The Woman on the Pier

by B P Walter

  ‘You’re not exactly poor yourself,’ I say, gaining back some of the momentum she’s tried to kill. ‘And while we’re at it, why haven’t you redecorated since the fire?’ I gesture at the walls around me. The wallpaper is brown with smoke marks, some parts of it actually black and cracked. ‘This place must be some kind of health hazard.’

  ‘Oh it’s not that bad,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ll get Xavier to sort it out at some point.’

  ‘Xavier?’ I look at her in confusion. Then something occurs to me, ‘Mum, have you remarried?’

  She lets out a cold, bitter laugh. ‘Remarried? I’d rather kill myself. No, Xavier is a sort of live-in assistant. He’s been a lifesaver, I have to say. He lives in one of the pool houses, although I let him come inside during the winter months.’

  I’m baffled by all this. ‘Who the hell is this man? Some kind of servant?’

  My mother settles herself down on one of the smoke-damaged lilac sofas. ‘I’m not as young as I was, Caroline. It’s good to have a strong, strapping lad to lift all the heavy things, do the cleaning, the washing, the ironing, look after the plants and pool.’

  ‘He does all that by himself?’

  I see her hands tense. She grips the sofa, the nails digging in. ‘It might surprise you to learn that, once upon a time, I did all of that, Caroline. I was the fucking servant to you and your father, and never got a word of thanks.’

  ‘You were not!’ Her dishonesty is so audacious, it’s breath-taking. ‘You make out like you were some put-upon domestic victim. You and Dad were both as vicious as each other. And I did the laundry.’

  She’s now gone from clutching at the sofa cushions to scratching at them, as if trying to remove a stubborn mark from the fabric.

  ‘Instead of taking a trip down memory lane, why don’t you sit down and tell me why you’re actually here?’

  I take in a breath, sharply and involuntarily. My eyes snap to hers. It’s so like my mother. You think she’s fooled. You think she’s been strung along. But she’s been aware of your tricks from your first move.

  ‘I told you. I’m divorcing my husband.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t buy it.’

  ‘Well, it’s the truth.’

  ‘That’s as may be. But I don’t think it’s the reason you’ve come. You don’t run away. Unless you have to.’

  ‘I ran away from you.’

  She gives me a slow nod. ‘Exactly.’

  I wait a few seconds. Then, simply because I don’t think I have anything else to lose, I say: ‘I’m here because I killed someone.’

  Her face is motionless. Unreadable. Not even a tremor. This is the woman that gets nauseous at the idea of family bonding or gestures of love, but doesn’t blink at murder.

  ‘Is it your husband?’ she says at last.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Then do go on.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s worth me getting into it all. The police will be here soon. In fact, I’m astonished they didn’t stop me at the airport.’

  Still that blank look. ‘So why did you bother coming here? Why did you want to see me after all this time?’

  I try to match her blank expression, stripping the emotion from my voice as much as I can handle. ‘Because I think I now finally understand you. More than I did before. Better than I did before.’

  ‘And why is that?’ There’s something in her eyes now. Is it resolve? Or a challenge? Daring me to go further into this new unknown.

  ‘Because we now have something important in common. Something more than most mothers and daughters. We’re both murderers.’

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The Mother

  May. Three months after the attack.

  After I’ve said that sentence, my mother and I stare at each other for a long time. Then she looks away and down at my bag.

  ‘I think,’ she says slowly, ‘you need to get yourself unpacked. And I’ll get Xavier to rustle up some dinner.’

  I wait a moment, to see if there’s anything else she wants to say. But nothing arrives.

  ‘OK,’ I reply eventually. We both stand up and she leads the way out into the living room and towards the stairs. Despite the fire damage, the place is still impressive, though there’s more dust than my parents used to tolerate. The place is cavernous, creaking. Why she hasn’t just sold it and bought something small and manageable is beyond me. The fact that she and Dad bought it in the first place, when we finally left Saudi, was puzzling at the time. Now its existence seems utterly preposterous.

  ‘I’m afraid I had your old room stripped out and converted into a place for my Sylvanian Family collection.’ She says this like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and I can’t find it within myself to feel hurt. The thought of revisiting my teenage self – posters of pop stars and soap actors I fancied – would have been a bit too intense. ‘Xavier sleeps in there, too. Mostly during the winter, although he’s yet to move all his stuff from the pool house properly yet. Just don’t touch his things. Or mine.’

  ‘How many years has he been working for you?’ I ask.

  ‘Since he was sixteen.’

  ‘Christ, I swear that’s child labour or something. How old is he now?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘Surely he should be out enjoying himself or at university getting smashed like most boys his age?’

  ‘He brings girls back sometimes. Has sex with them in there. You see how accepting I’ve become, Caroline? How tolerant I now am in my old age?’

  I let out a sigh, ‘What do you want, a sticker or something?’

  She ignores this and leads me past the room that used to be mine and towards the guest bedroom. It hasn’t changed one bit. Part of me worries the bed hasn’t been slept in or made since the 1990s.

  ‘This is where you’ll sleep,’ she says, stating the obvious. ‘I’ll ask Xavier to wash the covers tomorrow. They’re clean, but might be a bit old.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Is he here now?’

  Without talking, she walks past me, round the bed and over to the window. I follow her, and she raises a bony finger to point out to the pool. Inside, the water is rippling, the evening light dancing on its sleek folds. Then, as if on cue, a tanned, athletic-looking teenage boy arrives at the side in a rush and gets out nimbly. He’s unclothed, apart from a pair of very small, very tight Tom Daley style swimming trunks. I glance over at my mother, to see if she has visibly registered his near-nudity, but she seems unmoved.

  After a few moments, she turns away from the window and goes to exit the room, turning before she leaves completely. ‘Have a sleep. Unpack. Come down in two hours. Xavier will have cooked us something by then.’

  I nod. ‘Do you have any painkillers?’

  She eyes me, suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was in a car accident recently.’

  I can tell she’s not sure whether to take this as a flippant comeback or the truth. Whichever, she decides not to investigate any further. ‘I’ll have Xavier bring some up.’

  As promised, the boy arrives at my bedroom door within ten minutes, now dry and dressed in shorts and a Hollister T-shirt, clutching a pharmacy bag. ‘I was told to bring this to you,’ he says. ‘I’m Xavier, by the way.’

  His voice is low, his accent soft, and his eyes focus on me as if he’s already slightly bored with my presence.

  ‘I’m Caroline,’ I say, holding out a hand.

  He shakes it and hands me the paper bag, then says, ‘I hear you’re here because you’ve killed someone.’

  I can’t quite believe the words have come out of his mouth. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your mother said you’re here because you’ve killed someone. In England. So, are you on the run or something?’

  I sit down on the bed and turn away from him. ‘Something like that.’

  He just sniffs a little and says ‘Cool.’ Then he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

  I lie back and
try to sleep, but I can’t seem to drift off. My mind is still buzzing, the strangeness of the situation closing in on me. And all the while, that name, that face, floating before my eyes. Michael Kelley. Michael Kelley. Michael Kelley.

  I go to my bag and fish out Jessica’s phone and unlock it. It only has 8 per cent battery and I’m in the midst of rootling around for my charger when I realise it won’t fit in the mains and I don’t have an adaptor.

  I lower the brightness even further so it’s barely even readable and close the curtains. Then, settling back, I return to the conversation I read on the plane and reread it. Then reread it again. On the third time, something strikes me. Circle. The Circle App. There was a reference to it before. In the flirty messages I read between them. Before I’d even met the Kelley boys. And here it was again.

  I go back to Jessica’s home screen, flick through all her apps, then find it. It’s a white square with a black outline of a circle in the middle of it. I click it. A white background with a large grey sphere fills the screen, followed by a login request. I type in her email and then begin guessing passwords. I get locked out after three, but then remember I have access to her email inbox. Within minutes I’ve reset her password and navigated back to the Circle app. I’m in. And what greets me chills my blood.

  Welcome. Circle is a safe space where survivors of child abuse and neglect can connect, share experiences, and support each other through difficult times. Please see our FAQs section of the app for our full terms of use, as well as dos and don’ts, or visit www.circlesupporthub.com.

  My eyes scan over the words again. Child abuse.

  My hands are shaking when I tap through the welcome message and on to the main home screen. I click on the first page: Reach Out Stories.

  At the top, a heading unfurls to explain the purpose of the section:

  Reach Out Stories are where members of Circle can introduce themselves and share why they are here and, if they wish, go into detail about their experiences.

  I look down at the latest post. It’s from someone calling themselves Daniel91. I begin to read.

  Hi, I’m new here (obviously). I’m Daniel, I’m 26, I have a decent job and a girlfriend I love. But I’ve got to a point in my life where I need to talk about the things that happened to me when I was ten when my parents sent me off camping with my mate and his dad.

  I don’t read on. I feel sick. Horrified. And the only reason I’m on there is to find one thing – one thing I’m sure, with devastating inevitability, must be there somewhere. I start scrolling through, madly, trying to go to older posts, not stopping to find a search function or easier route. Then I stop when a name catches my eye. EssexEvan.

  I haven’t found Jessica. But I’ve found him.

  Hey, I’m Evan. I found out about this app from a leaflet thing in my local library. I go there sometimes to get away from people at school and have been reading stories here on Circle for a month now. I didn’t think I’d want to share mine but I think now I’m ready. When I was very small, my dad used to fuck me and my brother. My brother got off a bit lighter compared to me – he put up more of a fight. But for some reason I never could fight back. Then, one day, Dad took me in a van I hadn’t seen before and said we were going to meet some friends of his. Friends who wanted to see me. Looking back now, I know who some of them were. They weren’t friends of my dad. And some of them were famous. Famous people, paying to do awful things. I didn’t know who they were then, but I’ve worked it out now. Nobody ask me to say their names – that’s not why I’m here, so don’t push me on it. I just needed to share what happened so it doesn’t feel like some sick dream inside my head.

  Again, I find I can’t read on, but look at some of the comments on his post. Someone called JasmineX2 had commented:

  So horrible what people in power get away with. My heart goes out to you.

  Another girl called MarissaIre97 said:

  I think you should say their names. It would probably help. And then you should go to the police or the press.

  And then, from only a few weeks ago, someone named Robert45 commented:

  Just seen on the news that a bunch of MPs have been arrested, including one they thought might be the next Prime Minister – Ernest Kellman. Was he one of the guys? Did you end up going to the police? Or was it someone else? Man, this story is going to be BIG.

  I remember seeing the news reports that Robert45 had been referring to. I’d barely even thought about them. Didn’t think my life would go near anything like that. I should have learned from past experience that’s not how it works. Most parents think – hope – it won’t be their child killed in a terrorist attack. Until it happens to them. And then they realise anything is possible. Even the very worst things.

  I find Jessica’s post after a couple of minutes. She’s called herself JessieCAR. Tears start to fill my eyes. It’s how she used to write her name on her scrapbooks and drawings when she was a child, even though she knew perfectly well how to spell her name properly, with a little doodle of a purple car underneath. I take a deep breath, then begin to read her post.

  My name’s Jessica. I’m 16 and have a great life, a great time at school, everything’s perfect. Except for a big, terrible secret that I think I’ll go mad if I don’t share. Which is why I’m here, really. I’ve never told anyone this, ever. And I don’t know if I ever will in real life. But here’s the truth: When I was a child, my uncle used to make me do things – sexual things. It happened quite a few times, usually when my parents had him babysitting me when they went out for a meal, or if he looked after me on afternoons when my mum was working, and one time when I went to stay with him and his awful wife when my parents went on a weekend mini-break. I don’t really want to go into what he did, and at the time I didn’t really realise how bad or serious the whole thing was. I liked spending time with my uncle, and he always used to make it into a ‘little game’. I’m now in my teens, and have always struggled to be in his company. I only manage it if I put on a performance, like an actor. I imagine this other girl with my name and how she’d act around her uncle if he’d never done anything wrong. Most of the time it works. But recently, at a family party, he touched my arm – not weirdly, at that moment, but it brought it all back. And one thing has always really upset me, especially now that I’m older. When he used to do what he used to do, he never called me by my real name. He’d just whisper into my ear – something I used to struggle to work out, but the more it happened, the more I became sure. He kept saying my mum’s name to me. He kept saying ‘Caroline’, and telling me he loved me. And that, more than anything, has made it impossible ever to tell her.

  Her post ends there. Abruptly. Without any of the positivity with which she started.

  I’m done. Finished. And so is the phone. The screen dims. Then goes black.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Mother

  Eleven years to go.

  ‘Caroline. Please. This wasn’t a mistake.’

  I was standing by the window, my head in my hands. ‘Fuck,’ I said, taking in a slow, unsteady breath, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  Rob let me swear, sitting in silence for a minute, then he came over to me and tried to put a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t. Honestly. I really can’t.’ I whispered the words, but they still came out as clearly and crisplp as if I’d projected them from a podium. I felt his flinch. His hurt.

  ‘I don’t understand. You wanted to. It was you who led me up here.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, moving away. Out of reach. I can hardly believe that a few minutes ago I was clawing at the smooth, toned body of my husband’s brother, desperate for him, my hands running down his chest, towards his belt, unbuckling it, his lips finding my mouth, his tongue touching mine.

  It had only lasted a couple of minutes. If that.

  ‘Maybe we should just sit down. And cuddle. I’d like that, Caroline. I just want to be close to you.’

  ‘Listen, Rob,’ I said, turn
ing back round to face him. He knew where this was going. Nobody ever said ‘listen’ without following it with bad or disappointing news. ‘I care for you. I really do. And maybe, if things were different, in another world…’

  He lowered his head to the floor, suddenly looking smaller, vulnerable, ashamed. ‘In another world, you’d want to be with me,’ he said, his voice sounding like he wasn’t far from tears. You’d find me attractive. You’d leave Alec for me. You’d love me.’

  I couldn’t cope with this. I’d have preferred it if he’d stormed out, tried to have a row. But his sudden disintegration was awful to witness.

  ‘You know it’s more complicated than that,’ I said, doing my best not to let my frustration – my disappointment – show too clearly. ‘I do want to be with you. I do find you attractive. But with Jessica and the house… it’s not ideal, I know. But I can’t stop that. I can’t jeopardise that.’

  I sat down on the bed and after a few moments, he came over to join me.

  We sat there, not saying anything, for almost a full minute. Then he laid his head on my shoulder, his short hair prickling my neck slightly. Then he leant properly into me and I into him, and within a split second we were kissing properly again and leaning back onto the bed, falling into the pillows, and the world was spinning and I was in the centre of it, and it was just me, me and Rob, me and Rob, merging together, becoming one.

  There was none of the awkward fumbling one usually gets with first times. After our initial upset, our tear shedding, we were finally ready, emotionally, physically, desperate for each other. He threw off his jeans and shirt and climbed back on top of me, moving rhythmically, our bodies working in sync, silk-like, smooth and perfect, both of us completely caught up in everything we were doing. Although even then I could feel it. Feel the difference. There was an intensity to the sex that was only there for him. Not for me. My thrill was being able – for the first time in so many years – to escape from Alec. Be my own person again. Enjoy a new flavour, a new horizon, a new canvas to paint on. But as I stared into Rob’s eyes, there was a focus that was so strong it almost scared me.