If You Only Knew Page 3

  “She’s completely alone in the world. Nobody seems to care about her. She came to see me on her own; her guardian didn’t even bother to show up. She needs someone like you,” Sarah presses. “If she goes to prison, she doesn’t stand a chance of turning her life around.” Those last words echo in my mind after I hang up the phone. Part of me feels sorry for the girl and wants to help, but my mother’s words echo in my head. Am I taking on more than I should? Yet as easy as it might be to move on and forget about her, I can’t bring myself to do that.

  Reaching for my supply of sugar free mints in the drawer, my fingers brush the old newspaper clippings I know are there. Putting the clippings on my desk, I remember the first time I proved that a teenage girl accused of hurting someone else had been acting in self defence. I was so proud.

  I’m so intent on rustling through the drawer, trying not to be overcome with memories, that I don’t hear Jennifer walking in and jump slightly when I see her standing right in front of me.

  My hand flies to my chest. “You gave me a fright.”

  “Sorry,” she says. Then quickly adds: “How did it go?”

  “I’m not sure it’s a fit for our firm,” I start. “And it doesn’t seem like the right time to take on something like this.”

  Jennifer points to the clipping on my desk. “Isn’t that your first case?” she asks. Nodding, I continue staring at the image of the girl, remembering her incessant fiddling with her long hair, her eyes darting around the room, following every movement as if she was scared of being attacked. The fear on her face had convinced me she’d been acting to protect herself and I made it my mission to find a way to defend her.

  “Remember how you felt when the girl was acquitted?” Jennifer asks.

  “Yes.” I know where this is headed but I let it run. “Like it was a triumph for justice.”

  “And what if Chloe is telling the truth?” Jennifer inquires. “Wouldn’t that also be a triumph for justice?”

  For the rest of the day I battle to focus on the more urgent work in front of me. It’s only when I leave the office that I allow my brain the indulgence of going over Chloe Wilson’s case, making quick work of the drive home.

  Rushing indoors in the hope that the children are still awake, I find the house is silent. The kitchen and living room are empty. Dropping my bag, I hurry upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time, the clicks from my high heels echoing in the stillness. At the top of the stairwell I pause, listening for any sound, until I hear soft voices coming from my daughter’s room. Slipping off my shoes, I tiptoe towards them.

  Through the open door I see Maya sitting in the recliner next to the bed. Julian is curled on the teenager’s denim-clad lap, his head resting on her chest, his fingers tiredly twirling her long red hair. Leah is already tucked in bed and in the muted light I can see her chest go up and down in rhythmic breathing. Maya’s face lights up as her melodic voice takes on different tones to highlight the various characters in the Dr Seuss story. Every fibre of my body wants to walk in, steal a few seconds with the children. But I restrain myself, not wanting to disturb the bedtime ritual. Despite the deep sadness at the thought of another evening where I won’t spend bedtime with them, I make myself wait outside the room.

  Finally, Maya finishes the story and closes the book, putting it down on the bedside table. She turns suddenly when I tiptoe in, unable to contain myself any longer. Maya sees me and smiles. Gently picking up Julian from her lap to allow her to stand up easily, I take him towards his bedroom. My son barely opens his eyes and I tuck him into bed and head back downstairs.

  Maya is in the living room, putting away the children’s toys. “You can leave them for me,” I say half heartedly, glad she’s still here. She has been a godsend and my most trusted sitter, always making sure that the children are not only safe but truly happy and enjoying themselves. She’s not afraid to be strict when she needs to be, and only last week she cut Julian’s television time after catching him bickering with his little sister. It helps that she lives down the road, making it easy for her to come over at a moment’s notice and able to walk back home in the evening.

  “It’s ok, Mrs P. It will only take another minute.”

  Her smile lights up her whole face and warms my heart, reminding me of the first time I saw her, many years ago. Skimming over the letters sitting on the kitchen island, I throw out a few leaflets and put the bills to the side. A white, unmarked envelope catches my eye and my heart beats faster as I open it, only to find yet another advert. Bending over to help, I pick up an open book and one of Leah’s dolls, putting them in the toy box. “How were they?” I ask.

  “Good, as always. Leah was having a bit of a hard time falling asleep, kept asking about you and her dad.” Maya’s words are like a sword to my heart and I promise to try harder to get home earlier.

  “Julian thinks one of his bottom teeth is loose,” she continues. “There might be a slight wiggle, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

  “Guess it’s time for the tooth fairy,” I say, half sad at how quickly they are growing up.

  “How are you doing?” I ask Maya.

  “Great, I have my exams coming up so have been busy studying.”

  “I’m sorry to be keeping you so late.” Unfortunately, it happens more often than I want and Maya is used to our schedule.

  Maya shakes her head. “It’s not a problem. I’m happy to help.”

  It strikes me that Maya is the same age as Chloe. Yet I sense that the two of them couldn’t be more different. Maya has had a fantastic upbringing with parents who adore her and will do anything for their only daughter. Chloe hasn’t been so lucky and I wonder how much her lack of family life has influenced her behaviour.

  “Do you need anything else?” Maya’s words snap me back into the present.

  “No, you can go. Thank you.”

  “Mum gets antsy when I miss dinner,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  She picks up her leather jacket from the armchair and puts it on. As she turns to leave I am overwhelmed by an urge to keep her here a little longer, talk to her more.

  “There’s this girl I’m thinking of representing. She’s about your age.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “Yes, quite a bit.” Taking a pause, I gather my thoughts. “She ran over an older guy and fled the scene.”

  “She must have been terrified of something,” she immediately says. “I’d probably go rushing to Mum and Dad.”

  “That’s the thing,” I say, my mind adrift on the possibilities that might be true. “She doesn’t have any parents.”

  And suddenly I know Maya must be right. But what was Chloe scared of? Why was she driving off in Ben’s car? Why was she in such a hurry to get away from him even after he was injured? I need to find out.

  Chapter 4

  1998

  For a while I was frozen and had no idea what to do. I was numb, both from the pain and the realisation that I had just killed someone. I stared at him for a long time, waiting to see if he would all of a sudden wake up again. Maybe he was just holding his breath. But then I looked at the blood that had gushed through his two neck wounds and knew that I had struck the fatal point. He never stood a chance.

  My body shook. I was not the squeamish sort and was addicted to crime series on TV, but never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that I would kill someone. That I even had the strength to.

  I squeezed my arm to make certain that this was not a nightmare but the sharp pain assured me that I was awake. I wondered how long it would have taken for someone to notice that I was missing. I hadn’t made any close friends at university, keeping to myself most of the time and focusing on my studies. I wasn’t scheduled to speak to my parents until Sunday evening. It would have been days before anyone started wondering whether something had happened to me and who knew whether I’d still have been alive by then.

  As the thoughts rushed through my head I realised that I had
done the only thing that I could to protect myself. I could barely bring myself to think about the rape that had catapulted me into this situation. I felt sick at his violation of something so private.

  I shook my head to banish the thoughts from my mind, and focused back on the dead man in front of me. Surely the police would understand. I looked down at my naked body and in the dim light I could see the angry purple wounds forming on my arms. My cheeks still smarted from his repeated slaps and my jaw felt swollen. I shuddered again at the thought of his hands all over my body, violating my privacy, but I forced myself to put my feelings aside and focus on the here and now. There was ample proof that he had assaulted me – my torn sports bra, the ripped shirt. And they would find his semen in me. I needed to call the police as soon as possible.

  I walked towards the chair, where he had placed his mobile phone. I was about to pick it up when I realised that I didn’t even know where I was. How long would it take them to find me? Hours? Days? Terry, whoever he or she was, might come over, and who knows what they’d do to me then. I needed to leave right now. My brain hurt from trying to think of a solution and then it occurred to me that I could take his van and drive into town for help.

  I looked around for the keys, but they were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were still in his pockets, I thought, turning back towards his body. But when I caught sight of his bulk, I couldn’t bring myself to touch him, or move him to look for the keys.

  My only choice was to walk to the police station near campus. I picked up my clothes, which had somehow escaped the deluge of blood, and put them on. My body hurt as I bent down to pick up my knickers. I was going to be bruised for days. The small but sharp cut on my right hand, where the glass had dug in, smarted as I pulled the laces on my boots, making me wince. I left my torn sports bra where he had thrown it, wanting to preserve as much evidence as possible, and put on my flannel shirt. It felt cold against my skin and I shuddered as I struggled to do the three buttons that were still attached. Eventually, I picked up my jacket and zipped it up. The zip caught and I fumbled with the fabric to release it from the slider’s grip.

  With one last look around the room, I walked to the door. My heart was beating as fast as when I’d just sprinted a few miles and I stopped for a second to catch my breath. In those few moments, as I stood by the door, I started to doubt my decision to go to the police. Would they believe me? What if they thought I was the one to lure this guy to the middle of nowhere to kill him? Maybe he was an upstanding citizen, a contributor to society, someone whose record was beyond reproach? How would I cope with repeating my story, for all the world to point their fingers and doubt me, look at me as the bad person who had killed this man?

  It was the fear that I wouldn’t be believed that scared me, stopped me in my tracks, and made me change my mind. Suddenly, my priority shifted and I wanted to erase any sign of my presence in the room. I turned round and scanned the area, my eyes focusing on my sports bra. I walked towards it and picked it up, putting it in one of my jacket pockets. I picked up the shard of glass that I’d stabbed him with and wrapped it in the paper towels that I’d used to wipe my blood and stuffed them in the same pocket, zipping it up to make sure nothing fell out.

  I took a step back and felt something crunch under my boot. Bending down I picked up one of the buttons that had been ripped from my shirt. Unzipping the jacket, I counted the number of missing buttons – five – and set out to find each one.

  The mattress was covered in his blood, but I worried that there would also be some of mine mixed with it. It was too bulky to take with me, so I just removed the covering sheet, folded it and wrapped it around my torso, hiding it under my jacket.

  Taking a step back, I sniffed back the tears that were pooling in my eyes. I wanted to scream, to sob my heart out. This wasn’t me. In a few hours I had been changed from a normal person into a victim and then a killer intent on covering her tracks. The pit of my stomach churned with a hideous confusion of feelings. I felt sick just thinking about what I’d done, what I’d been subjected to, been reduced to, and for a moment I felt my resolve to walk away waver, started to wonder whether I should just report what had happened. But the thought only lasted a fleeting second. I knew that I’d gone too far now. The pains I’d taken to clean up the scene and erase any signs of myself would surely be noticed, pointing towards my guilt. No, I needed to leave.

  Without a backward glance, I walked to the door and stepped outside, feeling the brisk air on my face. I had no idea what time it was, but it was still dark. I should have enough time to get close to college before sunrise.

  I looked back at the place I’d emerged from and saw it was a shack in the middle of fields. I wondered what he used it for, but when the visions started getting darker and more horrific, I shook my head to stop them from scaring me further. I was out and I was alive, that’s all that mattered at this moment. I spotted his truck parked under some trees nearby and remembered my damaged bike. It would be easier to run back to campus without having to carry it, but I didn’t want to leave it there, evidence waiting to lead the police back to me. I hauled myself up on the truck bed and brought the bike down. It was dark and I couldn’t see the wheel properly. Instead of wasting time trying to fix it, I lifted the bike up on its back wheel and started my trek back home.

  Although I wasn’t sure where I was, I could see lights in the distance, and started walking towards them. I’d reassess the situation once I stumbled on a familiar area. I started walking through fields, glad that it was still dark and nobody could see me. Still, I remained alert, listening for any sounds that could signify someone else approaching. I was terrified that the person on the other end of the phone was nearby, waiting for that call to come and find me. Who was he? Or she? Were they part of a violent gang? And what were they going to do to me? I hurried my pace and as I put more distance between me and him, I started to breathe more easily. My heart was still racing, but its rhythm had become more regular. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time towards my destination, towards safety.

  It must have been thirty minutes before I began to see where I was. The lights were coming from the airport. I was thankful I knew how to get back to the university quickly from here.

  Dawn had started to break, the light making my trek through the fields easier. I’d stumbled a few times in the gloom, and had to slow down my step for fear of tripping. Now that I could see where I was going, I started walking faster. The quicker pace, coupled with the exertion of pulling the bike, made me feel warm. The crusted sheet stuck to my torso and I wished I could just remove it. But I couldn’t risk it being found by the police. I reached up to wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead and in the morning light saw streaks of blood on the back of my tan glove.

  I stopped, put the bike down on the ground, reached into my pocket and took out my wallet. I looked at my face in the small mirror I kept inside. Blood was splattered all over my left cheek and forehead. I knew right then that it was from his horrific injuries, from the blood that had pumped out of his neck wounds. I should have known that I’d be covered in it.

  Willing myself not to panic, I took out a packet of tissues and tried to wipe away the blood. But it had dried on. I didn’t have any water, so I had to use my spit to wet the tissue and continued scrubbing at my face until every red streak had been removed. I knew that there would still be blood caked in my hair, but it wouldn’t show on my red colouring. I took out my dishevelled bun, ran my fingers through the curtain of my long hair, and tried to straighten it out.

  My cheeks were still red from the slaps and I could see bruises on each side of my jaw, but I knew there was nothing I could do to cover those right now. I had to wait to get back to my room.

  Putting the mirror away, I started walking again, making my way towards campus. Anyone who saw me would think that I’d been out drinking, I tried to reassure myself. Still, when I got close to my residence I stopped and looked around, makin
g sure that there was nobody who could see me and be prompted to ask questions about my battered appearance. I had escaped with my life, and now I needed to focus on getting back to my room without drawing attention to myself. Only then would I allow myself to concentrate on cleaning myself up and getting rid of the evidence. When I was sure that there was nobody around, I made a beeline for the bike rack just outside the halls of residence before heading to my building.

  Being so close to safety threatened to overwhelm me and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I could not risk breaking down now. There was no time for emotion, for weakness. I just needed to get into my room and away from prying eyes. My hands were shaking, making it difficult to fit the key in the lock. Just as I was about to try again, the door opened suddenly. Moving to the side, I looked up, as a guy who I’d seen before but never spoken to stumbled down the step, his legs buckling under him and falling with a thud on the ground.

  I knew I should leave. Go up to my room and close the door behind me, try to shut out what had happened in the past hours. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave him sprawled on the ground, his long hair fanned across his face. I’d already done enough harm today. “Are you ok?” I knelt next to him, inhaling the smell of cheap beer that seemed to be coming out of every pore of his body. He looked up, his eyes glazed over, and he opened his mouth to speak. But instead of words, a stream of vomit came out of his mouth, landing right next to me, missing my boot by a hair. The foul smell entered my nostrils, and for a second I thought I would be sick as well. Getting back on my feet, I took a step back, while he continued to retch. At last he stopped, wiped his mouth, smearing some sick across his thick beard and stumbled to his feet. “Cheerio,” he said with a weak smile as he walked away.

  Fear took hold that he might have recognised me. My red hair was hard to miss. But he seemed out of it. Perhaps he was too drunk to notice my dishevelled appearance or he might just forget about seeing me altogether. I dragged myself up the two flights of stairs as fast as I could and when I locked the door of my room behind me, sunk to the floor in relief, finally allowing the sobs that had threatened to escape for hours to take over my body. I let myself cry for a few minutes and then wiped the tears away and got to my feet again.