I Will Make You Pay (ARC) Page 19
would recognise them on the wedding day.’ Matthew is
turning a sugar sachet over and over between his thumb
and fingers. ‘Is it just attention he wants, this Alex? A
narcissist? To show that he still controls the girl?’
‘God knows. But they have so many weddings every
day at Gretna – maybe the staff wouldn’t have recognised
them. Anyway. No matter. The local police are check-
ing all holiday rentals and CCTV in the area to try to
find them. If no luck, the last resort is we turn up for
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the wedding tomorrow and arrest him there before the
ceremony.’
‘Will you go up there yourself? I thought the whole
idea was for this to be a desk job before your mat leave.’
‘Technically, yes. But you know me. I like to be
hands on, though I’m not entirely sure about Scotland at
the moment. The police local to the girl have their own
inquiry obviously, so it’s a bit of a liaison nightmare. But
I’m arguing priority because of the stalker investigation.
We’ll see. Either way, I’m looking forward to interview-
ing Mr Alex Sunningham about Alice when it’s my turn.’
‘You really think he’s our stalker, Melanie?’
‘Don’t you?’
183
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Alice
It’s Tuesday and I’m still in London – more tired today
because it’s nudging too close to Wednesday for me to
sleep. I stare at the cocoa-leaf pattern on my cup of coffee
and then across at the violinist. Even for Covent Garden,
which always has a good class of busker, he’s exceptional.
He plays the violin as if it’s an extension of his own body.
Royal Academy of Music, or something like that? Yes.
This is probably how music students pay their way through
college. And then there is that inner shudder as I think
of music in general. Alex at his grand piano…
‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Claire follows my gaze to the
musician before turning back to our table. ‘So – are you
feeling a bit better, Alice?’
‘Yes. Sorry about earlier. I have no idea where that
came from.’ I don’t yet know quite what to make of Claire,
but I’m mortified to have dissolved into tears earlier.
‘Don’t apologise. I should have suggested somewhere
more private. It’s normally quieter here at this time of
day, actually. I’m just sorry the office was busy. If there
wasn’t a meeting going on, we could have found a quiet
corner. We’d love a bigger place but we’re trying to keep
overheads down.’
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‘My fault. Short notice.’ I use my teaspoon to scoop
some of the frothy milk into my mouth, then sip at the
coffee proper. It’s smooth. Nice. Despite my embarrassment
earlier, I’m pleased to have arranged this meeting. Talking
to Claire about what’s going on is such a welcome release.
‘I can’t tell you how good it is to be with someone
who actually understands.’
Claire reaches forward to hold my hand briefly. ‘I
know. That’s precisely why we do this. Everyone says
the same when they first contact the charity. It’s the most
isolating and frightening thing that can happen – stalking.
We do what we can. There’s no pretending we have a
magic solution, but the one thing we can promise is that
we understand completely.’
‘So, do you not see much of your sister these days,
Claire?’
She’d explained on the phone to me previously that
she set up the charity after her own sister, Lisa, was the
subject of a real acid attack by a fellow student at univer-
sity. He’d imagined a relationship that never existed and
had stalked Lisa throughout their first and second years.
Cards and presents and endless text messages. He kept
turning up at all her lectures and social events, and her
flat too. Lisa reported the pestering to both the police and
the pastoral team at the university but no one seemed able
to help. The university merely issued the other student
with warnings. The police seemed to think the problem
would pass.
Then in the third year, in the run-up to exams, the
stalker turned up at her flat and threw acid at her as she
answered her door. He was jailed. Lisa was left with in-
juries which required months of surgery.
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‘She decided to go abroad in the end,’ Claire says.
‘She said she’d never feel safe in this country again. He’s
out of prison now, so I don’t blame her.’
‘So you lost your sister, in effect?’
‘We Skype. I visit her when I can. But yeah – I feel
I lost her because of him.’
‘So this is why you set up the charity? Why you do
this?’ I am in work gear now. What a story.
Claire nods. ‘Someone has to. I managed to secure
some funding for four years. We’re into our third year and
it’s a struggle. Not sure what we’ll do when the funding
runs out.’
I pause. I’d really like to help but I don’t want to jump
in too soon. I’ve explained how badly I want to write
about my experience. To connect with others. To try to
make society realise just how bad it is for victims to go
through this hell.
‘So what do you think about me writing for your
blog anonymously?’
‘We’d love it, of course. Someone with your writing
talent and personal experience would be such a help to
the charity. But I need to be sure it won’t make things
worse for you, Alice. While the case is live, I mean.’
‘To be honest, I don’t see how anything can get worse,
Claire. I won’t include details which could in any way
identify me. I won’t mention the Wednesday angle; I just
want to put my feelings out there. On record.’
‘We normally only run personal stories once a case
is resolved. Not live. I’m just a bit worried the stalker
might see it. Get off on it. We don’t want to give the
creep what he wants.’
I take in a deep breath. ‘Yes – I do see it’s a legitim-
ate worry. And it’s precisely what my editor says. But I’m
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climbing the walls not being able to put my feelings out
there. I suppose I could start writing and we could hold
the material for a bit if you like? I would just feel so much better if I could find an outlet for this. A platform which
might actually help other people too.’
‘OK.’ Claire finishes her drink and hands me her card.
‘This has my personal contact details. Email me your first
piece and let’s talk again. If I’m happy it won’t identify
you or compromise the police inquiry, we could run it
on the website with social media links to our factsheets.
Any way of getting our advice out to more victims is a
good thing.’
‘Great. It’s a good website,’ I add. ‘I certainly found
it very helpful.’
‘Thank you. I’m glad. And you feel you have enough
support? I mean, I realise it’s Wednesday tomorrow.’ Claire
looks graver suddenly.
‘I’m travelling back to the south-west later this even-
ing. I have to decide whether to stay at my sister’s house,
my boyfriend’s house or my own tonight.’
‘So where do you think you’ll feel safest, Alice?’
‘The locks have been changed at the house I rent.
I’ve had extra security installed. I should be OK there.’
‘And have you got a personal alarm?’
‘I’ve got one that sounds a siren when you press it.’
‘No, I don’t just mean noise. I mean an alarm that
triggers action.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘An alarm that links directly to the police or a call
centre.’
‘I had no idea such a thing existed.’
Claire shakes her head as if exasperated.
‘What, Claire?’
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‘I just think the police should issue them as standard.
Run this kind of service. They’ve been known to do it
in rare cases. When it’s someone high-profile.’
‘I’ve never even heard of this kind of alarm.’
‘Well, there are lone worker alarms on the market
already that you can wear around your neck. Get straight
through to a call centre who can ring the police. We’re
piloting our own version actually, especially for stalking
cases, but I’m not ready to say too much about that yet.’
‘Why not? That sounds fantastic. Exactly what victims need.’
‘It’s early days. Expensive to road-test. Not something
I’m sure the charity should be investing in.’
‘Would you mind sending me details? At least let me
look into it.’ I keep thinking how fabulous it would feel to
wear something like that around my neck at home. One
quick button for help instead of fumbling for a phone.
‘I’ll have a think, Alice. I’ll email you some links to
the options already on the market if you like, and some
details of what we’re piloting ourselves.’
‘OK.’
And then a text buzzes on my phone. Matthew Hill.
I feel a jolt inside.
Some good news. We may be close to finding Alex.
188
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Him – before
His gran has made him a birthday cake. Seven candles.
‘What’s that mark on your arm?’ His gran stretches
out her hand to try to see better, but he pulls the cuff of
his jumper down.
‘Nothing. Just scratches from the class guinea pig. He
got a bit weird when I was cleaning him out.’
He keeps his thumb on the cuff of his jumper so that
it won’t ride up as he takes a deep breath for the candles.
‘OK then. Don’t forget to make a wish, my lovely boy.’
He lets out the huff of air and wishes that Brian were
dead. He pictures him in a big pool of blood on the
floor. He imagines hitting him with something hard. A
hammer. Yeah. Smash, smash, smash, right into his brain.
‘Now you mustn’t tell me the wish or it won’t come
true.’
‘I know that. I’m not stupid.’
‘OK, OK. Careful with your tone, my lovely. I know
it’s your birthday, but we don’t want an argument, do we?
I just want a nice day for you.’
‘My friends have parties.’ He feels guilty as he says this
but he can’t help himself. He is sick of being different from his friends. All their stupid questions all the time. Why do you have weird jumpers? Does your gran knit them? Ha ha.
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Teresa Driscoll
He would love to have a party. Balloons. Games.
Normal stuff.
‘Yes, well. I’m really sorry about that. I don’t think I
could manage that on my own. But we’re going to the
cinema later, remember? And you can have treats. Popcorn
and sweets. I’ve saved some money specially.’
It’s Saturday. His gran isn’t working today. He looks
into her face and sees the sadness in her eyes and he feels
even more guilty. He doesn’t understand how he can
love her so much most of the time and feel cross with
her too. It’s weird.
‘Sorry. I’m really sorry.’ He puts his arms around her
waist, still holding on to the cuff of his jumper. He uses a
compass that he found in school. Mostly he just scratches
the skin a little bit, but sometimes when he gets really angry he digs deeper into the flesh until there is blood. He doesn’t know why but it feels quite good for a bit. He wants to stop
doing it because he’s worried the teacher or his gran will
find out. It doesn’t really look like guinea pig scratches.
Brian knows.
What are those marks on your arm?
Nothing.
You need to stop doing that or I’ll need to speak to someone.
About your gran. Maybe I should tell the police after all.
Maybe I should tell them about you, Brian.
Now, don’t be getting silly. We’ve talked about this. No one will believe a little boy. And you want to see your gran in jail?
You really think she could cope with that?
‘Shall we go and say hello to Grandad? Eat the cake
outside in a napkin?’ He has brightened his tone and he
knows that his gran will be pleased with this suggestion.
He wants to make up for being grumpy about not hav-
ing a party.
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I Will Make You Pay
Sure enough, her eyes look all teary. She glances to
the window. The sky is blue. No clouds at all. He tries
very hard not to think about Brian. About how he could
get a hammer and what it might be like in jail…
‘That’s a lovely idea. Thank you, my little soldier.
He’d like that very much.’
Outside they sit together on Grandad’s bench at the
edge of the patch of grass. He looks up to the window
of their flat. Every morning, from up there, his gran
looks down at this bench as she makes their cups of tea
for breakfast.
‘Morning, my love,’ she says every single day to the
bench.
It has a plaque on the wood which his grandad’s friends
made. All his customers from his cobbler’s shop. Gran
says he used to mend shoes and handbags and belts. He
could stitch leather like no one else. He had one of the
shops under the flats, and people used to travel from all
over town with the things that needed mending.
‘Tell me again about Grandad.’
‘Your grandad was the best kind of man. Tall and
handsome and with a big smile and a big, big heart. He
looked after me and he looked after your mum when she
was little. He worked all day long in his shop and he used
to sit out here on the bench to have his lunch. Sandwiches
and a flask of tea.’
‘Why didn’t he come up to the flat for his lunch?’
‘Sometimes he did, but mostly he liked the fresh air.
He told me that
he liked to breathe in the fresh air and
look up at the trees and the birds.’
‘I like birds. Was it this bench he had his lunch on?’
‘No. That one rotted away. But they put new ones
in, and when your grandad died, his customers put the
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plaque up to remember him. That’s why it’s so special.
Why I like it here so much.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s
why I never want to live anywhere else. I can see your
grandad’s bench from the window. And I can picture
him sitting here with his sandwich and his flask. It’s like
he’s still nearby.’
‘Will I have a heart attack one day?’
‘No, lovely. Course not. Your grandad was just very
unlucky.’
‘So is that why we have no money? Because of gran-
dad’s heart attack?’
‘Eat your cake, my birthday boy, and don’t be worry-
ing about money. Not today. He wouldn’t want that. And
I told you – I saved a little bit of money for the cinema
today. Birthday treat.’
‘Can you save enough money to stop working? So
you can stay home and not do the night shift?’
She ruffles his hair and he feels his body sort of freeze
like a statue. He tries very hard not to think of hammers
and pools of blood but he can’t help it. It’s like there is this big, big volcano in him, waiting to blow its top off. He
saw that in a video in school in geography. One minute
it was just a mountain and then a huge explosion. Boom.
That’s me, he thought as he watched the film. That’s me.
‘I thought you were used to me doing Wednesday
nights now. I thought now that you’re getting a bit big-
ger, you don’t mind so much. It’ll get easier and easier as
you get bigger…’
He stuffs a big piece of chocolate cake into his mouth
and looks away at the trees and the birds.
He would like to ask his gran about his mother. He
has a picture in a frame by his bed of his first birthday,
sitting with his mum in Gran’s kitchen. Sometimes he
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thinks he can remember his mum but mostly he thinks
he just remembers the photograph. Some of the other
children in school say his mum did drugs and that’s why she died. They say that their parents told them. He’s asked
his gran but she doesn’t talk about that.
So instead he looks up at the blue, blue sky. He is
thinking again of Brian. And of a pool of blood. He is