When You Are Mine(96)

‘I think you sexually assaulted me.’

She laughs incredulously. ‘You think I raped you?’

‘I think you took advantage of me.’

She is shaking her head. ‘I would never do that. And you can’t remember what happened. Maybe it was the other way around.’

‘What?’

‘Maybe you forced yourself on me.’

‘That’s ridiculous! And you better get your story straight because the police are going to ask you about last night.’

‘I’ll tell them we were together,’ she says, as though it should be obvious.

I want to stop her. I want to edit her story, and come up with a better one, to protect myself and to protect Henry.

‘You need to calm down and listen to yourself,’ says Tempe, softening her voice.

‘No. I’m going home. Don’t call me again. Don’t visit. Forget you even know me.’

‘But the wedding.’

‘You’re not invited.’

‘You don’t mean that. Have you eaten today?’

Ignoring her words, I step onto the road, trying to hail a passing cab, but the driver swerves and honks his horn. He has a passenger already on board. Then I remember that I drove the VW and parked near the computer shop.

I’m walking. Tempe yells after me, saying she’ll call me tomorrow and suggesting that I get a good night’s sleep. When will she get the message? She is not my friend. She is a parasite and a manipulator who is not welcome in my life.





52


My phone vibrates beneath my pillow. Henry and I promised long ago that we would never take technology to bed with us, but things have changed. I turn sideways and listen to his soft steady breathing. Sometimes when he’s sleeping, he looks like he’s quietly solving puzzles in his mind. Henry wants certainty in his life, but I keep arguing that life makes a mockery of planning. When it’s steep, we have to climb. When it’s downhill we can coast. And when it’s messy, we pick up a broom.

I have apologised for the other night, but he doesn’t seem ready to forgive and forget. Each attempt at making amends is greeted with one-word answers and soundless shrugs. I think he enjoys playing the martyr, even though I’m the one who was drugged and can’t remember what happened.

Fairbairn has been talking to my friends. Each of them has called me afterwards. All except for Tempe, who has gone quiet. I don’t regret what I said to her outside the bridal shop. I have come to loathe her smugness, her cloying neediness. The worst type of stalker is a stalker who doesn’t realise that she’s a stalker.

My phone vibrates again. It’s a text message from Nish.

Are you watching the TV? BBC News.



I slip out of bed and go to the sitting room. Calling him. He answers.

‘What am I looking for?

‘They’ve released footage from the night of Goodall’s murder.’

I turn up the volume. A stony-faced reporter is standing outside the house in Kempe Road. Why do they always sound so earnest, as if delivering news of a global catastrophe rather than a lone death? ‘Tragedy’ is an overused word. It should be reserved for terrible events that involve no malice, or wickedness. A tsunami is a tragedy. So is an earthquake. But we’ve come to use the word for every moral failure, or flaw in character, or everyday misfortune.

‘Scotland Yard has released CCTV images of a suspect wanted for questioning over the murder of Sergeant Darren Goodall, who died in a house fire early on Saturday morning.’

The shot changes to poor quality footage, bleached of colour by the brightness of a home security light, triggered by a motion sensor.

‘The camera began recording at 2.49 a.m. and the suspect is only in frame for a few seconds, but we can see dark clothing, a hooded jacket and white trainers,’ says the reporter. ‘The police believe this person either came from the house or walked past it, as the fire was taking hold, and could have important information.’

‘Does it look like a woman?’ I ask.

‘Maybe,’ says Nish. ‘They only released part of the footage. According to my mate there’s more. A few moments after the suspect disappeared, a second figure is visible on the far side of the road. It could be unrelated or it could be an accomplice.’

‘What else did your mate say?’

‘Not much.’

‘Did he mention me?’

‘No.’

I feel my throat begin to close. ‘I’m frightened they’re going to stitch me up. You saw what happened at the Brandon Estate.’

‘I’ve heard good reports about Fairbairn,’ says Nish, trying to reassure me, but he doesn’t realise how deeply I’m involved in this. Right now, I can’t see any bright side, or silver lining. I have no memory of that night and my only alibi is someone who has lied about everything else.

Mrs Harriet Pearl has been the admissions clerk at St Ursula’s Convent for thirty years and has always been called Pearlie by the students. I don’t know if she’s married, but all of our female teachers were called ‘Mrs’ and the men were ‘Sir’.

Pearlie hasn’t aged at all and still wears her trademark floral dresses and sensible shoes; and her tightly permed hair looks like a motorcycle helmet has been squeezed onto her head. Her face lights up when she sees me waiting outside her office.