ordinary lengths to reinvent yourself and to weave a particularly wicked web of lies.
Tom had been in the drama society at university, we
learned, and had taken voice coaching to achieve a middle
England tone. None of his legal pals rumbled him.
‘Not everyone would have come in to that building
after me. I am grateful, Matthew.’
He keeps pushing the swing and then at last reaches
between beats to gently touch my arm. ‘No need for
thanks, Alice.’
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The gesture – touching my arm – makes tears prick
the back of my eyes and so I say nothing more. Just nod.
I see a counsellor still – once a fortnight, struggling to
trust my judgement. Taken in by Alex then Tom. Leanne
and my counsellor say it’s because I’m a good person and
see the best in people. They say the self-doubt will pass.
I also have this terrible phobia now about colds.
Anything blocking my nose. I have become a bit obses-
sive about it – every night using sprays to try to keep my
nose as clear as possible.
Breathe, two, three. Breathe, two, three.
Tom is serving life now but the trial was terrible. He
pleaded not guilty to everything and simply refused to
answer any questions at all. As if his silence could some-
how defeat us.
At first we could only surmise Tom’s motive. He
refused in all police interviews to fully explain himself.
His grandmother did indeed kill herself, just as he told
me in the flat, but initially no one understood why. The grandmother had some of my cuttings in a file but that’s
all anyone knew. The only link to me. Her inquest wasn’t
covered by the paper as we were short of staff that day.
But the inquest records were checked and the motive for
the grandmother’s suicide was never clear.
Then a search of Tom’s home found a letter and the
gran’s diary, which finally explained it all. Tom’s grand-
mother apparently loved her flat and desperately wanted to
stay there. It sent a shiver right through me when I found that out. We honestly had no idea that anyone opposed the
demolition campaign. I knocked on so many doors to get the
full picture but don’t remember ever speaking to her. The
campaigners were certainly never aware of any opposition.
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The diary suggests only Tom knew his gran’s true
feelings. And the timing confirms Tom targeted me quite
deliberately. We started dating just a few weeks after his
gran’s inquest. I go cold when I think of it. Those early
dates. Me in his flat. Me in his bed. Unaware of the mask.
All that hatred…
He used accomplices, the police discovered. Mostly
young criminals he met through his early years as a duty
lawyer. Turns out he paid someone to spray that water
in my face. To buy the plant for my mother. To call that
morning at his flat, pretending to be a courier. And he
paid off the security guards so he could drag me into the
building. CCTV shows a large diving bag – a huge zip-
up affair on wheels. I feel faint just thinking about it. I
could have died in that bag.
And then came the even bigger shock that stalking
was not the only charge. When Tom’s DNA was taken,
it matched evidence at the scene of an unsolved murder.
Some loner who lived next door to his gran – bludgeoned
in an alley a few years back.
We have no idea why.
Just as we still don’t know why Wednesdays. Why did
he have a thing about Wednesday? The police asked over
and over. But he refused to say.
* * *
The breeze is suddenly stronger, blowing my hair across
my face. I move a strand and then find myself staring at
my right hand.
Now there’s this shudder right through me as I picture
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Teresa Driscoll
I was called to London just three days after Tom at-
tacked me. We stayed by Mum’s bed – Leanne on a little
camp bed on the left and me on the right. I held one hand
and she held the other.
They had to give Mum a lot of drugs to keep her com-
fortable and so she slipped into a coma. I lay on my little
bed on the floor, reaching up to hold her hand. All night
I watched her chest rise and fall and I was counting and
chanting in my head. Breathe, one, two. Breathe, one, two.
When the chest was finally still, I was utterly bereft. I
thought I would be relieved for her but I wasn’t. I made
so much noise that people came running.
‘You have to calm down, darling.’ Leanne was dis-
traught to see me like that. ‘Please, Alice. You have to
calm down.’
* * *
I put my hand in my pocket now and look up to see
Matthew signalling with his head that I should look
behind me.
Goodness. Jack.
Matthew lifts his daughter from the swing and says
his goodbyes. They are meeting Sally, his wife, for lunch.
Have to hurry.
I watch them leave, Amelie on her father’s hip, as Jack
moves over, putting his notebook and pen in his pocket.
‘So you’re covering this?’
‘Yeah. Got everything I need. Nice pictures.’ He glances
at the park, a dozen children still enjoying the new equip-
ment, some of the parents sitting on the smart new benches.
‘It’s nice that there’s plenty of seating,’ I say.
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I Will Make You Pay
‘Yes. They transferred some plaques from those rickety
benches in the centre of the grass at the old place. Nice
touch. Dedicated to some of the first residents, apparently.’
I just nod. I didn’t know that. I am taking in how well
Jack looks. It’s an odd sensation. He looks so familiar and
yet it feels strange to be in the same space as him again.
I get this a lot – a sense of not quite fitting in the world
as I should. Some days it feels as if I drift through scenes, watching them rather than taking part. The counsellor
says it is a phase of adjustment and will pass.
‘Thank you for all your texts, Jack. I’m sorry I don’t
always reply. I’ve been travelling a bit.’
‘That’s OK. I saw your piece, by the way, in the
Sunday Herald. The exposé on that stalker charity. The alarm scam. Really good work, Alice.’
‘Thank you. It was nice to have something to do.
Take my mind off the trial.’
‘Right. Good. Yes, of course. So – have you been of-
fered a contract off the back of that? In London, I mean?’
‘No, no. Not sure journalism is right for me any-
more, actually.’ I am very aware that Jack must know,
as everyone knows now, about my name change. About
Alex and what happened in my past. It all came out in
the media coverage of Tom’s case. Not quite sure how,
but it doesn’t matter now.
‘Really? So what are your plans then? Are you still
local?’ He sounds wary. Maybe disappointed. I can’t tell.
‘I’m using Leanne’s place in Dorset at the moment.’
‘Ah. Slumming it, then?’
I laugh. He smiles.
‘I’m doing some comms work with a charity now.
A proper charity, supporting research into lung disease.’
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Teresa Driscoll
‘Oh, right.’
‘Want to put something back for a bit. While I work
out what to do long-term.’
He just nods.
Once again the wind whips up suddenly and I have
to take my hands out of my pockets again to tuck my
hair into the back of my coat collar.
‘Look, Alice, you must absolutely say if this is too
soon. Or inappropriate. Or a bad idea.’
I clench my right hand so that the nails are just dig-
ging into the palm; I am thinking once again of how
terribly I behaved with Jack at that Italian restaurant all
that time ago. I think of him losing his wife. Letting go
of her hand as I had to let go of my mother’s. You need to calm down, Alice. Please.
What was I thinking? How crass of me. I want to in-
terrupt him to say sorry again; that I understand a little
better now.
But he’s blushing. ‘Look, if it’s too soon you must say,
but I was wondering if we could meet up. Try dinner
again?’
I am a little shaken now and stare into his face. ‘ Dinner? ’
Surprised – yes. So that I don’t know quite what to
say. I look down at my left hand. It looks pale in the cold.
Jack’s right hand is alongside mine. Pinker.
‘As friends, you mean?’ I desperately want him to
know that I’m sorry I upset him that last time. That I
truly understand a little better now.
‘Well, no. Actually.’ The flush on his neck deepens so
that you can see the red emerge just above his tartan scarf,
creeping upwards towards his chin. ‘I meant like a date,
actually. Like I say – if it’s too soon, you must absolutely
say, Alice.’ He is talking much too quickly. Gabbling
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I Will Make You Pay
almost. ‘I bolted the last time because I wasn’t ready. I
mean – I still miss my wife, Alice. I’m not going to lie.
But the thing is, I really care about you very much. And
I’d really like to see if—’
I move my hand just a fraction and he clasps it sud-
denly. Tight. His flesh so much warmer than mine.
‘Sorry. Cold hands…’ I say.
‘Warm heart. Is that a yes, Alice?’
I just nod and look down at our two hands, joined.
Grief, I learn, is the strangest thing. Sometimes I am
convinced that I see her. My mother. I conjure up her
ghost and I fancy that she turns to wave at me from across
the street. And sometimes in the quiet and the stillness of
the night, I am certain that I hear her voice.
Jack is staring at me and I am listening hard because
deep inside me I fancy that I hear her voice right this min-
ute. A whisper like a shell held up tight, tight to my ear.
It is going to be all right, my darling girl.
Jack is smiling at me now.
I am smiling too.
It is going to be all right.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I was a young reporter just starting out, I really did
take a threatening call – just like Alice in this story. My
caller rang me three times … the same day each week.
First he threatened me. Then he taunted me over where
I had been that day. And then finally (and bizarrely) he
apologised for upsetting me. He said he had been going
through a rough time and was very sorry to have taken
it out on me. He promised he meant me no harm … and
I never heard from him again.
I remember feeling so relieved that this horrid spell
was over. But the experience never left me. I was very
afraid during those few weeks when I did not know what
the calls were about. Or how serious they were.
When I realised all these decades later that I wanted
to examine this theme in an entirely fictional story, I
promised myself that I would only do so if I could counter
the negative with a celebration of courage and love. And
that’s why I put Alice and her mother’s love at the heart
of this story…
Because fear is a terrible thing. But, as I know from
my many years in journalism, courage and love are thank-
fully always more powerful in the end.
Thank you again for reading I Will Make You Pay. If
you have enjoyed the novel, I would enormously appreciate
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Teresa Driscoll
a review on Amazon. They really do help other people
to discover my books.
I also love to hear from readers, so feel free to get
in touch. You can find my website at www.teresa-
driscoll.com and also say hello on Twitter @teresad-
riscoll or via my Facebook author page: www.facebook/
TeresaDriscollAuthor.
Warm wishes to you all,
Teresa
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There should be a special award for the families of writers
who never know which version of the author they will
meet each day. The confident one. The panicked one.
The one declaring that a deadline simply cannot be met.
So above all I send my thanks and love to my gorgeous
folk – Pete and James and Ed – with my eternal gratitude
for your patience and support. I would like to tell you
that I will be so much calmer over the next book. But
we all know better!
A special thank you next to the amazing folk at Thomas
& Mercer, who champion my novels with extraordinary
energy and expertise – with a special shout-out to my
truly wonderful editors, Jane Snelgrove and Ian Pindar.
My eternal gratitude as always to my lovely agent
Madeleine Milburn and her team, whose support, ex-
pertise and cheerleading skills are just incredible.
A group hug also to the warm and wonderful writing
community – by which I mean those fellow authors who
so generously share wisdom (along with virtual, late-night
clinking of glasses when things are going awry).
And finally – a thank you from the bottom of my heart
to all my lovely readers. Your reviews and your messages
really do mean the world.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For more than twenty-five years as a
journalist – including fifteen years as
a BBC TV news presenter – Teresa
Driscoll followed stories into the
apher]
togr
shadows of life. Covering crime for
hoP
so long, she watched and was deeply
moved by all the ripples each case
ear] [Y [
caused, and the haunting impact on
©
the families, friends and witnesses
tohoP
involved. It’s those ripples that she
explores in her darker fiction.
Teresa lives in beautiful
Devon with her family. She
writes women’s fiction as well as thrillers and her novels
have been sold for translation in twenty languages. You
can find out more about her books on her website www
.teresadriscoll.com or by following her on Twitter @
TeresaDriscoll or on Facebook at www.facebook.com
/TeresaDriscollAuthor.
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