Читать книгу Don’t Turn Around: A heart-stopping gripping domestic suspense - Amanda Brooke, Amanda Brooke - Страница 11

The automatic lights that react to movement have switched themselves off in all but one section of the office above the helpline pods. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour but the only person I’ve spoken to since the helpline opened has been Charlie. It’s his turn to cook dinner and he wants me to pick up some sour cream on my way home. It’s chilli night.

With one ear trained on the silent phone, I look out of the window and watch the shadows lengthen. I always cover the Wednesday shift and it doesn’t bother me working alone. The office is secure enough, with electronic passes to control access to each floor, barriers on the ground level and security guards who replace the concierge staff on the front desk until the last person leaves. Tonight, that will be me when the helpline closes at eight, by which point the September sun will have set.

So if I’m not bothered, why does my stomach twist at the thought of leaving?

It’s the same reason I regret not telling Ruth about Lewis being back in Liverpool. We all need to be on our guard and I was going to warn her on Monday, but then she mentioned Geoff’s push for retirement. If he knew Lewis was back, he’d use it as another argument to ‘walk away’. Ruth’s made it clear she’s not going to do that, in which case, does she really need to be looking over her shoulder every time she steps out the door? It’s not like she’d bump into him on the way to work since she drives in with Geoff. My silence on the matter is saving her from unnecessary worry, I tell myself.

With a smile, I realise that was precisely what Charlie had been doing for me. I shouldn’t have been so angry with him. He knew how stressed I’d been over the relaunch.

My insides twist again. It’s the future of the helpline I should be worrying about. The spike in calls we were hoping for after last week’s publicity is yet to materialise – discounting all the put-down calls Gill had on Monday. As I wait in vain for the phone to ring and hope sinks, my thoughts return to Lewis.

At the moment, he knows more about me than I do about him and I need to redress that balance – to hell with Charlie’s mantra of live and let live. I turn from the window and retreat inside the cocoon of the helpline pod. It’s essentially one of two workstations that face each other with a privacy screen in the middle and two more on each side to prevent conversations from carrying. It’s not particularly effective at cancelling out noise when both pods are in use, but that hasn’t been a problem since we cut back to just one volunteer per shift.

Closing the call log on my screen, I open up Facebook and check to see if any of my friends list Lewis as one of theirs. There are only a handful of people I’ve remained in touch with who would have known him and I’m pleased, if not a little frustrated, that none have been gullible enough to reconnect with him, and that includes Charlie.

With no other choice, I set aside my dignity and send friend requests to Jay and Meathead. I haven’t seen either of them in years but, from their profile pictures, they don’t appear to have matured with age. I hope they don’t think I’m trying to hit on them but I’ll be more offended if they refuse my requests.

Next, I turn my attention to Google. My first search of Lewis Rimmer produces global results so I add Newcastle to the search bar, my body tensing as I press the enter key. The screen updates and halfway down the page a selection of photos appear. Most are close ups of men I don’t recognise and group photos too small to discern one face from another. The photo that raises my hackles is on the right-hand edge of the screen. I stab the cursor over Lewis’s face and a new page opens.

It’s an old student union press release heralding a twenty-year-old Lewis as their star rugby player, on track for a first class honours sports degree. In the post-match photo, his straw-blond hair is scraped back from his sweaty brow and his cheeks are ruddy. His steel-blue eyes are all the more piercing without the wire-rimmed glasses he used to wear. Unlike Charlie, Lewis made eyewear look seductive but I suppose contact lenses would be more practical for someone with such an active life.

I haven’t seen that face for ten years and I’m struck by how normal Lewis looks. It would be nice to think that remorse changed him for the better, but Ruth isn’t the only one who can imagine history repeating itself. More determined than ever, I return to my original search and change the city from Newcastle to Liverpool. There’s nothing new and that bothers me. If Lewis is freelancing as a personal trainer, why isn’t he advertising himself more prominently?

I’m wondering what he’s hiding when the phone rings, and I let out a yelp as if he’s caught me spying. The helpline doesn’t use caller display so I have no clue who is ringing and from where, which can be frustrating at times, but it’s a matter of trust. Ruth was very clear about how the helpline should operate and all volunteers are trained to listen and encourage, not to dictate how someone should live their life. We don’t record any information that the caller doesn’t want to give willingly.

As I pick up the phone, I hope it’s not going to be another put-down call. I want it to be someone who will make me work harder than ever to keep the helpline open, but there’s a part of me that would rather we weren’t needed. I wish there were more Charlies and fewer Lewises in the world.

‘You’re through to the Lean On Me helpline. How can I help?’

‘Jen, is that you?’ the girl says.

I recognise Gemma’s voice as quickly as she’s recognised mine. We’ve never met but during our previous calls, I’ve conjured an image of a young woman not dissimilar to Meg. Her gentle lisp is achingly familiar. ‘Hi, Gemma. How have you been?’ I ask as I bring the call log back up on screen.

Our information system isn’t particularly sophisticated but we do log every call; from the simple requests for information, the put-downs when the caller loses their nerve to speak, to the calls where we can and do make a difference in someone’s life. Some of those calls are straightforward, often young women in first relationships who want advice on how to dump boyfriends whose only crime is not meeting their expectations. And then there are the callers like Gemma, who are in toxic relationships but aren’t able to recognise or accept that they are being abused. Except we all thought Gemma had seen Ryan for what he was. When she broke up with him two weeks ago, I was hoping she wouldn’t need us any more.

‘I’ve been so busy at work lately and I’m exhausted,’ she says. ‘I could have gone to an Arctic Monkeys gig tonight but I’m giving it a miss.’

As she talks, I tap through the call sheets as quietly as I can. All our information is anonymised unless our callers need us to act on their behalf with other agencies, and only then will we create a case file. Gemma’s calls don’t fall under that category and haven’t been cross-referenced. Discounting the cluster of five put-down calls on Monday, there have been only seven calls since my last shift and I quickly dismiss the ones from previous callers who had seen Ruth on TV and wanted to thank us for our help, and another from a young man.

The two remaining sheets clearly relate to Gemma; one is the call Ruth mentioned Alison taking last Friday and the other is a call Gill took on Monday evening. The details in each are scant but the message is clear. Ryan wants back into Gemma’s life.

‘I should have given you the tickets,’ Gemma continues.

‘I’m more of a Harry Styles girl myself,’ I tell her.

Gemma laughs. ‘Eugh, I forgot you liked him. Well, if ever I get tickets for Harry, they’re yours,’ she says, making me smile. We don’t give out personal details to our callers beyond our first names, and any contact outside of the scope of the helpline, even to pick up concert tickets, wouldn’t be condoned, but despite these limitations, Gemma and I have formed a friendships of sorts.

‘So why didn’t you want to go to the gig?’ I ask. ‘Were you just tired or was there another reason?’

‘Did you know Ryan’s been messaging me?’

‘I was just checking the note of your last call. Are you still ignoring him?’ Please say yes, I silently pray as I wait for her reply, which isn’t immediately forthcoming.

‘I keep looking at the checklist on your website about how to spot dating abuse and it’s not like Ryan did anything particularly bad. OK, it was a bit overwhelming sometimes but that’s only because I’m not used to people paying me that much attention. I’m not saying Mum doesn’t do her best, and she made all these promises about us doing more stuff together after I split up with him, but it turned out that meant joining Tinder, so if anything, she’s the one taking risks by going out on actual dates and I should be getting her to phone you.’

I wait until Gemma takes a breath. ‘Have you replied to him?’

‘He was the one who sent me the tickets. He said they were for me and Mum but I’d told him ages ago that she hates music gigs. I know what he’s like,’ she says with not nearly enough alarm in her voice. ‘He would have bought an extra ticket and been there waiting for me.’

‘What do you think would have happened if you had gone?’

‘I’ll never know,’ Gemma says softly. ‘I told him I wasn’t going. It was only fair. I said I’d leave the tickets at the box office if he wanted someone else to use them.’

So she has replied to him, I realise. ‘How did he react?’

‘He was fine about it, and said he didn’t want anyone else to have them. He said, if I was too tired to go, he’d pay to have the Arctic Monkeys come to the house for a private performance.’

I try to form an image of the man who loves Gemma too much, but it’s Lewis’s leering face that springs to mind. ‘How old is Ryan?’ I ask. ‘I can’t quite picture him.’

‘He’s in his late twenties, and he’s really fit. You should see him, Jen. He has a six-pack and everything,’ Gemma says, making my heart clench. ‘It’s not like he tries either. It’s because of his job.’

I don’t want to ask. I really don’t want to ask. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a builder, so he doesn’t earn enough to pay a busker off Church Street to serenade me, let alone the Arctic Monkeys.’

With some relief, I let go of my paranoia and concentrate on picking up where Gill left off on Monday, by reminding Gemma of the behaviours that made her call us in the first place. ‘How often is Ryan texting you?’

‘Well, I’ve had two messages since I’ve been on the phone to you,’ she says by way of an answer.

‘That sounds familiar. I remember how often he’d interrupt our calls when you were actually dating, and back then he’d expect an immediate reply.’

She makes a non-committal noise. ‘Or he’d start panicking because he was scared something had happened to me. I know he has insecurities, Jen, and I’ve told him if he wants me back, things have to change.’

I’m shaking my head as I see where this is leading. ‘And how do you imagine things changing if you did get back together?’

‘For a start, I’ve told him he can’t interrogate me every time I go out with friends.’

‘And do you think he would be comfortable with that? I wonder how he’d react to you going out for a pub lunch with your work mates,’ I ask, knowing this was something he had put a stop to early on in their relationship.

‘He knows his jealousy was part of the problem,’ Gemma says. ‘I’m not daft, Jen. You must hear the most awful stories about women who get fooled into thinking their boyfriends will change, only they don’t and the abuse gets worse. But that isn’t me. I’m not rushing into anything. I promise.’

‘Just remember that he’ll be on his best behaviour until he has you back under his control.’

‘I know,’ Gemma says, but there’s a note of resignation in her voice that I don’t like. ‘Sorry, I’d better go.’

I want to ask how many more messages she’s received, but I don’t. Gemma can recognise the familiar patterns of obsession for herself.

‘You will call again, won’t you? Before you make any drastic decisions.’

‘You’ve all been so good to me. Of course I will.’

The phone cuts off and as I replace it gently on the receiver, I’m replaying our conversation in my head. Did I say too much, or should I have said more? We’d built up a good relationship over the last month or so but that doesn’t mean I can tell her what to do. She has to decide for herself.

As I write up the call sheet, I notice a message flash up on my muted phone. It’s from Mum, inviting me and Charlie over for Sunday dinner. I’m still annoyed with her for what she said about Ruth and if I go over there, one of us is bound to say something we’ll regret and it will probably be me.

I send a swift excuse before returning to my computer to check my Facebook page. Meathead has accepted my friend request so I go straight to his list of friends. Lewis’s name isn’t amongst them and none of the thumbnail photos jump out at me. I go through the list again, line by line until I come across someone called Lewis McQueen whose profile picture is a team photo – very sporty. I click on the name to reveal a small collection of public photos and my heart leaps in my throat. Lewis has aged, unlike my Meg.

I click on a photo of Lewis standing on a beach. His sea-salty hair is long enough to tie back and his pale complexion concealed by a glowing tan. Of more interest to me is the woman he has his arm around in a proprietorial pose. She doesn’t look much older than Meg.

When the phone rings again, I snatch it up.

‘Hello?’ I ask.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone and I calm myself. ‘You’re through to the Lean On Me helpline. How can I help?’

There’s another pause and I’m expecting a put-down, but then, ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Jen. Can I take—’

There’s a small intake of breath. ‘You are Megan’s cousin?’

The next pause is of my making. The caller is another young woman, possibly around Gemma’s age but with an Eastern European accent. I think she might be Polish but I’m less concerned with her nationality than the question she just posed. I decide to stay professional but cautious. ‘Could you tell me why you’re calling today?’

‘I saw the helpline on the news,’ she says, confirming she must be in the North West to have seen the piece on TV. ‘It’s very bad what happened to Megan. Her mother should not have to go through such a thing. No mother should.’

‘No, they shouldn’t. That’s why we set up the helpline,’ I reply. I’m trying not to prejudge the situation, but it crosses my mind that I could be dealing with a freelance journalist in search of a scoop after Ruth’s revelations, or else a member of the public with a morbid curiosity. I’ve had my fair share of crank calls but, for the moment, I can’t discount the possibility that this girl has recognised herself in Meg’s story and needs our help.

‘It must be hard for you,’ she says.

‘Would you like to give me your name?’ I ask. Unsurprised by her hesitation, I add, ‘It doesn’t have to be your real name. What you tell me is confidential unless you say otherwise.’

‘What do you mean otherwise?’

‘We’re here to listen and we’ll do that for as long as you need us,’ I reply. If she is a reporter, she can at least hear the full sales pitch. ‘We can’t offer practical help but, if you need it and are happy for us to act on your behalf, we can speak to other agencies – people who might be able to give you the extra support you need.’

‘You can call me Ellie.’

‘And you were affected by the news story about Megan?’

‘Yes.’

I leave a pause for Ellie to fill.

‘What was she like?’

She was a contradiction, I reply in my head. She was the tomboy and the princess, the captain of the team and the recluse. She was irrepressible and she was repressed. Megan McCoy wasn’t only my cousin, she was my best friend and after all this time, I still feel the gaping hole she left in my life. ‘I’d rather talk about you,’ I say.

‘I do not know what to say.’

‘Tell me about yourself. What do you like about your life?’ I ask as a prompt.

‘I like living in Liverpool,’ she says.

‘And where are you from originally?’

‘Romania.’

‘But you’ve settled into the area? You like the people?’ I ask as I search for a rhythm in the conversation to keep it flowing.

‘I work a lot of the time,’ she replies, offering no insight to why she might be calling.

‘And what is it that you do?’

There’s a pause. She doesn’t want to tell me. ‘I work in a shop. Not very exciting.’

‘Do you live with anyone?’ I ask, hoping that I’m edging closer to where the problem lies.

‘I shared a house but now I live by myself.’

‘You’re not in a relationship?’

‘It is not important.’

I lean forward in my seat. I want to get closer to her so that I can work out why she’s making me feel so uncomfortable. ‘Then what is important, Ellie?’

‘The truth,’ she says simply. When I don’t respond, she adds, ‘Megan’s boyfriend did not hurt her.’

My jaw clenches. I’ve been trying to work Ellie out and I think I just have. She’s not a reporter, or any other sort of ghoul, but neither is she a genuine caller. ‘Has someone asked you to phone?’

‘No, it was when I saw the news. Mrs McCoy is wrong.’

‘Why is she wrong?’ I ask, a little too sharply. ‘Do you know Megan’s boyfriend? Is that why you’re defending him?’

‘I do not mean to upset you. And I do not want to upset Mrs McCoy. I thought you should know that Megan had other problems.’

‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told but I can’t discuss what happened to Megan with you. If you’re having difficulties of your own, I’m happy to listen. And if someone’s pressurising you or intimidating you in any way, I can help.’

‘No, I do not think you can. I am sorry, I should not have phoned. Please, do not say anything to Mrs McCoy. I will go. Goodbye, Jen.’

The phone goes dead and I’m left stunned.

‘The bastard,’ I hiss as I jump up from my seat and start to pace. ‘The utter bastard.’

Lights flicker on, tracing my path through the maze of empty desks as I gather my thoughts. Lewis has to be behind the call. Why else would Ellie phone up to defend him? Is she the girlfriend in the beach photo? How easy would it be to convince her that it was Meg who had the problem? Whoever this woman is, she doesn’t know the real Lewis, and for her sake, I’m glad.

When I return to my pod, the entire office is ablaze with light. I feel exposed to the darkening city and crouch behind the privacy screen as I type up the call sheet. The one thing Ellie and I do agree upon is that Ruth shouldn’t know what passed between us, so I keep the note vague – a general enquiry from someone who had seen Ruth’s interview.

At eight o’clock, I close down my computer and shrug into my cotton jacket before escaping through the double doors and down the stairs. I don’t want to think about Lewis but thoughts of him follow me as I leave the office. It’s normally a ten-minute walk home along the Strand but I turn away from the bright lights and the city centre hotels, and head for the waterfront. There’s a sharp breeze that tastes of sea salt as I follow the promenade along the curve of the river, past the Albert Dock and the Echo Arena. My path is dimly lit but I prefer the shadows. Ruth was right. We do have his attention and her interview has set a spotlight on us all.