Dead Scared (14 page)

The first bucket took me totally by surprise. Freezing cold water hit me full in the face, streaming into my mouth and nose. For a
second
blind panic hit me when I couldn’t breathe. A moment later I was coughing hard.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the St John’s wet T-shirt competition,’ yelled a male voice as the contents of another bucket hit me. Another cheer went up and I looked down to see that the cotton running vest I nearly always wear in bed was soaked through. And that something like seventy people, standing in a circle around me, knew what my breasts looked like. One of the masked twats actually had a video camera, and for a second fury got the better of fear. This was sexual abuse, plain and simple. Where the hell were university security? Why was no one calling the police?

The bloke with the video camera was closer than the rest and at that moment I really didn’t care if I blew my cover, I was going to land him one. Forgetting the chain, I ran at him. I got three feet and saw alarm in pale-blue eyes before a stabbing pain shot through my ankle. A split second later I found myself sprawled in the mud. More cheers. And voices rising from the crowd.

‘I think that’s enough now, guys. Come on, let her go.’

Whoever he was, they took no notice of him. Six more buckets of ice-cold water were thrown at me while I was on the ground. I’d like to think it was the need to maintain my Laura Farrow cover that kept me lying there, curled into a ball, hiding my head behind one arm, but I’m honestly not sure. I just wanted it to be over. I wanted it to be over before I started to howl. When I couldn’t stop myself shaking I heard several voices shouting that that was enough. Then a warm hand was on my ankle and the cold chain was lifted away. Someone took hold of me under the arms and I was on my feet again.

‘You all right, love?’ said a northern accent. Not one of the masked boys. They’d disappeared into the night.

‘Does she bloody well look all right, you effing moron?’ A bright-yellow coat was wrapped around my shoulders and I was being steered by my tiny room-mate towards our block. I raised my head and pushed hair out of my eyes.

‘Christ, the mud we’re bringing in. Like that lot are going to clean it up. Come on, sweetie, let’s get you in.’ I let Talaith lead me inside. I was walking over linoleum, my feet squelching mud with every
step.
Talaith was guiding me towards the bathrooms at the end of the hallway. Doors were opening; girls who hadn’t dared leave their rooms before were appearing in the hallway.

‘Is she OK, Tox?’

‘She doesn’t look too good.’

‘She’ll be fine. She just needs to get warm. Can someone make tea?’ We’d reached the door of the bathroom and Talaith ushered me inside. She reached over and turned on the shower. Steam began to rise. ‘Go on, love,’ she told me. ‘You’re filthy. Get yourself warm. I’ll get you some towels. Can you manage? The front door’s locked. They can’t get in.’

She was still talking as the door closed and I was left alone. Without even bothering to take off my clothes I stepped under the hot water, telling myself I was OK, the front door was locked, they couldn’t get in. I was OK.

At my feet mud swirled in the basin. Grass and pebbles were already clogging the drain. I was still shaking. Talaith was wrong. The door to our block was left open all the time. The girls who lived in it, their visitors, the cleaners, came and went continuously. They could get in any time they liked and I was a very long way from being OK.

Berkshire, nineteen years earlier

THE MOTHER STARTED
howling as the coffin sank. The father, almost as green as the foliage on the coffin lid, took hold of her more firmly and a collective shudder ran through the mourners. This was always the moment when it hit home. To put someone you loved so much into the ground. To lose your only child. At thirteen years old. How did you deal with that
?

‘
The days of man are but as grass, for he flourisheth as a flower of the field,’ said the minister. ‘For as soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone
.’

The seventeen-year-old boy, in the smart, blazered uniform of a good public school, looked at the perfect rectangle of the grave and pictured the still, cold face of the boy inside. I did this, he said to himself. There were thunderclouds overhead and he wondered perhaps if guilt would hit him hard and hot, like a strike from a lightning bolt
.

Since the news that young Foster had hanged himself one Saturday morning in the dorm while the rest of the school were watching an inter-house cricket match, he’d been waiting for the guilt. He’d seen the horror-struck faces of his co-conspirators, the ones who’d helped him make Nathan Foster’s life a misery for the past twelve months, but, unlike him, had never really expected it to come to this. They were feeling it already, it was written all over their faces. Shame and contrition that would eat away at them like a parasite in their guts for the rest of their lives
.

Any time now it was coming for him too and it was going to hurt. Like a physical pain, he imagined it, a vicious cramp squeezing in on his heart, or maybe like maggots nibbling away at his brain. He knew, from the faces of those who were almost as guilty as he, that guilt was going to be bad
.

‘
Forasmuch as it has pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground
.’

Good God above, his English teacher was snivelling. Who’d have thought old Cartwright had a shred of compassion in him? Around the grave, mourners were throwing handfuls of earth on to the coffin like they didn’t have two perfectly good sextons with ruddy great shovels less than a hundred yards away. One of the undertaker’s staff was standing directly in front of him, holding out the box of soil. No choice but to dip in his hand, take hold of stuff that felt damp and slimy, and step forward for one last look. I did this, he said to himself, as he opened his hand and the soil fell directly on to one perfect white rose
.

Shadows were spreading fast around the crematorium garden. The day was getting colder and those with umbrellas were glancing down at them, as though to check they were still there. Maybe guilt would be like a heavy downpour from above, the first drops hardly noticeable, but gradually seeping through him until his entire being was drenched in it. Maybe guilt was slow to begin but relentless, building a momentum of its own once it got going. The boy took a deep breath and waited
.

‘
In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen
.’

The service was done and the caterwauling mother being led away. There’d be questions to face, now that the funeral was over, but he had it covered. They’d had time to sort out their stories and he’d been careful to cover his back from the start. There’d be no repercussions, he’d made sure of that. Just the guilt to be dealt with
.

‘
Come along, Iestyn.’ A warm hand was on his shoulder. Cartwright was touching him again, with the same hand he’d just used to wipe snot away from his dribbling nose. ‘Dreadful business, lad. We’re all feeling it
.’

‘
Thank you, Sir.’ The boy turned and stepped a little way to the side so that the teacher’s hand fell away
.

‘
Think we might be lucky with the weather after all,’ said
Cartwright,
as they walked across the short, grassed area to follow the other mourners back to the car park
.

Overhead, there was a sudden break in the clouds and the summer’s day became warm again. Ahead of Iestyn and his teacher, sunshine was streaming down upon the small, black-clad procession that made its way up the hill. Iestyn watched and saw sadness and confusion drifting behind them like the smoke from a tar boiler
.

I did this, he said to himself, as the warmth from the sun washed through him, making him feel alive, happy, even blessed. And he smiled
.

Wednesday 16 January (six days earlier)

BY THE TIME
Joesbury got back to the Cripps building, Lacey was being led back to her block by a group of young women. Her wet clothes clung to her body and her hair streamed down her back. She was gritting her teeth, he could tell from the way her jaw was set, and seemed determined not to make eye contact with anyone around her, keeping her gaze up and ahead.

Joesbury, on the edge of the crowd, was wearing dark, plain clothes. The collar of his jacket was pulled up and a black woollen cap covered most of his head. He was standing in the shadows, little more than a shadow himself. Wouldn’t make any difference. She’d know him. Joesbury stood still as stone, knowing that if she looked in his direction now, movement could give him away.

He’d seen the three masked figures slip away into the night minutes earlier and had given chase. He’d seen the vehicle they’d driven away in, memorized the make and registration number and already called it in. Not that he held out much hope. It would almost certainly be a stolen car they’d abandon after tonight. In ordinary circumstances he might have sprinted to his own car, taking a chance on the direction they’d take and finding them again. Ordinary circumstances when he didn’t have a damaged lung, and
when
Lacey wasn’t in the hands of irresponsible twats. Instead, he’d jogged back to the green.

Almost at the door of the building, she tottered and Joesbury took an involuntary step forward.

Biggest fucking mistake of his career, allowing himself to be talked into bringing her here. He simply could not function properly where she was concerned.

And now that the fun was over, several of the students still on the green were starting to notice him. A few long-legged strides and he was gone.

‘Hello?’

No background noise. She’d be in that tiny room, the one with the impossibly narrow bed pushed against the window wall.

‘Did I wake you up?’ He knew he hadn’t. There hadn’t been time for her to shower, drink tea, agree with the rest of the girls on the corridor what pillocks men could be, say goodnight and fall asleep.

‘No.’

Silence. He couldn’t ask her if she was OK. Couldn’t tell her what it had cost him to watch her go through that and not put someone in hospital for it. His scar was hurting again. He reached up, pressed fingers against the skin just below his right temple.

‘Thanks for the report,’ he said. ‘Very thorough.’

A moment passed, whilst she thought of something sarcastic to say back.

‘Pleasure,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

Joesbury took a step closer to the window. From the third floor of the hotel he could see the tower and some of the taller buildings of St John’s. He was looking in the exact direction of her room.

‘Thames Embankment,’ he said. ‘On my way home. Long day.’

The tiniest sigh that could almost have been a crackle on the line. Or, if he didn’t know her better, the start of a sob. ‘Pity,’ she said.

‘Why?’ he asked, before he could stop himself.

An intake of breath. Then a gulp. ‘Oh, nothing. I could just use a drink and some grown-up conversation right now.’

Joesbury turned back to his room, to the neatly made double bed
with
its dark-red throw, and saw Lacey’s head on the crimson silk, her arms outstretched, hair trailing to the carpet.