The Book of You. Claire Kendal

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СКАЧАТЬ her apple blossom cheeks. Beneath the artificial lights, her creamy skin was faintly yellow.

      ‘You’re probably right,’ Clarissa said quickly. ‘You watch all the time. I write too much. I take too many notes. I’m probably missing something by not looking.’

      Annie’s face was cherubic and heart-shaped. Her angelic features seemed to relax a bit. She tapped her sweet little chin several times with her index finger. ‘What did she think was going to happen, stealing those drugs from them?’

      Clarissa pulled out a Japanese pattern book. There was a nightdress with a crossover bodice she loved the look of – she had some silk the colour of a bruise that she’d use. She’d make two, and send one of them to Rowena once she’d managed to get Rafe safely out of her life.

      ‘My wife used to sew.’

      The owner of that voice must have noticed what she was looking at. Her face reddened as she hurriedly shut the book. In the chair opposite was the tall man who sat in front of her in the jury box. She liked his dark brown hair, so short it made her wonder if he was in the military; she’d spent a lot of time over the last two days with that hair in her view; she thought it would feel bristly.

      ‘Does she not any more?’ she said.

      His jaw – strong and square and so unlike Henry’s – stiffened almost imperceptibly. She had the impression that he was considering what to tell her, though his pause probably seemed longer than it actually was. ‘She died. Two years ago.’

      ‘Oh – I’m so sorry.’

      His name was Robert. She told him her own name as the door into Court 12 opened and the usher invited them back in. She stood and lined up with the others, but Robert’s voice soon made her turn around.

      ‘You left this on your chair.’ He was holding out the Japanese pattern book. The nightdress she’d been studying – very pretty, but a little revealing – was featured on the cover, hanging against a wooden wardrobe. The picture was covered by his large hand.

      She bit her lip slightly and shook her head in ironic embarrassment, surprised at the same time to find herself noticing how symmetrical his lips were, and that they were perfect – not too big and not too small, not too red and not too bloodless, but just right. His eyes were the brightest sapphire blue she’d ever seen in human eyes. She thought she might be blinded if she looked too long at them.

      Despite its remarkable features, his face was neutral, perhaps even expressionless. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘I think she’ll be back.’

      And she was, though her eyes were rimmed in red and she had to swallow hard several times as she spoke.

      ‘They made me lie down on the floor. They threw a quilt over me. They started … kicking me, hitting me. I was in a ball, trying to shield my breasts, my head. I thought they were actually going to kill me, and they’d covered my face so they wouldn’t have to see me while they did it. I started screaming that I’d call my grandfather, that he’d give me the money.

      ‘Sparkle took the quilt away, handed me my phone. “Dial,” he said. I told my grandfather I was desperate, that I needed fifteen hundred pounds, but he said no. I thought they’d start beating on me again then but Sparkle said I could pay him back by dealing for him. He gave me three hundred pounds’ worth, so I could get started. Then he drove me to the train station and let me go.’

       Thursday, 5 February, 8.30 p.m.

      At eight thirty the doorbell rings. And rings and rings and rings. I’ve known since this morning that you’d come after me for jilting you at the ballet. I don’t answer, of course. But I do experiment: I take the intercom phone off its cradle but this fails to disable the buzzer; worse yet, your voice is now incessant. Without a word I put the intercom back in its place and refuse to pick it up again.

      I go into my bedroom and grab the handset for my landline. I press the 9 once. I press it twice. Remembering my call to the emergency operator last Friday, I pause before pressing it a third time.

      I am fifteen again, reporting the bag theft. The policewoman is firing her questions at me and I’m wishing that my parents were beside me instead of in the waiting area with Rowena and the shouting relatives of criminals. Had my bag really been stolen? Perhaps I’d simply lost it and feared telling my parents the truth? Surely they’d be upset by the expense and inconvenience such carelessness would cause: getting the locks changed, replacing my school books, giving me another week’s worth of lunch money? I said that my parents would never mind about such things. I said I could never fear them. I said they cared only about my safety. The policewoman’s incredulity seemed to deepen with every word I spoke. I managed to persuade her to let me drag Rowena in, but the policewoman regarded her as an unreliable witness, a loyal friend to me whose confirmation of my story couldn’t be trusted.

      They didn’t find the girl who assaulted me. Of course they didn’t. I doubt they even looked for her.

       The police cannot act unless there is evidence that a crime has been committed.

      I press the red button instead of the third 9 and toss the handset on my bed, knowing I can’t go to the police yet. I still don’t have enough evidence. And by the time they got here you’d be gone – then they wouldn’t take me seriously. You’re not stupid enough to let them catch you at my front door. Maybe they’d even charge me with wasting police time for making another inappropriate 999 call only six days after the last one. They’d think you’re a phantom just like that girl who punched me on the seafront.

      By nine o’clock the endless scream of the bell is more than I can stand. I pick up the intercom phone but I say nothing. Knowing it won’t be long, I wait for your voice.

      ‘Clarissa?’ you say. ‘Clarissa? I waited for you, Clarissa. Is something wrong, Clarissa? How could you be so horrible to me, Clarissa? I thought you’d be sorry after how you treated me last night, but now this.’

      Until you, I loved my name. I don’t want you to take that away from me too. I can’t let you do that, though I cringe each time you repeat it.

      The way you veer between solicitousness and anger, conciliating and scolding, makes me so fearful I hug myself and rock back and forth.

      I go into the bathroom and shut the door, though it hardly does anything to block out the noise. I turn on the tap at full force and that helps, but doesn’t completely drown you out. I shake lavender bath salts over the tub: Gary’s Christmas present, which is the same every year, making us both laugh as he hands it over. I do not feel like laughing right now. I drop my clothes on the floor and as soon as the bath’s full enough for the water to cover my ears I get in with a clumsy splash.

      That does the trick entirely. I can’t hear you at all now. But the bath salts do nothing to relax me and after only a few minutes I’m weak and faint from the heat, and the steam is making it impossible to breathe. Not being able to hear anything at all is frightening in a different way. I have a tiny kernel of hope that when I break the water’s surface and re-emerge there will be silence, but you are still there, of course, making your noise. I get out too quickly and feel dizzy.

      The nice word for you is methodical. Obsessive compulsive is the meaner phrase, and one you’ve truly earned. Nobody lives up to that one better than you. You press the buzzer for a shrill sixty seconds exactly, then allow СКАЧАТЬ