If You Only Knew Page 4

  Careful to grab it from the plastic liner, I moved my rubbish bin out from underneath my desk and removed my gloves, throwing them inside. One of them was torn anyway. Standing in front of the full length mirror, I removed my jacket. I loved that jacket but it needed to go too. The inside was stained with blood from the sheet. It occurred to me then that I would have to wash my clothes, make sure to get rid of any link to him. But that was a problem for later. I dug out my wallet and keys, placing them on an open magazine that I’d be able to throw out as well. I was about to put the jacket in the rubbish bin when I remembered the shard of glass. I unzipped the pocket and took it out, unwrapping it from its nest of paper towels, and put it on the magazine, careful not to let it touch my other belongings. I took out my torn sports bra and put it on the other side of the magazine.

  My shirt and the sheet were next to be put in the bin, followed by my knickers and jeans. I couldn’t afford to throw out my boots, so I placed them aside, intending to scrub them later. First I needed a shower.

  The warm water felt blissful on my aching body as I started lathering my hair. My stomach lurched as I saw the red-tinged water gathering at my feet before making its way to the drain. I scraped at my scalp until the water ran clear and I could feel my skin smart with cleanliness. Wrapping a towel around my head and another around my body, I walked back into the small bedroom and picked up the magazine, balancing all of the items on top of it, and carried it to the bathroom, putting it down on the closed toilet. Opening the taps in the sink, I picked up the shard of glass and put it under the running water, wiping away at the sharp edges with my fingers, touching it gingerly to avoid being cut. Next I put my keys under running water and then wiped my wallet.

  I picked up the glass again and turned it in my hand, searching my brain as to what to do with it, where I was going to dispose of it. But right now I needed to go to my first lecture. I didn’t want to miss it, to arouse any suspicion. From now on, every decision needed to be meticulously thought out to make sure that my actions remained concealed. I wrapped the glass in tissues and hid it in the back of my underwear drawer, shuddering at the thought of something so sinister in the sanctuary of my room. I removed the rubbish bag and tied the ends, putting it in the back of my wardrobe until I could think what to do next. Using what little makeup I had, I covered some of the bruises on my face and wrapped a scarf around my neck to mask the angry red marks before heading out.

  I fumbled with the key as I locked my door, not wanting anyone to come into my room and find it contaminated with the blood of a dead man. I had to stop and compose myself before I was able to complete the task and move on. The fresh air hit my face as soon as I walked out of the building and catapulted me back to the moment I opened the shed door. The feeling startled me and I dropped my books. As I bent down to pick them up, I felt a sharp pain sear through my stomach and winced at the ugly reminder of what had happened last night.

  Still, I forced myself to focus on moving forward, trying to remove the look of horror from my face. Every sound startled me but I needed to stop jumping at every single noise or I would draw unwanted attention to myself. I plastered a weak smile on my face as I walked into the room, stumbling to a seat in the back.

  My mind wouldn’t stay still. It leapt ahead to whether they’d found the body, whether his accomplice had raised the alarm, whether they were looking for the killer. My thoughts scared me and I was worried about someone rummaging through my room and finding the evidence they needed to throw me behind bars for the rest of my life. At this point I was sure no-one would believe what had really happened, that I was protecting myself from another assault.

  Thursdays were busy days for me. I had five back-to-back lectures and only a short break before I had to go back in the afternoon. Instead of getting lunch, I planned to go back to my room during my break and try to wash the blood off the sheet. I wasn’t hungry anyway. I thought getting rid of the blood would make it less likely to grab anyone’s attention when I threw it out. But I couldn’t risk taking it to the laundry room while it was still caked in blood.

  My mind made up, I couldn’t wait for one o’clock to roll around. As soon as my last lecture ended, I rushed to my room and into the bathroom, and started filling the sink with water. In the meantime, I took the sheet out and soaked it for a few minutes, before starting to scrub at the patches of caked blood. The water quickly turned red and I felt my stomach lurch uncontrollably. Bending over the toilet, I threw up, retching repeatedly when there was nothing else to get rid of. I felt light-headed when I stood back up, but knew that I only had a short amount of time to clean the sheet as well as I could. My knuckles grew red and raw from scrubbing, but I persevered, regularly changing the soiled water, until I realised that I would never be able to completely get rid of the stains. And then, I rinsed it again and again, until I was confident that there was nothing linking it to him. I draped it over the shower head, allowing it to drip, before locking my door again and running back to the lecture hall.

  That evening I dug the sheet and my clothes out of the rubbish bag and took them to the laundry room, washing them repeatedly, waiting there to make sure nobody took them by mistake. I couldn’t spare the money but I even ran the empty washer, to remove any remnants of my night of horror. As I walked back to my room, I realised that I hadn’t eaten since the night before, but the thought of food made me nauseous. I shuddered as I closed the door behind me and took my clothes out of the laundry bag. They smelled clean, and for a moment I felt detached from what had happened last night. It was as if by cleaning up the evidence, I was slowly distancing myself.

  Until bedtime. I climbed into bed, exhausted and certain that I would fall asleep without any problems, and closed my eyes. Then I saw him, crouching on top of me, ready to lunge into me as I lay helpless and terrified on the mattress. And then the image in my mind morphed into his contorted face as blood spurted out of his gaping wound as I readied myself to strike him again.

  I sat up in horror. The image was more than I could bear and I burst into tears. What have I done? I asked myself repeatedly, horrified at the thought that this image was going to haunt me for ever. I had killed someone. And then I had covered it up. It didn’t matter that I was defending myself, that I had acted out of necessity, that I was scared for my life. The fact that I had gone to such pains to eliminate any evidence of my presence in that room intensified the guilt. I should have gone to the police. But it was too late now. I could only hope that I had done a good job of scrubbing clean any links to him and would never be associated with the crime I had committed.

  Finally I fell asleep, but he haunted my dreams. I could see his green eyes, going from friendly to terrifying as he prepared himself to rape me. I woke up drenched in sweat, having relived the fear that I’d felt at that moment, unsure what his plans were, whether he’d let me go or if he would keep me captive. Fear intermingled with the feeling of horror at what I’d done and kept washing over me in nauseating waves.

  In the end, I got up and paced the room, then started reading. I had exams in a few weeks and needed to cram in as much information as possible. I had always worked hard to do well in school, driven by a powerful desire to get a good job and make something of myself. I was determined to make enough money to live a comfortable life, and also make my parents proud. I was not going to allow this incident to change the course of my future. Failing these exams wasn’t an option and I tried my best to concentrate, not allow myself to dwell on the events of the night before, and instead immerse myself in my books, make the most of the time I had.

  When I looked at myself in the mirror a few hours later, as I prepared for my day, I could see the impact of my two sleepless nights etched on my face. My skin looked grey. I had dark circles under my eyes and my normally fiery hair looked dull and lifeless.

  I went down to the cafeteria before classes, both to get a cheap cup of coffee and, in a sudden panic, to read the newspapers that were always available. I need
ed to find out whether they’d discovered his body. But despite looking through every single column, I didn’t find any reference to him. Somehow this made me feel better, giving me more time to get rid of the remaining evidence.

  After class I went back to my room and dug out the piece of glass. I knew exactly how I was going to get rid of it. The supermarket had a large container where it disposed of glassware and as luck would have it, the pickup took place late on Friday afternoons. I just needed to get there before the container was emptied and put the piece of glass inside.

  To be even more certain that it wouldn’t be linked to him if anyone came looking, I decided to break the shard into smaller pieces. I took it into the bathroom and wrapped it in an old towel. Grabbing my toothbrush holder, I smashed it down on the towel, repeatedly, until I heard the crunch of the thick glass breaking. Tears smarted in my eyes again. I ran back to my room and dug out a Tesco carrier bag from my wardrobe, then unwrapped the towel and took out the three pieces of glass, putting them in the plastic bag. Wrapping the bag in some tissues, I put it in my rucksack and walked out.

  Since my bike was unusable, I had to take the bus. I held my bag in my lap and stared out of the window for the short journey. I was exhausted but eager to rid myself of the horrific evidence.

  When I got to the supermarket I went straight to the rubbish collection area. Closing the door behind me, I fished out the paper-wrapped plastic bag and shook out the three pieces of glass, careful not to touch them. It felt good to let them slip out of the bag and into the large container that housed a week of the supermarket’s glass refuse. The relief was palpable and for the first time since Wednesday I felt myself relax slightly. I almost smiled with satisfaction as I walked towards the staff room, and then, when I realised, I was disgusted at myself. I’d killed someone. There was nothing to be smiling about. But nobody could stop the huge wave of relief washing over me when the recycling lorry came and I walked outside to see the vat of glass containing the shard I had killed him with being emptied into the large truck, on its way to be sorted, melted, and recycled.

  My whole body trembled as I walked back into the supermarket, my knees weak from the anxiety that had become my constant companion. Try as I might I could not stop my hands from shaking. As I stocked shelves with jars of ketchup, one slipped through my quivering fingers. The glass shattered and the ketchup splashed everywhere. I saw it happen in slow motion, helpless to stop the jar from falling. It bounced on the ground, breaking into several pieces and the thick bright red dressing sprang upwards before splattering over the white floors. I heard the sharp scream and looked around to see people staring at me. It was then that I realised it was me who had screamed uncontrollably. The image of blood pulsing out of his neck flashed in front of my eyes and I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming again.

  Chapter 5

  2014

  Two days after Chloe’s case was brought to my attention, I’m still veering from one possible course of action to another. Part of me knows I should let it go, allow myself to focus on my other clients, perhaps even manage to leave the office early every now and then. But Maya’s immediate reaction upon hearing about Chloe’s predicament keeps sounding in my head. The girl had to be terrified, and the question of why keeps me from taking the decision to pass on her case.

  At the very least I have to meet her, get a first hand impression before deciding. Not long before she’s due, I find myself pacing the length of my office when my business partner, Luigi Casato, walks in. “Elizabetta, come va?” he asks, putting on an exaggerated Italian accent. It brings back memories of our university days and I find myself smiling.

  “Drop the Italian flirtation.” There is no hint of his Italian heritage when he speaks normally.

  “Who? Me?” he says in mock horror. “I’d never do that to my best friend.” It was he who introduced me to my husband, acting as a modern day cupid while we were in law school.

  As much as I enjoy our banter, I want Luigi’s opinion on Chloe’s case.

  “Jennifer alerted me to a case that is being handled by legal aid.” Luigi rolls his eyes, so I press on quickly. “There’s this fifteen year old girl, Chloe, who’s had a rough life, bumped from one foster home to another. She ran over a guy and left the scene. He’s in hospital with pretty bad injuries.”

  Luigi rubs the stubble on his face as he digests the information. “Did she do it on purpose?”

  Suppressing my frustration at his negative instinct, I tell him what I know. “She claims it was an accident, that she didn’t realise the car was in reverse and he was just behind her.”

  “If it was an accident, why did she run away?”

  “I guess she panicked.”

  “You guess?” Luigi exclaims. “You really should be more certain about the facts before even considering a case that’s going to cost us money.”

  “Of course I’m going to find out all the facts before taking the case,” I say indignantly. “This is not my first rodeo.”

  “Hold on, did you say she’s fifteen? Whose car was it?”

  “It was the guy’s car.”

  “Why was she driving it? Did she steal it? Was he teaching her how to drive?”

  “I don’t know yet. Sarah didn’t say.”

  “This is Sarah’s case?” He puts both hands to his head in his trademark dramatic fashion, making me regret letting the name slip. For a second I’d forgotten that the two of them had been romantically involved, and just like all of Luigi’s relationships – if you could call them that – it hadn’t ended well, leaving Sarah the disappointed one.

  “It doesn’t matter who is representing her now,” I quickly say. “This girl deserves a chance at a proper defence and legal aid is swamped.”

  “So are you! Don’t you have enough on your plate? We have clients who are paying a lot of money for proper representation and we should both be focusing our energies on them. They’re the ones who pay the bills.”

  I feel a pang of guilt as the truth in Luigi’s words is driven home. Our clients include Luigi’s very rich family, the ones who made it possible for us to start our own firm. Still, I want to be able to take on cases I feel strongly about. “We had an agreement,” I remind Luigi. “You promised I could take on pro-bono cases when the firm was doing well. That’s the reason I joined you.”

  “You do take pro-bono cases and I’ve never stopped you. But this sounds like a lost cause.”

  “She’s a kid and deserves a chance. If she goes to prison her whole life is ruined and there’s no way back.” I try to remain calm and not get carried away by the girl’s predicament. I hardly know a thing about it, after all, but I’m certain it’s way more complex than it appears and justice doesn’t always get beyond black and white.

  Jennifer pops her head in, sparing me from further justifications. “Chloe is on her way up.”

  “Is Sarah with her?” Luigi asks.

  Jennifer raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think so.”

  “Better go, just in case,” Luigi says, backing out of my office, his eyes widening as he mimes a hand slicing across his neck. Shaking my head at his drama, I go back to my desk. “Just think this through please,” Luigi tosses over his shoulder.

  A couple of minutes later Jennifer ushers Chloe in. A tall, willowy girl saunters towards me, chin held high, pony tail bouncing as she walks. She sits down across from my desk, crosses her legs, and her arms, placing her hands on her lap, her baggy sleeves hiding them from view. “Did you come alone?” I ask. Despite Sarah saying Chloe’s guardian hadn’t shown up for her meeting, I’m still surprised that nobody from social services accompanied her.

  “Yes,” Chloe says, fixing clear brown eyes on mine. “Shall we start?”

  For a moment I stare her out, taking stock of the teenager in front of me. Her face is scrubbed clean, the lack of makeup emphasising the natural beauty of her delicate features. Her chestnut hair is glossy, well cared for, her nails neatly trimmed. B
ut her clothes are evidently well-worn, probably hand-me-downs. The grey jersey is pilling in several places and the wool looks very thin over her elbows. Her jeans are clean but definitely not the latest fashion and the rips around her knees don’t look like they were purposely made. Chloe doesn’t seem to mind her less than glamorous wardrobe, but for a moment I’m reminded of my own teenage years, trying to make the clothes Mum bought me from Oxfam look less worn and feeling embarrassed when my friends flaunted the latest designs. To look at my life now, with the house, the car, the clothes, you’d never know it.

  Years of experience meeting new clients kicks in and I assume a poker face, although I hate to admit that this one is just as unsettling as Sarah warned. She walked in here looking as if she knows exactly what she’s doing. Even sitting down, her presence cannot be missed. She’s rod straight, but instead of looking uncomfortable, perhaps even nervous, she seems totally at ease. Her head remains tilted up, giving her an air of arrogance, and her forehead is knitted into a small frown, enough to create a vertical line between her perfectly arched brows. She purses her lips and takes a deep breath before raising both eyebrows at me in a questioning fashion, challenging me to begin.

  Taking a deep breath, I look at my notes, the neatly jotted questions that I’d prepared when, despite Sarah’s report suggesting otherwise, I was still expecting a terrified girl to land in my office and almost beg me to take on her case. Her air of confidence could be a guise to cover the fear inside, I think, a shell she is used to wearing. Remembering how I had refused to allow my feelings to show in my actions, I am overcome by an urge to protect her and decide to go easy on her, take things slowly, make sure that she is comfortable speaking to me.