He Said/She Said(54)
‘Pretty,’ said Beth, looking out over the balcony at the common below. In the dim light I made up the futon in silence, turning cushions into pillows and the throw into a bedspread.
I used to collect scented candles back then. They were hand-made, the scent was called Blood Roses, they were very expensive, and I never ran out because Kit got me one for birthdays, Christmas, Valentines and anniversaries; so relieved that he didn’t have to pass some female test of intuition and intimacy for the perfect gift that he didn’t baulk at the price tag. They also neutralised the smell from the kebab shop below. I lit one now for Beth. ‘Blow it out before bed,’ I said. ‘It saves you having to feel around for a light switch.’ The scent of roses that always lingered in that flat began to swell, like petals were being crushed under our noses. Beth inhaled it.
In our bedroom, Kit breathed out sleep and toothpaste. I fumbled in our shared wardrobe for something for Beth to sleep in and my hands closed around an old T-shirt, which I threw and she caught.
‘D’you need a toothbrush?’ I whispered. We kept a multipack in the bathroom cabinet for moments like this, ever since I found Mac using my toothbrush to clean white foam off his tongue.
‘You’re a mind-reader,’ she said.
While she brushed her teeth and changed, I glanced into the bag she’d left gaping on the futon. It was almost empty, save for a blue leather purse – she’d bought a new one since the Lizard – a Young Person’s Railcard and a creased copy of Sky magazine. There was also a clean pair of knickers tucked into a mesh pocket. I switched off the fairylights at the mains, then turned down the corner of the bed and left the Blood Roses candle burning for the girl who carried spare underwear around with her like the rest of us carry our keys.
Chapter 26
LAURA
19 March 2015
Next door, the builders are chiselling away at something deep in the party wall. Chip chip chip go their tools, each beat raising my blood pressure by a degree.
I’m hot with stress. Just like Mac couldn’t have one shot of whisky without sinking the entire bottle, my visit to the forbidden corners of the internet triggers a full relapse in me. Knowing it won’t do me any good, but powerless against the masochistic compulsion, I type in the URL www.jamiebalcombeisinnocent.co.uk
I hold my breath while the site loads and tell myself that nothing could be worse than what I’ve already seen this morning, but the home page is just as it has been for the last six months, two days. (Not that I’m counting, as such; I only know because the last time I logged on to Jamie’s site was the morning before I found out I was pregnant. After the positive test, I had to protect the babies from the adrenaline spike that viewing the site always created in me.) Gone is the bold assertion, the biography, the contact details and the list of contents. Gone is the years-old flannel about the Criminal Cases Review Board. Gone are the pictures of Jamie and his family, of Jamie on horseback, of Jamie and that award-winning eco-estate he built, of Jamie receiving his Master’s Degree in Criminology. The whole thing has been replaced by this message, red letters on a black screen.
jamie’s website is being updated due
to an exciting new development
Thank you for your continued support
I stare at it for a few seconds, then close the window. It can’t be that exciting a new development, as it’s been up there for half a year now. And anyway, if something had happened, the Balcombes’ public relations team would have splashed it all over the media. I don’t know what’s going on. Others might assume that they have admitted defeat, but Jim Balcombe once said that he would fight to the death to clear his son’s name and he’s still alive.
Who, now, apart from me – or Beth – could overturn Jamie’s conviction? It’s me he wanted. That’s what he was asking for in all those letters, for me to swear an affidavit retracting my statement. The conditions of his probation included a lifelong ban on making contact with his victim but nothing was specified about me.
It can hardly be the case that over a decade and a half later, someone has suddenly remembered something and come forward, so I am inclined to think that this holding page is their version of an old-fashioned test card; something they do to keep the message, the brand, alive while they take a break. I can’t think what else it might be. The legal machinations of this futile campaign I never grasped in the first place, and the motive goes in and out of clarity depending on my mood.
If it was important, it would come straight to my inbox. The Google alert I set up years ago is for ‘Jamie Balcombe + retrial’. That search has yielded nothing in fifteen years but its threat never seems to diminish.
The case being retried would force our lives to intersect with Beth’s again, and it would wake my sleeping lie. I don’t know which is worse.
Chapter 27
LAURA
19 May 2000
Kit woke up first, and was naked at the bedroom door before I remembered we had company. Thinking more about Beth’s potential distress than his modesty, I shot my leg out from under the duvet and made a shepherd’s crook of my angled foot, catching him on the shin.
‘There’s someone in the guest suite,’ I whispered.
Kit made a near-miss face – he knew I wouldn’t have bothered to warn him if it was Mac – then pulled on his pants and a T-shirt from the floor. ‘Who? I didn’t hear anyone come in.’