Try Not to Breathe (5 page)

A
lex made it home at 12:28 p.m. and parked just outside her terraced house. She was painfully late. Her feet throbbed. Her eyes and throat were dry from concentrating in the strip-lit hospital air.

The stone path to her crimson front door was short, but every step pinched her ankle bones while her black dress tangled around her knees. All she wanted in the world right now was to sink into the cool dark behind the closed curtains.

The house had belonged to her mother but Alex hadn’t been raised in it. Her mother had moved back to Tunbridge Wells from Spain when the first cracks appeared in her memory, and dementia was whispered about in breathy, broken English.

Alex’s mother had wanted to be on home soil, wanted to be near a hospital whose name she could pronounce, and near familiar roads and avenues that she thought she’d be able to find her way around, no matter how bad it got.

It quickly got very bad.

Alex had moved in for the last months, while dementia punched permanent holes in her mother. She watched her only parent turning inside out, while Alex’s husband, Matt, stayed in their rented flat in South London. When her mother moved into the hospice on the hospital grounds for her bitter end, Alex went too. She’d chronicled the experience in a weekly column for
The Sunday Times Magazine,
“Losing Mum.” Her most intimate, private agonies also the most lucrative.

After Alex’s mother died, Matt moved in and the couple had tried to make the terraced house in Tunbridge Wells their home.

Leaving London was easy. To Alex, at least. She only lived in the capital because the newspapers were based there, not out of any affection for the place.

But Matt had loved living in London, working for the Met Police, surrounded by the constant hum of crime and punishment. He relished buzzing around in an anonymous hive, where nobody outside of his home or station knew his name.

Alex couldn’t bring herself to sell the place. The house was all that was left, apart from a few bits of jewelry and clothes. Her mother had shed everything else when she had packed up and moved to Andalusia some years before.

Coming back to England and choosing that house was the last major decision Alex’s mother had made. The last major decision she had been capable of making, and Alex couldn’t overturn it. Not yet.

The furthest Alex could go was remodeling the two-up, two-down with some of her inheritance money. Matt unhappily but dutifully followed.

They’d barely lived there six weeks before Matt was back in London.

Alex had pored over every microfilm clipping she could find on Amy Stevenson, then printed and organized them into sections. So much of it was identical agency copy, topped and tailed for the different papers, but even excluding duplicates the clippings from the first two weeks after her disappearance filled a whole archive box.

MISSING TEEN FEARED DEAD

SCORES of local residents are searching for missing schoolgirl Amy Stevenson, 15, who disappeared on her way home from Edenbridge Grammar School in Edenbridge, Kent, on Tuesday.

Amy’s parents, Jo, 34, and Bob, 33, raised the alarm at 9 p.m. on Tuesday but were told by police that the teenager was likely to have run away.

Jo and Bob told the
Mirror
that their daughter was a happy teen and would not have run away, claiming that none of her clothes or belongings were missing.

Police began searching the nearby area after Amy failed to appear at her home in Warlingham Road, Edenbridge, the next morning.

Fears are mounting that Amy may have been abducted and police are appealing for any witnesses that saw a man, woman or several adults approaching Amy between 3:30 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday, July 18.

Amy is five foot four inches tall, slim with long brown hair and blue eyes.

Amy was wearing a navy blue skirt, short-sleeved white blouse and black shoes with a wood-effect wedge heel. She was carrying a black nylon and rubber Kickers rucksack, and was last seen with her navy Edenbridge Grammar School jumper tied around her waist.

If you have seen Amy or saw anything suspicious in the Edenbridge or wider Kent area, call Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111.

Amy’s parents were initially treated as a unit. But within a day or so Bob had become “Amy’s stepfather.”

“It’s always the stepdad,” Alex remembered a nicotine yellow news editor telling her once, “sure as death and taxes, abductions are the stepdad, robberies are an inside job and bodies are found by dog walkers.”

POLICE ARREST STEPFATHER FOR ATTEMPTED MURDER

Amy Stevenson’s stepfather, Robert Stevenson, has been arrested for questioning about the teenager’s disappearance. The arrest follows the discovery of an unconscious young woman in woodland near to where Amy went missing.

Police are yet to make a formal statement but several sources claim it is the missing girl.

Mr. Stevenson, 33, had taken part in the search party. It is believed he was fewer than 100 meters away when the young woman was found…

There had been hundreds of clippings about Bob’s arrest, from scathing right-wing columns focusing on stepfamilies and the disintegration of the British community, to flimsy “eyewitness” interviews with unnamed neighbors designed to all but say guilty in blood-red letters.

TRAGIC AMY’S STEPDAD IN HIDING

STEPDAD Robert Stevenson, the main suspect in Amy Stevenson’s disappearance, has gone into hiding following his release by police…

The clippings thinned out considerably within weeks of Amy being found. The box containing clippings spanning nearly fifteen years was the same size as that of the first two weeks.

STEPDAD DID NOT ABDUCT AMY

POLICE investigating last month’s abduction and sexual assault of Amy Stevenson, 15, have announced they are formally dropping all charges against her stepfather, Robert Stevenson.

The unusual move comes amid fears that fresh witnesses will not come forward if they believe Stevenson, 33, is to blame…

Alex remembered the
Crimewatch
episode about Amy’s abduction. By then it was fairly old news.

Alex had watched the program with her mother, who had taken the opportunity to point out that she had been wholly correct to drill stranger danger into her own daughter from a young age. “Why was this girl making these bad decisions? How could she have just disappeared in full daylight?” Her mother had sloshed her whiskey sour as she concluded: “No, Alexandra, you mark my words, she went off with someone.”

Alex set her two glasses down on the glossy white sideboard. She filled the tall glass with bottled water until it threatened to spill. Carefully, she filled the wineglass with a millimeter-perfect measure of chilled, crisp Chablis. She replaced the heavy-bottomed bottle in the fridge door, alongside five identical bottles.

Alex had decided this morning, as she carefully wrote out her to-do list for the day, that she would have just one drink first.

Then she would go to the landline in her bedroom, which was fixed and not wireless. This would tether her away from the rest of the wine for the duration of the conversation.

Stalling in the kitchen, Alex stood by the Belfast sink while she drank. Slow medicinal gulps.

She walked slowly to the carefully arranged desk, picked up her Moleskine notepad and pen, then an extra pen, and stepped silently up the staircase.

The dove-gray bedroom was, of course, exactly as Alex had left it, but its empty chill still surprised her. The wine and the anticipation brought a giddiness to Alex’s gait, and she sat down heavily on the stripped mattress.

In her notepad, in careful thick black writing, was Matt’s mobile number. She had deleted it from her own phone long ago and had no memory for numbers, but had managed to track it down on an old joint insurance policy.

If she was deadly honest, this was her chance to prove that she’d moved on. Show that she was in control, that she was getting better. But more than any of that, she just wanted to hear his voice again.

Her stomach lurched as she pressed the keys on her retro handset. The oppressive dial tone burst repetitively. If he didn’t answer quickly she would—

“Hello?”

For a moment all that came from her mouth was air, a noiseless whoosh.

“Hi, Matt, it’s Alex,” she heard each word echo as she forced them out.

“Oh…okay. Hello, Alex, how are you?”

“I’m okay, thanks, and before you ask, I’ve only had one glass,” she joked, maybe more spikily than intended. As Matt’s polite laugh crackled down the line, she winced.

Matt’s low, gentle voice used to be hers whenever she wanted it. Until two and a half years ago, his voice was on tap for her ears, whenever, wherever she needed it. She missed him daily. Of her two great loves, he was the healthy one.

“I’m really sorry to bother you, but I thought you might be able to help me with something…” Alex was doing her best impression of professionalism, keeping her register high and clipped. But she knew all too well that Matt would know her bottom lip was shaking and tears were pooling inside lower lids.

“Okay, well, what’s the thing?” He didn’t sound overly disturbed—but curious, if anything. A contrast to the nightly post-breakup calls that Matt had eventually ignored altogether, leaving Alex to babble, hiccup and sob incomprehensibly into his voicemail.

“Well, I’ve been writing about coma patients…well, they’re not really in comas, they’re…well, you’d call them ‘vegetables.’ They’re not brain dead but they can’t move or talk. They’re not on life support machines or anything. It’s called ‘Persistent Vegetative State.’ ” She drew breath.

“Okay, I think I’ve heard of that, we watched something on Five a few months ago,” said Matt.

We? Who are we?
Not her right to ask. Not her right anymore. Her chest hurt. Alex wished she was on the wireless handset and could run downstairs and gulp down a second, third and fourth drink.

“Ooh, we, eh?” she tried to be breezy as tears fell fat and hot onto her lap.

Matt laughed politely, more of a snort than a laugh. An acknowledgment.

“Well, while I was in the ward I saw a girl I recognized. It was Amy Stevenson. Do you remember her from the news? The girl who was kidnapped and attacked and then they found her half-dead a few days later? She lived near me but it would have been on the national news too. Back when we were teenagers.”

“It rings a bell…but what has this got to do with me?” In the background she heard a door slam as Matt sighed.

Alex imagined her mother, hand on hip, eyes rolling. “Oh this is a sad sight,” she’d say, shaking her head. “You must learn when to walk away with your head held high.”

Alex had weaned herself off Matt once before, cutting off all contact for both their sakes. Now she was putting the gun in her own mouth and pressing his finger on the trigger. But there was no one else to ask. She’d burned all her bridges with his police friends. She tried to tell herself that was why she was calling him.

“Well, it’s an interesting one. Her attacker has never been caught, the stepdad was taken in and released, the mum died soon after…This girl has just been stuck in this state for fifteen years, while everyone else has moved on around her. I know it would make a great story, and I know that cold cases are notoriously hard to solve, not that I’m trying to crack the case, but I wanted to see what I could do, see if I could find any new angles to write about.” Alex drew a long breath.

“But where do I fit in?” Matt asked, a slight disquiet to his voice.

“Well, I’ve got some newspaper clippings from the time but it would be really good to know things from a police perspective. The lead detective on the case has left the force and I can’t find her anywhere. I wondered if you could look up the case for me, see if there’s any information that might be useful? Any suspects they didn’t track down or—”

“Christ, Alex! You’re asking me to pass you confidential documents. I’m a detective! I’d get myself sacked, or worse. What the hell?”

“Sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward spot, I don’t expect you to pass me documents or anything.”

“Well, what are you actually asking?” Alex didn’t know. She’d sorely misjudged Matt’s likeliness to help her. After everything she’d put him through, she’d still hoped that he’d open himself up like this, just because she asked. She cradled the embarrassment in her belly. Because she still thought of him daily, still dreamed of them together (when she dreamed). She’d imagined a mutual connection that was entirely one-sided.

“Just take a look with your detective’s hat on. Have a look at the case. It was a long time ago, policing has moved on, so has technology. You might see something that seems iffy.”

Matt made a sort of “hmn” noise.

“Just have a look, see if you think it’s worth exploring, tell me what you can—if anything—and I’ll let you know anything I find out, before it goes anywhere near an editor. And I won’t mention your name to anyone.”

“Oh God, Alex, look, it doesn’t really work like that. I can’t look up police records and then pass them to a journalist.”

A journalist. She was just “a journalist.” Of course he couldn’t pass information to a journalist. Foolishly, she’d allowed herself to imagine a gradual working relationship emerging. As she’d passed out the night before, she’d even allowed herself to imagine some kind of reconciliation. Memories of her nocturnal naivety made her cringe deeply. After everything she’d done, as if he’d come back.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I got this wrong. I fucked up, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. Look…You don’t need to tell me anything that isn’t already out there. I’m not a proper reporter, Matt, you know I’ve not done this stuff before. There must be a lot of information, clues even, just out there in the public domain, but I don’t fully know what I’m looking for. Perhaps you could just take a look at the details I’ve found, and let me know what jumps out at you?”

A pause. “Maybe.”

“Do you have a pen, Matt?”

Matt always had a pen. Well, he
had
always had a pen. A Montblanc she’d bought him as a wedding gift.

“Her name is Amy Jeanette Stevenson. Date of birth, 28th of February 1980. She lived on Warlingham Road in Edenbridge, Kent. She went missing on the 18th of July in 1995. Her mum was Joanne Stevenson. Father was unknown, stepdad was Robert Stevenson. He was fingered for it the day she was found but police released him. No one else was pulled in, according to the press, but I’m guessing they actually grabbed every pedo in a thirty-mile radius.”

“And the rest,” Matt murmured, audibly scribbling on some paper.

Alex’s stomach fluttered. As artificial as the situation really was, it felt good to be focusing, digging around. It felt good to be talking to Matt.

“Okay, Alex, I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Look…you know I said ‘we’ earlier?”

It was a clumsy segue. Alex didn’t want to have this conversation.

“It’s fine, you don’t need to tell me anything.”

“I know I don’t, but I’d rather it came from me, I wouldn’t want you finding out from someone else.”

“I never see any of your friends or family, I don’t see anyone. Don’t worry.”

He ignored her protestations and blurted out his news.

“I’m getting married, Alex. I’m getting married and I’m having a baby.”

“With the same woman?” Alex countered, while her heart shattered and her throat furred.

More awkward laughter.

“I’m really pleased for you. Congratulations. What’s her name?” She really, really didn’t want to know.

“Her name’s Jane, she’s a police officer at my station, so—” Matt stopped.

So she understands.

“So she understands the hours, then?” Alex helped him out.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“And when’s the baby due?”

“Next month. We’re having a girl.”

“Matt, I’m so pleased for you, that’s lovely news. Congratulations to you both. So…do you have my number or is it easier to drop me an email if you find out anything about Amy?” Alex dragged her nails along the mattress, moving them up to her leg and digging them into her skin to stay focused. She had to hold it together.

“I’ve still got your mobile number,” he continued, oblivious. “And your email address, if it hasn’t changed?”

“I’ve never got round to changing it, even though it is a bit cringey.”

“Oh it’s fine, it’s who you are—Alex Dale Writes.”

“At Gmail dot com.”

“At Gmail dot com. Anyway, I’ll be in touch. It was good to hear from you, Alex.”

“Thanks, Matt.”

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“What about the…about you, are you looking after yourself? I mean properly? Are you going to appointments?”

“Matt, you don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Alex put the phone down primly. She lay on the bed, grasped the bare duvet in her fingers and pulled it up over her legs, her belly, her chest, her face. A baby. He was having a baby. With his new wife. A healthy baby and a nice normal wife. Everything he ever wanted and always denied needing.

Twisting the unsheathed duvet around herself until she was completely swaddled, womb-like. Crying, bucking her body, swallowing tears. Howling, Alex contorted and writhed, trying to twist herself away from the pain until she was spent.

Exhausted and nauseous, she threw the duvet from her face and dragged herself from the scratchy mattress like it was cartoon quicksand. She was determined not to think about Matt and his new wife and their new baby. Determined but damned.

The shadows were so long, she didn’t know what time it was, or how long she had been lying there.

Alex paced into the bathroom. She peed, washed her face with expensive cleansing wash that made her gray skin squeak and then cantered quickly downstairs. Down to the glass and the bottle, and the bottle next to that. And a “fuck it” number of bottles after that too.