I Will Make You Pay

by Driscoll, Teresa

  ‘So what’s happening?’ He pulls a face by way of apology to Sal, who shakes her head in resignation and moves through to the sitting room.

  ‘Definitely arson, Matt. We’re going to speak to Alex again. He could be using a contact.’

  ‘That’s what I wondered.’

  ‘But he may just sing in our faces again so I’m feeling pretty stressed, between you and me.’

  ‘There could be something on CCTV this time. Every new incident means a new risk of him making a mistake.’

  ‘I guess.’ There is a long pause.

  ‘You OK, Mel?’

  ‘Not really. This will get me more resources for the investigation, and I need to know where Alice plans to be tomorrow – and going forward. I can get uniformed patrol cars to do drive-pasts but you know I can’t protect her properly.’

  ‘I know, Mel.’ He pauses. ‘But that’s not your fault.’

  ‘But it feels like it, Matt. So what do you think? Is this Alex paying someone . . . or is it someone else entirely? Do you think whoever it is really wants to kill her, Matt? Just between us. I’ll be honest and say that, after that fake acid attack, I thought it was all about terrorising her. Inciting fear rather than actual violence. But now I’m afraid he could go the whole way. That this could be Rachel Allen all over again. Is that what you think now? That he may try to kill her?’

  Matthew takes in a long, slow breath. The word escalation echoes once again in his head. He is remembering not just Rachel Allen but another case cited in the research, of a woman who was stalked for ten months. She kept telling her mother that she was sure she would one day end up on the news. She did. Her stalker drowned her.

  ‘I won’t be saying this to Alice, but I think it’s possible, Mel.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  CHAPTER 55

  ALICE

  I am back in Leanne’s huge, shiny Dorset kitchen in a strange agitated daze, exacerbated by too much caffeine. Wednesday now. Tom has taken the day off and Matthew Hill is here too, monitoring the TV security system and forever marching around – checking the doors and the windows and occasionally outside too, pacing the grounds.

  Leanne has been on the phone, talking about hiring bodyguards. Putting the cost on the company, but I can’t be going down that route. No way to live. I mean – when would it ever end?

  The arson attack has been on the local TV news all day and something new is suddenly occurring to me.

  ‘Hang on. Do you think that’s why he seemed to change the day – why he did it late last night? Tuesday night, I mean.’ I address the question to Matthew, who has just come back in from the garden and is closing the bolts on the French doors from the kitchen on to the patio.

  ‘Sorry – I’m not following you, Alice.’

  ‘So it would be on the news all day today. Wednesday. That this is my torture this week. My burned home on the telly . . . all day Wednesday.’ I tilt my head towards the large TV screen on the wall near the large stainless-steel fridge. The sound is off but the picture is zooming in on the upper floor of my house. The ticker tape beneath the picture confirms arson and that a full investigation is under way. I notice the police have been careful not to mention the stalking threat or the link.

  Matthew shrugs but then narrows his eyes as if reconsidering the point. ‘Possibly. But why not just do it early Wednesday?’

  ‘Because he needed it to be dark not to be caught. If he’d done it late Wednesday, most of the coverage would have been Thursday. An attack very late Tuesday guaranteed coverage all day Wednesday.’ I realise as I listen to my voice that a part of me wants to believe this narrative because I don’t want to imagine yet more trauma. Today.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Who knows how this kind of mind works? But we can’t assume nothing else will happen today. We need to be vigilant. And the important thing now is to talk through how we go forward from this, Alice. After today, I mean. And what’s happening about the plan to return to work. I take it you’re reconsidering that?’

  ‘No choice, actually. My editor’s been in touch. Asked me to take another week off, minimum. Until we hear more from the fire investigation team. I think he’s worried they’ll burn the office down. Or that the stalker will pose as an interviewee. Something like that.’

  Matthew exchanges a glance with Tom and I feel some new tension in the room – something I can’t quite read.

  ‘What? What’s going on between you two?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just we were talking, when you had a nap.’ Tom is trying to soften his voice. He glances again at Matthew. ‘And we were just wondering if you should maybe get away for a bit, Alice. Complete change of scene.’

  ‘What – run away, you mean?’

  ‘No. But – look, my parents are still on this cruise, as you know. They’re just about to spend some time in Italy. How about we join them for a bit? Meet up for a few days in Italy.’

  ‘On the cruise?’

  ‘No, not the cruise. We could get a hotel on the coast somewhere and just meet up with them. Relax. De-stress a bit while the police look into this.’

  I don’t know why I feel so cross at this suggestion. Tom has wanted me to meet his parents before – in Paris. I said no to that too. It’s too soon. One day I walked in on him Skyping them and he asked if I wanted to say hi, and I made an excuse. I felt he was cornering me. It’s too full on. Meeting the parents. It makes me think of my time with Alex. The engagement ring. The whole blessed nonsense.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Italy. I don’t want to run away. I mean – how long would I have to keep running? Hiding? This is ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong and yet it’s my life that’s been completely turned upside down.’ I can feel tears coming and that’s not what I want either. ‘Anyway, my mother’s not good. The nursing staff are worried. Leanne just brought me up to date. I can’t be going on trips. I need to visit her this weekend as normal. There’s no way I’m missing the visit to my mother.’

  Again they exchange a strange look. More resigned. More worried.

  ‘Of course. Sorry. It was just an idea.’ Tom’s tone is apologetic. ‘Shall I make some more coffee?’

  ‘If I drink any more coffee, I suspect I’ll start bouncing off these walls.’

  ‘OK. Peppermint tea it is.’ He heads over to the kettle and I stare at his back as he tries two drawers, looking for cutlery.

  I hate peppermint tea but Tom is doing his best. I am being a cow. I can’t help it because I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. This feeling of utter helplessness. Playing the sitting duck.

  ‘Actually, can we forget the tea? I think I’m going to take a bath. Try to calm myself down. Any more from Melanie Sanders?’ I look again at Matthew, who checks his phone and shakes his head.

  I don’t know why I keep clinging to the hope the police inquiry will come good. Alex has been questioned again but is still refusing to cooperate. To make matters worse, I mentioned to Matthew about Claire Hardy at the charity and that has now backfired on me. He’s informed Melanie Sanders as if Claire might be a suspect in my own stalking. Ridiculous. She’s trying to con people as far as I can see, not stalk them. I made it clear that I made contact with the charity, not the other way around, but Matthew says they could have used Facebook ads to target my stream – to put the name of the charity in my mind. They can’t afford to miss any possible line of inquiry. And Claire has a dicey boyfriend. So they’re now checking her out. Complete waste of police time, if you ask me.

  I watch Matthew put his phone away in his pocket and head upstairs.

  Leanne’s Dorset home has four bedrooms with their own bathrooms, plus a huge separate guest bathroom with a beautiful roll-top bath. I decide against the small shower adjoining my bedroom, as I feel a bit more nervous in there. The guest bathroom is off the main landing and somehow feels better. This is what my life has become. Worrying which bathroom feels safer . . .

  I lock the door and glance to make sure the window i
s closed. I find some bath oil on the shelf and fill the tub to three-quarters so I can sink right in. The scent is lovely. Vanilla with some other note I can’t quite make out. The warmth of the water does indeed feel soothing and for a moment I feel better. But then as I sweep the bubbles over my arms there is suddenly a strange tapping noise at the window. I freeze. I listen – hoping I imagined it. But no. There it is again.

  Now I sit bolt upright, the water surging as I do so – creating a wave which sends water splashing over the top on to the marble floor tiles. I want to leap out of the bath but am worried I’ll slip on the wet floor. I have to twist my neck awkwardly to get a view of the window. And now – a myriad of emotions. Because the moment I look at the window, I see the ridiculous truth. The clear shadow of a branch from a tree, simply tapping against the glass in the wind.

  It is then that the tears come. The shame of the depths of my fear. My overreaction. Frightened by a mere branch. The horror burning a stamp on my flesh that my life has been reduced to this. I can’t work. I can’t function. My home has been burned down. My mother is sick. I honestly can’t imagine that my life will ever be normal again.

  CHAPTER 56

  HIM – BEFORE

  When the police turn up at his home, he imagines it’s about Brian. After all these years, he wonders what has finally led them here. Some new forensic discovery? Some witness who never came forward before?

  He’s settled in a new job now and his mind is all at once buzzing. What mistake did he make? What have they found? Most of all he’s worried about his gran. Who will look out for his gran if he’s arrested? His mind is in overdrive and his heart is pumping but he keeps his face calm. Maybe there is still some way out of this. He will admit nothing.

  He will say nothing.

  He allows them into his home. They stand in his sitting room, glancing around. And then the female officer says that she is very sorry but there is ‘some bad news about your gran’.

  The two officers exchange a strange look. He thinks it might be pity. He doesn’t understand. And then he can feel his head twitching and there is this strange dizziness deep within him. They are still speaking but he’s now in this bubble so their words cannot quite reach him.

  He is looking at their mouths, watching their lips move and willing them out of his home. He does not want them here. Does not need to hear any more of this rubbish.

  ‘You must have made a mistake. I’m sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.’

  ‘I’m so very sorry but there’s no mistake. Can I perhaps make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No.’

  Much later he is in this terrible place which smells of chemicals and some other floral scent that is perhaps supposed to cover up the chemical smell. It fails. They have tried to make the room look respectful and calm. They have wasted their time.

  It looks as terrible a place as he can ever imagine.

  There is a sheet over the face of the woman who is dead. Still he is certain there has been some mistake. His gran would not do this. He’s warned again that the circumstances of death have led to a distortion of her appearance. He must brace himself. They need him to identify her. They are very, very sorry.

  The sheet is lifted back and there is that terrible twitching of his head again. He cannot believe it and so he closes his eyes. It is as if time is this long, slim tunnel and he is being sucked away from this room – back, back, back. He is a small boy blowing out the candles of his birthday cake – his gran smiling at him. He is in the park on the slide – his gran waiting at the bottom, beaming. He is in his bedroom, knees curled up to his chin, dreading the knock-knocking on the door on a Wednesday night.

  There is a voice now. He opens his eyes to find they are asking him if he is able to confirm this is his grandmother. He’s back in the bubble and they repeat themselves and so he nods. They move to replace the sheet but he shakes his head and holds up his hand to stop them.

  He looks some more.

  He cannot believe what has happened to her. He looks at the dark distortion that was once his grandmother’s beautiful, soft and ever-smiling face, and he swears deep inside himself that he will find who made her do this.

  He will make them pay.

  He will go to the ends of the earth until he has understood who drove her to this terrible thing. And he will make . . . them . . . pay.

  CHAPTER 57

  ALICE

  Leanne has sent their company driver to take me to London this time. No more trains. It’s Friday and the traffic is dreadful. I feel a bit ridiculous sitting in the back, to be honest. Like royalty or something. But the chauffeur is a nice bloke; he drives well and, though he’s friendly, he’s taken the hint that I don’t want to chat.

  We are only about ten minutes away from Mum’s new nursing home, and so I message Jack again. He tipped me off early this morning that he’s now been pencilled in on the news desk diary to cover the demolition of the Maple Field flats in my place. He feels bad about this; he’s worried I’ll be upset with him for taking on my story. My position? Quite frankly I’m furious with Ted, but there’s also this small relief that he chose Jack – as I would still like to find a way to quietly play a part. Somehow.

  I’ve bounced this past Jack and asked him to keep it under his hat. Tom and Matthew will go nuts if I share this plan too soon. But Jack is more nervous than I anticipated. He’s like an echo of Ted now – worrying about my safety. The demolition is Wednesday, after all. My thinking is I will go along – low-key and entirely in the background – if Matthew can be persuaded to come too. That story means a lot to me. I’d just like to see it through. See the wretched place come down. The look on the campaigners’ faces.

  I won’t step forward. I won’t make any kind of fuss. I just want to be there.

  ‘Right. Here we are. My instructions are to walk you inside. That OK?’ The chauffeur is unclicking his seat belt.

  ‘Fine by me. Thank you.’

  He gets out and opens my door. Again, it feels a bit formal, but I don’t want to cause offence. Good of Leanne to arrange this. She means well.

  Inside I am pleased to see they follow strict procedure at reception, checking my ID before issuing a visitor pass. They also confirm that rules about deliveries are in place regarding my mother. Good.

  I am escorted to the lift and up to the second floor by a second member of staff. Not sure if this is the norm or they are trying to impress, given the police have been in touch too.

  My mother’s room is as lovely as I remember it from the last visit. I glance at the little table in the corner where there are fresh white roses in a glass vase. I feel worried for a moment, remembering the pot plant and the concealed camera at the last home, but the nurse follows my gaze and confirms that Leanne brought them with her yesterday.

  And then I turn to my mother. Who is still in bed in a pale blue nightie, propped up with pillows.

  ‘She’s feeling a little weak today so we’re going to leave it a bit longer before she’s dressed. Is that a problem? Were you planning to go out into the garden?’

  I shake my head. No. I don’t have the courage to take my mother outside. Not with all this unresolved.

  There is a pale pink velvet chair alongside the bed, and I find it is unbelievably comfortable.

  ‘Hello, Mum.’

  Her eyes open instantly at my voice.

  ‘My lovely girl.’

  Three words. Still her maximum.

  I smile, fighting the surge of tears inside at seeing her deterioration. For the first time, her skin looks the wrong colour. Her lips have a bluish tinge. Leanne warned me about all of this on the phone, but every change with every visit still shocks me.

  My mother nods towards the bedside table where Wuthering Heights is ready. We always keep to this deal. Leanne will sometimes play cards with my mother. Or Scrabble. Other times they will sketch together – a skill I do not have. But the reading job is mine.

  ‘So. Where were we?’
I open the book. There is a new bookmark at Chapter Twenty. It’s a child’s effort and it takes me a moment to recognise it. Pressed flowers – pink and purple – under some kind of plastic covering. Not properly laminated; this is like the cruder covering we used to use for schoolbooks. Yes. I remember now these sheets, with paper which you had to peel off the back. There is a hole punched in the bottom of the marker and a faded pink ribbon tied through it in a bow. I tied that ribbon myself. Primary school? I was probably no more than eight.

  ‘Where did this come from?’

  ‘The box.’ My mother tilts her head again. By the fireplace on the opposite wall there is a silver storage box which Leanne must have brought on her visit. I picture it in a different place – stored at my mother’s home under the stairs. We haven’t rooted through that box for years. It’s full of all sorts of family memorabilia, mostly things that Leanne and I made in school.

  ‘You getting sentimental?’ I try to make my tone teasing, but in truth I am thinking of all those precious letters that I lost in the fire. I don’t want my mother to know any of my nightmare so I fight the tears and find a smile instead. My mother shrugs before smiling back and signalling with her hand that I should start reading. She closes her eyes. Wheezes. Her chest barely rising at all with each breath. Lips still too blue.

  I read for no more than fifteen minutes before she falls asleep again. I ring the button and the nurse arrives to confirm that this is the normal pattern now. My mother finds it difficult to stay awake for very long. The lack of oxygen.

  ‘We talked about this?’ The nurse is searching my face as if to check if I’m facing up to what is really going on here. I just nod. Can’t speak.

  I ask her to say goodbye for me and to tell my mother that I’ll visit again very soon, then I carefully place the book with my bookmark back on the table. I press my hand on the cover for quite some time before I feel ready to peel myself away.