Authors: C. L. Taylor
“And you’re quite sure you saw this person enter your house?”
I’m pretty sure the female police officer thinks I’m lying. Which I am.
“Yes,” I say. “I was sitting in the garden reading a book when he jumped over the hedge, sprinted across the lawn, and made a beeline for the porch door.”
The male officer wanders over to where I’m pointing, to the six-foot privet that separates us from next door, and stands on tiptoes to peer over it. He then crouches down and runs a hand through the undergrowth before standing up and returning to where we are standing.
“There are no signs of damage.” He gives me a long look. “You’d expect there to be broken branches and scattered leaves and twigs if someone just jumped a hedge that size.”
I shrug. “He was very lithe, athletic-looking, you know—sporty.”
“So he vaulted the hedge without touching it?” The officer raises an eyebrow. “That’s some athleticism.”
I cross my arms over my chest then uncross them again. “Well, I didn’t actually
see
the burglar jump it. I heard something and looked up from my book to see him sprinting across the lawn toward the side of the house.”
The officers share a look, and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. It seemed like such a plausible story when I was driving back from Woodingdean. I’d tell the police that a burglar was hiding in our home, and then there’d be no need to mention my ex-boyfriend and the snow globe he’d left on my doorstep. The police would check my house was safe—and empty—and I’d risk nothing.
“What makes you so sure the ‘burglar’ entered your house through the porch door”—the female officer looks toward the side of the house—“when you can’t actually see it from here? For all you know, he could have just run off down the driveway.”
“Because I left the door open.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“To let the dog wander in and out,” I add.
“Right.” She scribbles something in her notebook.
“It’s my husband, you see—Brian Jackson, MP for Brighton. We can’t be too careful.”
A look of surprise crosses the female officer’s face. She looks at her colleague, who raises his eyebrows as though he’s impressed. Or shocked that Brian would be married to someone like me. Either way, both of them have stopped looking at me like they’re considering charging me with wasting police time.
“We’ve checked your house.” The male officer strolls across the lawn, his car in his sights. The female officer indicates, with a nod of her head, that we should follow him. “And there was no sign of any kind of disturbance, or an intruder.”
The female officer stops walking. “You okay, Mrs. Jackson? You look a little shaken.”
“I am, yes.” For the first time since they started questioning me, I’m telling the truth. Now I know James isn’t in the house or hiding in the garden, I feel weak with relief.
“We could stay with you, at least until a friend or relative joins you. Is there someone you’d like to ring?”
I shake my head. I need to get inside and look through Brian’s laptop. If Charlotte used it to urgently message someone, who knows what clues it might reveal?
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes,” I say with more conviction than I feel. “I’ll be okay. Thank you so much for coming out.”
The male officer nods curtly and opens the car door. “We’ll be in touch.”
***
My bravado disappears the second the police car crunches its way down the driveway and disappears around the corner. What if the police only poked their heads into each room and James is still hiding somewhere? He’ll have heard them leave and know I’m all alone.
I look from the open porch door to the car. I could just go—jump back in with Milly and drive to my friend Jane’s house. I could tell her Brian and I had a row (which wouldn’t be far from the truth) and ask if I could stay for a couple of nights. But she and Eric have two cats and I’d have to put Milly in a kennel. Who else? Annette? No. I immediately discount her. She’s a terrible gossip. It would only take a matter of days, if not hours, for the news to spread that my marriage was in disarray. I cycle through the rest of my friends—Ellen doesn’t have the space, Amelia is knee-deep in renovations, and Mary is in Spain. The Travelodge just off the A22 takes dogs. All I need to do is pop into the house to grab the laptop and we can be there in under an hour.
I put my hand on Milly’s soft head and scratch behind her ear as I mentally rehearse my route through the house, making a list of what I’ll take from each room. The house isn’t safe anymore. I need to get in and out as quickly as I can.
“Ready, girl?” I take a step toward the open porch door.
***
Every squeaky floorboard, rumbling pipe, and creaking wall makes me start as I hurry from room to room, throwing open drawers, gathering up clothes, and sweeping makeup and toiletries into a large floral overnight bag. Darting into the bathroom to collect my toothbrush terrifies me when I notice someone staring at me from the other side of the room, only to discover that Brian has left his shaving mirror angled toward the door and it’s my own reflection. Milly quickly tires of my frenetic pace and lies down in the middle of the hall and rests her head on her paws.
I leave Brian’s study for last, and it’s only as I turn the handle that it strikes me that he might have taken his laptop with him when he left yesterday. I push the door open and peer into the room.
It’s on the desk, closed and unplugged with the cord coiled over the lid and the plug resting on the side like Brian was planning on taking it with him and then forgot. I scoop it up and then—
BANG!
The office door slams shut behind me.
I freeze, half bent over the desk with the laptop in my hands. Every fiber of my body is still, every hair erect. My heart slows to a steady thud-thud-thud as I listen.
Listen.
For the creak of a floorboard, the creak of a joint, or the low sign of a breath.
Listen.
Time slows and I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, hunched over the desk, listening, waiting, dreading. My lower back aches, my hip bones hurt from where they’re pressing against the desk, and the laptop is slipping from my sweaty fingers. If James is behind me, I need to turn around and face my fate head on.
I turn slowly, the laptop still in my hands, and brace myself.
But there’s no one else in the room.
I take a step toward the closed study door. What if he’s on the other side? I take another step forward, place my hand on the door knob, and then twist it sharply to the left. It moves easily under my hand and the door swings open. Milly raises her head from the floor and her tail thumps the wooden floor. There is no one else in the house. I’d know from her reaction if there were.
“Hello, girl.” I take a step forward and stoop down to pat her head when—
BANG!
The study door slams behind me.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
This time from the bathroom. I run toward the sound. The window above the bath is open, slamming back and forth, a cold breeze filling the room. I glance outside, half expecting to see someone hanging from the ledge or sprinting across the lawn, but the only movement in the garden is the willow tree, bowing and stretching in the wind. I lean out of the window, reach for the catch, and yank it closed.
“Come on, Milly.” I hurry back out of the bathroom, grab the laptop and my overnight bag from where I left them in the hallway, and speed down the stairs with the dog at my heels. I cast a quick look around the kitchen before I snatch up Milly’s food and water dishes and throw them into a plastic bag with a half-full sack of dried dog food and then speed out of the house, locking the porch door behind me, and jump into the car. I don’t glance in the rearview mirror as I pull away.
Saturday, January 5, 1991
Thank God it’s the New Year. That might just have been the most depressing Christmas of my life.
James was really apologetic that he couldn’t invite me to spend Christmas with him and his mum, but she was still smarting from “the incident” (when we turned up to lunch drunk and late).
Last year I spent Christmas with Hels, Ru, Emma, and Matt, but I couldn’t see that happening this year.
Instead I scraped together what little savings I had left and booked a train ticket up north and a room at a Holiday Inn so I could see Mum.
To be fair to the care home, they’d made a huge effort to make the place look happy and cheery, but the sight of old people dribbling their Christmas puddings down their chins and caregivers in snowman earrings carrying bedpans along the corridors made me feel sad. Mum was having a lucid period—she didn’t lapse once in the whole four hours I was there—but instead of feeling pleased, I was heartbroken. She kept bursting into tears, begging me to take her back to her house, saying how much she missed Dad. I did the best I could to console her, hugging her tightly, combing her hair, telling her about my engagement in Prague, and looking through old photo albums, but how can you cheer up someone who tells you they wish they were dead? I offered to move back to York so I could visit her more often, but she wouldn’t have it. “I’ve lived my life,” she said, “and I followed my dreams and it’s time you did the same. I’m pleased you’ve found love and a job you adore, Susan. All Dad and I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”
On Boxing Day, I went to Dad’s grave to lay some flowers. It broke my heart seeing his plot so overgrown and uncared for—Mum used to tend to it once a week until she got ill—so I pulled out as many weeds as I could by hand and borrowed a pair of shears from the groundskeeper so I could trim the grass. I talked to Dad when I was doing it, asked him to look after Mum when I couldn’t, told him how much we both loved him, and cried when I said I didn’t want anyone but him to give me away at my wedding.
I returned home yesterday and found a message on my answering machine from the bed people, saying that due to a problem with supply, they wouldn’t be able to deliver my new bed until after the new year! James and I had already chucked my bed and mattress out before Christmas so, when he came around with my presents on the 28th, we ended up sleeping on blankets on the floor.
The next morning, I got up to make us coffee and a fried breakfast and James puttered about, flicking through my magazines and picking through my vinyl. He honed in on my sewing machine table. It’s an antique, 100 percent oak and beautifully made. He ran a finger over the polished wood.
“Where’d you get this?”
“My parents gave it to me for my 21st.”
“Lovely.”
He carried on along the wall, running his hand over the few pieces of furniture I’ve got.
“And this?” He stopped at my writing desk.
“I picked it up in a flea market. It was only £30.”
“Nice.”
I froze as his fingers strummed on the wood. If he opened it, he’d find—
“What’s this?” He held the gray rabbit soft toy by one ear, dangling it from his fingers. “You’ve never struck me as the cuddly toy sort.”
“It’s…it was…a…a present from Hels.”
“A female friend bought you a soft toy?” My cheeks grew hot as he scrutinized my face. “That’s a little unusual. Are you sure it’s not from an old boyfriend?”
“Of course not,” I said lightly. “Hels, um, bought it for me as a joke. She used to call me Bunny when we worked together because, um, because I wouldn’t sit still. I was always bouncing excitedly all over the room.”
“Bunny?” He raised an eyebrow. “You?”
“Yes.” The name and the description were true, but Hels wasn’t the one who’d given me the nickname or the toy. It was Nathan. I’d grown attached to that little rabbit while we were together and held onto it, as well as a couple of other things he’d given me, after we split up.
“Why are you sweating, Suzy-Sue?” James took a step toward me, the rabbit outstretched. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”
“No, of course not.” I ran the back of my hand over my damp brow. “It’s these eggs.” I jabbed at the burnt offering in the frying pan. “They’re spitting like mad.”
My voice had taken on a strange singsong character that sounded foreign to my ears. I bent down, ostensibly to check the bacon but actually to avoid James’s eyes, then squealed as he wrapped a hand around my waist and pulled me into him, pressing my buttocks into his crotch.
“You scared me.” I set the grill pan on the side and, still with his arms wrapped around me, spooned the bacon and eggs onto two plates.
“And you scare me,” James whispered in my ear. “Because sometimes I wonder how in love with me you really are.”
“Don’t be silly.” Blood pounded in my ears. “You know how much I love you.”
“Really? Because I’d be very hurt if I found out that you were lying to me, Suzy. If you were secretly keeping love tokens from past boyfriends when you know how much that sort of thing hurts me.”
I reached into the cupboard for the ketchup. “The bunny is from Hels. I told you.”
“And she’d verify that if I called her up, would she?”
“Of course she would. Ring her now if you like.” I inclined my head toward the phone on the other side of the room, desperately hoping he wouldn’t see through my bluff.
He laughed loudly. “As if I’d talk to that boring cow about a teddy!” He turned me to face him, pressed the soft toy against my cheek. “You don’t have feelings toward this stupid thing, do you?”
I shook my head.
“Good,” he said then launched the toy into the air. It flew in an arc across the room, sailed out of the open window, and landed in the road outside.
He kissed me on the lips. “Is breakfast ready? I could eat a horse.”
Two hours later, after he’d gone, I went through everything I owned and threw away everything that reminded me of or that I’d ever been given by an ex-boyfriend—photos, letters, postcards, jewelry, books, and vinyl. I even sold the vintage Chanel handbag that Nathan bought me for Christmas one year.
Then I’d never have to lie to James again.
My hotel room is sandwiched between a stag party and a school trip, but the noise doesn’t bother me. It’s almost reassuring, hearing the low ho-ho-ho of male laughter and the hysterical squeal of thirteen-year-olds at play against a soundtrack of blaring televisions and the low bass rumble of dance music.
I move my finger over the track pad of Brian’s laptop and click the Start button, then Programs, and then pause. The only program I recognize is Microsoft Office. What’s a FileZilla? A Photoshop? A Skype? I reach for my handbag.
Oliver answers on the second ring. “Sue? Everything okay with Charlotte?”
“She’s fine. I was just wondering if you could give me some technical help.”
“Of course.”
“What software would Charlotte use to chat to her friends on the Internet?”
“I don’t know,” he says after a minute or so. “Me and my friends use Facebook chat or MSN Messenger. Maybe Skype. God knows about Charlotte. Why do you need to know?”
I double click a folder that says Documents, but it’s just Brian’s work stuff. “Someone told me she had a conversation with a friend using software on Dad’s laptop and I’ve got a hunch it might be important.”
“Hmm.” I can almost hear Oli thinking. “Chances are you’re not going to find anything, not unless you know the application she was using. And even then you’d need to know her username and password. She was using
Dad’s
laptop, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“I could be wrong but I’m pretty certain he uses MSN Messenger to have online chats with his constituents once a week and he logs the conversations so he can’t be sued for giving improper advice or making false promises or whatever. If Charlotte didn’t change the settings and that’s what she used, then her conversation should be logged too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Do you want me to talk you through how to find the Messenger logs? Actually,” he pauses, “shouldn’t you be asking Dad this?”
“I…” I’m not sure how best to handle this. I don’t want Oli to know that his dad has moved out. He might be nineteen, but the news would still upset him and he’s slap bang in the middle of some of the most important exams of his career. “I haven’t been able to get through to him today. Some tedious select committee meeting that goes on all day, I think, and it’s really urgent that I access these messages. If there are any.”
“Okay, no worries.” He seems reassured by my explanation. “Right, this is what you need to do…”
I concentrate hard as he tells me, step by step, where to click and what to open until, finally, we’re there, in a folder called “My Chat Logs.”
“There are loads,” I say as I scroll through the filenames. “Hundreds of the things. How am I supposed to know which one is Charlotte?”
“You’re not. And if she noticed that Dad had the ‘save conversation’ box checked and unchecked it, there won’t be any record of her conversation.”
“Oh god.” I keep my finger on the mouse and watch in horror as filename after filename flicks by. It’s going to take me a while to go through them all.
“Need any more help?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Thanks so much, Oli.”
We say our good-byes and I open the first message log. It’s a conversation between Brian and a parishioner about school catchment areas. I close it and open the second message. This time someone wants to draw his attention to “the immigration problem.” Third message—a moan about benefits. Fourth message—a request for help renovating a local children’s park. Fifth message—abuse, calling Brian “an ineffective pretend politician from a party more concerned with planting trees than economic success.” And there are more messages. More and more and more. They never end. It’s fascinating and frustrating at the same time. I never quite realized how many small-minded, selfish people Brian has to deal with on a daily basis. I open half a dozen more messages and still there are hundreds more. Where’s Charlotte’s conversation? I begin clicking randomly, on this conversation and that, hoping to hit the jackpot. Instead I read about allotment battles, property wars, care home scandals, and the death of the high street. Everyone is unhappy about something, it seems, and Brian is the… I stop clicking to reread the line that’s just flashed up on the screen.
Charliethecat15:
Soz, lappy crashed. Back now.
Charliethecat15. Could that be Charlotte? I read the entire message, my heart beating frantically in my chest.
Charliethecat15:
Soz, lappy crashed. Back now.
Ellsbells:
Like I give a shit.
Charliethecat15:
Don’t be like that, Els.
Ellsbells:
I don’t know why you’re even bothering to contact me. Our friendship is OVER.
Charliethecat15:
Fine, but we need to get our stories straight.
Ellsbells:
Why don’t you get your story straight with Keisha seeing as you and her are SO CLOSE.
Charliethecat15:
This isn’t about Keisha and you know it.
Ellsbells:
Isn’t it?
Charliethecat15:
No. Look Ella, I know I pissed you off and that’s fine, we don’t ever have to talk to each other again but if we don’t cover for each other and Mr. E finds out he’ll kill us.
Ellsbells:
Fuck Mr. E, he’s a prick.
Charliethecat15:
I know, right.
Charliethecat15:
You still there, Ella?
Charliethecat15:
Ella?
Ellsbells:
What?
Charliethecat15:
Will you still cover for me? I will for you.
Ellsbells:
Fine. Just don’t ever contact me again.
Charliethecat15:
Fine. I won’t. Just wanted to clear that up.
Ellsbells:
Whatever.
I read it again. And a third time. And I still have no idea what they’re talking about. Why do they need to cover for each other, and who is Mr. E? I glance at my watch. 2:45 p.m. I’m going to have to hurry if I want to catch Ella before school kicks out for the day.
I glance at Milly, who looks at me hopefully.
“Okay.” I grab her lead. “You can come too.”