Don’t Trust Me Read online

  ‘You will… take… responsibility… for this, Jessica!’

  I claw the papers away and catch sight of him. He’s panting, face flushed, frightening.

  ‘You fucking hit me!’ Now I can say it. He’s finally done something that breaks my last taboo.

  He looks surprised by the accusation. ‘I didn’t.’ He lets go of my shirt and steps away.

  I rub my cheek where I can still feel the sting. My eyes are watering. ‘You fucking did and you know it.’

  ‘It was a heat-of-the-moment thing – you got in the way. Christ, you deserved it.’

  I clench my fists. ‘Never say that again. No one deserves to be hit. You say I have problems? Michael, you just hit a woman – you know what that makes you? An abuser. There’s no defence.’

  He’s still breathing heavily. ‘Just the once – and don’t you go making more of this than an accident. Try to blacken my character and no one will believe you.’

  I’m cold inside now. Any impulse I had to explain the rent matter has vanished. I don’t want to do anything except leave.

  ‘It’s not about me going to other people, Michael. I can’t see the point in that. You and I both know what you are.’ I go back to packing my things, pretending a calm I don’t feel. Inside I’m like a volcanic island still undergoing an eruption, shivering, shaking with shock. ‘When you look in a mirror, think of that. There’s one person in this world who has seen you without your mask.’ My sense of injury gives me strength. ‘Go away so I can finish this.’

  With a string of expletives, Michael storms out. I immediately ring for a taxi and text Drew to say I’m coming back tonight. I could, of course, stay with Lizzy, but that would be too close. I want nothing more than to escape the threat of Michael’s presence and can’t bear the idea of bumping into him on the street. The rest of my things I chuck into all available bags, including Michael’s favourite suitcase, the one I’d been intending to leave him. He no longer deserves any such attention.

  The taxi hoots as it pulls up. I drag the cases downstairs. I don’t regret the scuff marks I leave on the oxblood paintwork.

  I find Michael huddled at the kitchen table. ‘I expect I’ve left lots of other stuff scattered about the place. I’d appreciate it if you would put it all in a spare corner and I’ll arrange for Lizzy to collect it.’

  Michael grunts as he scowls at his laptop.

  ‘Right then. I’ll leave my set of keys on the hall table. Oh, and one thing more, it really wasn’t me who did that to the bedroom. You have an enemy, Michael, and it isn’t who you think it is.’

  I’m quite pleased with my exit. For once I’ve managed dignified. Michael being so clearly in the wrong has helped me be in the right.

  ‘Any more luggage, love?’ asks the taxi driver once I’ve passed him all my bags.

  I glance back at the pretty Victorian semi that has been my home for five years. ‘No, that’s it. There’s nothing else I want here.’

  Chapter 16

  Emma, 23rd July 2010

  It’s Katy’s birthday today. Biff arranged the party so we could keep it a secret from her – not that a two-year-old is that good at sniffing out plans when you want to keep them hidden. She lacks guile. Michael found it all a bit of a strain, poor love. He didn’t quite realise when we got married how much he would be involved in this side of things. He didn’t mix well with the parents of the other young children Biff had invited and I suppose it did sound like one of the circles of hell with all the howling going on as they fought over the wrapping paper – the kids, not the parents. Michael is not used to toddlers. I see him as a man who would be good with older ones when they can hold a conversation with him. He’d find them interesting then. He spent the whole time watching the chaos with something like horror on his face.

  It’s cute how Katy knows he’s not yet a potential playmate. When neither Biff nor I are around, she will approach him, but it’s always with a sober plan in her little head. He’s OK for reading a book, or putting on the TV, but not for the hours of ‘let’s pretend’ that she likes. Mind you, to hear him read The Gruffalo with such disbelief in his voice makes me wonder why she persists. Perhaps she’s cleverer than we think and is secretly laughing at him as she tortures him with her requests. That’s Biff’s theory.

  She’s got Biff and me, though, to entertain her, and we each step in when the other is feeling tired and, God, I feel so tired all the time these days after college. When we found out that Katy was on the way, Biff and I made an agreement to do this together and we’ve both stuck to our word. Biff has a great corner in her kitchen with a play stove and cupboard. Katy feeds us both meals of plastic food, chattering away in that birdlike language of hers that makes a kind of sense if you listen to the intonation.

  Biff and I have talked about pre-schools. She, naturally, knows them well and recommends to all her friends the Montessori nursery a short walk away. I’m not sure I like the sound of it – all a bit too Yummy Mummy. We’ll have to go and visit soon to get a feel for the place. In what is still a man’s world, I want Katy to grow up kick-ass like her mum; I’m not sure that’s part of the Montessori curriculum. Biff will probably get her way though. She tends to call the shots on childcare arrangements.

  Chapter 17

  Jessica

  Drew is so good about finding me back at his with my suitcases. He even pays the taxi, which is a mercy as I’m down to my last – Michael’s last – twenty.

  ‘You’ve left him?’ He picks up a suitcase to carry it over the threshold.

  ‘I thought that was self-explanatory.’ I gesture to the bags. ‘Sorry to clutter up the place.’

  He brushes this off with a shake of his head. ‘As if I care. You’ve been crying. And, hey, what’s that on your face?’

  In the mirror at the top of the stairs, put there to reflect more light into a dingy corner, I see myself rising up to meet me at the turn before the door. There’s a red blotch high on my cheek like the pressure mark you get from sleeping funny. I don’t think it’ll bruise. I hope it won’t – that would just be pathetic.

  ‘It got a bit physical at the end.’

  ‘Jesus. You should’ve called the police.’

  Dumping my load in the hall, I laugh without humour, wrapping my arms around my middle. I’m feeling like my sides are splitting, and not in a good way. Life has never been more unfunny. ‘He did that before I arrived. Someone had trashed our bedroom and he thought it was me. He was hoping to get me arrested.’

  Drew pulls me to his chest. Just comfort. ‘God, Jess, I should’ve gone with you.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, you know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

  I push away. ‘I’m not lying. Someone got in the house, probably during the afternoon, you know, yesterday between my two visits?’

  ‘Superglue on the loo seat – that would’ve been a good revenge.’

  ‘Drew!’

  ‘I know, I know, Jess. I’m just imagining.’ He transfers my bags to the spare room. ‘He hit you. He deserves much worse than a messy bedroom.’

  Something clicks. ‘You… You didn’t do it, did you?’

  ‘What? Me?’ Drew laughs then realises I’m serious. ‘Bugger me, no, though I wish I’d thought of it. I’d have pissed on his books on deviant behaviour. So it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me. What about Michael, trying to give himself an excuse for booting you out after five years? You probably have a claim on him. You’ve rights, haven’t you? You’ve contributed to the household?’

  ‘You think he’d do that?’

  ‘He’s the one who found it. He’s the one making the accusations.’

  ‘There was no break-in.’

  ‘See? We have ourselves another suspect, m’lord. Whoever did it, vindictive ex or intruder, I’m pleased you’re out of there.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘And I’m seriously considering going round there and decking him.’

  ‘Drew, you’re not
exactly Hercules and Michael is six foot one and goes down the gym.’

  ‘He’s also nearly twenty years older than me. I bet he has a glass jaw. Those kinds of guys look impressive but can’t take a punch.’

  ‘Don’t joke about this. I don’t want one of my few remaining friends in jail. I mean, where would I stay then?’ I poke him in the ribs.

  ‘But I would make the perfect criminal. Think how easily I could dispose of his body. I could double him up in a coffin and no one would know. Mrs Bird – we’re doing her funeral tomorrow – she was a little thing at the end. We could fit him in and still manage to lift the coffin.’

  His revenge fantasies are having the effect of cheering me up – that’s the kind of friendship we have.

  ‘I’d settle for taking his conference suits and bags and burning them on a bonfire – as well as his books and articles. And I don’t want any harm to come to the cat.’ Emma’s cat. ‘I’ll take her with us.’

  ‘That’s a good thought. I do the grisly deed, you burn his stuff, and we live happily ever after with Cauliflower.’

  ‘Colette.’

  ‘No, we’d have to rename her to put the police off the scent.’

  ‘Ah, cunning.’

  He sits me down in his lounge and goes into the kitchen to prepare us something to eat.

  ‘Risotto?’ he calls.

  ‘Ri-yes-oh. You know, Drew, it feels after the events of the last two days that my life has fallen out from under me. No job, no home, no relationship.’

  He comes back with a tall glass of white wine. ‘Drink this. Think about safety nets, not falling. Everything will look much better in the morning. You’re a bright woman. You’ll come up with a plan. Out with the old, in with the new.’ He gently brushes my cheek where the mark sits. ‘All that’s over now.’

  Drew’s right. The next morning my strategy has crystallised. Though I did not want to go down this path, I decide to contact one of the girls’ families. Ramona’s mother is no longer with the father as far as I can tell, so she poses the least risk. I get her number by the simple method of telling the truth as to why I want it to one of Ramona’s old friends. This isn’t so hard, as I’ve already contacted her earlier in my research. She’s happy to hand over a number if it will help find her mate.

  ‘Mrs James? Hi, er, my name’s Jessica Bridges. No, no, I’m not trying to sell you anything. It’s about your daughter.’

  The poor woman goes from desperate to fend me off to eager to hear everything I know.

  ‘No, I haven’t found her but I have been looking. That’s why I’m ringing. I work for a small investigative agency specialising in missing persons cases – Wrath Investigations. Have you heard of us?’

  The hope in her voice is heart-breaking. ‘No, I haven’t. Did the police ask you to look for Ramona?’

  ‘So I don’t suppose you’ve heard of my boss, Jacob Wrath, either?’

  ‘Should I have done?’ She sounds genuinely bemused. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not very with it at the moment. Things haven’t been the same since… and I feel ill from worrying, in pieces really. You can’t understand what it’s like. My only child. The stuff the doctor gives me – it knocks me out.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not your fault, Mrs James. You haven’t forgotten him. Mr Wrath probably didn’t contact you. The police didn’t ask us to look for her, as far as I know.’

  ‘But you’ll carry on? I need someone to take this seriously. The police say she’s over eighteen now, has every right not to call, but she’s my daughter. She’d get in touch if she could, she really would. You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I believe you. And I’ll keep looking, I promise.’ Why am I saying this? I can’t just kill off the tiny glimmer of hope I’ve offered her – I don’t have that in me. ‘If it’s any consolation, Mrs James, there’s nothing I’ve seen that suggests, you know, foul play. Lots of girls run away each year. Often it’s just a question of being patient and keeping the door open for them when they are ready to return.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you. But where has she gone then? I can’t help being worried sick about her.’

  ‘I’ll try and find out, I promise.’

  ‘I’ll pay – I really will – pay what I can.’

  I almost refuse but I don’t have an income. I have to be practical. ‘Let’s talk about that if I have anything concrete to offer. But I’m not doing this for money.’

  ‘I know you aren’t – I can hear it in your voice. You care, don’t you?’

  She’s being far too kind to me. ‘Yes, I do care about Ramona. And if I find her I’ll let her know you’ve not given up looking. I’m right in thinking you live alone now?’

  There’s a choked sob at the other end. So she found out, or guessed, what her husband had been up to. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll let her know that too.’

  I end the call as gently as possible. She may not have been a strong enough mother when needed but at least she is still there for her daughter; Ramona has someone in her corner, which is more than many do.

  I carry my results to Drew, having a sudden image of myself as Colette bringing in a dead mouse. I have to shake this habit of wanting to please the men in my life.

  ‘Jacob wasn’t employed by the families, or at least not Ramona’s, so I’m guessing the others will say the same thing.’

  Drew looks up from the ironing board. He’s getting his afternoon shirt for Mrs Bird looking all spit-spot. His tattoos – I was right about them – flex as he works. A jester and some kind of lightning bolt on his bicep. Dashing away with the smoothing iron, dashing away with the smoothing iron, he stole my heart away. Where do I know that song from? Primary school or my mum, I think.

  Keep focused, Jessica. Stop leapfrogging your thoughts. Take your tablet. Take a couple.

  ‘So what does that tell you?’ Drew asks.

  ‘That he picked them himself – he had a reason, even if a crazy one. They weren’t the result of families reaching out to him.’

  ‘Learning she is, my young apprentice.’ Drew slips into the shirt and quickly fastens the buttons. ‘And your next move?’

  ‘I’m feeling kinda crazy myself, being the only one, other than the irate landlord, who ever dealt with Jacob.’

  ‘Were you the only one? Didn’t he sign for packages? Interview anyone?’

  ‘He always sent me out when he was expecting a client. He said they’d not speak freely if I were there.’

  ‘Did you ever see any of these clients?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t. Probably didn’t exist either, did they?’

  Drew shrugs and flips the long end of his black tie over the short. ‘Can’t say. What’s he living on if he’s not being paid?’

  I snap my fingers. ‘But there’s Rita.’

  ‘Rita?’

  ‘Cleaner of Doom. I swear to you that she exists – I met her many times. Came in once a week to do the bathroom. I say “do” advisedly. We often fell out over her cleaning technique of spraying the area with air freshener and calling it quits.’ I sit on the arm of the sofa and hug a cushion to my stomach. ‘But I don’t get why she came at all? If Jacob was planning on doing the midnight flit, why have another employee?’

  ‘Are you sure she’s his employee? Some landlords have a cleaning service come in to keep an eye on their properties.’

  ‘So she was Khan’s spy?’

  ‘Maybe. So how are you going to track down Rita?’

  ‘Lovely Rita, meter maid.’

  ‘Educating Rita.’

  ‘Rita Skeeter – it’s one of those names that just begs an internal rhyme. Easy. Wednesday is her morning. If she hasn’t changed her schedule, I can stake out the place and catch her as she leaves.’

  ‘A stake-out. That sounds very grand.’

  ‘OK, I’m getting up early and going to lurk in a doorway. Happy now?’

  Drew grins and puts on his jacket. ‘See you later, Detective Bridges. I’ve just got to put the bird i
n the oven.’

  ‘Ouch. Very bad taste.’

  ‘Nah, she would’ve laughed herself silly over it. Viewed life as the end, full stop.’ He brushes his hair, straightens his tie. I’ve noticed that he spends more time in front of the mirror than I do. ‘Knew she was on the way, no family, very unsentimental about the arrangements, according to Dad. We’re going to make it special for her – us and the carers from her home – as she didn’t know many people, having outlived most of her friends.’

  I feel a sudden sympathy for the lonely old lady, thumbing her nose at the world that didn’t do well by her, from the sound of it. ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘Would you?’ Drew looks delighted by the offer.

  ‘Of course. I’ll just get changed.’

  ‘Five minutes, Jess. Then we have to go to be on time for our slot.’

  ‘I go, I go, swifter than a something from a whatsit bow.’

  ‘An arrow from a Tartar’s bow. And I know you know it, as you say it often enough. Don’t dumb down for me, you Shakespeare hack.’

  ‘Educating Andrew.’ Smiling at the ease with which we riff off each other, I dive into my bags and pull out my most suitable clothes for a funeral: black skirt, grey flowered shirt. I’m ready in four minutes.

  I’m not sad at Mrs Bird’s ceremony. It’s sobering to see how you can come to the end of a long life with so few anchors holding you to the ground, but there is something of the exhilaration of the opening of the Pixar film Up as we let her go weightless into whatever comes next. The crematorium officiator does a good job making it personal, having bothered to speak beforehand to the staff who knew her best. But Mrs Bird’s past is something of a mystery; she’s managed to erase it in a way that few modern people can, with our digital trails. She leaves to ‘The Lark Ascending’, which has to be the most sublime bit of music ever, and the point at which I well up for this unknown lady and, I suppose, for all of us.

  They all go into the dark.

  Another fragment of Eliot bobs up in my mind. I’ve made it worse by rereading him before I go to bed, refreshing the pages in my memory where the words I first met years back have begun to fade. Emma wrote that she didn’t like poetry but she might’ve found him a help as she faced her own dark slide. He might have fitted her personality more than Dylan Thomas. Who was at her funeral? From the last entry I read, I can’t quite work out who Biff and Katy are – sometimes it reads like Katy is Emma’s child and sometimes she sounds more like Biff’s. Michael has never mentioned either so I guess Biff has to be the mum, and a good friend of Emma’s from way back. I’m guessing it was an unplanned pregnancy with a father who buggered off, so Emma stepped in to help Biff manage on the ‘it takes a village’ principle. Biff definitely would’ve been at the funeral as well as Emma’s colleagues and other friends. From the sound of it, Emma didn’t have any living relatives, no mention of father or siblings, just an already deceased mother – and Michael, of course.