JEN
I’m on the sofa pretending to sleep when Bex comes in. She doesn’t put the light on, but I sense her moving around the room. Then she walks over to me. I can feel her looking down, studying me. I have to make an effort to keep my breathing steady and calm. I want to bolt upright and ask what the hell is going on. But I know I have to keep still. I feel like I’m choking, like something is blocking my throat, but I daren’t even cough. I begin to count to ten, slowly, hoping that Bex will soon leave me alone.
One … The words from the 1990 report still play around my mind. Valentine’s Day. Murder–suicide. Neighbours say that the dead couple are survived by a young daughter, Rebecca, 13, who was at the house at the time of the incident, but was uninjured. She has since been placed with a foster family.
Two … Penelope’s interview with Karen Oliver, in which she said that her son Daniel had had a relationship with an older woman called Becky.
Three … If Becky knew Daniel Oliver from way back did the murder–suicide on Parliament Hill Fields have anything to do with her?
The thought of that is like a tight hand around my neck and I can’t swallow.
Four … And what about everything that’s happened to me since then?
Five …The messages from @WatchingYouJenHunter.
I can feel my breathing begin to quicken.
Six … The feeling of being constantly observed, stalked.
Seven … The attack on the Heath, the man … the person in the mask.
I can feel saliva pooling at the back of my throat.
Eight … Finding the mask in Laurence’s house. My increasing hatred, my utter loathing, for him.
I can’t control my breathing any longer. The fear makes me take a great gulp of breath like a dying fish, a gasp that I try to cover up by coughing. I open my eyes and see her dark shadow standing over me.
‘Don’t worry – it’s just me,’ she says.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, clearing my throat again.
‘Sorry, I was just looking for my charger.’
Using the light from my phone I make a half-hearted effort to look under and around the sofa.
‘Never mind. Perhaps it’s in my room.’ She continues to stand there, looking at me.
The air is heavy with many things unsaid. I want to ask her question after question, but I remain silent.
‘Is there something wrong, Jen?’ she whispers.
‘Just a bad dream. It’s nothing. I’d better get back to sleep. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Just that the editor wants me to file the piece early. He also wants me to go into the office to look at the layout to make sure I’m happy with it all.’
It’s dark. Bex can’t see me. But will she still be able to tell I’m lying?
‘Is that normal?’
‘It’s a bit odd, yeah.’ I try to keep my voice steady. ‘But Nick, my editor, said something about how because I was involved in the story – as a witness – I should be there to oversee its production. They want it to be handled as sensitively as possible.’
Bex goes quiet again, before she switches a light on and comes to sit by me.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’
I can feel my heart racing now. ‘No, that’s fine,’ I say, as I sit up properly and swing my legs off the sofa.
We’ve sat as close as this – closer – so many times, but tonight there’s something wrong. It’s like every cell in my body is screaming out to tell me to get as far away from her as possible. I sense her studying me, examining me for what – signs of guilt? Some kind of secret knowledge? A marker of betrayal?
‘Have you got anything to tell me?’
‘Tell you?’
‘Yes – something’s on your mind. You know I can sense when there’s something wrong. Is it about Laurence? Have you changed your mind about …’
‘No – I want to …’
‘You want to give him a fright that he’ll never forget?’
‘Yes, yes I do. After hearing what he did to you, I want to see that fucker really suffer.’
‘So do I. So there’s nothing else?’
‘It’s probably just the interviews. Listening to the other witnesses. It brought a lot of things up. Remembering the incident. All that blood. Those deaths.’
‘That must have been hard. So there’s nothing else? Nothing about Penelope?’
‘Penelope?’
She nods her head slowly. ‘Have you heard from her?’
‘No – no I haven’t.’
I can feel the power of her gaze, stripping off the layers of deceit I’ve accumulated around myself like some kind of powerful acid.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Nothing but the usual rubbish. Some shit about you.’
‘What did she say – I mean, the exact words?’
‘That she had this file, the one I told you about. There was the transcript of the interview she did with Daniel Oliver’s mother. But I only saw the two pages that dropped out.’ I don’t tell her about the question Penelope asked me about the map of the Heath and its CCTV coverage. I don’t tell her about the emails and voice messages from Penelope. I don’t tell her about the newspaper cutting I’ve seen, the report into that murder–suicide on Valentine’s Day 1990. ‘She asked me … asked me how much I really knew about you.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘You’ve always been there for me.’ The words sound empty, hollow. ‘That … that I’d trust you with my life.’