Three days pass. I barely leave my flat – a tiny little place near Dagenham Heathway tube station. I just manage one trip to the little independent off-licence at the corner of my road, its harsh fluorescent light causing my head to pound. Ever since I read Dad’s text, things have been getting gradually worse. It’s like I’m properly unwell. My temperature has been up and down and I’ve developed a strange, scratchy cough. I know this is a response to my mental state rather than a virus, but I still choose to stay inside and burrow under my duvet, like an animal in hibernation.
Leading up to the publication of my book, my colleagues at the local newspaper were saying to me things like ‘You must be on top of the world’ and ‘Are you still pinching yourself this is happening?’ or even ‘You can get the office treats next time, now that you’re a rich author’. That one did make me laugh, though not in the way they’d intended. I’d used the relatively small advance I’d got to pay off some credit card debts and invest in a new hoover and tumble dryer, rather than yachts and Ferraris. I’d taken a couple of weeks’ holiday around publication, and one of the girls thought I must be going on a celebratory cruise or something; or maybe doing ‘press junkets’. The Evening Standard magazine interview Dad had referred to was the only bit of major press I’d done, leaving aside a few blog interviews my publicist had put together. But it had led to a boost in sales, my publishers reported, and they’d asked if I’d like to speak to another journalist, this time from the Daily Mail, sometime soon.
The ping of my phone pulls me out of the daydream I’d been having, wrapped in my duvet on the sofa in front of a 1970s Hammer horror film called The Satanic Rites of Dracula.
It’s Dad.
Can you let me know you’ve got my previous message and you’re ok. We’re still very upset, but wanted to check. I imagine it was a bit of a shock when you read the message. I do love you. But this is all very difficult. Love, Dad.
A bit of a shock. That’s one way of putting it, I think, as I pause the screen on a particularly over-the-top vampire snarl from Christopher Lee. I read his message through a couple of times, type ‘I’m fine’ and send, then scroll back and reread his previous one. I haven’t done as he asked. I haven’t phoned her. I’ve been putting it off, even though part of me knows that I shouldn’t. I’m putting off the inevitable. Over these past few days, I’ve been scared of hearing a knock on the door, imagining an elderly woman standing outside ready to batter me to death with a copy of my own book. Or worse, just standing there and crying.
I could just go to ground, I think. Never get in touch. Ignore her calls. Take out a restraining order if she tries to pester me. The truth is, I never imagined in a million years she’d find out. Of all the thousands of books published each year, how did she manage, by sheer coincidence, to pick up this one and make the connection?
I stare at Dad’s message for a few minutes more, my feelings of guilt and anxiety building to a nauseating crescendo within me. I bite the bullet and dial the number he’s given me.
The call connects the moment it starts ringing at the other end. It’s as if she’s been sitting there, poised, phone in hand, waiting for my call.
‘Hello?’
Her voice is deep and disconcertingly soft. I pause, the words catching in my throat.
‘Hello?’ she says again.
‘Hi, er …’ I swallow hard, trying to get myself together, ‘Is that … is that Ms Okafor? Andrea Okafor?’
‘Speaking,’ comes the firm, slightly guarded reply. Maybe she thinks this is going to be a sales call and I’m about to launch into a monologue about why double glazing really is the only way to go.
‘I … this is … my name’s Katherine. Katherine Marchland. I realise we’ve never met, but, but you may have heard of me as …’
‘Kitty Carlson.’ She says the name without any trace of emotion. ‘Yes. I remember the police mentioning your name years ago. Back then. I was hoping you would call.’
I feel myself growing hot. Blood is rushing to my face. I put my fingers to my lips to take a drag on a cigarette I’m not holding – a tic I have when I’m stressed.
‘I understand … my father – he said you’d been in touch.’
A few beats of silence pass. Then, ‘I think it’s better if we meet in person.’
This is a sentence I’ve been dreading, but I think I knew it would come. What do I do now? Evade? Refuse? Hang up?
‘Of course,’ I find myself saying. ‘When would be best for you?’
I try to keep my voice steady, make it sound like a business meeting, but I can’t help stammering a little on the ‘w’ sounds. I wish she wasn’t being so damn calm. It would be better if she shouted. Screamed at me. Told me exactly what she thinks of me. At least then we wouldn’t have this strange politeness hovering between us, both choosing words very carefully.
‘The day after tomorrow would be fine. Saturday. I trust you’ll be able to get to Glasgow by then.’
This stumps me. Rather stupidly, I had imagined meeting her here in London – perhaps on the South Bank in one of the restaurants. Somewhere public. How preposterous that seems now when I think about it.
‘Of course,’ I say, eventually. ‘Of course I’ll come to you.’
She doesn’t say thank you. She just tells me to grab a pen and copy down an address in Dennistoun. I do as I’m told and then ask what time.
‘Come to mine at four o’clock.’ The line goes dead.
Busying myself quickly so as not to immediately start brooding on the conversation, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and immediately go onto Google. I find a flight to Glasgow International from London Gatwick on Saturday morning, with a return in the evening of the same day. I pay the £140 with my debit card and then sink back into my duvet, willing my mind to close down so I can sleep peacefully, saving my worries about the upcoming meeting for the whole free day stretching out before me tomorrow.