Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  I run my hands over my bedside cabinet. The small travel clock, my lip salve and box of tissues. What’s wrong with this picture?

  And then I see it, the Big Book with its marker sticking out, and something clicks into place. Of course! I grab hold of it and flip through the chapters with trembling fingers till I come to the section I’m searching for. I need to check the exact wording.

  Here it is. Step 5: ‘Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.’

  I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. Oh, Simon, dear Simon. You weren’t messing about, were you? You really were following the programme. You were working the steps properly. To the letter.

  The question is: who did you tell?

  Part Three

  * * *

  25

  Mum bangs on the bathroom door. I flinch at the noise.

  ‘Astrid, you’ve been in there for ages! What are you doing?’

  I dry myself with one of her rock-hard bath towels. My skin feels raw and sensitive and every bone in my body aches from lack of sleep.

  ‘I’ll be out in two minutes.’

  I stare at the dark hollows under my eyes, my grey complexion. I should text Josh and tell him I can’t work on the painting today. Tell him I’m ill. But what will I do if I stay home all day? Go crazy, that’s what. I need the distraction. Now more than ever. Besides, I’ve agreed to do the painting – I can’t let them down.

  Back in my bedroom, I’m in the middle of fastening my bra when I see it. Or rather, when I don’t see it. The gold juggling ball. It’s missing from my bedside table.

  I knew something was different in here. She’s taken it. She’s been in my room and stolen Simon’s juggling ball. The only thing of his I have left. My heart thumps. I bend down to look under the bed, just in case I’m mistaken and it’s rolled off, but it isn’t there. I pull open drawers and rifle through them, even though I know I won’t find it. I even open my wardrobe and go through all my pockets.

  It isn’t anywhere. It’s gone.

  This girl has wormed her way into the house when I wasn’t here. She’s had the nerve to sit on my mum’s settee, drinking her tea and feeding her lies. She’s left her poisonous note on the stairs and nosed around in my room. The very air feels contaminated. It’s all too close for comfort now. What does she want with me?

  Down in the kitchen, as I wait for the kettle to boil, a bitter anger floods through me. I can’t blame Simon for working through the Twelve Steps. I’m doing it myself, or trying to. But he must have given this girl, whoever she is, my name – my real name. How else would she have tracked me down? My fingers curl into fists. It was our shameful secret – it bonded us together like glue. We said we’d take it to our graves. What were you thinking, Simon? How could you be so stupid? So careless?

  Mum comes in with her arms full of dirty washing for the machine. I pretend to be reading the small print on the back of the box of teabags. There’s no way I can tell her, because I know exactly what she’ll say if she knows I’m being stalked and threatened. She’ll tell me to go to the police. She’ll insist upon it. And I’d have to tell her about that night. She’ll never forgive me. Never. I can’t even forgive myself.

  I can’t tell Josh either. This is the man who won’t even contemplate staying in a beach hut overnight because it’s against council rules. He’ll want nothing more to do with me.

  If only I’d had the sense to tell him about my past straight away, maybe, just maybe, it would have been all right. He might have been sympathetic, willing to help me. Now, though, he’ll feel duped. All the things he admires most about me: my love for my ‘career’, taking time out to look after my ‘depressed’ mother – it’s all one great big sham. He’ll despise me. I’ll lose them both. Mum and Josh.

  ‘Promise me you won’t let that girl in if she comes back.’

  Mum wrinkles her brow. ‘You’re not still on about that, are you?’ Her face softens. ‘Look, even if she was casing the joint for someone, I’m sure she’ll have told them not to bother. There’s nothing worth stealing in here.’

  I force a laugh. ‘You’re not wrong there.’

  But she is wrong. Something has already been stolen. Simon’s juggling ball. And my peace of mind – what little I had in the first place.

  Josh picks me up in his dad’s car. If he notices how bad I look – and he must do, surely – it doesn’t show on his face. The relief that I don’t have to walk all the way to Mistden on my own is overwhelming. Even so, I glance up and down the street before getting in. She could be watching me right now. I sink down into the passenger seat and watch Josh’s hands resting on the steering wheel. The car, a swanky Mercedes, smells of leather and newness, and I wish I could enjoy the luxury of being driven around in it, but I can’t. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. It’s going to be impossible to get back into the painting zone.

  ‘I had a peek at your picture last night,’ Josh says, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. ‘I can see all the shapes already. It’s going to be fantastic.’

  His left hand leaves the wheel just long enough to squeeze my knee.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, grinning. ‘Once you’ve knocked back a quick double, you’ll be fine.’

  My stomach clenches. A quick double? What the hell is he talking about?

  ‘A double espresso, that is. I’ve bought you some strong Colombian coffee to keep you going.’

  If I wasn’t a bag of nerves, I’d be laughing out loud.

  ‘Oh, thanks. That’s great.’

  I stare out of the window at the houses we’re passing and the people walking by. What will I do if I see her? The girl in the puffa jacket. It has to be her. Who else could it be?

  My fingers ache from where I’ve been clenching them into fists. The moment I’ve dreaded for so long has finally happened. I’ve been found out. But why is she tormenting me like this?

  As Josh turns the car into his dad’s driveway, I’ve made up my mind. There’s only one way out of this mess. I have to take matters into my own hands and find that girl myself. Make her tell me what she wants.

  26

  I stand in front of the easel and stare at the blank canvas. I doubt I’ll be able to keep my hand steady enough to hold the brush, let alone do anything creative with it.

  Josh places his hands on my shoulders and kisses the nape of my neck. I lean back into him, glad of the solidity of his warm body against mine. At least I’m safe when I’m here.

  ‘Dad’s going out later,’ he says. ‘We can have one of our long coffee breaks.’ His tongue flicks my earlobe and sends shivers up my spine. ‘Without the coffee.’

  I turn round and fling my arms round his neck, kiss him long and hard on the mouth. Whatever nasty little game this girl is playing, she’s not going to spoil this for me. She’s not going to win. I won’t let her. I’m finally sorting myself out and building bridges with Mum, falling in love again, painting. Whatever I’ve done in the past, that part of my life is over. I’m not that person any more.

  The hours pass. Somehow or other, I manage to still my mind for short bursts of time, long enough to play around a little with the composition, to define the darker areas with a bluish grey. I can’t trust myself to do anything that requires more prolonged focus. And yet, as I stand before the easel, the finished picture spreads out in my mind. Even with no added colour, no detail whatsoever, the image is already there, waiting to emerge.

  But now more images superimpose themselves over the canvas. A nightmarish montage that unfolds before me even when I screw my eyes tight shut. A crumpled body on the pavement. A child’s face, contorted with panic. Blood on my sleeve.

  I back away from the easel, almost tripping on a ruck in the dust sheet that Richard has spread on the floor. Righting myself by flinging a hand out to the wall, I run out of the room and into the downst
airs cloakroom, lock myself in and perch on the edge of the closed toilet lid, elbows on my knees, hands clasped between my legs. My mind swings wildly from one incoherent memory to another, but nothing makes any sense. Just when I think I’ve nailed something down, something that will make sense of it all, it slips away again.

  I try to slow the rhythm of my breath, holding lungfuls of air for as long as possible then exhaling slowly through my nose, till at last the panic subsides and I feel strong enough to stand up. I run the cold tap in the little sink and splash my face. I hardly recognize my reflection in the mirror. The pale, pinched face. The puffy eyes.

  Above my head comes the sound of footsteps. The cloakroom has been installed into the space under the stairs, so the vibrations follow the slope of the ceiling. I’ve no idea how long I’ve been holed up in here. It could be ten minutes; it could be twenty. I flush the toilet and wait for a few moments before sliding the bolt across and opening the door, stepping out into the hallway.

  Richard is pulling on his jacket and slipping on a pair of deck shoes he’s left by the front door. His blond-grey hair is flecked with white paint, his clothes too. He smiles broadly when he sees me and lifts his hand in a fixed wave.

  ‘See you in a couple of hours, Astrid. I’m going to see a man about a boat.’

  When Josh appears in the doorway of the small room just five minutes after the front door closes I’m sorting my brushes out, giving myself time to summon up the courage to face the canvas again.

  ‘Are you ready for your coffee break yet?’ he says, and we both know exactly what kind of break he has in mind. At least he doesn’t seem to notice how little progress I’ve made with the painting.

  ‘What if your dad comes back early?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I think he’s gone out to give us time alone. And no, I didn’t ask him to, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  I force myself to sound normal, to make a joke. ‘Maybe he’s having a secret tryst of his own. He must have loads of women after him.’

  Big mistake. Josh looks as if I’ve just slapped him round the face.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ he says.

  I’m taken aback by the unexpected sharpness of his tone.

  He sighs. ‘Look, I know you must think I’m being oversensitive. But it’s taken us both a long time to come to terms with Mum not being around any more. I just can’t imagine him falling for another woman. Mum was … Mum was pretty special.’

  He takes the brushes from my hand and lays them down on the table.

  ‘You’re special too,’ he says softly.

  I feel his heartbeat as he holds me close against his chest, and for a few moments we just stand there, our arms wrapped tightly round each other. Am I special enough that he’ll still love me when he realizes I’ve been lying? Special enough that he’ll forgive me for the things I’ve done in the past? For whatever it was I did that terrible, terrible night?

  His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper. ‘Let’s go upstairs, Hilary Phelps.’

  My whole body stiffens. I shrink from his touch. How on earth does he …?

  He takes a step back. ‘Hey! You really don’t like that name, do you?’

  Stupid girl. I told him on the beach. He’s just teasing me. But still, hearing it so soon after seeing it written on that death notice is a shock. I attempt a smile and Josh grins back at me. The noise of my own heart beating furiously is, of course, in my ears only.

  He pulls me towards him again, but I wriggle out of his arms. I need time to recover. ‘Let me wash my brushes out first.’

  He pretends to look hurt. ‘How to make a guy feel wanted.’

  ‘Acrylic paint dries really fast and these are expensive. You have to look after them.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘If you want to. You’ve got to work this soap into the bristles all the way down to the ferrule …’

  He drags his teeth over his bottom lip and takes the bar of soap from my hands. ‘I love it when you talk dirty.’

  The corners of my mouth turn up. The tension of the last few minutes is starting to recede.

  ‘And then rinse thoroughly with lukewarm water.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  I follow him with my eyes as he carries my brushes and soap away. I love everything about this man: his walk, his voice, those eyes that go from kind to sexy in a heartbeat. The way his hair curls over his ears. The smell of him.

  Then I think of those words on the back of the photo. What goes around comes around. It’s time to pay for what you’ve done. That’s karma, isn’t it? Actions have consequences. I don’t deserve to be this happy. That’s what it means.

  By the time I hear the sound of Richard’s tyres on the gravel driveway I’m back at my easel, trying to work on the reflections of light in the water beyond the jetty. I wanted to stay in Josh’s bed for ever, curled up next to his strong, warm body, pretending everything was normal. But it isn’t, and the harder I try to convince myself otherwise, the more ominous the whole thing seems. The more chilling. Who would do such a thing? And why?

  Richard’s voice floats through the window I opened earlier. He must have walked round to the side of the house, be standing with his phone just out of sight by the garage. His voice has a low, measured intensity I don’t recognize. My brush pauses mid-air.

  ‘No. I haven’t told him yet.’ There’s a long pause. ‘Yes, she’s here now.’

  My chest tightens. There’s no reason to think he’s found out about me – he could be talking about anything – but still, it’s the first thing that comes into my head. I hold my breath and strain my ears for more, but as I’m leaning towards the window he walks further into the garden and our eyes meet. He frowns and I dart back to the easel as if I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t. A minute later the front door opens and he bounds up the stairs. He’s saying something to Josh, but I can’t make out what. Their voices are muffled and indistinguishable from down here.

  The paintbrush slips through my fingers and on to the floor. This is absurd. I need to get a hold of myself. She’s made me like this. That nasty fucking girl and her cruel games. Who is she?

  I keep imagining her opening the envelope. The feeling of dread in the pit of her belly as she realizes I know her darkest secret. Scaring her is the only fun I’ve had in a long while. Almost more fun than actually killing her.

  Almost.

  But there comes a time when fantasizing about something isn’t enough. The release when it happens – if it happens at all – is less satisfying. Less pleasurable. It’s like a drug I’ve developed a tolerance for.

  It’s time to up the dosage.

  27

  It’s unbearable going back into the cottage. What if there’s another brown envelope waiting for me?

  The relief when there isn’t doesn’t last long. Because she’s still out there somewhere, plotting her next move. And for the next two days, there’s no chance of escaping to the house in Mistden and being with Josh, because he and his dad won’t be there. They’re going away for some long-standing family event in Berkshire.

  I can’t get Richard’s face when I said goodbye earlier out of my mind. He could barely look me in the eye. Has that girl told him something? Is that what that phone call was about? If he has, he’ll tell Josh while they’re away. He’s bound to. Why the hell didn’t I tell them sooner? Why am I such a coward?

  Mum’s getting ready to visit Pam for the evening. A few weeks ago I’d have been delighted to have had the house to myself for once, to watch what I want on TV, or listen to music without her complaining it’s too loud. But tonight, I don’t want to be alone. Tonight, I need company. I think of Helen’s number upstairs in my room. Maybe I could invite her over when Mum’s gone.

  ‘There’s some quiche and salad in the fridge,’ Mum says. She pecks me on the cheek. ‘You look done in, darling.’

  ‘I am. I’m not
used to standing up all day.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a nice early night?’ she says, and for once, I don’t resent the suggestion. For once, I appreciate that she isn’t just nagging, that she has my best interests at heart. Not that there’s much chance of me getting any sleep.

  Helen’s voice sounds different. At first I think it’s the signal, but then she laughs as if I’ve said something funny, and I haven’t. The realization judders through me like an electric shock. She’s been drinking. Of course she has. The timbre of her voice has altered. It isn’t distorted from bad reception – her speech is starting to slur.

  ‘Helen, are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  There it is, that defensive tone hovering just below the surface. It sounds like something I would have said. Back in the day, when Mum used to keep calling to check up on me.

  My mind races. Loath as I am to admit it, perhaps I should have listened to Rosie. The very last thing I need right now is a friend who’s still drinking. I need to disassociate myself from all that. Self-preservation, that’s what’s important now. In any case, we’ve only known each other a few weeks. We’re hardly best buddies.

  I’ll talk to her, though, try to persuade her to stop. It’s the least I can do after she’s been so kind and listened to all my crap.

  I change tack quickly and tell her about my day, about starting the painting for Josh’s dad. About the house and how beautiful it is. Anything to keep her on the line, keep her talking.

  ‘Things are really taking off for you, aren’t they?’ she says, but not in a snide way. She sounds sad and wistful.

  I’m trying to think of how to respond when she speaks again.