Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  He manoeuvres me on to the middle of the bed, my legs dangling over the end. Something about the stillness of the white room and the way the duvet billows up around me and the quality of the light from the uncurtained bay window make this seem more like a dream. Maybe that’s why I’m just lying here, waiting, uncharacteristically submissive.

  Now he’s pulling off my trainers and peeling down my jeans and knickers, tugging them over my ankles. He’s pulling my legs gently so that my bottom is right at the end of the mattress, and he’s kneeling on the floor and he must have seen my flame tattoo, but of course he’s not going to say anything about it because we can’t speak now.

  He can’t speak now.

  Josh insists on walking me home. ‘You’ve got all that cash, remember?’

  How could I forget? It’s like a living thing in my pocket, rustling and vibrating against my right hip. The sooner I can turn it into paint and brushes, the better.

  We’ve reached the cottages now. ‘I can’t ask you in,’ I say. ‘Mum’s a bit … anxious around strangers.’ Heat surges into my cheeks. ‘Not that you’re a stranger, but …’

  ‘It’s fine. I understand.’ He rests his hands on my shoulders and kisses me on my forehead.

  ‘I promised Dad I’d help him sand some floorboards tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you when we’ve finished. It’s a pity it’s not warmer or I’d suggest you join me for an evening swim.’

  ‘I haven’t swum for ages. I don’t even know if I’ve still got a costume.’

  ‘I know a place where you can swim naked,’ he says, holding my gaze. ‘It’ll be bloody cold, though. Cold enough to put that flame out between your thighs.’ And before I have a chance to reply he gives me the sexiest wink I’ve ever seen, turns on his heels and jogs away.

  I watch him till he reaches the end of the road and turns the corner, one hand raised in a backward wave, then I float up the path to the front door, still smiling like a lovestruck teenager. Josh might be the most sensible, middle-class man I’ve ever hooked up with, but when he stood at the end of that bed naked, he might have been Michelangelo’s David made flesh. If anything’s going to expel Simon from my mind, it’s having sex with Josh. And I feel safe when I’m with him. Safe and cherished and turned on all at the same time. I’ve never felt anything quite like this before. Simon turned me on all right, but safe? Nothing about our relationship was safe. It always had a dangerous edge to it. I found it exciting at first. Exhilarating. Someone kind and gentle like Josh wouldn’t even have been on my radar. But after what happened … Besides, I’ve seen another side to Josh today. A stronger, passionate side.

  Just as I think this day can’t get any better I see a brown envelope lying on the porch mat. My benefits letter. At last. I bend down to pick it up, but as I turn it over I see that it’s not at all what I’m expecting. This isn’t an official DWP envelope, it’s an ordinary one with my name and address in green biro in strange, curly handwriting I don’t recognize. Who would be writing to me here? Apart from the staff at the rehab centre and the local GP surgery where I registered last week, and the DWP of course, nobody knows where I am.

  I slide my thumb under the flap and tear through the top of the envelope. With trembling fingers, I draw out a photo of Simon. It’s one I’ve never seen before. It’s black and white and he’s leaning against some railings and smiling into the camera. There’s nothing else in the envelope. No letter. No note. Just this one black-and-white photo.

  I turn it over in my hands and the world tilts. Someone has cut out a small picture of a woman’s hand dripping with blood and glued it to the back of the photo.

  My stomach twists with fear. Thinking I’m being haunted by my dead boyfriend is one thing, but unless ghosts can use scissors and glue and buy stamps, this is far, far scarier than that.

  Someone knows. Someone knows I killed Simon.

  Part Two

  * * *

  13

  I can’t look at the photo again. I mustn’t. But I do. Of course I do.

  He looked like this the day I bumped into him in the park. I hadn’t seen him for months, not since we’d split up. He’d never looked so healthy. His skin glowed. Sobriety suited him.

  I trace the contours of his face with my fingertip. Those sharp cheekbones and intelligent eyes. The small bump on the bridge of his nose. I’d give anything to have him back. A tear rolls silently down my cheek and splashes on to his clean-shaven chin. Oh, Simon. What did I do to you?

  I force myself to turn the photo over, praying that somehow the picture on the back won’t be there, that I’ve imagined the whole thing. But there it is. A woman’s hand, dripping with blood. A spike of fear runs through me.

  I rack my brains to see if there’s anyone who might somehow have got hold of this address. The only people I’ve told anything about my past are the people I met in rehab – the counsellors and the other residents. But they all had their demons. Why would any of them do something like this?

  I know I should tell Mum what’s happened, but I can’t. Because then it won’t just be about Simon any more. It’ll be about Dad too, and I can’t face that. I can’t face seeing it in her eyes. No, there’s only one thing that will make this go away.

  I pick up the coat I’ve thrown on to the end of my bed and unzip the pocket, take out Richard Carter’s money, the notes like old cloth in my hands. Ten pounds, that’s all I need. Half a bottle of vodka, just to take the edge off my nerves. He won’t even know. No one will.

  My heart thuds with anticipation. My palms sweat. A couple of mouthfuls, that’s all I’ll have. I can tip the rest away. The nanosecond it hits me, I’ll be able to think straight. None of this will matter.

  The stairs creak as I tiptoe down them. Mum’s in the kitchen and the blender’s going. She’s making one of her wholesome soups – I saw the recipe book open earlier and couldn’t help noticing the 275 millilitres of dry white wine in the list of ingredients. I suck my tongue and swallow. She’ll have substituted something else for that.

  She won’t hear me go out, but still, I can’t take any chances. If she knows I’ve gone, she’ll be on the lookout when I come back. She won’t have me in the house if I’ve been drinking – she’s made that patently clear – and I’ve nowhere else to go. Not any more. No more sofas to crash out on. No more favours to call in.

  But this time it’s different. This time I’ll be okay. I’ll know when to stop.

  Outside on the street, the wind is picking up. It’s behind me, like a helping hand in the small of my back, propelling me forward. Vodka. Vodka. Vodka.

  Whoever sent that picture is right. There’s blood on my hands as surely as if I’d plunged a knife through Simon’s heart. Somebody out there knows it. Just when things are finally working out. With me and Mum. With Josh. I know it’s early days yet, but it’s real, this thing between us. It means something. I know it does. I’ve even got the chance to start painting again.

  A car swooshes by. A dog barks. The Co-op is just round the corner. I’ll be there in three minutes.

  I stop dead. This is insane. If I don’t turn back now, it’ll be too late. I’ll be walking into the shop. I’ll see the bottles behind the counter and I won’t hear this voice any more. My body will be screaming for that drink. It already is.

  No. No. No! I force myself to turn round and head back for the house. The wind’s in my face now, pushing me back, but I’m running into it. Gasping for breath, I snatch the key from under the front of my T-shirt, almost ripping the chain off. Now it’s in the front door. I’m falling into the hall, lurching up the stairs, back to the four walls of my bedroom.

  I stuff the tenner in my coat pocket with all the rest and zip it up. Then I hurl it on top of the wardrobe and fling myself face down on my bed.

  Down in the kitchen, I hear Mum singing.

  *

  ‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

  The courage to change the things I can,

/>   And the wisdom to know the difference.’

  The meeting ends, as usual, with the serenity prayer. I haven’t told the group what’s happened. My aborted trip to the Co-op. I just couldn’t find the words. I didn’t want to come here in the first place. Someone is deliberately targeting me and, for all I know, they’re following my every move. It would certainly explain that weird sensation of being watched I’ve had lately. But missing AA isn’t an option, not unless I want Mum giving me grief 24/7, and I don’t. Not on top of everything else.

  I make a conscious effort to breathe slowly and deeply, try to overcome the shaky feeling that’s started up in the pit of my stomach. How dare someone send that vile picture through the post? How dare they mess with me like this? A horrible thought takes up residence in my mind and spreads like a stain. What else might they know?

  Helen tilts her head towards the door. I give a quick nod and follow her out, glad of the distraction. Rosie’s clocked us, but one of the others is bending her ear about something. Her eyes latch on to me as I leave the vestry.

  Outside, Helen waits while I light a cigarette, hold the smoke in my lungs for as long as possible, then release it in one long, slow exhalation. Nicotine is a poor substitute for alcohol, but I wouldn’t be without it. Especially now. I need all the crutches I can get. The door opens and Rosie steps out. It’s too late to shrink back into the shadows. She’s already seen us.

  ‘You okay, Astrid?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘Mind if I join you?’ she says, not waiting for an answer. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I get the feeling you’ve been struggling lately. Am I right?’

  Helen’s eyes flick towards me as Rosie lights her cigarette and I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking, that Rosie’s a nosy cow who needs to mind her own business. The meeting is over. If she thinks I’m going to start spilling my guts out here in the open, she’s got another think coming. And what does she mean, she gets the feeling? As far as I know, I’ve been wearing my best poker face all evening. She’s right, though, I’ll give her that.

  ‘No, I’m just tired, that’s all.’

  She doesn’t look convinced by the lie and I can hardly blame her for that. I’m so edgy I feel like I’ve taken some speed.

  Rosie nods. ‘It’s exhausting, isn’t it, staying sober?’

  ‘Even after eight years?’ Helen says.

  Rosie shrugs. ‘Eight years. Eight months. Eight days. Eight hours. It’s all the same.’

  It might be Helen who asked the question, but it’s me Rosie’s talking to. Maybe Helen’s right about her singling me out as her pet project. It certainly feels that way.

  ‘Are you coming back in for coffee?’ she says, that strange little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘No. I’m going to head back home now.’

  ‘You live with your mum, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Why is she asking me that again? I’ve already told her all this.

  Rosie reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘My phone number,’ she says, sliding it into the top pocket of my shirt. ‘In case you ever need to talk and you can’t get hold of me at the shop.’

  Halfway back to the church, she stops and turns round. ‘Sorry, Helen. I should have written it down for you too. Feel free to make a note of it.’

  Helen gives her a brisk smile but doesn’t respond.

  ‘At least I know where I stand,’ she says when Rosie goes back inside.

  I take the piece of paper out of my pocket and stare at it. ‘Why did she put it in my pocket instead of just giving it to me?’

  I scrunch the paper up and toss it into the rubbish bin at the side of the path.

  ‘She’s right about one thing,’ Helen says as we head out of the churchyard. ‘It is exhausting, staying sober.’ She does the buttons up on her coat. ‘Do you think she’s right about it not getting any easier? I was kind of banking on that.’

  We walk for a while in silence and, though I wasn’t going to make a habit of walking back with her after meetings, tonight I’m glad of the company. I tell her what Rosie said to me the other day in the shop, about God watching over me.

  Helen snorts. ‘What, like some kind of stalker?’

  The word ‘stalker’ sends a shiver down my spine, only this time it’s not the supernatural I have to be afraid of but the living, and that’s got to be worse, hasn’t it?

  ‘You can come in for a coffee if you like,’ she says. We’re almost at her block of flats now. ‘Proper coffee. Not like the stuff at AA. Or tea, if you prefer.’

  I hesitate. I should be getting back. Mum will only start fretting if I’m late. But suddenly I don’t want to be outside any more.

  ‘Do you have any green tea?’

  She twists her mouth to one side. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then why not?’

  I follow Helen through the wide glass doors. At the end of the path in the space between the tall hedges that separate the flats from the street, a figure flashes past in a grey blur.

  Was that Rosie? Has she been following us?

  14

  ‘It’s not mine, I rent it,’ Helen says, walking over to the window that looks out on to a small concrete balcony and drawing the curtains. She turns a couple of lamps on.

  It’s a typical rental. Neutral colours. Plain, functional furniture. But dotted around the place are small splashes of colour and personality. One of those Indian wall-hangings with tiny round mirrors sewn into it, brass candlesticks with half-burnt candles in them, an incense burner on a little circular table and a huge weeping fig in the corner.

  As I move further into the room I see that it’s an L-shape and that a small kitchen looks over the living area. Helen is already in there, filling up the kettle, taking tea caddies out of cupboards, selecting cups. On the draining rack next to the sink is one dinner plate, one bowl and one upturned wine glass, which my eyes won’t leave alone. What I wouldn’t give for a good slug of red wine right now. That’d kick this fear into touch, or at the very least dull its edges.

  I watch Helen’s hands as she tears open a sachet that contains a green tea bag. No shaking tonight. Tonight she seems fine. I’d know if she’d been drinking. I wouldn’t have come up if she had. Besides, you can drink anything out of a wine glass. Water. Fruit juice. Milk. I tend to avoid using them if I can, but that’s just me. Just holding a certain type of glass can be a trigger.

  ‘I’ve become rather obsessed with the whole paraphernalia surrounding tea and coffee,’ Helen says. ‘I’ve got at least four different teapots and more strainers and infusers than I’ll ever be able to use. As for coffee …’ She opens another cupboard to reveal shelves stuffed with cafetières, percolators, plastic filter holders, filter papers, a coffee-bean grinder and various packets of coffee beans.

  I lean on the counter and watch her set two cups on a tray. ‘Maybe it’s all part of our obsessive personalities. We need something to fill the void that alcohol once took up. I eat far too many sweet things too.’

  Helen opens another cupboard rammed with chocolates.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  She pulls out a packet of red Bounties and puts it on the tray with the tea.

  ‘I’ve become a bit obsessive about cleaning too,’ she says, setting it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. ‘Something else to fill the days.’

  ‘You don’t work, then?’

  ‘I’m an accountant. Was an accountant. Well, still am, I suppose. An out-of-work accountant.’

  She looks round the room in distaste. ‘I used to have a really nice house, but then my work dried up.’ She puffs air through her nose. ‘Give you three guesses why. Couldn’t pay my mortgage, got more and more into debt. Still, at least there was enough equity in the house to pay off the debts and start again. I’ve got just enough savings to live on for the next year if I’m really careful, but I’ll have to find some work
soon.’

  ‘Did you live alone?’

  Her eyes cloud over. I’ve said the wrong thing.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. Honestly. I lived with my husband, but …’ She lowers her eyes. ‘He couldn’t cope with my drinking. He gave me an ultimatum.’ She pauses to stir her tea. ‘Actually, he gave me three.’

  I wait for her to continue. She’d started to share some of this at the meeting tonight but became too tearful and had to stop.

  ‘One day I got back from wherever it was I’d been and he’d cleared out, taken every last one of his possessions. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.’

  She sniffs and looks up, gives a sad little smile. ‘Think I’m ready for that Bounty now. Want one?’

  I sink my teeth into the dark, coconut-filled chocolate. It’s gone in a flash and I immediately want another one. I hardly touched my supper earlier. All I could think of were those blood-stained hands.

  ‘What was his name?’ I ask, trying hard to sound relaxed and normal.

  She bounces her teabag up and down by the string, then lifts it out and lays it carefully on the little saucer she’s placed on the table. Her mouth is pinched and for a minute or so I wonder if she’s heard me.

  ‘Peter,’ she says at last, her voice so soft I barely hear it. She’s staring into the middle distance, almost as if I’m no longer there.

  ‘My boyfriend was called Simon,’ I say, and before I know what’s happening my eyes are brimming with tears. Seeing that photo of him looking so happy and healthy has unpicked a fresh seam of grief.

  And guilt. Always the guilt.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘It’ll take hours,’ I say. ‘Days. Trained counsellors can’t cope with listening to this sort of shit for more than an hour, and they’re getting paid.’