Saving Grace, page 17
‘Let’s hear it.’ I place my hands on the desk, I’m wide open, with my let-me-at-’em expression.
‘What’s really in the flask?’
His question takes me by surprise. But I’ve put myself up on stage. My palms feel sweaty, I reach to rub my neck and take in a deep breath, like I’m going to jump into an icy lake with no clothes on. I brace myself.
Only the hum of the computers can be heard. They know the truth, the hard, cold stare of their judging faces now impossible to avoid.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JENNIFER MACK
A splash of cold water to my face takes away the hot sweat and offers a temporary reprieve. I feel as if I have taken two steps forward and one step back. They say that admitting you have a problem is the first step you take to sobriety. That may be true, but why do I still have a burning sensation at the back of my throat, a thirst so intense, I want to down a bottle in one go? One day at a time. One hour at a time. I can’t quite remember when it became a dependency. My mind is a huge mix of thoughts, the break-in, Hayley. I have too many pairs of eyes watching me now, all waiting for me to slip and fall. My job depends on me.
How do people get past the constant craving?
The thing I depend on to block out the darkness has been exposed.
It’s always been the thing that I turn to, always there to pick me up. I know there are support groups, but I’m not sure if I am ready to sit in a circle with strangers every week and share parts of myself I’m not ready to face, a story I have never told. I know I need to take back parts of my life, the pain that remains under the surface, the devil within. I’ve searched high and low for my journal. The police said nothing was found on Hayley. Does that mean somebody else has been here?
That is partly why I admitted to the office I had a problem. Better they hear it from me than very personal words I have scribbled on clean white paper.
But the other things… I don’t know what to do.
I leave the flat in my running gear, ready to let the sea air whip through my hair and hopefully clear my head of all the thoughts floating around like rubbish in a polluted river. The sun is blinding, my head feels like it is weighing too heavy on my neck, and, weirdly, everything hurts. It is as if my body is protesting that it hasn’t got its fix. For a long time, I stopped feeling hungover in the mornings. I guess my body was tolerating the position, learning that it’s normal, but today isn’t normal.
I put in my earbuds and begin to pound the pavement, pushing past the pain raging through every cell within me.
When I get to the beach I stop and look out to the sea. I soon find myself wading in till the water is up to my waist. The cold bites through my legs. It hurts, but in a good way. In a way it feels like a baptism, being born again and given a second chance.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THEN
‘She’s not going to pull through.’ Her voice is strained, coarse through the phone.
I refill my glass of wine and sink back into the sofa.
‘I’m so sorry.’ These are the words that are expected of me and I dutifully recite them in a rehearsed sadness.
‘I just can’t believe it.’ The pending doom of death, waiting, the finality of it all. She doesn’t see it now, but she will. The world is better without her.
‘I can’t believe she will never wake up. The hospital found something in her system, I had to give them a statement, and I feel so guilty but…’ Her voice turns into a whisper, barely audible. ‘It’s not the first time she–’
‘Drugs?’ I say.
‘Yeah. She fell into a terrible habit, got to thinking she needed to get high to have a good time. Her mum said before she fell into the coma, she… she tried to tell her something – a name.’
I set my glass on the table and panic rises, rattling my ribcage and squeezing my heart.
‘But she couldn’t hear her. Only the machines keeping her alive know now, I guess. Her family isn’t going to prolong the process.’
I imagine her funeral. The fanfare.
‘Grace, I wish I knew what to say.’ My tone is off-kilter, but she doesn’t notice.
I was the last person Imogen saw before she exited consciousness. Her last words were filled with abhorrence toward me. I left her alone in the cubicle, watching her shut down. A public setting was risky, and I recalled how my stomach twisted, how badly I wanted to wring the nerves out of my insides. But there was also a thrill attached to it. I guess this is how people feel when they have sex in a public place. It’s not the act itself, but the wrongfulness of it.
All night, Imogen had set her gaze on me with quiet, loathing eyes and the more hatred she shot in my direction the more I wanted to make her suffer. The acid itself acted quickly. But there was a part of me that wanted her blood to boil under her skin. I wanted ungodly pain to surge through her body until she begged for death.
‘I’m going to go to bed,’ Grace says softly, interrupting my thoughts. It’s a relief though. I don’t want to spend the evening talking about what a wonderful person Imogen is/was.
I set the phone on the table. I’m tempted to have another glass of wine, but I resist. Sometimes it’s good to allow the organic thoughts to flow through my mind; I like the process of it. Alcohol can cloud that process and tonight I don’t want any thoughts to be fazed.
I go to bed and flick off the lights. I lie still in the darkness. I wonder what she sees in me, because Imogen and I couldn’t be more different. How can one person care for two people who are such polar opposites? I never really thought of myself as good-looking, but as I approach adulthood, my reflection gives something back. To look at me, on the surface, I could be considered average (at best) but the awkwardness of childhood is falling away and what were known as creepy eyes are now an exotic icy blue; the one feature people comment on.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
JENNIFER MACK
The Graces; young, blonde, and beautiful, take precedence on the front cover of The Chronicle. Underneath their pictures is my name and an open letter addressed to the killer. I can’t help but feel judged by my decision. All eyes are on me. But once the idea occurred to me, I couldn’t rinse it out of my mind. It’s a bold move, some might even say out-and-out crazy, but what else was I going to do? I needed to take a different approach to all the attention this story was getting.
Later, after the story went to press and had been delivered to the local newsagents and online spheres, social media went crazy. Some supported it, others thought it was absolutely disgusting, but I had got what I wanted: attention and reaction. I sat at my desk, reading through the comments pouring in.
These young women are nothing but rotting corpses. They don’t get to have a voice anymore. My mobile phone rang with a no-caller ID.
‘Are you out of your fucking mind?’ Lilith’s voice is so loud I cover the receiver with my hand and skulk away from my desk into the dusty corner of redundant files. I press my forehead onto the window and watch my breath steam it up.
‘Maybe. But it’s got the attention this case needs,’ I say sharply.
‘Why didn’t you talk to me about this? I promised to help you, but you do this behind my back? How can I trust you now?’
‘Why can’t you trust me?’ I feel heat rise to my cheeks, every breath she takes seems to cut me down, little by little. I tell myself I don’t need her approval but each time I try to defend myself, the words will not come out of my mouth.
‘Talking directly to a killer is one thing, but this? Now any number of crazies will be responding to you just for kicks.’
‘Lilith, I understand your concern, but it could also lead us to the killer. Call it a hunch. Call it whatever you want, but we have people’s attention, and the more attention we have, the harder it’s going to be for the killer to hide,’ I say with absolute conviction.
Usually when I talk to Lilith there is a wobble in my voice I am acutely aware of, but not today.
‘Have you got any leads?’ I ask.
I glance across at the newsroom, convinced my colleagues can hear every word of this conversation, which is impossible, but two days without a drink has turned me into a paranoid mess, there is nothing to take off the edge of stress and my hands have decided to take on a life of their own by randomly shaking. Now is not a good time to go cold turkey.
‘Meet me tonight at The Old Bull and Bush. 8pm. Don’t be late.’
Before I have a chance to tell her I’ll be there, she hangs up. I wander to the kitchenette and start to fill the kettle with water, I am in need of a strong cup of coffee. I place my hands on the counter and take several deep breaths. The threats of a panic attack have become far more frequent, but I am working really hard to push them away. I move to the kitchen cupboard and take out a jar of coffee, I heap two tablespoons into a cup, pour the hot water in and stir what looks like black tar before it goes onto the road. As I take a sip, hot pain bursts into my cheeks making my mouth feel like it is about to explode. I quickly run the tap and put my mouth under the water. It feels like there is a fire in my mouth. I glance down at the kitchen floor and wonder if giving up the booze is really worth it.
I push open the heavy oak doors to see Lilith already sitting at a table with a drink in front of her; nothing for me. She looks different today. She’s dressed in a casual blue shirt paired with neat blue jeans and a sensible pair of loafers. Softer maybe. But her presence is anything but soft. I smile, she doesn’t smile back. I remind myself I’m on a different road now and as much as I want Lilith to help me I have to go on, with or without her. I pick up a menu from the bar. My stomach has been growling at me every ten minutes, it’s as if it’s begging for something to fill the usual gap of gin or wine sloshing around my belly. I eye the menu, feeling her gaze and hearing a few hefty sighs of annoyance, because up until now I practically kissed her feet. But not anymore.
‘I’m not sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘I needed a new angle.’
‘And now you have one. You got the attention, but it’s not the right kind of attention. I get it. Young and hungry, trying to make it up the ranks, but this is not the way.’
‘Why?’ I snap.
‘You may think this is some brave, bold thing you’re doing, but you’ve only made yourself look desperate.’ Her words slice through me like a knife. There is a rage bubbling up inside me. The comments from social media floating around in my head, the sheer exhaustion of it all. Fuck it. I abruptly stand, the chair makes a grating sound against the floor, sending my nerves on fire.
Before I have a chance to second-guess myself, I call to the barman.
‘Jack Daniels.’
There is a sliver of light piercing through the small gap in the curtains. It penetrates my eyes like a laser, intensifying the throbbing headache I’ve woken up with.
I’m officially off the wagon. Way to go, me. It didn’t take much.
My brain calculates the day and I have a short burst of triumph when I realise it’s Saturday and I don’t have to rush to the office. I can have my pity party alone in the safety of my protective walls. But I guess that’s not completely true. Since the break-in I haven’t exactly felt the comfort I should in my own home.
There’s a bottle of water next to the bed and I grab it by the neck and guzzle the lukewarm water like my life depends on it. I haven’t had a hangover like this in years. I swing my legs out of bed and drag myself to the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face to wash away the night sweats. Then I feel a wave of nausea rise up in my stomach and I throw up in the sink. My hands rest on either side of it. It takes me a moment to catch my breath and when I do, I also catch my reflection in the mirror. I don’t like the person staring back at me. Who is she? This pale woman with sunken eyes and dried-out skin. It’s in that very second I wonder if I’ve hit that all-time low recovering alcoholics always talk about; but I’m not lying in a gutter, I’m not in a jail cell, I’m not waking up from a night of casual sex with a stranger who repulses me on sobered sight. It’s just me, Jennifer, waking up alone in my bed, being sick in the privacy of my own bathroom. But do I need to meet a certain criteria? I don’t think so.
If I can’t stand to look at myself, how can I expect the world to take me seriously?
We all have our weaknesses as people. Mine happens to be common, yet it is frowned upon because you have a choice whether you drink or not: life choices.
But is it? Do I actually have a choice?
Or am I about to admit to myself that I am sick and I need help.
There is a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I avoid my reflection for a moment but then I force myself to slowly lift my heavy head and take a long hard look at myself.
It feels like I’m facing the demon that has been lurking in my body for years, unseen but felt. There is nobody here telling me to do this. I am not in the office with prying eyes, judging expressions. It is just me facing the ugly truth.
I remember when I’d turned fourteen. It was considered cool to meet your mates in the park, smoke cigarettes, and down bottles of Hooch and cheap beer. Then it was considered sophisticated to drink a glass of wine with a meal – a grown-up. Wine bars became the norm and getting drunk was a fun thing to do. So, I try and think back to when it became a problem, and why was it a problem? A voice in my head answered me: Because you need it to get through the day and this makes you an addict.
After I scrub the acidic taste out of my mouth with bouts of toothpaste and mouthwash, I step into the shower and turn the tap, which sounds like an angry hissing snake. I cry so hard that the air in my lungs escapes me so quickly I feel dizzy, but as I let the water and soap wash over me, I begin to scrub my body hard, like I am ridding myself of grime and dirt, of all I have, and all I am doing to myself. Steam fills the room and settles on the mirror. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and there is a new reflection of the one I saw twenty minutes ago. I’m not going to paint this to be some guardian angel with a halo and fluffy white wings. It’s just me. Only this time the woman in the mirror knows she has a problem and knows she needs help. I don’t check my phone; this is always the first thing I do when I wake up. It will no doubt be filled with tweets about the open letter and messages from work, possibly Pete and Lilith. Oh God. Lilith. My memory is so vague from last night. How much did I drink? Snippets of memory come to me like broken shards of glass, a snippet here and there, but what feels like a great fog is after I drank. I sit on the edge of the bed and reach into the bedside drawer for headache pills. I pull back the curtains. My head feels so thick, unsteady on my neck. Beyond the window the sky is a diluted saxe blue, a light film of cloud slowly disperses by the burn of the sun. I open the window and allow air to flow through, there’s a little robin redbreast sitting on the car-park fence, its chest puffed out. There is a gracefulness to tiny birds I admire, how they live freely in flight and their only ambition is to survive. They have it down to a fine art, mostly.
A memory bursts through my brain of my mother. We’re at a zoo, my tiny hand in the safety of hawking gloves with a beautiful falcon perched on it, its raptor claws curling round. I remember the weight of the bird, heavy and solid, how its hooked beak looked regal and how my heart thudded hard inside my chest as it spread its broad wings. It’s funny how little things can ignite long-forgotten memories. I wish Mum was here. I don’t think I would’ve struggled as much in my life with her here. After she died, my drinking became habitual. I try to think about when I last mourned her, not just thought about her. When were any of my tears about her? Or were they all about her and I just didn’t know it?
I return to my flat from a walk to clear my head, and take slow steps toward my mobile phone, like it’s a bomb ready to detonate at any moment. I bite down on my lower lip. Time to face the music and dance with the devil. I slide my finger across the screen and unlock the carnage, the screen goes wild with notifications.
I have four missed calls, eight WhatsApp messages, and eighteen emails.
Deep breath. Count to ten. Jump in the freezing cold water – splash.
The inevitable is waiting. The first thing I do is check my voicemail. Voicemails are somewhat more urgent, not many people I know leave them unless they are important.
Lilith. I feel my pulse begin to escalate.
‘I just wanted to touch base and check if you’re okay. I get it, Jennifer, I really do, but you need to be careful. Call me when you get this.’ My shoulders relax from the stiffened tension built up in them like a weight of concrete. The tone of her voice was… kind, perhaps even laced with a hint of concern. It’s the only message she left, and I can only hope to God that I didn’t say something embarrassing, that I didn’t show myself up – if only I could remember. I have to rely on Lilith to fill in the blanks.
Next are my emails. Another wave of relief whooshes through me when they are mostly advertising, a couple from Amazon, clothes companies, bill prompts. I scan each and every one of them. No gremlins. There isn’t the message I was hoping to see. Pete. We haven’t really spoken much since the day he wrestled Hayley to the ground. I guess I’d been too wrapped up in the chaos around me to notice. I quickly type him a message.
Hey! How are you? X
He instantly starts typing back but no message pings through.
Finally, a message arrives.
Not great.
There is an absence of a simple x at the end of the message which speaks volumes.
Are you okay? Want to talk? Meet up?
Just want to be alone right now. Take care.
