Good Lord – who wants to discuss their sex life with the police? It was bad enough first time round. When Alex was initially arrested, the investigating team wanted to know every blessed detail of our life in the bedroom. Sure – they tried to be sensitive. They apologised for intruding. But the bottom line was they needed to ask me a whole string of mortifying questions. Did Alex have any fetishes? Did he make me do anything strange? Was he ever violent? Was there ever any hint that he was into younger girls? Children?
I answered ‘no’ honestly to everything. Our sex life was normal. Ordinary. I remember using that word quite specifically. But I didn’t add the absolute truth – that the question was quite frankly ironic. It was only later, after I returned to London to hole up with Leanne, that I began to stew over everything and wondered if I should have been even franker.
That’s why in the end I decided to call into the police station nearest to Leanne’s home and add to my statement.
Well, not officially. A female police officer took me through to a little interview room and I made her write it down that this was not an official statement.
‘I’m not prepared to talk about this in court. No way am I discussing my sex life in detail in court. You need to write that down. It’s very important. This is just information that you may find useful. I don’t know. It’s been on my mind. But I’m not saying any of this in court. The Sunday newspapers would have a field day.’ I watched the female officer scratching away on her paper and strained to read upside down to ensure she was keeping up. She had lovely writing and was using a beautiful pen. Expensive.
‘So what was it you felt we should know?’
I took a deep breath. It was hard to find the right words.
‘No hurry. This can’t be easy.’
‘Understatement. Look, I was asked when I gave my original statement if Alex was in any way unusual in the bedroom. And I said no, which was the truth. I was asked if we had sex regularly and said yes. Which was also the truth.’
I waited for her writing to catch up before I continued.
‘But what I didn’t say was that Alex was . . .’ I paused to roll my lips together. Just spit it out. ‘OK. So Alex was actually not very good in the bedroom.’ I watched the officer’s expression change. She was clearly not sure how to react.
‘Oh hell, this is mortifying. He wasn’t terrible. Jeez – I wouldn’t have got engaged if he wasn’t OK. He was an extremely good-looking bloke and I found him very attractive. Before I knew the truth about him, obviously. He was a good kisser. And I suppose you could say that, overall, he was an adequate lover. Like I say – I agreed to marry him and I wouldn’t have done that if it was completely terrible in the bedroom. But . . .’ I took in another deep breath, aware that I was gabbling. Nervous. ‘The truth is there were limitations.’
‘Limitations?’ The officer poised her pen.
I waited. She waited.
‘He had trigger trouble.’
‘Excuse me?’
I closed my eyes, wanting to sink into a very deep hole.
‘Premature ejaculation. He couldn’t last for very long.’
I fancied that I saw her smirk. Was I imagining that? I was certainly blushing.
‘Look, I know everyone jokes about this. And it’s supposed to be hilarious. But it isn’t actually funny in real life. And certainly wasn’t to Alex.’
‘Right. So why do you think this could be relevant. To the case, I mean?’
‘Well, I’m hoping it isn’t at all. It’s just I was a bit surprised at first with Alex. I mean, he was so sexy and confident when you first met him, that I kind of assumed he would be really good in that department. So the trigger trouble was a bit of a surprise. I didn’t like to say anything. He brought it up actually after the first couple of times, and he told me that it was only a problem when he was infatuated. In love. Sort of turned it into a compliment. Said he was a bit overwhelmed by me and it would pass. But then later, when it didn’t change, I started to get a bit worried. We got engaged very quickly. It was all very romantic. As I say, he was a good lover all round. He made sure I was – you know – er, happy. But this trigger problem didn’t change.’
‘But you were still happy in the relationship. Happy to get married.’
‘Oh yes. I mean – I believed him that he was just a bit overwhelmed. That it would resolve over time. Anyway. After a while I decided to try to have a more open discussion – you know, a few ideas to address it. And he very quickly became really furious.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, just verbally angry. Not physical. I was a bit shocked at first but then I realised I’d hurt his pride. And I felt stupid and a right heel for being so insensitive. I mean, you know what guys are like. I decided to just let it play out over time. I was sure it would sort itself out. And as I say – all round I was very happy. It was before I knew the truth about him. About the girls.’
There was a long pause. ‘So why are you mentioning this now?’
‘Well, I’ve been stewing. I’ve been wondering and worrying if the reason he started chasing after younger girls is they would be less experienced. Might not criticise him. Know any different.’
The officer put her pen down. ‘You’re not blaming yourself? Oh goodness. You really shouldn’t do that.’
‘No, no. I know that, deep down. But I just felt I should perhaps have mentioned this. In case me upsetting him – you know, me so stupidly commenting on his performance in some way – contributed to his chasing after those young girls.’ There. I had said it.
Was it my fault?
The police officer wrote everything down but said I had no reason to feel any guilt at all. She promised to pass the note to the investigating team in person. She checked if I was still seeing a counsellor, as recommended.
Two weeks later I got a phone call from the senior investigating officer, letting me know that they appreciated my additional information. They stressed that my confidentiality would be respected and wanted to reassure me further. They told me in confidence that a third teenager, just fourteen at the time, had come forward to say Alex had groomed and had sex with her before I even met him. He was apparently still sleeping with her at the very time he proposed to me. Her case was not to be included in the trial as she couldn’t face the trauma, but they hoped it would set my mind at rest. I had played no part in Alex’s choices. None at all.
I remember the incredible flood of relief. Then the senior officer was even blunter. He said that Alex’s performance in our bed and our row over it was more likely to have been a consequence of his perversion, and certainly not any kind of trigger for it.
I remember taking a long, very hot shower and wishing I could stay under the water forever; wash away the whole sordid business.
What a mug, I thought as I lay on the bed afterwards, in Leanne’s spare room. What a complete and utter mug I was.
CHAPTER 46
HIM – BEFORE
He had always imagined that once he grew up and got a job, he would move his gran to a nicer place.
Yes. Once he was able to look after her, instead of vice versa, he would rent her a flat somewhere far, far away from those terrible times. Far, far away from disgusting Brian.
So it was a terrible shock to find this wasn’t going to happen.
His first job took him to London. His second to Sussex. And when finally he had built up a decent-enough income and savings to offer help, his gran’s reaction left him reeling.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Move? I can’t think of anything worse. I don’t need your money and I don’t ever want to move from this place. Not ever.’
He couldn’t quite believe it. He’d had it all worked out. He had saved and saved and he had enough for the deposit to rent a nice, modern flat closer to him.
‘But I can get you somewhere so much nicer than this place. Warmer. A nicer area. You’re retired now. Wouldn’t you like to live somewhere nicer, Gran? I could get you your own place near me. Or I could get a
two-bedroom place near to where I work now and we could live together.’
And then her face changed and she looked truly offended. She wandered through to the kitchen area to put on the kettle for tea, and as she waited for it to boil, she moved to stand by the window, staring down at the bench.
There was quite a long silence. A bad atmosphere. She kept glancing at him as if she didn’t recognise him.
‘You really don’t know why I love it here?’
He shrugged, hating every minute of this.
His gran looked again through the window. ‘He loved it here too – your grandad. He loved the view from this window. He loved his little shop and he loved sitting out there, having his lunch. It was always good enough for him and for me, this place. I love it here because of him. Why on earth would I want to move?’
‘But Grandad would be pleased for you to be somewhere nicer.’
‘Nicer. Are you saying it’s not nice here?’ She sounded hurt now. She turned and he fancied he saw tears in her eyes. ‘This place you grew up in? I did my best, you know.’
‘No, no. I’m not saying it’s not nice. And I’m so grateful for all you’ve done for me.’ He moved forward to put his arms around her to hug her. He felt the familiar shock of how small and fragile she felt these days. Like a little bird. It wasn’t just that he had grown into a man. She had seemed to sort of shrink over the years.
‘I worry about you, Gran. I want to take care of you the way you took care of me.’
‘You do take care of me. I’m so proud of you. It makes me so happy to see you making your way. But please – don’t ever ask me to move. It’s what keeps me going. This place.’ She stared out at the bench again. ‘Saying good morning every day to your grandad’s bench. All my memories.’
He watched then as she put teabags into the same red teapot she had used when he was a child.
He closed his eyes and thought of a thousand cups of tea down the years. And now there were other swirling scenes, his mind in overdrive. He had imagined that moving his gran would solve everything. So what now?
The visits from Brian stopped when he was around eleven. He never knew why. He wondered if he had found someone else to torment.
He had thought that when Brian stopped knocking on the door, he would be so happy. So relieved. But strangely, he wasn’t. He just felt more and more dirty. And at night, he would get these terrible nightmares. He began to realise that he should have barricaded the door when he was younger. That he should have said no. Told his gran? Called the police? Why didn’t he realise that he should have called the police?
He opened his eyes. He looked at his gran as she poured the tea and felt this horrible surge in his stomach like he wanted to be sick. He realised that he badly wanted to stop visiting this place. He had imagined he would move his gran and that would be that. He would never have to visit these horrible flats again.
‘You will keep visiting me,’ she said suddenly – a frisson of fear moving across her face.
He looked at her hand, trembling slightly as she opened the biscuit barrel to put chocolate digestives on to a plate decorated with roses.
He stared at the plate with its gold rim. He could picture his arm, reaching out for that same plate with his blue school jumper. The one she knitted. The one he was teased about.
And in that moment he realised that once more he would have to be brave. For his gran. To keep her safe. To make her happy.
He had put up with teasing about the jumper. He had put up with so many terrible things . . .
He would do this; he would put up with this place for love.
‘Of course I’ll keep visiting you. I love you. You know that.’
He was staring at his gran, remembering how on Saturdays she bought a single pork chop because he loved them. Pretended she wasn’t hungry herself. How she took him to the library every single week then made him a reading den under the table with sheets and blankets; brought him biscuits and cakes on that same plate with the roses.
‘And you won’t ever make me move?’ she said. ‘Let anyone make me move? Put me in a home or anything silly like that. Promise?’
Still he just looked at her.
‘Please. I need you to promise me.’
‘I promise you.’
Her face relaxed and she glanced once more at the bench on the grass below their window. Slowly her smile returned and she signalled they should go across to the sitting room area. And as he followed her, he realised something else.
If his gran wouldn’t move, not ever, he would have to do the thing he had dreamed about ever since he was a little boy.
He would have to deal with Brian himself.
CHAPTER 47
ALICE
It’s Sunday and I am back in London, staying with Leanne again to check on my mother’s new home.
It is very shiny and smart, this place; just as the brochure promised. More like a five-star hotel than a residential home. But it has no view of the sea. As I finish reading to my mother, I notice that her eyes are closing. She seems to sleep more and more these days as her sats levels get poorer.
‘Enough for now?’
She nods her reply and I move across to kiss her forehead. She smells of Chanel. Good. They’re taking care of the little details here too. Mum has always loved to smell nice.
‘Do you miss the view of the sea, Mum?’
‘It’s fine.’ Her eyes are closed so I cannot read the true reply. She seems to be drifting off to sleep and so I whisper that she should rest and I will be back to see her soon. But as I move she suddenly reaches out to grab my hand and squeezes it very tightly.
She holds on for longer than is natural, her eyes still closed, and I feel tears pricking the back of my own eyes.
I know, Mum. I know.
I smooth her hair, kiss her one more time, then put the book back on the top of her bookcase and leave the room.
We had a meeting earlier with the nursing team and I can see that this home is better equipped to deal with the march of my mother’s disease. They do full ‘end of life’ care here. There will be no need to move her again to hospital or a hospice. Leanne has done her research well.
Mum is on maximum oxygen but there’s a ceiling on how much this can help her now. The problem, we’re told, is not so much getting the oxygen into her lungs but the fact that her badly damaged lungs can no longer process that oxygen. This is measured daily and is getting worse and worse. We’re on a graph. The black line is plunging downwards.
We all know where we’re going.
The staff are almost impossibly kind. They’re efficient and I do trust they’re doing everything they can. We are lucky that Leanne can throw money at this. I’m told the NHS is marvellous too, but I like that this home hires the best people. So much for my liberal politics. When it comes to your own, politics go out the window.
I think of my mum puffing away on her cigarettes in the garden when we were kids. She said she took it up after the stress of my father’s death. A widow with two small girls. Can I blame her? As we got older Leanne and I both nagged her. But she called it my one pleasure. My one failing. In the end we gave up, and I feel guilty for that now.
I sit in reception to check my phone for messages. Nothing from Matthew or Melanie Sanders. What the hell is happening?
Is it Alex? Why would it be Alex? I need to know.
I glance around at the fittings. The beautiful fabrics of the curtains at the window on to the garden. The fresh flowers so carefully arranged on the reception desk. I think back to the time my mother moved into her first home in Devon and I wonder what she really thinks about the transfer here. She must be baffled. A struggle for her to get through each day with her breathing so very strained now. What must she be thinking really? I never ask if she’s afraid of what’s coming.
I am too afraid myself . . .
When my mother’s COPD was first diagnosed, she was living in the family home a few miles from Hastings. It was where Lea
nne and I grew up and we loved to return there. Thankfully my father had good life insurance and a decent pension so we didn’t struggle financially. It was a lovely home and lovely garden.
Her condition progressed slowly at first and we were told there was no set pathway with this disease. Every case is different. She was taught breathing exercises and seemed to manage OK for a while. But then she started to have episodes which put her in hospital, and things deteriorated with each one. Once it was obvious she could no longer live alone, we had a terrible dilemma.
Leanne immediately suggested this home near her in London. But Mum surprised us both by saying she wanted to spend a spell by the sea. Devon. Where we had enjoyed so many holidays when we were little.
Leanne was offended. I was secretly delighted. The truth? I think Mum wanted, for a time at least, to be nearer me. Jenny-turned-Alice, with no husband or family yet. I think my mother with her soft grey eyes – It’s all right, Alice – wanted to be near me for a time. And so Leanne gave in. She wasn’t working but I was. She could leave the children with the nanny to visit Devon more easily than I could travel to London. I had my job to work around and I was working shifts. So we all just got on with it.
And now an email pings into my phone from Claire at the charity. She’s pressing again for my thoughts on the personal alarm and whether I would like to write an article for the website about it. I get this strange rumble in my stomach again.
I don’t quite understand the switch – from initially implying the personal alarm scheme was perhaps not the right step for the charity to suddenly pressing for my support?
I decide not to reply. Instead I do some googling. I google Claire’s background. I find her LinkedIn profile and some interviews about the charity. I find her private Facebook page but then I also discover an older listing not in use. Some of the posts are set to private and I assume she closed the page to protect her sister. But not all the security settings are in place. I find that I’m able to check older photographs and some of the older posts too. It’s very strange. Some of it does not tie in at all with the things she told me when we met.
I Will Make You Pay Page 21
