I got a taxi back to Clare’s, too nervous to take the tube or bus, too paranoid that Pete might follow me. The cabbie was the silent sort, which was just as well because I could barely breathe, let alone speak.
Although I still had a set of Clare’s house keys, I rang the doorbell rather than let myself in.
‘Fran, I wasn’t expecting you,’ said Clare, opening the door. ‘I thought you’d gone back to your flat.’
She was wearing a pair of slippers and some fleecy pyjama bottoms covered with cartoon characters. I rarely saw her looking anything less than metropolitan and glamorous. Another glimpse into the world of normality and it was the straw that made me crack; I burst into tears.
‘Hey, hey,’ she said, pulling me in. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Everything,’ I sobbed, my whole body trembling.
She quickly led me through to her living room and turned on the gas fire, filling the cosy space with an orange glow. I perched on the edge of the sofa. I’d sat here dozens of times before, curled into the corner with a glass of wine, my feet under a soft throw. I could barely remember those times now. It was as if the memories belonged to someone else.
‘Pete Carroll came to chambers to see me,’ I sobbed.
‘The bloke who lives downstairs?’
I nodded. ‘He’s blackmailing me.’
‘What? What about?’
I looked down at my hands in shame and knew it was time to tell her everything. I took a deep breath and began to speak.
‘So he’s threatening to go to the police?’ Clare cut in.
I nodded and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘He’s insinuating that I might have had something to do with Donna’s disappearance.’ I heard the fear in my voice as I spoke. ‘And let’s be honest, the police might agree with him.’
‘That little shit,’ said Clare with venom. ‘What does he want? Money?’
I fixed her with a bleak stare.
‘Sex.’
Her eyes slowly widened.
‘And … did you?’ she asked.
I nodded. Seeing the revulsion on her face, I tried to justify myself.
‘Yes, I had to. He’s dangerous, seriously Clare,’ I said. ‘I’m sure he’s had a crush on me for a while, in fact he tried to kiss me on my birthday and I said no. And now it’s as if he’s intent on revenge. He said that he was treated at the Maudsley. I don’t know what for. Maybe he was disturbed. Now I think he might be stalking me …’
I took a deep breath to control my hysteria and then put my head in my hands. I wanted to weep, to bawl and sob, but it was as if every muscle in my body was paralysed. Clare came to sit next to me, an arm around my shoulders, but I couldn’t look at her.
‘Fran, you have to go to the police,’ she said gently.
‘I think he might beat me to that,’ I said bitterly.
‘No, he won’t,’ said Clare. ‘And even if he does – so what? He has some half-baked theory about you? Big deal. He’s the one who’s committed a crime. He raped you, Fran.’
Somewhere in my head, I knew she was right, but I still shrank away from the word. Rape was something that happened in dark alleys by crazed maniacs, not in your own bedroom by a good-looking neighbour. I knew logically of course that sex by coercion was sex against your will. It wasn’t my area of law, but I saw the fall-out in nearby rooms in the advice centres, sandwiched between the bankruptcy proceedings and small-claims court actions, the pale teenage girls, frightened and afraid. Girls who had been threatened that naked photos or porn tapes would be sent viral if they did not acquiesce to more of the same, married women tricked or forced by a brother-in-law or a co-worker. I didn’t handle these cases; volunteers with criminal expertise looked after them, and each time, their advice was the same as Clare’s. Go to the police. But in truth, the law liked clarity and this situation blurred the edges. It was blurred in my mind.
‘The thing that I’m most afraid of is that he might be right,’ I said, my voice little more than a whisper.
‘That’s crazy!’ said Clare. ‘You had nothing to do with Donna’s disappearance.’
‘But what if I did?’ I said looking at her intently, trying to let her see the guilt I’d been carrying inside me. I had hated Donna Joy – that night more than any other – and in my working life I had seen how destructive the force of hate could be.
‘I remember waking up at Pete’s, I remember watching Donna’s house. But in those four hours in between – nothing. I can’t remember what I did, Clare,’ I said, desperation creeping into my voice.
‘Fran, you cannot seriously think for one moment that you did something to harm Donna Joy.’
‘Pete thinks I did.’
‘Pete is twisting things in your head to get what he wants.’
‘But do you think I’m capable of violence?’
‘Fran – this is ridiculous.’
‘No, seriously, Clare, I know there’s a link between bipolar and violence. There is, isn’t there?’
Clare pulled away, shaking her head. ‘I have spent half my life trying to remove the stigma between patients with a mental illness and the shit that people connect it with,’ she said angrily. ‘You’ve heard what people used to whisper at you: schizo, psycho, loony. None of it is flattering, all of it is wrong and offensive.’
‘I know all that,’ I said. ‘But it’s just you and me here, Clare. Please, tell me – is it possible?’
She gave a loud sigh of disapproval.
‘If someone is in a severe manic episode, then it’s possible, yes. It’s possible that someone could be violent.’
‘What could they do? If they were out of control, I mean?’
‘I’ve heard of acts of superhuman strength,’ she said reluctantly. ‘More often, but still uncommon, it’s just aggressive behaviour. Sometimes people have to be sectioned when they’re having a manic episode and substance abuse can increase the risk of violence and physical assault – but it’s still very unlikely.’
She put her hand over mine.
‘And I’m talking “could have”s here because you’re pushing me – these are extreme instances, Fran. Besides, what you’re talking about is something else. This isn’t you going batshit and having to be restrained, this is you blacking out for a couple of hours – not the same thing at all.’
She looked at me, the concern turning to irritation, the friend overtaking the psychiatrist.
‘Come on Fran, what do you think happened here? You broke down Donna’s locked door, delivered a fatal karate chop, then got rid of her body, all before two o’clock in the morning when you arrived back in Islington? Oh, and after hoovering and wiping down every surface with Mr Muscle before you left: I assume forensics have crawled all over Donna’s house and found nothing except traces of Donna – and Martin.’
I didn’t like her mention of Martin’s DNA being collected by the scene-of-crime team, but I had to admit that she was talking sense.
‘That still leaves three missing hours from pub closing time. What could I have been doing? If only I could get that time back. If only I could remember.’
Clare stood up and walked over to the window, staring through the glass on to the dark shadows on the street.
‘I have a friend who might be able to help,’ she said after a moment. ‘His name is Gil. He works at the centre, he’s a clinical psychiatrist who specializes in trauma.’
I looked at her, a tiny dot of hope growing.
‘But I thought you said you couldn’t retrieve memories from a blackout?’
‘It’s not an exact science, and I’m not sure if it can be done in your case. But if there’s a way, Gil will know. I think we should see whether it is possible, don’t you?’
I jumped up and threw my arms around her. ‘Thank you, Clare. You are so wonderful.’
‘Hey, it’s OK,’ she murmured, pulling me close, stroking my hair. For a moment, a memory dislodged. A night at university. The night of the summer ball. It had been such a warm day, the balminess was still in the air and the Sloaney girls on the events committee had done a glorious job transforming the grounds of our halls of residence into a wonderland sprinkled with hurricane lanterns; it was as if the whole place had been dusted with stardust and fireflies, just like the night Alex had described, the night he first kissed Donna. Clare and I had been reckless too. We were drunk and happy, the fairground rides at the far end of the lawns making us even more dizzy and heady. I had felt beautiful that evening in a long vintage dress I’d found in a charity shop. A year earlier, I had been the girl behind the bike shed, the school slut who smoked and slept her way around town, trying to get noticed. But that night I’d felt like a princess in a fairy tale and Clare had been cast in the same spell. I wondered if she ever remembered that night. Those carefree, reckless days of youth – oh, how I missed them.