Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  right.

  ‘When did she say she lived here?’

  ‘Sometime in the early 90s, I think she said.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s odd? I’d be surprised if the decor in

  here isn’t exactly as it was twenty, maybe even thirty years ago.’

  Mum shrugs. ‘If you say so, dear. The furniture and curtains

  will have been different, though, and the layout. I expect that’s

  what she meant.’

  ‘I thought you told me once that the previous owner was

  really old. A widower, you said.’

  Mum stands up and starts stacking the cups. ‘Yes, that’s right.

  He got too frail and had to go into a home.’

  ‘So how could a little girl have been living here?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Astrid. I don’t know. Maybe she was

  his granddaughter.’

  ‘Did she go upstairs?’

  Mum walks out into the hall with the cups and saucers. ‘Of

  course. She wanted to see her old room. She was only up there

  a couple of minutes.’

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I don’t like the

  thought of a stranger coming to the house when Mum’s on her

  own. She’s too trusting. It could have been anyone.

  I follow her out. ‘You mean she was up there alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

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  ‘Jeez, Mum! You let a complete stranger wander round the

  house on her own?’

  Mum makes an exasperated snorting noise. ‘Astrid, why do

  you always think the worst of people?’

  ‘I don’t, I just . . .’

  ‘She was only up there a few minutes, and then she left.’

  ‘Did she tell you her name?’

  ‘Laura.’

  ‘Laura what?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. She didn’t say.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to ask?’

  Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Perhaps I should have checked her ID

  before letting her over the doorstep. Oh, by the way, I forgot to

  tell you. Your DWP letter’s arrived. I’ve left it on the stairs on

  top of some other bits and pieces that need sorting through for

  recycling.’

  My stomach muscles tighten at the thought of another brown

  envelope and what it might contain, but when I see what she’s

  talking about my fears dissolve. This is what I’ve been waiting

  for. I recognize the official logo. I tear the envelope open and

  scan the letter inside, relief flooding through me. Mum looks at

  me expectantly.

  ‘They’ve given me a date to sign on. About time.’

  I scoop up the little pile that’s left and head for the recycling

  box in the porch, sifting through them as I go. A flyer about

  pizza delivery. The little magazine full of adverts for local ser-

  vices and tradespeople. Something from Flinstead parish church

  detailing service times and various other groups and clubs –

  nothing about AA meetings, I notice, although I guess that’s not

  the sort of thing they tend to shout about – and . . . and another brown envelope with the same curly green handwriting as

  before. My ears begin to buzz. My gut feels as if it’s being wrung

  out like a towel.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  Mum’s still standing there. ‘Did I miss something impor-

  tant? I thought the rest was all junk mail.’

  I force myself to think of a response. ‘It’s from someone I met

  in rehab. I recognize her writing.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realize you were keeping in touch with anyone.’

  ‘She said she’d drop me a line sometime.’ My voice sounds

  distant and tinny, as if it’s being squeezed through a narrow

  tube.

  ‘Right, I’d better get on with our supper.’ Mum heads towards

  the kitchen. ‘Could you close the window in the front room,

  please? I don’t know what perfume that girl was wearing, but it

  was really overpowering.’

  Something niggles at the back of my mind. Like the trace of

  a dream I can’t quite remember. The sense that I’ve overlooked

  something. An important detail. And then it comes to me.

  ‘What did she look like? Can you describe her?’

  Mum stops and turns round, an irritated look on her face.

  ‘Why are you obsessing over this? She was about your age, I

  think. Pale skin. Dark hair.’

  My scalp shrinks. There’s a strange, tightening sensation in

  my chest. ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘What is this, Astrid? An interrogation?’ She sighs. ‘Jeans, I

  think. Grey jeans. Oh, and she had a sort of quilted anorak on.

  I remember thinking she must be far too hot in it, but she

  wouldn’t take it off.’

  The tightness in my chest intensifies. ‘Do you mean a puffa

  jacket?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what a puffa jacket is, dear. It was grey and

  quilted, that’s all I can remember. Why are you asking me all

  these questions?’

  ‘Someone at AA mentioned there’s been a spate of house

  burglaries recently and they all reported having strange house

  calls a few days before.’

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  LESLEY K AR A

  The lie sounds plausible enough.

  Mum makes one of her little harrumphing noises as she sets

  off for the kitchen again. ‘I’m not in my dotage yet, dear. I’m

  perfectly capable of using my own judgement.’

  I stare at the green writing on the envelope. Why didn’t I

  make the connection before? The first time I noticed the smell

  was the night I saw Simon’s ghost running past me. There was

  someone else there too, wasn’t there? A girl tying her laces. A

  girl in a grey puffa jacket. I almost tripped over her.

  I take the stairs two at a time and lock myself in the toilet.

  The handwriting on the envelope taunts me with its extrava-

  gant loops and curls. With its psychopathic greenness. This time, there’s no postmark.

  And that’s not the only time I’ve seen her. I’m sure it was her

  eating chocolate when I was in the Fisherman’s Shack waiting

  for Josh. And I’ve seen her at the beach too. Those times I’ve

  caught the scent on the breeze . . . the scent that must have

  acted like a trigger in my mind and made me hallucinate. All

  this time, she’s been following me. It wasn’t the postman after

  all. And now she’s been inside this house! She must have

  slipped this into the pile of post on her way upstairs when

  Mum wasn’t looking.

  As before, there’s just one piece of paper inside. Gingerly, I

  draw it out, unfold it slowly. It’s a page torn from a local news-

  paper with the name blacked out – a family- announcement page – and there, in the deaths section, someone has crossed

  out one of the names of the deceased and written something

  above it, in tiny neat letters.

  I peer a little closer. It says ‘Hilary Phelps’.

  The walls close in on me and my eyes grow fuzzy. Someone

  wants me dead.r />
  The sheet of newspaper flutters to the floor. And that’s when

  I see the large green letters scrawled on the back:

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  You’d better not get too comfortable in sleepy little Flinstead.

  You’d better keep your wits about you from now on. What goes

  around comes around. And now it’s time. It’s time to pay for

  what you’ve done . . . Because it’s not just Simon on your con-

  science, is it?

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  24

  I open my eyes. I’m scrunched up on the toilet floor, face

  squashed against the rubbery cork tiles. What the hell hap-

  pened here? I must have passed out.

  Then I remember, and it’s like a switch has been flicked on in

  my brain. All the bad neurons firing at once.

  You need a drink. It’s the only way out of this.

  I can’t allow myself to listen to this voice, but it’s so persis-

  tent. So persuasive.

  You know how good it will taste. Just one little drink. You can

  handle it.

  I can’t. I really can’t.

  Oh, but you can. You’ll know when to stop this time.

  No! I just have to ride the compulsion out. I can resist it. I

  can. Whoever’s doing this to me wants this to happen. They

  want me to fall apart. But I won’t. I can’t. Not this time. I’ve got too much to lose.

  Too much to lose? Don’t make me laugh. You’ve lost it already. You don’t for one minute think this thing with Josh has got legs, do you? It’s doomed, and you know it. He won’t want anything to do with you once he knows what kind of person you are.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  It’s true. I can’t deny that.

  Pretending your mother’s depressed and that you’re here to look

  after her. How low can you get? Hah! Daft question. We both know how low you can get, and it’s much, much lower than that. You’re a disgrace, a pathetic excuse for a human being. A waste of space.

  I snatch the piece of paper from the floor and rip it up, tear-

  ing into it till it’s completely destroyed, till there’s no way I

  could piece it together again, even if I wanted to. Then I scoop

  every last scrap of it into my hands and throw the whole lot

  down the loo and flush the chain.

  It hasn’t gone away, though. How could it? I’ll never unsee

  those words.

  Because it’s not just Simon on your conscience, is it?

  The young woman from my nightmare appears behind my

  eyes, struggling to her feet and pointing her finger. I shake

  my head to force the image away. Simon wouldn’t have told

  anyone else. We made a pact when we sobered up. He was as

  disgusted with himself as I was. As I still am. The self- loathing.

  The guilt. These things don’t lessen with time, they get worse.

  They fester inside you like a cancerous growth. It was the one

  thing we couldn’t talk about, either of us, ever again.

  What goes around comes around. And now it’s time. It’s time to

  pay for what you’ve done.

  As if I don’t pay for it every day. As if it isn’t always hovering at the back of my mind, ready to ambush me at any given moment.

  I take a deep breath. My mind won’t stop now. It’s doing

  what it always does, flinging me straight back to the horrors of

  that night – what bits of it I can remember. The pictures in my

  head collide and blur. The horrified shape of her mouth. Her

  knuckles white against the brown leather strap of her bag. The

  child in the pushchair screaming and kicking its legs.

  Now that I’ve conjured the fragments of memory I’m piecing

  them together like I always do, trying to find the right order, to

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  make sense of the noise and confusion in my brain. The push-

  ing and shoving. That sickening crack. The rising note of terror

  in the child’s wail.

  My heart pounds. The rest is blurred, like a film on fast

  forward. Simon pulling me away. The pain in my chest from

  running. The fluorescent light in the late- night Spar. More

  cheap wine. More cider. Then . . . nothing. I must have blacked

  out. When I came to there was blood on my sleeve, but it wasn’t

  mine. It wasn’t mine. What the hell did I do to that poor woman?

  I force myself to breathe more deeply, to return to the here and

  now. I retch into the toilet. It’s the patchy nature of my memories

  that’s so hard to bear. The not knowing. It was down by the river

  somewhere. Blue railings, that’s all I can remember. She must

  have fought back or she wouldn’t have fallen. Why the hell did

  she fight back? She had a child with her, for Christ’s sake!

  Was it her head that hit the paving stones? She could have

  died! And what about the child? How long was it screaming

  before someone came to help? We scoured the news reports

  when we sobered up, desperate for information, but we couldn’t

  find it reported anywhere, not even one small paragraph in the

  local news.

  I unlock the toilet door and go into my bedroom. My eyes

  travel slowly round the room. At first glance, it looks exactly

  the same, but something in this eight- by- ten- foot space is sub-

  tly different. Like in one of those spot- the- difference pictures.

  I draw back my duvet and stare at the bottom sheet and the

  pillow. I don’t know what I’m expecting to see, but whatever

  gruesome discovery my subconscious anticipates – a dead rat;

  a horse’s head – the bed harbours nothing but my own folded

  T- shirt.

  I run my hands over my bedside cabinet. The small travel

  clock, my lip salve and box of tissues. What’s wrong with this

  picture?

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  And then I see it, the Big Book with its marker sticking out,

  and something clicks into place. Of course! I grab hold of it and

  flip through the chapters with trembling fingers till I come to the

  section I’m searching for. I need to check the exact wording.

  Here it is. Step 5: ‘Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.’

  I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. Oh, Simon,

  dear Simon. You weren’t messing about, were you? You really

  were following the programme. You were working the steps

  properly. To the letter.

  The question is: who did you tell?

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  pa rt thr e e

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  25

  Mum bangs on the bathroom door. I flinch at the noise.

  �
�Astrid, you’ve been in there for ages! What are you doing?’

  I dry myself with one of her rock- hard bath towels. My skin

  feels raw and sensitive and every bone in my body aches from

  lack of sleep.

  ‘I’ll be out in two minutes.’

  I stare at the dark hollows under my eyes, my grey complex-

  ion. I should text Josh and tell him I can’t work on the painting

  today. Tell him I’m ill. But what will I do if I stay home all day?

  Go crazy, that’s what. I need the distraction. Now more than

  ever. Besides, I’ve agreed to do the painting – I can’t let them

  down.

  Back in my bedroom, I’m in the middle of fastening my bra

  when I see it. Or rather, when I don’t see it. The gold juggling ball. It’s missing from my bedside table.

  I knew something was different in here. She’s taken it. She’s been in my room and stolen Simon’s juggling ball. The only

  thing of his I have left. My heart thumps. I bend down to look

  under the bed, just in case I’m mistaken and it’s rolled off, but

  it isn’t there. I pull open drawers and rifle through them, even

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  though I know I won’t find it. I even open my wardrobe and go

  through all my pockets.

  It isn’t anywhere. It’s gone.

  This girl has wormed her way into the house when I wasn’t

  here. She’s had the nerve to sit on my mum’s settee, drinking

  her tea and feeding her lies. She’s left her poisonous note on

  the stairs and nosed around in my room. The very air feels con-

  taminated. It’s all too close for comfort now. What does she

  want with me?

  Down in the kitchen, as I wait for the kettle to boil, a bitter

  anger floods through me. I can’t blame Simon for working

  through the Twelve Steps. I’m doing it myself, or trying to. But

  he must have given this girl, whoever she is, my name – my

  real name. How else would she have tracked me down? My

  fingers curl into fists. It was our shameful secret – it bonded us together like glue. We said we’d take it to our graves. What

  were you thinking, Simon? How could you be so stupid? So

  careless.

  Mum comes in with her arms full of dirty washing for the

  machine. I pretend to be reading the small print on the back of

  the box of teabags. There’s no way I can tell her, because I know

  exactly what she’ll say if she knows I’m being stalked and

  threatened. She’ll tell me to go to the police. She’ll insist upon