Destroy Me Read online

  The party was already in full swing when we arrived at Nessa’s, loud music swelling out into the quiet of the village. There was no sign of Nessa, but her brother was sprawled across the porch, drunk or high, muttering something incomprehensible about spiders. We clambered over him into the hallway where a couple were snogging on the stairs.

  ‘Get a room,’ May Ling shouted, cackling with laughter as we flounced past.

  The living room was smoky and crowded, lit only by fairy lights draped over the doorway and windows. It was difficult to make out who was who, but as soon as we entered, Charlie nudged me sharply in the ribs.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ she hissed in my ear and nodded towards the corner where a small huddle of boys were passing around a bong made out of a plastic bottle. My heart leaped to my throat because among them, with his back to us, was James. He’d recently had his hair cut and just the sight of the shorn hair and the small mole at the base of his neck made me feel weak at the knees with what I thought was love.

  Charlie nudged me. ‘This is your chance. Why don’t you go over and say hi?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I muttered and dashed into the kitchen before James could turn round and see us.

  ‘Do you want me to talk to him for you?’ Charlie asked, following me into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh my God, no!’ I wailed. ‘What would that look like? Like we’re little kids. “My friend fancies you.” Don’t you dare!’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked Nessa, who was in the kitchen pouring crushed ice into a big plastic container of beers.

  ‘There’s a boy she likes here, and she won’t talk to him because she’s chicken,’ Charlie said, removing the lid from a bottle of beer and taking a swig. ‘Tell her she’s being an idiot.’

  I threw her a dirty look and she raised her eyebrows. ‘What? I haven’t said his name.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a drink to give you confidence?’ suggested Nessa.

  ‘I want to, but I can’t,’ I said sadly. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Just one won’t hurt,’ Nessa said.

  ‘I need more than one to get the courage to speak to him. I need about a million drinks.’

  ‘You can both stay here the night, if you like,’ said Nessa expansively. ‘Then you can drink as much as you like.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘Course I’m sure. Lots of people are sleeping over. My parents are away for the weekend and I’ve got spare bedding. You’ll have to sleep on the floor though. Just enjoy yourself, Cat. We deserve it after all the work we’ve been doing.’

  I willingly accepted the drink she poured me, took a swig and then spluttered it out while Charlie and Nessa cracked up laughing. It had a strange strong taste, something like liquorice.

  ‘Oh my God, what’s that?’ I said, choking, the alcohol burning the back of my throat.

  ‘Pernod,’ said Nessa. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  I took another experimental sip. ‘No, I do like it. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.’

  I downed a couple of glasses of Pernod in quick succession. And then moved on to margaritas, which Nessa was lining up on the kitchen counter.

  After that, the rest of the evening was a bit of a blur. I lost track of Charlie, May Ling and Jenson and ended up talking to a bunch of friends of Nessa’s brother on the stairs. One of them, a boy called Josh, made a clumsy pass at me and we kissed on the stairs, teeth bumping awkwardly. Feeling buoyed by his attention and drunk enough not to really care what happened, I decided to go and find James.

  ‘Have you seen James White?’ I asked, wandering into the living room.

  No one seemed to have seen him for a while, but eventually someone pointed me in the direction of the garden. ‘He’s out there, I think.’

  Outside, the air was deliciously cool, and it was breathlessly quiet. There was no traffic noise, just the chirrup of crickets and frogs from the garden pond. The moon was like a fat gold globe above the trees and the stars were clearly visible in the velvet-black sky. Solar lamps were surrounded by a haze of moths and other insects hung from the trees. It felt magical, like stepping into another world. A night for falling in love, I thought, drunkenly as I stumbled down the garden path. Maybe I’d ask James for a kiss. We’d kissed once before but that had been in a game of spin the bottle and was just a peck on the lips, so it didn’t really count. About halfway down the path, I heard laughter and someone murmuring in a low voice. The end of the garden was divided off by a high hedge and surrounded by trees. It was darker than the rest of the garden and difficult to see. But as I pushed my way through the gap in the hedge, I heard a strange, guttural noise.

  I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the darkness and made out a bench, a white statue of an owl and two naked bodies entwined. It took me a while to make sense of what I was seeing. James was facing me but blind to everything, his face contorted in what looked like pain. The girl he was with was sitting, legs straddled across his thighs. Her head was thrown back, long red-brown hair tumbling down her white, curved back.

  I gave a small involuntary gasp and the girl froze, then turned and stared at me, her eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Cat . . .’ she said. But she didn’t need to speak, and I didn’t need to see her face to know that it was Charlie.

  Seventeen

  I must admit that I wasn’t completely honest with the police. It’s true that I have no idea who sent them the picture – God knows I wish I did. But I may have an inkling about why.

  In the car on the way home, I try to examine my theory in a calm and rational way, but my stomach is churning with anxiety and my hands are gripping the wheel as if I’m holding on to a lifebelt. Everything seems to be spiralling out of my control. The messages from George Wilkinson, the photo of the park in Dylan’s book bag and the photo of Nessa’s house. Were they all sent by the same person? And if so, why? The only possible connection between the two places that I can think of is the night of Nessa’s party, the summer of 2002. The park, the pub and then Nessa’s house. It’s almost like someone’s creating a photographic record of my movements that night. They’re sending me a message and the message is clear: they know what happened.

  But why? For what purpose? Revenge? Blackmail?

  By the time I’m almost home I’ve convinced myself that I must be mistaken. How could anyone possibly know? Only Charlie and I know what happened that night and Charlie’s dead. I cling on to this fact and the idea that it’s all in my head. It’s so much better than the alternative.

  Feeling calmer, I park opposite my house. There’s a van blocking my parking space, but I’m so preoccupied that I don’t immediately clock that it’s a news van.

  Stepping out of my car, I’m bombarded by a barrage of reporters. There’s at least six of them, including photographers holding cameras with large lenses. And they chase me across the road, thrusting microphones into my face.

  ‘Mrs Bayntun. Catherine Bayntun. Can we have a quick word?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry.’ I duck my head and keep my eyes firmly on the ground, shielding my face with my handbag.

  As I scramble to my gate, I notice the van has the logo of a national TV news station on it.

  Shit.

  ‘Mrs Bayntun,’ a man shouts after me, as I dash up the path and fumble with my key in the lock. ‘Do you know anything about the murder of Charlotte Holbrooke? You were school friends, is that right?’

  ‘Can you explain why you were seen outside her flat on the night of her murder?’

  ‘Did you kill Charlotte Holbrooke, Catherine?’

  I don’t answer. I lunge through the door, slamming it behind me, my heart pumping hard. For a few seconds I lean against the door, trying to breathe, trying to work out what to do. Should I phone someone? Theo maybe? Or the police? Are these reporters even allowed to be here? Isn’t this tantamount to harass
ment? After a few moments, paralysed by indecision, I go to the front room and peer out of the window. Bastards. They are hanging around outside, chatting and laughing, waiting for God knows what. I can’t believe I was ever part of this profession. They’re parasites, feeding off the misery of others. I remember with an uncomfortable churning in my belly a time when I was working at the Gazette. A two-year-old boy had been killed by a falling pylon. I wrote a short article describing simply what had happened, but my boss said it was too dry and wanted me to get a quote from one of the relatives. Even though it was only a local paper, the atmosphere at the Gazette was fiercely competitive and cutthroat, so against my better judgement, I rang the distraught parents and was told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. Then I rang the grandparents and the uncles and aunts and neighbours until eventually, I got the quote I needed. I remember that now with shame.

  I don’t scream at the reporters. Instead, I draw the curtains and sit in the darkened room, my head buried in my hands, trying not to cry.

  After what seems like an age, I hear them packing up and driving away and I feel safe to open the curtains again and let in what’s left of the daylight. The man that lives across the street is gawping at me. I repress the urge to give him the finger and turn away abruptly. God only knows what Eileen and Bob will have made of this.

  I don’t want to think about it all any more. I retreat to the back room and try to forget the only way I know how. I switch on my laptop, open the Embers file, and write until the real world recedes, until I’m absorbed into Molly’s world and the simple battle between good and evil. The words flow easily, and my fingers fly over the keys, my word count steadily climbing. I’m not sure how long I sit there writing but when I finally stop, my bum is sore from sitting still for so long and it’s already getting dark.

  I look at the time in the corner of the screen. It’s seven-thirty and Dylan will be heading to bed soon. I miss him a lot when he’s not here. The house feels so lonely and empty without him. But I’m relieved he wasn’t around to witness those reporters. The poor boy must be confused enough as it is.

  When I ring Theo’s to say goodnight to Dylan, I can hear the burble of the TV and Harper talking in the background and I imagine the three of them cuddled up cosily on the sofa. I picture Dylan leaning against Harper as she ruffles his hair and Theo pouring her a glass of wine. In my ­imagination, Harper’s wearing a simple white slip dress, her hair is down and she looks beautiful and slim. Beautiful, slim and innocent. Everything I’m not.

  ‘Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite,’ I say to Dylan, biting back tears.

  ‘What bugs?’ Dylan sounds alarmed.

  ‘It’s just an expression. There aren’t any bugs, really. I just mean I hope you sleep well, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Night night, sweetheart.’

  ‘Night night, Mummy.’

  ‘Can you just get your daddy for a minute? I want to speak to him.’

  ‘Hello?’ Theo takes the phone. He sounds impatient, no doubt annoyed to have his perfect evening with Harper interrupted.

  I want to tell him about the press and about the interview with the police today. I need to talk to someone about all the craziness in my head. But he doesn’t sound like he wants to talk. He sounds like he can’t wait to be rid of me.

  ‘I just wanted to remind you that I’m taking Dylan to play with his friend tomorrow,’ I say in the end.

  He sighs. ‘Okay. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes, see you tomorrow.’ I hang up.

  Without really being aware of what I’m doing I head to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea and open a large bag of salted peanuts. Then I switch on the TV and sit down, shovelling peanuts into my mouth, tears of self-pity rolling down my cheeks. I catch the end of an old comedy show, which washes over me and then the evening news comes on. I brace myself for what’s coming. I’m terrified that I’ll be on, but I need to know. Maybe it’ll be a busy news night. If there’s a lot happening around the world, maybe they’ll skip the story about Charlie. You never know, I could be lucky.

  The lead news item is about the upcoming elections, and then they bang on about Brexit and the economy again for a while. The half hour is nearly up, and I’m beginning to think I might have got away with it, but my hopes are quickly dashed when Charlie’s picture flashes up on the screen, her big hair, big smile – lots of teeth. Of course, they were never going to drop a story like this. An attractive young woman dies under mysterious circumstances in a posh country house. It’s like an Agatha Christie. This is catnip for the press.

  ‘An “angel” who was loved by everyone,’ runs the caption underneath. They show an interview with Adam during which he tears up and says that he can’t imagine life without her, then a short clip of Ben Wiltshire basically saying what he told me – that she was ‘an angel’ and he owes his life to her.

  ‘Charlotte Holbrooke was much loved by friends and family, described by those who knew her as selfless and caring,’ concludes the male news anchor. ‘Police aren’t ruling anything out and couldn’t be drawn to comment on a woman that was seen close to the Bathurst estate on Friday night.’

  The photofit of me appears on the screen and there’s a split screen of me dashing to my house chased by reporters. Oh, God – I look guilty as hell, I think. Why else would I be so unwilling to talk to the press?

  The news reporter moves on to a light story about a dog that was rescued from a well somewhere in Africa. I’m just turning off the TV and heading up to bed when my phone beeps, making me jump.

  It’s a text from Georgia.

  Just checking you’re still on for tomorrow. 

  She obviously hasn’t seen the news.

  The last thing I want to do at the moment is socialise and make small talk with someone I barely know, but Dylan has been looking forward to this playdate and I don’t want to disappoint him

  I hesitate, then tap in:

  Sure. See you tomorrow. 

  Eighteen

  Dylan’s hand is slippery in mine as we walk up the path to Georgia’s house.

  ‘Mummy, your hand is wet,’ he complains.

  ‘Is it? I’m sorry.’ I let go and wipe my palms on my jeans.

  I’m sweating because I’m nervous, I realise. That news report from last night is playing on my mind. Why hasn’t Georgia cancelled Dylan’s playdate? I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. Any normal person would have second thoughts about making friends with a suspect in a murder case.

  Outside the plain white front door, I take a deep breath and ring the bell. Then I wait with bated breath for Georgia to appear. I’m half expecting her to slam the door in my face when she sees me. Please not in front of Dylan, I beg silently.

  She doesn’t shut the door in my face. Instead, she greets me with her usual warm, friendly smile and I’m ridiculously grateful.

  ‘Cat! Dylan! Come in, come in,’ she bubbles. ‘Sorry about my appearance. I was up late last night and didn’t have time to put on any make-up.’ She’s wearing a grey sleeveless t-shirt and jogging pants and her face is, as she says, bare of make-up but even so, she looks beautiful. Her eyelashes are thick and black, and her black hair is falling in sleek sheets over smooth, tanned shoulders.

  ‘Wow. You look fantastic,’ I say. ‘You should see me without make-up. It’s like a car crash.’

  She laughs lightly. ‘I’m sure it isn’t.’

  ‘Well, I don’t look like you, that’s for sure.’

  I wonder if I’m laying it on too thick. But I’m really so grateful to her for treating me like a normal human being.

  She leads us through her open, airy home, talking nineteen to the dozen, firing questions that don’t require answers, leaving no space for social awkwardness.

  ‘How are you, Cat? It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it? I was thinking we could sit outside, and
the kids could play in the garden. Harry’s out there already on his new trampoline. Would you like to see it, Dylan?’

  Dylan nods shyly and we follow her out through the French doors into a smallish garden, totally dominated by the large trampoline. Harry is bouncing around on it in a bored, desultory way. When he sees Dylan his face lights up and he jumps off, running up to him holding out a pine cone he has found.

  Georgia pulls up an expensive-looking garden chair for me. Then disappears inside and emerges a few moments later with a clinking tray. We sit under the shade of a parasol, watching the boys tumble and shriek on the trampoline, sipping cold lemonade and nibbling ginger biscuits. Georgia’s baby is asleep in a rocker next to us.

  Georgia talks so easily and comfortably that I gradually relax.

  ‘Sorry about the mess, by the way,’ she’s saying. ‘We moved here just a few months ago. I haven’t got around to sorting all the boxes yet. I’ve been so busy what with trying to get Harry into a school and with the baby. I think we were lucky to get places at Green Park Primary, don’t you? It’s meant to be one of the best. It has a very good Ofsted rating and the teachers are brilliant, don’t you think? Especially Lizzie Hamlyn. Harry loves her. Did you know she’s got a master’s degree? She could have got any job she wanted, but she wanted to get into teaching because she wanted to make a difference. I mean that just shows how caring she is, don’t you think?’

  ‘Where did you live before you came here?’ I ask, when I can get a word in edgeways.

  ‘We lived in Oxford. I loved it there, but my husband had a new job opportunity, so we decided to move. I miss Oxford and all my friends. It’s nice round here but, you know, it’s difficult starting again somewhere new. Though I must say everyone has been very friendly . . .’ She breaks off and a faint pink colours her cheeks. ‘I’m so sorry about Marsha the other day at the school gate. She was so rude to you. I didn’t know what to do with myself I was so embarrassed. I don’t believe a word she says, by the way,’ she adds hastily.