. . . but he’s rich, and determined, and he’s got fuck-all else to do.
And yes, before you ask, I’ve tried to tell the police. They were my first port of call. I tried to talk to DS Kent, just to get her advice really, but she died a few years ago. So I had to go to my local force, and they were of limited help. They took me seriously, because of Jamie’s conviction, but mainly they said they’ll monitor him and let me know when he comes out. Pretty pointless, as I’m already in touch with Antonia. But they wouldn’t do anything for you, even though you testified against him. I’ve asked them and so has Antonia, but no joy. For a start, he needs to make the threat to you directly for the police to be able to action it. Him mouthing off to Antonia doesn’t count, apparently. It’s classed as a third-party threat. Even if the police could offer you protection, there’s another, obvious problem. Who do I tell them to guard? ‘There’s this couple, Kit and Laura, I think they’ve changed their names, or they might not even be in Britain any more for all I know, but could you just devote all your resources to finding them and putting them into a safe house?’ You can imagine the response.
Anyway, I’ve tried to cover everything but there’s bound to be something I’ve missed. I really hope we can meet face to face so I can fill in the gaps.
Thanks for reading.
B x
The last page is a list of numbers: mobiles and landlines with unfamiliar codes, for Beth and Antonia, and underneath in capitals
SAVE THESE IN YOUR PHONE. WE ARE BOTH HERE IF YOU NEED US.
I hesitate, reluctant to do anything Beth tells me; then I save her numbers so I know not to pick up if she somehow finds mine – I wouldn’t put anything past her – and Antonia’s numbers just in case all this somehow checks out. Then I fold the pages tightly, a cache of threats and riddles lying in my lap, eyes closed against the clock, giving myself over to thought. The gap that most needs filling in is one she hasn’t even mentioned. There is no reference in these letters to our history of gifts and pictures, glass and fire.
Gradually my surroundings come back to me; the silent phone at my side; the TV still burbling away in the background, schoolchildren viewing an eclipse in Scotland. The spilt drink is congealing around me, a sickly scent rising from the floor and the splashes on my clothes clotting. It is 8.15.
Numbly, I walk to the kitchen, grab a dishcloth and start to wipe the floor, my belly skimming the tiles as I kneel on all fours, eyes constantly flicking from the job in hand and looking at the door, the clock, my phone. I can’t sleep here tonight. I’ll go to Ling’s; I’ve got a key, it doesn’t matter whether she’s in or not. If I go now, while Beth’s in the pub, she won’t be able to follow me there. In the bedroom I change my messy clothes for a flimsy maternity T-shirt that I can sleep in, a bobbled cardigan and elasticated jeans.
8.20. She’ll be gone in ten minutes.
I pull on a coat that doesn’t do up any more, pocket my phone and double-lock the door behind me before making the short walk along Wilbraham Road to the Salisbury. Bees buzz where my heart should be and if it wasn’t for my hands across my belly I’d say I was feeling reckless. Let’s have it all out: the trial, the fire, the photograph, Zambia; let’s get it all in the open. The key to walking on hot coals is courage.
It’s barely spring on Green Lanes, let alone summer, but the promise of heat to come is enough to bring the street to life; two little boys play football in the gridlocked street, the division between road and pavement dissolving. At the Salisbury, I put one hand on the huge door, standing on the chessboard steps and squinting through the etched glass. My legs twitch, as though they alone know I should run away from her, run to the police station. But this conversation is years overdue, and that residual fear of the police remains.
The pub is decorated in music-hall reds and golds. The high Victorian ceiling and gilded walls make a proscenium arch to frame Beth, the lonely actress, tiny at her table for two. She looks harmless; no, she looks frightened, which is not the same thing at all. I have to stop and remind myself that Jamie being guilty does not neutralise what Beth did. Nothing anyone can do will neutralise what she did.
Chapter 47
KIT
20 March 2015
The Princess Celeste is the first boat to pull out of Tórshavn harbour and it’s quite the event. The waving crowd look like something from a hundred years ago, the kind of image you usually see in sepia, where all the men are hatted and moustachioed, and all the women are waving lacy handkerchiefs.
Instead of hats and hankies it’s all stormwear and smartphones. Among the crowd are Krista and her family, in their matching violet coats. I give them a two-handed wave and realise that I would really like to stay in contact. (Although I still have no idea who Bill is, and it seems the moment to ask has passed, now; I can see us being friends for another two decades, with me having no idea how I’m supposed to know him.) The child astride his shoulders is a toddler, and will still be young enough to play with my children, who will be about his age in 2017. It’s a warming thought.
The horn sounds; the ship vibrates, then lurches once to starboard, making us all grab on to the barrier, which is immediately followed by much laughter from those who grabbed in time and swearwords from those who missed it.