I Will Make You Pay Page 8

  He stands and picks up his rucksack, staring at Stan and then at his gran. He tugs at her arm to pull her down to his level so he can whisper in her ear that he needs the toilet. She whispers back that he will need to hold it and do it in the garden when they leave so that no one else will see them.

  And so he concentrates very hard to try to hold it in, all the while staring at Stan.

  CHAPTER 15

  ALICE

  I can see the sky now so I must be on the ground. I am still screaming but Matthew is holding my arms and telling me not to touch my face.

  ‘Water. That jug of water.’ He is shouting at the people seated at an outside table near us. ‘And an ambulance. Phone for an ambulance . . .’

  I am gasping and bracing myself for the pain as Matthew is handed the jug and pours water slowly across my face. The water is ice cold and this is also a shock, almost as much as the spray into my face as the bike passed. I can feel my eyes darting from left to right, waiting for what is coming next. The pain and the burning? I am thinking of my looks. My eyesight. My face in the mirror. How bad this will be; how quickly acid works . . .

  ‘Close your eyes, Alice. Keep them closed.’ It’s Matthew’s voice again as he pours more water, first on to my left eye and then my right. But I cannot help myself. I’m holding on to his upper arms with my hands, frightened to let go, and my arms rise up as he moves the jug. Despite what he says, I open my eyes again briefly because I’m afraid of not being able to see. Relief. I still see sky. I hear Matthew demanding a lot more cold water. ‘More jugs. Quick as you can, please.’

  He continues to pour icy water over me and it is working. I close my eyes again and I can’t feel the burning. The cold water is stopping the burning. I wonder how much damage it can stop; how long before I will feel the worst of it.

  ‘It’s all right, Alice. It’s going to be all right. We’re here. It’s going to be OK.’ Matthew has this low and steady voice and I’m thinking how incredible it is that he can do this. Not panic. His police training?

  I open my eyes once more to find that he is staring at me very intently and I want to cry because I imagine he can see what is happening to my face. The skin changing? And then he stops pouring the water on me and frowns.

  ‘No. Don’t stop.’ My voice is a whimper. I’m terrified of what comes next. Without the water, it will burn and I am very afraid of the pain . . .

  ‘No. It really is OK, Alice. It’s not acid. It can’t be acid. You’re OK. There’s no burning. Your skin is completely fine.’

  His shoulders sort of slump as he says this. I let go of him and I am suddenly very, very still – eyes darting once more from left to right as I try to process what he is saying.

  Not acid.

  Matthew then looks at me very intently before touching my face – briefly and then for longer.

  ‘It’s water, Alice. All of it. Water. It must have been water sprayed at you. Not acid.’ His voice cracks as he says this, and the next thing I know Matthew is sitting on the ground alongside me, raking his hand through his hair, letting out little huffs of breath himself. Huff. Huff.

  I look up at the sky and put my right hand up to my right cheek, touching ever so gingerly with the tip of my finger. No burning. He’s right. Still no burning . . .

  I smooth my finger right across my cheek next, to check the flesh properly. Nothing.

  No burning. Not acid.

  And then I’m crying with the relief and I close my eyes as I hear Matthew calling out to cancel the ambulance. Again his voice is steady and completely in control. The relief is seeping through me but I feel cold all over and am suddenly shaking.

  ‘She’s OK. It was water. She’s going to be fine but she’s in shock. She’ll need a hot drink and a blanket, please, but we don’t need an ambulance. Can you ask in the café? Tea with sugar and somewhere quiet for her to sit?’ A long pause. ‘But she’s going to be OK.’

  Ten minutes later and I am inside the back office of the café, wrapped in some kind of tartan rug, clutching a mug of sweet tea and still trembling. I can hear lots of voices beyond the door and imagine everyone gossiping about what has happened.

  The café staff had wondered if an ambulance was still a good idea, given the shock, but both Matthew and I felt that was not what we wanted. Personally, I just want to get away now; I want to get back home. Or rather, to Leanne’s home.

  But Matthew reminds me that we have to deal with the police first. Local uniformed officers have responded to the 999 report but Matthew is now on the phone to DI Melanie Sanders. He is giving her all the details, explaining that he took a photo of the bike on his phone but that the number plate was covered. She’s sending her own CSI officers to see if they can get any evidence. Maybe the bottle was discarded nearby? They are already putting a call out to check all CCTV and traffic cameras.

  And then Matthew’s face changes completely as he listens intently. He presses his phone closer to his ear then glances across at me. ‘You sure, Mel?’

  His expression becomes graver and graver and I get this sinking feeling, deep inside me.

  ‘She’s still in shock, Mel. But yes, of course. I’ll ask her. And when we’re done here, I’ll bring her straight in to talk to you. Yes, of course. Absolutely. But she’s had an awful time – a horrible shock, remember.’

  Finally he rings off and moves to the seat opposite me.

  ‘How are you doing now, Alice?’ His voice is still concerned but there is some strange new edge that I don’t understand.

  ‘Better. A bit better. Just shaken. I feel warmer now. Have you spoken to Tom?’

  ‘Yes. He’s frantic. Also furious with me but never mind about that. We’ll update Tom as soon as we can. Right now we need to speak some more to the police. Help them mop up any evidence.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I am looking into his face, trying to read what the new problem is.

  ‘There’s something else. Something Melanie Sanders shared with me. As a favour to me, really. Something I don’t understand at all.’ He looks upset, a frown deepening.

  ‘What? What did she say?’ Suddenly I can see my sister, looking across at me in the kitchen. The echo of her voice . . . You have to tell them everything.

  Matthew takes in a long, slow breath – his eyes unblinking. ‘I don’t know what to say. I mean, I know you’re still shaken. But she said she’s just found out that your name isn’t really Alice. And I’m to take you into the police station, firstly to investigate this attack. But also to explain yourself.’ He pauses. ‘We all need to understand who the hell you really are.’

  CHAPTER 16

  ALICE

  I suppose I always guessed it would catch up with me.

  Sitting in Matthew’s car as we drive to face Melanie Sanders, I put my phone on silent. There is a string of voice messages from Tom but I can’t face speaking to him yet; instead I’ve texted to say where we’re going and that I’ll update him as soon as I can.

  I turn to look at Matthew’s profile. His expression is stony. I try to imagine Tom’s face when he finds out the truth, and the ball of dread in my stomach grows. I turn to the left to watch the blur of fields and hedges and trees, sweeping a patchwork green arrow to the chaos ahead of me.

  Yes. I always knew I would one day be found out; I knew that today would come. I had just hoped it wouldn’t happen while I was dealing with all this too.

  I shut my eyes to picture him – Alex – and feel the familiar punch of fury at myself. He stares back at me from my memories – so handsome and confident and funny and smart. I can hear him playing the piano at the home we shared, shouting over the music for me to please make more coffee. And the worst thing? I can actually remember how in the moment, at the beginning of it all, I believed utterly in him. In us. I genuinely had no idea what lay ahead. I felt lucky. I cringe at that now but it’s the truth.

  I actually felt lucky.

  I met Alex at a fundraising concert in the Highlands. It was my very fir
st month as a reporter, on a tiny weekly paper, and I had been sent to cover the concert with a photographer called Hugh. The snapper was old school – competent but well into the cynical zone; he wanted to get his pictures done as quickly as possible to head off for a curry with some friends.

  But I’ve always loved music. I was pleased to be assigned the job and didn’t mind staying the course, especially when the organiser was introduced to me. Alex Sunningham was impossibly good-looking and I had to struggle to contain an involuntary blush. I could tell immediately from his expression that he was thoroughly enjoying my response as he shook my hand. I imagined he was very used to women trying to contain a swoon and I hated myself for losing the upper hand.

  While Hugh posed Alex at the piano along with various other performers, I took out my notebook and pretended to be jotting in shorthand, while occasionally glancing across at the ensemble. There were two violinists and a cellist. They played along with Alex in little snippets so that Hugh could get all his pictures. The sound was wonderful, and I started to think this might be a very enjoyable evening indeed.

  Once Hugh had left, Alex took to the microphone to apologise to the arriving guests about the impasse for photographs, explaining that the publicity was crucial to achieve maximum fundraising. ‘Please bear with me.’ He said the concert proper would start in approximately ten minutes and then, to my surprise, he made a beeline for me.

  ‘So what do you do now if there’s a streaker or a fire?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Do you still run the posed pictures if something exciting happens?’ He was clearly teasing.

  ‘I’m sorry. The photographers never have much time. I’m sure you’re used to that – and between us, Hugh’s not exactly into culture. But I always have the camera on my phone.’ I paused, lifting my phone by way of illustration. ‘In case something exciting happens.’

  ‘Well, we shall try not to disappoint you . . . Jennifer.’ He lowered both the tone and volume of his voice as he said my name. And he held my gaze longer than was appropriate. I scurried away to my seat. Embarrassed. Confused. Interested.

  The concert was extraordinary. Alex was both a brilliant pianist and a warm host, introducing the cellist and violinists as friends from music college who were doing him a favour to raise money for cancer research. Apparently the cellist’s younger brother was currently undergoing chemotherapy for a rare bone cancer, and I felt this pang as Alex explained about new research and the importance of doing everything possible to help a friend.

  Later there were performances by Alex’s pupils, and I realised from his banter on the microphone that he taught piano, both at a local school and privately. Some of the pianists were rather good; others were just starting out.

  It was a charming evening, and as it drew to a close I felt the flutter of excitement in my stomach rise, confident that Alex would find me again.

  ‘So are you going to tell me more before we meet Melanie? Do you not think you owe me that, Alice? Or Jennifer? Or whoever you really are?’ Matthew’s voice alongside me draws me back to the present. His tone is disappointed rather than angry. ‘I mean, I do know you’ve been through a lot this morning. But this is going to get very serious now. And I have no idea what to think, quite frankly. I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you . . . or even if I should at this point.’

  I open my eyes and turn to Matthew. ‘My real name is Jennifer Wallace. I was once engaged to a musician called Alex Sunningham. I thought he loved me and that our relationship was real. But it turns out he was using me as a cover for something else. There was a media frenzy about it. That’s why I changed my name.’

  ‘Oh Jeez.’ Matthew does not take his eyes off the road. ‘So what are we talking about exactly?’

  ‘Look. I really don’t want to go over it all right now, except to say I did nothing wrong myself. But it was still humiliating and dreadful and I will never shake off the guilt for failing to see through him, Matthew. But he’s in jail now. It wasn’t my evidence that put him there. I don’t believe he bears me any ill will; in fact, I doubt he gives me a second thought. And he can’t possibly have anything to do with what’s going on now because, as I say, he’s inside.’

  I hear the echo of my argument with my sister in her kitchen.

  I know he’s still in jail, Alice, but you still have to tell the police. Won’t they be furious if you keep this from them? They’re bound to find out.

  I think of how long it took poor Leanne to get used to calling me by my second name. Alice. I think of my mother, bless her, and those few close friends who also helped my reinvention.

  ‘Right,’ Matthew says. ‘Well, one way or another, we need to talk again, Alice. Do I still call you Alice?’

  I don’t know how to answer because I don’t even know what I think myself now. We are turning the final corner to the police station and Matthew has already warned me that he cannot risk being seen taking me right up to the entrance. It could prove tricky for Melanie Sanders. But he has promised her that he’ll deliver me safely for questioning and so will wait for me to go in.

  ‘You don’t trust me to go in, do you, Matthew?’ I watch him closely but he doesn’t reply.

  He pulls the car up within line of sight of the entrance and lets out another long sigh, raking his fingers through his hair – which I realise, watching him, is what he always does when he is struggling to compose himself. ‘Like I said, I don’t even know what to call you, let alone what to think or do right now. Don’t think I don’t feel for what you’ve been through today. But this is a pickle. Mel Sanders is a former colleague and a good friend, which means I’m seriously compromised here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Matthew.’

  ‘Yes. So am I.’

  CHAPTER 17

  MATTHEW

  Once Alice – or rather Jennifer – is inside the police station and liaising with the front desk, Matthew moves his car around the corner and parks up again.

  He is genuinely stunned. He bashes the steering with the heel of his hand in frustration and anger and relief and confusion. Only now does he even begin to let out all the pent-up emotion from what happened earlier. When the motorcyclist swung past, he felt as if acid were being flung into his own face. The absolute horror of those first few seconds. As he was pouring water over Alice’s face, all he could think was that she would be scarred for life, possibly blind too, and he had let . . . this . . . happen. He should have persuaded her to ride in his car; he should not have let her overrule him.

  Idiot, Matthew. You complete and utter idiot.

  The relief at finally discovering it was not acid was both wonderful and yet equally overwhelming and confusing. The seesaw of conflicting feelings was incredibly hard to control but all he could think of was the need to stay outwardly calm for Alice’s sake. And then – just as he was managing the whole rollercoaster of emotions? This new twist.

  It had honestly never occurred to him that Alice wasn’t being straight. He realises, thinking back to that first proper meeting in his office, that he’d assumed her reticence to involve him was the result of being overwhelmed. Afraid. Confused. Now he feels that this fake-identity twist may have been a part of it. Was she worried that hiring a private investigator would increase the chances of all this being found out sooner?

  Hell. What kind of a private investigator did it make him that he hadn’t sussed this? And then he reminds himself that the police have only just caught up with the identity switch, so Alice must have been very clever about it; she must also have had the support of her closest family and friends to pull this off.

  He calls up her profile on Facebook, which he checked thoroughly when he first took the case. All the pictures show Alice with her neat hair and her same, rather sweet look. Smiley. Delicate features. Hardly any make-up. Attractive but all very girl-next-door. No pouting or fake eyebrows or shots obviously enhanced by apps. The profile goes back several years and there is nothing obviously amiss, although he notices
now that there are not as many friends as you might expect. But even that is not so very suspicious, as lots of people ditch their university profile and set up a new one – to step away from photographs, antics and friends they do not want to take forward in their life.

  Next Matthew googles the coverage of the Alex Sunningham case. Several tabloid news stories appear instantly.

  He’d wondered if Alex was secretly gay or committing fraud behind Alice’s back, but it’s far worse. He was jailed for sex with two underage music pupils. Matthew scans the copy, skipping from one online page to another for more details. It is now vaguely ringing bells but he doesn’t remember it making the TV news. Did he see it in the papers or online at the time? He can’t be sure.

  The earliest stories say that Alex, engaged to journalist Jennifer Wallace at the time, had suddenly disappeared with a fifteen-year-old pupil. Alex and Jennifer had lived in the Highlands and the teenager took piano lessons at their home. The two runaways were initially believed to still be in Scotland somewhere, and there was a local police appeal. They were eventually discovered on the Isle of Skye when the girl fell ill and a local GP recognised her from the coverage. At first the pupil, who wasn’t named, was loyal and devastated that their ‘romance’ had been discovered. Her initial story to police was that she loved Alex very deeply and they were going to marry at Gretna Green as soon she was sixteen.

  But a sordid web quickly unravelled. A second pupil came forward to say that she’d had a relationship with Alex the previous year but he had dumped her, and so she’d made an excuse to her parents to give up her piano lessons. She was too afraid and embarrassed to tell anyone the truth.

  Both girls were appalled to find out about the other and finally cooperated with the police, giving evidence which put Alex in jail.

  Matthew calls up as many photos as he can find. The creep Alex is a looker. ‘Smarmy bastard,’ Matthew whispers out loud. He finds himself thinking of his beautiful little Amelie; he imagines her all grown-up and beautiful and feels this punch of fear.