I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘It’s good that Mum’s a bit better this evening. The call from the nurse says her sats levels are almost back to normal.’ Leanne is speaking quickly, almost gabbling, as she opens the large stainless-steel fridge. ‘Well, not normal – but her normal at least. And the sedatives should mean she’ll sleep.’

  ‘Yes.’ I take in my sister’s expression, which is buttoned up. Tense. So far we’ve talked mostly about Mum. Leanne’s again had to leave my niece and nephew in London. Josh and Annabelle must be missing their mum. Jonathan’s taking more time off work but Leanne clearly needs to get back to town as soon as Mum’s stable. These emergencies and the geography are taking their toll. She looks tired and drawn.

  I’m exhausted too, after such a long session with the police. They’re desperate for any crumb from my time with Alex which might suggest where he could have bolted to. The trouble is he lied to me so much, it’s impossible to know what to suggest.

  Matthew’s agreed to stay on the case, thank goodness, but Tom is still quietly furious with him over the fake acid attack so it’s all very tense. Tricky. Exhausting.

  As Leanne makes tea and coffee, a text buzzes into my phone. It’s from Jack at the paper. He wants to meet. I’m pleased but also surprised to hear from him. I get this little pull inside – the first pleasant sensation today. His text says he’s worried about me and also has news from the Maple Field House campaigners. A date’s being set for the demolition. Our editor, Ted, wants to give the coverage to another reporter and Jack wants me in the loop. He thinks it’s unfair for me to lose a story I’ve worked so hard on. I find myself smiling – pleased that Jack’s looking out for me.

  ‘Who’s that from?’ Leanne is now handing me a mug of coffee.

  ‘Guy from work. Wants to meet. There’s some stuff we need to talk about.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be thinking about work.’

  ‘Well, there you’re wrong actually, Leanne. It’s driving me completely nuts not being able to work. The editor won’t have me back in while the police keep pushing to have my phone extension recorded. There’s absolutely no way a paper could ever agree to that, obviously. The nightmare that is HR insists I take all my holiday, and lieu days too, hoping this will blow over. But I have responsibilities. Running stories that I should be working on.’ I check my watch. ‘He wants to meet me. Quick chat.’

  ‘You’re not serious? With all that’s been going on? And me driving all the way from London. You’re surely not thinking of going out on your own?’

  I bite into my lip, reconsidering. ‘No, no – you’re right. Of course not.’ I pause; I was thinking about meeting Jack, actually. ‘But how about I ask him to come here? It’s about an hour’s run so he’ll probably pass. But – would you mind? If he says yes? I’m dying to know what’s going on at work.’

  ‘Why don’t you just ring him?’

  I don’t know how to answer this; I don’t like to admit that I’d rather like to see Jack.

  ‘And he’s definitely kosher, this guy? Safe, I mean?’

  At this, I feel a complete jolt of surprise. ‘Jack? Safe? Of course he’s safe. What are you implying?’ I reach up to tighten the band on my ponytail, wondering when it will stop. This appalling circus of everyone in my life becoming a suspect. Of nothing feeling normal anymore. Endless sessions with the police.

  ‘Look – I don’t mean to cause offence, Alice. But with everything going on and after what happened with Alex . . .’

  ‘What? So you’re saying I’m still a poor judge of character? You really think I haven’t learned my lesson about trusting people?’

  ‘No, no.’ Leanne is now blushing. ‘I’m not saying that.’

  There is a long and terrible pause in which we just stand, sipping at our drinks.

  ‘OK. If you really want to invite this Jack over, it’s fine. But keep it short. Yes? We’re both tired.’

  I send a text and finish my coffee. I rather expect Jack to make an excuse, given the distance, but to my surprise he replies quickly to say he’ll drive straight to the house. So I text the address and update Leanne.

  ‘Look. Jack was really good to me the day I got that horrid first call in the office. He’s a nice guy, Leanne. He’s been through a lot himself – he lost his wife a year or so ago. Anyway, he’s watching my back in the office. It sounds as if the editor is giving my campaign story away. You know – the demolition of the flats that I’ve been working on for a long time.’

  Leanne narrows her eyes. ‘OK. But you need to be careful, Alice. With everyone.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  When Jack finally arrives, I take him into the kitchen and Leanne appears immediately from the sitting room, pretending she’s looking for sparkling water but clearly keen to give him the once-over.

  He has a bottle of red wine and Leanne raises her eyebrows as if she feels this is a bad fit for a quick visit. But I break the ice and pour us each a small glass as Jack asks how I’m doing and says how much everyone in the office misses me and is thinking of me.

  ‘I keep telling her that she should stop worrying about work. Isn’t that right, Jack? Don’t you agree that she needs a break until this whole wretched business is sorted by the police?’ Leanne puts her hand over her glass as I offer her wine.

  Jack doesn’t reply immediately but does this sort of half-smile at Leanne before turning to me.

  ‘I expect you’re finding it quite difficult not being able to work, Alice. Some of us think it’s a story we should be covering, actually. This stalking. But Ted has a point that it could make things worse. Give this creep the oxygen of publicity. I can see where he’s coming from but it’s so frustrating. A story right in our midst that no one’s allowed to cover. Christ. I think if it were me, I would want to write about it.’

  ‘Exactly that!’ I find myself pointing at him and taking in a long, slow breath before turning back to Leanne. ‘You see. Another journalist. He understands. We hacks need to write about everything. Yes, Jack. Yes.’ I clink our glasses. ‘That’s exactly how I feel. Furious that I can’t write about it.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re both crazy. Writing about personal stuff. It’s asking for trouble. Obviously.’

  Leanne then stands and excuses herself to the sitting room, closing the door behind her. Jack raises his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Sorry, Jack. She’s finding it difficult. Our mother isn’t well and this whole police inquiry – it’s all a bit much.’

  ‘For you too?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I heard about the fake acid attack. That’s mostly why I’m here, actually. It sounded absolutely ghastly.’

  ‘How did you know about that?’ For a moment I’m wondering if someone at the café posted something on social media.

  ‘Actually, the police called into the office again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. That pregnant DI. Routine, I think. Speaking to everyone. And she spoke to me on my own.’

  ‘Why on earth did she do that?’

  Jack takes a sip of his wine and holds it in his mouth a moment before swallowing and then replying.

  ‘Mix-up. I was covering a story out near the coast and apparently it wasn’t far from where that new attack happened. My car was seen.’

  ‘What – on CCTV?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I explained I was on a story. Must have been a coincidence. But I guess it’s good they’re checking everything. Reassuring, actually.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess so. Though I’m sorry if it felt awkward for you.’

  ‘No. Not at all. Anyway, sounds absolutely terrible – what happened.’

  ‘Yeah. It was pretty terrible actually, but I’m OK now. Tom’s got a private investigator helping with security.’

  ‘Right. Good. That sounds good. I mean, a bit surprising . . . but good if it makes you feel more secure.’

  ‘Yeah. I wasn’t sure about it to start with, to be honest. But it’s just to boost what the police are doi
ng. So – did they say anything else, the police? About me, I mean?’ I feel this shift inside, terrified that my double identity will leak.

  ‘No. Just asked me why I was near the coast. Why? Is there something else going on?’

  ‘No, no.’ I look into his face and am so very glad he doesn’t yet know about my real name. About my link to Alex. There is a little beat when I wonder if I should tell him myself – get it over with. But I let it pass. I’m wondering how long before the tabloids start digging. It may come out very soon anyway.

  ‘OK. So let me update you on the demolition campaign. Like I say, Ted wants someone else to take the story over but I think, if it were me, I’d get in touch with the campaigners. I’ve brought their latest press release. It’s confirming the details on the last residents who moved out ahead of the demolition. They’ve got a meeting with the demolition company and the housing charity up in London about PR. You could get in touch directly, maybe? And let Ted know you’re handling the story from home.’

  ‘Good idea. Thank you, Jack.’ I glance at the press release and realise I should have given my key contact a call sooner. I’ve had so much on my mind. Just a little part of me wonders why Jack didn’t simply forward the press release, but then it occurs to me that he probably doesn’t have my private email. And I’m not supposed to be working.

  ‘Look, I really appreciate this. In fact, can I text you my home email so that if anything else crops up, you can tip me off immediately?’

  ‘Sure. Good idea. If it were my story, I wouldn’t want to lose it after all this time.’

  I offer Jack a sandwich but he says he doesn’t want to intrude for too long, especially as my sister seems a bit touchy.

  Within half an hour, I am leading him to the door. I find myself staring at the back of his neck. Jack has this very distinct hairline which I often notice in the office. I find that I would very much like to touch his neck, which causes me immense embarrassment and I pull back, thinking again of that disastrous meal in the Italian restaurant.

  Leanne has appeared in the hall to say goodbye, and we watch his car together as it sweeps towards the electronic gates that open and close automatically.

  ‘Bit weird to come out all this way, don’t you think?’ Leanne says.

  ‘Not really. We’re mates, Leanne. He’s looking out for me in the office. Making sure I don’t get passed over because of this wretched business.’

  She just looks at me.

  ‘What?’ I lean forward.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘No. Spit it out.’

  ‘It’s like I said – you need to be careful, Alice.’

  ‘And you really think with this stalker out there and after all I went through over Alex, I don’t know that?’

  CHAPTER 27

  ALICE – BEFORE

  The day the police came looking for Alex at the home we shared in Scotland, I thought at first that he was dead; that there had been some terrible accident.

  I was in the kitchen at the front of the house making toast and saw the marked car pull up outside. I watched the two police officers walk up to our front door and assumed the worst – or what I imagined at that point to be the worst. That Alex had been killed or badly hurt in some accident.

  At first, when they explained that they were merely looking for Alex – Do you know where he is or where he might have gone? – relief flooded through me. So – Alex was all right. Not hurt. But as their questions began to press me for information, a new panic bubbled up within me.

  Why such strange questions? Why were the police looking for Alex? I told them he was getting his car serviced and they said they would check that out but they didn’t seem to believe me.

  They seemed inexplicably to want to search our home. I was both shocked and at a loss to understand this. I pressed them to explain themselves. What on earth was this really about? The two officers kept exchanging odd glances which slowly morphed from suspicion to pity.

  ‘Will you please just tell me what the hell this is about?’ I could feel my heart beating fast in my chest.

  Finally they confided that one of Alex’s pupils had gone missing from home early that morning. She had taken a suitcase and clothes and her parents had since found ‘highly inappropriate references’ to Alex in her diary . . .

  ‘What do you mean, inappropriate?’

  Again they exchanged pitying glances.

  ‘Are you saying this girl has a crush on my fiancé? Because if that’s what you’re saying, it’s hardly his fault, is it? What’s her name? What’s this girl’s name?’ As I spoke my heart was beginning to double beat as if I had drunk too much coffee. I was wondering if it was the wretched girl who’d been self-harming and had phoned Alex that weird day we had the row. But the officers gave me a different name and I didn’t remember this pupil at all.

  I tried to phone Alex but his mobile was unreachable. One of the officers phoned the garage but would not tell me what they said. Then they asked to see Alex’s diary, detailing his lesson schedule. We could all see that Alex was due to give a lesson at home within half an hour, and three more later that day.

  ‘So where is he if he’s supposed to be teaching today?’ The taller of the two officers seemed to be drawing a thick black line under my situation.

  ‘I told you. His car’s being serviced.’

  I was completely at a loss – shaken and confused by the whole thing. It was my day off and Alex had left very early, saying that the garage had promised to work on his car first. I had offered to drive him but he said he would do some shopping in town until the car was ready. This now made no sense at all, given he had lessons in the diary. I’d assumed he would book the service on a day he was free. It began as a puzzle which all too soon would spiral into a nightmare beyond my worst imagining.

  I was told the missing girl was just fifteen. Her diary suggested she’d been in a sexual relationship with Alex for at least six months. Fourteen years old when it started. She had drawn her savings out of the bank and taken all her favourite clothes.

  Once the police accepted that I knew absolutely nothing of what was going on, I was assigned a female officer who kept me up to date with each of the next steps.

  We believe your fiancé has been in a sexual relationship with at least one underage girl. Maybe more.

  It was like being in a film. Yes – like standing against the wall on a set of a film while everyone around me worked on this terrible, terrible story.

  As time passed and there was no word from the teenager, an appeal was put out on television with pictures of Alex and the girl. The public was urged to look out for them and contact the incident room.

  My phone went bananas. Shocked reactions from my work colleagues. Friends. Family. My own paper ran the story, of course, and wanted an interview with me. An interview? Suddenly I was the story, not the journalist. Stepping away from the wall into the film. It was horrific.

  I drew the curtains. Stopped answering the phone. Leanne flew up to be with me and we moved out to a small hotel to avoid the press. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

  I genuinely had no clue where Alex might have gone with the girl. The garage very quickly confirmed there had never been a service booked. Alex had also taken all his favourite clothes. And his passport. So he had clearly been planning this for a while.

  There were many more shocks to come. After a week with no progress in the police inquiry, I received a phone call from an estate agent, asking for a meeting ‘about the house’. It turned out Alex did not own the property at all. There was no inheritance from a grandparent. He had huge credit card debts, was in rent arrears, and had been fobbing the landlords off that some big new teaching contract was on the horizon. The agency now saw me as the ‘sitting tenant’ responsible for the mess. I explained that I’d been lied to but I didn’t have a leg to stand on. The agency said I could either take over the tenancy by meeting the arrears and monthly rent or I’d have to leave.

  Leanne offered to ba
il me out financially but I was too stubborn at first to accept help. It felt as if I needed to take my punishment for being so naive. The estate agent gave me two weeks’ grace. Leanne helped me pack.

  The police still had no strong leads. I told them about the row with the other teenager. She was traced and questioned, and eventually broke down and confessed to police that she too had been sleeping with Alex earlier in the year. I was beyond horrified . . .

  We all wondered if Alex and the second girl he’d groomed had gone abroad together. I told the police over and over again that I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what had been going on, but I started to feel that it was my fault because of my naivety; because I’d accepted his explanation about the telephone call. But there were no sightings of the couple, despite extensive checks of ferry and airport CCTV.

  Next, a van came to collect the grand piano, which we discovered was rented too. Leanne promptly put her foot down and insisted on taking me back to London.

  Stop being so stubborn, Jennifer. You need help. You need to leave Scotland. And you need to lie low.

  Alex and his teenage runaway were eventually discovered on the Isle of Skye in a tiny holiday cottage. Their plan was to hole up secretly until she was sixteen and then marry at Gretna Green. But she fell ill with a bladder infection. The tabloids had a field day speculating where that came from. The infection travelled to her kidney and became so bad that she took an emergency appointment at a local GP surgery. The doctor recognised her from the media coverage and called the police.

  The media went nuts. It was all over the papers and local TV too. They were, of course, mostly interested in Alex and the girl, not me, so my picture was rarely used – thankfully – but I was still floored by the whole, terrible experience.

  I stopped eating and suffered from what I would realise later was depression.

  For all our sibling rivalry and constant niggling, it was Leanne who, in the end, saved me. She took me in. Fed me up. After three months rebuilding my strength, she was the one who suggested I start over. Clean page. So I wrote off the eight months of my journalism training and applied to a new paper in the south of England using my second name and my mother’s maiden name. Alice Henderson. I cut my hair and changed the colour. I pretended I was a new trainee, looking for my first break. The paper was impressed with my performance during a trial period and took me on. Within eighteen months, I passed my exams. I felt very guilty deep down in my new clothes as ‘Alice’, but I worked incredibly hard to earn my second chance. I also got incredibly lucky that no one checked my records or my background.