Saving Grace, page 3
Nothing is healthy where HW is concerned.
We type back and forth. I am careful what I say to Olivia. A, because I don’t know her and B, I am a naturally paranoid person and wonder if Hayley is behind this. I delete the messages, making sure there is no trace left behind because in the world of reporting everybody looks at everything; I should know. In the past, I longed for female friendships. I’d get very jealous of girl groups or those elite enough to have the honour of calling somebody her BFF. I’ve had friends over the years, but they have never lasted long and before my friendship with Hayley ended – as I suspected it would – I spent much of my time alone and used studying as a way to fill the void. I felt this loneliness every time I saw girls huddling together or heading out for their evening while I was heading home from the library. I’d say I was like a ghost, moving in and out of the shadows, unseen, unheard. The only way I feel I can communicate is through my writing, it’s the only attribute I have to speak to people, but the personal approach is taken out of it; until my interview with Andrea Matthews. My fingers are poised to type another email to Olivia, but I pause as I think of Andrea Matthews and how she is right now. There hasn’t been any news on her husband since he was released.
Olivia asks me to join her for lunch, but I feel a tap on my arm just as I try to think of an excuse as to why I couldn’t go. Olivia is standing next to me with a persuasive smile.
‘There’s a new bar in town and they do lovely light lunches, apparently. I’ve been meaning to try it for ages.’
‘It sounds great, and thank you, but–’
‘Great, let’s head off now. Before Leona comes into the office and bores us all with photos of her newborn and the play-by-play of her day with her new mummy friends and the consistency of little Harry’s poop.’
I can’t help but let out a hearty laugh.
‘Don’t you wonder if life was so bloody fantastic then why does she bloody keep coming into the office? Ugh, I cannot imagine having kids, the thought of pushing one of those things out of my vagina and then being expected to care for it for the next eighteen years. No thank you!’
I shrug, and before I’ve had a chance to log off from the computer, she is bending down picking up my bag.
‘What have you got in here, woman? Bricks?’
‘Books, and–’ I begin, but she was making a statement rather than asking a question.
We step out onto the slick pavement, and the sun burns through the grey clouds to expel the rain from the earlier downpour.
I make pointless conversation about the weather.
When we walk into the bar, there’s a large-screen TV, an old Man Utd vs Liverpool game blaring chants of drunk football fans. We are greeted by the bartender. He is neat and clean; his tanned skin setting off his blue eyes.
‘What’s your poison?’ Olivia asks.
‘I’ll just take a mocktail.’
‘Umm… really!’ she says.
I feel a burn at the back of my throat desperately begging to be expelled by a cold, crisp glass of white wine. ‘Yes, really.’
Olivia secures us two drinks and a bowl of snacks before we order our lunch. She leans in close to me.
‘I actually have an ulterior motive for lunch today. I didn’t want anybody to overhear us at work.’
I try to keep my voice indifferent. ‘Okay?’
‘I heard things.’
I want to drag the words out of her mouth and not be subjected to the suspense which she seems to enjoy building up. She clears her throat and tucks a loose dark curl behind her ear. I notice how her nose is dusted lightly with freckles in a way that makes her youth shine through.
‘I heard Hayley chatting to Mike about you, and then I saw Mike go to Jacob.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘It’s hard to tell you this, but I feel like I should because I don’t actually like Hayley, and I don’t trust her.’
I take a sip of my mocktail which is drowned in so much ice I can barely taste the drink.
‘Just tell me.’
Olivia takes a swig of her whisky and Coke and sets the glass gently on the bar.
‘She said she was concerned about your mental state after what happened to you at university. Said they should probably remove you from the Grace Matthews case.’
My heart stops. My mouth goes dry. The room sways like I’m on the surface of a stormy sea; the beautiful smell of booze now seems too overwhelming, too pungent. My temples begin to throb with the start of a migraine.
My insides churn, my fists tighten into balls. This is not a side of myself that comes out as often as it used to, and I’m almost surprised it’s still there.
‘I wish that Hayley wouldn’t stoop so fucking low to try and snatch this away from me.’ I bang my fist on the bar and feel my chest tighten. My tongue feels rough, I’m trying to fight the overwhelming craving that grows more persistent with every second that passes.
A phone call interrupts us. It’s my neighbour, Kitty, who works at the police station. As I pick up the line, she whispers into the phone so quietly I can barely make out her words.
‘They found another body in an abandoned video shop in London. Grace number two.’
CHAPTER SIX
JENNIFER MACK
Brooding clouds knit together and turn the sky charcoal to match the mood of the mourners. A group of young women walk with their arms interlinked, as if they are holding one another up for support; their shoulders slumped under the weight of grief and the sudden pull of Death’s hand. A sea of people dressed in black circle the gravesite like ravens. Mounds of earth lie piled next to the large gaping hole in the ground, which looks like an open maw ready to devour the beautifully polished coffin. Among the crowd are tear-stained faces. I stand back and wonder how many people would attend my funeral? The thought of being alone even after death terrifies me – is that even possible?
Some people choose death to end their suffering, whether it be physical or mental. My mother believed a spirit goes to its own funeral, the final farewell before they move from earth’s plane to heaven, hell, or somewhere in between. I’m not a religious person (even when standing in church listening to prayer and hymns today, I didn’t feel connected to God) but I do believe there has to be something greater than us. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? I told myself after Mum was buried that her body was nothing but the vehicle that carried her through life, but I still tell myself she watches over me.
Andrea Matthews is shrouded in the arms of her husband and stares vacantly into space, her skin ashen, like part of her soul has left her. She must know life will never be the same again. I try to imagine what it is like for her, the entire injustice of the situation: a violent murder, burying her child, of all the improbable endings.
I look at Tim Matthews. He looks younger than his wife, and perhaps that’s because of the burden of grief she holds, what with being biologically connected to Grace. My mind is riddled with questions today. I’m eager to piece together the facts of this heinous crime, but today my heart won’t allow it. Today, my heart is with the family who lost a daughter, a sister, a friend, a colleague. The clouds give way and rain begins to fall. I hear a muffled voice next to me.
‘Even heaven is crying today. It wasn’t her time.’
Back at the office, daily sounds like the clicking of a keyboard, a phone ringing, and laughter ignite a sobering reality like a slap in the face. Life does go on. ‘Today’s news is tomorrow’s fish and chip paper’ as the old saying goes. I enter the staffroom and make myself a cup of tea; I sit quietly at the table and blow the steam from the cup, inhaling the comforting scent of a good English brew. But a cup of tea, no matter how good, isn’t going to fix this one. I pull out my old battered notebook and start jotting down the events of today.
The funeral of Grace Matthews, whose body was found by local fisherman Terrance Harding, was on Wednesday 7 July.
Grace Matthews, 22, is described by her family and friends as a loving, fun girl who was kind and witty and had a heart of gold. Police are treating her death as murder, and an ongoing investigation is taking place. Fears have rippled through the local community that this is not a one-off killing and perhaps something more sinister.
Today, over two hundred people gathered at St Mary Magdalene’s C of E church in Truro. Crowds of family and friends braved the harsh weather conditions to bid farewell to Grace. Tomorrow, we will move on, but Grace’s family and friends will forever have a gaping hole in their hearts.
I have a deadline and my moral side is telling me I should just write about Grace Matthews, a tribute to her and her grieving family and friends, but that isn’t going to grab the headlines.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THEN
My morning breath warms the pillow. I open my eyes and wait for my blurred vision to clear – it is then that I realise it was not a dream: I am here. Downstairs, I can hear a barking dog. I walk barefoot to the edge of the steps and stand listening, my feet sinking into the plush carpet. I wonder if I should sneak out of the house, convincing myself it was an alcohol-fuelled evening which brought me here.
I slowly creep downstairs, thinking I should leave, but the house is so warm, so inviting. I feel like I am in one of those shows on MTV where they show beautiful stars’ homes. Everything has a place, and everything belongs – except me. I hover in the kitchen doorway, watching her. Her butter-blonde hair is pulled up in one of those effortless ponytails. She pours coffee in a mug that looks like hand-knitted porcelain. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans lures me in a step closer. When she sees me standing there, my curly hair matted and knotted and wearing one of her T-shirts, I expect a look of disgust – instead, she leans against the kitchen worktop and says, ‘Sleep well, love?’
My heart skips a beat, and I freeze – ‘love’, the smoothness of her voice echoes in my head – I feel euphoric. I am desperate to stay, but I cannot be late for work. My boss has already given me a warning, and I have done my best to be on time and put in more effort; as much as anyone can serving greasy bacon sandwiches and weak grey tea to sweaty, tattooed workmen. It was a world apart from the home I find myself standing in. The town is split into two parts: council high-rise estates and leafy, prestigious detached homes known as ‘rich man’s row’. The poor say it’s only dirty money that can afford such lavish houses, probably high-class prostitution and drugs. Meanwhile, the rich say the poor can’t get ahead in life because they are ill-educated and lazy, relying on government benefits to pay their way and get something for nothing. The divide is real. I need this job to help put food on the table. Mum’s health is declining, and her benefits aren’t enough to cover the cost of food for the week. Things were so bad last month I had to resort to a food bank: I queued with all the other unfortunates. Mum had been borrowing money from Aunt Lizzy and spending it all on weed, which she claimed was for medicinal purposes to numb the pain. Aunt Lizzy had been generous but now that she’s met that creep Alan from The Old Bull and Bush, she needs money to splash out on new clothes and make-up. Aunt Lizzy said Mum owes her close to a thousand pounds; mind you, Aunt Lizzy received a massive inheritance from Uncle Mark, and maybe she could have let Mum off, but she wanted it back, with interest. I should feel jealous of Grace; all the things she has around her. I’m sure this house is filled with wonderful memories – a place where Christmas is magical, and summers are sun-kissed and blissful. I’ve been stripped of all of that, and I am the one playing the grown-up, worrying about things I shouldn’t have to worry about. I promise myself I won’t make the same mistakes my mother did: I won’t fall in line with the rest of them, claim benefits, complain about the immigrants stealing our jobs, all the while sitting at home watching mindless cooking programmes on food I will never cook, where the highlight of the week is going to Tesco late on a Thursday night when they put out the reduced meats.
Grace’s kitchen is a mix of old and new, with cool, grey marble countertops and extravagantly exposed wooden beams. She sits down on a rustic chair the colour of burnt toast and taps her delicate manicured fingernails on the chair next to her.
‘Sit,’ she says, warmly.
Tra-la. Inside, I am all jitters and butterflies. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen is right in front of me, and she wants me to stay longer. I am so happy. Thoughts of work suddenly melt into the background, and nothing else matters at this moment… For a change, I don’t want to play by the rules; I don’t want to be responsible. At times I have felt dead. Not even depressed, beyond that – because at least with depression, you feel something. Indifference is worse than depression but sitting with Grace makes all of that disappear.
‘Considering how much I drank last night, I don’t feel too bad.’
For someone who downed seemingly half her body weight in wine, Grace looks like she has spent a weekend at a spa, all relaxed and clean. I feel damp and clammy under my arms, my eyes feel stingy and tight and my throat itches. I need water, how much did I drink? One bottle… two… three?
I lean my back against the chair and can’t find my voice. I’m stumped for what I should talk about, afraid if I am myself this moment will end, and it will be nothing but a memory I will forever long for. It’s funny, I fear losing something which is not even mine. If she knew my feelings, she would run and who could blame her? Even I am scared of how intense this feels. I long to run my fingers through her silky hair, let it out of its ponytail, and watch it cascade down to the small of her back, which is exposed from her vest riding up. Smooth skin yields to a taut stomach and a silver hoop shines in her belly button. I try to take in all of her, without making it obvious.
‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but I have to get ready soon.’
My heart falls into my stomach.
‘Plans?’ My voice sounds a bit too high-pitched to be casual.
‘I have a job interview. I applied for a position in the local nursery.’
‘I don’t think I could work with kids. They’re so unpredictable and they–’
‘A garden nursery, as in plants.’ She laughs. ‘I know it seems to some like a really boring job, but I absolutely love watching things grow from a small seed to a blooming flower.’
I never really cared for flowers, Mum always bought the discount flowers from the old perv, Jim Croker, at the Saturday market, but I just thought the joy from them was too temporary, like everything in my life.
‘I didn’t think you would have to work.’
‘My father came from humble beginnings, he worked really hard to get where he is today, and he taught me to know the value of true graft.’ Graft – the word sounds foreign on her lips; her articulate tone doesn’t carry the meaning of the word with conviction.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JENNIFER MACK
I wedge my body into the tiny space next to the window, sitting next to a man who smells of stale fags masked with cheap deodorant.
It’s raining, and everyone looks depressed. More passengers board at the next two stops – they huddle together, taking up every inch of space, soggy umbrellas drip onto the floor. I try to read a book, but I feel so hot I can’t concentrate, my coat clinging to my skin and the bumps along the tracks making me feel nauseous. I close my eyes and will myself to tame the anxiety building up inside me. Over the years, I have tried many tactics to loosen the grip of my anxiety, the only thing that works is the one thing I need to control, or it will control me.
As soon as the doors slide open, people spill out onto the concrete platform and swarm like hornets toward the exit. I insert my card in the mouth of the ticket barrier, a red light flashes up: seek assistance. People bump up behind me as I disrupt the natural order of the morning sequence. It is nigh on impossible to find a staff member. After what seems like forever, I find a big burly man, whose breathing sounds so laboured, I worry he is going to pass out. He takes my ticket in his huge hands.
‘Off peak.’ He slaps the ticket back into my palm and points me toward a tiny office to pay the excess fare.
‘But I asked for a return . . . and–’
‘It’s your responsibility to make sure you’ve been issued the correct ticket. You might have to pay the excess, or maybe a fine. Ticket office will decide.’ He begins to cough – a nasty hacking cough – and turns away from me.
I swim against the crowd and make my way to the ticket office which has a long queue. I am hot, flustered, and very pissed off. I’m finally served and bolt for the Tube. I cannot be late.
Outside, it feels cold and unwelcoming. London is bold. I have always wanted a slice of London life, but for a fleeting moment, I long to be back in Cornwall walking along the familiar craggy streets, hearing the hiss of the sea, where there are only two choices for coffee and not ninety-six. Here, everything moves in fast-forward, everybody is in a hurry, and nobody seems happy. The heady aroma of car exhaust fumes feels overpowering and if there was a volume button on London, it’s been turned up to the max. Every other shop is a café and I’m lured in to a small Italian Café by the smell of toast and melted butter as I pause in the doorway listening to early morning chatter, plates and cups clinking together and the hiss of milk being steamed. My stomach growls in protest but my nerves won’t allow food, it will reject it. This is the capital of the country, the place people long to be; they’d sell their grandmother to the devil, as Mum would say, if it bought them a flat the size of a box so long as it came with a London postcode. So far, I was not being drawn into the appeal. It is not matching my fantasy, it would take some getting used to. Cornwall knew my secrets. It was a place of both comfort and pain, but it was always home.
I arrive in High Holborn. It’s as I imagined; a long street flanked by tall Victorian buildings and flashy advertising boards, black taxis lining the side of the road, yellow lights on ready and waiting for a passenger.
