Looking for JJ (22 page)

 

 

 

Frankie gave a soft knock on her room door before pushing it open slightly.

“You all right?” he said.

She had almost finshed packing. He saw her holdall immediately and came into the room with a frown on his face.

“What’s going on?

“I’ve got to go. Something’s happened—” she started.

“Why? What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”

“Yes. . . No. . . Nothing’s wrong with us. . . I just. . .”

“Is it about this afternoon? Are you sorry that we. . .?”

“It’s not about us.”

He was standing by her bed. He looked a bit sleepy, his hair tousled, as if he’d been having a nap and just remembered that she was there. He was stretching his arms up and yawning. She felt a need to hug him, to encircle him with her arms, to push her head into his chest. He was too big for her, though. He had always been too big for her.

“You’d better sit down,” she said, taking a step backwards, away from him, pulling her holdall off the bed and on to the floor.

Frankie plonked himself on the duvet. He seemed resigned in some way, as if he expected to hear something bad. Alice sat beside him and put her hand on his shoulder. He had no idea how terrible it was going to be.

“The other night? When I asked you if your feelings towards me would change? If you knew that I’d done something bad?”

She was deliberately keeping her voice light.

“Alice, if you’re going to dump me just do it,” Frankie said, his words flat.

“Listen to me. I am not going to dump you. I love you!”

It was the first time she had said it. Those three little words. His head was bowed, though, and he didn’t seem to notice. He was so sure that what she had to tell him had something to do with
him
.

“My name is not Alice Tully,” she said, as forcefully as she could.

He looked up, puzzled.

“How do you mean?”

“Alice Tully is not the name I was born with. I’ve only been calling myself by that name for seven, eight months. All the time that I’ve been living with Rosie.”

He didn’t speak. He leaned back on his hands, a look of interest on his face. He was sure now that she wasn’t going to dump him. If only he knew how much worse it was going to be.

“There’s no easy way to tell you this. My real name is Jennifer Jones and seven months ago I was released from a secure unit. I. . . I. . . My name was changed to give me a chance to start fresh. To begin a new life.”

He was just looking at her. The name hadn’t rung any alarm bells for him. She decided to keep going.

“Frankie, six years ago, I was involved in. . . I caused. . .”

“Jennifer Jones?” he said, as if there were cogs turning inside his head.

“Six years ago I killed my best friend. Then I went to prison.”

There was silence. Not a sound. Alice held her breath and looked straight at him, her eyes searching his face, her hand moving swiftly to take his.

“I . . . I did do it. I can’t make any excuses. I killed her. . .”

Her voice broke and she found herself choking back the need to cry.

“I was only ten. We were messing around, by a lake, with another girl, and I hit her with a bat. I can’t really explain except to say that it was a moment of madness.”

“You’re Jennifer Jones?” Frankie said, a look of awe on his face.

“Yes.”

“You can’t be,” he said, giving a false laugh. “I remember reading about it in the paper. She’s only just been released. There was a load of publicity about it. She’s living abroad somewhere.”

“It’s me. I was released six months early. Only a few people knew. The press stuff about the official release? That was all a bluff, to put the media off my trail. You see, I’m big news.”

She was crying. She had his hand sandwiched in between hers and she was holding it tightly.

“You killed your friend?” he whispered.

“I did. I can’t explain exactly why. All I know is that it did happen. I wasn’t myself. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Alice stopped. That wasn’t right. To deny responsibility. She had spent too much time talking to counsellors to fall back on excuses.

“That’s not true. I did know. I did know what I was doing. I can’t explain. It was me who killed her, and yet at the same time it was a different person altogether.”

“But. . .”

Frankie started to speak but seemed to notice then that Alice had his hand. He pulled it back. He stood up and walked across the floor, his fingers pushing his hair up at the front.

“I read about this. Weeks ago. I think I even knew about it at the time. Jennifer Jones. It was in the woods or somewhere.”

“A reservoir. Berwick Waters. It’s near Norwich.” Alice’s voice was firmer. It was easy to give the facts. “She was ten and I was ten. There was another girl, but she wasn’t involved.”

“It was all over the newspapers.”

“Yes. It was a scandal. A terrible thing. One child killing another.”

She was talking about it as though it had happened to someone else.

“And it was
you
?” he said.

She nodded as he lapsed into silence. What was going through his head? Part of her wished she knew, but part of her was glad she didn’t.

“This kid, this girl, she wasn’t killed outright. That was it. She was buried alive.”

Alice felt a swooning sensation. She pushed her feet into the ground but it felt soft and spongy. The room seemed unsteady. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Frankie standing upright, one hand leaning on the wall. He looked bigger than she’d ever seen him. She felt tiny, as if she might fall off the bed and disappear between the floorboards.

“No, that’s not true. . . I didn’t know that she was still alive. I was only ten. I thought she was dead. I never would have left her if I thought she was still alive. I would have got an ambulance. . .”

She couldn’t say any more because something shocking occurred to her.
Would she? Would she have got an ambulance?
If Michelle Livingstone’s eyes had flickered open as she covered her with branches would she have done anything to save her? Frankie’s voice seemed to be droning on. He was saying stuff about
honesty
and that this was
something he would have to think about
and that he would
need time and space
. She didn’t care, though. All she could see in her head was a girl lying underneath the foliage, her ribcage moving up and down. It was a moment of madness, she had always said that. And yet what if she’d known that Michelle was
alive
? Would she have lifted a finger to save her?

The front doorbell sounded. It forced itself into her head. It rang again, with purpose, as if someone was in a hurry. She could hear it, loud and clear, as if she was standing next to it.

“That’ll be Rosie,” she said, hoarsely.

“I can’t believe you kept all this from me,” Frankie said. “You lied to me.”

“That was part of the agreement I had with my probation officer. No one knew.”

“Rosie knew?”

“Except for Rosie. She had to know, obviously. She had to know what she was taking on, who she had living in her house. . .”

“What about me?”

There was noise from downstairs, the sound of Jan talking loudly to someone in the hall.

“Didn’t I have a right to know who you were? Who I was getting involved with?”

“We didn’t think. . . At the time I had no idea that I would meet . . . someone like you.”

Jan was calling Alice’s name from downstairs.

“I’ve got to go. . . Wait here. . .”

She said it softly. Then she turned from him and walked out of the room and downstairs. Rosie was standing at the bottom, her car keys hanging from her hand, her face anxious. Jan was beside her looking uncertain. Sophie appeared at the living-room door, the sound of the television coming from inside.

“Is everything OK?” Jan said.

“A family situation. I’ve got to take Alice home,” Rosie said tactfully, her keys moving and sounding like the tinkling of bells.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jan said.

“Is Alice going?” Sophie said, her voice dropping.

“Yes, she is, love,” Rosie said.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Alice said.

She gave Rosie a kiss on the cheek, just a peck, and then turned to go back upstairs. Sophie followed behind her. She went into her room and found Frankie, sitting on the bed, his head in his hands.

“Frankie, I. . .”

She sat beside him, her arms around his neck.

“I was only ten. Only a child. I’m a different person now.”

He was rigid, though, his shoulders and arms solid, as if he was closed against her. He was strong and she was weak. That had always been the way. She stood up, her throat closed in a knot. She picked up her holdall and heard the door creak and Sophie come in.

“Tell Alice not to go,” Sophie said, linking her arms through Alice’s.

Frankie looked up at his sister and then his eyes, heavy and dark, moved to Alice’s face.

“Get away,” he said.

Alice flinched, thinking that he meant her, that he wanted her to get away from him. It was worse though, much worse than that.

“Sophie, get away from her. Leave go of her,” he said, lifting himself off the bed and pulling his sister’s arm so that she let Alice go.

He stood, holding his sister, his big arms around her. Sophie looked annoyed as if she was about to argue with him. He moved back, as far away from Alice as he could. That’s when she understood. He was protecting his sister from her. He was keeping her
safe
from the child-killer in his house.

Grabbing hold of her bag she turned and left, Sophie’s protestations in the back of her head. She walked down each stair uncertainly as though she wasn’t sure where the next one would be. Rosie was chatting to Jan, a half-smile on her lips. The moment she saw Alice she opened the front door, her keys up and ready.

“Thank you for having me,” Alice said, woodenly, when she got to the door.

“That’s all right!” Jan said, leaning across and giving her a perfumed kiss on the cheek. “We’ll see you again, soon, I shouldn’t wonder.”

But Alice knew that she would never see them again. Any of them.

 

 

 

She woke early in her own bedroom. Her eyes popped open but the rest of her body was weighted down with sleep. She turned her head and looked at the bedside clock. It showed the time: 05:32. It wouldn’t be long till the newspapers started to drop through people’s front doors. The manager from the
Coffee Pot
; Pip and Jules; Rosie’s mum, Kathy; Rosie’s work colleagues and her friends; Frankie’s housemates; Frankie’s parents; the neighbours; her own mother and her new husband. The list went on.

Yesterday she was Alice Tully. Who was she now? She turned over, away from the clock, and looked around the room. She’d been there for almost eight months. She’d decorated it, rearranged the furniture, bought herself a chair and a small stereo system. She’d added some cushions and a mirror and a special lamp with fringed crystals hanging from it. Rosie had wanted to pay for them but it was important for Alice to buy her own things, to make her own stamp on the room.

It had seemed like home.

Now it looked odd, as if nothing quite fitted. She’d been away for four nights in Frankie’s tiny spare room, so at first her own room had seemed far too big, the ceiling too high, the floorboards too uneven and creaky. As soon as she’d taken her shoes off she’d felt the draught seeping up, making her feet feel icy and causing goosebumps to rise up on her shins.

She’d got into bed immediately, covering herself with her duvet.

“It’s stuffy in here,” Rosie had said. “I’ll open this window slightly.”

“No,” she’d insisted, “I want it closed. And the door, close it tightly when you go out.”

Rosie had given her a hug and kiss and then left, shutting the room door behind her, her footsteps along the hallway, heavy, as if she was burdened with something.

Alice looked at the lamp. It was too flashy, she could see that now. It didn’t go with the stripped-wood dresser and the Victorian curtains. She had carried it carefully home from the shops and set it up on the kitchen table first to show Rosie. Her first reaction had been to say,
What’s that?
When she explained Rosie had clapped her hand over her chest and said that it was
Absolutely beautiful
. It didn’t fit, though. Rosie was only being kind. A rush of affection filled her chest like a fire warming her from inside. Rosie. The one good thing in her life. Somehow she drifted back to sleep.

A knocking on her door awoke her. Rosie came in with a mug of tea in her hand. Strangely, she was formally dressed, wearing her court suit. Alice sat up, bleary-eyed even though looking at the clock she could see that she’d had a couple of extra hours’ sleep. She stretched her arms up.

“Have the papers come?” she said, knowing that they must have arrived.

Rosie nodded and Alice took a gulp from the mug of tea. There were some sounds from outside, voices, louder than she would expect at that time in the morning. Rosie pulled the curtain back a few centimetres and looked.

“Damn,” she said.

Alice got up, her feet hardly touching the floorboards until she stood next to Rosie. Out through the gap in the curtain she could see a car parked across the street and two people sitting in it with the door hanging open. Standing talking to them were two men, one with a camera.

“I thought you said they weren’t allowed to print my address?” Alice whispered.

“They haven’t. Those reporters are probably from the paper that’s printed the story. They’re hoping for another picture of you. Before anyone else.”

Just then another car drove up and parked further up the street. Jill Newton got out of it and walked along the pavement towards the house. Rosie mumbled something about opening the door and dashed off leaving Alice standing on her own. The reporters ignored Jill but the moment she turned into the pathway they sprang towards her, calling out, the camera flashing. Alice heard the front door opening and shutting as Rosie let Jill in. Then the reporters walked back off to their car and Alice could see curtains opening at other windows, one of the neighbours across the way coming out to see what the commotion was.

How long before everyone knew?

Jill Newton seemed calm. She gave Alice a hug and tutted when Rosie pointed out the newspapers. She was neatly dressed as usual, light-coloured trousers and jacket. When they sat round the kitchen table she refused a drink and held her hands together. Only then did Alice notice the peeling varnish on her nails. Looking closer at her she could see a weariness around her eyes, and her glasses looked speckled, as though they needed a polish.

“I have a safe house for you to go to, Alice, just while this is going on. When the stories in the newspapers have burned out we need to reassess the situation, see just how much damage has been done,” she said, her fingers drumming lightly on the table top. “I was going to take you there later this morning but I’m afraid there’s been a development and we’ll have to leave soon, within the next thirty minutes or so.”

“What’s happened?” Rosie said, laying a protective hand on Alice’s arm.

“I’ve got information that your mother is on her way here.”

“My mum?” Alice said. “Why?”

A strange sensation took hold of Alice. Her
mum
was coming.
To see her? To look after her?

“I hardly know how to tell you this but she’s made a deal with this newspaper,” Jill said, pushing it away with a sneer. “Let’s face it. It’s not the first time she’s done this.”

Alice gave a tight nod of her head. Rosie pulled a chair up beside her and sat only centimetres away.

“What the newspapers have got here is hardly worth reading. They have your name, where you work, the area and so on, but what does it amount to? Not much. They want excitement. They want drama. They’re paying your mother to come down and try to meet with you. Maybe they’re hoping for a public reconciliation. Either that or some embarrassing scene. Anything that’ll help them sell more newspapers.”

“How do you know all this?” Alice said, in a tiny voice.

“I have a contact who works in the press. She does me favours, I pass her stuff. It’s a good arrangement. I always tell her the truth so I told her to ignore the Holland rumours. She phoned me this morning. I trust her.”

“Why such a rush?” Rosie said. “Alice’s mum lives up north, surely?”

“They brought her down yesterday. She’s due here in about an hour. That’s why I want Alice out.”

“I’ll pack a few things.”

Rosie lifted herself off the chair and walked off into the bedroom.

“I’m so sorry, Alice. That it’s turned out like this,” Jill said.

Alice couldn’t answer. She shook her head with disbelief. Her mum. Coming here. Paid for by a newspaper. At long last she would get her photo on the front page. It was what she’d always wanted. The very thought of it made Alice feel sick.

“I’ll get dressed,” she said and left Jill on her own.

 

It wasn’t the first time Carol Jones had made a deal with the newspapers.

In the beginning, when Jennifer was sent to Monksgrove, her mother had managed to visit her regularly. Every month for over a year she stood in the queue of visitors and waited her turn before being allowed through to the lounge where the visits took place. Little groupings of chairs dotted the big room. Half a dozen for a big family, and even then there might be a sleeping baby in a carrier. Jennifer and her mum usually sat by the window, one chair at an angle to the other. It always started with an awkward kiss on the cheek and then some chatting. The same questions each time. What was her room like? Her friends? Her schoolwork? Then it was Jennifer’s turn. Where was she living? Was she working? How was Gran?

Mostly her mum came dressed up, her blonde hair carefully styled and her mouth perfectly lipsticked. Jennifer always liked to see her like that because it meant things were going well. A couple of times she looked unkempt, her hair greasy, wearing jeans and old tops that Jennifer vaguely remembered. She talked about her modelling career then, about how she was going to get back on some agency’s books and earn enough to buy them a small place. That way Jennifer could come and live with her when she was released.

The counsellors said that Jennifer was tense for days after these visits. She liked to be on her own and avoided the other children. Her eating became erratic and sometimes she would hurt herself. Patricia Coffey asked her once if she would like a break from her mother’s visits. A chance to reflect, to work out her feelings towards her mum. She’d shook her head vehemently. Of course not. How could she not want to see her mum?

For a while Carol stopped coming. Three, four months, over the summer period. She wrote a short letter saying that she was working abroad and would be back in September. She came, tanned and beautiful, a tiny T-shirt showing her rose tattoo; her flat stomach was the colour of honey, a gold ring through her belly button. The other kids and parents looked with envy.

The next month she looked grim. She’d been ill, she said, a chest infection. Her hair looked orange and for the first time Jennifer noticed dark roots and shadows under her eyes. She was out of work, she said, living with a friend. All talk of modelling had stopped. After that she missed three, four months. There were a couple of postcards, telephone calls, last-minute excuses. She returned in the following April without explanation. Jennifer had been at Monksgrove for almost two years.

Her mum looked like her old self. She had a leather coat on that was belted at the waist. Her hair looked lemony and her eyes were the brightest blue. They were allowed to walk out in the grounds, through the long grass, past islands of daffodils. They sat on a bench and Carol told Jennifer about her new job as a receptionist at a fitness club. After a while of chatting she took a small camera out of her handbag.

“I don’t have a photo of you,” she said. “And you’re changing. You’ve got taller and your face is fuller.”

Jennifer smiled with pleasure as her mother took some pictures. She sat back on the bench, looking casual, the daffodils in the background. Then she leaned forward, her shoulders hunched, grinning wildly for the camera. She was pleased.
Her mum wanted a picture of her.

Unlike before, at the time of the trial. The only picture they had of Jennifer was the one taken by the police. A face, staring at a camera. A fringe and long hair. Staring eyes that looked surprised to be there. The newspapers had called it
The face of a killer
.

There were no other pictures of her. In a house full of photographs of her mother there wasn’t a single one of the ten-year-old Jennifer. Baby shots, a couple of early school photographs, but nothing else. Everyone who she spoke to wanted to know why: the social workers, the counsellors, the teachers. She couldn’t explain. Mr Cottis had been about to take some pictures of her, but Jennifer never told anyone about that.

When her mum left she gave Jennifer a hug and kiss and said she’d see her soon. A few days later her picture was in a national newspaper. The same long hair and fringe, only this time her face was smiling brightly.
A Killer’s Smile
the headline said, and inside there was an exclusive interview with Carol Jones:
My Life Without Jennifer
.

Patricia Coffey had shown her the article. She’d sat quietly at the other end of the settee while Jennifer read through the paper. Behind her were the stuffed animals, one or two new ones that she hadn’t seen before, a panda and a puppy dog.

Carol Jones, attractive mother of the notorious Berwick Waters killer, tells of life without her daughter. Thirty-year-old Miss Jones, former model, sat in the living room of her new flat and wept for her daughter. “She’s not a bad girl,” she said.

The article went on to describe Jennifer’s life at Monksgrove as told by her mother: a lovely house in the middle of breathtaking scenery; a private room with her own television; sports facilities; an education block; small classes; music tuition; good food.

The editorial in the newspaper gave its opinion:
Is this justice? This girl killed her friend in cold blood. The state is paying for her to live in a place that sounds like a five-star hotel. What about Mr and Mrs Livingstone? How will they feel when they find out that their daughter’s killer is living like this at the taxpayer’s expense?