Authors: Jane Hill
This is . . . complicated.' And Jem gave me a half-grimace,
half-grin. She started to walk away across the square and
then she turned around suddenly and called to me. 'Sorry,
Beth, something I meant to say – I really liked Danny.
Top bloke. It was great to meet him the other weekend.
Sexy nerd boy – my favourite type of man. He's cracked
on you, by the way. Really into you, big time. Don't
screw this one up, will you?'
Danny.
Does your new lover know how evil you are?
What on Earth was I going to do about Danny?
The man in the white shirt with the dark glasses had
gone, and there was an elderly couple sitting at
that cafe table now. I hadn't even noticed him
leave. I hadn't kept my guard up. I'd been completely
unobservant. For all my precautions I realised I was
useless at being a fugitive. Whoever was watching me was
no doubt too assiduous, too professional, too relentless to
be fooled by a baseball cap and a change of T-shirt. He
knew where I worked and he knew where I went and
when, and presumably he knew where I lived. It was
useless, pointless trying to escape. I was exhausted, sick to
death of the whole thing.
I stood in the paved circle in the centre of Russell
Square, surrounded by the fountains, and looked around
me. I'd chosen the park because it was an open space
with plenty of escape routes. But there were tall
buildings all around: the elaborate façade of the hotel at
one side of the square; rows of tall Georgian terraces full
of offices and university departments on the other sides.
Everywhere I looked there were windows glinting down
on me, and behind every window there could have been
someone watching me, someone who had me in their
sights. What was the point of trying to run or hide?
Whatever they had planned for me, I might as well face
up to it.
I threw my baseball cap in the nearest bin. I stood there
in the centre of the square and I flung my arms out as if to
say, 'Here I am. Come and get me,' and I spun round so
that every side of the square could see my face. If a sniper
had shot me then, I think I would have been relieved.
What else could I do? I was thirty-five years old and I was
scared of shadows and ghosts. This had gone on too long.
I would be brave and stoic and open. But first I had
something horrible to do: I had to dump Danny.
Does your new lover know how evil you are?
It was an ambiguous threat. At the very least, my
stalker seemed to be threatening to tell Danny what I'd
done. Or he was challenging me to tell Danny first before
he – my stalker – got to him. And there was a chance
that he was threatening something worse; that he was
threatening to take revenge by doing something awful to
Danny. It reminded me of something you'd hear in a
gangster movie. The villain would make a comment
about someone's wife or family, a seemingly harmless
comment, but it would be accompanied by a creepy smile
and you'd know that it was a veiled threat. And although
one half of my brain told me that this was absurd, that this
couldn't really be happening, the other half told me that
the note behind the windscreen wiper was tangible and
chilling. Anyone prepared to follow me all the way to
Southampton wouldn't stop at writing anonymous notes.
The threat – although ambiguous – was very real. I had
two choices. I could tell Danny the whole story, or I could
end our relationship for good. That very day. As soon as
he got home from work that evening, I would have to go
round to his place and try to extricate myself from his life.
I sat in the Great Court of the British Museum to try to
work things out. I wasn't sure whether I was hiding in
plain sight or playing catch-me-if-you-can. It was either
the safest, most comforting place that I could think of to
come, or it was dangerously open. One slight, unobtrusive,
nondescript brown-haired woman in faded jeans and
a grey T-shirt could easily get lost among the crowds of
tourists in that light, airy courtyard. On the other hand, if
my stalker was following me, keeping close tabs on me,
then he'd have no trouble finding me in that big white
space. All I know was that I craved openness and busyness.
I didn't want to hide away in the shadows any more.
I was sitting at one of the long white communal tables in
the cafe area, as close to the corner as I could get. From
where I sat I could see people coming and going in two
directions, as they strolled around the huge domed curved
area in the centre of the court, where the gift shop was,
where the Reading Room of the British Library used to
be. I was making my cup of coffee last as long as possible,
trying to fill the empty day; trying to work out exactly
what I should do.
I couldn't tell Danny what I'd done. No way. He was
too public-spirited, too good. He'd make me go to the
police and tell them everything – not just about the letters,
but about how I'd killed Rivers Carillo. He'd hate me for
what I'd done. It would be the end of our relationship
anyway, so what would be the point? The only answer
was to break things off with Danny. I had to do it in such
a way that there could be no mistake. It was the third time
I'd made this resolution and the second time I'd tried to
carry it through. Last time, as we'd driven home from my
parents' house, it hadn't taken. He hadn't listened to me
properly, and I hadn't explained myself clearly enough.
This split would have to be decisive. The watcher, the
letter-writer, my secret stalker would have to know that it
was all over. I couldn't risk going out with Danny again.
How could I break things off with Danny without
hurting him? I knew I should have thought of that before
I'd slept with him that very first time. I did think of it later,
after the first note arrived, but then I had put it out of my
mind. I had let my emotions, my need for comfort and
security, overrule my common sense. I had let my heart
rule my head. I had let myself drop my guard, had relaxed
and enjoyed myself. How had I dared?
What was I going to do? Lie to Danny and tell him that
I didn't like him in that way? Use one of the old cliches?
Tell him I loved him like a brother? Like a friend? Tell
him that I was very fond of him but it just wasn't the right
time? Tell him that it wasn't him, it was me? That would
actually be true, for once. In spite of myself, I couldn't
help smiling. I was thinking of a line in Zoey's routine,
where she talked about how she dumped her husband with
the line 'It's not me, it's you.' It always got a delayed
laugh, as people worked out exactly what she had said.
Once I'd managed to break things off with one sort-of
boyfriend just by ignoring him, by not answering his calls
– or anyone's calls – for a couple of weeks. I couldn't do
that with Danny. He lived too close. I had broken things
off with Julian by doing a midnight flit, almost literally.
I'd left the flat one evening while he was out, with what I
could carry in my car, and I didn't leave a forwarding
address. But I was getting so tired of this, this constant
running and hiding.
People were coming and going, milling around the
Great Court. It was getting close to lunchtime and the cafe
tables were filling up. A big, noisy Italian family with
several kids had invaded my personal space. One of the
staff, who was wiping the cafe tables, had just given me
the glare, the one that says: 'If you've finished with that
coffee, can you leave and make room for someone else?'
I noticed a man who seemed to be watching me. A tall
man, bearded, fiftyish – a hippie type in a tie-dyed T-shirt
and long baggy shorts. Grey hair in a ponytail. He was in
the far corner, in the other cafe area on the other side of
the court, and he seemed to be staring in my direction. I
didn't know how long he'd been there, and I didn't know
why I hadn't noticed him before. He could have been the
stalker. He was the right age, the right type, to have been
a friend of Rivers's. Jesus, if only I knew who I was
supposed to be afraid of.
In the end, it wasn't quite as difficult as I'd imagined.
Danny was still in his work clothes when I rang his
doorbell. His top button was undone, his tie loosened. He
had a bottle of beer in his hand and he smiled when he saw
me. He beckoned me in. And then he stopped smiling.
He'd seen the ominous look on my face. 'Ah,' he said.
'You're about to break up with me, aren't you? I hate this
bit.'
'Sorry.' I raised my hands in a gesture of hopelessness
and let them flop down again.
'Oh well. Can't say that I didn't see it coming. I guess
you warned me often enough.'
'Sorry.'
'Please stop saying that. If you're sorry, you wouldn't
be breaking up with me, would you?' He sat down on his
sofa and took a swig of his beer. I just stood there, feeling
awful. 'Is there a particular reason?' he asked.
'It's just all getting a bit too intense for me . . .' I made
my voice sound shaky and sad, which wasn't difficult. It
was exactly how I felt.
Danny gave a sudden, surprised laugh. 'Ha! I wish.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, honestly, it couldn't have been less intense if
we'd tried. We've had – what? – seven, eight dates? I
know you hate commitment and all that stuff. I wasn't
asking for that. I just wanted to be friends, and go out
sometimes, and maybe sleep together if it felt right. What
do they call it these days? Friends with benefits: that's the
phrase. It wasn't like I was asking you to marry me or
anything. I couldn't have put less pressure on you if I'd
tried.' He was warming to his theme now; not so much
angry as annoyed. 'You know, I'd just like it placed on
record that you were the one who invited me to meet the
family. You were the one who stepped it up a notch.'
'I know. Sorry.'
'Stop saying that!' He half-laughed again. 'Christ, what
is it about me? And if you say, "It's not you, it's me" I
shall probably hit you.'
I said nothing. I just stood there looking awkward and
ashamed. Danny showed me to the door. 'Still mates?' he
said, giving the word 'mates' its full force. I guessed he
meant drinking buddies, music buddies, friends. I gave a
non-committal nod and mouthed 'sorry' one more time. I
hated myself for hurting him. I hated myself for putting
myself in a position where I had to hurt him.
Zoey was in her frantic edgy mood, the mood she'd
been in when I'd driven her to Southampton just a
few days before. She was sitting on my settee with
a glass of wine in her hand, tilting the glass backwards and
forwards so vigorously that I was worried she'd spill it.
She was heading for Edinburgh the next day. She was
flying up there, ready to start her show the following day.
It was her big adventure and I knew she was nervous
about it, but this seemed to be something more than
nerves.
We were supposed to have gone out for a meal that
night. She'd invited me to join her and Steve and a bunch
of whichever of her comedy friends hadn't gone off to
Edinburgh yet. But she'd called me earlier to cancel. The
dinner was off, she'd told me. She'd sounded weird on the
phone – more downbeat than I'd ever heard her. 'Listen,
can I come to your place instead?'
'To my flat?' People didn't come round to my flat. I
didn't really know what to do with guests. There was
nothing for them to look at or do. I didn't like having
intruders in there. I guess I was afraid they'd start rummaging
through my bookshelves or asking me too many
questions about my lack of stuff. It always made me feel
on edge and made my flat feel less safe, less of a haven. But
I couldn't think of a good excuse to give Zoey. She was
my friend. I'd been round to her flat, several times. How
could I have said no? 'Um, okay. When? Why?'
'In an hour or so? My place is a nightmare. I'm packing.
I have clothes strewn everywhere. I don't want to be here
at the moment. I need to escape. I need to talk to you.'
'Steve and I have split up,' Zoey said, still swilling her
wine around the glass. 'We had a stupid fight and
now he says he doesn't want to see me any more, and I'm
way more upset than I thought I'd be.'
'So if you've split up, I guess that means you were
going out with him, then. Because I wasn't sure.'
That made her smile, for some reason. 'Yeah,' she said.
'I got involved. Hadn't meant to do that. Not at this
point.'
It was like listening to myself talking about Danny. 'So
why did you split up? What was the fight about?'
Zoey put the wineglass down on the floor. She closed
her eyes and opened them again. 'Life. The past. Things
we've done. Things we haven't done.' She waved her
arms around vaguely. 'You know what it's like.'
I nodded. I watched her. There was something else
she wanted to say, something she was finding difficult.
She picked up the wine again and took a gulp from her
glass. She fiddled with a strand of her hair, stretching the
curl out and watching it spring back into shape. 'He got
clingy. Overprotective. You'd be surprised. He does all
that foul-mouthed routine on stage but really he's a
mensch.'
'A mensch?'
'A good guy. A good, decent guy. Too good.' Still
carrying the wineglass, she walked across to the window
and looked out. 'This is an amazing view.'
'Yeah. I love it.'
'How long have you lived here?'
'About eighteen months.'
'It's a great apartment. Airy. Minimalist. I wish I could
get my place looking like this. But I'm no good at
throwing things out.'
Zoey walked around, looking at things. I held my
breath, willing her to move away from my bookshelf. She
picked up one of the CDs that Danny had made me and
browsed the song titles. 'Neat,' she said. And then, out of
nowhere, 'Come to Edinburgh with me.'
It sounded more like a command than an invitation.
'Me? What, like, for the Fringe?'
'Yeah. Tomorrow. Come with me.'
I didn't know what to say.
'Shit, sorry. There I am assuming that you've got no
plans for the summer. That's rude of me. You're probably
going away somewhere really cool.'
'No, no. It's just unexpected, that's all.'
'Look, I'm renting an apartment there, what's called a
tenement flat, and Steve was going to share the place with
me. And, what with all this, he's decided to stay with some
friends of his instead, so I'm left on my own. There's a
spare bed. Well, some kind of fold-out bed, anyway. And
it'd be much more fun with someone to share the place
with me. Come up. It'll be so cool. We can hang out and
go and see shows together. You'll have fun. Please?'
I wanted to say yes straight away. It seemed so perfect.
It was a way I could get out of London. It was a way of
avoiding Danny. It was a way of running away. It seemed
like the ideal solution. Except that I was fed up with
running away. I didn't want to run any more. I was trying
to be brave. I was trying to persuade myself that I should
stay and face the music.
'I don't know, Zoey. Can I think about it? Can I let you
know?'
'Sure. Call me. You can just get the train up some day
if you want to. It's easy.'
She sat down again, and she rubbed her thighs
nervously. She felt for something in her pocket. 'Look, if
you're not coming, can I give you these?' She was holding
a ring with a couple of keys.
'What are they for?'
'They're the keys to my flat in Clapham. Just in
case . . . you know, maybe something will happen and
you'll need to get access.'
Maybe something will happen.
That sent a shiver down
my spine. I looked at Zoey very closely. She was trying to
say something to me. She knew something. And she was
trying to tell me that she knew. She knew I was in danger.
She was trying to give me a hiding place. The tenement in
Edinburgh or the flat in Clapham: either way, she was
trying to give me somewhere safe to stay. But how did she
know? Had she guessed from my behaviour? Had she
seen me take that letter from the windscreen of my car?
Had she known what was written in it? How did she
know?
What
did she know?
I took the keys from her and jangled them in my hand.
I stuck them in my back pocket. 'Thank you,' I said,
thinking about the lovely safe womb-like cosiness of
Zoey's little room. 'I'll look after them, okay?'
'Cool.' And again, I thought Zoey was about to say
something, but there was a sudden noise, like someone at
the door. 'What's that?' she said. But I was already halfway
up the hallway towards my front door. I was already
looking at the white envelope sitting on my mat. I was
already reading the words on the envelope, the words that
said 'To the murdering bitch' in handwriting that I
already knew too well. I was already stuffing the envelope
into my jeans pocket as Zoey came to check. 'What was
that?' she said again.
'Nothing,' I said. 'Just a kid knocking and running
away, I think. It happens all the time.' I opened the door
and looked around, searching for a sign of my stalker.
Would I finally get to see him, to find out who it was? The
grey concrete walkway stretched around the four sides of
the courtyard, five storeys below. There were pillars and
doorways, and a hallway on each of the four sides leading
to the lifts and the stairwells. In the low sun, half of the
building was in deep shadow, the other half still in bright
sunlight. I stared towards the shadows, wondering if that
was a movement I could see. More than anything I wanted
to chase after him. But Zoey was standing next to me,
staring at me with those green eyes. It seemed as if she
could see inside my head.
She knows,
I thought.
She knows.
I was sure of it. She definitely knew something. She was
staring at me, her eyes boring into me, and she wanted to
ask me and she wanted me to tell her. I cut in quickly,
before she could say anything else. 'So, what time are you
leaving tomorrow morning?'
And the tension passed. 'Early. You're right, I need to
get going.' She kissed me on the cheek. 'Please come,' she
said again. 'It'll be fun. Call me.'
My trembling hands opened another white envelope.
My trembling hands pulled out another sheet of
white paper. It was the same kind of paper and the same
small, neat handwriting. This was what it said:
I told you I
was watching you.