The decency that had flared in me died just as quickly. It was clear that two irreconcilable things must happen. We had to do whatever we could to help Beth. And we had to do it without revealing what I’d done.
‘Beth, I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, and only then realised I was not expressing sympathy for what she’d been through but apologising for what I was about to do. ‘When the police get here you can’t tell them about the other night.’ You don’t live with a woman like Laura without absorbing this kind of stuff: how the system is weighted against rape victims; the tricks clever men use. Beth carried on with her dark green stare. I couldn’t even tell if she understood me. ‘You know what I mean. They’ll come to the wrong conclusions about you.’ I was taking a risk, digging myself in even deeper. There was more now to be discovered; I knew that Laura would have been more disgusted at my cynicism than the act itself. ‘I’m trying to help you,’ I said to Beth. Only a tiny involuntary curl of her lip showed that she’d understood me at all. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’
Twenty feet away, Laura was describing the attacker to the emergency services. I sprinted round and caught her as she was winding up the conversation. Upon seeing that I was alone, Laura narrowed her eyes at my failure. I offered no excuses; I barely trusted myself to speak.
‘I’m going to sit with her till they come, see if I can get her to talk,’ she said. The following seconds were thick with a concentrate version of the terror that has spread itself thinly across every subsequent day. I couldn’t tell her not to without giving myself away, so I watched her disappear between the caravans and kneel down beside Beth. I pictured Laura’s face when the news hit. I’d never seen her in shock or in grief but I could easily rearrange her features into scooped-out eyes and a howling, hollow mouth and knew I could not bear it. The solution came to me, gloriously simple. If Laura finds out what I’ve done, I’ll just kill myself, I thought. I can no more live with Laura’s reaction than I can live without her. She’ll want me gone anyway. It was as though I’d conjured a piece of glass to break in case of emergency, and it brought a kind of peace. Crucially, though, I didn’t consider a method. If contemplating logistics is a step towards action, then I can’t have had the courage of my convictions. Even as I mooted suicide, self-preservation had other ideas.
Behind me, the women whispered. It was my job to look out for the police. I stood next to the broken carousel horse, with its flaking gold leaf and chipped eyeballs, with my feet apart and my arms folded in a nightclub bouncer position, braced for Laura’s furious shriek.
The police were, thankfully, on us in what seemed like minutes, buzzing towards us in their black-and-yellow stripes. Laura took over at once. ‘They could’ve sent two women,’ she said under her breath, brushing past me. I knew then that whatever Beth had told her I was not part of it. I felt relief, then an emetic guilt at this relief, then bitter regret, a pattern that has repeated itself constantly in my mind ever since. Beth’s continuing silence, essential as it is for both of us, is a guillotine over my neck. Although she holds the rope, she cannot let it go without it burning her own hands.
Chapter 54
LAURA
21 March 2015
Wilbraham Road is as alive today as it was dead last night. There seems to be a builder’s van for every car. A cement mixer churns in Ronni’s front garden: good. I can scream at Kit without the neighbours overhearing anything.
I shower, rubbing stretch-mark oil in circles into my baby bump. I wash the last pink berry stains from my hair and blast it with the dryer. There’s half an hour before Kit’s due home. In the study, I spread before me Beth’s little dossier on Jamie. I tear out the staples and cover the desk with individual pages, as if the clue to the understanding is not in their content but their formation. I’m aware of the irony that I’m planning to explain to Kit something I barely understand myself. The truth, and the threat, seem to shift with every rearrangement.
I must telephone Antonia Balcombe. I’ve made a living from awkward phone calls and I’ve trained people to do the same, yet I can’t remember being more nervous about dialling a number. What would I tell trainees? That nerves only attack if you don’t know what you’re going to say; have a script, believe you’re right, be clear about your objective. What do I need from Antonia? I list bullet points on the back of one of Beth’s print-outs.
Corroborate what Beth said, how true is what she said about Jamie
Sympathise with her/congratulate her on finding the courage to leave
When is Jamie out, maybe we can cut out middleman and you can keep me in the loop yourself – Beth out of the picture
Offer to meet up – she come here or me go to her?
The final point is really a warning within a question.
How do you think Beth seems? Is she stable?
I call the landline because I don’t want to catch Antonia on the hop with this. The phone rings out six times and then there’s a click and whirr of an old-fashioned tape-recorder answerphone, the kind that broadcasts the message to the whole room. This ties another knot in my tongue.
‘This is a message for Antonia.’ For the first time in years I give my old name. ‘It’s Laura Langrishe. From . . .’ I’m about to say the trial but then picture Antonia’s kids listening in. ‘From Cornwall, from Truro. I, ah, I met up with Beth Taylor yesterday – well, you probably know that by now. I think you might have been expecting me to call. There’s a lot I’d like to talk to you about.’