Tell Tale (31 page)

Amanda Wandsworth, I told myself, recalling a little girl with sleek brown hair. She was everyone’s friend, but eventually moved away. I checked there was no one else already registered under this name, then I went to the profile section of my character. I entered my new details. Then I clicked ‘Show real name’, hoping this would fool Josephine when she read it.

Suddenly, I received another notification. Flashing in the bottom right corner of my screen was a green icon that looked something like a person. When I held the mouse over it, a tag read, ‘You have one friend online.’

My fingers clutched the mouse as I imagined
dramaqueen-jojo
sitting at her desk at that precise moment. Her shoulders would be a little hunched and she wouldn’t have bothered with make-up. Her clothes would be creased and her hair perhaps hadn’t been washed in a while. She probably wouldn’t have eaten a decent meal in ages. I froze, not knowing what to do when a bright blue box popped up on screen and the words
‘Mand is that reli u?’
appeared
inside. Beside them was a tiny picture of
dramaqueen-jojo
and a space for me to type my reply.

I was shaking, sweating, not wanting to blow my one chance.

-Yes, it’s me. How are you?
My words looked incongruous next to Josephine’s abbreviations. Somehow clumsy set against her quick dance of words. A few minutes passed before another message appeared. Perhaps my rather formal reply had scared her off.

-had bad time. trying 2 survive. u?

-wot happened? im ok ta.
I held my breath waiting for the reply, hoping my language now fitted in. I imagined Josephine’s fingers poised over the keys, perhaps typing something then deleting it when she thought better of it.

-my mum died.

I sat, stunned, gripping the edge of the desk, gasping for air as I read the words. Shaking, my fingers replied while the rest of me reeled.

-i am so sorry for you. was she ill?

There was a long pause.

‘’Night then, duck,’ the cleaner said. She’d coiled up the vacuum cable and had four mugs looped through the fingers of one hand. One of her earphones hung down her shoulder. ‘Don’t work too hard.’ She smiled and dragged her vacuum out of the staffroom.

-not ill. wish she had been.

I didn’t type anything. She had to tell me in her own time. Eventually, another few words appeared on my screen.

-she killed herself.

The air left my chest as if someone was standing on me.

-its been the worst time of my life.

-i am so sorry 4 u. That is really tragic. How is yr dad coping?
I couldn’t imagine what losing a parent must be like for a fifteen-year-old. Would she remember the laughter, the hugs? Would she pick through her mother’s wardrobe, pressing her face into a favourite sweater? Would she pluck make-up from her dressing table, hoping to look like her mother? Or would she just lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling, always wondering
why?

-dad not good. we get by. where do u live now?

-London. With my dad. I lost my mum as well. Three years ago. Cancer.
The lie came easily. I was not Francesca Gerrard any more as I sat at the computer, logged in to another world.

-oh mand im so sorry for u 2. lifes not fair.

There was a pause as we both soaked up this information, became virtual sisters.

-Does the hurt ever get less? Will i wake up one morning and not have it fill my head?

All the typing in the world wouldn’t ease her grief.

-what helped me was knowing that my mum wouldn’t want me to be sad. I knew that she loved me. I knew she didn’t want to go.
The reply came quick as lightning and I realised my mistake just as fast.

-yeah well mine did. she obviously didn’t love me.

-No!
I replied.
Your mum loved you. Don’t ever think it’s your fault.

-nothing makes sense anymore. Everything on its head. Thought mum happy. Thought she loved us. Dad gone crazy.

A long wait, me staring at the doleful character Josephine Kennedy has chosen for herself, wondering if she was gazing at the image I had chosen to represent Amanda. Then she asked,
-Don’t you wanna know how she did it?

-No,
I type. I couldn’t stand to hear.

-Everyone else does. Do they ask about ur mum?

-yeah,
I lied.
I just tell the truth. It shuts them up.

-my friends didn’t know what to say to me. Still don’t. I’m the odd one out.

-does ur dad talk to you?

-no. he’s always working. It’s as if he’s in prison camp. He’s really changed. Not the dad I knew.

-that’s terrible. You need to get help. Can u see ur doctor?
I wanted to help her but we were lifetimes apart. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, never let her go, make everything better.

-nah. no point.

-u need to talk to someone. There’s help out there for you if only you’d ask. You could join a group or talk to a therapist. It sounds as if your dad would benefit from counselling too. People move on. People recover. You’ll never forget your mum. Just know that she loved you. But you have the rest of your life ahead of you, everything to live for. She would want you to do that.

Only when my message appeared on screen did I realise just how much I had typed, how little like a teenager I sounded.

-dont lecture me! Ur not my mum.

Suddenly the lit-up icon of
dramaqueen-jojo
faded to grey and she was offline.

Tears fell in torrents down my cheeks. My head dropped to the keys as I cried out my reply to her, praying that across all the miles, she would hear.

On the face of it, it was a normal day. Late summer sun warmed the garden. Mick had work coming in faster than he could paint and was already down in the studio. Josie would surface in another couple of hours, bleary-eyed, seeking Cheerios, tea and television. Nina’s current work was piled on the counter in the kitchen – a stack of papers filled with opportunity, potential, everything she had ever wanted. Life, theoretically, was perfect.

Why then, when the phone rang, did Nina stare at it, shaking, feeling that if she answered it the world might end?

‘Hello?’ She held the handset between finger and thumb, slightly away from her head as if it might separate her from anyone undesirable.

‘Mrs Kennedy? It’s Jane Shelley. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

It took a moment for Nina to place the policewoman who had visited her home in response to her emergency call. ‘That’s OK.’ Nina’s mind raced, wondering if the WPC had found anything out. Perhaps they believed her after all, although now she would have to backtrack swiftly and tell them she had been mistaken, that there was no intruder.
She couldn’t risk police involvement now.

‘It’s just a courtesy call really. To make sure that nothing else has happened to upset you.’

There was something about the constable’s manner that made Nina think this was not an official call. Plus, a mobile number had shown up on the caller ID on her handset. Nina doubted police numbers would be so easily identifiable. WPC Shelley was making a personal call to Nina.

‘That’s kind of you,’ Nina said obliquely. ‘But everything’s fine.’ Revealing anything about Burnett was tantamount to writing her own death certificate.

‘I believed you,’ Jane Shelley said. The line was bad. Nina wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. ‘About the intruder and the car. I believe you weren’t making it up.’

‘It was probably nothing,’ Nina said. ‘My imagination.’

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I’ve seen cases like this before. It’s tragic. I can’t let another one slip through my fingers.’

Nina didn’t think Jane Shelley had been in the force very long, but clearly something had affected her during her short career. What, how or why, Nina didn’t care. She wanted her off the line; she needed to think what she was going to do.

‘There was a woman, bit younger than you,’ the constable continued. Nina could hear background noise, as if Shelley was with a group of children. Screams and giggles all but drowned out her voice. ‘She’d got a kid. A little boy. Only four. Her partner beat her senseless most nights. The son saw everything.’

Nina frowned. She didn’t want to hear this. Through the window, she saw Mick emerge from his studio and gasp lungfuls of fresh air. He stretched and rocked his head back, supporting it in his arms. Then he dropped forward and leaned on his knees. If Nina hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t guessed he was taking a breather from the mountains of work he had building up, she’d think he was lost in despair.

‘That’s very sad,’ Nina replied. ‘But it hasn’t got anything to do with me.’

‘I was the one who found her body,’ Shelley said. Her voice was loud and clear now, no kids in the background. Nina thought she heard the vague hum of a car engine. ‘Well, actually, her four-year-old son found the body. He was poking her, begging for his mummy to wake up when I found them. Her partner had beaten her to death.’

Nina paced around the kitchen. If it was a trick to get her to admit the truth, then it wasn’t working. She had no intention of divulging anything to do with Burnett to the police. Nina knew that if she was to have any chance of survival, she would either need to find Mark McCormack and beg for his help or deal with things herself.

‘She’d called the police out several times, claiming there’d been an intruder, a break-in, a burglary, when really her husband had been battering her. When we asked her to make a formal statement, she denied everything. Said she’d made a mistake. That she’d fallen over.’

‘My husband is
not
beating me up,’ Nina said indignantly.

Another sigh. ‘I have a little boy,’ Shelley said. ‘I’ve just picked him up from nursery.’

‘That’s very nice for you.’

‘I’m a single mum,’ she continued. ‘I left his father last year. He used to knock me about.’

Nina almost felt like laughing. ‘But you’re the
police
,’ she replied.

‘In this game, everyone’s equal. You’ve got my number. If you want to talk, just call me.’ And then the line went dead.

Nina had worked on a production years ago as part of her theatre make-up course at college. It was a short piece that the film students were working on for their final exams. Several professionals had been brought in from the industry to offer advice to the students, as well as scout for potential talent once they had qualified. Everyone on the theatrical courses was involved.

Nina had been particularly intrigued by Ethan Reacher, stunt and effects coordinator to the stars, who had agreed to give a one-day workshop to the students. Nina was enthralled for the entire day, taking copious notes, puffing with admiration for the man whose name she had seen roll by on countless film credits. His knowledge of the industry was endless, his dedication to detail flawless.

‘Take
Silent Dreams
,’ he roared. Normal volume was apparently too ordinary for the great man. ‘Not once did the director call upon a special effects team for the death scene, but he still managed to create a film so believable, so raw, so
terrifying, that several of the actors couldn’t even stand to watch the premiere.’

There were hushed whispers as Ethan delivered the facts. Nina sat mesmerised, learning that with just the tiniest detail, the biggest effects could be achieved. That, she thought, is how my whole life has been.

‘The arm was largely prosthetic,’ Reacher continued. ‘But we made sure the fingers were real. The close-up shots were stunning. No need for clumsy cuts.’ He gulped from a pint glass of water. ‘Minuscule muscle movements are key to scenes such as the cliff-falling take. When the actor was finally forced to let go of the rock, the viewer was inside his head. Those close-ups weren’t close-ups. They were
mind-
ups.’

There was snickering. About half the students were on the course to pass the time. Of the rest, some were vaguely interested. One or two, including Nina, were riveted. Since beginning her course in theatrical make-up, Nina felt she had finally found a purpose in life. Everything that had gone before suddenly added up and didn’t make a number less than zero. She knew that changing people’s appearances, characters, was what she wanted to do.

‘So did you have to shoot the cliff scene last?’ some cocksure student asked. ‘Surely the actor would have been killed after a fall like that.’

Ethan Reacher had shown the scene several times before his talk. A classic example of simple effects pushed to the extreme, he’d said. A ripple of laughter followed the question.

‘Stand up, young man.’ Reacher strode to the front of the platform in the lecture theatre. He glanced around at the few who were still laughing. ‘That’s not such a stupid question.’ Reacher clutched at his chin with stubby fingers. He didn’t look as though he’d be able to undertake any of the stunt work himself any more, Nina thought. In his mid-sixties, Ethan Reacher’s body betrayed a stiffness, perhaps one accident too many in the past, to allow him to body-double for anyone now.

‘The actor in question broke both legs on impact,’ Reacher announced. A wave of disbelief as the students listened. ‘He flatly refused a stunt double. This kind of fall, from such a great height, even though it was into water, takes great experience. You should have seen the reams of paperwork he had to sign before the producer would let him undertake this one.’ Reacher let out a bellow of a laugh, silencing any noise from his now captive audience. ‘The director put the deleted scenes back in. Got the aftermath. Close-up face shots, the blood, the agony, everything.’

Nina winced at the thought. She’d never liked heights. Wondered why anyone would want to tackle such dangerous work. She preferred to stay behind the scenes.

‘So how do you survive a fall like that?’ another student asked.

‘Mostly you don’t,’ Reacher explained. ‘Best trick of the trade that I know . . .’ he paused, ‘is either do a different stunt, or pray to God.’