because I don’t want to imagine yet more trauma. Today.
‘It’s possible, I suppose. Who knows how this kind
of mind works? But we can’t assume nothing else will
happen today. We need to be vigilant. And the important
thing now is to talk through how we go forward from
this, Alice. After today, I mean. And what’s happening
about the plan to return to work. I take it you’re recon-
sidering that?’
‘No choice, actually. My editor’s been in touch. Asked
me to take another week off, minimum. Until we hear
more from the fire investigation team. I think he’s wor-
ried they’ll burn the office down. Or that the stalker will
pose as an interviewee. Something like that.’
Matthew exchanges a glance with Tom and I feel some
new tension in the room – something I can’t quite read.
‘What? What’s going on between you two?’
‘Nothing. It’s just we were talking, when you had a
nap.’ Tom is trying to soften his voice. He glances again
at Matthew. ‘And we were just wondering if you should
maybe get away for a bit, Alice. Complete change of scene.’
‘What – run away, you mean?’
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‘No. But – look, my parents are still on this cruise,
as you know. They’re just about to spend some time in
Italy. How about we join them for a bit? Meet up for a
few days in Italy.’
‘On the cruise?’
‘No, not the cruise. We could get a hotel on the coast
somewhere and just meet up with them. Relax. De-stress
a bit while the police look into this.’
I don’t know why I feel so cross at this suggestion. Tom
has wanted me to meet his parents before – in Paris. I said
no to that too. It’s too soon. One day I walked in on him
Skyping them and he asked if I wanted to say hi, and I
made an excuse. I felt he was cornering me. It’s too full on.
Meeting the parents. It makes me think of my time with
Alex. The engagement ring. The whole blessed nonsense.
‘I don’t want to go to Italy. I don’t want to run away. I
mean – how long would I have to keep running? Hiding?
This is ridiculous. I’ve done nothing wrong and yet it’s my
life that’s been completely turned upside down.’ I can feel
tears coming and that’s not what I want either. ‘Anyway,
my mother’s not good. The nursing staff are worried.
Leanne just brought me up to date. I can’t be going on
trips. I need to visit her this weekend as normal. There’s
no way I’m missing the visit to my mother.’
Again they exchange a strange look. More resigned.
More worried.
‘Of course. Sorry. It was just an idea.’ Tom’s tone is
apologetic. ‘Shall I make some more coffee?’
‘If I drink any more coffee, I suspect I’ll start bounc-
ing off these walls.’
‘OK. Peppermint tea it is.’ He heads over to the kettle
and I stare at his back as he tries two drawers, looking
for cutlery.
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I hate peppermint tea but Tom is doing his best. I am
being a cow. I can’t help it because I’m not sure how much
more of this I can take. This feeling of utter helplessness.
Playing the sitting duck.
‘Actually, can we forget the tea? I think I’m going to
take a bath. Try to calm myself down. Any more from
Melanie Sanders?’ I look again at Matthew, who checks
his phone and shakes his head.
I don’t know why I keep clinging to the hope the police
inquiry will come good. Alex has been questioned again
but is still refusing to cooperate. To make matters worse, I
mentioned to Matthew about Claire Hardy at the charity
and that has now backfired on me. He’s informed Melanie
Sanders as if Claire might be a suspect in my own stalking.
Ridiculous. She’s trying to con people as far as I can see,
not stalk them. I made it clear that I made contact with
the charity, not the other way around, but Matthew says
they could have used Facebook ads to target my stream
– to put the name of the charity in my mind. They can’t
afford to miss any possible line of inquiry. And Claire
has a dicey boyfriend. So they’re now checking her out.
Complete waste of police time, if you ask me.
I watch Matthew put his phone away in his pocket
and head upstairs.
Leanne’s Dorset home has four bedrooms with their
own bathrooms, plus a huge separate guest bathroom with
a beautiful roll-top bath. I decide against the small shower
adjoining my bedroom, as I feel a bit more nervous in
there. The guest bathroom is off the main landing and
somehow feels better. This is what my life has become.
Worrying which bathroom feels safer…
I lock the door and glance to make sure the window
is closed. I find some bath oil on the shelf and fill the
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tub to three-quarters so I can sink right in. The scent is
lovely. Vanilla with some other note I can’t quite make
out. The warmth of the water does indeed feel soothing
and for a moment I feel better. But then as I sweep the
bubbles over my arms there is suddenly a strange tapping
noise at the window. I freeze. I listen – hoping I imagined
it. But no. There it is again.
Now I sit bolt upright, the water surging as I do so
– creating a wave which sends water splashing over the
top on to the marble floor tiles. I want to leap out of the
bath but am worried I’ll slip on the wet floor. I have to
twist my neck awkwardly to get a view of the window.
And now – a myriad of emotions. Because the moment I
look at the window, I see the ridiculous truth. The clear
shadow of a branch from a tree, simply tapping against
the glass in the wind.
It is then that the tears come. The shame of the depths
of my fear. My overreaction. Frightened by a mere branch.
The horror burning a stamp on my flesh that my life has
been reduced to this. I can’t work. I can’t function. My
home has been burned down. My mother is sick. I hon-
estly can’t imagine that my life will ever be normal again.
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CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Him – before
When the police turn up at his home, he imagines it’s
about Brian. After all these years, he wonders what has
finally led them here. Some new forensic discovery? Some
witness who never came forward before?
He’s settled in a new job now and his mind is all at once
buzzing. What mistake did he make? What have they found?
Most of all he’s worried about his gran. Who will look out
for his gran if he’s arrested? His mind is in overdrive and
his heart is pumping but he keeps his face calm. Maybe
there is still some way out of this. He will admit nothing.
He will say nothing.
He allows them into his home. They stand in his sit-
ting room, gl
ancing around. And then the female officer
says that she is very sorry but there is ‘some bad news
about your gran’.
The two officers exchange a strange look. He thinks
it might be pity. He doesn’t understand. And then he can
feel his head twitching and there is this strange dizziness
deep within him. They are still speaking but he’s now in
this bubble so their words cannot quite reach him.
He is looking at their mouths, watching their lips move
and willing them out of his home. He does not want them
here. Does not need to hear any more of this rubbish.
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‘You must have made a mistake. I’m sorry but I’m
going to have to ask you to leave now.’
‘I’m so very sorry but there’s no mistake. Can I perhaps
make you a cup of tea?’
‘No.’
* * *
Much later he is in this terrible place which smells of
chemicals and some other floral scent that is perhaps sup-
posed to cover up the chemical smell. It fails. They have
tried to make the room look respectful and calm. They
have wasted their time.
It looks as terrible a place as he can ever imagine.
There is a sheet over the face of the woman who is
dead. Still he is certain there has been some mistake.
His gran would not do this. He’s warned again that the
circumstances of death have led to a distortion of her
appearance. He must brace himself. They need him to
identify her. They are very, very sorry.
The sheet is lifted back and there is that terrible twitch-
ing of his head again. He cannot believe it and so he closes
his eyes. It is as if time is this long, slim tunnel and he is being sucked away from this room – back, back, back.
He is a small boy blowing out the candles of his birthday
cake – his gran smiling at him. He is in the park on the
slide – his gran waiting at the bottom, beaming. He is
in his bedroom, knees curled up to his chin, dreading
the knock-knocking on the door on a Wednesday night.
There is a voice now. He opens his eyes to find they are
asking him if he is able to confirm this is his grandmother.
He’s back in the bubble and they repeat themselves and
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so he nods. They move to replace the sheet but he shakes
his head and holds up his hand to stop them.
He looks some more.
He cannot believe what has happened to her. He looks
at the dark distortion that was once his grandmother’s
beautiful, soft and ever-smiling face, and he swears deep
inside himself that he will find who made her do this.
He will make them pay.
He will go to the ends of the earth until he has under-
stood who drove her to this terrible thing. And he will
make … them … pay.
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CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Alice
Leanne has sent their company driver to take me to London
this time. No more trains. It’s Friday and the traffic is
dreadful. I feel a bit ridiculous sitting in the back, to be
honest. Like royalty or something. But the chauffeur is a
nice bloke; he drives well and, though he’s friendly, he’s
taken the hint that I don’t want to chat.
We are only about ten minutes away from Mum’s new
nursing home, and so I message Jack again. He tipped
me off early this morning that he’s now been pencilled
in on the news desk diary to cover the demolition of the
Maple Field flats in my place. He feels bad about this; he’s
worried I’ll be upset with him for taking on my story. My position? Quite frankly I’m furious with Ted, but there’s
also this small relief that he chose Jack – as I would still
like to find a way to quietly play a part. Somehow.
I’ve bounced this past Jack and asked him to keep
it under his hat. Tom and Matthew will go nuts if I
share this plan too soon. But Jack is more nervous than
I anticipated. He’s like an echo of Ted now – worrying
about my safety. The demolition is Wednesday, after all.
My thinking is I will go along – low-key and entirely in
the background – if Matthew can be persuaded to come
too. That story means a lot to me. I’d just like to see it
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through. See the wretched place come down. The look
on the campaigners’ faces.
I won’t step forward. I won’t make any kind of fuss.
I just want to be there.
‘Right. Here we are. My instructions are to walk you
inside. That OK?’ The chauffeur is unclicking his seat belt.
‘Fine by me. Thank you.’
He gets out and opens my door. Again, it feels a bit
formal, but I don’t want to cause offence. Good of Leanne
to arrange this. She means well.
Inside I am pleased to see they follow strict procedure
at reception, checking my ID before issuing a visitor pass.
They also confirm that rules about deliveries are in place
regarding my mother. Good.
I am escorted to the lift and up to the second floor
by a second member of staff. Not sure if this is the norm
or they are trying to impress, given the police have been
in touch too.
My mother’s room is as lovely as I remember it from
the last visit. I glance at the little table in the corner where there are fresh white roses in a glass vase. I feel worried for a moment, remembering the pot plant and the concealed
confirms that Leanne brought them with her yesterday.
And then I turn to my mother. Who is still in bed in
a pale blue nightie, propped up with pillows.
‘She’s feeling a little weak today so we’re going to
leave it a bit longer before she’s dressed. Is that a problem?
Were you planning to go out into the garden?’
I shake my head. No. I don’t have the courage to take my mother outside. Not with all this unresolved.
There is a pale pink velvet chair alongside the bed,
and I find it is unbelievably comfortable.
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Hello, Mum.’
Her eyes open instantly at my voice.
‘My lovely girl.’
Three words. Still her maximum.
I smile, fighting the surge of tears inside at seeing her
deterioration. For the first time, her skin looks the wrong
colour. Her lips have a bluish tinge. Leanne warned me
about all of this on the phone, but every change with
every visit still shocks me.
My mother nods towards the bedside table where
Wuthering Heights is ready. We always keep to this deal.
Leanne will sometimes play cards with my mother. Or
Scrabble. Other times they will sketch together – a skill
I do not have. But the reading job is mine.
‘So. Where were we?’ I open the book. There is a new
bookmark at Chapter Twenty. It’s a child’s effort and it
takes me a moment to recognise it. Pressed flowers – pink
and purple – under some kind
of plastic covering. Not
properly laminated; this is like the cruder covering we
used to use for schoolbooks. Yes. I remember now these
sheets, with paper which you had to peel off the back.
There is a hole punched in the bottom of the marker and
a faded pink ribbon tied through it in a bow. I tied that
ribbon myself. Primary school? I was probably no more
than eight.
‘Where did this come from?’
‘The box.’ My mother tilts her head again. By the
fireplace on the opposite wall there is a silver storage box
which Leanne must have brought on her visit. I picture it
in a different place – stored at my mother’s home under
the stairs. We haven’t rooted through that box for years.
It’s full of all sorts of family memorabilia, mostly things
that Leanne and I made in school.
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‘You getting sentimental?’ I try to make my tone
teasing, but in truth I am thinking of all those precious
letters that I lost in the fire. I don’t want my mother to
know any of my nightmare so I fight the tears and find
a smile instead. My mother shrugs before smiling back
and signalling with her hand that I should start reading.
She closes her eyes. Wheezes. Her chest barely rising at
all with each breath. Lips still too blue.
I read for no more than fifteen minutes before she falls
asleep again. I ring the button and the nurse arrives to con-
firm that this is the normal pattern now. My mother finds
it difficult to stay awake for very long. The lack of oxygen.
‘We talked about this?’ The nurse is searching my face
as if to check if I’m facing up to what is really going on
here. I just nod. Can’t speak.
I ask her to say goodbye for me and to tell my mother
that I’ll visit again very soon, then I carefully place the
book with my bookmark back on the table. I press my
hand on the cover for quite some time before I feel ready
to peel myself away.
Outside, I tell the driver that we need to take a small
detour on the way back to Leanne’s home, and give him
the postcode for Claire’s mother’s address. She may not
be home and she may refuse to see me, but I am still a
journalist, even if they won’t allow me back into the of-
fice just yet, so working on this story feels like the right
thing to do. If Claire and her partner are trying to rip off
the victims of stalkers, I have to do something.