by Ruth Heald
‘Claire! Claire – are you all right?’ Emma asks.
She catches me as I faint, reaching out for Olivia and blocking her fall. The motion forces my head backwards and I feel it hit the cold, ancient stone.
When I come round a couple of tourists are looking at me quizzically, while others continue to take photos, oblivious. Olivia is screaming in Emma’s arms while she rocks her. My first instinct is that I want my daughter back. I want her in my arms, not Emma’s. She’s been removed from the sling, she’s not secure. I imagine someone knocking her out of Emma’s arms, her flying over the barrier and down to the streets below.
Emma crouches down beside me, still holding Olivia.
‘Just stay there for a moment, don’t move.’
‘Olivia,’ I say.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got her. She’s OK. I caught her.’
I reach out for my daughter.
‘It’s all right,’ Emma says. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’
I go into the bedroom and sit down on the bed beside my sleeping husband. It’s 3 a.m. and I watch as he breathes deeply and peacefully, his chest rising and falling.
The scene doesn’t feel real. How can he rest after what he’s done?
I’ve been in his study. The key was easy to find, hidden at the back of the drawer in his bedside table. He can’t have expected me to look for it. The study has always been out of bounds. I’d never dared to go in.
I’ve been searching for evidence. About the girls. About the accusations. The helpline volunteer asked me questions that I couldn’t answer and I’d realised I’d buried my head in the sand.
I needed to know the truth.
I know everything now. The accusations go back years. Sexual assault. Rape. He’s been paying them off so nothing goes to trial. There are dozens of them. Young girls mainly. Working for him. Wanting a step up on the ladder.
Some of them have sent him letters, begging him to apologise, to admit what he did and give them closure. Their despair seeps out of the paper. They sound broken. By him. He did that to them.
All I want to do is talk to someone about it.
But it’s 3 a.m.
The helpline is open twenty-four hours a day, but there’s no way she’ll be on shift at this time. She always seems to be on the daytime shift.
My finger hovers over the call button. I could ring anyway. On the off-chance she’s there. Or I could speak to someone else.
But she knows my history. She understands me. She’s helped me make sense of things.
I only want to talk to her.
I lie awake and wait until the morning, wondering what time her shift starts. Seven o’clock? Eight? The minutes pass slowly.
At 7.01 my husband and daughter are still asleep. I know there’s a high chance she won’t be on shift even now, but I go into the spare room and press call anyway. I need to talk to her.
The phone rings and rings, and I stare out the window at the trees blowing in the wind, praying she’ll be the one who picks up.
‘Hello?’ I hear the voice as I’m just about to give up. I shake with relief. It’s her.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’
I don’t hear the footsteps behind me.
I’m not aware of his presence until he grabs my phone from my hand and throws it across the room.
I hear the thud as it lands.
I can still hear the voice on the other end of the line, fainter now. ‘Hello?’
‘Who are you on the phone to?’
He grabs me by the shoulder and shakes so hard, my bones rattle.
‘Who?’ he shouts in my face.
‘Nobody,’ I reply.
‘I knew you had another man.’
‘I don’t. I really don’t.’
His rage rains down on me until the world goes black.
Twenty-Four
I get off the train at Paddington and join the mass of people streaming towards the entrance to the Tube. I’m on my way to meet the editor of my old newspaper. I was pleasantly surprised that he got back to me so quickly and wanted to see me when I’d been out of the job market for so long. I haven’t been employed as a journalist since I quit three years ago.
I try to quiet my doubts and focus. I’m stronger than I was back then. I stand tall, no longer hunched over a buggy, and I listen to the click-clack of my heels on the concourse. I think I’m ready now. The newspaper feels like it might be an opportunity rather than somewhere I need to escape. I feel a stab of anxiety in my stomach as I wonder if I’m really up for returning to that ruthless world, or if I’m just kidding myself. I feel like I’m recovering a part of myself that’s been in hibernation for a long time.
When I reach the darkness of the Tube, I push myself onto the carriage, squashing myself between the door and the heaving mass of bodies. In the crush, I feel like I could belong. Ambition burns in the air. Suits and newspapers and headphones. I want to be part of this again.
I change to the Central Line and then I’m spat out at Bank, the tide of commuters forcing me off the train and onto the platform. I flow with the crowd, following the river of legs above me as they climb the stairs. Outside, it’s cold and fresh, and the air feels thin after the thickness of the Tube. It’s raining, and the people on the pavement are sheltered by a canopy of umbrellas. I open my black umbrella and join them, lifting it up and down constantly to avoid bumping it into the others.
The streets hum with people, pushing and shoving their way through, shouting into mobile phones and jumping into taxis. A suited man walks beside me, but not with me, plugged into the rhythm of his headphones. Buses meander down the road, a slipstream in the middle of the sea of pedestrians.
The atmosphere’s so unlike the countryside, with its emptiness and fields and quiet. Here the world is vivid and alive. Colours are brighter. Noises are louder. I’ve missed it all.
As I approach the revolving doors of my office, I have a sudden flash of fear. I stop on the pavement. Stare through the glass. I’m not sure I can do this.
I ignore the feelings that rise inside me. Surely it’s time to move on. Surely I can forget what happened here. What I did.
I take a deep breath and let the revolving doors carry me into the entrance hall. I go over to reception and speak to the false lashes and designer eyebrows behind the desk. Neat white blouse, low-cut enough to catch a glimmer of flesh, but formal enough to look discreet. Anyone could tell that this building is occupied by male dominated industries: investment bankers, insurance brokers and the newspaper.
‘I’m here for a meeting,’ I say.
She sighs and looks me up and down, as if even engaging with me is too much effort.
‘Name?’
‘Claire Hughes.’
‘Not your name,’ she huffs. ‘The name of the person you’re meeting.’
‘Adrian. Adrian Lister.’
She raises her eyebrows but picks up the phone. ‘I’ll ring him to confirm and get you a visitor’s pass.’ She indicates a seat in reception and I go and sit down.
I check my phone and see there’s nothing from Emma. It’s so kind of her to babysit. She’s said she’ll take Olivia to the park with Lizzie. I didn’t want to ask Matt to look after her, or for him to know I was looking for a job in London.
Half an hour later, I’m collected from reception by Adrian’s PA. Nerves hit me as I we travel up in the glass lift. Being back in the offices brings back an overwhelming feeling of guilt. I remember coming into this building three years ago, heart thumping, my front page scoop on my laptop in my bag. It was the biggest mistake of my life. After that, everything changed.
When we reach the news floor, Adrian, the editor, comes out of his glass-fronted office and holds out his hand. He’s broader than the pictures I’ve seen, and rounder. His face is graced with the rosacea of a serious alcohol problem. He shakes my hand firmly.
‘Claire, a pleasure to meet you. I hear you were one of our best journalists, back in the day.�
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‘Great to meet you too. I’ve followed your career.’
‘Well, come through. Let’s talk in my office.’
He puts his hand on my back to guide me into his office and it stays there a little longer than necessary. He sits on a comfy chair and indicates the low sofa in front of him. I sit down, but it’s hard to get comfortable. The angle makes it almost impossible to cross my legs.
‘So, what have you been doing the last three years?’
‘Has it really been that long?’ I laugh. I’d hoped he wouldn’t bring that up. He must have heard why I left the newspaper, how I couldn’t take the pressure any more, how I broke down.
I look at my feet, my confidence seeping out of me, into the carpet. ‘Copywriting, mainly.’
‘OK,’ says Adrian, dragging out the sound, waiting for an explanation. When I don’t provide one he continues. ‘Human interest stories. That’s your speciality, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ I reach into my satchel and pull out my notebook. ‘I have some ideas for new features.’
I run him through them and he listens attentively. I feel a surge of pride. He respects me. I’m no longer just a mother, but a professional once again.
When the meeting finishes, we both stand and he leans in and gives me a light peck on the cheek, as his arm reaches round my shoulder.
‘We could use someone like you,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in contact.’
As I travel down in the lift I feel relieved, as if a weight has been lifted. I’d been so nervous about coming back, so worried that people in the office would be whispering about the reason I left three years ago.
Walking back to the station, I pass one of my old haunts, the Rose and Crown pub. I push open the door and enter the dimly lit front room. It’s still early and the pub feels surprisingly soulless without its usual crowd of city workers and journalists.
I’ll just have one drink here to celebrate how well the meeting went, and then I’ll go home. I sit down and relax at a table in the corner, savouring my wine and remembering all the good nights I had in this pub, unwinding with work colleagues: celebrations of finally nailing a story, welcoming new people to the team, leaving parties. There was always an excuse to come here, it was like a second home. I miss the sense of camaraderie, the feeling of belonging. I could have that again if I came back.
As I sit sipping my wine, I smile out at the bustling city. Suddenly, everything seems possible. Everyone in the office has forgotten about my mistake and moved on. It’s time for me to move on too.
Twenty-Five
I spend the next morning cleaning the house, vacuuming every dark corner, dusting every crevice. I’ve cleared all the surfaces of Pamela’s things. The cottage smells of oaky furniture polish and I feel hopeful again.
The meeting with Adrian yesterday alleviated some of my fears about returning to work. A part of me hopes that Matt and I still have a future, but if I have to move, at least it might be possible to start my own life again. I loved journalism once. I think I could love it again.
Everything seems to be coming together. I think I finally might be able to put the past behind me. Then maybe my nightmares will stop. Things are even looking up with Miriam. She replied to my text. I was so shocked I had to read it four times in case I’d misunderstood. But I hadn’t. We’re meeting this afternoon in Oxford. It’s halfway between the two of us.
The white noise of the vacuum has lulled Olivia to sleep. In the silence, I can hear the distant beeping from the loft.
I take Olivia upstairs, and strap her into the chair on the landing. There’s a ladder in the spare room and I put it against the wall, next to the loft hatch, climb up and push the hatch open. A cloud of dust drifts down from the darkness above.
The sound is louder now, an insistent, regular tone. I climb higher and feel around for a light switch. Unable to find one, I go back down the ladder and set my phone to torch mode. I feel slightly sick climbing the ladder, afraid of what I might find in the darkness above.
There’s a cord switch dangling from one of the rafters, but when I pull it nothing happens. The bulb probably went years ago.
The beeping is coming from the back of the loft, under the eaves. I shine my torch around and realise that it’s not properly boarded. Boxes are balanced precariously along the beams.
I creep along, watching where I tread, stooping under the rafters. The noise is coming from an open box, full of random electrical wires. I see something flashing and pull it out. A smoke alarm. The battery must be almost dead. Then I recognise it. It used to be in Olivia’s bedroom.
Someone’s removed it and put it in the loft.
I swallow. Why would anyone do that? The smoke alarm’s here to protect us. I imagine a fire ripping through the clutter in the old cottage, flames curling up the wallpaper. Without a smoke alarm, we wouldn’t have a chance.
I feel sick. I thought I was going mad, but now I can see I was right to be worried. Someone wants to hurt me. To hurt us. Olivia and I are in danger.
Olivia’s on the landing. On her own.
I need to get back down from the loft. I need to protect my child.
I make my way carefully along the beam, my body shaking, my phone in one hand, the alarm in the other.
Who would have taken the smoke alarm from Olivia’s room and put it up here?
Clunk.
I jump at the sound.
Is there someone in the house?
Has someone come for Olivia?
As I hurry to the loft opening, I feel my foot slip underneath me. I reach out into empty space. The alarm flies out of my hand.
I am falling.
* * *
I land with a crash next to the loft hatch. Another inch or two and I would have tumbled out and down the stairs. Olivia would have been left all alone.
I peer down onto the landing, fearing that Olivia’s chair will be empty, that someone will have taken her.
But she’s fine, contentedly swiping the toy above her chair.
I’m still holding my phone. The smoke alarm has landed a couple of feet away from me in the unboarded part of the loft. Awkwardly, I manoeuvre myself onto my stomach, so my weight remains on the beam, and reach out for it. My fingers grip its yellowing plastic and I pull it towards me.
When I place my foot on the ladder, my ankle complains. I pull the loft hatch shut and climb back down slowly, wincing with each step.
I wash the dust off my hands and then pick Olivia up, holding her close. My heart pounds in my chest.
I hear a snapping sound and freeze.
What was that?
I peer down the stairs, anxiously, hugging Olivia tightly.
There’s a white piece of paper in the hallway.
It was just the letter box. Someone’s delivered something. Most likely junk mail. An advert for a cleaner or a local babysitter.
I take a deep breath and try to centre myself. I can’t calm down.
Beep.
I jump at the smoke alarm’s sudden interruption.
The thought of a fire makes me shiver. I must replace the battery and put the smoke alarm back in Olivia’s room where it can protect us. The cottage doesn’t feel safe.
I go downstairs to look for a screwdriver.
On my way past the door I pick up the piece of paper.
It’s a single sheet, folded in half. I open. it.
It’s not an advert for a cleaning service. It’s a message.
Printed neatly across the middle of the paper is a single line: You don’t deserve Olivia.
When I wake, the sunlight beats into my pounding head through the open curtains. My memory comes back slowly as I try to move my limbs. I remember my husband’s fists pummelling into me again and again until my world went black. He was angry with me because he thought I was on the phone to a lover. But I’d been on the phone to the helpline.
My daughter screams from the other room, demanding my attention. I go to her room and lift her up, holding her t
ight. She’s all I have in the world.
I glance at the clock. An hour has passed since I called the helpline. My husband must have left for work.
Once I’ve calmed my daughter down, I find my phone where it fell when he knocked it out of my hand. The screen is smashed, but otherwise it seems to work.
I have five missed calls. All from the helpline.
I panic. She must have heard my husband knock me out. What if she called the police?
Surely she wouldn’t do that. She must know it would only make it worse.
My heart pounds as I call her back.
She doesn’t bother with a greeting. ‘I’m so glad you called. I was worried about you.’
‘You shouldn’t worry. I’m used to it.’ I try to laugh lightly but it sounds close to a sob. The movement of my chest triggers a sharp pain in my ribs. I struggle to breathe.
‘I am worried. About you. About your safety. What are you going to do?’
Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Someone cares about me. She must be the only one.
‘I don’t know what to do. I went through his study yesterday. There are dozens of girls accusing him of things, going back years.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘The worst kind.’ The word is hard to get out. But it needs saying. ‘Rape.’
I hear her intake of breath.
He’s paid them off.’ I continue. ‘All of them. He must have done it.’
‘You’ve seen all this?’ she asks. ‘You have all the evidence?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have to leave him.’ Her direct words shock me.
‘But I love him.’
‘What about your daughter?’
I can hear the sounds of my daughter playing downstairs, the tinny music of her toy bear circling round on repeat.
I don’t know what’s best for her any more. I’ve told myself I’m giving her the childhood I never had, two loving parents, a home.
