Neat.
If only they knew. Mono-Duo marriages result in depression. Oh, yes. But I still need proof. I have ample evidence of pill-popping feminine hysterics. The problem is finding proof of murder.
Thieves and robbers are damn difficult to locate when you actually need them. They have a way of disappearing into thin air.
I should be working harder.
Much harder.
16 April 2015
Things are heating up; the general election will be deferred to Thursday, 25 June. Mark is going to be campaigning like mad. Plenty of press attention on him over the coming weeks, I reckon.
I should keep my eyes and ears peeled. For the right time to unmask him to the world.
When love turns to hate, even Hades will melt.
The melting point is nigh.
He fully deserves it, too. I wouldn’t have collided with that bloody thing on Jesus Green if he hadn’t made me so furious in the first place. I was already damned upset to begin with. He could have shown a bit more empathy, a bit more understanding. Instead he made me twice as angry.
It’s amazing what an encounter with rigid, unyielding metal can do to a hapless brain. It makes blinders slide off. It causes barricades to crack open.
When you have lots of time on your hands at St. Augustine’s, all you can think about is the people who triggered your misery. The tiny but significant things they did to you, how these added up.
I have all the tools I need to engineer his political demise. The sharp chisel of full memory. The razor-blade edge of solid perspective.
The time is near. I can see it. Feel it. Smell it, even.
The man’s imminent downfall.
Almost there, Sophia.
Almost.
2 May 2015
Mr. Burrell has nimble hands. Nimble feet. Nimble enough not to leave a single trace of his nocturnal visit to Newnham last weekend. The tranquil time of night when one long-term resident of 303 Grantchester Meadows was fast asleep. The other had his dick outside his pants in London. A pair of lips between his legs. A pin-size camera recording his every groan and moan.
But nimble Mr. Burrell failed to deliver the goods. He dropped by yesterday. Wearing a worn and holey T-shirt with the words HERE’S TO A SAFER CAMBRIDGESHIRE printed on it. Carrying only half of what I wanted.
Sorry, he said, tapping the side of his cap. Filthy fingers probably stained from wanking. I’m so sorry, love.
The man’s old diaries are housed in a platinum safe in his study at the end of the garden, he added. A metal contraption that requires a whopping twelve-digit combination code. A device that looks bombproof, darlin’. Probably is. It resisted all my sharp tools. The best professional devices on the market, mind you.
For fuck’s sake, I said.
The man’s paranoid about his old diaries, said Burrell, spreading apologetic nicotine-stained palms. I’ve never seen a safe like that before. I’m sorry, darlin’. No professional will ever be able to break into that reinforced concrete bunker. It’s impossible. A siren, my love, is programmed to squeal if one enters the wrong code three times in a row.
This is the most I can pay you, I said, shoving half the agreed amount into his grubby paws and showing him to the door.
But…but…he protested.
You’re losing your touch, Burrell, I snarled. You pinched my underwear twenty years ago and got away with it. But you delivered only half the goods this time. So you’re getting only half the money. You’ll get the rest if you manage to retrieve everything I want. I might even throw in a fat bonus.
That’s one bonus I ain’t getting, he said with a shrug. Flashed his gold-capped teeth at me and vanished through the door.
I filled a glass with a triple shot of vodka. After all, Dad once said that one should always celebrate—or commiserate—with the right dose of booze at hand. Sat down at my dressing table. Tore open the envelope Burrell handed me. Several pages were stuffed inside. Fished them out with a smug chuckle. The handwriting that greeted me was large. Childlike, even.
I gasped. The date on the first page was 13 June 1995, instead of 13 June 1996.
Burrell could not fucking read.
I was tempted to hurl the pages at the wall. Kick myself for being stupid enough to hire an illiterate crook. Perhaps I shouldn’t have turned to Lucy Cavendish’s former odd-job man. The person who stole my knickers off a clothesline twenty years ago. Though he did owe me one after I saw the funny side to what he’d done and decided that I was too lazy to tell the college to sack him.
But I flicked through the rest of the pile anyway. To my surprise and relief, I discovered that the thirteenth sheet of paper bore the date 13 June 1996. Burrell must have cut twelve pages out from the wrong diary before realizing his mistake and grabbing the right one from the shelf.
So the wanker could read, after all.
I toasted myself with the vodka before spending the next ten minutes reading the correct pages from 1996. Damn carefully, too.
Before hurling my vodka glass at the wall.
Fuck that woman.
I should have known.
Better.
3 May 2015
I’m entitled to complain. To moan, even. About how some people have fucking selective memories. As demonstrated by this passage from the woman’s diary, dated 18 June 1996:
15:15: Checked on Cath after it began pouring outside. Still sleeping. Looked peaceful in crib. Temperature in room seemed too low for comfort, so placed blanket over lower body. Went back to knitting in living room.
16:30: Storm worsened; worried thunder might wake Cath.
17:01: Returned to see how Cath was getting on and if she needed feeding. Eyes still closed. Face seemed paler than usual. Touched her cheek. It was cold. So cold that it froze both fingers and mind.
Don’t know what happened next. Really don’t. When world came into focus again, I was on all fours on carpet of nursery. Hands shaking, tears streaming down face. Couldn’t breathe. Mark was kneeling yards away, cradling Cath in arms. Her head was flopping downwards.
What did you do, Claire? He was shrieking.
World went out of focus again. Next thing I knew, there were paramedics everywhere. One had attached something to my baby. The other was shaking his head at Cath’s gray face. A third paramedic was using his arms to hold me back. Long scratch mark across his face. Mark was standing in corner, gripping top of Cath’s crib. Face white, pain in eyes.
It was then I understood what had happened to my darling baby.
Can’t write anymore. They’ve placed me under observation since. Am exhausted. Senses numb. Mind in pieces. An abyss has swallowed me up. May never be able to climb out of it. But I should write this down before I go to sleep.
I’m so sorry, Mark.
How pathetic. A Mono hiding from her past. Covering up her misdeeds. Obscuring her sins. Tweaking the truth. Inserting false memories into her diary. Choosing to believe what she wishes to believe. Convincing herself she was not to blame. Absolving herself from shame.