I Never Lie Read online

  41

  October 2017

  Dear Diary,

  It’s time to go home. I’ve been in rehab a total of three weeks and the experience has changed me forever, changed my life. I will never be able to go home again. Never. Never be able to return to what I left. I’m sitting in the train station in Wilmslow wondering what to do, where to go. I haven’t called my dad to tell him I’m on my way back. I haven’t called my mum, not that she would even care. I don’t think I will ever be able to speak to her again, not after what I discovered about her. It is her fault that I drink. My own mother. She left me to be abused for years. My father didn’t protect me from any of it.

  The clinic has given me the name of a drop-in clinic in Manchester that I can visit. They have advised me to seek out some private therapy to help with the emotional trauma I’m trying to come to terms with, but I don’t have any money. I think my dad should probably fund it, so that’s one thing I might put in action. Make him pay for his part in it, financially speaking. He has plenty of money. Always working. They told me to go and see my GP; that he might be able to help me get therapy on the NHS, but that would mean talking openly about what happened, and he’s a friend of the family so that’s never going to work. I really don’t know what to do with myself, so I buy a bumper packet of peanut M&Ms from the kiosk and munch my way through the bag. While in the shop, I see a selection of white wine. This is my first encounter with alcohol since I went into rehab. It looks so tempting. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I don’t have enough money to buy a bottle even if I wanted to, though, which is a very good thing.

  The therapist in rehab told me that drinking wouldn’t block out the reason why I started in the first place, so it won’t help me now. Tim said that once the genie is out of the bottle, so to speak, it’s almost impossible to put it back in. I need to be sober anyway if I am going to make something of myself. Three trains to Manchester come and go, but I don’t get on any of them. I feel paralysed by indecision, so I just sit on the platform watching and waiting. For what, I don’t know.

  It’s dark by the time I decide what to do, which is to call Greg and see if I can stay there. He says yes, although I’m not sure he really wants to. I tell him I have nowhere else to go, that I can’t go home, and that if I do, I might do something stupid. He doesn’t want me to do that, so he agrees, albeit reluctantly. I explain that I’ve come out of rehab and am sober; I guess that’s why he says it’s okay. He wants to help an alcoholic stay sober. So I board the last train to Manchester and the next phase of my life begins.

  I feel uncertain of what will happen next, but I’m hoping I will get back on my feet. I text my dad to tell him I have left rehab and am staying with a friend. He texts back to say he is sorry. I guess he knows what I know about my mum. And maybe he knows a bit more.

  By the time I arrive back in Manchester it’s very late, and when I ring Greg’s doorbell it’s gone midnight. He lets me in and then goes back to bed. The sofa is made up. I hate my life. I hate how I’ve ended up here.

  42

  ‘Good afternoon. Let me start by thanking you all for coming.’

  DI Brook has put on a black tie since I saw him last. Makes him look more authoritative on camera, I suppose. I’m boiling in my coat, for a change, but there’s hardly enough room to make notes comfortably, let alone take it off.

  ‘Early this morning, the Metropolitan Police made an arrest in connection with the murder of Maggie Horrocks.’ DI Brook has the perfect poker face, near impossible to read. ‘We currently have a man in custody and are in the process of questioning him over his relationship with Miss Horrocks. He has not been formally charged, and at this stage, I’d like to repeat that we are only questioning him. We believe he may have vital information on her death.’

  John from the Evening Standard pipes up. ‘How old is he? Where’s he from?’

  DI Brook clears his throat and leans forward on his elbows, his hands crossed.

  ‘He is forty-two. We arrested him locally.’

  Well, that’s Greg out of the picture, thank God. He turns forty later this year. We’d planned a whole list of things to do for his fortieth, a list that was discarded after I walked out. I don’t know how old Nigel is; he could be forty-two, I suppose. And Charlie? I saw him this morning, didn’t I? Although I also saw DI Brook at my flat.

  Audrey pipes up and poses a tough question, a good question. ‘Is he your main suspect, and do you think he’s connected to the other women?’

  ‘As I said, we are currently questioning him in connection to Maggie Horrocks, but the investigation is ongoing and we will release more details when we feel it’s relevant.’

  ‘Does he use the COMEout dating app?’ Audrey is still pushing for answers; good for her, someone should, and I’m in no state to do it, sipping from my water bottle. ‘And do you have a name for the woman found today in London Fields?’

  ‘As I said, the investigation is ongoing. You can rest assured that we will release more details when and as we get them.’

  DI Brook tugs on his tie as he gets up, but before he leaves the room, he gives me a serious look. Fortunately, it goes unnoticed by Audrey, who is pissed off with the charade of the press conference.

  ‘That’s it? That’s all they’re going to tell us? What a joke.’

  My phone is buzzing and the name Anne Marie flashes on the screen.

  ‘I need to take this, Audrey. I’ll just be outside.’

  ‘Don’t go far, we need to do a live report on this. Jack will set up. Live in about twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I answer the call as I enter the corridor, where a ray of sunlight blinds me for a moment.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Alex, is that you?’

  ‘It is. Anne Marie?’ I’m trying to sound casual, but I know what she’s about to say. I look for a moment of privacy, which I find in the toilets.

  ‘Yes. I saw the news and I just wanted to say thanks.’

  ‘Thanks for what?’

  ‘For coming here last night. I don’t know what you did, but if they’ve got him, I’ll be forever grateful.’

  I’m staring at myself in the large mirror. There’s a crack from left to right, the whole thing hanging on by a couple of very fragile-looking supports. A bit like my sanity.

  ‘Well, let’s see, shall we. The police haven’t said who is in custody yet, but if I send you a photo of a guy, would you be able to tell me if you recognise him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Right, hold on.’

  I launch Facebook and take a screen shot of Charlie’s photo, then text it to her.

  ‘Just sent it to you.’

  ‘Okay. One sec.’

  I can hear her fiddling with her phone. Then a long silence before she eventually speaks.

  ‘Oh my God, Alex. Yes, I do recognise him. Maggie knew him.’

  ‘How? How did she know him? Was she dating him?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Think, Anne Marie, it’s really important.’

  ‘I think she might have worked for him.’

  ‘Worked for him?’

  ‘Yes, she helped design his website if I’m not wrong.’

  I don’t really know what this means, but I feel relieved. At least Charlie’s connection isn’t romantic, so even if he is the man in custody, which I sincerely hope he isn’t, it’s unlikely they’ll charge him with murder. Holy shit. This can’t be happening. Why didn’t he just tell me he knew her? That hurts.

  ‘Are you sure about that, Anne Marie?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Alex, will you keep me in the loop if the police say anything else? I mean if they identify the man in custody?’

  ‘Sure. I’m sorry, I have to go. Got to get ready for a report.’

  ‘Of course. Thanks again.’

  Audrey has already texted me to ask where I am. I check my make-up in
the cracked mirror before leaving the loo and head outside to the live position. The report goes fine, considering how little I know. The news centre gives us a clear and tells us to wrap for now, so we split up and go our separate ways.

  As I’m leaving the station, I receive a text from Nigel to see if I fancy a quick pint at Pub on the Park. Relieved that the police have yet to question him, I agree to meet. Might as well. It’ll keep me distracted from myself, which is not to be underestimated. He’s already there when I arrive and stands up to greet me with a light kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Hi, Alex. Glad you came.’

  He’s already got the drinks in, so I sit down and sip from the glass of white wine on the table.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t handle it very well.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ I’ve done much worse since then, effectively shopping him to the police over his online dating habits mainly because I was feeling insecure. Booze can make you do really unforgivable things.

  ‘So here we are.’

  ‘Yes, here we are.’

  ‘So you’ve been busy?’

  ‘Yes, it’s been hectic. I can’t quite believe what’s going on.’

  ‘What have the police said?’

  We swap stories about our days. Sitting opposite his warm smile, I realise I’ve got him all wrong and feel incredibly guilty about what I’ve done, so I decide to confess, hoping he’ll appreciate my honesty.

  ‘I need to tell you something, but you have to promise me you won’t freak out.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing, Alex.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  My stomach is churning. I take a much larger sip of wine, a swig really, though I’m just going to have the one glass.

  ‘The police showed me a CCTV image from outside the station the night Alice Fessy was killed. The image is of you.’

  His face changes instantaneously, like he’s just had some terrible news, which of course he has.

  ‘What do you mean, it’s of me?’

  ‘It shows you leaving London Fields station in the same frame as Alice, walking just behind her.’

  He looks confused. As if I’ve just asked him something in a foreign language and he can’t understand me.

  ‘What? So they’ve decided I’m involved because I happened to get off the same train as her. I live here. What the fuck?’ He looks genuinely shocked. I wish I hadn’t said anything now.

  ‘Hang on a minute. Why would they show it to you?’

  ‘I’m friends with the DI running the case. He knows I live around here so asked if I recognised the man in the image.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Alex. What did you say?’

  His reaction makes me withdraw from telling him the whole truth.

  ‘I didn’t say anything. Only that it didn’t look like you were together. I guess you just left the station at the same time.’

  ‘But I don’t understand why the police would show you an image of me on CCTV footage in the first place.’

  He won’t let that part of it go. Shit. I can feel the blood rushing to my face.

  ‘Like I said, I know the DI. We’ve worked together on other cases. I’m a crime reporter, you know. We develop a relationship with our sources. I’m telling you to help you.’

  He scratches his stubble with his right hand.

  ‘Yes, of course. I appreciate you giving me the heads-up, but if they question me, we were together that night. Did you tell this DI that?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What do you mean, kind of?’

  ‘I don’t like talking about my personal life in detail with the police.’

  ‘Well, you’re effectively my alibi.’

  It occurs to me that maybe he set our date up for exactly that reason. I don’t know why I’m feeling so bad about it.

  ‘Anyway, you’re my alibi too.’

  I’m trying to make light of the situation, but he’s not buying into that. Instead he stares into his pint, looking increasingly worried.

  ‘Look, don’t worry about it. It’s just an image that means nothing, and as I said, it really doesn’t prove anything. You’re not holding hands with her or anything.’ I reach out and touch his arm.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I wish I’d never told you now.’

  ‘No. You did the right thing. Thank you.’ He reciprocates my touch with a hand on mine, but it’s half-hearted. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not good company. I’ve had a really long day today. We’re working on this TV series at the moment, trying to find a woman who can play the lead. Funnily enough, we’re looking for someone who looks a bit like you. My sister is also in town.’

  I smile softly, but feel really awful about putting his life under surveillance the way I have.

  ‘Listen, I need to get going, but I’m happy to meet up again, if you want to?’

  He’s making excuses to leave; I don’t blame him.

  ‘Okay.’

  We say our goodbyes, and just like that, the night comes to an end. I feel terrible about what I’ve done, but not surprised that I’ve managed to push away a good man. I’ve got form for doing that. On my way home, I get a text from Audrey. She’s forwarded me a link. It’s a report by our competitor, Laura MacColl. Mrs Wilcox has been talking to her; it’s not good.

  43

  October 2017

  Dear Diary,

  I stayed at Greg’s for a few nights before I realised I had no business being there. The world looks so different now that I’m a self-confessed victim of childhood abuse and sober. I used to think everyone knew the difference between right and wrong, but they don’t. People are messed up just like me. I asked the AA group if anyone needed a lodger. Jamala said I could stay with her for a while so that I could figure out what to do next. She has been so supportive. She hasn’t had a drink in five years and she knows how lost I feel at the moment. It is good staying with her because she doesn’t have alcohol in the house, which has helped me stay off it. I know that I have to completely change my environment if I want to stay sober; the only problem is, I’m not sure if I really want to. Everyone tells me it’s the best thing to do, but is it? I still can’t shake the shame in the pit of my stomach and the feelings of disgust at what happened to me.

  I’m attending AA meetings regularly again. The people I meet there have been amazing. They are the only people I can really connect with now because they are simply there for me. They listen without judgement. They listen to my fears and they smile and nod then thank me for sharing. It’s a comfort because since becoming sober I’ve started having some very dark thoughts. Thoughts that I’ve never had before. For example, yesterday I saw an injured mouse while walking in the park, picked it up and crushed it with my bare hands. I mean I clenched my fist and squashed it until it was barely recognisable. The worrying bit is that I found it mildly amusing. Who does that? One of the people at AA said they felt anger towards their father, who is also an alcoholic. I thought perhaps the squashing of the fly was the same sort of anger, which has possibly been building inside me all this time. And now that I’m sober, those feelings are coming to the fore. More childhood memories have started to reappear. Memories that catalogue repeated abuse over a period of years, and not only by the men in my mother’s life while my dad was MIA, but also by my mother herself. She was cruel to me from an early age. She didn’t nurture me; in fact, she used to lock me in my room for hours on end. I remember her calling me evil. I don’t remember her ever saying anything else really.

  I met with my dad in a neutral place. I needed money, so I had to. He put his arms around me and cried for what felt like forever. I’ve never seen him cry before, ever. It unnerved me. All he could say was sorry, over and over. I didn’t tell him about the memories and how his absence from our lives had allowed her drinking to rob me of my childhood. I’m envious of Jamala in a way because she started drinking in her early twenties just because she liked the taste of it, which became dysfunctional later in life. She says she
inherited the disease from her family. There was no painful reason to drink; she was merely predisposed to it.

  I now see that I may have also inherited it from my mother, but the trauma of abuse led me to pick up the bottle at a really early age; put that with a predisposition and the rest is history. I told Jamala about the abuse. I’m not sure why, but I felt like I could confide in her. She said it wasn’t my fault, and I know that, but there is something deep inside me that can’t help feeling responsible for what happened to me. I mean, why would my mother lock me in my room and call me evil? None of it makes any sense, but then abuse doesn’t, does it?

  There are so many unanswered questions swirling around in my head. Jamala says it will get easier with time, that time heals all wounds. I’m not sure if that’s true. I didn’t tell my dad the whole story when we met because I don’t think he would ever be able to look at me the same way again. I know I wouldn’t be able to look at him the same way. I could see the pain in his eyes when he talked about Mum’s drinking; also because she’s still at it. He feels he failed in some way. That he was unable to reach her like he did me. Although it was Alex that reached me, not him, but I let him pay for rehab, which has been healing for him, I think. He told me that my grandmother was also a drinker, which confirms what I thought. It is a family disease. He explained that he left when I was very young because of Mum’s drinking, but then he came back. He came back for me. Little does he know that by then it was too late.

  I had my first drink when I was nine. I just hid it from the outside world really well, like my mother did. He had no idea that I started that young and he never will. I now know that I drank to numb the shame from the abuse. It was the easy thing to do. That’s how my relationship with alcohol began. I never drank to the point of getting completely wasted. I just did it so I could suppress my emotions. So I could forget. By the age of ten, I was addicted. I spent my teenage years drinking with friends. Everyone was trying it, experimenting, so no one noticed my drinking was habitual. Plus there was so much booze at home it was really easy to get my hands on it.