Who Did You Tell (ARC) Read online

  librarian, but for those few seconds we’re exactly the same.

  This time, I stay on for a coffee. The little ‘after- the- meeting

  meeting’. The silver- haired man in the charcoal suit – Jeremy,

  fifteen years sober, Christ, that sounds like a life sentence –

  hands me a carton of semi- skimmed milk. I shake my head so

  he passes it to Helen instead. Her hand trembles as she pours it

  in. I can’t be the only one who’s noticed.

  Jeremy turns to face me. ‘Are you new to the area, Astrid?’ I

  know he’s just being friendly, but there’s something about him

  that gives me the creeps. He’s too charming. Too nice.

  ‘Yes. I used to live in London.’

  Rosie materializes at his side. She does one of those slow

  nods, as if she already knows this about me, as if I’ve got the

  word ‘Londoner’ engraved on my forehead.

  ‘Me too,’ she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear

  and hoisting an overstuffed patchwork bag further up her

  shoulder. ‘I moved here when my mother died.’

  She looks like the sort of person who might be expecting me

  to respond with something sympathetic, but I’ve never been

  much good at platitudes, so I tend not to bother. It’s either that

  or say the wrong thing.

  Jeremy clears his throat. The silence between us lengthens.

  ‘Flinstead’s a funny old place, isn’t it?’ he says.

  My neck feels all hot and sticky. This is turning into a dry

  version of a cocktail party. I blink away the image of a classic

  daiquiri, a wheel of lime clinging to a salt- rimmed glass. I

  should never have stayed on. What was I thinking?

  ‘It is, yes.’

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  A strange expression flickers over his face, as if he wants to

  say more but can’t find the words. I look away in case he does

  and the woman with funny eyes who tried to start a round of

  applause earlier gives me a sly glance from across the room.

  She’s been doing it all evening.

  ‘Your hair looks lovely,’ Rosie says. ‘Not that it didn’t look

  good before, but . . .’ She makes a nervous clicking noise at the

  back of her throat.

  I touch my head. I feel naked without my braids. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So whereabouts in Flinstead do you live?’ she says.

  ‘With my mother.’

  It’s an instinctive, passive- aggressive response, I know it is,

  but I don’t elaborate. For some reason, Rosie grates on me. She

  blinks, slowly and lazily, like a cat.

  Jeremy hands her a mug of coffee. ‘Did you manage to find

  somewhere to stay?’ he asks.

  Rosie shakes her head. ‘Still looking, I’m afraid. But I’ve

  found somewhere temporary.’

  Just as I’m heading for the door, she puts her arm out to stop

  me. Her fingers settle on my shoulder like a little bird. ‘You

  don’t happen to know of any flatshares in the area, do you,

  Astrid? Or anyone who might need a lodger?’

  ‘Err, no. Sorry.’

  My hand is on the door handle.

  ‘Astrid?’

  I turn round.

  ‘Keep coming back,’ she says. ‘It works if you work it.’

  I’m standing in the alleyway by the side of the church, trying to

  light a cigarette in the wind, when Helen comes out. She cups

  her hands round my lighter to shield the flame.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say at last.

  I offer her a smoke, but she declines. ‘That’s the one vice I

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  have managed to resist. Although sometimes I’m sorely tempted to take it up. There’s only so much coffee you can drink.’

  ‘The stuff in there’s revolting,’ I say.

  Helen nods. ‘The coffee’s shit too.’

  We both laugh, just as the young man with acne appears at

  the top of the alleyway. He stops, momentarily startled, then

  hurries on past, eyes down, collar up.

  Helen’s forehead puckers into a worried frown as we watch

  him disappear into the darkness. ‘I hope he doesn’t think we

  were laughing at him.’

  ‘Well, if he does, I’m sure he’ll soon get over it.’

  ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘what did Rosie say to you when you

  were leaving?’

  I tilt my head to one side and look at her from under my eye-

  brows. ‘ Keep coming back. It works if you work it. ’ Helen widens her eyes. ‘Some people add another bit on the end: So work it,

  you’re worth it. It’s an AA slogan,’ I say. ‘There are loads of them out there.’

  We’re walking away from the church now. Apart from the

  click of Helen’s heels on the pavement and the faint roar of the

  wind coming off the sea, it’s eerily quiet. No revellers shouting.

  No music spilling from bars. No cars whooshing by. I miss the

  noise and bustle of London. The way it barely takes a nap. Not

  like Flinstead, with its slippers on and cocoa warming, its cur-

  tains drawn against the dark.

  ‘So what do you really think of AA?’ she says.

  I slide my eyes to the side. I’m pretty sure she’s as cynical about

  the whole thing as I am, but maybe she’s just testing me out.

  ‘Well, you read all sorts of stuff about it being like a cult,

  don’t you, and I have to admit, I’m not convinced it’s for me.

  But I’m giving it a try.’ I don’t tell her that without Mum forcing

  me to go I probably wouldn’t.

  ‘So are you working your way through the Twelve Steps?’

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  ‘Kind of.’

  Should I tell her what I really feel? That I have an issue with

  just about every single one of those damn steps and that, even

  if I could get beyond the God thing, which I’m not sure I can, I

  still don’t buy into the notion that a set of non- medical princi-

  ples is the only cure for what is meant to be a disease, for

  Christ’s sake, a neurobiological condition.

  ‘I guess I have a problem with the whole God thing,’ I tell her.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Helen says.

  We’re coming up to Mum’s turning in a minute. I could say

  goodbye and shake her off if I wanted, but something keeps me

  walking. There’s a connection between us, even if it is just a

  healthy scepticism about AA.

  ‘You’d better watch out,’ I say. ‘Now that I’ve given Rosie the

  brush- off, it’ll be your turn next week.’

  ‘If you ask me, she’s already decided you’re her next pet pro-

  ject. Did you see the way she was looking at you when you were

  talking?’

  ‘No, but then I try not to make eye contact when I’m sharing.

  It puts me off.’

  ‘God, yeah, I know what you mean.’

  We’ve cut through into Flinstead Road now and are heading

  towards the sea. A small group of drinkers spills out of the pub

  ahead of us and, instinctively, we both cross the road and

  quicken our pace. We
don’t say anything. Don’t need to.

  ‘Right then, this is me.’ Helen stops outside a block of flats

  near the front. ‘See you next meeting?’

  ‘Try keeping me away.’

  I watch as she taps a security code into a panel and opens the

  heavy glass door. As soon as it clicks shut behind her my confi-

  dence evaporates and all I can think of is Simon creeping up

  behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  This is ridiculous.

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  I set off in the direction of the sea. It’s that same compulsion

  I had the other night, to push myself out of my comfort zone,

  refuse to be frightened.

  Down on the beach the moon silvers the sand and I can’t tell

  whether the tide’s going out or coming in. I shouldn’t have

  come down here. I should have gone straight home, but that’s

  part of the attraction. Maybe that’s always been my problem.

  Doing things other people don’t do. Being fearless.

  I have this fantasy of breaking into a beach hut and setting

  up camp there. Living like a fugitive, venturing out only at

  night, when Flinstead sleeps. I could probably get away with it

  too, for a while. I slept on a beach once, somewhere in Spain.

  Before things started to go wrong, back in the days when I

  thought I had a plan. When I was managing my relationship

  with drink perfectly well, thank you. Simon and me, tanked up

  on cheap wine. There’d been a barbecue, music, people danc-

  ing. I had sand in my hair and filthy feet. We’d just done it

  under an opened- out sleeping bag, on our sides, thrusting

  silently against each other. It was the happiest I’ve ever been.

  The thought of Josh’s muscular, tanned limbs splayed out on

  that big white bed flashes into my mind. I try to block it out,

  but I can’t. It seems like a betrayal. How stupid is that, after

  everything that’s happened?

  The creeks will be filled to the brim now, the saltings sub-

  merged. And downstairs, on the pine table in that dark, echoey

  kitchen, an empty bottle of red and the remains of a fish- and-

  chip supper. Did I even say goodbye?

  The wind is whipping up the waves. The tide’s definitely

  coming in. It’s creeping further and further up the sand. Fast

  and stealthy. In another half- hour it’ll be slapping against the

  sea wall. Inky black against the worn grey stone. I’m aware of

  its brooding presence, teeming with alien life- forms. Nothing

  between me and the vast expanse of the North Sea but a thin

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  stretch of silvery- grey sand. Nothing between me and the past

  but a racing heartbeat and a dry mouth.

  The moon disappears behind a cloud and something about

  the rasping sound of the waves on the sand makes me shiver.

  What am I doing here? It’s not thrilling any more, it’s frightening.

  I’m all on my own in the dark and I’m vulnerable. Defenceless. If

  anything happened to me down here, nobody would hear me

  scream. I’m not even sure my voice would work.

  I hurry to the next set of steps and grab hold of the rail, haul

  myself up, visions of a fifteen- foot wave crashing over my head

  and dragging me back down. The steps are slippery with algae

  and for a second I think my feet are going to disappear from

  under me. When I reach the safety of the prom, a yelp of relief

  erupts out of my mouth. When did I become such a scaredy- cat?

  But as I’m heading back towards the cliff path, the unease

  returns. I have the sense that I’m not alone, that someone or

  something is watching me. It’s the exact same feeling I had in

  the Fisherman’s Shack when Josh was at the counter. Goose-

  bumps swarm from my elbows to my shoulders. My breath is

  like ice at the back of my throat.

  I glance over my shoulder, but the prom behind me is empty,

  as far as I can make out. I press on towards the path. I won’t

  run. I won’t. But just as I’m approaching the bottom of the

  slope, I see the dull orange glow of a cigarette. The nape of my

  neck shrinks. Someone is leaning against a beach hut about

  twenty- five yards ahead, a man, barely visible in the darkness.

  He steps out of the shadows and my insides plummet. That

  same old donkey jacket. That hat. This isn’t some figment of my

  imagination. He’s there, right in front of me.

  I run, or try to, my legs heavy and cumbersome, each step

  like running through water. The slope is steeper than I remem-

  ber. Steeper and longer. My heart knocks against my breastbone.

  My DMs slip and scuff on the concrete as I lurch and scramble

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  up. For one appalling second I think I’m going to pitch forward

  face first, but I right myself just in time. I mustn’t fall. If I fall, he’ll catch up with me.

  I’m nearly at the top now. Another few seconds and the

  ground will even out. I’ll be on the greensward and it’ll be

  easier. I listen for the sounds of pursuit, but all I hear is the

  heaving of my lungs, the pounding of blood in my ears. I

  plunge onwards, my chest ragged with pain.

  Somehow, I make it to the road without stopping. It isn’t till

  I’ve crossed to the other side that I dare to look back. A man

  stands, motionless, at the top of the path, staring after me. No

  donkey jacket. No trapper hat. Just a regular guy in a fleece and

  beanie. I can’t see his face from here, but something about his

  posture tells me he’s alarmed by my behaviour. He won’t

  approach me. Not now. He’ll already be feeling guilty. For

  being a man. A man who’s had the temerity to be having a

  smoke and watching the sea at night, who’s managed to terrify

  a woman just by being there.

  I slump against the wall of someone’s front garden. What the

  hell is wrong with me?

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  8

  Overnight, the wind has died down and the skies have cleared.

  I pull the covers back and swing my legs on to the floor,

  astounded, as I am every morning, that physically at least, I

  feel fine.

  I open my bedroom window and breathe in the fresh morn-

  ing air. I slept, eventually, but traces of last night’s fear and

  confusion still linger. I need something to occupy my mind

  and stop all this weird shit clogging it up. The sooner I start

  working on ideas for the trompe l’œil, the better. Plus, I can prove to Josh and his dad that I’m not a complete idiot.

  The art shop is closed and, for a minute or so, I’m consumed

  with rage and resentment. What’s wrong with the shopkeepers

  round here? They seem to make up their opening hours as they

  go along. Why is it shut on the one morning I need to buy a decent

  sketch pad and some pencils
? It’s so unfair. Now I’m going to

  have to make do with a bog- standard one from the newsagent’s,

  and if it’s that cheap, shiny stuff it’ll be worse than useless.

  I’m aware of the tension in my jaw and that stupidly fast

  walk I always do when I’m stressed out. I need to calm down.

  Breathe. It isn’t the end of the world. It’s just a minor setback.

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  I have to get things into perspective. Stop being so uptight all

  the time. No wonder I keep seeing things that aren’t there. I’m

  a nervous wreck.

  All these feelings are so destabilizing. For years, I’ve drowned

  them in alcohol. Now they’re clamouring to the surface and

  gasping for air. A tsunami of emotions and sensations. This

  must be what it’s like for a blind person who’s suddenly able to

  see. I have to separate out the shapes and colours of my chang-

  ing moods, learn to recognize them for what they are.

  By the time I reach the newsagent’s, I’m breathing normally

  again and, as luck would have it, their stationery section is bet-

  ter than I thought and I find a pad that’s halfway decent. The

  woman behind the counter smiles at me and I smile back. It’s

  easy, really. I just have to practise mindfulness and live in the

  moment. If I keep on acting as if everything’s fine, then maybe

  it will be. Maybe it’s as simple as that.

  I’m still smiling to myself like an idiot when I come out of

  the shop. I don’t know what makes me turn right towards the

  sea instead of left towards home, but I do. Maybe it’s intuition.

  My foot freezes mid- air. I can’t believe my eyes. The manne-

  quin in the Oxfam window display is wearing a Cranberries

  No Need to Argue world- tour black T- shirt. Simon had one just like it.

  It’s not his. Of course it isn’t. How could it be his?

  I inch towards the window, compelled to look closer but

  dreading what I’ll see. Because if it’s there, the small bleach

  stain near the hem on the left side, then I’ll know for sure. I’ll

  know it’s the same limited- edition vintage T- shirt he bought off eBay. And if it is . . .?

  I peer at it, my eyes devouring the photograph printed on

  the front. It’s the very same one. Noel and Mike Hogan and

  Fergal Lawler sprawled indolently on the grass and Dolores

  O’ Riordan – the tragically late Dolores O’ Riordan – with her 48