‘Please don’t shut the door,’ says Beth. She leans in, blocking my view of the street. ‘Seriously, are you ok after that fall? I didn’t know you were pregnant.’
I wipe a smear of berry juice from my cheekbone; it’s in my hair, too, I realise, slapping a wet purple strand over my shoulder.
‘How did you find me?’ Too late I realise that I should’ve said us; how did you find us? I mustn’t let her know I’m at home on my own. No, it’s too late for that; she must know Kit’s away. It must be that fucking video, although I can’t think how she made the leap from his location on board the Princess Celeste to Wilbraham Road. My heart is sprinting and my thoughts can’t keep up.
‘If you let me in I can tell you,’ she says. I don’t respond, not verbally and not physically. My mouth might as well be sewn up; my feet might as well be nailed to the floor. All I can do is stare.
Beth looks good, much the same apart from her hair. A shooting star at one temple sends a debris of silver through the black. The smile that dares me to drop my guard brings out faint crows’ feet around her eyes, but otherwise her face is the same. The door shudders a little and I look down to see her toe – I’m half expecting those silver trainers but it’s a clumpy boot, the kind I wore back in the day – edging itself into the crack. All that stands between me and Beth is old glass and splinters. Action comes to me at last; I slam the door in her face with a force that shoves her toe out of the way.
‘Ok,’ she says, through the stained glass. There is no anger in her voice; only resignation. ‘I was expecting this. But I do need to talk to you. I’ve got something to tell you and it’s for your own good, I promise. Half an hour, let me say my piece, then I’ll go. It’s not exactly a conversation you want to have through the letterbox.’ Her tone grows indignant. ‘I’m not here for fun.’
‘How did you get this address?’ I ask her again, but still she doesn’t answer. I’d forgotten how she shuts down questions she didn’t like.
Horribly aware of the fragility of my front door, I inch into the sitting room. There, in relative darkness, I press nine on my mobile keypad. I’ve only called the emergency services once in my life and that was on the Lizard. I hit the number again. Can I really do this, now? After what I did in court, this number has felt off-limits; not a lifeline but the spark on a fuse that will blow everything apart. One investigation will lead to another and my perjury will come out. Kit will find out. He can’t know that about me. The whole world will know; Jamie Balcombe’s team will make sure of that. With so much at stake, such a controversial conviction, any judge is bound to make an example of me. What if they put me in prison? What if they take my babies away, or lock me up? The thought sends a slow cramp around my belly, as though my muscles are locking them tighter than ever inside me. I delete one nine, then the other. The letterbox rattles as Beth hooks it open with a fingertip.
‘Lauraaaaa,’ she sings.
The only person I want to talk to is Kit, but even through my panic I know that’s a bad idea. All it will do is make him frantic with worry, and it’s not like the captain can sail any faster. I want my dad, but he’s miles away too and the thought of explaining it all to him is nearly as bad as Kit learning what I did in court. I call Ling but her phone’s switched off. She does this when she’s somewhere sensitive, like a police station or court. After this afternoon’s scan, she probably thinks everything’s all right. Three hours ago, everything was fine. In desperation, with no idea what I’m going to say, I call Mac. For all his faults, he is loyal and I know that he, more than anyone I know, will help me first and ask questions later. ‘The person you are calling is on the phone,’ says the droid voice. ‘Please leave a message after the tone.’
‘Mac, I need you to ring me back, now.’ A sob knocks its way into the last word.
‘Laura,’ comes Beth’s voice through the letterbox. ‘Just hear me out.’
‘The police are on their way,’ I lie.
‘Fine by me,’ she says. I’m thrown by how calm she sounds. Is she bluffing too?
I give Mac ten more seconds to call me back, then fire off a text.
MAC PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CALL OR COME OVER ASAP. XXX
I’m sweating all over. This is adrenaline, toxic to my babies’ wellbeing and possibly to my survival. Fight-or-flight is a physical thing and it’s my mind I need control of now. Crossing the hall tiles, I use mindful walking – heel, arch, toe, heel, arch, toe – to beat my panic attack.
Beth comes back to standing, pressing her hand against a royal blue rectangle of glass; I’m almost close enough to read her palm. I sit on the bottom step staring into my silent phone. I wonder about making a break for it, through the back door, and across Ronni’s garden but I’m in no shape to vault the six-foot fences that separate the gardens round here, and anyway there’s the river in one direction and in the other is Harringay Passage, the alley that comes out pretty much where Beth is standing. Her hand pulses a few times on the glass, like she’s counting in her head to keep her temper. When she speaks again there’s a new edge to her voice.
‘Have you got a smartphone?’
It’s glowing in my hand; she can probably see it through the glass. ‘Yes,’ I say in a small voice.
‘Google Jamie Balcombe now, while I wait. I don’t mean go to his website. Put his name into Google.’ Her hand flexes one more time. ‘Cross-reference it with court.’
Not retrial but court. The surprise disarms me into following her instructions. The phone buffers, the little pinwheel on my screen turning for an eternity. I can hear Beth breathing; I can almost feel the heat of her.
‘You got it?’ says Beth.
‘Hang on.’
The pinwheel stops.
The results distil into headlines.
SIX MONTHS FOR DISGRACED CAMPAIGNER
NEW SHAME FOR JAMIE
MAGNATE CHARGED WITH ASSAULT
RAPE TYCOON ON BATTERY CHARGE
JAMIE: YOU HYPOCRITE