In the early evening I take the train back to London, miserably, in a carriage packed with shouty, drunk football supporters. At one point, they start singing, and it’s a relief to get away when we arrive at King’s Cross. At home, I run a hot bath hoping to wash away some of the awfulness of the day. I can’t find the strength to hang up my clothes, which lie strewn across the bedroom floor. I don’t care, and I’m about to step into the bath when my phone rings. It’s Wilf.
“Hello, sexy girl,” he says, his voice drawling, and I can hear a commotion in the background.
“Are you in the pub?”
“Yep. Fancy coming down?” I haven’t seen him since Belle died; he doesn’t know.
“No . . . I’ve had a long day.”
“Fair enough . . . I’ve been thinking of you, though. Just thought I’d tell you that. . . . Shall we meet up soon?”
I feel weary. Now isn’t the time to confront him about the story in the Mail. Belle’s death means that I don’t have the energy for it. Or the motivation.
“Let’s speak tomorrow, when I’m not so tired. Good night.”
“Good night, Callie.” He sounds affectionate but unbothered.
? ? ?
We don’t speak the next day, or the next. I don’t answer his calls or reply to his texts, as I’m still not ready to accuse him; instead I spend my time in the bookshop in a sort of daze. As I go about my routine tasks, I’m able to move only in slow motion. I say to myself, One thing at a time, replace books on shelves, empty the till, enter the new orders . . . Mr. Ahmed comes in, and I say to him as clearly as I can, “Thank you, Jeeves is next, Mr. Ahmed, shall I order that?” and he replies, “What’s the matter, Callie? Have you caught a cold?”
Most of the time, I’m not thinking of Belle, but I’m aware of a dead weight in me that signifies her presence, and when I do think specifically of her, images flash into my mind, of her standing at York station and waving when she spots my smiley face T-shirt, of her laying out her fleece on the ground so that we can have our picnic and then sitting down neatly, with her thin brown legs tucked under her, and her back perfectly straight as she reaches into her bag for our food and wine. I can’t quite believe that she’s gone, and when, in the evenings, I log onto controllingmen.com, I half expect to find a message from her, full of enthusiasm for our mission as befrienders.
Instead I find lots of chat about Bea Santos, specifically about her bravery. I learn that on the day of the attack Joe Mayhew had arrived at her house and hammered on the door, shouting up at the windows and demanding to be let in. When he saw Tricia peek out the window, he kicked the door and cursed, causing neighbors to come out of their houses and watch. When he still got nowhere, he retreated down the side passage, where he sat on the ground next to the bins, and waited. It was bad luck that Belle was out while the rumpus was going on, at Tesco buying food. And when she returned home, and was putting her key in the lock, Joe reappeared, shoving a knife at her throat, demanding that she let him into the flat. Belle screamed for someone to call the police, while he forced her through the front door. He stabbed her several times and took her keys upstairs to the flat, and had just unlocked the door when the police did turn up, having been called by a concerned neighbor some time ago. They were in time to prevent anything but a flailing lunge at Tricia, but it was too late for Belle, who died in the ambulance that was taking her to York hospital.
It’s good to know these details. I owe it to her. It’s strange, though, to see the fevered discussion on the website, page after page of it, by people who have no idea that she was actually a member, a proper befriender. Scarlet doesn’t let on, and neither do I. We don’t want them to claim her, to manipulate her story, to make her their own martyr.
My private emails with Scarlet are intermittent and unsettling. We seem so at odds with each other because Scarlet is in a rage, a fury, constantly hoping that Joe will rot in hell or, at least, spend the rest of his life behind bars. But I’m too exhausted to care about Joe, too drained by sadness. And any anger that I waste on Joe seems to eat away at the loving thoughts I want to devote to Belle, as if my emotions are finite, and I have to think carefully about where to direct them. And when Scarlet keeps insisting that she and I meet up, I repeatedly ignore her, unable to summon the motivation to have the conversation. After a week, though, when she returns to the subject, I do at last engage:
Why is this so urgent?
Belle is dead. Can’t you see how this affects us, you as a befriender, me as prey?
How are things with Luke?
I regret the question as soon as I write it. It comes not from curiosity, but more from a difficulty I have in assessing whether Scarlet’s situation is like a chronic illness, just an ongoing dysfunction, or whether it’s the relentless escalation of danger that she claims.
She writes:
I told you before, he ties me up around my neck, and one day he will strangle me. And he leaves me in the flat, abandoned, tied up. What if I had some emergency while he’s gone? I could have an asthma attack and not be able to get to my inhaler.
This is the first time that she’s mentioned asthma.
What happens when you explain that to him?
I write with trepidation, anxious that I’ll receive a reply full of detail about depraved sex games.
It’s simple—he says “Sure babe” and then completely ignores me. In fact I think I suffer later . . . I have cigarette burns on my back btw.
What?! That’s dreadful.
Yes, it’s all dreadful. That’s why we MUST meet. I’m not going to end up like Belle. I could come to London on Monday—could you meet me then?
Maybe . . . I’ll let you know.
Please, let me know QUICKLY. I need to plan. Also I have to concoct a story for Luke, to explain my absence. Really, it’s ESSENTIAL that we meet.
20
I call Wilf, and he answers with a note of laughter in his voice, as though I’ve caught him in the middle of a funny anecdote.
“Hey! Callie. At last . . . It’s been ages you know, since your impressive spadework in the garden . . . and afterwards . . . and everything. Can I persuade you to come out again?”
Raucous chatter in the background. “You spend too much time in the pub,” I say.
“Not the pub—it’s a going-away drinks in the office for Amy Fishwick—come and join us.” Then in a lower tone, “Really, come over. I’d love to see you, and maybe we can go out later, for a meal or something . . . or just go back to my flat.”
“Okay.” Even though I’m so low, I find myself applying makeup—eyeliner and mascara and lipstick—swapping trainers for my gray suede boots. And because I’m nervous about seeing Wilf, because of the leak to the Mail, I drink down a large glass of Strongbow.
At Willesden Estates it feels like the leaving party has passed its peak, is becoming stale. Drunk people in the street lean against the display window, and something unsavory is splattered over the pavement. Inside, rock music is playing, and the small groups of people still there look tired. Wilf sees me by the door and comes to collect me.
“It’s been so long,” he says. “Am I still okay for a kiss?”
“Maybe.” I give him my cheek, although it’s obvious that he’s expecting my lips.
“Come on in. I want to introduce you to people.”