One Night (25 page)

‘Good.’

We walked on in silence. Then he
said, ‘You’re frightened of someone, aren’t you?’

I didn’t know how to respond. I
just looked at him.

‘That man who was here before?’

‘Yes.’

‘He making a nuisance of himself?’

‘Yes. I believe he was here today.’

‘I see. Well, I don’t want any
trouble. I’m going to give you my private number and you call me anytime, you
hear? Anytime you’re troubled by this bloke, you ring me. Understand?’

‘Mr Corbett, thank you, thanks – ’
I stammered. ‘It’ really kind of you.’

‘Kindness isn’t in it,’ he said.
‘We’ve all got a civil duty to look after each other. It’s my duty to keep my
residents safe.’

Safe
. The word seemed to
echo around the park. Dusk edged in a wobbly line around his portly shape. Darkness
was falling towards us and I could no longer see his face.

I spent a fitful night. Must have woken at least four times. I got up twice and
checked the locks on the door. Sticky lay like a dead thing on the couch. At
last I drank two aspirin and got some sleep before the alarm went off.

In the morning I took Sticky down
to the central yard, then on to Mrs Corbett at the corner flat. There was a lot
of smiles and plenty of stroking for Sticky who looked pleased with the
prospective arrangement.

‘He’ll keep me company,’ said Mrs Corbett.
She had shiny, rosy cheeks as though she’d been cooking over a hot stove although
it was not yet 8am.

It was another ten minutes though,
before I could leave the building. I stood in the foyer, fear prickling. I felt
under scrutiny. I looked around but could see no-one. I went out. The morning
air was fresh, there’d been a touch of rain in the night and the pavement was
speckled with puddles. Keeping as close as possible to other people, I took the
bus to work.

Abieda was waiting for me. ‘You’re
on his list,’ she whispered.

I made my way to Mr Marse’s office.

‘How are you?’ he asked warily.

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘The police are coming.’

I was startled. ‘Here? To see me?’

‘Well, you’re the big story, dear,
not us. A Detective Inspector Cartwright asked if he could take up some of your
time this morning. I said yes. You can have the boardroom at ten. Is that all
right?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

He smiled rather sadly. ‘No need to
be sorry, girl. Not here, not now. Years ahead for that. Grief can be a long
time fading. If ever.’

I was still thinking about this when I saw Cartwright arrive. The office was
studiously quiet but I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I crossed the floor.

In the boardroom Cartwright
gallantly pulled out a chair for me before seating himself.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

He gave a slight smile. ‘In my line
of work there’s always something wrong.’

I waited. He drew out papers from a
slender briefcase.

‘You’ve been informed about the
hearing, I presume?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve nothing to worry about.
It’s a formalization of the process. Everything goes before the judge and
decisions will be made on procedure going forward.’

‘You mean if there will be a
trial.’

He shook his head. ‘I doubt it will
come to that. There’s no case.’

‘You think Matthew Bunting killed
Mona?’

‘It’s like this: if we lay the
evidence out in a line, then the count against Matthew is pretty high. There’s
no doubt that he had been watching Mona. There’s enough evidence on that score.
Whether he committed the actual murder is difficult to say. Apart from Brent
Sedgeworth’s testimony that he saw Matthew in the woods at around the time Mona
was killed, we have no witnesses.’

‘And you can’t really believe
Brent.’

He looked down at the papers.
‘There are always problems.’

‘Why have you come to see me?’

‘I want to prepare you for a
difficult time.’

‘Me?’ I was startled.

‘Miss Blaydon, you don’t just blow
off a man’s head and then go shopping.’

I felt the blood drain from my
face. ‘That’s a bit below the belt. You know what happened. I explained – ’

‘Of course I know what you said.
But you see, Miss Blaydon, the situation for you in that regard is the same as
it is for Brent Sedgeworth. He has no backup for his testimony and neither do
you.’

‘But you can’t think – ’

‘Of course I don’t think. But
you’ve got to convince an objective legal mind who will literally be hearing
this story for the first time. I have no doubt of your statement. But we have
to be sure that you get it right for the judge.’

‘Get it right?’

‘You need to ensure good counsel.
You will have to be clear. To be calm, remorseful. You will have to ensure you
portray events in logical sequence. If you dither, stammer or get confused
there is going to be doubt.’

‘Doubt?’ I parroted, thoroughly
dismayed.

‘Doubt that you killed him by
accident and in self-defense. And you are the sole witness to his killing of the
Russian girl. If there is a flicker of doubt about your story or that Wally’s
death was deliberate in some way, then this whole business will go on.’

There was a horrible silence. Pale
sunlight fingered across the shiny surface of the long table. Beyond the glass
paneling was the sound of normal office activity: a phone ringing, a fax
machine, the general murmur of busy people with their minds on simpler things.
I longed to be out of this room and back at my desk, doing my job as I had
before that terrible night in the woods. But reality was a cold, hard glare at
the window. The thought that I might be put on trial for the death of Wally
Bunting was inconceivable.

‘I’m giving you a copy of your
statement so that you can be sure you don’t get your facts mixed up.’ ‘He slid
over a piece of paper. ‘I’m on your side, Casey. It’s obvious you had no
intention of killing Wally Bunting and we understand the threat he presented.
But that’s not the only aspect that has to be considered.’

I looked down at the paper. The
words seemed to blur. The table was suddenly at an angle, the room misty. ‘I’m
frightened,’ I said.

‘That understandable. But I’m here
to help you.’ He was as kindly as possible.

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s a man. I
think he’s going to kill me.’

Dr Mensen was not what I expected. She was a tall, austere-looking woman of
about forty, with large dark eyes that seemed strangely coloured by a cross of
umbrage and hurt. It seemed that, as a psychiatrist, she may have heard too
many sad stories – or fabricated ones for that matter. She sat as far from
Sticky as possible.

‘Do you think you may have
developed a fear of men because of your experiences in the woods?’

‘Todd Pennington has nothing to do
with that.’

Her dark hair was pulled back
severely, emphasizing a heavy bone-structure. ‘Of course he hasn’t. What I look
at here is your reaction.’

‘You think I’m over-reacting?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think the man is dangerous.’

‘Has he threatened you?’

‘No, he – ’

‘Has he harmed you in any way?’

‘No, not yet,’ I said in some
frustration. ‘He’s nutty as a fruitcake.’

‘You have evidence of this?’

Reluctantly, ‘No, not directly. But
his girlfriend – ex-girlfriend – has told me how he forced her into kinky sex.’

She nodded, impassive. ‘That can
create all sorts of impressions.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘With regard to the sex?’

‘No, with regard to the fact that
I’m sure he is stalking me and will do me harm if I don’t play along with him.
I’ve told Cartwright but he won’t give me the protection I’ve asked for.’

‘There has to be a little more than
him just hanging around and asking you out,’ Dr Mensen said with an affected
note of reasonableness.

‘I knew this wouldn’t work,’ I
muttered.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I
told
Cartwright I didn’t
need to see a psychiatrist, I need a policeman at my door!’

A little more gently, she said,
‘You need to see a connection between your fear of this man and the things that
happened in the woods. You must remember that nearly every engagement was
antagonistic in some way.’ She looked down at her notes. ‘From this man, Jake
Adler, who forcibly took your phone, to the men who came in the night, to the
attack by Brent Sedgeworth, to Wally Bunting – and finally being chased through
the woods by Matthew Bunting, a convicted rapist and murderer. Do you honestly
not see that your current aversion is somewhat coloured by these experiences?’

‘Well…’

She leaned forward. ‘These were
appalling things. Not to mention the discovery of your friend’s dead body and
the killing of the Russian girl. All in one night! There is something called
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. My opinion is that you need to relax. I will
leave a prescription for you. You will need to take them for a month to start
with – and then we’ll reassess.’

I watched her scribbling. ‘So you
think I see Todd in a dark light because that’s now my vision of all men.’

‘To a degree, yes. It’s not
necessarily how you will feel all the time – but certainly for a few months
after these events, you will not find it easy to trust another person –
especially a man.’

‘So you think Todd is quite safe.
I’m just neurotic?’

She placed her words carefully: ‘I
don’t say that. I think you must consider your experience and come to terms
with that before you can put things into context.’

‘While I’m considering, and he
kills me, what will you say then?
Oops, got that one wrong!
’

She looked at me without expression.
She was well-versed in dealing with angry people full of denial. ‘You have
given me nothing that indicates he’s a bad person. The fact that he sees
himself as a self-appointed protector is hardly threatening. He found your dog
and brought it back. He wants to ask you out. I would suggest that you go. You
could put a lot of fears to rest.’

‘He tried to strangle his
girlfriend.’

She pondered a moment. ‘So she
said.’

‘I saw the bruise.’

‘Why do you think he has the same
thing planned for you?’

‘Because he’s screwed in the head,
that’s why! He’s one of those unhinged people who fly under the radar. You
can’t spot them until they’re well in your territory and it’s too late to stop
them.’

She tapped her pen against her
notepad. ‘We can talk to him if you like.’

‘Oh, that’ll go down a treat. He’ll
take you in with his self-effacing charm and you won’t spot a thing. He’ll past
the test because he’s spent his life passing it. There’s probably a hundred
women out there hurting in bewildered silence, because that’s what he does.
It’s his specialty.’

There was a sparking silence when I’d
finished. Dr Mensen was looking at me with both reservation and a touch of
respect. At last she said: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what? For my situation or
because you can’t change it?’

‘Sorry I can’t do anything for
you.’

I felt a little coldness settle
around me. ‘That’s comforting.’

‘I can’t – ’ she said tiredly,
collecting her briefcase, capping her pen ‘ – because you’re too angry. I would
recommend a spell away, rest and recuperation for around a month or two with
good counselling. That’s the best I can say for the moment. You need to think
about it and agree. And we’ll work from there.’

‘Angry,’ I repeated, feeling a
little shocked she saw me as the faulty tappet in the engine. ‘Guess I’m a
little blind with it.’

She stood up, handed me her card.
‘Anger does have its uses,’ she commented. ‘It can make you strong.’

Days passed after this without incident. I went to work, came home, walked
Sticky. I didn’t see Todd but he was everywhere in my mind. It amazed me that one
person could have such power over others; the ability to intrude on the inner
sanctum of one’s thoughts where few others were allowed to enter. I couldn’t
relax – not even when at home behind a locked door. Not at the supermarket, not
when the phone rang, not when I had to walk across the empty foyer and check
the road every morning. I didn’t think of Brent anymore. I realized that Cartwright
was right: Brent’s focus was on presenting a clean figure at the hearing. And
in some weird way, I understood this. Getting your story across so that people
believed you was a difficult thing.

If nothing else, Dr Mensen’s visit
had proved I was on my own. Nobody, apart from Shannon, understood the problem.
I walked Sticky as soon as I got home each evening to make sure we were gone
and back before dark. But autumn would come, and the nights would draw in. I
toyed with the idea of moving. I was careful, aware, on edge. I had my keys in
my hand when I stepped out of the lift. I bought a pepper spray gun.

But I didn’t see Todd Pennington.

By the following Friday Elva Spears phoned to say that Shannon had found
someone to stay with, a fellow actor with a flat literally on the other side of
town.

‘I’ll miss her,’ said Elva. ‘She
wasn’t here much but she was a bit of company.’

‘I’ve got tickets to the opening
night of her new show. Would you like to go?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she
breathed. ‘But wouldn’t your mother like to go?’

‘She doesn’t like the theatre.’

‘Oh. All right then. That would be
wonderful. Something to look forward to.’

Mr Marse kept me busy at work. There was talk of ‘re-structuring’. The
possibility of losing my job added to my anxiety.

‘Would it matter?’ asked Abieba.
‘You were never really happy here.’

‘Funny enough I’ve changed,’ I
admitted. ‘When you’ve run for your life and nearly lost it, you kind of
appreciate what you’ve got.’