Читать книгу Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother - A. Bird L. - Страница 14

Chapter 7

‘I don’t live here, I don’t live here!’

‘You do. You have to stay!’

‘I don’t want to be friends with you. I have other friends, back in the other home.’

‘No you don’t. I know. No friends, no friends, no friends.’

The chanting, from everywhere. No friends, no friends, no friends.

Then the spitting, then the kicking. The hair-dragging. The head held out of the window, the ground too far but also too close below.

No friends, no friends, no friends.

‘Stop it! Stop it! Let me go!’

‘You’re sure? You want us to let you go?’

Her voice. The ringleader. Her, who I’d seen at another home, once before. Back again to torture me.

‘What’s going on? Chloe, what’s happening?’

A loud voice, an adult voice.

‘Stop this at once!’

And so they stop. She stops. I fall to the floor. People peel away.

All is calm. The rest of my first evening passes without episode.

But then, when I go to bed, there it is. An envelope on my pillow. One of those jiffy bags. I open it, thinking it might be a settling present from the home. But no. It’s shit. Literally. The envelope is fully of shit. A little welcome present, from my new friends.

***

Josh is shaking me awake. I open my eyes to find myself sitting at the kitchen table with a half-built Lego spaceship in front of me.

‘Your package arrived,’ I tell him. Because it was addressed to him. Not to me. What I found outside our flat last night.

No shit in this one. Doesn’t stop the memories though. I hope he won’t notice my eyes are puffy. Christ, there was much worse stuff. But it’s those little cruel ones that stick in your dreams. Emotional torment scars just as deep as the physical stuff.

Josh looks at what appeared in his package.

‘What! You built my spaceship? Mum, you can’t do that – it was mine to build!’

Urgh. What was I thinking? Of course boys like to build their own Lego. I look at my effort. It’s not that worthy of thanks, but some would be nice. I started another cup of tea between the booster engine and the hatch door. I think I lost my place in the instructions; the hinges don’t quite work.

Unhinged. Hah.

‘Sorry, Josh. I wasn’t thinking. Why don’t you break it up and start again, OK?’ He tuts at me, but he does as I say. ‘I’m going to go and shower,’ I tell him. ‘Grab yourself some toast.’

I rustle off, leaving him fussing over the spaceship.

I’m such an idiot. Why did I spend all night in a fitful half-dream, half-wake, full-of-hatred place just because my kid ordered a toy? Him and his mates, they’re members of some ‘Activity envelope’ club – you (I) pay a monthly subscription and some toy turns up. Usually they’re crappy bouncy balls or Airfix model aeroplanes. But Lego is cool.

Apart from when it gives you nightmares. Stupid. A neighbour must have received it for us earlier then left it on the mat outside our flat when I popped out. And I chose to spend the night sobbing into the kitchen table because of some stupid incident way back in another lifetime. When Chloe was still around.

But she’s gone. And she’s not coming back. Whatever those texts say, I won’t allow it. I think about it under my bed. I should check it again, shouldn’t I? No, not now. Focus. Jump in the shower, wham on some concealer, stick on a pretty dress and try not to lose my job through having cotton wool for a brain.

And get a life. Stop sitting on the sofa every evening, brooding. Move on.

Josh has finished the spaceship by the time I’m back from the shower.

‘Right, let’s fly to the moon!’ I tell him.

‘I need to get to school, not outer space,’ he chides me. I see his eyes flick to the clock. That child is a punctuality addict.

‘That’s what I meant, kiddo. Let’s go.’

‘No coffee?’ he asks.

‘You’re enough of a wake-up call for me, my love!’ I don’t tell him I was up half the night drinking caffeine.

‘Uh-oh! Don’t crash the car!’

‘Hah, hah. Come on, get your blazer.’

I manage not to crash the car either on the way to school or to the office.

In the car park I notice that no one else has a bit of paper on their windscreen claiming to know their secrets. But then, like me, I guess that everyone else has been home and removed it. Probably not after falling asleep in the bath and before having a panic attack but – hey! – that’s Jen Sutton for you. Full of surprises.

‘Pretty dress, Jen!’ Sheila calls out when I walk in.

‘Thank you! Coffee in a mo!’ I shout back.

Before I can even think about cleaning the cups, Bill is at my shoulder.

‘Ah, Jen. Can I have a word, please?’

He looks grave.

‘Sure, what’s up?’

‘In my office?’

‘Oh, of course. Sorry.’

I troop behind him. He shuts the door behind me. He offers me a chair and I sit across the desk from him.

‘Look, Jen,’ he starts. Fuck it. Conversations that start that way never end well. I smooth down my dress and try not to panic.

‘I know you’ve got, well, special circumstances.’ Bless him. He always speaks like we’ve been bugged. ‘But other people, they don’t know that. They’re not going to make allowances. Lucy, for instance.’

Oh shit. Lucy. In all my internal melodramas I’d forgotten about Lucy and her stupid forms.

‘Now, don’t worry, I’ve talked to her for now. She calmed down. Didn’t explain any, um, history, just explained that you don’t have anyone to help with the childcare and all that. Can’t help it if you need to rush away.’

‘Thanks, Bill. I appreciate it.’

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. The thing is, though, there will sometimes be deadlines and we need to be able to count on you or … someone … to meet them. Or just be extra-efficient during the day. You understand?’

‘Yes, Bill. I do, but –’

‘Yes, I know, I know the buts. Listen, I get it, I really do. And I’d have a heck of a job explaining letting you go to – well, you know who. But I’m not running an outreach service. I’m running a law firm. OK?’

‘OK.’

I nod. I look earnestly into his eyes. I do the ‘you can count on me’ sincere smile.

And then I go into the bathroom and I cry.

He doesn’t fucking get it all. He doesn’t get that there’s only one of me. He doesn’t get how fucking hard I’m trying and how difficult, how fucking fucking difficult it is going around with ‘my secret’. How much I want to just be like everyone else, but it’s not my bloody fault – it’s not – I had to do it; I had to get out and you’d think, ten years on, that you might somehow have managed to escape that and that you could live like an ordinary person and that your boss who knows all (or some, a bit) of the baggage, would understand why I can’t just leave my son wafting around after school for anyone to collect. Fucking bitch Lucy. Fucking bastard Bill. Why can’t they be more like Tim?

But even as I rant I know; I know that he’s right. Of course I’ve got to do my work, like anybody else. Of course I have to balance my childcare responsibilities with my work. It’s the real fucking world. It’s what everyone complains about. I can’t hide in my shadow world. I’ve got to get real. I’ve got to find a way to keep a job, a child, a life going at the same time.

Yeah, sure, the State will pay me if I sit on my arse at home (a luxury, I wouldn’t even have to prove I was looking for work). Or even if I’d gone ahead and home-schooled him (at first it seemed like the only option – I couldn’t think about leaving him at school). But it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t pay for monthly toy boxes. And it wouldn’t get me off that fucking sofa. Thinking. Brooding.

So. Calm down. Deep breaths. Be professional. At work, focus on work. Do something proactive. Show Bill he can count on you. Be indispensible. Dry your eyes. Go and see Tim about that case. Thank him for trying to smooth things over with Lucy yesterday.

I wait until I’m sure there’s no one around then I emerge from my cubicle.

Hah. Wasted effort with that mascara then.

I wipe away the black lines from under my eyes. Unfortunately much of the concealer comes off with it. So I look tired, but not like a tired panda. Which is probably for the best.

Jen, you can do this. You must do this. Forget the coffee for once. Go straight to Tim.

‘Oh, hi, Jen,’ says Tim when I knock on the door of his office.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Listen, thanks for yesterday.’

He looks surprised. ‘Oh, with Lucy? Don’t mention it. She was being a little … intense right?’

‘Right.’

‘She should maybe talk to someone about her stress levels, not make it your problem.’

‘But you didn’t have to do that,’ I tell him. ‘I appreciate it.’ I hear my voice waver. Oh, shit. Don’t be a wimp. What would Chloe have said if you began blubbing away at a simple act of kindness? Not that kindness and Chloe ever had much to do with each other.

‘Look, don’t worry about it,’ Tim says gently. Calm, soothing. Like I imagine a good dad would be. Not from personal experience, of course. ‘Besides, I couldn’t have her getting my new project member fired, could I? Just steer clear of her if you can. OK?’

‘OK.’

He looks back to his desk like he expects me to leave the room. When I don’t, he looks up again. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘I just wondered if we could chat through the Rhea Stevens case, if you’ve got time?’ I ask. Deferential but enthusiastic. What a good adoptive daughter I would have made. If anyone had bothered with me.

‘Sure, why not, now you’re here.’

‘Thanks. I had a look through the exhibits file, but it would be good to get the wider background.’

I sit down. In my haste, I haven’t brought a notebook, so I prepare my brain for an onslaught.

‘Bit of a shocker, some of those photos in the exhibits file, hey?’ he asks me, sitting back at his desk.

It feels like a test. That I have to show my mettle, that I’m not too weak to handle the case.

‘It’s pretty tough to shock me,’ I tell him. I just hope he wasn’t there to see me go powder-white when I first opened that file. And that he won’t test me on the photos, because I couldn’t face looking at them all. Not because of what they are. But because of what they are to me.

‘Good, I thought I could count on you,’ Tim says, smiling. Then his smile fades. ‘Bit of a sad case, this one,’ he says. ‘For us, that is. Not much of a defence, even with Dan’s fine skills.’

‘OK, good start,’ I say. Doesn’t sound like I’m going to make myself a superstar in the firm’s eyes on this one, then.

‘The accused, Rhea Stevens, classic sort of drug slash prostitution background. String of offences stretching back over a decade. There was one real big one a while ago but the police couldn’t get her for it – the jury weren’t convinced – so it looks like the police are trying to pin everything else on her until they can finally get her.’

‘Did she do any of it?’

‘The police are satisfied she did. And they never get the wrong guy, do they?’

I squirm a little. I’m not used to these sorts of debates. Tim gives me a searching look then continues. ‘So we’re doing the usual sort of kicking dust in the jury’s eyes bit – were the witnesses credible, was it a dark night, was she under duress, all that sort of thing.’

‘OK,’ I tell him. ‘So, what, are we having a con with her?’

‘I already did that,’ he tells me. ‘The notes are on the full case file. First up: have a proper read in, now you know a bit of the background. I’ll see if I can tee something up with Dan for later today, seeing as you’re keen. I don’t think he’s in court.’

‘Great,’ I say. I try to push down the part of me that wants to shout, ‘It can’t be too late; I need to pick up Josh.’

‘You do school pick-up, don’t you?’ asks Tim. I nod. ‘I’ll be sure to work round that. When we get to trial it might be a bit tricky but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. OK?’

I nod. ‘Thanks, Tim. I appreciate it. Oh, and you don’t need to worry about the confidentiality. I get it,’ I tell him. I want him to know he can count on me. I certainly know how to keep secrets.

Tim smiles. ‘Good to hear, Jen. Look, you probably think I’m overdoing it. But I’ve seen these cases go wrong because someone who’s got a chum in the CPS drops a name over a beer. Has a laugh about a “no good” case. Lets slip a little strategy titbit because it’s all cosy-cosy, old pals’ chat. But then – wham! The old CPS mate happens to know exactly who is working on that case, exactly who’d like a tip-off and suddenly the other side have the inside track, and you might as well give up your case there and then.’

I nod. It makes sense. Maybe a bit paranoid, but it’s his case, not mine.

‘Normally, I wouldn’t care,’ he says. ‘But this case, this Rhea Stevens – it matters, OK? I want it to go right. Don’t want this girl robbed of any more life chances by careless talk.’

‘I understand,’ I tell him. And I do. It feels a lot like a lecture I had ten years ago about careless talk – that there are some things you don’t tell anyone. Ever. ‘I promise, I’ll keep it confidential.’

‘Good. I’d like to think my fellow partners here aren’t ones to gossip after a few drinks but I don’t know all of them that well yet, you know? And for God’s sake, don’t tell Lucy about it – I think after yesterday she’d happily blab just to get even with me.’

I nod again. Pleased to be working for one of the good guys at last, I pick up the file Tim indicated and take it back to my desk.

I flick through the file first to see what’s there. Lots of handwritten notes, clipped together with their typed-up counterparts. First witness meeting, copies of letters to the CPS, transcript of the committal hearing. Nothing about a court date yet, so far as I can see, and it doesn’t look like there’s been much from the CPS by way of advance disclosure.

A photo of Rhea. She’s beautiful. Her skin is the lightest caramel, with a smattering of darker caramel freckles across the bridge of her nose and her high cheekbones. Her eyes, sitting beneath perfectly arched eyebrows, are a deep brown, almost black. I’d like to say they shine. But they don’t. They are dulled by goodness knows what. I flick back to the beginning again and read the notes from the first witness meeting.

RS sitting hunched, mood bad. Try to do intros – no response. Explain here to help. Ask usual questions – how treated, remember police caution etc. No response. Thought might be crying. No sign of mistreatment.

Ask how she wants to plead.

Says: I didn’t do it.

Explain there isn’t an ‘it’, a string of offences.

Yeah, well how the shit am I to make the money without using this? Gestures to her body.

Tell her she seems bright and can do better. She snorts.

Says: Anyway, you know there’s an it. It’s the wraps, innit? I don’t do that crap.

Ask: So why did the police find it at your address?

Says: What ‘my address’? You think I’m like lady of the manor now, is it, with my own house and a big driveway? Shares with four other people.

Ask her about them, what they do.

She asks me what I think they do.

Ask her if they all work for the same person. She shrugs.

Ask her if one of her customers could have left something there. Says she doesn’t bring men back there. Uses cars, car parks etc.

Try different approach. Move on to her background. Why did you turn to this work?

Tells me it was the careers adviser at the children’s home. He gave her some practice an’ all.

I blink away tears.

Poor Rhea.

She could be so many of the girls I met along the way. I heard stories of hands where they shouldn’t be and yes, the worst. Rape. Don’t call it ‘serious sexual abuse’. It’s rape. It’s vulnerable young people torn and confused because the people they were told to trust have just helped themselves and yet they still have to pretend to trust them. Because there’s that whisper in the ear afterwards – if you tell anyone about this, you can forget about having a warm bed, you can forget about a future, because no one will believe a screwed-up kid from a shitty family over a man with a job like mine.

Or so I’ve heard.

And now there’s some lawyer guy, interrogating her. Tim hasn’t even explained, unless it was in the intros, that he was trying to help her. Why should she trust him, any more than anyone else who has fucked her up over the years?

I read on.

Ask: Have you ever seen any of your flatmates with drugs?

Says: They wouldn’t fucking dare.

Ask: Why’s that?

Says: Because I’d shove it right up them, probably where it came from, because I’m not having my daughter growing up like that.

Christ. She has a daughter.

Ask: But you’re willing for her to grow up knowing you’re a prostitute.

Fucking hell, Tim. Don’t say that. Say ‘How old is she?’ Or ‘What’s her name?’

Don’t preach hellfire.

RS doesn’t respond.

No shit.

***

‘Knock knock.’

Someone is banging on my desk. I look up. It’s Tim.

Tim, for whom I have a whole lot less respect than I did five minutes ago.

‘Hi, Tim. Just looking through the Rhea Stevens file.’

Tim looks around and puts a quick finger to his lips.

‘Best come into my office, Jen,’ he says, his voice low.

Grudgingly, I get up from my desk and follow him into his office. All these secrecy games don’t make up for how he’s treating Rhea.

Once we’re in his office, and he’s shut the door, he talks to me in his normal voice.

‘So. Bit of a fix we’re in, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘She says she didn’t do it.’

‘Yes, well she would, wouldn’t she?’

‘But what if she didn’t, Tim? Maybe she’s telling the truth – why would she put her kid in danger like that? Maybe we just need to treat her a bit more … respectfully.’

Tim looks at me thoughtfully. There’s a pause. It grows uncomfortable. Is it me that’s showing a lack of respect, now?

‘Sorry, Tim, I just thought …’

‘No, no – don’t apologize. That’s exactly the sort of fresh insight I was looking for. Listen, I’ve got a conference with Daniel set up for two. I’ve got lunch with another of the barristers over there, so I’ll see you at chambers. OK?’

‘Sure thing.’ I nod. How can you be worried about your lunch, when Rhea is perishing in a jail somewhere? I want to ask him. How can you be so cold? Or maybe he doesn’t get it. Maybe he doesn’t know how to listen between the words, hear the sounds of a chaotic world. A victim, not a culpable culprit.

‘If you wouldn’t mind bringing the files too, that would be great. Thanks, Jen.’

He ushers me out of his office, and away he goes.

***

I arrive early to Daniel’s chambers. In the mirror in the lift up to his floor I see how pale I am. I quickly slide on some lipstick. Too pink for my thoughts, but maybe that’s the point of make-up. I remember that delicious plum colour that Chloe used to wear. Made her look more inviting than she really was.

‘Jen!’ Daniel cries on seeing me, interrupting my reminiscing. He shakes my hand. I feel a frisson as our fingers meet. How lovely it is that there is an acceptable social way to touch each other immediately. He goes for a kiss on one cheek, and I feel his stubble impress itself on my skin. I pull away as he goes for the other cheek. Embarrassed, I lean in again, but I missed the moment. Things my mother never taught me #347.

‘Hey,’ I say. I search for small talk but can’t find any. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that non-date and I’m struck by how much sexier he is in the flesh than in his photo. I’d forgotten that his thick brown hair is so wavy, that his cheekbones are so high. His eyes so piercing and alive. I’d like to take his hand again. Wouldn’t let him slip through my fingers another time.

I clear my throat, like he can hear my thoughts, and tap the case file. ‘Did you read the interview notes?’

‘From the first interview?’ Dan asks.

I nod.

He nods too.

‘Tough stuff,’ he says.

‘You didn’t think Tim was a bit …’ I trail off. There are many words I could use.

Dan finishes for me. ‘Blunt?’

I smile a little. ‘Yes, blunt. That’ll do.’

Dan nods. ‘Yep, I have a confession. I think that’s my fault.’

‘Your fault? How?’

‘I told him about how one of our QCs always talks to witnesses or defendants the first time proper bad-cop style, to see what they’ll be like under cross-examination. I suspect Tim was playing QCs but got it a bit wrong.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I do. And when I meet the poor girl, I’ll tell her so myself.’

‘You feel sorry for her, then?’ I ask Dan.

‘Don’t you?’ he counters.

I relax a little. The human race has come in first again – Dan has restored my confidence in it. I shrug a little and take a seat. He doesn’t need to know quite how sorry I feel for our Rhea.

When Tim appears a few moments later, he no longer seems like an ogre with no emotional intelligence. Just a wannabe who’s over-reached himself. Haven’t we all been there (maybe I still am)?

Dan and Tim greet each other. Not quite like old friends – it’s very cordial, but professional. I suppose Dan was just offered as the guy the firm always uses, perhaps not Tim’s first choice.

We get onto the meat of the conference.

‘What are her prospects, Dan?’ Tim asks.

Dan must have been expecting this question but he wriggles a bit. ‘Not great, I think. I can see why the CPS have chosen this case. It seems a bit mean, and you can’t help feeling sorry for her, with all that background of being in care but –’

‘Yes, but if the CPS didn’t prosecute then, they wouldn’t in half of all cases!’ says Tim.

I flinch. Dan looks at me quizzically. I pretend to be taking notes.

Dan resumes his point. ‘Sure. But what I mean is, there’s this string of circumstantial stuff – all one plus one plus one plus one, which they’re fervently hoping adds up to four, but we have to show it doesn’t. Our best chance is to ignore all the prostitution stuff and focus on disproving the drugs element.’

‘She swears blind she wasn’t a mule,’ Tim says.

‘Exactly.’

‘But how do we prove that?’ Tim asks.

‘Again, exactly.’ Dan runs one hand through his lovely hair. ‘Look – she was there when the stuff was there. That plus the incident years ago when they think she probably was there. Plus her kid’s dad with links to the ring – it’s slam-dunk to a jury.’

‘So what do we do?’ I ask. Or rather, whine. My voice is high, caught in my throat.

Tim and Dan look at me in surprise. Yes, I may be a junior woman, there to take notes, but I do have a voice.

‘Well, I guess the main thing apart from my job of telling the CPS guy they haven’t proved what they think they’ve proved is to get something human from her that will show us why she couldn’t possibly have done it,’ Dan says. ‘Something the jury will go for.’

Tim muses for a while. ‘What, like she would never be involved in drugs because her kid sister died from them you mean?’

My pen freezes. My brain freezes. I want to ask Tim to repeat the phrase. But I don’t have to. I’ve heard it before.

A decade ago. About Emma. Mick’s sister.

I look at Tim for any sign he knows the significance of what he’s said. There’s nothing. He’s talking freely to Dan. Dan is nodding soberly at something. I don’t know what. My ears have frozen over too.

Is this one of those situations they warn you about? That if you say or do the wrong thing, everything comes out? That I must be very careful how I act?

‘She did say she has a daughter who she wouldn’t let people do drugs in front of,’ I venture.

Tim looks at me kindly. ‘You’ll come to learn, Jen, that people saying drugs are banned in their home doesn’t mean they ban themselves from selling them on the street.’

Just as I thought I was defrosting, I refreeze again. Two lines from my past life. This is too much of a coincidence, isn’t it?

‘Ah, but Jen doesn’t know that seedy underbelly we frequent, Tim. She is but a novice in these parts!’ Dan’s tone is light.

‘Oh, don’t misjudge her, Dan. I’m sure Ms Sutton has done her share of racy deeds.’

Are they flirting? Or are they insinuating? Have I found myself in the lion’s den, or just a pit of everyday sexism?

‘Excuse me,’ I say. I push back my chair and leave the room.

I rush along the corridor to the ladies’ bathroom before they can follow me.

Once there, I splash some water on my face. The lipstick comes off again, revealing the true me – pale and paranoid as ever. But am I paranoid this time? A partner at a law firm where I work, the managing partner of which knows what he believes to be my full history, has just alluded to that secret. Is Bill a gossip? When all along I thought my secret was safe with him, has he been laughing with the other partners about my secret past? About Mick? About Chloe?

I shake my head. Surely not. Bill must know he’d be in no end of trouble if he was found to have given away my story. That’s why they chose him – trustworthy to a fault. Pillar of the local community. Committed to the role of law in rebuilding lives. All that worthy stuff.

So. Just harmful flirting, then. In which case, I need to go back.

I dry my face and return to the room.

Tim gets to his feet. His face is serious.

‘Jen, we didn’t offend you, did we? I’m sorry, I was just trying to lighten the tone in this unpleasant case.’

I stay mute, biding my time.

‘Look, let’s call it a day for now. Dan and I discussed some action points while you were out and –’

‘What action points?’ I ask. About me? A follow-up to the flirting?

‘About the case.’ Tim looks at me like I’m mad.

‘We decided that Tim is doing such a good job of building up Rhea’s trust that he’s going to go and speak to her again,’ Dan tells me. His voice is serious but his eyes are sparkling. Tim thinks he’s building up trust? Lawyers and their egos. Poor Rhea. But Dan’s invisible dig at Tim puts me at ease more than a stilted apology.

‘Yes, Dan read the transcripts and was kind to say I went about it like a proper QC!’ Tim says.

I don’t look at Dan in case my anxiety spills over into giddy laughter.

‘So I’ll go and visit her again,’ Tim says.

‘I can come if you like,’ I tell him. Poor Rhea. She needs someone who gets it. Someone to talk to her about her kid. Someone who’s been there.

Tim puts his head on one side. ‘Interesting idea for the future. But look, I’m getting somewhere with her. And besides, it will be too much admin with the prison passes and everything. Maybe later.’

I nod. ‘OK.’

‘Anyway, what I was going to say was – I think we’ve got what we need for today. Shall we adjourn to the pub?’

I flick a look at the clock. ‘I’d love to, Tim, but it’s getting on for school pick-up, and I’m driving, so …’

‘Oh, you’ve got time for a quick one, and I won’t let you get over the limit. Come on, live a little.’

I look at Dan. He shrugs behind Tim’s back in an ‘up to you’ gesture.

I look at the clock again. I have fifteen minutes, which means by the time we order I would have approximately one point five minutes to down my drink.

‘I’ll minesweep what you don’t finish,’ Dan offers, relieving my quandary.

‘It’s a deal, then,’ I tell him.

But as we cross the road to the pub, I’m not at ease with my choice. It’s not so much the timing. Or the drinking. It’s the morality. Because they’ve been shamed into thinking I minded them almost flirting with me, Rhea Stevens’s two best hopes of freedom have abandoned their posts to take me for a drink. If someone had done that to me all those years ago, where would I be now?