When You Are Mine(82)

‘We should go,’ I say.

‘Has he gone?’

‘I’ll check.’

I walk outside and study the faces in the hallway, then search the forecourt, but I can’t see any sign of Darren Goodall. Returning to the bathroom, I tell her that it’s safe.

‘I didn’t see Jenny,’ I say.

‘She’ll have gone home.’

‘Without you?’

‘We’re not on the same page at the moment.’ Alison flushes the tissues away.

I offer to drive her home. My car is parked two streets away. As we get nearer, I notice a crowd of people have gathered on the footpath. I have to push between shoulders, holding on to Alison’s hand. My lovely red Fiat is barely recognisable. The paintwork is blistered and blackened by acid or some other caustic substance that has been splashed over the bonnet and roof.

‘Did anyone see what happened?’ I ask.

Nobody answers.

Alison is next to me. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers.

‘We don’t know it was him.’

The words sound hollow.

‘Are you going to call someone?’ she asks.

‘Yes. But first I’ll take you home.’

I carefully open the doors, trying not to get acid on my hands or clothes. Then I peer beneath the chassis and examine the wheel-nuts, making sure that nothing else has been tampered with or vandalised. Satisfied, I start the engine and pull into traffic, checking the mirrors to make sure nobody is following us.

Alison has her knees drawn up and is peering nervously through the windscreen and passenger window.

‘How did you meet Darren?’ I ask.

‘You’re going to think it’s creepy.’

‘Try me.’

‘He came to my school to give us a talk about staying safe online, you know, not sending naked photographs or befriending strangers.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Seventeen.’ She winces. ‘Me and my girlfriends were chatting to Darren afterwards. I guess we were flirting with him. He started flirting back and asked me if I ever did any babysitting. I asked him if he had a baby and he said he’d like to make a few. Corny, I know.’

‘Are you saying … ?’

‘No, not then,’ she says, half-laughing. ‘I didn’t meet him again until three years later. He asked to “friend” me on Facebook.’

‘How did he remember your name?’

‘He said it stuck with him because I was so cheeky. We started messaging each other. And he took me on a date.’

‘He’s quite a bit older.’

‘Eleven years, but he’s always looked younger.’

We are caught in traffic on Finchley Road.

‘When we first hooked up, it was like being love-bombed. He was so thoughtful. Flowers. Messages. Presents. Romantic dinners. I was besotted. We moved in together within a month and got married that summer. Darren wanted me to get pregnant straight away. He didn’t really like me working.’

‘When did the problems start?’

She is toying with a loose thread on the cuff of her blouse. ‘I don’t know. A year maybe.’ She half turns to face me. ‘What I thought was cute – the clothes he bought me, the hourly phone calls and messages – after a while they seemed …’ She struggles for the word.

‘Suffocating?’

‘Mmmmm. He doesn’t like any of my friends. I used to think he did, but then he started to bad-mouth them, or make up stories. He told me that one of my girlfriends had a drug conviction, but it made me wonder why he looked that up. She was eighteen and at Glastonbury and got caught with a few pills.

‘Darren used to get angry if I mentioned that I’d taken drugs.’ She laughs and glances nervously at me. ‘It was only ecstasy – two times … well, maybe five. I’m hardly Amy Winehouse.’

‘I’m not judging you.’

‘Another of my girlfriends left her husband and filed for divorce. Darren wouldn’t let me see her. He blocked her calls. That’s how I discovered that he could access my phone and read my texts. When I say it out loud like this, it all seems so clear, but when it was happening, I didn’t realise. It was like …’

‘Boiling a frog.’

‘Yeah. After Darren was stabbed, I tried to blame it all on PTSD. I thought counselling would change him – make him the man he used to be. But things only got worse.’

Traffic is moving again. Alison asks about Tempe. ‘He hit her too, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why she left him?’

‘Yes.’

‘She must be stronger than me.’

‘No.’

‘Would she help me now? Would she make a statement? They might believe us if we both …’

‘I can ask her,’ I say, but I already know the answer.

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up outside her parents’ house. Keith is in the front garden, watching over the children, who are playing under a sprinkler. A French bulldog is keeping a safe distance.

‘Betsy doesn’t like water,’ explains Alison, giving them a melancholy smile.

Chloe tries to aim the spray at Nathan, who keeps dodging out of the way. ‘I won’t wet you,’ she says, sweetly, hoping to lure him within range.