He Said/She Said(65)

Chapter 34





LAURA

30 July 2000

In July I landed my dream job, a year ahead of target, as a fundraiser for a children’s charity. It was the post that set me on my current career path, although I wonder now how I had the energy to perform at work. It was a sweltering summer, and Kit and I spent most of it on the Underground; if we weren’t commuting we were going up to Turnpike Lane to look after Juno (me) or deal with Mac (Kit). We took twice-daily showers, some of our dark clothes were ruined by salty sweat rings, and when we blew our noses the tissues turned black.

Beth was a regular presence in our flat. At her parents’ home in Nottinghamshire, she was a recluse twice over, the shame of being outed as the Jamie Balcombe girl compounded by her deft way with a knife, but on her fortnightly or so visits to London she showed no sign of wanting to explore the city, preferring to hunker down indoors. Apart from our meeting on Lizard Point, I had barely seen her in daylight. We didn’t discuss that she would always stay over; it was one of many things that went unsaid.

Jamie wrote to me twice a week; letters came without fail on Tuesdays and Fridays. The gist was always the same – retract your statement now, before things get even worse for you – but he would always tell me about other developments. He’d built up quite a network of supporters, apparently; other ‘wrongly accused’ men were writing to him in droves. There was a men’s rights movement concerned about what they perceived to be a trend for women ‘crying rape’. And – I could see his glee in the strokes of his pen – women wrote to him, too. Women he called ‘real’ rape victims, girls who’d been fucked by their stepfathers, drugged in nightclubs, gang-raped at knifepoint. Jamie never missed a chance to compare these ‘brave ladies’ with my own cowardice. I tore the letters up and distributed them between various litter bins between our house and Clapham Common Tube. I began to wish that the man with the razorblade embedded in a toothbrush would pay a visit to Jamie.

Ling had finally been prescribed the medication that would haul her out of her depression, and had decided that the time had come to stage an intervention for Mac. This US import is part of the vocabulary now, but this was the first time I ever heard of one, and she had briefed us on the process. All of us – me, Kit, Ling’s parents, Adele, plus an addiction counsellor Ling had found – were to turn up at their flat and tell him one by one that things needed to change. The idea was that on seeing this critical mass of concern from everyone who mattered to him, he would march from there straight into rehab. Kit didn’t for a moment believe it would work, but he came along anyway, all of us crammed into their tiny basement flat, where there were so few chairs we had to take it in turns to sit down.

There was a snag in Ling’s plan. For the intervention to work, Mac had to be present. And, as the main symptom of his addiction was disappearing on benders that took him away from home for nights on end, the odds were against her. Waiting for something horrible to happen is almost more draining than it actually happening, and after eight hours during which Mac didn’t answer his phone, let alone come home, we called it a day. The train was like an oven, we got stuck between stations for twenty minutes and we both hated everything, including each other, by the time we surfaced.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Kit as we rounded the corner on to Clapham Common Southside. ‘This is literally the last thing I need right now.’

I followed his gaze; a pair of scuffed silver trainers and slender white ankles stuck out from our doorstep. ‘Did you know she was going to be here?’

I returned his hostility. ‘Of course I bloody didn’t.’

I had nothing left for anyone but Kit, and not much for him. Our day must have shown on our faces but Beth seemed impervious to our exhaustion.

‘I can’t stay long,’ she said, leading us up our own stairs. The violet in her hair had faded already; pastel hooks broke up the mess of black curls. Her hand trailed along the wallpaper; at one point she stopped on the landing to examine a patch of peeling green. ‘I’ve got to catch the last train home. I’ll be cutting it fine now; I was expecting you back earlier.’ Kit and I exchanged a puzzled look; Beth never went home. Once she was here, it was accepted that it was for the night.

‘Home?’ said Kit, raising his thumbs then hiding them in his fists as Beth turned back, so he looked like he was sparring his way up the stairs.

‘Stop it,’ I mouthed, but I was smiling.

‘Yes,’ said Beth. ‘But I thought I’d give you the good news in person.’

It must be the appeal, I thought; they must have dropped it.

‘Go on,’ I said. We were on the top flight of stairs now and Kit was fumbling for the keys in his jeans pocket.

‘I’m moving to London!’ Beth beamed.

I almost missed the next step. Kit froze with the key in the lock, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as me: she reckons she’s moving in here.

‘Tell me more,’ I said cautiously.

‘Well, I told you about the atmosphere at home. I’m virtually under house arrest. So I’ve been house-hunting and job-hunting,’ she said proudly. ‘I’ve got a job at Snappy Snaps, working in the darkroom. Pay’s shit, but it’s working with photographs. I had a look and I can’t afford anything round here, but I’ve got myself into a bedsit in Crystal Palace. I can see much more of you now.’