79

JEN

We’ve started out at a gentle pace, dressed in black running gear, jogging at a safe distance, watching the figure of Laurence in front. We’ve followed him from his house, through the streets of Tufnell Park and Dartmouth Park, to the edge of the Heath. The sun is just beginning to go down, covering the landscape in a delicate apricot light. There are a few other joggers and dog walkers around, but we always knew that there’d be other people out and about.

Bex had thought about that, she said she’d thought of everything. She’d talked me through the plan. Despite my assertion that I was familiar with the annotated map, marked up with arrows showing which areas were covered by CCTV, she made me memorise it again. She’d talked through Laurence’s transgressions once more. His callousness. His cowardice. His cruelties. He was a misogynist, a monster. He’d drugged and raped her. He’d stalked and attacked me. We had to protect ourselves. It was a form of self-defence. After all, he’d said he wanted to slaughter me like a pig. And if nothing else, our actions would stop him from hurting other women. It was the right thing to do.

She spent the best part of the day instructing and schooling me. Bex had used gaffer tape to strap a sharp kitchen knife to the lower part of my left arm, which I then covered with my long-sleeved top. How did it feel? she asked as she finished binding it to my skin. Not too uncomfortable? Not at all, I’d said. In fact, it felt great. Like I was wearing a piece of armour that shielded me from harm. I had to be careful not to injure myself when I was running, she told me; also, it had to be secured in such a way that it wouldn’t drop out. And so we practised various movements in the flat – lunging, jogging on the spot, squat jumps – but the knife remained in place. Bex said that I had to be able to retrieve the knife from its casing quickly and so this was something she made me repeat until I’d got it right.

She told me that we might not be able to kill him that day as it would depend on the correct alignment of various circumstances – our proximity to Laurence, being in a CCTV-free zone, the absence of other witnesses. But if all these things came together I had to be prepared to act quickly and decisively. Could I do that? I said I could. She showed me where to strike to guarantee death: the two carotid arteries in the neck. She would distract him, stop and talk to him, and all I had to do was steal up behind him and cut his throat. I had to go in deep, though. There was no point in just cutting muscle and skin. I had to slice open the arteries that supplied oxygen to the brain. If I did that he would bleed out in a matter of minutes – just like Vicky and Daniel, I thought to myself.

Did I want to say something to Laurence before he died? She told me that, after leaving the scene, we’d soon run into an area covered by CCTV and it was important to appear as though we’d witnessed nothing suspicious. Our clothes would have to be free of blood and the knife would have to be taped back inside my arm, out of sight. In her backpack she would stash some tissues and some more tape, as well as a change of gear. We could dispose of the evidence later, she said, at our convenience.

I shouldn’t be afraid, she added. She’d be proud of me once all this was over. Perhaps we could even go on a holiday to celebrate. It would be her treat. She reiterated the litany of Laurence’s crimes again. He was a serial abuser. A rapist. A sadist. He’d got away with so much over the years that his instinct for ever-increasing forms of violence was becoming normalised. By the end of the afternoon I was possessed by a fury. Anger surged through my veins. Murder was not only on my mind, but in my body too. Every cell in my being wanted revenge. I’d never understood the term bloodlust before, but now I felt it. A rawness. A hunger. An appetite that could only be satiated by death.

Bex’s.

Earlier, while Bex was in the bathroom, I’d crushed a sleeping pill into a cup of tea and watched her as she drank it. I left a note to say I’d gone into the newspaper office and would be back soon. Just to be certain she wasn’t trailing me I took a bus up to Archway, in the opposite direction to my destination. On the top deck of the 134 I replayed the conversation I’d had with Penelope when I was in the flat. She had asked me whether I was safe to talk and when I’d said I was in the flat she had instructed me to make up a name of a caller just in case Bex was listening.

As I pretended to talk to Nick, Penelope had outlined her fears. She wasn’t sure exactly how it might manifest itself, but she was certain that I was in danger. She went over what I already knew: the deaths of Bex’s parents in a murder–suicide, the fact that Bex had had a relationship with Daniel Oliver when he was a teenager. If I was in any doubt about the veracity of any of this, she implored me to contact Karen Oliver. I didn’t have time to travel back up to Colchester again, but I had her number. Outside Archway station I scanned the streets for signs of Bex. Nothing. I dialled Mrs Oliver’s number with fingers that trembled so much it took me three attempts before I got the right number. The call went straight to voicemail.

Next, I phoned Laurence. It was imperative I speak to him. He was the only one who could answer my questions. I dialled his mobile and he answered, but he told me he was in a meeting and that he’d call me back. As he cut the line dead I realised that my nerves were shot to pieces. My head was a mass of unanswered questions. The whole thing was a terrible gamble. Would he return the call? Even if he did talk to me, how would I know whether he was lying? After all, he’d denied being on the Heath that day, and yet I knew it had been him – he was the mystery jogger.

But why had he not owned up? What had he to hide? I’d already accused him of sending me a string of messages, which he denied. But I needed to ask him about the mask and the attack on me on the Heath. When I saw his name flash up on the screen of my phone I had to do everything in my power to keep my voice steady. He’d had enough of me being hysterical. The last thing he needed to hear was me shouting. I apologised, told him that I was sorry for the way I’d behaved. But it was important that I see him, if only for five minutes. I wasn’t going to accuse him of anything. I was proud of myself for controlling my emotions and, despite his initial reluctance, punctuated by a chorus of sighs, he said that he could give me a few minutes of his time if I came down to his office. Twenty minutes later I was standing in Argyle Square. I rang his mobile and told him that I had arrived.

When he first caught a glimpse of me I saw the expression on his face change from mild irritation at having his afternoon interrupted to one of concern. ‘Oh my God, Jen, you look terrible,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I need to ask you some things. Some of the questions may sound … well, they may sound like the rantings of a mad woman. But bear with me.’

He studied my serious expression, nodded his head and said, ‘Let’s find somewhere to have a coffee.’

He led me to the same café where I’d spent hours waiting for him. Memories of how I’d followed him down onto the Tube crowded my mind. We took a table at the back of the busy space and, once we’d ordered, I began by telling him that I had to talk to him about what happened that day on the Heath. He closed his eyes in discomfort as if he were being forced to endure an unpleasant dental examination.

‘I know I shouldn’t have stormed into your house like I did,’ I said. ‘Asking about what you were doing there, accusing you of all sorts, and you’d every right to be angry with me.’

‘No, I’m the one who should be apologising to you,’ he said, opening his eyes. ‘I should have told you the truth. But after what had happened, I was scared you might use it, I don’t know, in a piece for a newspaper or magazine. You remember how much flak I got from my friends whenever I – or “James” – made an appearance in “Being Jen Hunter”. I knew you’d lost your contract, but I could see how desperate you were getting and I … I didn’t want my name splashed across the press.’

‘I’m sorry about Vicky. I know you and she were, or had been, together.’

The comment took him aback. ‘How did you find out?’

‘I’ve been doing a bit of research and—’

‘I said I didn’t want you to write anything about me. Fuck, Jen. You don’t change, do you?’ He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. ‘That’s one of the reasons why … well, I’m not going to get into all of that with you now. I’ve got work to do.’

‘It’s not for a piece – it’s much more important than that,’ I said. I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. ‘Please sit back down.’

‘What’s it for then?’ he asked as he resumed his place at the table.

I didn’t answer him. ‘You’ve got to be honest with me. I know I asked you once before – but did you send me a series of Twitter messages from @WatchingYouJenHunter?’

‘No, of course I didn’t.’

I took out my phone and scrolled through my photos. I hesitated a moment before I showed him the image.

‘Have you ever seen this before?’

‘No – what is it?’

‘It’s a picture of the mask worn by the person who attacked me on the Heath.’

He looked shocked. ‘You were … attacked?’

I bent my head, parted my hair and showed him the scab on my skull.

‘Fuck, Jen – who would want to do that to you?’

He took my phone and used his thumb and finger to focus in on the image.

‘Hang on – is this …? No, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. This is in my bathroom. What were you—’

‘I know what it looks like – and I can explain.’

‘Jen – what the fuck is going on? What is this?’

‘Bex has the key to your house and because we thought it was likely that it was you who attacked me we decided to—’

‘You decided to break into my house.’

‘Yes – no. But I found this – the mask – in your bathroom cabinet.’

He looked as if I’d told him we’d found an alien lurking behind his deodorant.

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘No, I wish I was.’

‘Are you seriously asking me whether I – what? – that I attacked you on the Heath, wearing this mask, which I then stashed away in my bathroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen, Jen. I know we’ve had our differences. For a while I thought we could put them all behind us and start again. I really did. But if you think that I could be capable of …’

It was then that something clicked. There was a time, just a few weeks ago, when I thought Laurence and I might get back together. I remembered telling Bex how excited I was at the prospect. Perhaps there was a chance, I had told her, that Laurence would have me back, even after everything that had happened between us. He might actually forgive me. But that was not how it had played itself out. The day before Laurence and I were due to meet up I’d witnessed that terrible murder–suicide on Kite Hill.

‘Are you okay?’

I couldn’t open my mouth. Was I having some kind of attack?

‘Jen – you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?’

Everything was wrong. The whole fucking thing. The events of the last few weeks played themselves out in my head again. The murder of Vicky, the suicide of Daniel. The string of creepy messages. My growing distrust of Laurence. The assault on me on the Heath. The discovery of that mask in Laurence’s house. The map showing the CCTV coverage on the Heath. The revelation that Bex had been raped by Laurence. But I saw these things from a different viewpoint now, as if my perspective had suddenly been shifted on its side. The effect was unsettling, similar to the feeling of dissociation. I felt enveloped by an unreality that threatened to push me over the edge. But through it all I realised that everything had been leading up to one thing, the ultimate ending: my murder of Laurence.

I took a sip of coffee, but it made me feel sick.

‘I need to ask you some more questions,’ I whispered.

He must have seen the shock drain the blood from my face. Perhaps he realised what I had to say was serious.

‘Okay,’ he replied.

‘Why were you on the Heath on the day of the murder–suicide?’

He hesitated before he began, perhaps surmising that as soon as he started to talk there was a chance that everything else would spill out. ‘You say you know about me and Vicky? Well, it had all got to be a mess. To be honest, I wanted to end it with her. We wanted different things. She realised she no longer loved Dan, and she got it into her head somehow that I was the one for her. She was convinced that I wanted children, that I wanted to marry her. I’ve no idea where she got that from.’

I took a deep breath. ‘It was Bex.’

‘Bex?’

‘And she introduced you, didn’t she? To Vicky?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And why did you go to the Heath that day?’

‘Bex told me—’

Her name again.

‘—that she would help me. You see, Vicky had told her that she was planning on ending it with Dan that day. On Valentine’s Day, for fuck’s sake! I’d told her that would be a huge mistake. I pleaded with her not to do it. She’d told me a bit about Dan’s temper, his jealousy, but I never thought … Anyway, Bex convinced me that it would be best if we met on Parliament Hill Fields, just to make sure that Vicky was safe … She was a lovely girl, and I had been very fond of her – shit …’ His voice broke. ‘Sorry – it’s just that – that since it all happened I’ve been bottling lots of things up. Of course, I liked Vicky, I just didn’t see myself staying with her. But that didn’t mean I wanted her … wanted …’ He coughed into his hand and cleared tears from his eyes. ‘I didn’t want that. When I jogged up to the top of the hill I saw what was happening and I … I couldn’t deal with it. I ran. Ran as fast as I could away from it all. I didn’t know what was going to happen, I didn’t know that Vicky was pregnant. I only found out from the newspapers. I don’t think it was mine, but … God, Jen, I feel so fucking guilty. I should never have got involved with her in the first place. It was only supposed to be a bit of fun after …’

He didn’t need to complete his sentence. ‘After you,’ he was going to say. After the fuck-up that was our relationship.

‘I’m sorry, Laurence,’ I said. ‘And did Bex ever come to you and give you a warning? Told you that you should turn yourself in to the police? Identify yourself as the man who was seen jogging away from the scene?’

‘No – no she didn’t.’

So she had lied to me.

‘But she did tell me …’

He went quiet, uncertain about what to say next. ‘Jen. This is so—’

‘What?’

‘I wanted to tell you all this so badly when you came round to my house just after … It’s bound to come out now anyway, so you may as well know, but she—’

‘It’s about that night at the French House, isn’t it?’

His face froze. ‘How? … I thought … but she said …’

‘It’s okay, Laurence,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

‘Bex made it clear that it would be for the best if you didn’t know exactly what had happened in the run-up to the murder–suicide. She said that if I told you anything of what I knew then she would have no choice but to tell you about that night. You see …’

‘You know that she told me that you raped her.’

‘What?’ said Laurence, rubbing a hand over his eyes and face in a way that looked like he wished he could wash my words from his skin.

‘She said … she told me that after you’d gone back to your house you slipped something into her drink. And that you … that you raped her.’

‘For fuck’s sake. And you believe her?’ There was anger in his eyes. A black, dangerous anger I’d only seen on rare occasions, such as the night last summer when he ended it all. ‘Do you really think I could do that?’

‘No – I don’t. Listen – I don’t believe her.’

‘What the fuck is she playing at? If I see her, I’ll—’

‘Just tell me what really happened. Honestly – I won’t mind.’ That wasn’t entirely true: I had to steel myself for what came next.

‘We had some kind of drunken sex, but it … it didn’t mean anything. I didn’t rape her. I didn’t slip anything into her drink. And the next day, the next morning, I told her that … that it had been nice, it’d been fun, but it would be best if we went our separate ways. I wasn’t ready for a relationship. But then, when I got to know you a bit better … Well, that changed.’

If only I’d been able to ask Laurence these questions a month ago. Everything would have been so different. I felt so unutterably sad, and yet I couldn’t cry. I thought of all the things that might have been: the future we could have enjoyed together, the holidays, the lazy Sunday mornings in bed, the parties, the quiet, intimate chats, perhaps even a couple of kids. But none of those things had happened. None of those things would happen. We had once been due to start a new life together. Was that what this was all about?