Saving Grace, page 22
‘I should go,’ I say, voice trembling. But before I depart, I reach down to the thick stack of copies of The Gazette. The weight of the paper feels like a bomb in my hands.
I’m transfixed. Hot and cold flashes wash over me like a wave.
Hayley Woolley murder:
Fellow journalist arrested on suspicion of murder.
Rivalry turned deadly.
Ms Wooley, 30, was last seen a week ago on the way back from drinks with a friend. A local man discovered her body in the men’s washroom, located in St George’s Park.
The suspect, a woman in her early 30s, is an active journalist for The Cornwall Chronicle.
The victim’s sister, Carly Woolley, claims the two colleagues have had a competitive rivalry for years. ‘It tears my heart out to know such bitter jealousy has turned such an ugly corner, and because of this rivalry my sister is dead.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
THEN
Beryl tells me more about her daughter in the following weeks.
‘I remember all the hopes I had for her. This pregnancy makes her a statistic, you know. I suppose I should have seen it coming.’
I look out of the window, Beryl’s voice fading into the background. My heart pauses. A girl. The same height and slim build of Grace, with the same butter-blonde hair that sparkles in the early morning sunshine. She’s alone, headphones plugged into her ears, her jog a slow, rhythmic bounce. Could it be?
She stops, her hands reaching for her knees, her head tilts back, a striking resemblance to Grace, but her features are sharper. It’s not her.
Where are you?
I miss you so much.
Beryl moves to the window and catches me looking.
‘She looks so much like my ex. Thought it was her.’ I’m startled that I said it out loud.
Beryl shifts in the way people do when they don’t know what to say. If it had been a boy, a man, how would she react?
‘That’s Grace Matthews. Got her head screwed on, that one. Not like my darling daughter.’
‘Grace!’ I draw in my breath, unprepared for the emotional tug of hearing the name out loud, spoken by another person. But it isn’t her, she isn’t here. It’s not my Grace!
‘You know, it isn’t natural.’ Beryl hugs her chest, her oversized breasts squashing together – now that looks unnatural, and fucking gross.
Beryl is too close to me, making me flinch. ‘We are who we are,’ I say.
‘But have you ever thought that being with a man might be better in the long run. I know that being gay is sort of the in thing these days, but you know… in the long run.’
‘Where is your husband?’ I ask.
‘He died. Lost at sea during the storm back in ’04. Marie was just a young ’un. Everything would’ve been different if my Andy was still here.’
‘I’ve been fucked by a man before.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
I enjoy the shock on her face, the way her eyes bulge and her double chin creases into a balloon. Then I pause, take a breath.
‘He was my mother’s boyfriend.’
Her face turns red, the judgement building.
‘I was eleven when it started. He came into my room. I remember the hard lump between his trousers, him fondling it like a trophy, like it was something to be proud of. I’d never seen one before, not like his. I remember thinking it looked like it was sitting in a bird’s nest. See, I didn’t have hair and my mother shaved hers off. Said it was cleaner, more attractive that way. Back then my genitals were for one thing – going to the loo.
‘But there he was, standing in my room. He smiled at me, like he was giving me something special. A toy. Something I could keep and hold on to forever, and I have, but nothing about it was special. It started with him kissing me. “Our secret” he called it. Because that’s what made it more special. My skin hurt, you know, as his beard scratched against it. Rough as sandstone. I didn’t move, couldn’t move, the inability to find my voice frustrated me, still does. But looking back on it now, I realise I was quiet as a dormouse because I knew my mother wouldn’t rescue me. And compared to what he did to me, that was far worse. After a while, the touching started. Palm placed on my vagina, fingers finding their way into my underwear. Then… on the night of my twelfth birthday, he came into my room and stole my virginity.’
Beryl is stone still. Unmoving. Uncomfortable. Her mouth gapes open, baring her crooked yellow teeth.
‘Unnatural is a grown man raping a child.’ I grind my teeth at the memory.
‘They should bring back hanging.’ Beryl touches my shoulder and quietly walks away.
Left with my thoughts, I realise that Grace Matthews has picked up speed and jogged further down the beach. I can only see the back of her.
Two days in a row, faux Grace takes the same route. I study her movements from the safety of the café. The days pass in a blur, but the sighting of faux Grace gives me a reason to get up in the morning. I am a spectator in my own life, watching from afar. There is a part of me that enjoys it. I’ve never been able to tell another soul about ‘our story’. I want to let go, but can’t. I can’t take any of it back. Broken and bruised, she gave me happiness only to snatch it away from me. Once again, I have no control. It’s invoked that all-too-familiar feeling of being taken advantage of. It’s as if I am being haunted by her. Unable to forget. It’s the cruel trick that is my life. How am I expected to move on? I have no choice; I need to find a sure way to remove the memory. But I don’t know where she is. She’s gone.
It’s just after lunchtime, and very few customers have come in today. The sharp turn in the weather means visitors to the beach are few and far between. I am free to take my break. I pour hot steaming tea into a flask and take it to the beach. My eyes are transfixed on the white caps on the sea’s surface; there’s a light spray of rain, enough to soak the top of my head, but I don’t care. As I am about to get up and return to the café, she comes into view. This isn’t her usual time of day to run on the beach, and my stomach knots being this close to her. It isn’t Grace, but she is so like her, and this is what we are now. Strangers. She briskly walks past me, looks past me. It is irrational to think the universe is throwing this my way as some sort of sign. Not that I would ever believe such bullshit, but it feels like this is happening for a reason.
The sand becomes alive with venomous snakes rearing their heads and hissing, synchronising with the crashing waves against the rocks. In the middle of the serpents, she stands with her hands outstretched, head down. I go to her only when she lifts her head. It isn’t her, it’s faux Grace. She laughs an evil laugh, a deep cackle with an intention to mock and taunt. I bolt upright, sweat pouring from my skin. I pant, reach for the water next to my bed, and cast my eye on the bedside clock: 2.20am.
It’s late, but I figure it’s my chance to see if Grace, my Grace, has returned home. I dress in dark clothing and call a cab from my phone. In the dead of the night, the journey to her house is quick and easy. I stalk the road, quiet and still, most lights switched off except those of the gated driveways and the tiny blinking lights of security cameras. I stand at the end of her driveway, the driveway I’ve walked up and down a hundred times and I feel so removed from the past I spent with her – it’s as if the house itself is warning me away, repelled by my presence. The car’s gone, much the same as the last time. I look around, then hear a door opening. A familiar looking man stands in the doorway, a scowl plastered on his face. I know him.
‘What do you want?’ His voice is pinched, drenched in privilege. He looks at me like I’m a rat raiding his pantry. ‘I know who you are. The obsessed friend. Grace isn’t here. You would do us both a favour if you could just pootle along now and kindly fuck off before I call the police.’
He looks older in person than he does in the pictures in the house. Fatter too.
‘I know who you are too. The unfaithful husband, the man Grace wishes dead because of what you’ve done to your family. I was the one, you know, the one who was there for her, wiped her tears.’
He shakes his head and the security lights turn on as he steps forward.
Grace never told me she wanted her father to die, but I say it for effect.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THEN
I hover in the kitchen chopping vegetables, living a meaningless existence. Marie is a constant irritation, always looking for sympathy, and with Beryl, my ears ring at her constant complaining. I’ve reached the point where everything is imploding within me. At this moment, I cannot imagine that everything will ever be ‘all right’.
It is a Tuesday afternoon, and Beryl has trusted me to run the café. She acted like it was a fucking privilege and I should bow down to her fat feet. It is Marie’s last midwife appointment. Nearing her due date, she is putting her birth plan in place, details which bored the shit out of me, but I couldn’t help but think of that poor unfortunate soul who will have that pathetic Marie as a mother. I once read a newspaper article about culling deer to control the population. It said it was necessary in order to maintain the number of deer and prevent overgrazing, which would result in starvation. An interesting concept, one that humans would be good to adapt. There needs to be order in humanity; children born to incapable parents, doomed to a life of neglect and poverty could be prevented if we looked at things in the same order of conservation. When the gruesome twosome finally left after much bickering, I made myself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and I am sitting in my spot overlooking the beach. Here, I am able to be a spectator. I watch a little girl run through the sand, and when the wind blows, her hair rises round her head like a golden halo. It contradicts my earlier thoughts of children; I guess some are wanted and loved. It is just after noon, and as soon as I see faux Grace my heartbeat quickens with renewed strength. I close my eyes and for a moment I pretend it is her, my Grace, coming back to me. I marvel at the pace in which she runs, today her usual slower pace was transformed into an elegant movement, just the way my Grace moved. A wild thought crosses my mind. If I can’t reach my Grace, I’d have a stand-in. A rush of euphoria ignites my insides, as if a match had struck and a flame burned bright. I was in luck. Faux Grace stops and takes a sip from her water bottle. I open a tab of reason in my mind – how could I start a conversation with her? What would it be about? I am too fixated on these little details to get myself out onto the beach and grab my opportunity when she starts to continue her run. On the table, Marie has left behind a silver chain with an anchor pendant. Usually, she never takes it off, but as fate would have it, she did today. I scoop it up and dash down the uneven steps leading to the beach. She is a little way ahead now, so I have to pick up pace.
‘Hey!’ I call out.
She doesn’t hear me.
I shout louder. ‘Heeeeeeey!’ And jog toward her.
She stops and turns to look at me with a confused look on her face.
I stand waiting for her to meet me halfway, breathless.
‘You… you dropped this,’ I say and dangle the silver chain on my fingers. I was right, she looks like Grace, but up close, in the harsh light of day, the stark differences between them are obvious, but it is undeniable, the two could pass for sisters, cousins at a push.
‘It’s not mine.’ She is unapologetically blunt.
‘But I saw you drop it.’ I’m grasping at straws trying to find a way to keep her with me longer.
‘Nope. Not mine. Sorry.’ She turns on her heel and continues with her run. Meanwhile I stand there like a goddamn idiot.
I’ve worked out that faux Grace takes her run along this route of the beach between 1 and 2pm and that it is never to the minute. Beryl had given me her full name ‘Grace Matthews’ and after a quick search on Instagram I found her. Her profile open, she isn’t hiding, she wants people to see and like her pictures. She isn’t quite the aloof girl on the beach, after all. The girl in those small square boxes lives in a privileged social bubble. Here’s what I learned: she wears pink a lot, it’s her signature colour. Her boyfriend is called Harry, best friend Bobo. She likes to surf, there are hundreds of photos of her in Newquay in various shades of pink wetsuits, she holds a surfboard with pride like it’s her wings to the sea. She’s fresh-faced, wears little make-up, she also has a thing for baby rhinos (weird). She has a big following, but her circle is small and compact, she loves her mum a lot and uses the hashtag #mymumisbetterthanyours in a cringeworthy finger-down-throat kind of way. Then there’s her cat Scarlett, with excessive white fur, blue eyes, and a scrunched face that looks like it has been hit with a frying pan. I give myself a good faux Grace education before I put my plan in place. Marie has a bike in the storage cupboard which hasn’t been used in forever, so I ask Beryl if I could borrow it for a while to save me taking the bus.
My plan is to wait for faux Grace and I’ll take to the pavement and follow her. I’ll admit, having a new purpose is exciting. By the end of the second week, I’ve worked out her movements, and it shouldn’t have come as any surprise this was another rich girl who lived in a house bigger than my Grace. The property is set back behind cast-iron gates, three gleaming cars sit in the curved driveway: a Range Rover, Jaguar, and Bentley, more value in those cars than any money that’s ever passed through my hands.
I wait on the corner of the street for faux Grace to leave the house. She is later than usual today, which irritates me. When she is finally in my sight, I cycle up to her as fast as my feet will allow me to pedal.
‘Grace?’ She turns to me.
‘Yeah?’ she replies.
‘You don’t know me, but it’s about Harry and us girls. We gotta stick together, right?’
‘Who are you exactly?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
JENNIFER MACK
The police station doors make a loud bang as I shut them behind me, a testament of the decision I made. Outside, the dark, cold sting of the air hits me in the face; a sobering moment despite not having had a drop of alcohol in hours. The headlights of the oncoming cars blind my vision. I’ve walked up and down this street hundreds of times, it’s a place I call home. But now everything feels distorted and unfamiliar. The heavy clouds give way to another downpour, and by the time I reach the top of my road, I’m soaked to the bone, drips of rain running beneath my jacket. My heart sinks as I approach my front door. Pete.
He’s huddled up on the doorstep, his eyes bloodshot and swollen.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘My sister has a week to live. Two at best… I came here to beg you not to say anything to the police. My niece is falling apart having to see her mother slowly decline. It’s the worst fucking thing in the world. Her dad isn’t capable. I’m all she’s…’
My head is to the floor, I cannot meet his gaze, can’t let him see the truth.
‘I’ve been here for hours. Tried to call you but your phone’s been off. Where’ve you been, Jen?’ It’s the first time he’s called me Jen.
‘Pete, you know that by telling me what you did that–’
He rises to his feet, hands grabbing my shoulders with such grip that I wince as he shakes me. The physical force of him overpowering me. He pushes me to the ground, his crushing weight pinning me down.
‘Get off!’ I shout.
‘You’ve already fucking gone to them, haven’t you? That’s where you’ve fucking been all this time!’
His hand reaches over my mouth. His breath smells putrid, his breathing ragged. The sweetness of his kind face I’ve known for these past few weeks has completely dissolved. I kick as hard as I can, but the strength of him is too much.
Suddenly, I imagine Hayley and what must have been the face she saw before she took her last breath. Thoughts flow through my mind at rapid speed.
‘You’re going to get up quietly and open the door. If you don’t do exactly as I say, I will fucking kill you. Do you understand?’ Heat radiates from his body, his voice low and clear. It is a voice of authority. He means what he says.
‘Please… Pete… let’s talk about this,’ I plead.
His expression is vacant, unreachable, like he’s possessed. It’s impossible to reach the Pete I cared about, if he ever was that person.
He gently removes himself from my body, and I rise unsteadily to my feet, my hands trembling as I reach into my pocket for my key.
I hear footsteps behind me. Pete’s arms grip my waist.
My neighbour, the nurse.
‘Everything okay here? I just got back from my shift and heard shouting.’
‘She’s had a bit too much to drink and is feeling a bit, uh, over-emotional right now,’ Pete explains.
I look to my neighbour, hoping she’ll see the fear set within my face, see that I need her help.
‘Well, so long as everything is okay, I guess.’
Pete pinches the top of my leg.
‘Yeaaaah, fine.’ My words come out slurred, and it’s believable, but nothing’s ever been further from ‘fine’.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
THEN
Trust is a delicate thing. It takes years to build but only seconds to shatter. It takes one simple comment to cast a shadow of doubt even to the most seemingly social-media perfect couple. The trouble with society, and social media, is that everything we show the world must look like a movie, but it’s no fucking secret that life isn’t perfect and if you look close enough, you’ll see the cracks. It wasn’t hard to get her to come to the café when I told her the evidence was on my laptop. She eagerly followed. It was that fucking easy.
