The Dare, page 18
But then, why would Ross have been wearing a baseball cap to do a home visit? A cap I’ve never seen. And why wouldn’t she have given it back to him? Why would she hold on to it like this, unless … unless it means something to her.
Maybe Ross did know Catherine before she started working at the surgery. Maybe they went out together once and that’s why she has it. It would still mean he’s been lying to me, that both of them have been lying to me. But that’s a hundred times better than him knowing her since he was a child, living next door to her. I don’t even want to think about the implications of that.
There’s only one way to find out whether the nightmarish scenario unfolding in my mind can possibly be true, and that’s to find the paperwork relating to the sale of his aunt’s house. I never questioned him at the time. Why would I? It was already in progress when we first got together. The money came through a few months later. It was Ross’s money. Ross’s inheritance. I had no reason to disbelieve him when he told me her house was in Sittingbourne, that that’s where he’d lived with her as a child.
Each drawer contains foolscap suspension files, meticulously organized with clear plastic tabs labelled in Ross’s neat capital letters. I think of the R and M on the label inside the baseball cap and my mind spins. My hands are shaking as I flip the files towards me, one after the other, scanning each label. I can’t afford to break down. Not yet. I need to focus on the task in hand. Only then will I be able to reject this strange and frightening story taking shape in my mind. The story that can’t possibly be true.
There’s so much filed away in here: bank statements, utility bills, stocks and shares, letters about the mortgage on this place, warranties for household appliances. My fingers walk their way towards the back of each drawer. House deeds, tax returns and correspondence from HMRC, life-insurance documents, envelopes full of receipts, his birth certificate and passport, his medical degree certificate and all the rest of his academic qualifications in hard-backed brown envelopes.
A little voice tells me to slow down, to be as methodical as I can. Neither Ross nor Catherine will be back for hours. I have to keep calm and remember to breathe. I’m pregnant. I need to think of the baby and not get too stressed.
I’m on to the third drawer now. This one seems to be full of documents relating to his parents: power-of-attorney forms and bumph from his father’s nursing home in Aberdeen; his mother’s birth, marriage and death certificates. Maybe this is where I’ll also find …
Yes. Here it is. At last. A file labelled ‘Aunt Jessie’.
I take a few long, deep breaths and steel myself for what I might find. The only noises in the house are the ticking of the clock in the living room and the faint burble of the radio in the kitchen. I lift out the wodge of papers in the file and take them over to the swivel chair, sit down with them on my lap, trying desperately to hold myself together, to tell myself that all will be well, that my life isn’t falling apart. That his Aunt Jessica’s house was in Sittingbourne, just as Ross told me.
Except it wasn’t. I know that now. I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt. Because here in my hand is a property description from an estate agent in Chelmsford. The address screams at me from the page. 22 Riley Road. The house next door to the Dawsons. I can even see half of Alice’s front door.
Ross’s aunt lived at 22 Riley Road. She knew the Dawsons, used to chat to Alice’s mum over the garden fence. Catherine and Ross have known each other since before Alice and I were even born. A sob erupts out of me. A rasping, primal sound I’ve never heard before. He’s been acting all this time, playing me for a fool, manipulating me. Catherine, too. But why? What do they want with me after all this time?
45
Then: After
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
It’s a chilly autumn morning and the whole of Year Nine is assembled outside the main entrance of the school, facing the green area where Alice’s memorial tree is about to be planted. Mrs Peacock told us yesterday that the tree is called Prunus Avium, or Wild Cherry, and gave us all a factsheet about it. It’s said to be one of our prettiest native trees and can grow up to eight metres in ten years. I must have read that factsheet at least twenty times. I practically know it off by heart.
I look down at my shoes, which, despite all my best efforts, are already badly scuffed at the toes. In ten years’ time, I’ll be twenty-three. An adult. But Alice will still be thirteen. She’ll always be thirteen. While Alice is frozen in time, the tree will continue to grow, blossoming every year in April, the month of her birth.
There’s a horrible lump in my throat. I keep trying to swallow, but the lump is getting bigger. It’s like when I have a sore throat and it hurts to swallow, which makes me want to swallow all the more, even when I don’t need to.
Mrs Peacock told us yesterday that the spot they have chosen to plant the tree is sunny and sheltered, which means that the fragile clusters of white flowers won’t get blown away too soon, and even when they do fall on to the grass, there will be a carpet of petals to remind us of Alice. Mrs Peacock didn’t need to raise her voice to get our attention like she usually does. She didn’t need to tell us to be quiet. She only had to say Alice’s name and everyone fell silent and sad.
With the nail of my index finger, I pick the skin away from round the edges of my thumbnail. I’m making it red and sore, but I can’t stop doing it. We’re all getting a bit restless now. The gardener was late this morning and we’re waiting for him to finish digging the hole. It has to be bigger than the rootball of the tree and he is already sweating with the effort.
At last, it’s ready. I’ve been so worried that Alice’s sister might turn up, but she’s not here, thank God. Her mum isn’t here either. Only her dad. He’s standing with the gardener and Mr Davis, the head. His hands are folded across his chest and he keeps stamping his feet and coughing. I’m glad I’m not standing near the front, because I don’t want to catch his eye. A couple of times he’s looked over in this direction, but I made sure to move my head so that I was directly behind the girl in front and he couldn’t see me.
Heather Langton nudges my elbow. ‘You okay, Lizzie?’ she whispers.
I nod, tight-lipped. It’s nice of her to ask, but I wish she wouldn’t. All I want is for this to be over so we can go back inside. I’ve been dreading it all week. I know these rituals are supposed to be important, but I’ll be relieved when they’re all over.
At last, Mr Davis clears his throat and asks for hush. He tells us that Mr Baines, the gardener, and Alice’s father are now going to plant the tree. The last few murmurs peter out as Mr Baines holds the sapling in place and Mr Dawson picks up the shovel. The sun glints off the shiny metal.
Now, all we can hear is the sound of the shovel slicing into the mound of soil and the soil falling into the hole. It makes me remember the day Alice was buried and, for one hideous moment, I imagine her hand thrusting up through the soil, her finger pointing straight at me. The shock of it makes me flinch violently and the girls standing near me shuffle quickly out of the way, as if they think I’m about to have a seizure.
Wouldn’t that be a nightmare? Having another seizure while Alice’s memorial tree is being planted. I can just imagine what Melissa and Bethany and some of the others would say if that happened. They’d say I was spoiling Alice’s day on purpose, that I was hogging all the attention and making it about me.
Please God, don’t let me have a seizure today. Not while Alice’s dad is here, planting her tree.
When the tree has been firmed in and the two men stand back, Mr Davis gives a speech, similar to the one he gave at Alice’s memorial service, but shorter. He says that while the tree is growing there will be a mesh guard around it, to protect it while it’s still young and delicate. We should avoid getting too close to the tree until it is established, he says, but that as long as we are careful and respectful, this section of the school garden will be a place to visit and feel close to Alice.
A shiver runs down my spine at this last mention of her name and I have the weirdest sensation that she is standing right behind me, that I can feel her icy breath on the back of my neck, and I know that as long as I live, Alice will always be with me. Always weighing on my conscience. I don’t need a special tree to remember her by.
46
Now
Somehow, I get to my feet, my legs weak and unsteady, my breath ragged with shock and fear. Why would Ross do that? Why would he fake a whole relationship? He can’t have been lying about everything, surely. I’d have known if he was. I’d have sensed it, wouldn’t I?
I grab the sheet of paper from the floor where it’s fallen from my hands and put it with the others, stuff them back into the hanging file marked ‘Aunt Jessie’. Shut the drawer, heart pounding.
I pace the hallway. I can’t just stay here, as if nothing has happened. And I can’t confront Ross and Catherine either. I have to get away from them. Get away from this house and work out my next move.
I call Mum, but her phone rings out. They’ll be at the airport now, waiting for their flight, maybe even boarding the plane. I bet she hasn’t even got it switched on. She’s hopeless with it. Hopeless. Only turns it on when she wants to use the bloody thing. I try Dad’s number, too, on the off chance that he even has it with him, but the same thing happens. Fuck! Just when I need them the most.
They warned me about Catherine, but I didn’t listen. I try to imagine their reaction, their shock and disbelief, when they find out she’s entangled with Ross, has been from day one, and that far from being the ‘safe pair of hands’ they imagine, Ross has duped me from the very start. Duped them, too. And when they find out I’ve invited her into my home …
My home. Who am I kidding? This isn’t my home. It never has been.
Catherine has burrowed her way back into my life like an invasive weed. If only I’d listened to my initial misgivings. If only I’d trusted my instincts. She has seized on my vulnerability and my need for friendship. Manipulated her way into my affections.
All those little quirks I chose to ignore. Because I actually felt sorry for her. The way she stood in front of the fridge this morning and stared at the contents, as if it were her fridge. Her kitchen. The way she eats her cereal on the settee instead of sitting up at the table. The way she watches telly with us in the evenings sometimes, as if she has a perfect right to intrude upon our personal space, to play gooseberry.
Now, of course, I know the truth. The only gooseberry in this house is me. That’s why she was acting so weirdly this morning. She’s tiring of the pretence, starting to let her true self show through.
I go upstairs and into the bedroom, reach up and pull my rucksack from the top of the wardrobe. Stretching for it sends a shooting sensation down the side of my stomach. Calm down, Lizzie. Think of the baby. Think of the baby.
Who else can I phone? Why haven’t I made any friends here yet? I’ve been so complacent. So utterly reliant on Ross. Think, Lizzie. Think.
I unzip my rucksack and start flinging things in. No wonder Ross looked so appalled when I told him about the pregnancy. He looked shattered. Undone. I put it down to shock at the time. But he was shattered. A baby clearly wasn’t part of the plan. But what the hell is their plan?
Whatever it is, I’m in danger. I have to get out of here and find somewhere safe. A hotel, maybe? A B & B? There’s hardly any money in my account, just what Ross transfers over to me each month for shopping and bits and pieces, but it should be enough for one night in a Travelodge or somewhere like that, maybe even two. It’ll tide me over till I speak to Mum and Dad and they come home.
I open drawers and stare at the contents. How do I know what I’ll need? I’ll need everything, surely. How can I ever come back? But there’s no way I can pack everything. I have to focus on the most important things. A change of clothes. Some toiletries. My glasses. My phone and charger. My meds. Should I take my personal documents? Shit! This is going to take longer than I thought. It’s like one of those anxiety dreams where I need to pack really fast and I can’t think where to start or what I’ll need.
Except this isn’t a dream. Something terribly wrong is happening here.
It’s only when I’m pulling out the box file under the bed where I keep all my admin, and riffling through it, that the perfect solution pops into my head. A wave of relief washes through me. I’ve still got my front-door keys for the house in Dovercourt. I meant to give them back to Mum and Dad the last time we visited, but I completely forgot. Thank God I did!
I’ll get a bus to Woolwich and take a train into town, go to Liverpool Street and from there to Dovercourt. When Mum and Dad get home from New York, we’ll work out what to do.
I zip up my rucksack, pausing in the doorway for one last look. And that’s when the tears finally break. When the full horror hits me in one vicious blow. My whole life with Ross has been a sham. How many lies has he told me? Has he ever loved me at all?
Oh my God. The young man Catherine was with, the day Alice and I followed her from Nando’s. The young man in board shorts. He was wearing a navy baseball cap the wrong way round. It must have been Ross. I clamp my hand over my mouth and think of the way Catherine’s head disappeared in the car, my dawning realization of what was going on in there. Alice and I giggling so much we almost choked on our sweets.
My eyes tremble and blur. I can’t stay here a minute longer. I need to leave. I reach out a hand to grab the doorframe, but it looms at a strange angle and I miss it completely. My ears pound. The room suddenly looks all jagged and angular, like a cubist painting. Something strange is happening. Something strange and, at the same time, frighteningly, sickeningly familiar.
PART THREE
* * *
‘No story is the same to us after a lapse of time; or rather we who read it are no longer the same interpreters.’
George Eliot
For months after it happened, I was terrified that someone would find out it was me who ran into Sue Molyneux, who almost made her lose the baby. Lose Lizzie. Catherine said that if I got caught I’d be convicted for attempted murder and sent to a children’s prison.
I later discovered that this wasn’t true. For a start, I was only nine when it happened, and nobody under ten can be charged with a crime. What’s more, there’s no such thing as attempted murder of an unborn child. In the eyes of the law, un unborn child is not a person. So even if I’d been ten, the most I’d have been charged with is Actual Bodily Harm, that’s if they could even prove it was intentional. And how could they? Catherine had burnt the only piece of evidence that existed – that childish declaration she’d made me sign in her bedroom and which seemed so meaningful and portentous at the time.
When I found this out and told Catherine, she went scarily still and I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. She told me it didn’t make a jot of difference. There were other punishments I would receive. I’d be put under a Child Safety Order and Aunt Jessie would disown me. She said I’d probably be taken into care and the police would always be monitoring me for the rest of my life.
Especially when they found out about the ‘other things’ I’d done.
That was the threat she always hung over me. Telling her parents and Aunt Jessie that I’d touched her private parts. Even though she’d told me to do it. Even though she’d shown me exactly what to do and liked it just as much as I did.
I had a profound fear of being taken into care. If it weren’t for Aunt Jessie taking me in when Mum died, I’d have almost certainly ended up in a children’s home, or been farmed out to foster parents. I don’t like to think of that time very often, trapped indoors with my grieving father, wondering whether I’d get beaten for nothing at all, wondering whether there’d be anything for supper that night or whether I’d have to make do with a tin of cold baked beans again.
Aunt Jessie wasn’t the most maternal of women, and even she wasn’t averse to giving me a good slap if I did my chores badly or forgot to do my homework, but I knew where I was with her, and if I followed her rules, things were fine. Sometimes, when she was in a good mood and her face was soft and calm, she looked so much like my mum.
Despite the threats, Catherine was my best friend. I was a strange, awkward boy and having someone like her looking out for me meant I never got picked on. Back in those days, Riley Road and the rest of the estate could be a pretty rough place to live if you didn’t have an ally. And Catherine Dawson was probably the best ally you could have.
It wasn’t her fault she was so screwed up. Her mother was too absorbed in her own pain to give her daughter the love and attention she craved. And as for Mick, he did what so many men do when things get tough at home, he threw himself into his work and his hobbies, withdrew into his own little world. So when I came along Catherine turned her full attention on to me. She gave me the love I needed in the only way she knew how. In fits and starts.
I adored her. I hated her. I needed her.
You may wonder why I let her take the lead. Why I surrendered all sense of myself on the altar of her desires. I wonder it myself sometimes, but I never had a choice. Not really.
Some people are like that, aren’t they? They take you over, every little bit of you, and even though it rankles and you try to resist, deep down you know there’s no point because the sad truth is, you rather like it that way.
I liked it that way.
Until I didn’t, and by then it was too late.
47
At first, I think it must be the hiss of rain, or the rustling of leaves. It’s a comforting sound, the sort of sound that might lull someone to sleep. I try to open my eyes, to drag myself back to consciousness. There’s a reason I need to wake up. An important reason. If only I could remember what it is.
