Don’t Trust Me

by Joss Stirling

  ‘Do so – and then we’ll eat.’

  ‘You haven’t told me what the principal said to you.’

  ‘How much bad news can you stomach in one evening?’

  ‘I see. Let’s get out another bottle of wine and soften the blow.’

  Feeling more grateful to her than I have in a long while, I put the plates on the table as she uncorks a second red.

  ‘To Jessica’s recovery and your vindication,’ she suggests, holding her glass to mine.

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Chapter 36

  Jessica, as for the date …

  I’m drifting. I can’t remember if I ever left this place. I was here in February – I remember that. Two skylights, sometimes with frost patterns.

  They are dark now. I don’t dare open the curtains at the window in case he is there. Can he climb on the roof? He can probably come through walls, can’t he?

  I turn over and bury my head under the pillow.

  You dozed, and watched the night revealing

  The thousand sordid images

  Of which your soul was constituted.

  Shut up! Shut up! Stupid T. S. effing poet – get out of my head!

  These fragments I have shored against my ruins.

  Things are beginning to make sense. I’m at Willowbank again. I love/hate Charles. He is like my bungee rope. I think I’m leaping off the bridge, free at last, but at the bottom of the fall, he snaps in and pulls me back. I don’t smash on the rocks, I’m left alive and swinging in the wind.

  I want Drew.

  But do I want Drew to see me like this?

  I’m coming back a little, like a shape emerging from fog. I’m not going to sleep anymore because what happens when I close my eyes isn’t sleep – it’s torture.

  Charles said in the car that it was best I didn’t take any more pills until my system has ‘levelled out’. The care assistant brought me warm milk and a relaxation download for the sound system. I got fed up listening to whales moaning so switched that off after a few moments – sounded too much like sex noises. Probably are. They sell it as suitable stuff to make you wind down but if you ran it through the animal equivalent of Google translate you’d probably get lots of ‘c’mere baby, I am so hot for you’, ‘come rub your white belly against my enormous dick’.

  Fact – blue whales have the biggest penises in the world, stretching up to ten feet when aroused. Thanks, QI, for filling my brain with yet more show-stopping images.

  God, I’m a terrible mush of random thoughts.

  I have to move from this bed. I’m just not safe here.

  Dragging the duvet with me, I get up and go into the bathroom where there are no windows. I shut and lock the door, make a nest of towels in the dry bath and turn off the overhead light so only the one over the mirror is lit. That shuts up the fan after a time so I don’t have to listen to its dementing rattle.

  You know only a heap of broken images.

  Eliot had that right. My nerves are bad tonight. I cocoon myself in the duvet and curl up in the bath. I’m still clutching my phone but haven’t checked it for some time. I see now that it has been switched off. When did that happen? I switch it back on. The percentage symbol is near red and I have no charger. This brand is the teenage boy of battery-lasting power – gets all excited then goes off prematurely.

  I see Drew has been texting me non-stop since about ten – that must’ve been when he got out of his concert. I decide it’s best to call him directly.

  ‘Jess, where are you?’

  ‘In the bath.’ It’s so lovely to hear his voice. Stay with me. The pieces of me start to glue back together.

  ‘What? Tell me where you are!’

  ‘How was the gig?’

  ‘Jessica!’

  ‘OK, OK, look, I had a bit of a meltdown at Michael’s—’

  ‘What did that bastard do to you?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t even there. It’s not his fault. I think I’m having a bad reaction to my pills and saw something – you know, like a hallucination? – or that’s what Charles thinks.’

  ‘You believe Michael’s best mate, the mad doctor?’

  ‘Mad doctor – good one.’

  ‘I’m not making a tasteless joke about your state of mind, Jess, but warning you about him. You always said that you can’t trust him.’

  ‘I just want to survive the night. He’s taking me off the medication. Wants me to let my body chemistry settle so he can see what’s really going on with my condition.’

  ‘I’m not arguing this with you in the middle of the night. Jessica, where are you?’

  ‘Willowbank.’ I reel off the address.

  ‘I’ll come and see you tomorrow – and I’ll have a talk to this Dr Charles of yours. I don’t like the sound of him.’

  ‘That’d be nice – to have someone on my side. I miss you.’ God, I don’t deserve you.

  ‘I miss you too. Why are you in the bath at three in the morning?’

  ‘There are no windows in here.’

  ‘I guess that makes sense – in a Jessica way.’

  ‘I knew you’d get it. You’re the only one who does.’

  ‘It would be better if I were there to keep the bad guys at bay.’

  ‘I’ll be fine until tomorrow – honestly. I’m feeling a lot better just having talked to you.’

  ‘OK, that’s good. I’ll be there at nine. Try to get some sleep.’

  I hug the phone to my chest. I’m not going to be able to trust what happens when I close my eyes so I decide to dip into the cache of deleted photos. I still have Emma’s diary in there on the thirty-day rule. It’s going to be hell to read but I’d much prefer to keep company with a familiar ghost – she’s less scary than what my imagination can conjure when I don’t keep it busy.

  Chapter 37

  Emma, 25th December 2007

  My Christmas gift to myself is to tell the truth in this diary. My life has so little room for honesty but if I can’t think this out somewhere I’m going to explode. I’ll make sure he never finds it – put it at the bottom of the Tampax multipack I smuggled in – that’s as good as a ‘no fly’ zone to a man like him.

  As well as the carbon-guzzling ‘luxury’ of tampons, he doesn’t believe in celebrating Christmas. He has hauled in what he calls a Yule log from the forest and thinks he’s recreating some midwinter pagan festival in our garden as he sets it on fire. I can see him now from the upstairs window, standing with Biff, Gerry and Sparrow, all watching the sparks fly. Biff turns around and gives me a look. Thank God for her. She is my sanity. I’ll have to go down eventually and pretend to enjoy it but I need a few moments after having just thrown up my dinner.

  OK, diary, here’s the thing: I think I’m pregnant. Shocked as I am? You bet. It was probably that bout of food poisoning in November when we had that undercooked rabbit he had snared. I’d forgotten that profuse vomiting can stop the pill working and he doesn’t believe in suiting up for sex, the selfish git. Says he doesn’t want to add to the landfill, and I as his equally committed girlfriend go along with that, but did he stop to think how much an extra human life adds to the waste mountain? That’s these environmental purists for you. It’s all about them and their perfect lifestyle. They’re like a modern form of Jesuit getting a kick out of standing apart from the rest of us sinners. Holier than thou.

  What am I going to do about this though? My Catholic upbringing is making a horribly timed appearance. I haven’t even been to mass since I was twenty and still it has a grip on me. My instinct is that this life is innocent even if her parents are fuck-ups. And forgive me, bun-in-the-oven, selfishly, it would cement my place with this crew – a very astute strategic move. He’s been looking at me with suspicion recently. I know I’ve made too many dashes up to London to keep the bosses happy and had too many whispered conversations with Biff. Neither of us have adapted well lately. We’re not sure we’re on to anything here and the sacrifice of sleeping with these guys suddenly
seems – just tawdry. Biff and I agreed we’d have to bend the rules but somehow we’ve bent ourselves out of shape.

  My mother would certainly see it as whoring. I can hear her voice now, her Irish coming out with her emotion. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Emma, a nice girl like you?’

  Ma, I was never a nice girl. She was afraid that I would turn out more like my dad, the charming actor who drank himself into an early grave when work dried up. As a kid, I always wanted to be a kick-ass superhero, but that didn’t go down well in the world of dollies and cake bakes that Ma inhabited. If breast cancer hadn’t got her, she would be in her element now, knitting baby clothes and dishing out advice.

  And Ma, I’d have finally listened.

  I’m getting maudlin. I’m in a fix. I have to carry on until there’s a sign for the exit because the fallout if I left now would be career-ending. Living the life I do is like being a Christmas present – a shiny wrapper around the box with a secret inside. And boy, do I have one hell of a secret. Sometimes I can trick myself into thinking I’m all foil and box, and forget what’s hidden, but then something rattles me and I remember. This isn’t my life. My life is missing.

  Chapter 38

  Michael, 27th August

  Lizzy is humming as she makes breakfast. I know why – and she knows that I know why: she’s celebrating that we finally christened the mattress and is going to be as in-your-face about it as she can manage. I can’t burst her bubble just yet. She’s mistaking what we did last night for the beginning of a new phase rather than the end of something.

  ‘Have you fed Colette yet?’ I ask, carrying the wine glasses down from the bedroom.

  ‘Haven’t seen her.’ She switches on the radio, choosing something with pop music rather than my preferred Radio 4. I don’t know how she can stand all that chirping away between records. It feels like a worm burrowing into my brain to listen to five minutes of it.

  I take the kibble and the food bowl and go outside for some peace. I rattle the box and Colette appears with her usual Ninja-warrior skill from the roof of the neighbour’s shed. Silhouetted against the skyline for a second, she looks magnificent. I put the bowl down and stroke her along her flexible spine. Emma was very astute giving me this last present.

  ‘It’ll be just you and me, sweetheart, very soon,’ I murmur. It’ll be a bore to get a new cat-sitter but maybe I should move right away to somewhere in Surrey? A village full of the kind of kids who do odd jobs for neighbours without it being weird or something you’d report to Child Protection. Somewhere with a Cub and Brownie pack. Do they still exist? I went to Cub Scouts as a boy in Wanstead. I liked the badges. They gave you a sense of gathering skills, steps along the path to adulthood. To this day I can make a pretty good fire and light it without matches. I impressed the hell out of my colleagues on our department away day last year – a weekend in the wild with one of those ridiculous training companies. Sometimes your talents take decades for their moment finally to arrive and mine did in the rain at six-thirty in the evening, Brecon Beacons, just when everyone had begun to despair of getting a hot meal.

  I’m letting my thoughts wander. That’s more Jessica’s habit than mine. I lean against the fence, looking back into my own house. The kitchen feels occupied – Lizzy the conqueror as she commands the cooker. Last woman standing. I never really understood her connection with Emma. For the duration of our marriage, I felt she was jealous, not of Emma, but of me, being so close to her best friend. Emma had started to rely on me rather than her. That’s part of my difficulty with our relationship now – it’s like we’re betraying Emma, which is illogical and doubtless a product of my own grief. But I should be grateful that Lizzy has always been there to catch us when we fell.

  She was dead set against what happened to Kaitlin and pleaded with me to take a different route, but for once I stood firm. I knew what Emma would’ve wanted, no matter what Lizzy claimed. God knows how I did it, because I was as fragile as a blown bird’s eggshell – I collected those too as a boy. I don’t think children do that kind of thing any more – probably laws against it now.

  These leaping thoughts – I laugh suddenly. Just listen to me: I’m turning into Jessica. It’s as though the house demands one chaotic thinker and I’m up for this round.

  My eyes refocus on the windowpane. The smudge I saw last night – it’s on the outside, quite distinct in the morning light. It’s a whole handprint, as if someone leant against it, fingers splayed. Small – a woman’s hand. I lean over and touch it with my fingertips. They come away white. I rub the pads together and feel the silky powder of flour. I lift my gaze and find Lizzy staring at me.

  Chapter 39

  Jessica

  I wake up with a crick in my neck. Note to self: sleeping in the bath is not recommended. I take a few moments to surface before I realise what disturbed me. Someone is banging on the door.

  ‘One moment!’ I clamber out and drop my phone in the process. ‘Bugger.’ That’s probably done for the already spiderwebbed screen – and just when I thought I was getting a handle on Emma. I release the door catch. It’s the sort that can be undone from the outside in case I’m in here slitting my wrists, but I gather they’re not that worried about me yet because no one has broken in.

  I find Drew on the other side.

  ‘Drew!’ I burrow into him as he gives me a tight hug. He’s looking a bit rough, beard untrimmed. I’m always teasing him: why have a beard if you still have to use a razor to shape it each day? But it shows that he’s been as good as his word, coming straight here as soon as he could.

  ‘They wouldn’t let me in at first,’ he explains.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s 9.30. I’m sorry I’m late.’

  I frame his face in my hands. ‘I was out like a light. I didn’t finish reading until about four when my phone went “phut!” I hadn’t noticed the time.’

  ‘Phut? That’s a technical term, is it?’ He cups my chin tenderly. ‘You look like hell.’

  ‘Oh God, really?’ I go back into the bathroom. I didn’t take my makeup off last night and my face is indeed grim, mascara halfway down my cheeks. I’m wearing a borrowed white knee-length nightshirt that makes me resemble a mental patient escaped from a Victorian asylum. ‘Don’t look for a moment.’

  He smiles and carries on watching as I wash my face. ‘I know what you really look like, Jess. You don’t have to hide.’

  Oh, but I do. ‘It’s not hiding; it’s called salvaging my pride.’

  He holds out a bag. ‘Will these help? I’ve packed some of your clothes.’

  ‘You are an angel.’ I grab the bag and shut the door.

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘You’ll survive the deprivation.’

  I come out feeling several degrees more human.

  ‘There you are.’ Drew kisses me and I know he means more than just acknowledging my return. He is saying I look like I’m back to my old self. ‘Feeling OK now? You sound OK. I was expecting you to be in more of a state.’

  ‘Yes, much better.’ I shudder at the memories. ‘God, it was so embarrassing. I had a complete collapse in front of Lizzy and Michael.’

  ‘You said you saw something?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it. I haven’t seen anything odd since – unless you count your face.’

  ‘Hey, you.’ He tweaks my nose.

  ‘Charles thinks it was the pills playing tricks.’ It’s a relief to find something to blame. Can I find them responsible for my shitty choices too?

  Drew sits on my bed, head resting against the padded headboard. I snuggle beside him. ‘Well, if he gets you off those, then maybe last night wasn’t such a bad thing?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I play with the cords on his hoodie. I don’t want to admit that I’m itching for my usual morning dose of Ritalin. Some people can’t move without a shot of caffeine; I can’t get my brain in gear without my tablet. But I’m going to have to learn how to live without. I can’t go around seeing things
that aren’t there.

  ‘So you fell asleep in your bath nest?’

  ‘I’d be lying if I said it was comfortable but it was what I needed at the time. Oh, and I read something really interesting before my phone gave out.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ve been reading Emma’s diary – I took photos of it. The real one is with the police.’

  ‘Jess, you have to be the nosiest person ever.’

  ‘And your point is? Do you want to know what I found out or not?’

  ‘Go on then. You’re going to tell me anyway.’ He closes his eyes, pretending he is listening only on sufferance.

  ‘I think Jacob was Kaitlin’s real dad. Emma told Michael that Jacob wasn’t the father, but there’s one entry where she seems to admit that he is, though she never mentions his name directly. Who else could it be though – she’s hardly having a fling with two blokes at once, is she?’ I’m the only slut doing that. ‘It’s weird – it’s like she already hated Jacob long before they split up.’ I’m getting into the story now. ‘They’re living in this cottage in the woods, right? And she pretends she’s all save-the-whale for him but she really isn’t. She gets very sneery then very angry about his lifestyle. It doesn’t make sense. I can understand pretending to be something a man wants if you’re already head-over-heels in love, but not when you despise him. So, do you know what I think?’ I get up on my knees.

  ‘What, Jess?’ Drew is smiling at my eager expression.

  ‘I think she was like a spy or something, living a double life.’

  ‘A spy?’ Drew quirks a brow. ‘The name’s… What was her surname?’

  ‘She took Michael’s.’

  ‘The name’s Harrison, Emma Harrison. Nope, it doesn’t work.’

  ‘I’m being serious.’

  ‘People don’t go having children as part of spy cover. That is very uncool. James Bond with a nappy bag: see? Not happening.’

  ‘But what if someone did? What then? Wouldn’t that mean you’d never want to see the father again once your mission was over, because you weren’t who you said you were when you were with him?’