Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

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  It’s raining. The vestry smells even damper and mustier than

  usual. It’s nearly eight o’clock and Helen’s still not here. I should have called on her earlier – I meant to – but what with all the

  business with the beach huts, I forgot all about it. And then

  Charlie asked me to mind the art shop while he boarded up the

  hut. I can’t believe he trusted me, a complete stranger, with all

  that valuable stock and a till full of cash.

  But what kind of friend have I been to Helen in her hour of

  need? What if she woke up again after I left and started drink-

  ing again? The image of Simon twitching and jerking next to

  me, a drool of saliva oozing from the corner of his mouth,

  thrusts its way into my mind. There’s something else this time,

  something I’d forgotten till now: his phone, chirping and pul-

  sating in his shirt pocket like a trapped bird. Why, after all this

  time, has that image popped into my mind?

  I force myself back to the present. The atmosphere feels dif-

  ferent tonight. Acne Man hasn’t turned up, but several new

  people have – new to me, at least. A fat middle- aged man with

  pasty white skin wearing a tracksuit and cheap white trainers

  cracked with age. He’s three seats away from me, but I can smell

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  them from here. Jeremy, who’s sitting right next to him, keeps

  pinching his nostrils with his finger and thumb as if he’s got an

  itchy nose. Then there’s a black man in his late twenties or early

  thirties. A couple of times I’ve sensed him glance over at me.

  The rest of the time he hangs over his knees and stares at the

  floor.

  Rosie is chairing tonight. She’s wearing badly applied pink,

  glittery nail polish that looks like something a seven- year- old

  would wear for a special party. Her voice drones on and it isn’t

  long before my eyelids droop. I haven’t slept properly for the

  last two nights and, though my mind’s still spinning with eve-

  rything that’s happened, my body craves sleep.

  Rosie’s voice washes through me, like the murmurings from

  Mum’s radio that come through the wall at night. I’m sinking

  into a dream- like state, but every so often a particular phrase

  snags at my attention and drags me to the surface.

  ‘It’s more than just apologizing . . . you have to actually do

  something . . .’

  My eyes flick open. Why do I always get the feeling that

  every thing she says is directed at me and no one else? As if I’m

  the only person in the room. I know it’s just a coincidence that

  tonight she’s chosen to talk about step nine, about making

  amends to people we’ve harmed, but after that horrible mes-

  sage I can’t help reading more into it. It’s as if she knows things

  about me I’ve never told her. I’m being paranoid, I know I am.

  I wish I hadn’t come. I could just stand up and walk out.

  Nobody’s going to stop me. I don’t have to justify my decision

  to any of them. But something keeps me tethered to the chair.

  It’s the same thing that brought me here in the first place, and it’s nothing to do with Mum’s list of dates by the calendar, or that

  edginess she gets when she thinks I’ve forgotten a meeting and

  can’t quite bring herself to remind me.

  *

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  Rosie corners me at the end, as I knew she would. She and I are

  the only females in the room tonight. Is that why I tolerate

  her advances, because my usual ally is missing, presumed

  pissed?

  ‘No Helen tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  She leans towards me and lowers her voice. ‘I don’t like to

  gossip, but . . .’ Her eyes dart towards Jeremy, as if she doesn’t

  want him to witness her indiscretion. But Jeremy is busy doing

  what he always does, overseeing the teas and coffees, as if this

  were a business meeting he’s convened and he’s keen to reward

  everyone for their contributions.

  ‘I’ve seen her buying wine,’ she whispers.

  I wrinkle my nostrils. Her breath smells like an old ashtray.

  ‘She was probably buying it for a guest,’ I say. I’m not going

  to tell her about last night. It’s none of her business and, besides, it feels disloyal talking about Helen when she isn’t here.

  Rosie makes a noise that’s halfway between a sigh and a

  laugh. ‘I can see you two get along, and that’s great. But if you’re serious about beating your addiction, Astrid, then you really

  need to work with someone who’s been sober for a few years.

  Someone who’s got experience of the Twelve Steps and can

  guide you through them.’

  ‘Someone like you, you mean.’

  Rosie does her slow blink. What with her crinkled grey skin,

  she reminds me of a lizard.

  She touches my arm and her voice drops to a whisper.

  ‘This thing could kill you, Astrid. You know that, don’t you?

  Let me help you.’

  I shake her off. She’s gone too far. She’s being intrusive. And

  anyway, why is she so obsessed with helping me and not any of the others? If she’s so worried that Helen’s still drinking, why

  isn’t she trying to help her instead?

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  I’m aware of her eyes boring into the space between my

  shoulder blades as I leave the vestry. I don’t care how many

  people she’s sponsored in the past. I’m not going to be another

  one of her bloody projects.

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  The voice on the intercom is wary.

  ‘Okay. You’d better come up.’

  Helen is waiting for me at her front door. Her face is pale and

  tired- looking, but at least she seems sober.

  ‘I was worried about you,’ I say. ‘Especially when you didn’t

  show up tonight.’

  A puzzled expression distorts her face. She smacks her fore-

  head with the palm of her hand. ‘Shit! I forgot all about it.’

  ‘You didn’t miss much, to be honest. Only Rosie droning on

  about making amends.’

  I follow her into the living room.

  ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she says. Her voice sounds hoarser than

  usual and she won’t meet my eye.

  ‘It was just a slip- up, Helen. You can get back on track.’

  She says nothing. Then, after what seems like an age, she

  starts to speak.

  ‘I’m so angry with myself. So ashamed. I feel like I’ve let us

  both down. I’ll tell you one thing. It’s made me absolutely determined that it won’t happen again. I’ve been reading the Big

  Book all day.’

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&nb
sp; ‘If it’s made you stronger, then maybe it was meant to

  happen.’

  Helen smiles at last. It feels like a cloud has lifted. She goes

  into the kitchen and puts the kettle on.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming round last night,’ she says. ‘But

  I really wish you hadn’t seen me like that.’

  ‘You weren’t so bad. You fell asleep almost as soon as I arrived.’

  She hangs her head in shame.

  A few minutes later she brings in the tea.

  ‘How are things with you?’ she says.

  ‘Oh, Helen, the last thing I want to do is burden you with all

  my troubles. You’ve got enough of your own.’

  ‘If we focus on each other’s problems, maybe our own won’t

  seem as bad.’ She gives me a sheepish smile. ‘Maybe Rosie’s

  right with all her little sayings. Maybe we just have to accept

  that this is the way it works.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So what is it? What’s happened?’

  I reach for my mug, then change my mind. I’m feeling sick

  all of a sudden.

  She leans forward. ‘Not another photo of Simon?’

  ‘Someone tricked their way into the house when Mum was

  on her own. There’s a girl who’s been following me. She left

  another envelope. Not a photo this time. It was a page from a

  newspaper. A death notice with my name on it.’ Helen covers

  her mouth with her hand. ‘And a note. A horrible, horrible

  note.’

  Helen stares at me, bewildered. ‘Who is this girl?

  ‘I don’t know, but she’s the one who’s doing all this.’

  Helen frowns. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because she took Simon’s juggling ball and left me that

  note.’ My breath catches in my throat. ‘There’s something I

  didn’t think anyone else except Simon knew about. I’ve never

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  LESLEY K AR A

  talked about it. Not even to the counsellors at rehab. It’s just

  too . . . shameful.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  ‘I want to, but . . . I’m not sure if I can.’

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Let’s do this properly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She gets up and goes over to the bureau, opens a drawer. ‘It’s

  something I’ve been thinking about ever since I woke up.’

  She brings over a photocopied sheet of the Twelve Steps and

  places it on the table between us.

  ‘Look, I know we’re supposed to work our way through each

  step in chronological order, but the way I see it, if we both have

  a problem with the God thing, then maybe we should just con-

  centrate on the ones that make the most practical sense.’

  Her relapse seems to have galvanized her into full- on recov-

  ery mode, but I have to admit she’s looking and sounding a

  whole lot better than she did the other night. And if I’m going

  to do this step- work with anyone, I’d rather muddle through

  with Helen than with Rosie.

  She points to the highlighted sections on the photocopy,

  which, now I come to look at it more closely, is full of crossings-

  out – the God references, mainly – and lots of linking arrows

  and scribbled notes.

  ‘Step 4, for instance. Making a searching and fearless moral

  inventory of ourselves. We could do that, couldn’t we? We could combine it with Step 8 and include all the people we’ve harmed

  over the years.’

  I try to keep my face neutral. I’ve heard it can take months to

  complete Step 4 properly, but I don’t want to dampen her

  enthusiasm. I’m not sure Rosie and Jeremy would agree with

  cherry- picking only those steps we can face. Of mixing them

  up in this way and leaving God out of the equation altogether.

  Nor would some of the Twelve Step Nazis I met in rehab.

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  WHO DID YOU TELL?

  ‘And then we could do Step 5,’ she says. ‘Our own version of

  it, obviously – and read each other our lists. That way, we’ll

  have . . .’ She leans forward to check the wording. ‘ Admitted to ourselves and another human being the exact nature of our wrongs. ’

  I swallow hard, because that’s what Simon must have done.

  That’s why I’m in this mess in the first place. And yet she does

  have a point. It’s got to be better than not doing it at all.

  ‘Think about it, Astrid. If you can conquer your demons and

  face up to your past, what’s left to be scared of?’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . .’

  Helen goes over to the bureau again and returns with paper

  and pens.

  ‘No time like the present,’ she says.

  For the next fifteen or twenty minutes we sit in silence, each

  composing our lists of shame. Is this really the way forward? Is

  this what I have to do to get better? Face each and every cold

  hard truth about myself? Deal them out like cards on a table,

  picture side up? Surely some things are best kept hidden. Then

  again, I’ve already told her what happened with Simon, so she

  might as well know the rest.

  ‘Okay,’ I say at last. ‘I think I’ve reached saturation point.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says, resting her pen on her lap and rubbing her

  eyes.

  ‘You first,’ I say, before she says the same thing to me.

  She clears her throat and stares at her notepad. ‘These are in

  no particular order.’

  I nod encouragingly.

  ‘So, number one. I let down my colleagues. Embarrassed

  them in front of an important client, lost business for the firm.’

  She closes her eyes and sighs. ‘I’m mortified, looking back on

  it.’ She clears her throat again. ‘Number two. I told my best

  friend to fuck off and die when all she was trying to do was

  help me. Number three. I threw up in Waterstones. All over

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  their buy- one- get- one- half- price display table. I caused a real scene when they confronted me.’

  The corner of my mouth twitches. I can’t help it. I look down

  at my lap and focus on my own sordid list. This isn’t meant to

  be funny.

  ‘Number four. I told my niece and nephew a secret about

  their mother when I was drunk. Something I promised I’d never

  tell a living soul. My sister hasn’t spoken to me since.’

  Just like Simon promised me, I think, and once more, the

  piecemeal memories of that night parade behind my eyes.

  Helen looks up at the ceiling for a few seconds before con-

  tinuing.

  ‘Number five,’ she says, and takes a deep breath. She’s saving

  the worst for last. It’s what I’ve done in my list too.

  ‘I destroyed the love of my life. He gave me another chance

  but I pushed him away from me.’

  Her eyes swim with tears and for a few seconds she hugs her

  chest and rocks herself to and fro in her chair. My eyes fill up

  too. Nothing about any of this is the least bit amusing.

  I don’t suppose it matters ho
w I respond. The important

  thing is that she’s said these things out loud, that she’s shared

  them with me.

  ‘So have you thought about how you can made amends?’ I

  ask her. I know I’m skipping ahead, but I’m not ready to read

  my own list out yet.

  Helen consults her notepad. ‘I suppose I could send a letter

  of apology to the partners in my old firm. Perhaps I could offer

  to do some unpaid work for them. They’ll probably say no, but

  at least I’ll have offered.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  For the next ten minutes we come up with one action she

  could complete for each item on her list. Some will be trickier

  than others, of course. She doesn’t think her husband or her

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  best friend or her sister will want anything more to do with

  her, but she can at least try.

  Now the time has come to read out my own ghastly bullet

  points. I can’t help feeling that mine are far worse than hers,

  but of course everyone’s journey is different. Everyone has their

  own rock bottom.

  As I read, I’m reminded of the nightmare I had a while back,

  the one where Richard Carter read out this same list in the

  Flinstead and Mistden community hall, and I find myself

  adopting a vaguely similar tone of voice. So ‘fucking a friend’s

  boyfriend in the back seat of his car while she was visiting her

  parents’ takes the form of a somewhat unorthodox liturgical

  chant. Although by the time I get to ‘asking my dad for help

  with a deposit on a new flatshare and then blowing the whole

  lot on a three- day bender in Bruges’, my voice has become a lit-

  tle more halting and awkward.

  ‘You know the next one because I’ve already told you. I made

  Simon start drinking again.’

  Helen gives me a sad little smile.

  And now here it is. The last one.

  ‘Go on,’ Helen says. ‘It won’t seem as bad when you say it out

  loud.’

  ‘Believe me, it will.’

  ‘Say it anyway.’

  So I do. I tell her everything I can remember, try to stitch the

  disconnected memories together.

  ‘I wish I could make sense of it all, but I can’t. The only thing

  I know for sure is that something bad happened that night. We

  hurt an innocent young mother in front of her child. And for

  what? Thirty fucking quid, or whatever it was.’