I don’t go to work that week, even though my annual leave has come to an end. I ignore the calls from my boss and continue to sit on my couch, rising only for the bathroom, to put a new disc in my DVD player or to open the door for Dominos deliveries. I don’t leave the house. I don’t speak to anyone. And I don’t use my social media accounts.
The interview with The Mail on Sunday was supposed to be over the phone, which would have suited me much better, but my publicist emails to say the journalist is now happy to do it face to face and wonders if I’d like to go for a coffee. I consider refusing, or even asking her to cancel the whole interview, but when I stand up to stretch and see the mess of my flat laid out starkly in the morning light, I know something needs to change. I can’t stay in here for ever. And a trip into central London, with the chance to play the author role I was just getting used to before visiting my parents, has an appeal I can’t quite shake. I can do this, I tell myself as I shower and dress, slowly and methodically. I’m OK. I’m not crying, or shivering, or doubting. I’m in control. I tell myself this over and over to the point where I very nearly believe it.
I end up meeting the journalist in a Costa in Liverpool Street. I’d imagined somewhere a bit posher, but apparently lunch at The Wolseley isn’t on offer. She looks shockingly young, probably about twenty-four or twenty-five – blonde, beautiful, with flawless make-up and an overly posh accent.
‘Hi, I’m Sara, it’s lovely to meet you. Can I get you anything?’
After fetching me a flat white and herself an Americano, she starts talking animatedly about the book; how she loved it (‘so strange, so other’). She asks the same sorts of questions that I’ve been asked before – how did I get into writing; how does juggling my full-time job in local advertising work amidst all this; and then, of course, the killer question: ‘So tell me, what was your main inspiration for the book? You’ve mentioned before in another interview I read that it was partly inspired by a strange experience that happened in your childhood, and I was wondering if we could explore that a little more fully?’
I blow on my coffee, buying time. A thousand thoughts are flashing through my head, and I’m finding it hard to stop the room from spinning. And in the midst of all the panic – in the midst of all the swirling glimpses of forest trees and screeching owls and freshly baked tarts – I hear a voice. A strangled cry; gurgling; a mouth filled with water shouting one word. ‘Help.’
‘Katherine?’
The sound of the running water is getting louder: starting as a trickle, growing to a roar; as if I’m standing under a waterfall, the gush of it beating down on my head.
‘Katherine? Are you OK? Do you want to … I don’t know … take five?’
I snap back to the here and now, the noise of the full coffee shop replacing the pounding of the water. Sara is looking at me with concern and a slight edge of impatience.
‘No, I’m fine.’
She nods, pleased we’re moving on. ‘Splendid. Because there’s something I’d really like to get your opinion on, if I could. I’ve been speaking to a source about a very interesting detail regarding your book; specifically a key scene towards the end. It’s been suggested to me that, well, this book may actually serve as a confession of sorts. For something you may have done as a young girl. Would you care to respond to that?’
It’s as if her words shatter the air around us. For a few, vertigo-inducing moments, I wonder if I’ve just imagined it. If my mind is playing tricks on me. I close my eyes, but when I open them, there she is, her face controlled and enquiring – clearly, she has done this many times before and is used to sitting out the inevitable rush of emotion it provokes in her victims.
I eventually manage to open my mouth to speak. ‘Who … what … I don’t understand.’ But I do. She’s spoken to Andrea.
She gives me a smile. ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal that at the moment, Katherine. I’m sure you understand. I just wanted to get your take on the whole thing while I have you here.’
Again, I open my mouth to speak. Pause. Then I start.
‘I can’t properly tell you what happened. I’ve spent my life trying to work it out, and it’s not the time to go into it now. But what I can say is this: I was an innocent child. I saw things I shouldn’t have seen – that no child should ever see. And I don’t take any responsibility for it. Please, make sure that’s mentioned. I was upset, I was probably traumatised at times, and I lay the blame entirely at my father and stepmother’s door. My conscience is entirely clear.’
The look on her face is hard to read, but I see her inch her iPhone closer to me, as if worried she might not catch every word. ‘So … are you saying … that you may have been culpable in some way for the death of Adah Okafor? Because I’ve done some digging – just a sec.’ She bends down and pulls from her bag an iPad in a purple leather cover. She flicks it open, taps away for a few seconds, then turns the screen towards me. It’s a newspaper article. It looks like it’s been scanned in from an old paper copy. The date is 1987.
I can’t do this any more. I stand and push past Sara’s chair, ignoring her protestations of ‘Oh wait, Katherine, please just sit down’. I vaguely notice people turn to look at me; at the commotion I’m causing.
When I reach the busy bustle of Liverpool Street station, I try not to think about what Sara will put in her article. I can’t think about any of that now. I make my way to the Central line and change at Mile End, almost as if on autopilot, and when I finally come to, like rising up from under water, I’m on the District line passing through Barking, with only a few stops to go until I get off. What have I done? Did I sound hysterical? Will Sara ditch the interview and complain to my publicist about me? I have to admit to myself that this would probably be the best outcome from the whole thing. Whatever I said to her, it won’t do me any favours having it printed, and it certainly wasn’t what Andrea wants to hear.
With a steady flow of unease lapping against me, I alight at Dagenham Heathway and walk slowly to my flat, desperate for my duvet, a cigarette and then sleep.
My interview, in the female-focused supplement of The Mail on Sunday, doesn’t turn up in the issue it’s supposed to be placed in. I get an email from my publicist, saying they’re apparently still working on it and it should appear at a later date. I try not to think about that, or about what Andrea may have said to her or written to her. Whatever she’s done, I can only hope it’s not enough for the journalist to go on, and that the story will fizzle out before it’s even begun. Anyway, I’ve got another pressing concern to worry about.
‘Hello Katherine, this is Moira from work.’ The Essex-accented nasal tones of my boss sound out from my mobile’s answerphone. I notice she emphasises the word ‘work’ just to labour the point. ‘As I mentioned in my last email, you have been referred to HR for a disciplinary due to your unauthorised absence. I’ll send you a copy of the details so you can look them over. If you’ve got any evidence of mitigating circumstances – a doctor’s note or something like that – please bring it with you. As Sheila from HR is still recovering from that botched operation on her tonsils, the disciplinary will be headed up by me in my office at 9 a.m. sharp tomorrow.’
So much of this would be amusing if it wasn’t so downright stressful. Moira acting like HR is a separate department is a joke in itself. HR is made up in its entirety by the inept Sheila, who herself is frequently off sick with whatever reason she can dream up that week, and who spends the rest of the time boring us silly with estate agent catalogues, showing us the homes she and her ex-convict boyfriend are planning to buy ‘in Romford’. The word ‘Romford’ is always said in a hushed, reverent tone, as if she feels it’s akin to moving to Kensington or Chelsea.
The idea of returning to work does nothing to raise my mood, but at least it gave my mind something to work on and gives me an excuse to move Andrea Okafor and her attempts to stir up trouble to the back of my mind.
I wake up the next morning telling myself everything is going to be OK. I get myself ready for work whilst listening to an audiobook of Joan Hickson reading some Miss Marple short stories by Agatha Christie – an author I’ve managed to continue to enjoy in spite of my memories of reading The Pale Horse, cold and confused, amidst the trees in Barret Forest. Once dressed and showered, I sit quietly and calmly in my kitchen eating some marmalade on toast. I decide I’ll tell Moira that I had an illness or a family emergency, and that I’m very sorry and it won’t happen again. I’ll carry on with my job selling advertising space in the local paper to brick makers, home decorators and small plumbing firms, and everything will go back to normal – at least in Moira’s eyes. I’m aware this won’t immediately make her leave me alone, and I’ll probably have to go through a lot of lectures on how lucky I am to even be employed and how tough it is out there for ‘people in our industry’, but she’s also aware that I’m more competent at my job (when I’m actually there doing it) than any of my colleagues. I can write better copy, draft better adverts and get better business for the paper than anyone else, and the only reason I haven’t been promoted is because the next step up would be deputy editor. That position is occupied by Brian, the 26-year-old son of the company’s owner, who mainly sits at his desk playing Angry Birds while Moira – who is technically his boss, though due to his family connections, she doesn’t feel like she can manage him properly – glares daggers in the direction of his desk from across the office.
I make sure I arrive at the office a good twenty minutes early. I put my coat around my chair, my bag under the desk, and walk over to the only walled-off part of our working area, where Moira sits. She’s there, sipping coffee from a mug that’s seen better days, while clicking at her computer screen, trying to get it to unfreeze. ‘Hi Moira,’ I say, making a show of knocking lightly at her already-open door.
‘Nice to see you here, Katherine,’ she says, barely casting a glance my way. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
This throws me a little. ‘Well … you said I was to come to your office …’
She cuts across me. ‘Your disciplinary doesn’t begin until 9 a.m. and according to my clock, it’s 8.42.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Right. I’ll go and sit down then.’
She doesn’t reply, so I click about on my own computer for a bit, opening up my email and nearly fainting when I see the number of unread items in my inbox.
‘Hey stranger, look who it is!’ My always-bubbly colleague Danielle sits down next to me. It get on reasonably well with her, mostly because I allow her to talk at length about her teenage children’s trouble with the law without interrupting her. Her son Erik has twice been arrested for antisocial behaviour – something which, for Danielle, is a sad reflection on police priorities within the Met, because they just can’t handle the fact that ‘boys will be boys’ or see that her son is ‘a good lad at heart’. Today, she’s brought with her a large croissant and she proceeds to munch it with vigour, flakes of it falling between the keys of her computer’s keyboard. ‘You been off being a famous author?’ she asks with her mouth full.
‘Yes,’ I say, not bothering to tell her that if I ever become famous, it’s going to be for something far more serious and life wrecking. Part of me can’t believe I’m even here, when just days ago I was sitting in that house in Glasgow, my world tilting on its axis while Andrea stood over me. The ping of a new email jolts me out of my thoughts. It’s from Moira with ‘See me now’ in the subject line, the rest blank. Why she couldn’t have just called me over, I don’t know. Everyone must know what’s going on. I get up from my desk, and Danielle whispers a pastry-filled ‘good luck’ at me.
‘Sit down,’ Moira says, as soon as I’ve reached her door. She spends a few seconds finishing whatever she’s typing, as if I’m only one of the many things on her to-do list today, and then she turns to me, glasses at the end of her nose. She only acquired these glasses a few months ago and has quickly worked out how to use them to promote her authority. She peers at me over the thick rims and says, ‘I presume you’ve got some excuse?’
‘Sorry?’ I say.
She tuts. ‘An excuse. For your unauthorised leave.’ She roughly jerks her desktop screen around to me, causing the straining plastic to squeak unpleasantly. An Excel document is open, with all the team’s names and their holiday dates highlighted in yellow. ‘These are the days you requested for annual leave and which we generously gave you,’ she trails her finger down the screen, ‘and these days in red are all the times after your agreed leave when you just didn’t materialise, nor could you be contacted.’ She tosses her hands in the air a little, apparently to illustrate my blasé attitude to working life. ‘I mean, I know you probably consider yourself a cut above us all here now that you’re an author,’ she does a little eye roll at this, as if silently saying who isn’t these days, ‘but it may surprise you to learn that life goes on, and if you wish to remain in paid employment here you need to actually, well, turn up.’ She swivels the screen back towards herself, takes off her glasses and begins rubbing at the lenses with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘I’m sure many of your colleagues would enjoy actually writing for a living rather than drafting advertising copy for Dave’s Surf and Turf Grill and local vermin control services, and if you can support yourself writing books, be my guest, but don’t piss us about in the process.’
I nod. It’s all I can do really. That and say, ‘I’m sorry.’
She lets out an exaggerated sigh. ‘Have you brought with you a doctor’s note? Anything to explain your absence? A hospital form or something? I mean, the only reason we didn’t report you missing was because Danielle’s brother-in-law works at the local pizza place and he said he’d been delivering meat feasts to your address. But there’s got to be some reason you just went off-radar?’ She does another hand-flourish – a palms-up motion this time, both to signal how preposterous the situation is and her desire for some sort of explanation.
I consider telling her it would be worth reporting Danielle’s brother-in-law for a serious GDPR breach, but I doubt it would go down well. Instead, I just say, simply, ‘I’ve been unwell.’
She just blinks at me, so I continue.
‘I think it was … norovirus.’
She stares at me for a few seconds, and then says quietly, ‘Is that a joke?’
I shake my head. ‘No, not at all. I was … vomiting. A lot. I should have emailed. I’m sorry.’
Another deadpan stare greets this. ‘And the bacon-loaded pizzas were what? Medicinal?’
She’s rather got me there. ‘I … well … they say have a little of what you fancy … and I sort of fancied them … on occasion.’
She takes in a deep breath through her nostrils, then turns back to her computer. ‘Just go and do some bloody work, Katherine. This will go down as a formal warning on your employee record.’
I don’t wait to be told again. Relieved, I take my seat back at my desk, quite proud of myself for not crying.
‘Christ, how was it?’ Danielle whispers, even though she must have been able to hear every single word that had been said.
‘Fine,’ I say, expanding my email inbox program and starting to scroll through the list. I open up Gmail, too, and keep it to a bottom corner of the screen so I can keep an eye on any book news that might come in.
A new message arrives in my Gmail account just as I’m clicking delete on all of Sheila’s Where are you? messages in Outlook from a week ago. It’s from my editor Ivanka at Matthews House Publishers, with my publicist and agent CCed in. I open it up fully on the screen and start to read. She starts off by saying she doesn’t want to alarm me, but a video has been posted on YouTube – a video of me – and she wonders if I’ve seen it. She says that a trade publication and another industry website have been in touch for a comment, asking if I’d like to offer some kind of statement about it. Apparently they’d been sent the link by an anonymous source. Baffled, I skim through the rest of the email until I find the blue hyperlink I’m looking for. YouTube opens up on my computer screen in a new tab. And suddenly I cannot breathe.
It’s me. And I’m sitting in Andrea’s lounge. And she’s sitting on the sofa in front of me. Holding my book. And there are subtitles coming up on the screen automatically. Burned into the image so, even with the sound off, it’s clear what’s being said.
They appear on the screen in big, bold font as Andrea reads from my book. From the slightly dark, but still clear, picture, you can see me looking uncomfortable in the armchair facing her. It takes me a while to realise what’s going on. How this has happened. Then the penny drops.
She videoed it. The entire meeting. And she’s put it online. I watch the horror show unfurl, the words burning into my retinas.
I think I’m going to be sick. I try to calm myself down by breathing deeply. Danielle looks over and asks, ‘You all right?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, nodding. ‘Just … got a headache. A migraine I think.’
She nods, but still looks unsure, so I stand up, stooping to grab the mouse and exit the YouTube tab.
‘What were you watching?’ she asks, glancing at my screen.
‘Nothing,’ I say, scooping up my phone from its charging pad, ‘just something stupid. Spam I think, from an email. Not important.’ I walk away from my desk towards the loos, trying not to break out into a run.
I’m not sick when I get there: the nausea seems to have subsided; but I still shut myself into a cubicle and sit down. Grabbing my headphones out of my pocket, I plug them in and navigate to my emails, opening up the hyperlink once again. I’m praying the reason for the subtitles is because Andrea hasn’t managed to capture any sound. That means it’s all her word against mine. But as soon as I press play, the audio arrives in my ears crisp and clear.
I drop the phone. The sound of the screen cracking barely registers with me. I pick it up off the ladies’ bathroom floor and walk back to my desk.
Danielle’s ready with a question as soon as I return. ‘Katherine, dear, are you sure you’re all OK? You look as white as a sheet.’
I just shake my head at her. ‘Not well. I’m going home.’ I grab my bag from under the desk, knocking over my chair, causing a loud clatter. Moira comes marching out of her office, her eyes wide. ‘What on earth is going on here?’
I don’t reply. I just leave. I walk down the road to my flat, climb the stairs, close the doors and sink down onto the floor. If the neighbours hear my screams, they don’t come knocking.