The Party Page 8

  For me, running is a form of meditation – all the time I’m out there my mind is full of the rhythm of my feet on the pavement, the strain of the muscles in my thighs and the regular in and out of my breath, leaving no room for me to think about anything else. It’s just what I need right now to give me some time to get my head together. This morning I let the comforting familiarity of it all overtake everything else and let my mind become blissfully blank.

  After letting my feet take me where they want to go, I look up, realizing where I am. Coming to a stop, for a moment I pause at the edge of West Marsham woods, my heart beating double time in my chest, unsure as to whether I want to follow my usual route, but my feet itch to press on, so I do, reasoning that I have my rape alarm, and it’s eight o’clock in the morning – people are on their way to work on the other side of the trees … and surely, surely something couldn’t happen to me twice, could it?

  My first few steps into the woods are cautious and my breath loses rhythm in my throat, making me gasp and giving me a stitch in my side. I push on, breathing through it, fingers pressed against my ribs to ease the sharp pain. By the time I reach the tiny wooden bridge that spans the small stream running through the forest floor, I can see the motorway bridge in the distance, and people scurrying over it on their way to work, school, wherever they need to be. I stop, checking the time on my watch – my best time yet, it seems as though fear works for me in terms of personal bests – and lean over the handrail of the bridge, sucking in gulps of fresh, so-cold-it-hurts early morning air. I am so intent on drinking in the fresh air, watching the swirling eddies in the no doubt icy water, that I shriek as I feel a hand land on my arm. I whirl around, one arm raised to strike, fumbling for the button on the rape alarm with the other.

  ‘Wait, Rachel, please.’ A familiar voice tries to calm me, ‘It’s me. It’s only me.’

  I lower my arms, heart racing and breath coming in gasps as fear pumps obscene amounts of adrenaline around my body.

  ‘Jesus, Ted. You scared me.’ I wipe surreptitiously at my top lip, where tiny beads of sweat have gathered and try to regulate my breathing. ‘What the hell were you doing, sneaking up on me like that?’

  ‘I wasn’t sneaking, honestly – I’m sorry if I scared you. I was just walking Flora and I saw you …’ He lifts one hand, dog lead wrapped around it, Flora, his Doberman, attached to the other end. She sniffs at the edge of the bridge, before pacing backwards and forwards, letting out a little whine of frustration. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.’

  I look at him, taking in his familiar features, the smile on his face that could make my heart race and my knickers fall off. Once. Not any more. He’s been away at a conference, or so Robbie said, so I have no idea whether he knows what happened at the party or not.

  ‘I don’t need to be in the office until later today. Can we get a coffee?’ he asks awkwardly, his cheeks rosy from either the cold or a blush, I’m not sure which. ‘I mean, if you want to? Just to chat … catch up, you know.’ He gives another awkward smile. I think for a moment, worry that Gareth will hear about it, sparking a niggle of anxiety; I don’t want to make things any worse between us. But then I think of Gareth’s face when he said I had washed away all the evidence, and how I felt, despite his reassurances, as though he didn’t believe me about what had happened. It’s just a coffee. And Ted is a friend, no matter what went on between us before.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  The coffee shop on West Marsham High Street is busy, heaving with customers grabbing their latte, or cappuccino, or whatever ‘to go’ on their way to work. While Ted ties Flora’s lead to the post outside, I push my way through the busy café, headed towards the back of the room where I spy an empty table tucked away from prying eyes. The last thing I need is someone reporting back to Gareth that I was having coffee with Ted. I think for a moment about leaving, about saving myself the bother that this coffee could potentially cause and just walking out and heading home, but when I turn Ted is at the counter, gesturing to me about muffins. I shake my head and sit down at the table, no chance of escape now. At least I can use this opportunity to find out what Ted remembers of the party, to see if he can tell me anything that Liz couldn’t. I watch as he winds his way through the now thinning crowd, a coffee in each hand. He hands one to me and I take a cautious sip, the scorching liquid puffing fragrant steam into my face. Hazelnut latte. Ted remembers my coffee order, even if Gareth doesn’t.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Rachel, I wanted to speak to you … about the party.’ Ted leans forward across the table and I get a hint of his citrusy aftershave. The smell makes me feel slightly sick, and I shake my head, pulling back slightly, unsure as to why I would feel that way.

  ‘What about it?’ I whisper, holding my coffee cup to my mouth in order to hide behind it.

  ‘People are saying …’ He breaks off, taking a deep breath before he goes on, ‘people are saying that something happened to you there. That you were attacked. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes.’ I don’t know how else to say it. ‘At least, I think so.’

  ‘You think so?’Ted frowns, his brow crumpling. ‘What do you mean? You don’t know?’

  ‘I do know. I know that something happened to me, I just don’t know what. I can’t remember anything clearly past the first half an hour or so of the party. I think my drink was spiked.’ The air in here is cloying and humid, thick with the scent of coffee and buttery pastry, and my stomach rolls over as I breathe it in. I push my fringe off my forehead and wish that I hadn’t put running skins on after all.

  ‘Oh God, Rachel, I’m so sorry.’ Ted leans over and grasps both my hands in his. I squirm uncomfortably, sliding my hands out from under his. I don’t want it getting back to Gareth that I was holding hands with Ted in the coffee house. ‘You really don’t remember anything?’

  ‘Not much. Although I remember more now than I did when I woke up the next morning.’

  Ted leans back, running his hand over the whiskery stubble on his chin, a frown dipping his eyebrows down in to a deep V.

  ‘God, Rachel, I don’t know what to say. I’d ask if you’re all right, but it seems to be a bit of a stupid question.’ He looks devastated, and I almost feel sorry for him, before I remember that it’s me that I should be feeling sorry for, me who was hurt. ‘What can you remember?’

  ‘Bits and pieces, that’s all. I remember arriving, hearing music. Not much more than that at the moment.’ I don’t want to talk about the sensation of hands pushing me down, sure that if I do mention it there’s a chance I’ll go to pieces and I can’t, not in here. ‘Listen, Ted …’ It’s my turn to lean across the table towards him now, my words hushed to avoid the woman on the table next to us, whose ears are practically out on stalks trying to hear our conversation. ‘Can I pick your brains about the party? The police are apparently speaking to everyone who was there, but I just … I have this huge gap – a big, black hole in my memory – and I’m trying to connect the dots. See what other people can remember in the hope that it’ll jog something in my own mind, something that will help me remember.’

  ‘Of course,’Ted still has that look of concern etched into his face, ‘anything I can do to help. Although, I’ve already told the police everything I know.’

  ‘They’ve seen you?’ I don’t know why but for some reason I thought I was speaking to Ted before they had. Stupid, I should have known.

  ‘I came back from the conference to a message to contact them urgently. I went into the station on my way home from work last night and told them what I knew.’

  ‘What do you know, Ted?’ My words are clipped, and I give a small smile of apology. I just want to know what Ted remembers from that night.

  ‘Not a lot really.’ He puffs out a long breath as he thinks. ‘I got to the party a little later than everyone else; it was already busy by the time I got there. Angela called just as I was about to walk out the door, something she wanted to discuss about Sean. She wa
nts him to go out to the US, to stay with her and Devon, a gap year, she called it, but I’m pretty sure she’ll spend her time trying to convince him to stay there.’ Ted shreds the napkin in front of him, littering the table with tiny scraps of tissue. I stay silent, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘You were there when I arrived … talking in the kitchen, I’m sure. I said hello but I didn’t hang around because I knew Gareth was there, somewhere.’

  ‘He wasn’t in the kitchen with me?’ I ask, anxiety bubbling up in my stomach once more.

  ‘Not that I saw. You were talking to Melody, laughing about something. You both had a glass in your hands – red wine, I think? I went through into the living room and then I saw Neil and we started talking about the football.’

  ‘What about Gareth? Did you see him leave?’ I still have that underlying feeling that something wasn’t quite right when he left – that we maybe weren’t OK by the time he wanted to leave the party.

  ‘No, I didn’t see him, but then I didn’t actively look out for him. I didn’t see him all night, I don’t think. But then maybe he was avoiding me. I mean, it would be pretty awkward, wouldn’t it? The two of us making small talk at a party.’ Ted gives a rueful huff of laughter, but I say nothing. ‘Do you really not remember me leaving, Rachel?’

  He looks at me strangely, and I get that twist of fear low down in my belly again, my heart beat stuttering in my chest.

  ‘Did I see you leave?’ My mouth is dry as I ask the question; pretty sure I know what his answer will be.

  ‘You were with me,’ he says, and I feel sick again, my stomach rolling. ‘You were quite drunk – I was a bit worried about you. You were slurring your words and staggering a bit, and there was no sign of Gareth, so it must have been after he left. I was going to help you home – just walk you across the green, make sure you got back safely – because you weren’t in a fit state to get there on your own. My phone rang just as we were about to leave, and it was Angela … I had to take it, we’d rowed earlier, and she was a bit hysterical.’

  ‘So why didn’t you end up walking me home?’

  ‘I left you in the kitchen, sat at the table – I did tell you I’d be right back once I’d spoken to Angela – but when I came back in the kitchen, you were gone. I checked all over downstairs to see if I could find you, but … obviously I couldn’t. I checked with Liz to see if she’d seen you, but she seemed to think that you’d left when Gareth did.’ Ted looks down at the mass of shredded paper all over the table. ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, I should have gone upstairs, I should have looked for you.’

  I can’t speak for a minute, trying hard as I am to see the scene he just described. I imagine myself slumped against Ted’s shoulder, the weight of him sturdy beneath me. The rolling floor, trying to upend me as I walk – no, stagger towards the front door, but I have no idea if this is a memory, or just my own twisted imagination.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, but it’s not, not really, why didn’t Ted look for me properly? Why did Gareth leave without me? How did I get in such a state that I could barely stand on my own? Anxious now to get home and think things through, I push the empty coffee cup away from me and get to my feet. ‘I have to go, Ted. Thank you … for telling me what you know.’

  ‘Wait, Rachel,’ he stands and lays a hand firmly on my arm. I stare down at it, until he pulls back. ‘Let me know what the police say, won’t you? When they have anything new to tell you?’ I nod and make my way through the now thankfully empty café. I just want to go home. I should never have gone running this morning.

  Once home, I strip off my damp, clammy running clothes and head straight for the shower, my mind whirling with everything Ted has told me this morning. Standing under the powerful spray I let the hot, almost too hot, water thunder down over my face and hair, into the stiff, aching muscles that I failed to warm down properly. I toss over Ted’s words in my mind – you were quite drunk, slurring your words – and I struggle to believe what he’s said.

  I would never have let myself get in such a state that I couldn’t walk or talk properly on my own. Gareth would never have let me get like that, even if he was angry with me. Yes, there have been times in the past when I have drunk too much, and not remembered things in the morning – who hasn’t been there? But not like this. Previously, I’ve always been able to remember the majority of the evening – who I spoke to, who else was there – but this time there is literally nothing beyond Liz opening the door, the thumping bass of the music thudding through the walls.

  The other thing that strikes me as unusual is Ted saying I slurred – when I drink, I am a puker, much to Gareth’s disgust. I am a lightweight, and I have never, ever reached a point where I slur my words, simply because I have usually been sick and gone to bed before I can reach that point. And the smell of citrus aftershave, that persistent little voice whispers at the back of my mind, see how you reacted to the smell of Ted’s aftershave? Why would that make you feel sick? You used to love the smell of Ted’s aftershave. I reach up and lather shampoo roughly into my hair, trying to force that thought from my mind. It terrifies me to think that Ted perhaps had more to do with things that night than he’s told me.

  An hour later, my hair still drying on my shoulders, I am seated on our living room couch, feet tucked up on the cushion next to me, listening to Carrie tell me the good news, and then the bad news.

  ‘The good news is that all your tests came back clear.’ Thank God. ‘But I do have to tell you that things with the investigation have slowed down a bit since I last spoke to you.’

  ‘What?’ I slide my feet out from under me and place them firmly on the floor, as if to ground me. The world tilts slightly and I feel as though I am underwater, as though I might faint. ‘What do you mean, things have slowed down? It’s barely been more than a week!’

  Carrie looks down at the floor, fiddling with her watchstrap, keen to avoid eye contact with me.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rachel, I really am. If it were down to me I wouldn’t … let you down like this.’ She finally raises her eyes to mine, and I shake my head disbelievingly. ‘We are still working on it; I can assure you. I’ll still be on the case, but unfortunately the leads we’ve been following don’t seem to be giving us much more information to go on at the moment.’

  ‘Surely you can’t just … give up like this?’

  ‘We’re not giving up on you, Rachel, I promise. There’s just no evidence, no leads for us to go on right now, but that doesn’t mean that we won’t keep looking for things – we still need your underwear to turn up for starters.’

  ‘And the information you already have hasn’t helped?’

  ‘Your medical examination showed that you had had intercourse, but there was no DNA, no tearing, nothing that could have been anything more than rough sex. You’d been drinking … and by the time you came in anything that might have been slipped into your drink didn’t show on any blood tests. I’m sorry.’

  ‘But what about the bruises on my arms, and on my thighs? Doesn’t that prove anything?’ My voice rises into nigh on a shriek, scratching the back of my throat. At the sound of raised voices Thor staggers from his basket, throwing himself down on the rug at my feet. Carrie shakes her head.

  ‘It’s not enough,’ she says, and I hear the click of her throat as she swallows, ‘sometimes we do hit a bit of a wall in cases like this. I wish I could tell you differently. But believe me, Rachel, this doesn’t mean that I won’t keep investigating.’

  ‘What about the other people at the party?’ I whisper, as I feel the anger that fired me up fading, ‘surely someone saw something? One of them must have been able to give you something to go on – how could nobody have seen anything at all?’

  ‘Apparently not. We’ve spoken to everyone we’re aware of attending, and no one saw anything, apart from you seeming to be more drunk than usual. I’m sorry, Rachel, we’ve done as much as we can for the moment. Until we can find your underwear there’s no evidence.’ You washed it all awa
y. The words stand in the thick atmosphere between us, as sure as if they were written in neon.

  ‘Did you speak to a man named Aaron Power? Apparently, he was at the party,’ I say, desperate to give Carrie something to go on. ‘I had … some trouble with him before Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, we did.’ Carrie tucks her pen back inside her notebook. ‘There were a lot of people at the party and there seems to be some slight confusion over who actually attended. He says he wasn’t there, Rachel.’

  Unable to speak, so furious am I, I show her to the front door, eager to see the back of her now, disappointed that she could just give up on me – because that’s what it feels like, even though she says she’s not – making me feel heavy and lethargic.

  She tries to apologize again at the door, but I wave her away, closing the door on her before she can finish speaking. Resting my head against the cool of the door, I close my eyes, not even attempting to blink back the hot, angry tears that fall. I’m on my own. That much I do know now – the police aren’t interested, despite Carrie saying they’ll still be working on my case I know it’ll just fall further and further down the list as more, even worse crimes come in, and despite Gareth saying he does believe me, I still have that creeping feeling that he doesn’t, not really.

  Before I can move away, the shrill ring of the doorbell makes me jump, and I think maybe Carrie has come back – maybe she’s realized that something sinister happened that night and she’s going to try and get a full team back on it. I pull the door open, only to see a stranger standing there, no Carrie.

  ‘Yes?’ I don’t think it’s too obvious that I’ve been crying, but I tug the door close to my body ready to slam it shut.

  ‘Hiiiiii.’ The woman in front of me draws the word out in an attempt to sound chummy. She is about my height, with a thick face of make-up, a line of orange foundation marring her bottom jaw, and bleached spiky blonde hair. I have no idea who she is. ‘Rachel, right? Rachel Walker?’