I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  I stand and move across to open the door, noticing again who’s in the office and who is missing.

  ‘Is Jack out on a story?’ I glance across at my empty desk and Jack’s space alongside it, then back at Ted.

  ‘Late shifts this week. He’s definitely been missing you. Like a bear with a sore head.’

  ‘He just misses me fetching his coffee.’ I try to sound light as I leave Ted’s cubicle. I chat briefly to the three others bashing away on deadlines and then head out to my car.

  I phone Gill to confirm I’m properly back from my break. She suggests doing a feature on one of the families already moved from the flats to a new house with a garden. She wants the story on the demolition to focus on the positives going forward. I agree and promise to talk it over further. Families are moving into new homes in phases. A lot are still in temporary accommodation while the new housing is completed by the local housing association. But I need to be careful that I don’t put a gloss on the situation too soon. I need to check that things are moving forward smoothly and that everyone is keeping the promises made when the demolition was agreed.

  Next I realise I must decide whether to stay on at Tom’s or move back to my own house. I try ringing my landlord to double-check that the light fitting has been sorted and that the change of locks has been signed off. We’ve agreed a new, stricter procedure for who’s allowed to handle spare keys for the property, and I need reassurance all is well before I return. There’s no reply, only an answerphone, so I head back to Exeter to Tom’s.

  He’ll be pleased, but I find as I drive that I am thinking of Jack – out of sorts while I’ve been off. I feel the frown. Why did the office think Jack was on a day off when I bumped into him at the café? He said something about a teacher-award story but I wonder if he’s working on a different story on the quiet that he doesn’t want anyone to know about. Maybe something for the nationals?

  Jack’s ambitious. I don’t want to drop him in it with Ted if he’s freelancing on the side. I’ll ask him discreetly when I see him.

  CHAPTER 52

  HIM – BEFORE

  It was not at all as he expected.

  There was more adrenaline. More blood. More buzz . . .

  Changing his clothes in one of the disused garages afterwards, he can feel his heart still pounding in his chest. He always knew this would be the most vulnerable time. If someone finds Brian too soon – before he has time to change and get away – he will almost certainly be discovered.

  It will break his gran’s heart.

  But he has planned well and he finds that he is more exhilarated than scared. He moves quickly. He strips the bloody clothes and puts them in the bin bag inside his rucksack. The blood spurted further than he expected and he notices some flecks on the backpack straps. Damn. He should have thought to bring a second bag. No matter. They are only small specks and he will burn the bag along with all the kit later.

  He changes his gloves, hat and scarf – careful to have brought spares of each. And then he sets off across the derelict car park past the old shoe factory, over the fence and across the patch of rough grass, weaving his way the mile back to his car.

  He has checked all the camera positions and is meticulous with his route. He throws the rucksack in the boot of the car, on top of a plastic liner, and retrieves his wallet from the glove compartment, taking off the hat and scarf so he will appear different – calm and ordinary – if picked up on any road cameras.

  He drives home carefully – no speeding – and avoids the motorway, then he quickly lights the log burner in his small sitting room. He watches the hot flames as he cuts up the bloodied evidence, feeding pieces one by one into the fire. Then he scrubs his hands and his nails and sets out on foot to buy fish and chips, making sure he strikes up a jokey conversation with the server. An alibi. Just in case. No. I was home. Just watching telly, then fish and chips. Why?

  Later he sits with his chips and his tomato sauce and he finds that he is still exhilarated. There is no call from his gran. Or the police.

  Nothing on the news yet.

  He looks at the ketchup. And he closes his eyes to replay the scene over and over. Brian’s shocked face. The thud of the hammer against flesh. And skull.

  The shock at so . . . much . . . blood.

  In his head, remembering all those years in school, dreaming of power; dreaming of an eagle with sharp claws. Swooping. Slashing.

  Dreaming of being a grown-up.

  On such a high now that his grown-up self feels so alive; that it was all much more satisfying than he could ever have imagined. So that in the end he couldn’t help himself in that alleyway earlier; he kept the hammer blows coming long after Brian was still.

  CHAPTER 53

  ALICE

  I place my hand just above the frying pan to test if it’s hot enough for the fish. Wow. Searing.

  ‘Not long to supper.’ I raise my voice so Tom can hear me in the sitting room but there’s no reply. I stand in the doorway to see that he has headphones on. I repeat myself even louder. He lifts one cup away from his ear – hears me say supper – and gives me a thumbs up. I smile. He smiles. I feel quite up this evening. It’s Tuesday still, nudging ever closer to the next D-Day, but with Alex safely behind bars again, I’m starting to feel a little less afraid. And the thought of returning to work has really buoyed me. Also – I am moving back into my house on Friday. The keys are all carefully logged.

  It’s going to be all right, Alice.

  I twist a little more salt and pepper on to each tuna steak before lowering them into the pan, stepping back to avoid the first sizzle. I want it to be a nice meal tonight, to thank Tom for his patience. For making me so welcome. I haven’t found it easy spending so much time together. He knows this, and he knows too that I wouldn’t have chosen for us to, in effect, live together like this so soon. But it’s been a good bridge and I’m grateful. I can finally see a path back to calmer times. I just need to be wrong; I need the police to say it was Alex after all. That it’s over.

  I check the clock on the kitchen wall and flip the fish. Great colour. I feel hungry and reach across the counter to pour two glasses of wine as my phone rings in my pocket.

  Jack’s name. I feel an involuntary frown – not understanding why he would ring at this hour. We’re eating late. ‘Hi, Jack. Sorry. Listen, I’m right in the middle of cooking. Late supper. Can I call you straight back?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alice, but I’m at work and I don’t know how to tell you this.’ His tone is terrible. Too quiet. Sort of sucked-in.

  I move the pan off the flame.

  ‘What is it?’ Yes, I remember now that Ted said Jack was on lates. He’ll be in the office for another hour or so.

  ‘There’s a big fire, Alice. I’ve just picked it up on the final round of calls.’

  ‘What?’ I don’t quite understand. Then I feel a change in my stomach. I picture Jack making the routine check calls to the police and the fire service. But why is he calling me? Is he not able to cover it? Needs my help?

  ‘Right. So why the call, Jack? Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No. Not as far as we know.’ A long exhalation of breath. ‘Look, the thing is . . .’ There is a strange pause.

  ‘What, Jack?’

  ‘It’s your house, Alice.’ Another pause, as if to let me take this in. ‘The fire’s at the house you rent. Two pumps are there. Neighbours have got out safely. I don’t know how much damage yet. I’m going there right now.’

  It takes about forty minutes by car. Tom insists on driving. I just sit in the passenger seat. Mute. Dazed. Both my hands trembling in my lap.

  A million thoughts are swirling around my brain. I realise that I really was banking on being wrong; that it was Alex after all. So does this mean it isn’t? And why Tuesday night? Not Wednesday? Did the stalker think I was at the house?

  As we approach the final corner, I can see the flashing lights of the emergency services reflected in the windows of neighbouring homes
and off the shiny finish of cars parked along the street. And then we are on the road itself and the shock is electric. No flames now but thick, black smoke soaring into the night sky. Maybe a dozen people still on the street, huddled together with alarmed faces. Some on their phones. Others trying to manage their children.

  I stay in the car for a moment, just staring up at my bedroom window. The frame is entirely blackened and a large part of the roof is caved in. I cannot help it; I imagine myself in there. The heat. The flames. I cannot think of anything worse than being trapped in a fire. I find myself wondering if I would jump. I think of the many terrible stories where people have had to make that choice.

  ‘Would you jump?’

  ‘What?’ Tom is clearly thrown by the question. He screws up his face, looking up at the building.

  ‘If you were trapped in a fire, would you jump?’

  He unclips his seat belt and shakes his head. ‘You need to stop thinking like this, Alice. Look at me. You’re OK. You’re safe. We should probably get you a cup of tea or something – for the shock. I don’t think you’re ready to talk to the police yet.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Still I am imagining myself at the window. Would the smoke overcome you before you could decide?

  And next there is a new and terrible thought. My things. I don’t care about my clothes but I am suddenly remembering there are other precious things . . .

  ‘Oh no – my things, Tom. All my mother’s letters. My mother’s letters were in there.’

  ‘Oh, goodness. I’m so, so sorry. Look, are you really sure you’re up to this? To speaking to the police? Or is it too much, Alice? Do you want to leave – get a hot drink or something first?’ Tom puts his hand gently on my arm.

  ‘No, no. I’m fine. I need to find out everything I can. And I need to know if anything can be salvaged.’

  I get out of the car. Automatic pilot. Reporter mode. I speak first to the fire officer in charge, explaining it’s my house and pressing for what we know so far. He confirms no one was hurt.

  ‘And how bad’s the damage? Is everything lost?’ I am picturing the bundle of my mother’s letters. They were in a drawer beside my bed.

  ‘I’m so sorry. We did what we could but it’s very bad inside.’ He pauses. ‘Especially upstairs.’

  I see the neighbours watching me, their faces turning away to whisper as he leads me a few steps away from the throng to bring me right up to date. Apparently the fire took hold really rapidly. It will take time to confirm the cause but it looks like some kind of crude petrol bomb was posted through the letterbox. No witnesses. Neighbours heard a bang but by the time they realised what was happening and got everyone out of the attached homes, there was no sign of who may have done this. No car. No bike. No shadowy figure. Nothing.

  ‘And definitely no one hurt?’ I stare into the fire officer’s eyes, needing to hear the answer again.

  ‘Thankfully not. The neighbours were quick. Could have been very much worse. We’re just checking everything over. Police are involved, obviously. They’ll want to speak to you. And we’ll be liaising with them when the cause is confirmed.’

  ‘Of course.’ I glance across the road and for the first time notice two uniformed officers talking to some of the witnesses. I wonder if the news will have reached Melanie Sanders yet.

  And then I see Jack. He’s just finishing talking to some of the neighbours, scribbling furiously in his notebook and signalling to the photographer to get a picture of the family.

  I watch him doing his job calmly and assuredly – careful to reassure the witnesses as they stand, solemn-faced, for the picture. A couple in their early thirties. At first they have their backs to me but as they turn, I recognise them. James and Louise from three doors down. Their two children – a boy of around ten and a girl much younger – are in pyjamas with blankets thrown around their shoulders. I watch them, trying to remember the children’s names. Jack thanks them all before turning to suddenly spot me, immediately heading across the road towards me.

  ‘Alice, I’m so sorry. How are you doing?’ He puts his hand on my arm.

  ‘How do you think she’s doing?’ Tom’s tone is clipped. His expression guarded. I notice him glance at Jack’s hand on my coat and feel awkward; I am pleased that Jack is here – as awful as this scene is – but I don’t want Tom to know this.

  ‘Thanks for ringing me, Jack.’ I reach up to move a strand of hair from my forehead so that Jack has to move his hand away.

  And then I look into Jack’s face and try very hard to read it. He looks concerned but there’s something else; some other strange frisson. I can’t help thinking back to bumping into him at the café when he said that he was working but the editor’s secretary said he was off. I badly want to ask him about that. But not in front of Tom.

  ‘Sorry. I need to make some calls, Jack. My landlord.’ I turn to Tom then. ‘Melanie Sanders. And Matthew Hill too. We need to phone Matthew.’ I try to sound calm and in control but my mind is now racing and there is a tremor to my voice. I can feel my hands beginning to tremble; I realise that I cannot keep this up and I turn suddenly back to Jack.

  ‘I’ve lost everything, Jack.’ My tone is incredulous, as if I am only now truly taking in that this is real – not just a story for the paper but my story. I put my hands into my pockets to hide them as I look back up at the blackened window of my bedroom. ‘Everything.’

  CHAPTER 54

  MATTHEW

  Matthew cannot stop pacing. The phone call from Alice has confirmed his worst fears.

  Escalation. The word is bouncing around his head, his brain spooling through all the research he’s read. But why the fire on Tuesday and not Wednesday? Is there even more – maybe even worse – to come tomorrow?

  Mel is not answering her phone, which is not surprising. She’s probably en route to the scene of the fire.

  He’s in the kitchen and can hear, via the baby monitor on the dresser, Sally trying to soothe Amelie, who has woken after a bad dream. Something to do with a dog. He pauses for a moment to listen to his daughter, his heart lurching as she describes teeth. The dog had really big teeth, Mummy. Sally is trying to coax Amelie back into the real world. You’re awake now, sweetie. You’re perfectly safe. Matthew finds himself holding his breath. Amelie at last seems to be calming down. Next, Sally begins to sing. Matthew can imagine his wife smoothing their daughter’s hair. He moves to the dresser to turn down the monitor and begins pacing again.

  Arson. He saw it often enough in his time in the force and feels a shiver right through him as he realises what this means. This is not like the fake acid attack. The nasty video. The cake box. This is a big step up. Yes. Escalation. It’s the key word used in all the stalking research papers. The issue researchers are so keen to analyse and try to understand. The tipping point – the signal that stalking might lead to physical violence, even murder.

  Escalation.

  Up until now, Alice’s stalker has been about terror. Fear. Control. But – arson?

  Matthew is trying to work out if the timing of this points to Alex or away from him now.

  On the phone, Alice had assumed this now ruled Alex out, but Matthew’s not so sure and has warned against early assumptions. Alex could well have made some dark contacts in jail and might be using them – quietly furious that he’s back inside. It’s way too early to draw conclusions.

  The most critical challenge now is how to keep Alice safe. Matthew finds he’s pacing again. He badly needs to speak to Mel to see what resources she can muster off the back of this attack. It raises the bar on the threat to Alice but he still doubts police protection will be an option. The police can’t even provide surveillance for domestic abuse victims.

  The huge dread and associated responsibility is fully dawning. He will remain the first line of defence for Alice. Tomorrow . . . Wednesday . . . and going forward.

  Matthew thinks back to that awful case in training. The pictures of Rachel Allen’s body on her bathroom floor. So
young. Such a waste. He thinks too of that first meeting with Tom and Alice in his office and remembers precisely why he was nervous to take this case. Short of providing bodyguard protection 24/7, stalking is almost impossible to counter.

  He glances again at the baby monitor to see the flickering light calming; Amelie must be settling down properly. Just a few minutes later, there are footsteps on the stairs and Sally appears in the doorway.

  ‘She OK?’

  ‘Yes. She’ll be fine I think. I don’t know where that came from. I don’t want her to be frightened of dogs. But what’s up with you, Matt? You look terrible.’

  ‘Arson attack on Alice’s home. She wasn’t there but it takes everything up a gear.’

  ‘Dear Lord. Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No. Thankfully not.’

  ‘But it’s a Tuesday. I thought this nutter struck on Wednesdays.’

  ‘Yeah. So did we.’

  Sally sits down on the chair by the dresser. ‘Oh heavens, I really don’t like the sound of this, Matthew. I mean, I feel for this woman – of course I do. But aren’t you booked to mind her tomorrow? No, no . . . no, Matt. I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way like this. I thought there would be way less danger out of the police force. Having your own business. Picking your cases. We’ve just had that big payment in. You don’t need to do this—’

  ‘Come here.’ He beckons to Sally and takes her into his arms. He knows she’s right really. He can’t make this OK for Alice, not on his own. Sally had been relieved when Tom fired him temporarily and was upset when Matthew agreed to go forward with the case after all.

  ‘You have to think of me and Amelie now, Matt. You can’t be putting yourself in danger. I mean . . . arson.’

  He smooths Sal’s hair and pulls back so that he can kiss her on the forehead, the moment interrupted by his phone. He takes it from his pocket. Mel’s name at last.