by B P Walter
‘Oh yes, of course. How about after school? I… I could buy you dinner? There’s a restaurant at the hotel.’ I’m starting to worry I’m sounding desperate, but he seems to grow even more keen at the mention of dinner. ‘Yeah, sure. That sounds good. If that’s OK with you?’
‘More than OK,’ I say, trying to make the relief not too obvious. This is going better than I could have ever believed. ‘So, does 5pm suit? I know it’s early, but it should probably be quieter then.’
He nods. ‘Sure thing.’
We smile at each other and I’m not sure what to say now, so I just nod too.
‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow then, in the hotel lobby.’ He nods again and turns and leaves.
Chapter Sixteen
The Mother
May. Three months after the attack.
The euphoria that fills me as I walk back to the hotel quickly turns to doubt when I get to my room. How on earth am I going to play this? How far am I going to take it? I have a vague idea – and many quite colourful ones – about what I could do, but now they have the potential of becoming a reality, I find myself unsure. Then there is the possibility – no, the likelihood – that he’ll never show up. He is a teenage boy, consumed with thoughts about school and hanging out with his mates and homework and food and whatever else is going on in his life. He probably wouldn’t want to break off from the early summer sun and go visit a random older woman at a hotel to talk about a modelling career, a career he has apparently never thought about pursuing.
After a couple of hours of fretting, I try to distract myself with something else, but the television is still full of the Piccadilly attack and I’ve finished my Agatha Christie novel and can’t get into the two irritatingly cheery volumes I’ve brought. I decide to take a trip to the nearest twenty-four-hour supermarket and have a look around. I could just wait for the morning and go to the nearest shopping centre, but the thought of being stuck without anything to do, aside from scrolling through BBC News on my phone for the whole night, fills me with anxiety.
I’m relieved to find my car hasn’t been clamped, though there is yet another parking ticket on it for an even steeper amount than before, with a threat that the car will be removed forcibly if it isn’t taken away soon. The evening sun has turned to twilight, with a gorgeous sapphire sky that lights up the horizon as I navigate my way along the motorway to the massive all-night Tesco Extra. I gather up a good selection of chocolate bars and sweets, not caring about the sugar hit I’ll likely get so late in the day, and also pick up a heavily discounted (and slightly dog-eared) copy of Agatha Christie’s autobiography from a random clearance bin.
‘My goodness, you’re going to be busy,’ says the young girl, although I’m not sure if she’s referring to the book or the mountain of chocolate.
‘Yes, I’m on holiday,’ I say back, as if that explains everything.
Back at the hotel, I settle myself down and start reading my new book, whilst making a start on the Dairy Milk. When it gets to 4am, I finally try to sleep, and doze fitfully for a couple of hours until at last my mind lets me fall into the darkness of sleep and leaves me at the mercy of whatever dreams may lurk for me there.
Daylight shines through the sides of the curtains, bright and strong, as if affronted by my attempts to block it out and stay indoors. It’s 11 a.m. and my phone is buzzing next to me. Alec is ringing. I consider throwing it out the window, then give in and click the answer icon.
‘What?’ I say, not bothering to make my tone sound civil.
‘Christ, Caroline! I came THIS close to calling the police and reporting you missing and the car stolen.’
I groan and turn over, enjoying the cool side of the pillows on my cheek. ‘That would have made you look pretty foolish,’ I say. ‘Woman takes her own car on a trip to escape her depressing life and texts husband to say she’s fine. Hardly a riveting mystery.’
‘I thought you might do something stupid.’ He does sound worried, and angry too, but that’s Alec all over. Angry I’ve rendered him impotent and inadequate – left him at home like a child told to amuse himself while the adults do some real work. It’s turning the tables on him and his past behaviour, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
‘When have I ever said or even given the remotest suggestion that I would kill myself, Alec? Even during the worst of it. I may have felt like I wanted to die, and Christ knows it’s been hard trying to adjust, but I don’t think you can realistically imply I would—’
‘Caroline, please,’ he cuts in, sounding exasperated. ‘This isn’t adjusting. This is just running away from the problem. Where are you? Please, can you just tell me and I’ll come and get you.’
‘No,’ I snap back at him. ‘You can’t. I’m going to Australia to see my mother.’
This shuts him up, if only for a few seconds. ‘Please tell me you aren’t serious?’
‘I am. I need a change of scene.’
I hear him exhale. He’s probably clutching wildly at whatever strands of his short hair he can get between his fingers. ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘It’s not up to you, is it,’ I say. ‘I’m flying out this evening.’
‘Caroline, after all you’ve said about her… about… what she did… might have done… that whole crazy business surrounding your father’s death, and those bouts of radio silence. I mean, she barely even acknowledged her granddaughter’s murder, for God’s sake. She never bothered to get to know her, even though we repeatedly invited her and offered to go and visit her. You said – they were your words, I remember – you said she spent your childhood caring more about her own weird little obsessions, like the hundreds of books on bonsai trees, despite never actually owning one, and that bizarre toy collection you said she has, which in a grown woman must be a sign of some kind of psychopathy. You always maintained you had no plans to keep in touch and she could die out there alone for all you care.’
I nod, even though he can’t see me. ‘I know all this, Alec. It’s not going to change my mind. And anyway, why should she escape the misery? We’re going through grief. Why shouldn’t she feel some of that agony?’
I hear him mutter something about Laini and my therapy not working, but I just talk over him. ‘I’m off now, Alec. I’ll message you in a few weeks. And don’t even think about trying to ambush me at the airport and guess which flight I’ll be on. If I see you, I swear to God I’ll make such a scene in front of all those police officers with guns, you’ll wish you’d never met me.’
I hear a spluttering of disbelief on his end. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ he says. ‘I’m looking up the flights now. I can come with you…’
‘And what would your gaggle of school mums and desperate divorcees do without you? I think I saw at least two wistful faces staring across the room at you at Denise’s party.’ It’s not strictly true. I wasn’t being that observant at the party, but I know it will unsettle him. ‘Stay home, Alec. I mean it. I’m entirely serious. And if I see you coming towards me at the airport I will start shouting and screaming things – words like bomb and knives and terrorist.’
I cancel the call, feeling instantly bad about that last bit. I have no intention of going to Australia, and it would serve him right for him to have a wasted journey to the airport. Looking for me in departures. Wondering where I was. If I’d boarded my flight already. A flight ready to take me back. Away from one horror, and into the arms of another.
Even though I’m stationary, I feel the room starting to rock back and forth, as if the hotel has been cast out to sea. I feel my phone still clutched in the palm of my right hand and bring it close to me. Almost without thinking, I touch at the screen until I get to the contact page I need. Then I press call.
He answers almost immediately. ‘Caroline? Jesus, Alec’s been calling me. Are you OK?’
Even though he sounds agitated, Rob’s voice has a calming presence on me – less confrontational than his brother, filled with concern rat
her than resentment and bitterness.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ I say this trying to conjure up a sense of firm confidence that I don’t feel. It doesn’t sound at all convincing.
‘Where are you? I can come and—’
‘No,’ I cut him off, ‘I really don’t think that would be good…’
‘Alec seems really cut up.’
‘Alec can fucking cope!’ I start to shout now, swinging my legs out of bed, feeling my back click as I straighten up. ‘He can have his little solitary cry-fest watching the news and wringing his hands about what a terrible state the world is in, when the real horror, the real figure of guilt, is staring us right in the face!’
I’m ranting. And I can tell Rob’s taken aback. Silence greets my outburst for a few seconds, then he says, ‘Caroline, I really think you should talk to someone. This is worrying me. It’s worrying Alec.’
He’s sounding all adult and responsible now. And when a few seconds pass without me answering, he cuts the call. Then when I try to call him back in a mad rush of panic and regret, he doesn’t answer, and I’m left to cry in the dark alone.
Chapter Seventeen
The Mother
May. Three months after the attack.
I’m feeling calmer now. After lying in the bed for nearly an hour, I feel ready to wake up properly and think more clearly about what I want to do with the time I’ve bought. I can stay here for weeks. Just me. I can go for walks. I can read. Go to the cinema. It’s unlikely I’m going to bump into anyone I know. Because after tonight, a weight is going to lift from my shoulders. I’m going to show Michael Kelley what he did. I’m going to make him face up to what he’s done. Confess his guilt. Lay out all the facts in front of him so he’s going to leave this hotel with no doubt that he is the direct cause of Jessica’s death. I get up and walk straight to the shower. It’s going to be a big day.
I spend the morning in the nearby shopping centre and get a surprising amount of pleasure going through all the shops and buying things with abandon. I get a few cardigans, new shoes, a handbag. I rarely splash out on unnecessary gadgets and tech, but I find myself drifting through the doors of the Currys PC World store and glancing at the latest laptops and tablet devices. The sight of all their shiny screens makes me wince – a reminder of the laptop at home sitting on my desk, barely used for anything work-related for months. I’m just walking out the doors when I think of the small, budget TV screen attached to the wall in my hotel room. I miss watching rubbishy comedies and bland romances – things where the plot mechanics are comfortingly predictable, whilst keeping clear from anything too violent, too upsetting. Too close to my reality. I march back down to the far end of the store where a shop worker – Kamal, according to his badge – is sorting out some cables behind the display of soundbars.
‘Hi. I think I need a TV.’
He grins, but looks slightly puzzled, ‘Well… sure, you’ve come to the right place.’
I nod, businesslike. ‘I’m living in a hotel for the time being, but the TV is crap – just fuzzy Freeview, and even that’s a bit unreliable – and I’m missing the ease and quality of the one at home.’
Still looking a little surprised, he asks, ‘Would the hotel let you bring in a brand-new TV?’
I hadn’t thought about this, but it seems stupid now. I just give a shrug, ‘I’ll take the risk. Worst comes to the worst, I’ll just have it sent home.’
He nods and leads me over to the higher-end TV screens. I choose a Sony OLED and opt for one of the larger screen sizes – 55 inches. It costs just under £3,000 and I think nothing of it as I hand over my credit card.
‘I’d like it today. I have a car – I can take it away with me right now.’
Alec has always been a strange one with money. His marketing jobs didn’t pay that much at first, and he’s never shaken off the idea we should always be cautious with how much we spend. He’s probably been worried that one day my writing work would dry up. Television is never a secure profession. But as my career gathered steam and the money started rolling in, with my shows getting recommissioned and sold around the world, it all seemed to have a strange effect on him. He started to look strained. Stressed, almost. Upsizing our property to a large detached house in an affluent area of Kent prompted something close to a mid-life crisis in him, even though he’d only just reached thirty-three at the time. He became more and more frugal, as if we were trying to conserve money rather than enjoying the freedoms it had brought us. He’d chastise Jessica for putting the expensive orange juice in the trolley rather than the supermarket’s own brand. I’d catch him on price comparison websites, looking to find the absolute cheapest car insurance or electricity provider he could find. He would window shop for clothes when walking around Bluewater or Lakeside, then buy similar but cheaper items online on eBay outlet stores. Whenever I tried to gently remind him that much of this was unnecessary, he became prickly and defensive. ‘That’s the problem with our culture these days. More, more, more. What’s the matter with being sensible with money?’ I said, on more than one occasion, that I didn’t think allowing Jessica to have Tropicana was unsensible, but he’d just go selectively deaf and not reply. He even went so far as to buy a book (second-hand, online) called Affluenza by some psychologist about how modern life’s must-have-the-very-latest-thing attitude to living has been causing widespread mental health issues such as anxiety and depression. He didn’t read much of the book; it sat on his bedside table, and then in our library when I’d grown tired of seeing it every day. Brushed out of sight, hidden away. Like most of our problems.
As I leave the shopping centre with the TV loaded in the car behind me, thanks to the help of shop assistant Kamal and another nice Currys staff member, I get a perverse sense of satisfaction thinking how shocked Alec would be if he knew how much it had all cost. I fantasise about buying other things, maybe when I return home after my Southend adventure. Perhaps I could just bankrupt us. Put everything on credit cards, fritter the rest of our savings away and then just write weird, childlike notes in crayons to American Express and MasterCard saying, ‘Dear Money People, I’m sorry, I spent it all. It was fun while it lasted, lots of love, Caroline.’ They’d think I’d flipped. Maybe I have.
There is a problem with the TV when I get to the hotel. Kamal was right. ‘You see, the thing is,’ the dopey-looking young man at the reception desk says, nervously clenching his hands as he does so, ‘everything electrical has to be checked by our health and safety department.’
‘They can check it,’ I reply, shrugging. ‘I can talk to them, if you like. Where in the building are they located?’
He goes red, looking more panicked. ‘Ah, you see, the thing is, we subcontract it all out to a firm based in Brighton and… well… given the time of day, and the fact we’re not expecting another visit from them for… er… I’m not sure how long…’
I hold up my hand to cut him off and he stops immediately. It’s almost comical. I reach into my bag for my purse and pull out three crisp £50 notes I got out of a cashpoint earlier and lay them neatly next to each other on the desk.
‘Turn a blind eye and these are yours.’
I’ve never bribed anyone in my life, but this seems to be a week of firsts, and a tiny part of me finds it all rather thrilling. He looks stunned, waits for a few seconds, then says, ‘Leave it with me.’
The two young men who bring the TV up to my room don’t do anything other than set it on the carpet and murmur to me as they leave. It takes me over an hour to set the thing up and I could have done with an extra pair of hands to lift the massive screen onto the frame, but I just about manage. I was worried I was going to need a screwdriver or something similar, but luckily it’s a fairly simple slide-and-slot affair. I sit back and stare at the gleaming mass of black screen in front of me. When the screen bursts into life once I’ve connected it to the hotel’s superfast wi-fi (I had to upgrade to their high-speed version for only a tenner), I flick onto a random romcom and settle
into the pillows.
By the time I’m finished, there’s only an hour and a half to go until 5pm. Until he arrives. Potentially arrives. I’m not going to get myself too excited. Even though the thought of me and the boy, face to face, with him having to listen to every word I say, sends a jolt down my spine. I know I have to expect him not to show. He’ll probably get carried away talking to his friends and forget the time, and the chance meeting on the seafront will be the last I ever see of him.
Except it won’t be. I’ll make sure of that. A dark thought crosses my mind – of me, camped outside his house in the car with binoculars, waiting for him to come home from school. How long can I keep this up for? I need to be firm with myself. If he doesn’t come tonight, I will try to put the whole thing to the back of my mind and focus on writing my new TV project.
I know deep down it won’t be that easy, but I try not to think about it as I shower, dry my hair, and then unpack a smart but rather stylish pencil skirt and blouse I bought from Debenhams in the shopping centre. Once everything is done, I stand back to look at myself in the mirror. Yes, I think to myself. I’ve got the balance right.
I dither in the lobby, unsure whether to take a chair in the open-plan lounge area where the old ladies seem to have a permanent residence, or if I should just stand awkwardly, aware I probably look like one of the hotel’s managerial staff. I opt to stand by the racks of visitor information which hold leaflets advertising local restaurants and attractions, including the Sea Life centre and the place I ate at the previous night.
4.50… 4.55… 4.59… I keep glancing at my phone, which I hold clasped in the palm of my hand so tightly, I am probably risking the safety of its screen, but I don’t care. Then I remember. Fuck. I’ve left Jessica’s phone upstairs. The phone I need to confront him with. I want to show him the messages. To show him where they stopped. To make him face up to the fact that he asked her to be there and she did as she promised and then was left, abandoned, to die alone at the hand of a bunch of murdering sociopaths. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can show him photos of Jessica on my phone, see his reaction, but I want the messages. I want to read them out. Have him read them out. I want him to cry, to shout, to argue, then finally face up to the fact that he is no better than a murderer.
