Who Did You Tell?

by Lesley Kara

  I run out on to the street, the concrete cold against the soles of my feet, bits of grit digging into them and making me wince, but I don’t stop. I run until I can’t run any more and I’m crouching at the edge of the pavement, throwing up into the road, people shaking their heads and tutting as they walk past.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ says an old lady.

  The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of shedding these vile clothes straight into the washing machine, of sinking into a long, hot bath. Then I’ll drink as much water as I can pour down my throat, make a large mug of coffee and climb into bed with it. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep, but if I can just rest and get my head together before Mum comes home, maybe she won’t realize I’ve been drinking. I can pretend I’ve got the flu.

  At last I’m at the front door of the cottage, and my hand reaches up for the key round my neck. My insides fall away in a sickening thump. Where is it? Where’s my key chain? I grope under my T-shirt, hoping by some miracle that it’s still there, caught in my bra or under the waistband of my jeans, but even as I’m scrabbling around, I know it isn’t. The key is gone. She must have pulled the chain off when she tried to strangle me with her tights.

  I slump against the porch door, defeated. I’m going to have to wait here like this till Mum gets home this evening, and she’ll see the state of my clothes. The state of me. She’ll know straight away I’ve been drinking and that’ll be that.

  I make one last, futile attempt to check for the key, pulling out the pockets of my jeans, even though I know it can’t be there. Tears stream down my face. Why is this happening to me? How is it possible that I’m standing in my mother’s front garden, in damp, vomit-stained clothes, with no keys, no money and no phone, with no shoes or socks and filthy, bleeding feet?

  Think, Astrid. Think. I’ll have to go back to the shop and find Rosie. It’s Sunday, but the charity shops stay open in the summer months, to catch the tourist trade. What the hell am I waiting for?

  Dizzy and trembling, I set off back towards Flinstead Road. People are staring at me as I pass, at my stained clothes and dirty bare feet. Some of them actually stop in their tracks and glare at me as if I’m some kind of criminal. Every so often I have to stop and retch into the road. Not one single person asks if I’m okay. Of course they don’t. I stink of booze and vomit. I look like a tramp.

  By the time I get to the shop I’m breathless and light-headed. I think I’m going to faint. I push open the door of the shop, praying that Rosie will be there behind the counter, that she’ll take one look at me and usher me straight to the room at the back. I’ll be able to wash at the little sink outside the toilet and find some clothes to put on, something to put on my feet. But Rosie isn’t there. It’s a woman I’ve never seen before, and she’s looking at me as if I’m something the cat’s just dragged in. So are the other customers. They’re literally moving out of my way, as if I’m contaminated.

  ‘Please, I need to see Rosie. Is she here?’

  ‘No. It’s not her day to come in.’ The woman’s nostrils wrinkle in distaste. She makes darting glances at the other customers.

  ‘Can you ring her for me? It’s really urgent I speak to her.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t have her number.’

  ‘But you must have. Please.’

  ‘Do you need any assistance here?’ The voice is familiar. I look round and see, to my dismay, that it’s one of the stout women I met at the beach huts the other day, the ones who saw me climbing out of the broken doorway with a bottle of brandy in my hands.

  ‘You again,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘I’m going to phone the—’

  ‘But I’m not doing anything. I just need to see Rosie. I’ve been … I’ve been …’

  ‘You’ve been drinking too much, young lady. That’s what you’ve been doing. Now stop bothering this poor woman and—’

  ‘Please, you don’t understand. I’m the victim of …’

  I gulp for air. What am I the victim of? What can I tell them that would make sense? Whatever I say is just going to sound preposterous. And why would they believe a dirty, smelly drunk like me anyway? I blunder past the racks of clothes and the other customers and back on to the street. The weekend tourists are out in force. I can’t bear the way they look at me, the way they nudge their companions, the comments they make under their breath. I see myself through their eyes. A dirty, half-clad woman, reeking of drink. I might just as well be naked.

  The bossy woman with the walking stick is now shouting after me. I have to get away from her. Get away from all of them. But I’ve nowhere to go. No money in my pockets. No phone. No way of contacting Rosie, or anyone else. This is all my own fault. I’ve brought everything on myself. Helen deceived me, yes. She pretended to be my friend, my confidante. She waited for an opportunity to hurt me, and she did. She has. But she didn’t pour that wine down my throat. I drank it myself. She might have encouraged me, but I could have said no. I could have walked away, and I didn’t. I didn’t.

  And this is how I’ve ended up. How I always end up when I’ve been drinking. Out of control. Sick. Disgusted with myself. A woman is dead because of me. Simon too.

  I head for the beach. It isn’t a conscious decision, more a case of my legs taking over and carrying me away. Muscle memory. Where else can I go?

  47

  Weak with exhaustion, I hunker down on the sand, my back pressed into the curve of the sea wall, arms hugging my knees. Somehow, I’ve made it to the farthest end of the beach, where, apart from a solitary walker heading back towards town, it’s deserted. Thoughts bang about in my head, one in particular. I try to push it away, but the more I do, the louder and more insistent it becomes, till it roars like the waves and demands my attention.

  Drowning. It’s meant to be painless if you’re brave enough to do it right. To take a deep breath as soon as the water closes over your head. Except that’s not what people do. They struggle and panic and hold their breath till their lungs burn. We’re programmed to cling on to life till the last possible second. To survive at all costs.

  Well, I don’t want to survive. I don’t want to struggle. Not any more. I’ve gone and done it again. After all the promises I’ve made. To Mum. To myself. This is my pathetic life. It’s always going to be like this. And how can I live with myself now I know what I’ve done?

  I’m worthless. Despicable. Incapable of holding on to anything of value. I take a deep inhalation. The wind has picked up. The tide is on the turn, heading out to sea. My hangover will retreat too, in time. In a while, I might feel well enough to walk back to the house and sit on the step to wait for Mum. She’ll give me time to wash and pack. She might even cook me a meal and let me sleep it off. But in the morning I’ll have to leave. There’s no question about that. No question at all.

  I see her face as clearly as if it’s right in front of me. The grim set of her mouth. Those disappointed but determined eyes. The time for hysterical threats has gone. She’s loved me as only the mother of a broken child – a damaged child – could. But everyone has their limit, and this will be hers.

  All the times she’s picked me up when I’ve fallen. But not this time. This time will be different. She’s changed, grown stronger.

  But I haven’t. I deserve everything that’s happened to me. Like a pinball, I’ve ricocheted from one crisis to the next, and here I am again. I can’t do this any more.

  The walker is long gone now. This section of the beach is empty. Just me and a few gulls wading in the shallows. The sea has an inviting, milky sheen to it. The wind is whipping it up into drifts of froth that cling to the wooden breakers. I imagine walking into it and not stopping, soft, wet sand soothing the grazed soles of my feet. Walking all the way out until my head goes under, or the undertow drags me down, whichever is soonest. Until my lungs fill with water and my ears ring and the last shreds of memory and thought peel away and dissolve. For ever. The bliss of oblivion. Only this time there’ll be no shame in the morning.
No sickness. No self-loathing.

  And now I’m on my feet and walking to the water’s edge. Because I’m too tired not to. Too tired to walk home and wait for Mum. Too tired to see that mouth, those eyes. Too tired to stuff my tatty things into a backpack and start all over again, someplace else. Because wherever I go and whatever I do, I’ll still be part of the package.

  The water is cold, but I’m used to it now. I like the way it chills my bones and makes me shiver. I wade through it in my jeans, not daring to slow down. The deeper I get, the harder it is to walk. It’s almost at my hips. Soon it will rise above the top of my jeans and hit the mottled flesh of my belly as it creeps icily under my T-shirt and up towards the swell of my breasts. It feels like I’m moving towards something better. Something peaceful. The sweet pull of the outgoing tide.

  The water heaves sluggishly towards me, undulating against my chest, rocking me gently in its sway. The further I walk, the more slippery it becomes underfoot. There are more hazards to negotiate. Embedded rocks and stones, the slimy fingers of seaweed clinging to my ankles and twisting round my toes.

  The spray hits my face. I lick my lips and taste the salt. Dying is easy; it’s life that’s so hard. Simon must have felt the exact same way I’m feeling now. I think of him standing on the edge of that cliff, swaying in the breeze in the last few seconds of his life, the swoosh of the sea below. I miss him so much.

  The sudden swell of a large grey wave appears from nowhere. It rolls implacably towards me. I steel myself for the impact, just as he must have steeled himself for that final step. The one that sent him plummeting down. I’ve never felt closer to him than I do right now. The wave engulfs me, knocks me sideways. Water rushes up my nostrils and down the back of my throat. I splutter and gag. My ears pound. This is where I should give in, let the sea consume me, but it’s not as easy as it looks in films. Something inside me’s still fighting, and my body takes over. Muscle memory again. The will to live.

  Another wave strikes me and down I go again. I raise my head, try to breathe, but water fills my mouth. I tread water and tilt my head back, gulp for air. So much for the long, slow walk into oblivion, the water closing above my head like a trapdoor. The waves are more powerful out here. Moving walls of water, one after the other. I’m being pushed back at the same time as being dragged out. It’s chaotic and terrifying. A relentless battering. My sodden jeans cling to my legs like wet cement, dragging me down.

  So this is it. This is how it ends. Josh’s words come back to me. ‘You’d be a fool not to fear the sea, Astrid. It can turn on you in an instant.’

  And it has. It’s swallowing me whole, sucking me down to my watery grave. Cold, brown water. The stench of brine and sulphur, the searing burn of salt at the back of my throat and nose.

  No! I can’t die like this. If I drown, Helen’s won. Simon didn’t blame me for anything. Simon loved me. I know he did. He wouldn’t have written me a suicide letter if he didn’t. What did Laura say? That she didn’t want me to read his lovely words, to know that I was the one he was thinking of, right up to the end. If he hated me so much, if he thought I’d killed a young mother just to get hold of her purse, he’d never have written me a letter. Why should I believe what Helen said when she’s been lying to me all along?

  Oh, Simon, I should have been brave enough to read it. You wanted me to, and I didn’t. I have to get back to shore. I have to stay alive.

  With one almighty surge of adrenalin, I kick my legs behind me and propel myself into motion. I can’t see which way I’m headed. The waves are too big. They seem to be coming in both directions now. I mustn’t panic. I try to remember everything Josh has told me about surviving in the water.

  But a current is coming at me from the side, forcing me back out to sea. I roll on to my back to rest and take a breath but, as I do, a wave comes crashing down on top of me. I’m spinning like a doll in a washing machine. Which way is up? I can’t get my balance. I can’t breathe. I can’t … breathe.

  My chest is bursting. I have to take a breath, but I’m still under water. Don’t panic. You’ll rise in a minute. Keep faith, Astrid. Keep faith. And here it is. The surface at last. I gulp air into my lungs, but now I’m under again. Something’s dragging me down, sucking me deeper. It’s no good. I can’t hold on any longer. The pressure in my chest is crushing me. I’m going to have to breathe soon or I’ll …

  Water floods my mouth, my throat. I’m breathing it in. Sinking, sinking. My eyes stare blindly at the greenish-brown murk. Light’s coming from somewhere, but I can’t gauge the direction. The noise in my ears is deafening. My limbs dangle uselessly. I’m spinning in a dream. Water everywhere. Above me, below me. In my eyes, in my mouth, in my nose. So salty it burns. Whirling round and down, round and down. So this is what it’s like. This is how it ends. It’s all a terrible mistake, but it’s too late now. It’s all too late. I see Mum’s face. Her beautiful, kind face. Dad’s too. Simon’s. They’re crying. They’re crying for me. All the things I haven’t done. The dreams that alcohol stole from me.

  The ringing intensifies. The light fades.

  Then hands are under my shoulders. Strong arms lifting me up. My head breaks the surface and water rushes out of my mouth. Water and puke, all mixed up together. I’m choking on it. Strong forearms are levered under my armpits, towing me back to shore. But I can’t get enough air into my lungs. Just tiny, useless gasps. I’m still going to die.

  My eyes snap open. I’m lying on my back on the sand. Josh’s face is peering down at me. He looks scared. Voices are shouting. A siren wails. I don’t know what’s happening. My eyes close. My head spins.

  The next time I open them, more faces bob in and out of focus over Josh’s shoulder. It looks like the woman who shouted at me in the shop. Except now she looks more frightened than frightening. And, oh, there’s Rosie.

  ‘Hang on in there, Astrid,’ she says.

  Josh wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Stay with me,’ he says.

  I want to stay, I really do, but I’m fading into blackness. He’s spinning away from me.

  48

  Behind my closed eyelids coloured shapes and geometric designs shift and slide like the kaleidoscope I had as a child. They zoom in and out of focus – my very own psychedelic light show. Rising through layers of sleep, I have a moment of clarity. Am I seeing the shadows of blood vessels in my eyes? They’re so intricate and beautiful, like ancient Aztec patterns.

  I’m awake now, but only just. Clinging to consciousness like a drowning woman. The patterns scare me. How can such timeless art forms be swirling around inside my own head?

  I open my eyes and blink in the light. Consumed by thirst, I reach for the glass of water on my bedside cabinet, the one I always put there at night. But my hand’s caught up in my headphones, and something tight is pinning me down. Sheets. Tightly tucked sheets. Wait, this isn’t my bed, and these aren’t my headphones, it’s the tubing of a drip. My left hand is connected to a drip.

  Oh shit, not again. I’m in hospital. What’s happened this time? What have I done? Mum’s going to kill me.

  A slow trickle of sensations and images seeps into my head. The fragments of a dream. A nightmare. I close my eyes against the light, willing myself to sink back down into sleep. But now that I’ve started to remember, the trickle turns into a steady flow and then a wave. A colossal wave that breaks over me and leaves me gasping. Because it wasn’t a dream, was it? It really happened.

  Someone places a hand on my forehead.

  ‘Astrid? Can you hear me?’

  The light seems even brighter now, and it takes a huge effort to peel back my eyelids. When I do, the first thing that comes into focus is Josh’s face peering down at me. Blond, tousled hair. Green eyes flecked with gold.

  ‘Astrid,’ he says, his voice breaking on the second syllable. ‘Oh, Astrid!’

  Now there’s another face next to his. Anxious and drawn, but full of love and as familiar to me as my own.

&n
bsp; Mum is here too.

  Over the last couple of days it’s taken us all quite a while to piece everything together. Helen put a drug in my wine. Flunitrazepam. Brand name Rohypnol. The hospital found traces of it in my blood and urine. Not much alcohol at all, as it happens. She must have been saving those empty wine bottles just to deceive me. To make me think I’d lost control and drunk the lot.

  ‘There’s no way of proving it’s an actual crime, though,’ Josh says. ‘She’s told the police you found it in her bathroom cabinet, that you took it yourself to increase the high.’

  Mum shakes her head in disbelief. That kind of thing is way beyond her comprehension. If she only knew a fraction of what goes on in the world of recreational drug use, she’d be shocked to her very core.

  ‘And it’s not as if she got it off the internet or anywhere dodgy – apparently, it was a private prescription she had years ago, for insomnia. She told the police she never got round to throwing it away.’

  ‘What about all the rest of it, though? Sending horrible threats through the post? Lies? Manipulation?’ Mum closes her eyes then opens them again. ‘You could have drowned, Astrid.’ She turns her face away.

  ‘But it’s my word against hers, especially since I got rid of half of the evidence, and of course she won’t admit to sending them. Hardly enough to warrant an arrest, is it? The police aren’t going to waste their time on something like that. I’m just a former “addict with issues” to them.’

  Josh squeezes my hand. ‘If only I’d ignored that letter and got in touch with you sooner. I was so sure I was doing the right thing.’

  I couldn’t believe it when he showed me, when I read the words she’d written in my name. In my handwriting too, or near as damn it. She must have kept hold of the pieces of paper I wrote my confessions on and copied it.