Friend Request(86)
Her eyes are bright and hard, boring into me like laser beams. I’m unable to speak, my mouth dry and claggy, but she goes on anyway.
‘I saw the look in her eyes that night. I know she thought I was going over the top, with my tea and biscuits, but I could see that here was a proper friend for Maria, someone who could make the difference, change the course of her life. Well, you certainly did that, didn’t you? She killed herself, and you and Sophie Hannigan are to blame as surely as if you’d pushed her over yourselves.’
My first, terrible, selfish instinct is relief. She’s got it wrong. She doesn’t know about the Ecstasy, doesn’t know that we spiked Maria’s drink. I’ve been so sure all along that whoever was sending the messages knew the truth that I’ve never considered any alternative. This relief though is swiftly tempered by doubt – she may not know about the Ecstasy but maybe Bridget hasn’t got it completely wrong. How can I be sure Maria didn’t kill herself? Esther doesn’t think so, but who knew Maria better than her own mother?
‘But… the police,’ I say, my voice thick and strange. ‘They said it was accidental death, surely…’
‘The police! What do they know? What did they prove? There was nothing accidental about it. My daughter took her own life as a direct result of your treatment of her. I can’t prove it, and the police will never be able to, but I know that it’s true.’ Her hands are trembling and her forehead is damp with sweat.
‘And for years and years, you and Sophie have been walking about in this world, having jobs and boyfriends and husbands and homes and lives. And a child. You have a child. You took that away from my daughter, the chance to be a mother. The chance to know that terrible, overwhelming love, that fear, that sense that a part of your own body is walking around by itself in the world, totally vulnerable. And all this time my daughter has been alone in the cold sea.’ Her voice is harsh, guttural. She holds tightly to the desk, as if she might fall.
‘I wanted to be there, at the reunion. I wanted to see your faces, all of you, the ones that lived. Wanted to make a scene. And get some answers too.’
‘You organised the reunion… Naomi Strawe.’
‘Yes. Seems stupid to you, I expect.’ Bridget looks at me defiantly, daring me to agree. ‘But I wanted Maria to be there too. She should have been there.’
‘But you weren’t there… were you?’
‘I was going. I wanted to go. But Tim stopped me. He saw me outside the school, on the road… he wouldn’t let me go in. He thought it wouldn’t be good for me, and I couldn’t make him see that I needed to. He doesn’t understand. Nobody does.’
‘That was you… at the top of the drive, with Tim.’
‘You saw me?’ She’s taken aback.
‘Yes. Well, I saw Tim with somebody. I couldn’t see who it was.’
‘You thought…?’ Her eyes glitter.
Had I ever really believed that Maria wasn’t dead?
‘You know that love, don’t you, of a mother for her child?’ Bridget says.
‘Yes… please, Henry, where is he? Is he here?’
She shakes her head, but I can’t tell if she means he’s not here, or that she won’t tell me.
‘My baby, my beautiful girl. When she was first born, she would only sleep on my chest, day or night. And even though I was demented with exhaustion, I didn’t put her down. I held her, because that was what she needed me to do. I was amazed that I had grown her inside me, flesh of my flesh. And although of course she began to walk and talk, and eventually to have a life I knew little about, a part of her was still inside me. It still is. Is it any wonder I wanted to bring Maria back, to make you face what you have done?’
‘No. I understand, I do. But I’m a mother too now, please —’
‘How did it feel, when you realised I’d taken your son?’ She interrupts me, won’t give me a chance to allow any sympathy to creep in. ‘Did you feel as if every drop of blood had drained out of your body? Did you feel you’d do anything – anything at all – if only he could be safe? That was what I wanted, Louise. I wanted you to feel a tiny fraction of what I have had to live with every day since 1989. People compare losing a person to losing a limb sometimes… “Oh, it was like losing my right arm”, they say. It’s nothing like that. You can learn to cope without an arm, without a leg. You never learn to cope with losing a child. You never get used to it. It never gets easier.’ The words gush from her like waste from a sewage pipe.
‘I hope my little messages have made you look over your shoulder everywhere you’ve been these past few weeks. I hope you’ve been coming to in the night with a start, jumping at every little noise; waking a little more scared each morning, a lumpen, heavy feeling inside; wondering if it’s all worth it, if you can live the rest of your life like this.’ Bridget is holding tightly on to the desk behind her, the skin on her hands stretched tight over the bones, her face flushed.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ It’s all I can manage. ‘Please, where is he?’
‘Sorry’s no good to me. I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to suffer, like I’ve suffered. I’ve been imagining it, every time I sent a message. Conjuring up the fear on your face, the dread in the pit of your stomach. Even following you wasn’t enough, although I enjoyed the way you ran from me in that tunnel in South Kensington. I wanted you to feel what I feel, but I wanted to see it too, to see your pain with my own eyes.’