When You Are Mine(56)

‘I invited her to my place after school. She came. We chilled out, watching videos. That’s how it began. A friendship. Later, people tried to give it other names, but they didn’t understand.’

‘What other names?’

‘It doesn’t matter. People were cruel to Mallory. They would tease her about her thick-soled shoes and her unshaven legs and her un-plucked eyebrows and dowdy clothes. Mrs Hopper took me aside one day and asked me, “What’s your story?” What a stupid question! Why did I have to have a story? Couldn’t I have more than one?

‘“Mallory says you’re very smart,” Mrs Hopper said.

‘“She’s the smart one,” I said.

‘“But you work harder, Mallory said, and you’re better at art.”

‘I offered to draw Mallory’s portrait for Mrs Hopper. I arranged her on a window seat with the sun behind her, creating a soft halo of light around her head. It wasn’t the first time I had drawn her, but until then I’d done it from memory. This time my hands were shaking and I felt like I was touching her skin with my fingertips as the pencil moved across the page.

‘When I finished the drawing, I still wasn’t happy, but Mrs Hopper thought it was beautiful and wanted to get it framed. She said I should start a business, drawing people for money at St George’s Market, but I wasn’t interested in drawing anyone else.’

‘Were you in love with her?’ I whisper.

‘Maybe. Yes. But not in the way you think.’

‘Where is Mallory now?’

Tempe shrugs. ‘She went off to university and found new friends.’

‘You didn’t stay in touch?’

‘No.’

‘That’s a shame.’

Tempe closes the sketchbook and returns it to the suitcase. I want to tell her that I’ve talked to her mother, and to ask her why she ran away from Belfast, but my phone is vibrating. I don’t recognise the number. Normally, I’d let it go through to voicemail. I pick up.

‘Hi, who is this?’

There is a long silence and a muffled ‘Sorry’, before the call suddenly ends.

‘Wrong number?’ asks Tempe.

‘I don’t know. She sounded upset.’

I wait for her to call again. When nothing happens, I search my call history and find the number. It’s not in my contacts list.

I call. It rings and goes to a voicemail message.

‘Hello, I can’t come to the phone right now – probably because of the children – but if you leave me a message I might get back to you when they’re in bed, or they turn eighteen.’

I recognise Alison Goodall’s voice from our yoga class. I’m about to leave a message for her, but stop myself, aware that Goodall might have access to her voicemail or could be listening. Instead, I hang up and call again. This time she picks up and says nothing. I can hear her breathing.

‘It’s Philomena. Are you OK?’

Silence.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Is he listening?’

‘No.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At home.’ She stifles a sob. ‘I packed my bags, but he found them. I thought he was going to kill me.’

‘Get out! Leave now!’

‘I can’t. He deadlocked the doors. I’m locked in the house.’

‘Where are the children?’

‘Nathan is at holiday camp. Chloe is with me. Sleeping. It took me ages to settle her.’

‘Call the police.’

‘I can’t. He’ll find out. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.’ She is about to hang up.

‘No! Wait. Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know. At work.’

‘I’m coming over.’

I grab my car keys and Tempe follows me down the stairs, asking questions. ‘Is she OK? Is she hurt?’ She begins to tell me a story about a friend of hers who was locked in a house, but I don’t have time to listen. As I pull away, she shouts the words, ‘Be careful.’





30


The weather gives a lie to the day. Sunny. Warm. High clouds like smoky smudges on the upper atmosphere. I keep replaying the phone call in my head, wondering what pushed Alison to fight back. I should call the police. I am the police. But how would it look if the call came from me?

When I reach Kempe Road, I have to circle the block to find a parking spot. Pulling over near the school, I jog back towards the house. A rubbish truck rumbles past me and I catch the scent of rotting food and diesel fumes. A different wind brings the smell of the river.

The curtains are drawn. I ring the doorbell. Nobody answers. I kneel and push open the mail flap, which pivots on a hinge.

‘Alison? It’s me.’

I see the lower half of her body as she approaches along the hallway; barefoot in frayed and faded jeans.

‘Where is the key?’ I ask.

‘He took it with him.’

‘What about the back door?’

‘The same.’

She leans against the wall and slides down to my eye level, sitting on her ankles. Her hair falls down to cover her face.

‘I thought he was going to kill her,’ she says.