Читать книгу Trust Me - Angela Clarke, Angela Clarke - Страница 15

Kate hadn’t been able to sit still since she’d seen the video. Her laptop, black in power-save mode, was still at its abandoned angle on her dining table. Fifty-six years old, and she couldn’t bring herself to get any closer to the screen. Instead she’d focused on clearing up the mess on the kitchen floor. As she’d wiped up the sick and bile, she tried not to think of the girl’s pleading eyes. She forced herself to take another gulp of sugared tea. She’d changed, and put her soiled clothes in the washing machine.

She could still smell the acid of vomit, and leant over the sink to open the kitchen window. But the familiar square of garden, in which she grew sweet peas and strawberries, twisted and turned away from her. The electric streetlight played nasty tricks with the rows of houses that stretched away over Hackney. Somewhere out there was the girl. Terrified. Hurt. What if the boys knew she’d been watching? What if they’d made a note of her account? Could they find her? A shadow licked at the edge of her garden and she jumped. London, with its exotic blends, its languages, its music and food and dance, that dynamic that made it special, that had made it her home all her life, felt hostile. She was overlooked. An easy target. She let go of the window handle as if it had burned her. Instead she pulled the slim chain to unfurl the kitchen blind, small flecks of dust floating down onto her as she obliterated the city skyline she’d always loved.

She ran up the white-painted stairs to her bedroom, pulled the curtains up there too and fetched her perfume from the bathroom. She sprayed the scent in the kitchen, the tangerine and blackcurrant smell settling uneasily over the sour stench of sick. She would feel better when she knew they’d found the girl. Got her to hospital.

The doorbell buzzed and she jumped. It would be the police. It was a Friday night, presumably they were busy, it’d been just over an hour since she’d called 999. She slid the spyhole aside; the sight of a man made her heart rate spike. You can see the uniform, silly woman, you know it’s the police. Still, she put the chain across before opening the door.

‘Mrs Katherine Adiyiah? I’m PC Jones.’ The man drew the sounds of her surname out, unsure where the vowels sat. He held up his ID. He was young, with close-cropped dark hair, and shadows under his pale eyes. She wondered how long he’d been on duty.

‘Hang on,’ she said, releasing the chain. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Good to see people being security conscious. Better to be safe than sorry, Mrs Adiyiah,’ PC Jones said.

It was an absurdly normal exchange. Words you might say about putting an extra hour on the meter for the car.

‘It’s Miss actually. But call me Kate. Please, come in?’ She had thought there might be two of them, but there was no one else outside. The street was empty, apart from a drained vodka bottle discarded three doors down. Laughter and voices carried over from the road behind: people walking home, or on to the next venue. The gentle pulse of bass mingled with the hum of night buses, taxis, cars and takeaway delivery drivers from the surrounding roads. A man appeared round the corner, his face nothing but a dark shadow under his hood. She shut the door quickly.

PC Jones was standing in the living room, looking at the bookshelves that lined the walls. His eyes snagged on the well-loved copies that were turned out to face the room: The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman, Ngozi Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun, A Testament of Hope by Martin Luther King. There was something about his manner that felt oddly invasive.

‘Please, sit down?’ She indicated the wingback that was at one end of the dining table. Her home was small: this one room served as lounge, dining room and study, leading straight into the open-plan kitchen. A two-up, two-down. Plenty big enough for her.

He hitched up his trousers to sit on the creaking chair. Kate was on good terms with the PC who worked with her at school, and would have liked to see his familiar face. Having a strange man in her home was only compounding the sense of violation she’d felt watching the video. But that wasn’t PC Jones’s fault. She’d witnessed a horrific crime: she had a duty to report it. She had a duty to that poor girl. He didn’t look eager to get started. She forced a smile onto her face. ‘Can I get you some tea, or a coffee?’

‘Tea would be great, ta,’ he said. ‘Milk, one sugar. Any biscuits?’ He rested his palms on his spread knees, like a spoilt emperor, she thought, eager and greedy.

She nodded. It was nearly 3am. She was discombobulated by it all. She busied herself with pulling the tea things down from the cupboard. She put out a cup for herself too, adding two sugars. She was still jittery. It was the shock.

‘You told the call handler you believed you’d seen an assualt?’ PC Jones had followed her into the kitchen unnoticed. Her body jolted in reaction. The teabag box buckled in her hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump,’ he said, smiling.

She tried to smile back. Everything felt wrong.

She could see his distorted funhouse mirror reflection in the chrome kettle, looking at her. ‘Was it out the front of the house, or from upstairs, Miss Adiyiah?’

‘They didn’t tell you?’ The spoon was limp in her hand. ‘It was online. I saw it happen online.’

‘Online?’ His mouth turned down at the sides and she was struck by how much he resembled a fish. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I was on Periscope. I was watching a live stream video, of two boys and a girl. Well, I think it was two boys, one of them was holding the camera. There could have been more, I suppose, behind the camera.’ The thought horrified her. Who could sit by and watch that without intervening? She’d been unable to help. She wouldn’t wish that paralysing sensation of helplessness on anyone. Though if they had deliberately chosen not to act… that was worse.

‘Two boys and a girl?’ PC Jones had produced a notebook from his back pocket.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One of the boys was…’ The word swelled and lodged in her throat. She coughed. ‘He raped her. And when she tried to stop him he attacked her. With a bottle.’

‘And you saw this online?’ PC Jones said.

‘Yes,’ she nodded. Saying the words out loud hadn’t lessened their power, but made the whole thing feel more vivid. As if she were watching it happen again. Here. In this room.

‘And where was this video shot?’

‘I don’t know. I just clicked on a feed for London. So it must be somewhere in the city. Someone must have heard something: there was a lot of…’ She wanted to say screaming, but couldn’t. ‘Noise.’

‘I see. And what were the names of these boys and the girl?’ PC Jones said.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘You don’t know?’ His eyebrow raised on one side, and she saw the doubt in his eyes.

‘I can tell you the name of the account. Here, I wrote it down.’ She passed him the torn rectangle of note paper. Metronome02. It was burned on her memory, like those heart symbols floating up the screen. People had liked it; that’s what she couldn’t understand. Had they not understood? The policeman took the paper, his fish head nodding. She glanced at the laptop. You must do this. You must help the girl. ‘I can show you the video.’

She walked past him before her nerve dropped. When she touched the mouse, the screen seemed to crack. The page or her eyes flickered, she couldn’t tell which. The screen was no longer linked to the feed; instead there was an error page: This user no longer exists.

‘It’s gone! They’ve deleted it.’ She clicked refresh. The same page appeared. ‘Oh God! Of course: because it’s evidence.’ She couldn’t stem the relief at not having to watch it again, or hear it. She thought of the screams. The panicked sound of the boy behind the camera. The gurgling.

‘So.’ PC Jones drew out the syllables of the word, twisting it in his fish mouth. ‘The video has vanished?’

‘You can see for yourself.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘They’ve deleted it.’

‘Right,’ he looked around the room, his eyes resting on Angela Davis’s Are Prisons Obsolete? If it had been one of her pupils she would have marched across the room and turned the book around. Made them concentrate. But as she watched him blow air out in a dramatic sigh, she felt more than just anger at his ill manners, she felt unease. ‘So you’re saying that you saw a video…’

‘A live stream,’ she corrected.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘A live stream during which you believe you saw a sexual assault and a stabbing take place, but you don’t know where this took place, or who these people were?’

‘I don’t believe I saw it, I know I saw it,’ she said.

PC Jones grimaced. ‘Are you sure you couldn’t have misunderstood what you saw, Mrs Adiyiah?’

‘Yes.’ Heat rose in her cheeks.

‘Maybe it was a film, like a Hollywood one or something? They’re very realistic nowadays,’ he said, glancing at the vintage poster she had framed on her wall.

He was dismissing her. As if she were, what? A confused old woman? ‘I know the difference between a film and real life, thank you.’

He sniffed, taking in the perfume, and the vague sour stench that lingered in the flat. ‘Can I ask if you’ve been out at all tonight, Mrs Adiyiah?’

‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’ She couldn’t believe he had the cheek to interrogate her.

‘Have you consumed any alcoholic beverages this evening?’ He looked at the glass of Shiraz next to the computer, where she’d left it.

‘What does that have to do with it?’ Shame bubbled inside her. How dare he judge her?

‘It’s late,’ said PC Jones. ‘Our minds can play tricks on us, especially if we’ve had a drink or two.’ He sniffed again.

Did he think she’d drunk so much she’d been sick? ‘You think I’m making this up?’

‘I’m not saying that, Mrs Adiyiah.’ He held his hands out to placate her. ‘I’m sure you saw a very distressing video, and I’m sure you think it was real.’

‘It was real.’ This was preposterous. ‘There was a girl. And she was attacked by the man in the video.’

‘I thought you said it was a boy?’ PC Jones said.

‘A young man, seventeen, maybe eighteen. Not much more than a boy,’ she said.

‘Right.’ PC Jones nodded.

‘You should be writing this down,’ she said.

‘I have everything I need, Mrs Adiyiah.’ He was sliding the pad into his pocket. Putting the pen away.

‘You don’t believe me?’ The injustice of it hung in her words. He was dismissing her.

‘I believe you’ve seen something that’s upset you. And I believe that you think it’s real. But we’ve had no reports of anything that would tie in with what you’re claiming you saw.’ He gave her a simpering, sympathetic smile. ‘I suggest you have a nice cup of tea and a good night’s sleep, Kate. And I’m sure you’ll feel better after that.’

‘I’m a teacher,’ she said. As if it might make him listen, might make her real. ‘And I don’t appreciate your tone.’

‘Very nice,’ said PC Jones, heading toward the door. He was leaving. Ignoring her. She thought of the girl’s eyes, staring out at her, pleading. ‘You have to help her!’ She thought of the blood dripping onto the duvet. ‘She might not have much time.’

He gave her another placating, watery smile. ‘I’ll be sure to mention it in my report. Good night, Mrs Adiyiah.’

She could already guess what that report would say. She stood in shock as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t believe her. A rip had appeared in the world, plunging her London into that of the poor girl’s in the film. She’d ring the hospitals. Come forward as a witness. But what if she was still lying there? In that room? Not able to get help? Think, woman, think. Kate picked up her wine glass and downed the remains in one go. There was one more thing she could try, but it wouldn’t be easy. She turned the computer towards her and started to type.