also with the paper and will be sitting in on the interview, if that’s OK. They don’t seem to mind, which is a relief.

  Melinda is dressed down in jeans and white shirt and no make-up. I think she looks better this way, and as we sweep through to an enormous library overlooking the bay, I try to play it cool – as if this is the kind of house I visit all the time.

  She has her PR with her and so I know that our time will be limited. We chat easily and, to my relief, she allows a recording on my iPad. She is more open and relaxed than I expected and the interview goes well. Stories from her childhood when she first realised she was ‘different’. Denial in adolescence when she thought she was just highly strung. And then diagnosis in her twenties, and drugs and therapy which she kept entirely secret, fearing it would destroy her career – until now. She’s thirty-eight and tells me she cares less about what people think these days and wants to encourage others to be more open too.

  Ten more minutes and I can see the PR shifting in her seat and so I ask the final question. Would she press the button? Be free of bipolar disorder if she could? I remind her that some people in the Stephen Fry documentary said their condition fuelled their creative lives and was a part of them. They had learned to accept it.

  I watch her closely as she turns to look out to sea through the window. I am surprised to see her eyes tearing up. I feel guilty. And yet excited too, and I check that the recording is still running. I am already imagining how I will write this into my feature. Maybe it will give me an intro . . .

  ‘I’ll need to think about that, Alice. Can I email you later?’ Melinda turns away from the window to glance at her PR, who looks worried, and so I step in and say that will be fine and hand over my card.

  Outside, Matthew – who sat quietly drinking coffee throughout the interview – suggests we grab a sandwich and have a chat before we return to Leanne’s house to map out the rest of the day. There is a café just along the coastal road and so I agree to follow him. After about ten minutes, he pulls in and I park directly behind.

  I step out of my car first, turning to check behind as I hear a motorcycle approaching. And that’s when it happens.

  The rider has a bottle in his hand and freezing liquid is sprayed right into my face and down the front of my chest. Next I see Matthew bolting from his car as the motorcyclist accelerates away. And I hear screaming . . .

  Mine.

  CHAPTER 14

  HIM – BEFORE

  ‘So who the hell are you?’

  Huddled in the pillows and blankets in the tiny, windowless room, he does not answer with his name. He remembers it is all supposed to be a secret. Suddenly he very urgently needs the toilet and wants to shout out for his gran.

  ‘You tell me who you are right this minute or I have to call the police and the social services. Do you understand?’

  He remembers that his gran said those words. The social services would come if he ever told anyone at school about Wednesday nights. She said they might take him away and so he shakes his head and says nothing, buttoning his lips tight, tight together.

  He is terribly afraid that the police will come too, and he decides that he will fight and bite to stop them. But suddenly there is a new face at the door and relief floods through him. His gran.

  The fat man still looks furious. His gran is also bright red in the face but she moves into the tiny room to kneel down and take him into her arms for comfort. Then she turns to the fat man.

  ‘Please, Stan. Let me explain. It was just this one time. An emergency.’

  ‘So he’s with you? You brought him here?’

  ‘He’s my gra
ndson, Stan. I normally have a babysitter for Wednesday night but she’s unwell. I’m already on a warning and I can’t afford to lose the job; you know that. I couldn’t find anyone at short notice.’

  Sitting on his little makeshift bed, he holds on to his gran and wonders why she is telling these fibs. There is no babysitter anymore. The lady on the floor below who used to have him to stay over on Wednesday nights moved months back. Why doesn’t she tell Stan the truth? And what does she mean, she is on a warning? In school, it’s bad to get a warning. Timothy is always getting warnings before he has to go to the headmistress.

  ‘This is not allowed, Martha. You know that. We don’t have the insurance. What if something happened to the boy. Unsupervised? We’d be in all kinds of trouble. An investigation. All hell would break loose.’

  ‘But just this once. Just this one emergency. Please, Stan. Don’t say anything. He’s a good kid.’

  ‘At nights I’m in overall charge, Martha. I can’t let this go. More than my own job’s worth. You should have phoned in and explained.’

  ‘I’m already on thin ice, Stan. They want me to do two nights a week on the rota like everyone else and they’re making an allowance just for now. If they find out . . .’

  ‘Right. So this is what happens.’ Stan has closed the door behind him and has at last lowered his voice. He pauses, looking at the ground as if he is thinking very hard.

  ‘OK. Just this one time, I will say that you were suddenly taken ill, Martha. Vomiting bug. That I sent you home because I was worried about the residents catching it. I will cover you . . . but this one time. You are to take the boy home and this is never to happen again. Do you understand me? One final chance, yes?’

  ‘You’re a marvel, Stan. Thank you so much. I promise you this will never happen again.’ His gran has stood up and starts gathering up the pillows and folding the blankets. ‘Come on. We’re going home.’