I Know Who You Are(61)
The keys remind me of Maggie, and the set she used to carry around the shop. I’ve thought about her a lot since I was arrested. It’s as though someone hit my reset button when I wasn’t looking, and I feel like a little girl again, a little girl who was taught never to trust or talk to the police. The only person I’ve spoken to since they took me away is my lawyer, a complete stranger.
I think he thinks I did it.
I’ve retreated as far inside myself as it is possible to go, and locked my own door with a key I thought I’d thrown away. I look at the other women I pass and can’t help thinking that I am not like them, that I do not belong in here.
But what if I do?
We walk across a yard and I see a series of buildings, all with barbed wire on the walls and bars on the windows, to keep the bad people in, not out. The guard unlocks another door with another key, and we enter one of the smaller buildings; the sign says BLOCK A. I wait while he locks the door behind us, then we walk in communal silence, up some stairs and along another corridor, past endless closed metal doors with tiny windows. I’m starting to think that life is little more than a series of doors: every day we have to choose which ones to open, which to walk through, and which to close behind us, leaving them forever locked.
What if I did do what they’re accusing me of?
It seems increasingly difficult to prove that I didn’t, even to myself. What surprises me the most is my grief. My husband is dead, not just missing anymore, but dead. Gone. Forever. And I feel nothing, except sorrow for myself and for the child I know I’ll never have now. Perhaps they’re right, with all their doctors’ reports and theories about my memory and mental state.
Maybe there is something wrong with me.
“Here we are then, home sweet home for now,” says the guard. He unlocks a blue metal door and pushes it open, introducing me to my future. I step forward, just a little, and peer inside. The cell is tiny. There is a bunk bed on the far right, and just in front of that is a dirty-looking curtain, barely hiding the stained toilet bowl and small sink behind it. On the left is a desk, with what looks like a computer, which surprises me. There’s also a small cupboard covered in someone else’s things: a can of baked beans, some books, some clothes, a toothbrush, and a kettle.
“There is someone in this cell already,” I say, turning back to the guard.
He is old and weary looking, with dark circles beneath his beady eyes, and an overfed belly hanging over his belt. His crooked teeth are too big for his small mouth. He has a substantial gathering of dandruff on his shoulders, and an impressive collection of gray hairs protrude from his nostrils, which flare in my general direction.
“I’m afraid the penthouse suite was already booked, along with all the single-occupancy guest rooms, so you’ll have to share. Don’t worry, Hilary is very friendly, and you’ll only be here until your court appearance, then they’ll find you a more permanent home.” He ushers me inside.
“I didn’t kill my husband.” I hate the pathetic sound of my voice.
“Tell it to someone who cares.” He swings the cell door closed with a loud bang.
Forty-nine
Essex, 2017
Maggie decides to celebrate Aimee’s incarceration with a curry.
It’s been three years since she had her gastric band fitted, and that little silicone belt changed everything. She had let herself go in her thirties; it was a difficult time. She’d given up on life ever being what she’d hoped it might be, and she turned to food for comfort in the absence of anything else. But then, in her forties, she found Aimee.
The best thing to ever happen as a result of joining all those dating websites was finding her again after all those years. What a surprise that was. Aimee’s face might have changed a little, but Maggie would have recognized it anywhere; she saw those eyes whenever she closed her own. That’s when she started her self-improvements. The NHS paid for her gastric band, but she’s paid for all the other work herself, not that she minds; Maggie thinks investing in yourself is the smartest use of a person’s assets.
She calls ahead to place her order, so that she doesn’t have to wait when she gets to the Indian restaurant. She doesn’t like the way they look at her in there sometimes, like she is some kind of loser. Maggie is not a loser. She proves it by correcting the man with the Indian accent on the other end of the phone when he says the total cost of her meal will be ￡11.75. She has already calculated that the amount should be ￡11.25, according to the prices listed on the current takeaway menu. The man agrees that her maths is correct without an argument. It might only be fifty pence, but it’s her fifty pence, and Maggie does not like thieves.
Maggie thinks that all immigrants are illegal and crooks. She reads stories about them in the newspapers, and it makes her worry about the future of this country. She is Irish by birth, but does not consider herself to be an immigrant, even though some people might say that she is. She is not like them.
She puts on her coat, ties a giant silk scarf around her head, securing it tightly under her chin and tucking it into her collar, until she is sufficiently wrapped up to be seen by others. She pulls on her boots and picks up her keys. She has quite a large collection of them, all different shapes and sizes, but they are not all her own. Most of them are for the houses of the deceased that she has been commissioned to clear—keys to unlock the secrets people think they’ll never have to share.