Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  dead. Maybe if I’d been to his funeral, I’d have had some form

  of closure, if there is such a thing. But I was so ill, so out of it. I don’t even know if he was buried or cremated, or where his

  remains are. Why don’t I know these things? Why didn’t I try

  harder to find out? I should have said goodbye. It’s the least I

  could have done.

  I think about earlier, making love with Josh as if none of this

  had ever happened, and guilt presses down on me once more.

  But I can’t help the way I feel, can I? It’s chemistry, pure and

  simple. The need for love and intimacy, for sex. It’s what makes

  us human. It doesn’t mean I don’t still love Simon. The mem-

  ory of him.

  I take hold of the envelope and go over to the wardrobe, stand

  on the tips of my toes and give it a firm push so that it slides

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  towards the back, out of reach. The arm of my coat is dangling

  over the edge where I threw it earlier, so I push that back too.

  I could have taken the photo out and had another look. I

  could have pulled the coat down and helped myself to a £20

  note, then got dressed again and slipped out of the house when

  Mum wasn’t looking and bought some gin or vodka, some-

  thing I could pour into my water glass to get me through the

  night. I wanted to. I still do. But I didn’t. I don’t. I sit on the bed again and focus on my breathing till the tightness in my chest

  recedes. I won’t be intimidated like this.

  The next morning, after I’ve washed my face and got dressed – I

  can’t face any breakfast – I reach up to the top of my wardrobe

  and grope along the edge till I grab a handful of coat and pull

  it towards me. The dreaded brown envelope comes down with

  it, but I put it up again, flicking it away from the edge. I hear it fluttering down the space between the back of the wardrobe

  and the wall. I exhale. I won’t be able to reach it now, not with-

  out dragging the heavy wardrobe out. Just as well.

  I put the coat on. The sooner I order those painting materials

  and get shot of this money, the better.

  ‘You won’t need that coat today,’ Mum says when I go down-

  stairs. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous out there. They said on the news

  that a heatwave’s on its way.’

  ‘Really?’ I think of the last thing Josh said, about taking me

  somewhere I could swim naked. Maybe that’ll happen sooner

  than I imagined.

  ‘I’ve got a swimming costume somewhere I don’t use any

  more,’ Mum says. ‘You can have it if you like. Unless you’ve

  already got one.’

  ‘I doubt it. I can’t remember the last time I went swimming.’

  Actually, I can. It was that holiday in Spain. I had a tiny red

  bikini that looked great with my tan. Simon had finally learned

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  to juggle by then. I remember the crowd that gathered round to

  watch, the teenage girls fluttering their eyelashes at him and

  giving me envious, sidelong glances. He was so happy then, so

  alive. It seems like a lifetime ago. I miss him so much.

  ‘Shall I hunt it out for you?’ Mum says.

  I shake my head. The thought of Josh seeing me in one of

  Mum’s old cozzies is too embarrassing to contemplate. Does

  she seriously think I’d even consider wearing anything of hers?

  I hang my coat on one of the hooks in the porch and transfer

  the contents of my pockets into my rucksack. ‘You couldn’t

  lend me some money till my benefit comes through, could

  you? I don’t know what’s happened to all my summer clothes.’

  I hate asking her for more money; she’s already spent most of

  her savings on putting me through rehab, but if I have to wear

  these old jeans for much longer, they’ll be falling apart. Her

  eyebrows dip.

  ‘Forget it. I’ll make do with what I’ve got.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she says. ‘You do need some more clothes.

  I could come with you if you like?’

  ‘You can’t keep treating me like a child, Mum. I’m not going

  to buy any alcohol, okay? Just give me twenty- five quid, if you

  can afford it. I’ll pick up a few bits and pieces at one of the charity shops. But if you’d rather not, that’s fine. I understand.’

  I have a sudden urge to show her the £150, to thrust it under

  her nose and say, See? This is what Josh’s dad has given me to buy paint. Don’t you think I’d have spent some of it in the offie by now if I couldn’t be trusted? but of course I don’t. Because she’s right. I came so close yesterday. So close.

  She goes to where her handbag is hanging over the end of

  the banister and takes out her purse. It’s small with a silver

  clasp. I swallow hard. It reminds me of another purse. Another

  time. Opening it up and scooping the notes out with shaky

  fingers. Blood on my sleeve.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  The jagged images swim before my eyes like reflections in

  broken glass. No, don’t go there. Shut it down. Shut it down

  fast.

  ‘I’ll bring you the receipts,’ I say, but she shakes her head and

  hands me four £10 notes.

  ‘You can pay me back a tenner a week when your dole money

  comes through.’

  I lean forward and kiss her on the cheek, humiliated, resent-

  ful and grateful all at the same time.

  How has it come to this?

  Even though it’s broad daylight, I’m still anxious when I leave

  the cottage, my senses primed for anything or anyone out of

  the ordinary. But the fine weather has brought an influx of visi-

  tors and after a while I relax. Nothing’s going to happen to me

  with all these people around.

  An old- fashioned bell pings as I push open the door of the

  art shop. A seductive smorgasbord of familiar smells greets my

  nostrils: paint thinner and varnish, mint and lanolin from

  the bars of artist’s soap, the clay- like aroma of crayons and the

  deliciously pulpy scent of new paper and freshly stretched can-

  vas. It reminds me of being in the studios and workshops at

  university, of building sets in empty theatres. It makes me want

  to cry.

  At first glance the shop looks thrown together, a higgledy-

  piggledy profusion of tubs and tubes and tins and brushes, all

  jostling for space on the shelves and display units. But as my

  eyes adjust to the gloomy interior, I know just by looking at the

  balding, brown- overalled man at the counter that he will be

  able to put his hands on anything I might ask for within a mat-

  ter of seconds.

  He raises his eyes above his half- moon spectacles and says

  good morning. He doesn’t ask if there’s anything in particular

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  I’m looking for, or whether he can help me in any way, and for

>   that I’m grateful. I know exactly what I need because I spent

  hours thinking it through last night and making a long, detailed

  list. I also worked out a fee for the job – it’s probably way less than it should be, but it’s still a damn sight more than I’ll have

  earned in a long while. It was the only thing I could think of

  doing to calm me down after my scary walk home. The only

  thing other than drinking. But first I want to browse. I want to

  walk slowly up and down the aisles and feast my eyes on the

  glut of supplies.

  I want to feel the smooth handles of the brushes and test the

  bounce of the bristles on the backs of my hands. I want to reac-

  quaint myself with the poetry of their names: the fans and the

  flats and the riggers, the lily- bristle mottlers, the brights and

  the filberts. I want to slide my eyes over the oils: linseed, poppy, safflower and walnut; oil of spike and copaiba balsam. Larch

  Venice turpentine. Dragon’s blood.

  I could stay here for ever, soaking it all up, running my fin-

  gers along the shelves, gazing at the sponges and palette knives

  as if my life depends on memorizing each and every item. It’s

  like a portal into my old life. If only I could step back in and do

  things differently this time.

  An hour later, after I’ve agreed to collect my purchases later

  today and with just a handful of change out of the £150 in one

  pocket, and the £40 Mum’s given me in the other, I head for

  the charity shops on Flinstead Road.

  No longer under the spell of the art shop, the old tension

  returns and I can’t help checking out every face I pass. Maybe

  one of them belongs to the person who sent me that photo. So

  when someone taps me on the shoulder as I’m waiting to cross

  the road, I flinch so hard I almost twist my neck.

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  16

  ‘Astrid, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’

  It’s Rosie. So much for not acknowledging each other in

  public.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m a bundle of nerves today.’

  ‘Let me buy you a coffee, then,’ she says, already pulling her

  purse from her bag. ‘It’s the least I can do for scaring you half

  to death.’

  My heart sinks. ‘That’s really kind of you, but . . .’ I glance

  across the street for inspiration and see the steamed- up win-

  dows of the Fisherman’s Shack. ‘It’s just that’ – I tilt my head

  towards it – ‘I’m meant to be meeting a friend over there.’

  Rosie lifts her chin. A faint tinge of pink colours her neck.

  She knows I’m lying. ‘Oh, okay, no problem. I’ll see you around,

  then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She goes to walk away, then stops and turns back. ‘I don’t

  suppose I could wait in there with you, just until your friend

  arrives? My shift doesn’t start for another half an hour.’

  For fuck’s sake. She’s not going to give up. I rack my brain for

  a good enough reason to say no, but nothing comes. Just as I’ve

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  resigned myself to saying yes, a miracle appears in the form

  of Helen, walking briskly along the pavement, eyes looking

  straight ahead. She hasn’t seen us yet.

  ‘Hi, Helen,’ I call out to her, hoping she’ll pick up on the

  look of desperation in my eyes, the silent beam of communica-

  tion I’m projecting on to her. ‘I was beginning to think you’d

  forgotten about our coffee.’

  For a split second she looks confused, but she doesn’t let me

  down. ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. I was just popping into the newsagent’s for a paper first. Oh, hello, Rosie.’

  Rosie gives her a tight smile.

  ‘Rosie was going to join us, but I’ve just remembered you

  wanted to go for a walk first, didn’t you, Helen?’ I smile brightly, hoping Rosie won’t be pushy enough to tag along for that too.

  ‘Maybe another time, eh?’

  Rosie nods, defeated. ‘Of course.’

  I wait till she’s walked far enough away not to hear us. ‘Sorry

  about that, but I really couldn’t face it.’

  ‘I do fancy a bit of a walk, as it happens,’ Helen says. ‘But I

  need to eat first.’

  I twist my head over my shoulder. Rosie is nowhere in sight,

  but I’ve the weirdest sensation that she’s watching us from

  somewhere. Then I spot the man with bad acne coming out of

  the chemist’s. This is ridiculous. I can’t seem to go five minutes

  without seeing someone from AA. Who’d have thought there’d

  be so many of us in this sleepy little town? Although I guess

  not everyone in the group actually lives here. There are lots of

  small villages and hamlets in the surrounding countryside

  with even less going on than Flinstead. That’s enough to drive

  a person to drink in itself.

  I steer Helen across the road before he catches sight of us.

  Not that he’d come over even if he did. He always keeps him-

  self to himself in meetings.

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  ‘Come on, let’s go and get an egg- and- bacon buttie.’

  Now that we’re sitting opposite each other, steam rising from

  our mugs of coffee, a couple of crumbs and the odd twist of

  unwanted bacon rind the only thing left on our plates, I notice

  the deep furrow between Helen’s eyebrows and the prominent

  vein over her left temple. She’s tried to cover it with foundation

  but hasn’t blended it in properly at the hairline. And her lip-

  stick’s the wrong colour for her face. It’s too red and is starting

  to feather into the fine lines on her upper lip.

  I stab the crumbs on my plate with my forefinger and suck

  them off. We’re two people whose paths would probably never

  have crossed were it not for AA, but now that they have I’m

  kind of glad. I do need a friend right now. Someone who knows

  what I’m struggling with. Someone I can confide in without

  fear of being judged or misunderstood.

  Simon’s face creeps into my head. The healthy, handsome

  face captured in that photo. Which means it isn’t long till the

  other picture – the one of the hand dripping with blood – floats across it like the grisly title sequence of a crime drama. What

  chance do I have of making something good happen with Josh

  when my past keeps rearing up to remind me of all my flaws,

  all my failures?

  And what if that picture is just the beginning? What if there’s

  more to come?

  ‘Astrid? What’s wrong?’

  I jerk my head up and stare at Helen’s concerned face. ‘Some-

  one’s trying to frighten me,’ I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

  Because now that I’ve said those words, now that I’ve admitted

  it aloud, in the presence of another person, the threat has

  become more solid, more real. Someone is trying to frighten me. It’s not just in my head any more. And now that the words


  have escaped, it’s inevitable that the rest will follow. A dam has

  been breached.

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  Helen leans forward and touches my forearm. ‘What do you

  mean, trying to frighten you? Who is?’

  I look around at the other people in the café. One old man

  hunched over a mug of tea and the Sun. Two men in high-

  visibility jackets silently stuffing butties into their mouths, and

  Bob in his grease- splattered apron, wiping down the counter

  with a stained dishcloth. It’s hardly crowded, and we’re tucked

  away in the corner by the window. Nobody would hear me if I

  spoke in a low voice but, even so, I’m self- conscious, wary.

  ‘I can’t do this. Not here.’

  Helen nods. ‘Let’s finish our coffees and go for a walk,

  shall we?’

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  17

  We walk along the tops of the cliffs, the sea a deep summer

  blue that sparkles in the sun to our right. After about five min-

  utes I have to take my jumper off and tie it round my waist by

  the sleeves. Helen folds her raincoat over her left arm. Ever

  since leaving the café we’ve been chatting about inconsequen-

  tial things: the unseasonably warm weather, the Thames barge

  on the horizon and the way, on days like this, if you filter out

  the Englishness of the buildings and streets to our left, the

  North Sea looks almost Mediterranean.

  But hovering below and between and on the edges of our

  words is the thing I’m not talking about. The reason we’re now

  wending our way down the cliff path towards the wide expanse

  of sand where I can speak freely, with only the swooping gulls

  to eavesdrop.

  At last, when we’ve settled into a comfortable pace across the

  flat sand, I tell Helen about the photo and the picture. The

  words spew out of me. A tide of broken sentences, ragged with

  emotion. God knows how she’ll make sense of it. It’s like some-

  one’s dropped a manuscript on the floor and I’m picking all the

  pages up and trying to put them back together, but they aren’t

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  numbered and I can’t organize the story into any kind of coher-

  ent order.

  So many scenes and images, so many memories. It all feels