The Things We Do to Our Friends(69)

The screen went blank.

“He thinks it’s me, doesn’t he?” I said, although I knew the answer.

And of course he would.

She’d done it so slowly, taken all the pieces of me she cared to use and stitched them onto herself.

She turned to me, smiled at me, as pure as an angel, and she was about to reply but I spoke first. Only just managed to lower my voice, managed to control myself in order to produce more of a low snarl than a shout. “What the fuck have you done?”

Tabitha didn’t even respond properly, just pressed a finger to my lips, tasting of corn and salt, before she drew it back and switched the television off.

“What on earth is the matter?” she asked finally, and I think she genuinely didn’t understand. She wanted to know what was wrong, because she couldn’t believe that I was upset about it. It was so ungracious of me not to like my present.

I was frozen to the sofa, unable to speak for a second, then I regained the ability and asked her again. “What did you do?”

“We helped you.”

“Who was filming?”

“Why does it matter!”

It mattered because I needed to work out who my allies were.

She continued. “Clare, we did this for you. This is all for you. To punish him. What did you think we were going to do? It was a lot of effort, you’re being very—”

She managed to cut herself off, but I knew she wanted to say “ungrateful.”

“You knew what you were doing! You made it so he would think that it was me?” I asked.

She seemed confused. “But that means you got revenge? Because it came from you!” she said, as if I was stupid and just needed it spelled out slowly.

I couldn’t be involved in something like this. I could hardly breathe, ran through the scenarios in my head, replayed the video. “Is he even alive? What did you do to him?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“Clare, do calm down,” she said, as if I was a child having a tantrum.

“But how could you?” I said, hearing how I sounded, my voice breaking in frustration.

She had stamped on my fresh start with ease, didn’t care, and she’d done it in the showiest way imaginable.

Theatre.

It made me sick, the more I let it sit there. So similar in design to what had happened in Périgueux.

She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind completely, and she reached out to placate me like she always did, but I pulled away for good.

And the decision was made quite suddenly, more decisive this time.

“I’m out,” I said. “Don’t contact me again.”





58


Ashley and Georgia tiptoed around me like I might attack them when I got back that night, even more than they usually did. It was a strong indication that I was not behaving normally.

I had left.

I was on my own, which seemed like a crazy thing to do with the video out, and perhaps circulating in the world.

Once I had shut myself away in my bedroom, I started to think more rationally about it all.

The first question was what would they do with the video? It looked and sounded so like me. What would The Pig do? Was he the one calling me? Would he try to track me down? I imagined the press linking me and the crimes together, the girl who did these things. Who knew about the video, about my past?

I went to Hull on Christmas Eve, the next day, a journey I’d already had planned, and so it was time to leave Edinburgh anyway. Get away from Tabitha and the phone calls, which I had now become convinced were coming from The Pig’s wife.

I went back to Hull with the main goal of seeing if I could get money from my granny, because the only solution I could think of was to start afresh.

She was there waiting, at the station, even though I’d told her not to bother. It was the first time I’d seen her in a year. I hadn’t gone back at all during the summer. I’d kidded myself that the reason I’d stayed in Edinburgh was because we were so busy, but that was half the truth. I hadn’t wanted to leave.

“You’re very blond. You look thin,” she said into my hair as she hugged me.

I made a note to cut it all off as soon as I could.

“I know. I think I’m sick.” I summoned a feeble cough, and she looked at me skeptically, but she didn’t say anything else.

We walked back to the house, speaking very little.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

The tea was hot and milky. It was comforting to sip on, sitting in that cramped living room on the sofa. I could tell that she was waiting to ask me something.

Finally, she blurted out, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

I almost laughed. “I promise, I’m not pregnant.” And as soon as I said it I wondered if I should have lied, got money from her by claiming it in that way.

“Thank God.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything by it, it’s just, you know, I worry about you. If you got pregnant…” She left the words hanging there for us.

“How are they?” I asked.

“Love, I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about them.”

“You’ve heard from them?”

“A bit. They’re doing okay. Your dad might come over next year.”