Читать книгу The Book of You - Claire Kendal, Claire Kendal - Страница 14

It is my last day at work before jury service; my last day of having to avert you. On Monday I will disappear into the court building and you will not know where I am.

I place my documents and reports on one of the fixed wooden chairs in the large lecture theatre and my bag on another. I take the seat between them, hoping these small battlements will deter you from sitting beside me. Such a visual signal of my wish for space would work with anyone else. But not with you. Of course not with you. Nothing works with you.

You are standing over me and saying ‘Hello, Clarissa’ as you move my papers onto the floor and sit down. I’m unfairly, irrationally furious with Gary, for insisting that I attend this meeting in his place. You are in the aisle seat, making escape more difficult – I’d been foolish not to see that coming.

You lock your eyes on me, your eyeballs quivering. There is nowhere to hide from your eyes. I want to put my face in my hands, to cover myself. Your cheeks flash crimson, then white, then crimson again with the sharpness of a car’s indicators. I hate to see such clear evidence of my effect on your body.

And your effect on mine. I am growing hot and my chest hurts so much I fear I will stop breathing. I might faint in front of everybody, or be sick. It must be a panic attack.

The ceiling is high. The fluorescent lights are speckled with desiccated fly corpses. Though the bulbs are far above my head, they burn into the top of my skull. Even in winter the flies survive in the building’s warm roof space. I can hear one hissing and frying, unable to escape the trap of the lamp in which it has found itself. I fear it will fall on me. But better a fly than you.

You touch my arm and I shrink away with as little violence as I can manage. You whisper, ‘You know I love your hair that way, off your neck. Your neck is so lovely, Clarissa. You did it for me, didn’t you? And the dress too. You know how I love you in black.’

And I just can’t bear it any more. As if the top has blown off a pressure cooker I jump up, abandoning my papers, tripping over your feet and legs. You take advantage – of course you do, you always do – and put your hands on my waist in a pretence of helping to balance me. I slap your fingers away, beyond caring whether I affront the Vice Chancellor, who pauses in his opening remarks as all the heads in the room turn to watch me rush out. It makes me want to cry, knowing that it appears as if I’m the one out of control, rather than you.

Somehow I flee the campus and get myself into the centre of Bath and stumble along my near-automatic walk to the Assembly Rooms. I don’t follow my usual descent into the dimly lit basement, my favourite place, where they display gowns from hundreds of years ago; they are spun of silver and gold, brocaded in shimmering silks, embellished with jewels. Instead, I walk straight through the sage-green entrance hall, between marbled columns the colour of pale honey, and stop just outside the Great Octagon.

The room is closed. A sign explains that a private function will be taking place in it later today. But I slip between the double doors as if I have a right to, and close them behind me. It is hushed and peaceful in here, surrounded by these eight stone walls; soft light falls on me through the paned windows. I take out my phone, inhale deeply, and dial 999.

‘Police emergency.’ The operator’s greeting is sing-song and chirpy, as if she’s working in a dress shop and I’m a potential customer.

I don’t know what to say. I manage ‘Hello,’ though I’m breathing heavily. I must sound like a nuisance caller.

‘What is your emergency, please?’

Queen Charlotte aims her gentle gaze at me from her high portrait, as if to offer encouragement. ‘At work this morning … A colleague …’

‘Has there been an incident in your place of work?’

I try to explain. He sat next to me in a meeting when I didn’t want him to. He whispered suggestively. He invaded my body space. He made me feel upset.

‘Right. Is this man with you now?’

Queen Charlotte’s eyes follow me in concern as I circle the room. ‘No. But he’s stalking me all the time. I can’t get rid of him.’

‘Did he physically injure you?’

The Drake Family are too happy in their ornamental golden frame, posed in their manicured eighteenth-century landscape with their perfectly behaved children. ‘No.’

‘Has he ever physically abused you?’

The sweet Drake baby, sitting on its mother’s lap, should not be hearing this. ‘No,’ I say again, after a long pause.

‘Has he ever directly threatened you?’

Once more I hesitate. ‘Not directly, no. But he makes me feel threatened.’

‘Are you in any danger at this moment?’

I look up, up, up, above the elegant frieze of curling tendrils, craning my neck. Captain William Wade poses in his red Master of Ceremonies coat and stares disapprovingly at me. ‘No.’

‘I can see you’re very upset, and that’s understandable. But this isn’t a life-threatening matter. 999 is really meant for life-or-death emergencies.’

The room seems smaller, as if the tastefully muted yellow walls are drawing closer together. ‘I’m sorry.’ The high ceiling doesn’t seem so high any more. There isn’t enough oxygen in here.

‘You don’t need to be. But I think you’d be able to help yourself better if you calmed down.’ She clearly thinks I’m hysterical.

There are four pairs of brown double doors in the Great Octagon. One pair bursts open. A middle-aged tourist blunders in, takes one look at me, and quickly backs out, shutting the doors behind him.

‘I am calm.’ The words come out as a squeaky croak.

‘I can see you made this call in good faith.’ She clearly thinks I’m a crazy time-waster.

My face is red and hot. ‘I didn’t know who else to turn to. I thought that was what you were there for.’

‘You’re obviously distressed. Have you thought of going to see your GP?’ She clearly thinks I’m just plain mad.

I press my temple against the jutting plasterwork of one of the chimney-pieces. ‘My GP isn’t going to make him leave me alone.’

Her voice is kind, even apologetic. ‘The police cannot act unless there is evidence that a crime has been committed. From what you are telling me, there hasn’t been a crime. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but you have no evidence. And as much as I’d like to help, you are not in mortal danger, so I can’t send anyone out to you in these circumstances.’

George III looks off to the side. ‘Are you saying he has to hurt me before you’ll help?’

‘I’m saying that nothing can be done at this stage. There are specialist organisations and helplines that can advise you on how to document persistent harassment from a stalker. You’re going to need to be proactive about gathering evidence, if you want to put a stop to what he’s doing. Get in touch with them. That’s the best course of action you can take right now.’

I press end on the call and sit for a few minutes in the middle of the scuffed wood floor. Above me is the huge crystal chandelier. I think it might just fall on my head. I get to my feet, my knees stiff and sore, and hurry from the Great Octagon, casting one last look at Queen Charlotte before they find me and throw me out.

She was relieved to be torn from these recollections by the sight of the court building. Somehow she’d made it, despite being so distracted by bad memories she’d missed the left turning and walked on for twenty minutes before seeing she’d have to backtrack. It was only day two, but she worried that the judge might be so strict about lateness that he’d kick her off before the trial had even begun. Again she practically stumbled into the jury box.

A ring binder lay on the desk she shared with Annie. Together, they opened it and read the charge sheets. Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Rape. Conspiracy to supply Class A drugs. Shocking, dramatic words. Words that made her wonder how she’d ended up in such a place.

The prosecuting barrister couldn’t have been more than fifty. The lines beneath his eyes had the slant of a good-humoured man, but Mr Morden looked deadly serious as he turned to the jury box. ‘I’m going to tell you a story,’ he began. ‘A true story. And not a pretty one. It’s the story of Carlotta Lockyer, and what happened to her was no fairy tale.’

Four of the five defendants were studiously looking down, as if trying, politely, not to eavesdrop on a conversation that had nothing to do with them.

‘A year and a half ago, on the last Saturday of July, Samuel Doleman took a ride with some friends.’

Doleman’s grey eyes were military-straight before him, though his face turned pale. His red hair was cut so close Clarissa could see his scalp. It made him look vulnerable. So did his freckles.

‘He drove them from London to Bath in a van. They were on a hunt. Their prey was Carlotta Lockyer.’

Clarissa remembered exactly what she was doing then. She wondered if anybody else in the courtroom, other than the defendants, could. She had just finished her fourth attempt at IVF. Twenty-eighth July was the date of the last pregnancy test she’d failed. She replayed the tense drive to London early on the Saturday morning to get to the lab for her blood draw. Perhaps she and Henry had even followed the van along the motorway as they returned to Bath that afternoon, Clarissa sobbing wretchedly after the clinic’s call to her mobile, Henry brooding and silent.

‘If you turn to the screens, you will see CCTV images of the defendants taken outside the entrance to Miss Lockyer’s flat.’

Clarissa tried to shake herself back into concentration, willing her heart to slow down. She knew that flat. The building was a ten-minute walk from her own. If Rafe had caught her a few minutes later the previous morning they’d have been standing in front of it.

Despite the jerky, grainy footage, she could see the men moving about, fidgety and circling, peering through the glass door, banging on it with their fists, shaking the handle.

She imagined Rafe doing that to her door. Miss Norton would have something to say about it if he dared. Miss Norton was the little old lady who lived in the ground-floor flat. Only Clarissa and Miss Norton occupied the building: the first-floor flat was always empty, an investment property owned by a rich Australian who seldom used it.

‘Miss Lockyer, evidently, is not at home. Sadly for her, Mr Doleman and his friends don’t give up easily.’

The same could be said of Rafe. She tasted her morning coffee, soured.

‘They searched for her. They found her. They stalked her. They pounced. They dragged her onto a terrifying journey from Bath to London, into the darkness of their sadistic world.’

Yet again, she imagined going to the police to complain about him. Yet again, she saw all too clearly what would happen if she did: they’d end up thinking she’d brought it on herself.

He’d say she liked attention. He’d say she went to his party and wanted to sleep with him. He’d say she invited him home. There was probably CCTV footage of the two of them walking up the hill that night, with his arm around her.

She thought again of the leaflets’ warnings. If there is any doubt that you are being truthful, it may harm your case and credibility. But when it came to the truth, it was her word against his.

She was remembering something she usually kept buried. Walking home from school with Rowena when she was fifteen. That strange girl on the seafront who’d punched her in the stomach, grabbed her bag and knocked her to the ground before running off. It had all seemed to happen at once. The only thing Clarissa could do was gasp for breath as Rowena crouched beside her, her arms around her.

Her parents took her to the police station and made her report the incident, but the sour-faced policewoman clearly thought it was a schoolgirl argument that wasn’t worth her time and kept asking what Clarissa might have done to provoke it. Had she been showing off? Flashing valuables at a girl who was less fortunate? Arguing over a boy? Clarissa left the station with her cheeks bright red and her face burning hot, feeling like a criminal.

A random act of violence. That was what Rowena had called it, holding her hand afterwards. But Clarissa wasn’t sure. There must have been something about her to draw that girl’s attention. And something about her to draw Rafe’s too. There was certainly nothing random about him.

Her eyes ached; briefly, she squeezed them shut. Her shoulders were stiff. The man sitting in front of her was annoyingly tall, well over six feet; she’d had to crane her neck to see over his close-cropped brown head and keep Mr Morden’s face in view; it had been like that yesterday, too. After seven weeks of this she’d need a chiropractor.

The man rose and gave her a small nod, waiting for her to precede him out of the courtroom. It was his stance that she noticed: standing solidly, feet a foot and a half apart and exactly parallel, weight back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest. She’d never seen anybody look so straight but so relaxed at once.

Any expression of thanks could only be muted in the theatre of Court 12, but it seemed important to cling to small habits of courtesy in such company. She stepped ahead of him with a slight nod and almost-smile, answering his public display of good manners with her own.