I Never Lie Page 11

  25

  August 2017

  Dear Diary,

  I woke up today and knocked back a half-bottle of vodka. That was just so I could get out of bed. After that, I called the rehab centre to see if there was a space because I hate what I’m doing to myself. They said yes. I booked myself in. I had a long chat with my dad and he agreed to help me. He has given me the five thousand pounds I need. That’s how much it costs. It’s insane. How can anyone afford it? Especially if you have to tell your parents. The cost of that is immeasurable.

  It has taken months of meetings for me to get to this point. Dad hasn’t told Mum and he asked me not to. Said she wouldn’t be able to cope with it. He said that when I come back he would tell me stuff that he hasn’t been able to say before about when I was really young, when I was a baby. I asked him to tell me now, but he said no, that I would be better prepared to hear it after rehab. He’s glad I’m going. I have mixed feelings about it. I’m really nervous, but pleased with myself at the same time. I hope it will help me sort myself out. I hope it will cure my addiction, if that’s even possible. It’s taken me six months – well, much longer really – to get to this point.

  I wonder if Alex has gone dry now that she’s on TV or whether she still believes she’s in control. I need professional prescribed help, which is why I’m choosing rehab. I want to have a life. I thought going to the meetings would do it, but it hasn’t been enough to make me stop. I need to get to the bottom of why I drink so that I don’t do it again. To find out which came first: the drinking or the depression. It’s a chicken-and-egg scenario.

  The place looks nice in the brochure. Peaceful. The building is surrounded by a forest and it’s all very green, not unlike Didsbury. I like being close to nature. I have to take the train to Wilmslow and from there get a bus. I’m going to be there for at least three weeks. They recommended I stay for a month, but I can’t afford that so I’m just going to do what I can. I’m working on the principle that three weeks is better than no weeks.

  I went to a meeting last night and spoke to Clive. He’s pleased that I’m going. He thinks it will be good for me. There are a few people in the group who have been to rehab; they told me the best way to approach it is with an open mind and to submit to the process. They also say it’s going to be hard and I have to try my best to be as honest with myself as I can be. I’m afraid of what I might discover about myself, because I don’t have many childhood memories thanks to the booze, and my dad’s face looked sad when he spoke to me. He looked guilty, as if he had a confession to make.

  At the same time, I’m looking forward to being proactive about my addiction. I really wish I could talk to Alex about it. Clive said he’d met her at a meeting once but didn’t believe she was ready to fully admit the extent of her addiction. He said he felt like she was going to AA because she had to, not because she wanted to, but he also said it can take some alcoholics a few goes to really enter a twelve-step recovery programme, and this might happen over the course of several years.

  When I asked why he hadn’t expressed these thoughts before, he said that he didn’t want to hurt me because he knew how much she meant to me, but he now felt I could listen to his opinion. Plus the twelve-step programme does not encourage passing judgement on others, although he had been worried about how much importance I’d put on Alex being in my life. On reflection, it surprised me to hear this, because she was the one who took me to a meeting in the first place. She started this journey for me. I really thought she wanted to get better herself, but I’m starting to think maybe she wasn’t quite as altruistic as I originally believed.

  I don’t want to judge her because whatever her motivation was it got me on the right track, and for that I’m very grateful. But it does change things a bit if she was using me for her own gain. I’m starting to question whether she was really ever my friend at all.

  26

  The crime scene in London Fields is still cordoned off, with police dotted around the perimeter. The white tent has gone, though. It’s dark and the park is empty. I’m miserable. I’m in pain and it’s cold. Being a lead story on the evening news isn’t always the most glamorous job, that’s for sure. It’s the buzz I enjoy, that feeling of adrenalin just before you go on air that lingers with you for a while after. There’s nothing like it. It’s what I live for these days – well, that and my next shot of vodka, which I am going to cut out. I just need one day off to detox. Just one day so I can shut the world out and face the demon in myself

  Jack has set up with a policeman standing behind us. I am cabled up with a few minutes to spare when Audrey runs over and hands me her phone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just listen.’

  There’s a press statement being made live from the Serious Crime Division. Audrey is up to her old tricks again and has got the news centre to play it down the line so I can listen in. She really is a great producer. I can hear DI Brook’s voice talking to the media stationed outside the police station. Moments later, he confirms what we’ve all been waiting for: that all three women were members of the dating site COMEout. He also confirms that all three were drugged and strangled: the first victim, Jade Soron, on 27 January; the second, Maggie Horrocks, on 9 February; and Alice Fessy on the 27th. The Met is appealing for women in east London, and in particular Hackney, not to use online dating apps until the case is solved, because they believe this could be how the killer is choosing victims.

  We have a new line on the story, which has pushed the report up to second place, just below the Glasgow attack.

  ‘What did they say, Alex?’

  ‘We have one minute till air.’ Jack is counting down. ‘Audrey, can you get out of the shot, please.’

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Audrey, please.’ Jack looks like he’s about to swing for her.

  Then a voice from the gallery speaks through my earpiece.

  ‘Ready, Alex? Can you give us a sound check?’

  I count down the line. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven…’ The light on the camera is blinding. It blots out everything. I feel completely disorientated. I try as hard as I can not to squint, but it’s difficult. My head hurts.

  The producer in the gallery is still talking. ‘Sound is great. Picture is great. Are you up on the latest coming out of the Met? We haven’t got time to turn a clip around.’

  ‘Yes. I can talk about that.’

  ‘Great. In thirty… You’re right at the top, Alex, lead story.’

  And just like that, we are pushed to the top of the bulletin. Caroline, tonight’s presenter, introduces me and I’m cued in.

  ‘Yes, Caroline, that’s quite right. The Metropolitan Police have just announced that they strongly recommend that anyone subscribing to the dating site COMEout should not use it for the foreseeable future, because, and I quote, this could potentially be an evolving pattern. Three deaths in the borough of Hackney within the space of a month, and the police are clearly worried this could be the start of something sinister. Earlier this evening, we were able to speak to the employer of Alice Fessy, the latest victim in this terrifying story that could potentially involve an online date killer. He described her as a gentle soul.’

  The gallery plays the clip and we are cleared.

  ‘Nice work, Alex.’ Audrey’s adrenalin has her pumped. ‘That was amazing. The way you turned around that information. Well done.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The need to get some alcohol in my blood is intense. I feel like I’m crashing and I can’t, not yet. Not until they’ve packed up and we’ve said our goodbyes. I’m doing my best to keep it together, but it’s not easy. It takes all my energy. At least my shakes can be put down to the fact that it’s absolutely freezing, which weirdly I don’t mind as it’s masking the pain I feel in every inch of me. Thankfully it doesn’t take Jack too long to pack up, and we all go our separate ways. I’m going to start my detox tonight, after I’ve had my last fix.

  * * *

&nbs
p; On the way home, I have this dreadful sense that someone is following me, but when I turn back, there’s no one there. I put it down to the paranoia that comes with day four of a binge, although when I start walking again, I swear there are footsteps somewhere along the road behind me, and every time I stop, they stop too.

  As I turn onto my street, my phone is buzzing. Mrs Wilcox is calling again. She’s probably just watched the report and wants to talk to me about it, so I pick up.

  ‘It’s all my fault. I didn’t take care of her.’

  She sounds hysterical. I try to comfort her, but she’s not listening. She sounds really drunk. I know how that goes.

  ‘I did love her. I did. I just have problems. I’m not fit to be a mother.’

  I let her talk until she stops, until the sobs drown out her thoughts. When all is quiet, I ask her where her husband is.

  ‘He didn’t come home today. He’s probably done with me too.’

  Then she says something that worries me.

  ‘She talked about you all the time, you know.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Yes. She wanted to be like you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘She never wanted to be like me.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Mrs Wilcox, but I don’t quite understand. You know I hosted a radio show in Manchester. Do you mean Sarah listened to the show?’

  The line cuts off and I’m left confused, not sure what to make of what just happened. I need to find out if Mrs Wilcox is aware that I knew her daughter. I can’t afford for that to come out. I mean, I only met her a few times. The first time on a park bench when I was a mess, and later at an AA meeting, which admittedly I introduced her to. I hardly knew her, though. She was just another drunk going to AA. I had no idea she was from such a good home.

  It’s around 10.45 pm by the time I get home. I am craving a drink like no one’s business, but there’s no booze in the flat, so I go to the corner shop to get something to keep me in check. I need to detox slowly. I’m hoping that this binge won’t go on past tonight.

  On the way, I pass the local pub and glance through its large windows. It’s quieter than usual. The shop is quiet too, so I don’t have to wait too long to get my hands on a half-bottle of vodka, which I open as soon as I’m back on the pavement.

  As I’m walking back towards my street, there’s a couple walking ahead of me, laughing, flirting and having a good time. I cross the road and go on my way thinking nothing of it, until I hear a voice carried by the wind from across the street. It’s a voice I recognise. It’s Nigel, and he’s with a woman who isn’t his ex-girlfriend.

  It’s closing time at the pub, I imagine they must be coming from there. Shit. I suddenly feel quite exposed and hang back, then seek shelter under the huge weeping willow tree that marks the halfway point between the shop and my flat. Thank God for big trees. My heart is pounding and I feel physically sick, because they look quite fond of each other. Not that I have dibs on him or anything, but still.

  I lean back against the wall and contemplate what to do. I’m tired, and my nerves are probably getting the better of me. It has been a long day, and a gruelling one at that. My body is in free fall about my drinking and I’m rapidly in need of detox so my head can straighten itself out. After a few deep breaths and a couple of large swigs, I’ve calmed down, but my journalistic curiosity gets the better of me, so I follow them. If he’s a bullshitter, I want to know about it.

  Moments later, I’m crouched behind a parked car like a police officer on a stakeout. My shopping bag rustles in the breeze, making me panic for a moment because it’s quiet on the street, but the wind carries their voices in another direction, so I feel I’m safe. I can’t get a hint of their conversation, though, which just riles me further.

  Next thing I know, they turn down Navarino Road, and by the time I reach the corner, they have disappeared from sight. Shit. I’m not entirely sure what to do next. More people are filtering out of the pub and coming my way, so I turn down Navarino after them, because the journalist in me isn’t ready to go home yet, and neither is the drunk. I owe it to myself to take a walk up and down the street. The voice in my head is telling me to do it. So I do.

  It’s dark and cold, but I keep walking, and before I know it, I’ve reached the park. I can’t go into the park at this time of night, not on my own, not after what happened here. That would just be plain stupid. And stupid is one thing I am not. I get a grip on myself and stop to think. And while I’m preoccupied with what is happening, I totally fail to notice someone approaching me. It’s the woman with the red setter who invited me round for tea on the day Alice Fessy’s body was found. That’s when I realise I’m actually standing in front of her house.

  ‘Alex? Is that you? Are you okay?’

  She almost caught me swigging from a bottle in a plastic bag, but thankfully not.

  ‘It’s quite late to be wandering around.’

  ‘I’m just on my way home. Working late, you know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I saw you reporting from Manchester.’ She comes closer. ‘Look, why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea? I’m just back from a walk and would love the company. I find it difficult to sleep at the best of times.’

  ‘It’s been a long day, you know. I’m not feeling great.’

  ‘All the more reason to have some company, no?’

  I’m now in such a state that I’m finding it hard to gather my thoughts.

  ‘Come on, you look like you need a good hot drink. I’m Mary, by the way.’

  She links her arm through mine – I’m too weak to protest – and we walk up the path towards her house. It’s huge. Grandiose. We mount the wide stone steps leading to a glossy black door dressed with a brass knocker as large as my fist. Everything seems oversized, and I feel very small.

  Whiskey, her dog, is being very affectionate. I guess he can pick up on how I feel. Once the door is opened, he runs off towards the back of the house. Mary follows and her voice disappears into the darkness, leaving me in the hallway on my own.

  ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you. I’ll just open the back door for Whiskey.’

  The house is overwhelmingly large. High ceilings. Walls covered in art. The staircase curves its way upwards to the heavens. I enter the lounge, which is furnished with items that shout the Orient. From the front bay window there is a clear view of the street, and directly opposite, a red-brick mansion block divided into flats. Moments later, Mary is back, pushing a trolley holding a silver teapot and two porcelain cups.

  ‘You live on this street, don’t you?’ she asks.

  ‘Me? No. I live on the Grove.’

  ‘Oh. Silly me. I suppose my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.’

  The trolley is quite spectacular in appearance.

  ‘That’s a very posh cup of tea.’

  ‘There are some traditions I like to uphold. Please… take a seat.’ She taps the edge of the red velvet sofa.

  ‘Thank you. You have a lovely place.’

  ‘I lived here with my family for many years. Now there’s just me left.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. That’s what happens in the end. None of us are getting out of this alive, you know.’ She chuckles to herself.

  I offer to pour the tea.

  ‘That would be very kind of you.’

  My hands are shaking. I’m doing my best to keep it together. To push aside the pain. The pot is well polished. Mary obviously takes care of her things, and can afford to.

  ‘You have so much going for you, Alex. Tell me, why do you drink so much?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I’m a bit stunned by what she’s just said.

  ‘I’m at the end of my life and done with being polite. What you do from here will determine the next twenty years of yours.’ She looks older now, frailer. ‘None of this matters, you know.’ She glances around the room. ‘My treasures. They are beautiful, but I can’t take any of it with me. My mother was a drinker
. It tore the family apart, you know.’

  ‘I’m not sure I do know.’ This is bullshit. I’m not going to sit here and listen to it, so I stand up.

  ‘I’ve seen you buying wine at all hours of the day in Costcutter. That’s where you’re just coming from, isn’t it?’ She looks down at my carrier bag. ‘Chewing gum to hide the smell is a dead giveaway too. The irony is that vodka doesn’t smell so you don’t really need to chew it. Your cheeks are always a little rosy. I grew up around it, I can read the signs.’

  There are two bottles of wine in the carrier bag by my feet, along with the vodka. I swore I only bought one bottle.

  ‘Your head will be much clearer once you stop, you know.’

  ‘Work can be quite stressful, and I like a drink in the evening to wind down, that’s all.’

  ‘The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know. Your career isn’t how one measures a life in the end.’

  Suddenly I feel extremely vulnerable, and before I know it, the tears are streaming down my cheeks. She says nothing, but places her hand on my arm. She has an energy that feels healing. Maternal. It’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced before. When I eventually stop crying, I feel like a weight has lifted from me, but I still need another drink.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I really should be going before it gets too late.’

  The time on the brass wall clock reads almost midnight.

  ‘Of course. I hope you come back. We all have our crosses to bear, Alex. Perhaps it’s time to accept yours before it destroys you.’

  27

  September 2017

  Dear Diary,

  I almost turned back when I got off the train because I couldn’t really get my head around what I was doing. How was I going to go to a strange place alone and tell more people I was an alcoholic? The thought of it scared me. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t told people before – the group at AA, for example – but a new group of complete strangers, well, it’s quite a challenge is all I’ll say. Self-doubt had set in and I wondered whether Clive and the guys at the meeting had talked me into it.