way? The place is all set. Fully wired. There’s another
security guard watching the front. We’re in charge until
the demo team return.’
Matthew then turns to Jack. ‘Right, Jack. You stay
right here and you tell the police everything when they
arrive.’
‘No. I want to come with you. I need to find Alice.’
‘You can be more help here, Jack. I need you to meet
the police. Get the details of the demolition company and
get them on site immediately. Yes? It’s very important.’
Finally Jack nods, and then Matthew heads towards
the gap in the wire fence.
‘Oh no, no, no. You can’t go in there. No way.’ The
security guard tone’s is firm but he doesn’t challenge
Matthew physically. Instead he’s dialling his phone. ‘I’m
warning you. This is a dangerous site. I’m serious. You
absolutely cannot go in there…’
322
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Alice
‘You really have no idea, Alice?’ The voice through the
software sounds so very menacing. Like something from
a film. Still he is in the shadows so I cannot see his eyes.
In, one, two … out, one, two.
I close my own eyes to tune out his voice and con-
centrate on my breathing. Again, the struggle to fill my
lungs properly makes me think of my mother.
I picture her in her new home with its lovely staff.
The vase of roses on her table. I picture the copy of
Wuthering Heights on the shelf, waiting for me. I try to think of other family scenes. Better pictures. Lying on
the grass, making daisy chains. My mother calling us –
Leanne and me – over to the picnic rug. Lunch, girls. Egg sandwiches – smelly but delicious. Ice-cold drinks poured
from a thermos into red plastic beakers.
I summon more scenes. Grey school socks and scuffed
shoes. My mother standing behind me, plaiting my hair.
My mother singing to me. Stroking my hair after a night-
mare. It’s going to be all right, my darling. Just a dream. It’s going to be all right…
‘I used to live here, Alice. In this flat. With my
grandmother.’
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I don’t know what to think. What’s he saying? I open
my eyes to look at him again. I don’t understand.
‘She killed herself in this very room, Alice. Because
of you. ’
I feel utter shock. I have no idea what on earth he’s
talking about. I have done nothing. I don’t know what
he means. He’s making this up. He’s mad. He must be
entirely mad.
And then very slowly he puts the phone back into his
pocket and he takes off the balaclava.
My left eye starts twitching now. Like a tic. I can’t
take in the picture, even in this gloom. I can’t make any
of it fit.
It’s Tom.
I can see that it’s him. It’s his face. And his hair. And
his mouth. But my brain is saying that it can’t be Tom.
Tom is at the flat. Hurt at the flat. This man hurt him.
Took me. I don’t understand.
He is laughing. And now it is Tom’s laugh. Still, I
can’t process this. My eye is still twitching.
‘You really had no idea, did you?’ He’s shaking his
head from side to side. Tom’s voice. A version of Tom
that seems full of hate. Tom. But not Tom.
‘You bought it all. The parents on a trip around the
world. The smart family. The smart life.’ He pauses. ‘That
photo by my bed? I took it from a magazine, Alice.’ I can
feel my breathing getting worse. ‘And the Skyping? I just
made that up. I knew you’d never want to say hello to them.’
He is actually laughing now.
‘Oh, and hiring Matthew? Genius move, don’t you
think? Hidden in plain sight. I’ve enjoyed that.’ There
is a longer pause and he looks at the kitchen area now.
‘I paid the security guard to let me in here. He thinks
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I’m recovering family mementos that were accidentally
left behind.’ And now he looks back at me. ‘Your paper
didn’t even cover the story. The inquest. She died. My
In one two. Out one two. Don’t black out, Alice. Don’t
black out.
‘Open your eyes and look at me when I’m talking to
you, Alice.’
I do as he says, my whole body trembling.
‘She took tablets, Alice. And she put her head in that
oven. All because of you. You and your stupid stories.’
I let out this strange puff of air next, which feels hot
with the gag; my lungs even more strained. Too empty.
I can’t seem to suck in the air. And I can’t make any
sense of what he’s saying. There was no opposition to the
campaign; what on earth is he talking about?
I glance across at the oven and at the shelves in the
corner of the kitchen area. There are pots and pans and
various kitchen implements, and on the left at the end
of the row something else. I stare for a moment and feel
a pang of new horror as I slowly make out the shape. A
wooden board with a metal arm. Dear Lord. Oh no. It’s
a special cheese cutter. A little board with cheese wire…
He sees me looking, follows my glance to the shelving
and the small board and then he’s laughing again.
‘That scare you, does it?’ He narrows his eyes, burn-
ing his stare into me and clearly enjoying my fear. ‘My
gran told me she used that to make sandwiches for my
grandfather which he ate on a bench outside. Every day.
Cheese and pickle.’ He pauses. ‘And he liked his cheese
sliced thinly. Wire’s so much better than a knife.’
He is speaking more slowly now. Still he is staring. I
can feel tears coming. Feel faint.
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Teresa Driscoll
I am going to use cheese wire on you…
‘Oh, Alice. Awful, isn’t it? Dreading something. But
here’s the thing. Here’s the beauty of it.’ He pauses again.
‘I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t need to hurt you.’
I have no idea what to think now. Whether to be
relieved. Is he saying that he’s going to let me go? Did he
just want to frighten me? Is this just about claiming my
fear … or is this another trick? Some new taunt.
‘You are going to kill yourself, Alice.’ He laughs. ‘In the same place.’ He looks across at the oven again.
What now? I picture him forcing me over there.
Towards the oven. I try not to think but I imagine that
he is going to give me pills. Fake my suicide. Is that it?
This mad person. This mad version of Tom.
He leans forward and seems to examine my face.
‘You still not getting it?’ Again there is a low laugh. ‘I
am simply going to leave you here, Alice. I’m going to
text the guard to confirm I’m out. And they are going
to blow this place up. Boom. With you in it.’
Suddenly my heart is thumping even harder. The
demolition. Oh dear Lord.
‘After all, it’s what you wanted, Alice, isn’t it? This
place gone.’
And now, all of a sudden, I start to see it. I have no
idea why he’s doing this. I have no idea how this version
of Tom even exists. This narrative about his grandmother.
This background so far from the story he told me. But
I do understand where I am now. Maple Field House. I
also know what is going to happen.
There is a pause in which he just stares at me as if
trying to read my reaction. But the bigger shock for me
is that my fear does not grow. I picture what is going to
happen and with that picture comes the shock of relief
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that it is going to be quick. Somehow, blackly and bi-
zarrely, this helps. Yes. Knowing at last – after all these
weeks – what I am dealing with.
There is a long silence, and in the hole of stillness,
my next thoughts are another complete surprise to me.
There is this jolt. A chemical surge. Almost like euphoria.
Like a cloud lifting.
If he is here, seeing this through, he cannot be with
my mother; he cannot hurt my mother. That is not what
this is about. It’s about me, not her.
The realisation that it is just about me is both terrify-ing and strangely reassuring. So that the next emotion is
the final and the biggest shock. Relief.
Yes. Relief that he is not going to hurt my mother.
I feel tears welling in my eyes because I realise suddenly
that I love her so much more than I care about myself.
I am afraid – yes. But my fear is suddenly less signifi-
cant. Because it matters so much more to me that she is
OK. That he is not going to hurt her.
I feel something I never thought I would feel. Especially
not here. Like this.
I feel brave.
Yes. I am actually trembling with the shock of dis-
covering that I am not a coward after all.
This man, this twisted version of Tom, cannot do any
more to me. Because he does not understand the relief I
feel. He doesn’t understand love.
I picture my mother with her nurse and her cosy
room. White roses on the table and Wuthering Heights
on the shelf.
I feel strangely jubilant now. Resigned. Relieved.
Nothing matters now. My mother is safe. And so I start
kicking with my foot against the table in front of me to
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Teresa Driscoll
make a noise. Maybe someone will hear. I don’t know. I
don’t care. It doesn’t actually matter anymore.
‘You need to stop that, Alice.’
I kick some more, harder and louder. He moves to
pull the table away from me but I twist to reach to the
left to kick the sideboard instead.
‘Stop that, Alice. I’m warning you.’
I kick louder and louder until he roars like a wounded
animal. He leaps forward and puts his hands around my
throat but still I kick.
His grasp around my neck is tighter but I don’t care.
My mother is safe. My mother is safe. I don’t care about him.
Kick, kick, kick.
And then suddenly there is this huge crashing noise.
For a moment I fear it is one of the explosions being trig-
gered too early. I feel faint from the struggle to breathe.
My neck is so very sore and I want it to be over.
I manage to move my head to the right. Is it the
explosion? Is it all happening early? But there is no dust.
No. It is not the demolition. It’s the door. Something is
smashing – bang, bang, bang – against the door. Three huge blows until the wood is finally splintered.
I am fading now. It feels like falling. Blackness on
the periphery of my vision. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I
am falling, falling, and when I manage to open my eyes
again, I still can’t take it in.
Somehow, Matthew is in the room now. Yes – it’s
Matthew with a fire extinguisher in his hand. He swings it to hit Tom in the back.
The hands around my neck are released but I feel
giddy. Trying to get enough oxygen. Falling still.
Through a haze I watch them fighting. I see Tom
strike Matthew hard and then pull away. Tom is trying
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to open the window in the kitchen. I see him stepping
up on the sink. I think he is going to jump and I think:
Good. Jump.
But Matthew pulls him back down. There is more
struggling. They are on the floor. The sound of blows.
Flesh hitting flesh. Groaning. And finally, through the haze
and the dimness, I hear Matthew talking to me. He has
Tom pinned to the floor, over by the kitchen units now.
‘Alice. You need to try to breathe slowly for me. Can
you do that, Alice?’
I can hear sirens. Still I am falling. Fading. Through the
gag across my mouth, I call out for her. For my mother…
‘The police are here. It’s going to be all right, Alice.
You need to breathe slowly and hang in there, Alice.’
Not his voice now. My mother’s hand stroking my
hair. Her voice in my ear.
It’s going to be all right, darling.
329
EPILOGUE
Alice
It is one of those classic October days – a mostly clear sky
but surprisingly cold, with a strong breeze that sends the
few clouds scurrying across the blue as if late for an ap-
pointment. I watch them in their billowy haste as laughter
ripples through the small crowd.
The mayor is still speaking; he must have told a joke
but I am no longer listening. I am mesmerised by the
sunlight catching his chain and also the steel of the scis-
sors in his hand, sending starbursts of gold patterning
across the coats of the children, huddled near the front
and clearly eager to be allowed to play.
There is a yellow ribbon waiting for those scissors. It
is tied in an ostentatious bow across the entrance to the
new park – the final phase of the redevelopment project
for the former residents of Maple Field House.
There is applause, and at last the ribbon is cut and the
children are ushered through the entrance by smiling
parents. I watch the photographer from the paper that
was once mine calling for smiles and posing little groups
at each piece of new equipment. A double slide set on
a tasteful bed of bark clippings. Little wooden animals
on huge springs with handles shaped as ears. All carved
in muted shades. Yes. All so beautifully designed, and a
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Teresa Driscoll
million miles from the rising damp and the boarded-up
shops of Maple Field House.
And now, as the crowd begins to scatter, I see Matthew
approaching and he gives me a small wave. Ah. He said he
might come along but I did wonder. He has his daughter with
him. She is quite lovely – golden ringlets to her shoulders.
She is pointing, eager to try the slide, but Matthew is telling the photographer: ‘No pictures. Not my daughter. Sorry .’
I move towards them. ‘You came.’
‘I wanted to see how it turned out. And to see you
too, Alice. How are you doing?’
I shrug. ‘Better.’
‘Good.’
We watch his daughter negotiate the steps to the smaller
of the slides. Matthew moves closer, saying, ‘Sorry, Alice.
Excuse me.’ He is all at once distracted and stands protectively behind the wooden ladder, then rushes around
to the front to greet her at the bottom of the shiny steel.
His daughter repeats the cycle three times and then agrees
to try the swing where it is a little easier for us to talk.
‘So are you still staying locally, Alice?’
‘Some of the time. I’ve been travelling a bit. With my
sister and her children.’
‘Good. Yes. I remember you saying.’
‘How’s Melanie, by the way? Did you give her my best?’
‘I did. In fact – here.’ He takes his phone from his
pocket and skims through several pages before holding
the screen out to me. The picture is a close-up – Melanie
laughing with a smiling, chubby-faced baby on her knee.
‘Oh wow. He looks gorgeous. Big.’ I laugh. ‘So how
is Melanie coping?’
‘She’s exhausted, permanently covered in sick. And
very, very happy.’
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‘I’m so pleased.’
We pause as he puts the phone away and pushes the
swing higher still.
‘You know, I’ve never really thanked you, Matthew. I
mean – not properly. I was a bit of state through the court
case.’ It’s been a long haul – the legal process moving so
slowly. Matthew turns away from me, his gaze fixed on
the swing.
I watch him, guessing what he’s thinking. At first,
he wouldn’t even let Leanne settle his bill. He blamed
himself for not seeing through Tom. But it was no one’s
fault. Even the judge said that.
An unlucky cycle of trust. Matthew trusted in DI
Sanders’ checks on Tom. But she’d delegated the back-
ground checks on Tom to a DS. He said he’d done a
thorough job but in truth cut corners; he made the mis-
take of allowing Tom’s lawyer colleagues to vouch for
him. A single phone call to the private school Tom never
attended would have rumbled him.
‘It wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t Melanie Sanders’
fault either. He was very clever,’ I say. ‘He fooled every-
one, Matthew. Even the judge commented on that in his
summing up.’ I remember the words. You went to extra-