Part 23 (1/2)
”So was it Jason who hurt her, then, the one youre covering for by pretending he was here when she was attacked? By the way, before we leave were going to need the name and address of the friend whose house hes helping to renovate today. Will that be a problem?”
”I dont know the name!” Lauren stared at Charlie, wide-eyed. ”Jason doesnt tell me stuff like that. He just said a friend, a house. Thats all I know.”
Convenient, thought Sam.
Kerry started to weep. Dan looked away.
”Was the attack to warn Gaby off investigating Tims possible innocence?” Charlie asked, looking around the room. ”In which case, you wouldnt have needed to hurt her that badly, or Jason wouldnt have. Scaring her might have been enough. Was that what you all agreed, since you love Gaby so much? Just a little attack, nothing too serious? And then someone broke ranks, someone watching the attack thought it was getting out of hand, didnt know where it might end. That someone panicked. Was it you, Lauren? Couldnt say anything, couldnt risk running or screaming in case Jason turned on you, so you used your phone to tweet for help, while he was busy attacking Gaby?”
Lauren was shaking her head as if to get the weight of it off her skinny neck. Sam wondered if she was borderline anorexic. Maybe not even borderline.
”Detectives are working on tracing the three tweets,” said Sam. ”Well find out which of your phones or computers they came from within a day or two, so you might as well tell us now.”
Lauren let out a loud wail. ”Are you f.u.c.king stupid?” she yelled at him, nearly stopping his heart. ”I dont give a f.u.c.k what you do with my phone, you can stick it up your scabby a.r.s.e for all I care! Just find Gaby!” She rummaged in her dressing-gown pocket, pulled something out of it. Sam saw a flash of silver and tensed.
”Put that down!” shouted Charlie.
”Its okay,” Sam told her. He could see now: it wasnt a knife, it was only Laurens phone. She threw it into his lap and ran from the room.
17.
SAt.u.r.dAY, 12 MARCH 2011.
The woman in front of me in the queue has dandruff on the shoulders of her black jacket. She is more upset than I am. Like Lauren at the airport. The name Lauren in my head makes it harder for me to stay here, where I need to be, though logically I know its not possible for me to attract another attack simply by thinking about her.
I can be rational, still. Ill prove it by staying put. If I run away, my thoughts will come with me. If I run from a man whos not here, how will I know Im not running toward him? He could be anywhere.
Like Lauren at the airport, the woman in front of me is shouting. I cant see the face of the man shes yelling at, only part of his body in its police uniform behind the gla.s.s barrier. I picture Bodo Neudorfs face; he is safely far away from this tirade, in Germany. ”Tell you what, dont bother having my driving license sent back to me this time. Keep it! Save me the trouble of having to bring it in every five minutes!”
I fix my eyes on a large gray sticker on the wall and try not to listen. The palms of my hands are damp and itchy. The sticker has curved corners and says, ”An induction loop system is available on these premises.”
”Would I have been pulled over if Id been consulting a map?” the woman demands to know. ”I dont have a SatNav-I would do, except Ive got no time to buy one or even think about buying one. I do have a knackered, torn road atlas, but for the past year its been in the boot, covered in mud from my sons football shoes! I use my phone while Im driving only to read the directions Ive e-mailed to myself. I wouldnt get done for looking at a map, would I, so I shouldnt be fined for looking at directions on my phone!”
She is the victim of an imaginary injustice, envious of phantoms: those who cruise along the M25 leafing through their untorn mud-free road atlases, cheered on by the police.
Youre supposed to look at the road and your mirrors and nothing else.
I dont tell the angry woman this because Im scared of her-also of the man shes haranguing and the two women sitting behind me in the waiting area. Im frightened of them all. Ive been monitoring my feelings carefully since yesterday and the one blocking out all the others is fear. Of everything: my surroundings, myself, noise, silence, any person I see or hear or pa.s.s on the street. Predictably, Im scared of the man who terrorized me, because I cant see him and so dont know where he is, how close he is, but I seem to be equally scared of everybody who isnt him, which I wouldnt have expected. Alone and locked in my car, Im afraid I wont be able to unlock the doors and get out if I need to; outside, I fear that something horrible is about to happen, something even worse.
I thought my panic would start to die away once the attack was over. When that didnt happen, I a.s.sumed Id misjudged how long it would take. That could still be true, I suppose. Its less than twenty-four hours later, too early to decide that I will feel as I do now for the rest of my life.
Thats what I dread most: that I will be stuck like this forever, in a silent scream of panic. He untied my wrists before he walked away-slowly, complacently, not even bothering to run-but he didnt release my mind. Thats the part I really needed him to free; I can still feel his plastic wrapped tight around it.
Should I give myself more time? Do I have a choice?
I refuse to sacrifice the rest of my life to this. If I thought I could get away with it, Id refuse to sacrifice the rest of the day. There are important decisions and negotiations looming at work: we have to refine our value proposition, convince Sagentia that the significant markup has to be on the disposables, which must be kept as simple as possible. I have to take care of all that and appear normal, make sure no one can see whats going on underneath.
I have to get Tim out of prison.
The woman in front of me turns away from the reception desk in disgust. Our eyes meet. ”Sorry for the holdup,” she says. ”I should be embarra.s.sed, but Im too angry. '”I was at the end of my tether,” said mother of two-thatll be the headline if I end up strangling this guy.”
Shes only talking. She wont do anything to you here, in front of witnesses. ”Dont worry,” I tell her, closing my hand around my Saint Christopher in my jacket pocket. Its all I can think of to say.
”My relations.h.i.+p with the UK traffic police isnt a happy one,” the woman explains. When she isnt yelling, she has a nice voice. What would I have thought of her if Id met her before? What if I tell myself theres no reason to be scared of her and I turn out to be wrong? She was yelling at someone who didnt deserve it. If I blame what happened yesterday every time I feel fear, how will I be able to differentiate between harmful and harmless? If I cant make that basic distinction, how will I manage in the world?
More than anything, I would like to know if my reaction is normal. I dont think it can be. I wonder if its happened to anyone else. Ive heard of post-traumatic stress, but never of the terror not subsiding at all, even long after whatever caused it has finished.
”Gaby?”
Its Charlie Zailer. Next to me. Where did she come from? Human beings dont have eyes in the backs or sides of their heads, but it must be possible to design a device thatd do the same job. Maybe thats what Ill work on next.
I order myself not to turn and run. When I met Charlie yesterday, before I was attacked, I wasnt scared of her. I remember not being scared of her. I approved of her; she wanted to find out the truth and so did I. She listened to me.
”Gaby, are you okay? You dont look as if you are.”
”Yes, I do. I look fine.” Ive washed every inch of myself and put on clean clothes. Im able to speak and say what I mean. Im not falling apart, not drawing attention to myself by shouting in public like the woman in front of me. I am looking better than okay, given the circ.u.mstances. ”Can I talk to you as soon as youre free?” I say.
”I can be free now.”
Lucky you.
”Gaby, do you know there are teams of police out looking for you?”
”No. Why? Im here.”
Charlie Zailer smiles. ”You do seem to be,” she says. ”What have you got in your pocket?”
”Youre not taking it.” I no longer have a home. I need it wherever I go.
”Im only asking what it is. Im sure its fine. What is it?”
Inside my pocket, I unclench my fist. ”Its a Saint Christopher medal on a chain.”
”Can I see? I wont take it away. I just want to look at it.”
I show it to her.
”Its beautiful,” she says. ”Shall we go somewhere private where we can talk properly?”
”No.” What does she mean, ”somewhere private”? Why?
”Youd rather talk here?” She looks over at the chairs in the waiting area. The man on reception is telling the shouter to go and sit there.
”No,” I say. ”Not here.”
”We have a very nice private consultation room,” says Charlie. ”We can leave the door open if youd like.”