Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  too sketchy and inadequate. The emphasis is all wrong, but I

  have to keep going. One by one, the facts emerge.

  ‘He’d been dry for eight and a half months.’

  I stare straight ahead of me, but it’s not the beach I’m seeing.

  It’s Simon’s face that day in the park. Proud, confident. Hand-

  some. If he hadn’t seen me first and come over, I doubt I’d even

  have recognized him. He could have walked straight past me

  while I sat on the bench in my beer- soaked reverie.

  ‘I told him I was impressed, but really I was jealous. There he

  was, getting himself sorted out at last. He even had a job on a

  building site, only as a labourer, but it was clearly doing him

  good. He looked so fit and healthy it made me ache inside. I

  wanted him back.’

  I pause to take a few deep breaths.

  ‘He was talking about some work he had coming up, as an

  extra on a film. It wasn’t much, but he was so excited about it.

  He thought it might lead to something else.’ My voice breaks.

  ‘Maybe if he hadn’t met me again, he’d have had the chance to

  make something of his life, fulfil his dreams.’

  I don’t fight the urge to cry this time. It all spills out in snotty sobs and heaving gulps. Helen pats me gently on my shoulders

  till I recover enough to go on.

  ‘It was a really hot day, a bit like today. I had six cans of ice-

  cold lager in my rucksack.’

  I take a deep breath. Even now, I can still see the little drops

  of condensation clinging to the outside of the cans. The sun

  beats down on the back of my neck. I sneak a look at Helen

  from the corner of my eye, see the tip of her tongue slide across

  her bottom lip. It isn’t a great time to be talking about cold

  lagers, but I can’t stop now.

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  ‘Maybe I had him at the little hissing noise as I pulled back

  the tab. Or maybe it was when I took one long, greedy gulp. I

  was probably crass enough to waggle one under his nose. I can

  almost hear myself telling him that one little drink wouldn’t

  hurt and that we should celebrate his good fortune.’

  Helen makes one of those cynical little noises in the back of

  her throat.

  ‘The truth is, I don’t know how it happened. But it was my

  fault. All of it. All I can remember is waking up, sick and jittery, God knows how many hours later, with Simon passed out on

  the floor next to me. He came to, eventually, but he kept throw-

  ing up and passing out again. He had it really bad, the worst

  DTs I’ve ever seen, thought his skin was crawling with maggots,

  kept tearing at his flesh with his nails.’

  We’ve reached the headland now and run out of beach, so

  we walk up the ramp and on to the promenade in front of the

  beach huts. Helen points to a bench and we sit down. I light a

  cigarette and draw on it deeply.

  ‘I remember taking slugs of vodka to calm my nerves and

  then, the next thing I knew, two paramedics were hammering

  on the door. Somehow or other, I must have got myself together

  enough to phone for an ambulance. I don’t even remember

  doing it, but I must have done. It was the only decent thing

  I did.’

  I feel light- headed all of a sudden. Nauseous. Instinctively, I

  lean forward and put my head between my knees. I take long,

  deep lungfuls of air and focus on the concrete between my feet

  and the crack that runs through it. Helen’s hand is on the back

  of my neck.

  ‘Go on,’ she says, her voice soft, encouraging.

  ‘Two weeks later, after he’d been discharged, Simon threw

  himself off Seaford Head in Sussex.’

  Her hand falls away. ‘Oh my God! Oh, Astrid!’

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  ‘I read about it in the paper. That’s how I found out. So yes,

  whoever sent me that photo is right. There is blood on my

  hands. I didn’t push Simon off that cliff, but I might just as well

  have done.’

  I sniff to clear my nose, but it’s completely blocked. Helen

  passes me a tissue.

  ‘Everyone says I shouldn’t think that way. Counsellors, and

  people like that. But I can’t help the way I feel, can I? ‘

  ‘Of course you can’t.’

  ‘And even if they’re right and it isn’t my fault, it doesn’t make

  it any better. He’s still dead.’

  Helen turns to face me. ‘Where is it, this photo? Can I see it?’

  I think of the brown envelope gathering dust and bits of car-

  pet fluff at the back of my wardrobe and my palms start to

  sweat.

  ‘No, I left it at home.’

  ‘Have you thought about going to the police?’

  I swallow hard. The very thought of walking into a police

  station makes me cringe.

  ‘I doubt they’d take much notice of an ex- addict, do you?

  And if they start asking me a load of questions . . . well, let’s

  just say, I haven’t exactly been a model citizen. I’ve . . .’

  Shit. I wish I hadn’t started this now. It’s all coming out. The

  wreckage of my life, spilling out in a great ugly heap. I know if

  I’m going to do this Twelve Step thing properly, then at some

  point I’m going to have to confess all this anyway, and the rest

  of it. It’s one of the stages you have to work through. But some

  secrets are too shameful to share with anyone. Even more

  shameful than goading Simon to take a drink. In fact, they’re

  so off limits that when they creep into my head at night I ward

  them off before they can torment me, crowd them out with

  other thoughts, other images.

  ‘I’ve taken things that weren’t mine,’ I say. Keep it vague,

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  Astrid. ‘Things I could sell to buy booze. I know the police are never going to find out and there’s bugger all they could do

  about it now, but still . . . I’d feel uneasy talking to them. Guilty conscience, I suppose.’

  Helen rests her hand on my forearm again. ‘We’ve all done

  things we’re not proud of. I know I have. But remember’ – she makes the inverted- commas sign with her fingers and adopts

  the familiar, smug tone that I instantly recognize as her impres-

  sion of Rosie – ‘we’re only as sick as our secrets.’

  It feels good to laugh after the emotional intensity of the last

  half- hour.

  Helen pats my hand. ‘The sort of haters who post anony-

  mous mail through people’s letterboxes are usually cowards at

  heart. They’re like internet trolls. They get pleasure from upset-

  ting people.’ A crease appears between her eyebrows. ‘It’s a

  particularly vindictive thing to do. Was there anyone else, do

  you know? Another woman, perhaps?’

  ‘After me, do you mean? I don’t think so. There was an ex

  who kept sending him Facebook messages. An old schoolfriend

  who used to have a crush on h
im. I think he was seeing her

  when he met me, actually, but it wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Well, whoever it is, they’ve made their nasty little point now.

  I doubt you’ll be hearing from them again.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Helen. I really do.’

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  18

  Filled with a fresh resolve not to be intimidated by some pathetic

  saddo’s twisted mind game, I say goodbye to Helen and head for

  the British Red Cross shop. Flinstead has more than its fair share

  of charity shops so I’m bound to find something I like.

  Soon, I’ve bought a pair of Next shorts that look almost

  brand new, some cropped linen trousers that’ll look great with

  my trainers, and two Zara T- shirts – a real find. The only new

  things I’ve shelled out for are some Rizlas and tobacco – I can’t

  afford to keep buying cigarettes – and a cheap swimming cos-

  tume from Peacocks. Just in case Josh suggests a swim.

  I was going to ignore the Oxfam shop so I don’t have to face

  Rosie again, but I can’t stop myself looking in the window. The

  creepy mannequin is now sporting white chinos, a navy blazer

  and a panama hat. It still freaks me out, thinking about that

  T- shirt. It’s amazing the tricks a mind can play, even without

  alcohol, and yet, now that someone’s sending me nasty mes-

  sages, someone who knows about Simon and me, I can’t help

  wondering whether the mannequin was a message too. No,

  that’s ridiculous. I’m just being paranoid.

  My eyes wander over to a 60s smock dress on a dressmaker’s

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  dummy. It’s exquisite, and only £6.99. It’s too much of a bar-

  gain. I’m going to have to go in.

  The customer Rosie’s serving says goodbye. Now it’s just the

  two of us. Her mouth twists into a smile.

  ‘Good walk?’ she says.

  I nod. Why the hell did I have to look in the window in the

  first place?

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it, that dress you were looking at? My daugh-

  ter used to have one just like it.’

  Her daughter. Somehow, I didn’t imagine Rosie as a mother.

  She comes out from behind the counter. ‘It’s been a long time

  since I’ve seen her wearing it, though.’ She exhales slowly. ‘It’s

  been a long time since I’ve seen her full stop.’ She gives a wry

  smile. ‘She can’t forgive me, you see. For ruining her childhood.’

  I don’t know how to respond to this, or even if I want to. She

  acts as if we’re already friends, assumes there’s some kind of

  intimacy between us. As if the fact that we’re both alcoholics

  automatically binds us together. Or maybe it’s a ploy to draw

  me into conversation, and I know exactly what will happen if I

  let her. She’ll start asking me questions and smiling at me in

  that smug way of hers, as if she already knows the answers.

  ‘You can try it on if you like,’ she says. ‘There’s a changing

  room at the back.’

  ‘Erm . . .’

  ‘Go on. It’ll look great on you.’

  She peels the dress off the dummy and gestures towards a

  changing cubicle at the back of the shop, just off the room

  where all the donations are stored and sorted. It’s tiny and dark,

  with stained carpet tiles. I tug the flimsy curtain across, but it

  doesn’t fit the frame properly so there’s a gap of about an inch

  on one side.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Rosie calls out. ‘There’s nobody else here.’

  I squeeze out of my jeans and take my top off, then wriggle

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  into the dress. It fits perfectly. I peer at myself in the mirror, but it’s so gloomy in here it’s hard to get a good look. I’m sure I

  noticed a bigger, full- length mirror propped against the wall in

  the back room, near the workstation and the PC. I step outside

  and almost bump into Rosie. She must have been standing

  behind the curtain the whole time.

  ‘Stunning,’ she says. ‘You look like a young Mia Farrow.’

  She stares at my body for a beat too long and my mind returns

  to when she pressed her phone number on me, tucked it into

  my shirt pocket, her fingers brushing my left breast. I feel her

  eyes on me as I pick my way past all the donations heaped on

  the floor. The fusty scent of old books and second- hand clothes

  is even riper back here. Some attempt has been made to freshen

  things up with one of those floral room sprays. There’s an under-

  tone of something else too, though I can’t put my finger on what

  it is. It reminds me of some of the squats I’ve dossed in.

  On a large table in the centre of the room things are being

  grouped into categories: men’s jackets and old suits, ladies’

  woollen jumpers and cardigans, a heap of shoes and strappy

  sandals. It makes me think of one of those hideous old photo-

  graphs from the Holocaust – the possessions of the dead. I

  blink the image away.

  It’s been a long while since I’ve worn a dress. I feel exposed,

  vulnerable, although I know it looks good on me. Short, but not

  too short. Sexy, but not in an obvious, provocative way. I wish Rosie would go away and leave me to decide on my own, but

  she’s still right here next to me, nodding and smiling. Telling me

  how great I look in it, how for £6.99 it’s a no‑ brainer. Christ, talk about hard sell. Anyone would think we were in an expensive

  boutique and she was on commission.

  At last, another customer comes in and Rosie goes off to deal

  with them. Her reluctance at leaving me here on my own is

  obvious. I take one last look at myself in the mirror. The dress

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  is great. I’ll buy it. But just as I’m about to return to the cubicle to take it off I hear Richard Carter’s voice. He’s dropping off a

  bag of old clothes. The second this week by the sound of it.

  ‘I think that’s the lot now,’ he says.

  I linger by the mirror, unwilling to walk over to the cubicle

  in case he spots me. The last thing I want is for these two com-

  pletely separate parts of my world to collide.

  My eyes drift round the room as I wait for him to leave. They

  settle first on the PC that’s been left open on the Word template

  screen, and then travel down to the floor and Rosie’s cloth bag,

  the one with the patchwork design she always has with her at

  AA meetings. It’s stuffed behind the mirror and I can’t help

  noticing that there’s a rolled- up sleeping bag in there with a

  toothbrush and tube of toothpaste sticking out the top. There’s

  something else in there too: a torch.

  Didn’t she say something a while back about looking for

  somewhere to stay?

  At last, Richard leaves and I dash back into the cubicle to

  change. I suppose if you ha
d the keys to a small shop like this

  and knew what you were doing, you could get away with it, as

  long as you covered your tracks and cleared out before the

  morning- shift person turned up. Is that what Rosie’s been

  doing? Why else would she be lugging a sleeping bag and

  torch around with her? I know I’ve dossed on a fair few floors

  in my time, but to still be doing it in your sixties? How tragic

  is that?

  When I come back into the shop she’s sifting through a mas-

  sive laundry bag, her dyed hair hanging in front of her face. She

  straightens up at my approach and walks towards the till. I put

  the dress down and rootle around in my pocket for my last ten-

  ner. Where the hell is it?

  I empty my rucksack on to the counter, heat staining my

  cheeks: a packet of green Rizlas, a pouch of Golden Virginia,

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  Simon’s juggling ball and a handful of screwed- up tissues. The

  ball rolls towards Rosie and, just as I’m about to grab it, she

  picks it up and gives it a squeeze. Damn. It won’t be the same

  any more, not now she’s touched it. Why the hell did I have to bring it out with me in the first place?

  ‘Here.’

  I place the tenner on to the counter in front of her and put

  the tissues and Rizlas back into my rucksack. She’s still play-

  ing with the ball, tossing it slowly and rhythmically from one

  hand to the other, a strange trance- like expression on her face.

  I want to grab it back, but all I can do is wait till she takes my

  money.

  Eventually, almost reluctantly, she puts it down and I grab

  hold of it. It’s ruined now. I won’t be able to hold it for comfort

  any more, or bring it to my face at night and kid myself it smells

  of Simon, because her hands have been all over it.

  She drops the dress into a brown paper bag.

  ‘I bet your new fella’s going to love you in this,’ she says. ‘He

  is your new fella, isn’t he? The good- looking guy with the blond hair?’

  How does she know what Josh looks like? She must have

  seen me come out of the Fisherman’s Shack with him that time,

  or else she’s seen us down on the beach. That’s the trouble with

  a town this small. Everyone knows your business. Thank God

  Richard isn’t still here. I’d have died from embarrassment if

  he’d heard her say that.