I Know Who You Are(60)

Her gloved hands hover in midair when her eyes find what they have been looking for, forming a bird-shaped shadow on the wall. A picture of Aimee Sinclair is staring right back at her from the newspaper: Aimee the actress, all grown-up, with a big smile stretched across her stupid, lying face. It must be an old picture; she’s quite certain that Aimee isn’t smiling anymore.

Maggie’s eyes stick to the words written in the headline, as if she’s fallen under a spell. She removes her glasses and wipes them on her hoodie, ignoring the stains from last night’s spilled baked beans on toast. Then she rests them back on her nose to get a better look. She stares at the words as though she were in a trance, translating them into something that makes her smile so hard it hurts.

AIMEE SINCLAIR ARRESTED FOR HUSBAND’S MURDER



Maggie reads the story three times. Slowly. Some meals for the mind are too delicious to rush. She picks up her left-handed scissors and takes her time cutting out the article, careful not to tear the thin paper. Then she lifts the heavy photo album from its place on the coffee table, and turns to one of the few empty pages at the back. She peels away the transparent sleeve and sticks the new Aimee Sinclair clipping right in the middle of the page.





Forty-eight


London, 2017

“Name?” says the prison guard behind the desk.

“Aimee Sinclair,” I whisper.

“Speak up, and look at the camera,” he barks, and I repeat my name, while staring at the small black device attached to the wall. It feels a bit like being at an airport, except that I know I’m not going anywhere nice.

“Place your right hand in the middle of the screen,” he says next.

“What for?”

“I need to process your fingerprints. Place your right hand in the middle of the screen.” He sounds weary. I do as he says. “Now just your right thumb.” I move my hand. “Now the left…”

I feel strange as I follow a female guard through further airport-style security. A little light-headed, as though perhaps I am dreaming and none of this is real. I walk through a full-size scanner and then stand with my arms and legs spread, while two guards pat down every single part of my body.

“Remove your clothes, all of them, and put them on the chair.”

I do as I am told.

At first I feel violated because I haven’t done anything wrong, and they shouldn’t be treating me like this, but then I start to question everything again, unsure whether I can trust myself and my memories of what did or didn’t happen.

Ben is dead.

They found his body buried beneath the decking in our garden. His remains had been burned using some kind of accelerant, just like the lighter gel I discovered in our kitchen bin, which the police found in the bin outside, along with my fingerprints. They say I bought it in the petrol station, then burned him somewhere else, before burying his remains at home.

What they are accusing me of is unthinkable.

I wouldn’t believe what they said at first, but dental records confirmed that it was Ben. I thought I saw him, just for a moment at the wrap party before I was arrested, but I must have been mistaken about that, too, because my husband is definitely dead, and the whole world thinks I killed him.

Detective Croft said that the bullet wound in his skull was consistent with those from the bullets that fit my gun at home. The gun I bought, legally, to try to make myself feel safe. The gun they can’t find because I won’t tell them where to look.

They think I’m hiding evidence, but I did not kill my husband.

Did I?

What if I did?

No, that’s not what happened. It can’t be. I shake the thought and stick to the script I already wrote for myself: I’m being framed, I just don’t know who by.

I’ve been in a police station, then a police cell, then I was cuffed inside a white security van, and now I am here. I don’t know how long it has been, a couple of days perhaps; time has stopped working inside my head, I don’t know how to tell it anymore. They said I could use the telephone, but I didn’t know who to call. I have got myself a lawyer though, a good one. He’s handled a lot of high-profile cases over the last few years, and he seems to know what he’s doing. I told him I didn’t do it, and when I asked if he believed me, he just smiled and said it didn’t matter. His answer keeps replaying on a loop inside my head: “What I believe is irrelevant; it’s what I can make others believe that dictates the future.” It’s as though his words might have been written for me.

I pull on the green prison-issue top and jogging bottoms I’ve been told to wear, and every inch of my skin starts to itch. The feeling makes me want to scratch myself out. I catch a glimpse of a strange-looking woman in the mirror; she doesn’t look like me. When you dig down, deep enough inside your own despair, you usually meet the you that you used to be, but I don’t remember her. It feels as if I have to be someone different now, someone strong and brave, a role I’m not sure how to play.

I’ve never been inside a prison before. It’s a lot like how you might expect: high exterior walls topped with barbed wire, a lot of doors, a lot of locks. The place feels cold, and everything seems to look grayish green. The people I see don’t tend to smile too much. I follow another guard as he locks yet another gate behind us, before opening the next with the enormous bunch of keys attached to the belt of his uniform.