There it is. The old lesbian accusation. There’s not a female villain in the land who can’t be made more villainous by hints of Sapphism. We’ve a long way to go still, thinks Kirsty.
Jackie had experienced a similar situation before, continues the piece.
When she was a teenager, an older couple seduced her into taking part in a threesome. ‘I don’t know what it is about me,’ she laughs, ‘but I’ve obviously got something. But after I turned Amber down and moved out of the house, she turned against me big-time. Suddenly she was always finding fault with my work, picking arguments with me, making trouble for me with management. Eventually it got so bad I had to leave. She drove me out of my job, and I’d worked there for years.’
The news of Cantrell’s arrest came as a surprise. ‘It was a terrible shock,’ she says. ‘I remember standing there in the newsagent’s, shaking and shaking. I kept thinking: What if it had been me? I’d been alone with him so many times, and he’d had so many opportunities.
‘I don’t know why he didn’t choose to kill me, but what I do know is that I’m the luckiest girl alive.’
Amber had thought there were no tears left, but they pour from her as she reads; choke her, drip on to the page. Blessed sits quietly and watches, her hands folded on the tabletop. She’s not touching me, thinks Amber, because she knows I couldn’t bear it. I feel dirty, betrayed and totally alone.
She opens her mouth to speak, and all that comes out is a low moan of misery.
‘Oh, Amber,’ says Blessed. ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure whether I should show you.’
‘No, no,’ she says. ‘I was going to find out anyway. I needed to know.’
‘You need to get away from this place,’ says Blessed. ‘Those people outside – this will kill you. Don’t you have anywhere you can go?’
She shakes her head. Hopes against hope that Blessed will open her own door to her, but knows it’s impossible. I don’t have friends, she thinks. Thirty-seven years old, and the number of friends – real, brave, damn-the-rest-of-them friends – I’ve amassed is literally zero. A few friendly colleagues, like Blessed, good people who hate to see others in distress, but not one person who would go beyond the call of decency, or who will miss me when I’m gone. No friends, no family. I am still alone, after all these years.
‘But surely the police…?’ Blessed asks. ‘This cannot be… there must be a…’ she pauses as she considers the phrase, ‘safe-house?’
Amber shakes her head again. Feels misery break over her like a wave. ‘They sent a uniform down to stand on the door for a couple of days, but mostly because the neighbours couldn’t get into their houses.’
‘But Victim Support…?’
‘Victim Support’s for victims. Anyway, I’ve got to stay put. I have to be available for questioning.’
And because the terms of my probationary licence say I have to. I can’t just go – I have to register the fact of my going. And it’s the same old story every time I ring, month on month: the last officer I dealt with has left – it’s department policy to keep them moving – and the person who’s replaced them has no idea who I am, until they pull up my file and I hear their voice change as they realise, and then they don’t know what to do and have to call me back. I may still be a high priority in the eyes of the world, but I got lost in the system years ago. Even if I tried, nothing would happen before this time next week. People like me stay put, because we don’t have much choice about it. Probation aren’t there to help you if you get into trouble. They’re there to punish you if the trouble’s your fault. A lifetime licence: it’s not about supporting you, it’s about keeping an eye.
Blessed looks shocked again. ‘For questioning?’ Amber can see the thought forming in the back of her mind. She blurts it out. ‘Surely they can’t think you’re… that you were involved in this?’
And now you’re wondering too, thinks Amber. Before, you were on my side, all righteous indignation, but now I’m under a cloud of suspicion, even from you. She feels the cold come over her. The old, old coping mechanism.
‘No,’ she says. ‘And Blessed? I’m not.’ She pushes herself back from the table, goes to the sink to start washing up. Dishes have piled up on the draining board. I don’t know how, she thinks. I don’t remember eating.
‘No!’ stumbles Blessed. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant at all. No, I-’
‘Don’t worry, Blessed,’ she says. ‘It’s only natural. I lived with the man, after all. I could be Rose West for all you know.’
‘No,’ protests Blessed. ‘No, I wasn’t thinking that.’
‘Everybody’s thinking that,’ says Amber, and the tears come again. Rage more than sadness.
Her phone vibrates. Holding tightly to the edge of the sink for support while she struggles to regain her composure, she ignores it.
‘Are you going to answer?’ asks Blessed.
She shakes her head. ‘It’ll be another journalist. That’s all it’s been since Saturday.’
‘Not always,’ corrects Blessed.
‘No,’ she says. ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Would you like me to answer it?’
Amber shrugs. Blessed picks up the phone on the final ring.
Kirsty doesn’t really know what to say, just that she has to say it. She’s expecting the answerphone, and is surprised when a real person picks up. A low, rich voice; the careful, enunciated grammar of central Africa. ‘Amber Gordon’s telephone?’
‘Oh, hi,’ she croaks, self-conscious and afraid of letting out too much information. ‘Is she there?’
‘Can I ask who is calling, please?’ asks the woman.
‘Um…’ She is momentarily flummoxed. Will she remember my now-name? Which should I use? ‘Kirsty Lindsay,’ she says eventually.
‘Kirsty Lindsay,’ repeats the woman, and pauses. Then: ‘And what is it about?’
‘I – I just wanted to see if she was OK,’ she says, half honestly.
‘Yes, she’s fine,’ says the woman. ‘Would you like me to take a message?’
‘I – can’t I speak to her?’
‘No,’ says the woman. ‘I’m sorry, but she can’t come to the phone at the moment. If you would like to leave a message, I will…’
A rustle, then the sound of the handset changing ears. Amber’s voice, unfriendly, defensive. ‘What? I suppose you thought you’d be able to get a story?’
‘No!’ she protests. ‘No, Amber! I-’
‘I saw you, you know,’ says Amber. ‘Outside the police station. Out there with your buddies.’
‘I was… yes. It’s my job. I wasn’t exactly expecting it to be you who turned up.’
‘Some job. Nice. So now what? I suppose you want an exclusive?’ The emphasis of the word is sarcastic, resentful, the cynicism acidic.
‘I… no. Of course not. I’m gone. I’ve packed up and come home. I went the moment I saw you.’
‘Good. Hooray. Bully for you.’
‘I’m sorry, Bel.’ She uses the name unthinkingly as she tries to back away from the conversation. ‘This was a mistake. I thought maybe I could… I don’t know…’
‘Fuck off,’ says Amber. ‘I’ve got enough of your kind camped outside my door right now to last a bloody lifetime. Christ, Jade. What on earth made you think it would be nice to be a journalist?’
‘I…’ says Kirsty, shocked back to her senses by the careless use of her old name, ‘I’m not being a journalist right now, Amber. I’m not calling as a journalist, I’m calling as a-’
The voice cuts across her, full of contempt. ‘As a friend? Was that what you were going to say? A friend?’