Jess
‘Someone is looking very pleased with herself,’ mocked Jonah. He was in a funny mood as he lounged on his couch like some sulky sultan. Too much time on his hands today, he was looking to scratch and growl at me, but I was fine with that. He never promised he’d be the ideal employer, and in fact warned me he had days when his past made him feel sick of life. Clearly I’d happened upon one of those.
I’d been humming as I answered his fan mail and updated his social media. ‘Jenny away?’
He checked his phone. ‘Yeah, on tour. Fucking Barcelona.’
Source of bad mood revealed.
‘It’s supposed to be a great city.’ I could tell my upbeat tone was winding him up but he needed to let it out at someone and I was obviously up to bat. Thanks to my dad, Jonah’s fast balls felt like pitches from a seven-year-old kid with co-ordination issues.
‘And are those the same clothes you came to work in yesterday?’ He rested an arm along the back of the couch, eyeing me with a little malign smile.
‘Experts say we shouldn’t wash our clothes so much.’ I poured Jonah a coffee and dug out the emergency biscuits. ‘Save the world.’ He looked like he was about to throw a chocolate digestive at me so I reached down and snatched it from his hand and ate it in one big bite.
‘Gross,’ he said admiringly as crumbs fell from my not-quite-closed lips.
I swallowed with difficulty. ‘Yummy.’
He reached for his script to refresh his memory on the next scene. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’
‘I am exactly what you deserve, Jonah.’
Despite his bad start to the day, Jonah remembered to usher me out at cigarette break time. ‘Go catch the bastard,’ he growled.
‘Eat some biscuits,’ I told him. ‘You’ll feel better.’
I picked my way across the carpark, dodging the drying puddles. The designers had already gathered, joined by the lighting team. It happened to be an all male gathering, which changed the dynamic. It took a little more boldness to go breezing into the centre in my normal fashion.
‘Hey, Jess, got rid of Brigson yet?’ said Roman as I joined them with a chirpy ‘Hi, guys!’
‘Not permanently, but I told him he’d worn out his welcome so shouldn’t come with me again. God, wasn’t he embarrassing, throwing his weight around like that?’
There was a murmur of agreement.
‘I think actors like him forget what normal people are like once they get a taste of stardom.’ Sorry Jonah, but I knew this was what you’d like me to do with my opportunity here. ‘And I’ll make sure he doesn’t make any trouble for you – for any of you. I seem to have a knack for handling him.’
‘How can you do that, love?’ asked one of the men whose name I’d not yet caught, the one I nicknamed Buzz. ‘He’s got a rep as a hard man but he’s good box office. I can’t see the studios standing up to him.’
‘Jessica’s very good with him, we’ve all seen that; she has the knack,’ said Elijah, the elf-like best boy electric with the improbably groomed red hair. I hoped he hadn’t developed a crush, but he did keep looking at me and echoing everything I said to earn my approval.
‘Yeah, Jess here pokes fun at him between takes – makes the sullen bastard smile,’ added Ben. ‘Could’ve done with you on set this morning, love. You’re better at cheering him up than the stuck-up cow who normally looks after him.’
Roman smirked at the insult flung at his ex. ‘I bet.’
‘Jonah says Amy is very efficient.’ I trailed my defence out there to see what nibbles I got at the bait.
‘Ms Mason doesn’t have a sense of humour though,’ said Ben.
Meaning she didn’t laugh at his misogynist jokes – yeah, I’d heard you, Ben. You made millennial Elijah cringe with your personal comments and quips.
‘She’s a deceptive, sour bitch, that’s for sure,’ said Roman.
‘Come on, guys, this isn’t fair. She isn’t here to defend herself,’ I said.
‘I know what’s she’s really like.’ Roman offered me a cigarette from his pack, a gesture that seemed an unsubtle bribe to get me on his side. I took it, tacitly accepting the compact, and we found ourselves a little to one side of the others. ‘She has a history of making false allegations.’
‘Really? How do you know this?’
‘I used to live with her – until I found out what she was doing to one of our kids.’
‘How awful!’
‘All the guys in my department know what a liar she is.’ He seemed to welcome a new audience for his grievances.
I hoped I looked suitably scandalised. ‘You mean, like, mental or criminal damage?’
‘Both.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Everything.’
‘Like?’ I searched in my handbag for my lighter.
‘For one, she made Angelica think she was ill when there was nothing wrong with her.’
‘Shit, that’s pretty serious stuff.’ I brandished the lighter in triumph and lit the cigarette. ‘I only know what other people have told me about her and she sounded nice to me.’
‘Your source being that fucking actor?’
‘Are you sure that … what’s her name? Your daughter …?’
‘Angelica.’
‘Are you sure she isn’t really ill?’
He smiled grimly. ‘Here’s a fact for you. Since leaving home to live with me, she’s been fine. Not a single health scare – not even a headache. I just need to get my boy out of there and then both of them will be safe.’
‘You’ve got somewhere for them?’ That did sound a little too nosey. ‘I mean, that’s great. I found it really hard to get a decent place.’
He breathed a plume of smoke into the air. ‘Got something suitable through a friend here. They really came through for me.’ He was looking at the guy I’d nicknamed Buzz.
‘It’s connections, word-of-mouth, isn’t it, that gets you places? Pretty cramped where I am at the moment.’
He pulled a face in sympathy. ‘If you were staying on in Oxford, I’d say look in one of the villages nearby. I only have a twenty-minute commute.’
‘Oh, that sounds perfect! Where?’
‘Elsfield – a couple of miles away.’
‘If you hear of anything, let me know.’ I stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Just need a single room.’
Roman slipped his cigarette packet in his back pocket. ‘Taking to this life, are you? Even with the pig of a boss?’
‘Yeah. Jonah’s OK most of the time. I’d stay if there were an opening.’ And that was actually the truth.
‘Don’t let Amy know you’re after her job. She’ll see to it that she ruins you.’
‘Oh come on, she can’t be that bad! She doesn’t even know me.’
He shrugged. ‘Take it from me, she’s devious. And if you don’t believe me, check the court record in Cancun. I’m looking forward to telling the judge in the Family Court.’
And that didn’t sound ominous? He headed back to work and I started walking back to the trailer, planning on making an immediate internet search. Elijah caught up with me, falling into step. I might as well use his – what? – puppy love for my own ends.
‘Elijah, do you know by any chance the name of the older man with the buzz cut – the one with Roman?’
‘Pete Murphy. Real old timer – been here since the 90s. Why do you want to know?’
‘Apparently he rented somewhere to Roman. I was just wondering if he had any other properties, you know, in case I stay on in Oxford.’
Elijah seemed to be winding himself up to ask me something and I feared I knew what it was. ‘Jess, I was wondering …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you like to go out for a drink after work one night? With me and the rest of the crew, I mean?’
Oh, that actually didn’t sound too bad. I could sound them out about Amy. ‘What night is crew drinks?’ I asked, making it clear I wasn’t taking it as a personal invitation.
‘Friday.’
‘I’ll just check with my boyfriend.’ Jago had just been officially elevated to the position, my Elijah deterrent. ‘But I think that would be nice.’
‘You’ve a boyfriend? Oh, well, I suppose he could come along too, if you like.’
I climbed the steps of the trailer. ‘I’ll see what he says. Thanks, Elijah.’
I shut the door on him, feeling relieved I’d skated around that encounter.
I waited for Jonah to head off for lunch then typed in Amy’s name and Cancun, Mexico, into his computer and wait for a response. Her name was not so unusual for there not to be three or four Amy Masons active on social media when I’d last checked – and none of them had been her. My Amy kept herself to herself. Nothing.
But if it was old, then maybe it was under her maiden name? Her deceased husband was a John Mason. Her maiden name was … I checked through my notes … Sibert. That combination pulled up new results. Add the location and some references to news items that hadn’t made the first page now zipped right to the top of the list.
Woman denies making false rape claims in Cancun nightclub
I clicked on the link and discovered a news item that hadn’t got much traction back in 2001, thanks to 9/11. The woman, later revealed to be ‘Amy Sibert’, was found guilty in absentia of making a false accusation of rape against an ex-boyfriend. The bare bones of the case, according to the press that covered it, was that she got her ex thrown into Mexican jail in retaliation for him breaking up with her – I bet that was no picnic for him – then retracted the accusation once she was out of the country. The authorities naturally wanted to penalise her for that but she didn’t go back to defend herself and any extradition proceedings ran into the sand. Her sentence, passed in a local court, was still waiting for her, if she ever went back to Mexico. The follow-up article with the unfortunate ex – a former army private – was not complimentary to Amy. Fantasist. Unable to take rejection. Started a process out of spite but got scared when she saw that she couldn’t back up her words with any evidence. In fact, all the evidence was to the contrary from the messages on the phones proving their relationship was consensual.
I was left wondering how that ex-boyfriend related to the one she had gone on to marry – John Mason. Both in the army. Did she have a habit of hanging around with soldiers at that age? She’d been, what, twenty-two? Her home address then was over in Colchester, a garrison town.
Maybe she had good reasons for not following through, but it did go to a pattern of claiming something false – rape or illness – and then getting scared when the consequences came home to roost.
I wondered if I should warn Amy of what Roman had planned when the family matter came to court. She was my client.
And yet, maybe she was the villain of the piece, not him? The already shaky tower of faith in Amy’s honesty had taken a serious blow.
When I got home, Cory was waiting. I could tell from the glint in her eyes that she wanted the full details of my night away and I was not going to escape her unless I came up with a very good excuse. Fortunately, things were delayed by the presence of two small chaperones. Leah evidently had been waiting for me all day, just to break her own little bit of news.
‘You got present!’ she declared excitedly. ‘Can I open it?’
From my initial excitement, caught from her, that something nice might’ve unexpectedly arrived in the post, I suddenly remembered the other creep Michael had picked up and possibly sent my way.
‘Really? I thought I told Maria that I wasn’t accepting deliveries.’ I said this looking at Cory who was aware of the issue.
‘It was on the doorstep when they came home,’ she explained. ‘Leah found it first.’
‘She didn’t touch it, did she?’
‘No. Leah knows better than to open other people’s presents,’ said Cory with a look at her daughter. ‘Maria put it on top of the washing machine in the utility room. Out of reach.’
‘I’d better go and deal with it then.’ With a smile that said everything was fine (when it really wasn’t), I took some washing up gloves, dustbin bag and scissors with me. It could just be a parcel from my mother. She lived out in the country with my big sister, Miriam, and occasionally sent me offerings of books she’d just read or produce purchased at the Farmer’s Market. I faced the parcel. It was about the size of a shoebox and quite light, so no Dundee cake, marmalade or stack of paperbacks inside. My name and address was written on a typed label and the packaging was generic brown paper. I lifted it carefully. No sender. It didn’t seem like my mum’s style.
But I could check.
‘Hey, Mum?’
‘Jessica! How are you? Your father hasn’t been in touch, has he?’ She got her question in before I could ask her anything.
Why would she think that? ‘No. Why?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Mum?’ It was never nothing.
‘He’s just been sending me messages.’
‘What kind of messages?’ My skin crawled.
‘Nice ones. He found me on Facebook and he said how sorry he was our marriage ended the way it did.’
Yes, like a fox was sorry for the chickens it carried off. ‘Don’t trust him, Mum.’
‘That’s what Miriam said – and I’m not a fool!’ No, just soft-hearted.
‘If he keeps on bothering you, maybe you should come off Facebook?’
‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I was the one who left him, remember!’ Yes, but after over a decade of suffering. ‘Tell me all your news? How’s Drew?’
I realised she was way behind on the Jessica updates and I couldn’t go into all that now.
‘Everything’s fine.’ Not. ‘Got a really interesting temping job on a film set this week.’
‘Ooo, you are moving up in the world!’
‘Just two weeks – but I like it. Actually, Mum, can I call you back later for a longer chat? Fill you in on all the gossip.’ Carefully edited. ‘I’ve only this minute come through the door and just wanted to check something with you: have you sent me a parcel?’
‘No, dear. Why do you ask?’
‘A mystery present has arrived.’
‘Oh, you’ve got to be careful about those! I was just reading about a scam where people buy new phones through identity theft using your address.’ My mum read all the horror stories about elderly people losing all their savings, or being defrauded by unscrupulous callers. I was pleased she did because she would otherwise naturally be the kind of person to be taken in.
‘Yes, yes, I’ll be careful.’
‘Don’t give it back to a courier! That’s how they work the scam!’
‘Yes, fine. Love you.’
I finally got her off the line after a string of extra warnings. I contemplated the parcel again. Ring the police? And find it is some free sample, or something I’d forgotten I’d ordered online?
Michael had got a bird – gross but not explosive.
Gingerly, I cut the Sellotape and removed the brown paper sheet. The shoebox was old – the Clarks style I used to get my school shoes in at around this time of the year. This had been in someone’s wardrobe for many years. Had to be the troll, didn’t it?
‘OK, you creep, what’ve you sent me?’ I used the closed ends of the scissors to lift the lid off.
Yellowed tissue paper. I could cope with that.
‘You all right in there?’ called Cory.
‘Yes, but keep the kids out for the moment, please.’ I nudged the paper aside.
A doll lay in the paper, facedown. I recognised it immediately – or at least the brand. It was a Teeny Tiny Tears – a baby that cried and wet its nappy, someone’s idea of a suitable toy for a little girl two decades ago. I remembered I’d begged for one when I was around Leah’s age.
But the facedown was a bit of a clue, wasn’t it?
Still using the scissors, I levered her over – then let her drop back on her front. Her eyes had been gouged out and she was leaking red liquid. It had collected under her in the shoebox.
I think it’s fair to say that Michael’s troll had found me.