I Never Lie Read online

  I bought a bottle of gin for the journey, my last ever drink. I toasted myself for taking this step, going to rehab. I don’t think I’ve had a celebratory drink ever. I drink to suppress my insecurities, and boy, am I filled with those. I was scared, but then I remembered Alex’s words about getting sober. She believed I had the potential to do something special with my life. I know now she wasn’t completely honest with me about why she took me to the AA meeting, but at least it has helped me start to sort out my life, so I must focus on that. I have forgiven her for lying to me. I’m sure she had her reasons. I’m not sure whether that’s an indication of who she is. We all lie as alcoholics. Mostly to ourselves.

  When I arrived at rehab, a woman greeted me and took me to my room. She seemed all right until she went through my stuff, which felt like an absolute invasion of privacy, and then took all my money off me. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she made me pee in a cup. She explained that this would become a normal part of being in rehab, which didn’t make me feel any better. I thought these people would trust me. After all, I came here of my own volition. After this was done, she took me to meet my counsellor, who asked about my problem with alcohol and why I was there. The questions were stupid. I replied by telling her that I thought it was obvious why I was there. It felt humiliating.

  After the session with the counsellor, I was taken into a room where a group of twenty people sat in a circle. It was not unlike the AA meetings, which felt comforting in a way, but even so, it was very nerve-racking walking into that room and facing a new set of people when I’d only really just got used to the group in Manchester. We went around and introduced ourselves, explaining how we felt. Most of the people there were drug addicts. That made me feel a bit out of place. Surely my drinking problem needed a different kind of treatment from someone addicted to cocaine or heroin? I couldn’t quite get my head around that.

  Back in my room alone, I’m questioning whether I’ve done the right thing coming here. Every bone in my body is telling me to get the hell out. Perhaps I am strong enough to beat this thing on my own and I don’t need these people. But I’m here now so I’ll try to make the best of it, because I can’t get my money back.

  28

  The rumble of a wheelie bin being pulled past my bedroom window wakes me, putting the time at around 6.30 am. I wish there was another way for the rubbish to be collected on my street, but with it being a narrow cul-de-sac, the truck simply can’t drive down the road.

  I roll over and check my phone. No new dating matches to speak of, but plenty of news about what the media are now calling ‘East London’s modern-day Ripper’. One daily has coined it ‘Date-a-death’. Another states, ‘Quoting from a police source, these women were lured to their death by an online dating profile.’

  By the time I’m dressed and up, it’s half eight, a good time to catch Charlie for tea. I need to do stuff today that will stop me reaching for the bottle. I’ve taken some milk thistle, which helps rebuild the liver cells, and I’m feeling good, like this time I’m going to beat it. I am on a big story and I really can’t afford another fuck-up. I’m a good reporter and I need to keep it that way. I bang on his door and he appears immediately.

  ‘Morning. You not working today?’

  ‘Gave me the morning off after the late night, unless anything new breaks.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Ask a silly question.’

  We head up to the kitchen in our usual fashion.

  ‘How are you? Did you have a good night with your new lady?’

  ‘I did, thanks. We had a wander around Brick Lane. Bought a few records at Rough Trade. I love that place.’

  He makes the tea and I follow him into the lounge, where as usual he sits and rolls a ciggie.

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘No thanks. It’ll kill you, that stuff.’ I decide that today I’m going to try and stay off all vices.

  ‘More chance of that happening via a dating site, according to the morning papers.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s pretty scary.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be going out on dates right now, Alex. Not with people you meet on that app, anyway. What’s it called, COMEout?’

  ‘I doubt anyone is going to kill me, a TV personality.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I care about you.’

  ‘Really? You don’t act like it.’

  ‘What? Don’t be like that, Alex. We’ve had our moments, but you’re not interested in me like that and you know it.’

  I’m not going to answer that because actually I don’t know how I feel at the moment. I’m all mixed up. I think that’s another reason why I’m here, apart from starting detox. Charlie is the only thing that grounds me, because he puts up with my shit.

  ‘So is this a new look then?’ His flat is surprisingly tidy.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve cleared up some of the crap.’

  ‘Oh, that. Well, women don’t like a guy who can’t keep the place tidy, do they?’ He’s actually blushing.

  ‘So you’re serious then?’

  ‘Not sure if I’d say that, but I like her, yeah.’

  ‘Who is she? Where’s she from?’

  ‘She’s from your part of the world, actually.’

  ‘Manchester?’

  ‘Somewhere up there, yeah.’

  My hands are shaking. It’s the withdrawal symptoms. It had to happen. I put the mug on the coffee table so he can’t see it.

  ‘You all right, Alex? You look knackered.’

  ‘I am knackered, and I’m stressed. Mrs Wilcox, the woman we interviewed in Manchester, keeps calling me. It’s like she’s confessing to something she did to her daughter. Keeps saying it’s all her fault. I spoke to her last night and she was an absolute mess. I’ve had five missed calls from her today already. Audrey, my producer is trying to track down Sarah’s whereabouts so we can get her side of things. She’s still very much a person of interest and no one seems to be able to find her, not even the police.’

  I don’t mention the conversation I had with the AA woman outside the church. That would involve getting into my past, and I need to let that lie today so I can start to detox. Need to keep my emotions on a level.

  ‘Sounds like the woman might know something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. People aren’t always forthcoming. Maybe she has something more to tell you, something that might help locate her daughter.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  As we sit there sipping our tea, I recall my stunt last night following Nigel, and shame washes over me. I really do need to get help. I wonder if Charlie is someone I can confide in, but I feel like an idiot. How am I going to tell him I followed Nigel down the street because I saw him with another woman? It makes me sound kind of bonkers. I don’t even know why I did it now, but I was wasted. In the end, I do tell him, because that’s what we do, we share our stupid shit.

  ‘What the hell were you doing following him at that time of night? God, Alex, you need to get your impulse issues under control.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You do impulsive things. It’s like you have no control over yourself. You do know it’s not safe around here at the moment, not to mention the fact that you would have come across as a crazy stalker if he’d seen saw you.’

  ‘I wasn’t following him, Charlie. I was on my way back from the shop. It’s not like I planned it. It wasn’t born out of impulse.’

  ‘Women are being left for dead in parks, and you were wandering around on your own in the dark, pissed. You do stupid shit when you’re drinking. I’ve witnessed it, you just don’t remember.’

  Silence falls on the room for a moment.

  ‘Christ, Alex. None of this sounds good.’

  Charlie’s criticism comes at me like a slap in the face, and my usual affection for him wanes quickly.

  ‘I’ve spent two days reportin
g on this story. I’m just knackered. Stop psychoanalysing me, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Never mind. I can see you’re not ready to hear this yet.’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  The atmosphere has changed. I no longer feel comfortable sitting on Charlie’s worn-out carpet. It’s time to leave. I don’t need this shit on my morning off, especially after what I’ve just told him. I’m up before he can stop me.

  ‘You haven’t finished your tea. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I don’t need you having a go at me.’

  ‘I’m not having a go at you. I’m looking out for you because I care.’

  I know he cares, but I have to go.

  ‘Please, Alex, stay and finish your tea. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  But I am already on my way to the front door.

  ‘Alex, don’t go off like this. I’m sorry–’

  I leave, closing the door behind me, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  * * *

  Back home, and in need of a distraction, I launch the dating app to see if there are people still online looking for love. I’m my own worst enemy. I’m doing it to spite Charlie really. I just feel so shit today, like there isn’t any good in me. The voice in my head is niggling, but I’m not going to let it win today. Almost immediately, a message pops up. The desire to date doesn’t change. People in London are inevitably lonely, just like me.

  Scott sent you a message at 08:50

  Hey there, Alex. How’s it going? You look cute. What do you do?

  I’m in two minds whether to respond, but I’m also in desperate need of a distraction from the voice in my head.

  Crime reporter! :-)

  Oh wow! I bet you’re busy!

  Have been, yeah!

  Do you have any time to date? LOL!

  The world of online dating is good for some things at least: forgetting about real life and soothing my damaged ego. I’m playing with fire, but what the hell. Things really can’t get any worse.

  The conversation is boring and my body is starting to twitch, so I decide to go for a walk. The best thing to do when I feel like this is to get some air. It’s sunny out and feels milder than the past few days, so I head towards the Fields, taking the road parallel to Navarino. I don’t want to run into Mary from number three, not after last night. I’m now avoiding streets in my own neighbourhood. Great!

  When I get to the park, I find my favourite bench at the lido café and plonk myself down with an espresso and a chocolate croissant. It’s good to be out of the house. To get some air. The park is still quieter than usual. The dog walkers are back, but the play area is devoid of life. It’s warm in the sunshine, which lifts my spirits after the spat with Charlie. He really upset me, but I’m not going to let it ruin my day.

  My thoughts are interrupted by a call. It’s DI Brook.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘How’s work going? Could we meet up when you’re free?’

  The call feels personal. I’m not sure how to play this.

  ‘Is there a new development in the case?’

  ‘I’d like to talk in person if that’s all right.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Do you want to meet me at the news centre later?’

  ‘It might be better if I come to your home.’

  This takes me aback. ‘Okay. Can I ask why?’

  ‘It’s just routine. Obviously we are following all leads. It’s very important we piece together as much information as possible. I’m sure you can understand.’

  ‘Yes, of course. If I can help in any way, I will.’

  My flat is in a state that I wouldn’t force my own worst enemy to see, so I offer to go to the police station instead, and he asks if I can come immediately. I really don’t feel up to it, what with the withdrawal I’m currently dealing with, but then again, I rationalise that at least it will give me something to do, keep me busy. Anything that will help me abstain today is a good thing, even being called in to a police station. How messed up is that?

  ‘Just tell the desk sergeant that I’m expecting you,’ he says.

  ‘Okay.’

  Suddenly I have a craving for a shot of something stronger than caffeine.

  29

  September 2017

  Dear Diary,

  It’s the end of the first week of rehab and I’m a train wreck. I thought this place was supposed to make me feel better, but it’s having the opposite effect. I’m on drugs and my emotions are all over the place. The people are nice, but my nerves are shot and my head feels like jelly most days. I can’t seem to get it together. I don’t like the staff going through my stuff every day. It feels like being in prison. I also don’t like having to pee in a cup daily. It feels like torture. It’s not like I can buy alcohol in here – the place is in the middle of nowhere and I’ve got no money – so I don’t know why they make us do it. It’s very annoying and upsets me. Surely this should be about trust.

  We’re not allowed to use our phones. Not that I have anyone to call. The people I knew as a drinker don’t fit with who I am any more, but still, taking my phone away makes me feel very cut off. I don’t really know who I am. When I expressed this in the group session, I was told that those friends I used to go out with were outsiders, people who could never understand how I feel. I have been actively encouraged not to mix with them again, which feels a bit strange because the people here who are telling me this have never met my friends.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to start one-on-one therapy, something I’m really not looking forward to. My therapist wants to talk to me about my childhood, a time in my life I don’t have much recollection of really, which makes me think there must be a reason for it. I’m not sure what dragging up the past will do for my drinking and me. The food is good. though, that’s one part of the programme I like. It feels healthy, which feels good. There is one guy here who says he’s been in rehab six times now. Six times! It does make me wonder if it will help me and whether I have spent the money in the right way. It’s all so confusing. I haven’t really made any friends yet either. My sleep is messed up and I’m having nightmares. Last night I saw my mum sitting at a bus stop with Alex. They stood up together as if to board a bus that was driving towards me, but as the bus got closer, my mum pushed Alex into the road and she was killed instantly. It was terrible. My mother just stood at the side of the road laughing. Then I woke up.

  30

  The uniformed policeman on the desk told me to sit and wait, so that’s what I’m doing. I’m feeling very restless; I wish I’d had a sip of something before I came here. Just a little something to calm me down a bit. I usually sip when I’m detoxing, which helps my body come down off the physical addiction, but today I’m going cold turkey. I’m not sure it’ll work, because I’m feeling terrible. Absolutely awful. My mind feels really foggy for one.

  Looking at the man behind the counter, who looks utterly bored and fed up, I thank my lucky stars that I really love my job at UKBC. It was a lucky break. I applied for it and within a matter of weeks they had hired me on the condition I move to London. After five years on the wireless, it was time to up my game or risk getting stuck where I was, so I moved. Took a risk. It was good timing. I had a clean break. Sometimes you need to do that. Sometimes you need to just move on. Forget what has been and turn over a new leaf. Staying in Manchester wouldn’t have helped me do that. Just being back there this week brought up all those feelings again. The miscarriage; Greg. I needed to put that behind me and the new job really helped. It saved me in a way. Gave me focus at a time I needed it most.

  The reception area in the police station is, as one would expect, mundane. Brown plastic chairs are lined up along the wall. There’s a pathetic-looking plant in need of some care. It’s no wonder no one wants to ever enter a police station. They could do with some magazines on the table, make it a bit more welcoming.

  Bulletproof glass separates me from the super-humans beyond. I went
on a date once with a police officer, shortly after I moved to London. He was nice but a bit OCD. He kept rearranging the items on the table and complaining about ‘civilians’.

  ‘Ms South?’

  A round-faced man with an even rounder torso wearing a cheap polyester suit stands at a door to the side of the reception area. It amazes me how unfit police officers can be in comparison to other emergency services. He’s smiling at me.

  ‘Would you like to follow me, please?’ He has the door pushed to, a gesture that directs me into a long corridor with strip lighting. The place smells of disinfectant.

  ‘DI Brook will be with you shortly. He asked me to escort you to interview room two.’

  ‘Interview room? Not his office?’

  ‘Yes, interview room.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’

  I don’t really know what else to say. The plump man shows me into a small room. It feels claustrophobic. I hope it doesn’t take long, whatever this is. Then I wonder if DI Brook is pissed off about the interview we did with Mrs Wilcox and this is going to be a dressing-down type of exchange.

  ‘Take a seat. He shouldn’t be too long.’

  The man shuts the door and leaves me to myself. The room is sparsely furnished. There are four chairs and a table, all fixed to the floor. The tiny window has bars on it. There’s a lingering smell of body odour. I hope it doesn’t belong to DI Brook. I don’t know why, but I am starting to feel quite nervous. My hands are shaking and I’m not sure whether it’s from the withdrawal or the situation I’m now in. Maybe Charlie is right. I really do get myself into some bother when I drink.