from her exertions. Her complexion is pale against the starless night and there’s no spark in her eyes. The fight has left her.
I don’t recognise this woman captured by the failing light, or perhaps I do. There’s something about her that reminds me of Meg. My cousin’s hair was a similar shade although you would describe hers as golden, and she never hid behind a fringe. Meg was bold, and yet the hopelessness in the face that stares back at me immediately brings her to mind.
I retreat to the exit door only to stop when I hear a noise. The soft squeak of a rubber sole on linoleum came from the floor above, or I think it did. The world falls silent again and I’m about to dismiss the crawling sensation that I’m being watched when—
‘Hello, Jen.’
Instinctively, I grab the safety bar but I don’t open the door because I’ve already recognised the deep voice that sent a jolt of terror down my spine. The fact that he’s here shouldn’t surprise me, and I know it won’t matter if I run away, or stand and fight. He’s already won.
I turn my head slowly but he stops me.
‘Don’t turn around.’
Keeping my head to the side, I stare at the window with its mirror image of the landing behind me. No figure appears from the shadows, no hand reaches out to wrap around my neck.
‘What is this? Don’t you have the guts to face me?’ I ask, my voice surprisingly calm.
There’s a pause and when he replies, he sounds closer. ‘If I thought it was going to be easy, we would have had this conversation ten years ago.’
‘This conversation?’ I ask. ‘If it’s a confession you’re planning, I’m not the one you should be talking to. It’s Meg’s parents who deserve answers.’
‘Ruth and Geoff don’t need to hear what I have to say.’
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve been protecting them all these years.’
‘Not only them.’
My laugh catches in my dry throat. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve been protecting me too.’
‘If Meg had wanted you to know everything, she’d have told you everything.’
‘Maybe she tried,’ I reply as I picture a torn scrap of yellow lined paper. Meg’s suicide note, or at least a remnant of it.
‘No, she didn’t,’ he says with finality. ‘Christ, Jen, didn’t you know her at all?’
‘She was my best friend. Of course I knew her!’ I tell him, raising my voice to camouflage the doubt.
‘Not like I did,’ he says in a whisper.
A door swings open three flights down and shrieks of laughter ricochet off the walls as a group of raucous, and possibly drunken friends race to the ground floor. Their giddiness reminds me of times lost, but I can’t trust my memories. How many of Meg’s smiles were a disguise for unfathomable pain?
When another door slams shut and stillness returns, I hear the whisper of stealthy footfalls. I scan the reflection of the empty landing and glimpse movement on the small section of the stairs that are visible to me. I spy a pair of black boots and legs clad in dark jeans. I twist my body towards him.
‘I said, don’t turn around.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t …’ He curses under his breath. ‘I won’t do this if you’re looking at me.’
Jen
Two months earlier …
As I watch the TV crew setting up the interview, I stand as close as I dare to the floor-to-ceiling windows to give myself the best view across the office. The intensity of the summer sun reflecting off the white Portland stone of the neighbouring Port of Liverpool Building forces me to shield my eyes as I follow what the camera sees.
A banner for the Megan McCoy Foundation, set up by Ruth and Geoff set up in their daughter’s name three years after her death has been strategically placed to obscure the logo of McCoy and Pace Architects. It looks a little worn but better than it did this morning when I unearthed it from the bottom of the stationery cupboard. I used a Sharpie to cover up the scratches and I’m hoping the camera won’t pick up where I went outside the lines on the telephone number for the Lean On Me helpline. There’s half a roll of duct tape holding it all together on the back, but if the relaunch goes as well as we’re hoping, I can order new banners.
The cameraman points his lens over the reporter’s left shoulder while she asks, ‘Perhaps you could start by telling us a little about Megan.’ The camera zooms in on the middle-aged woman sitting at one of the two helpline pods that represent the sum total of the foundation’s resources.
Ruth’s long, slender body is tense but I see the lines creasing her brow soften as she begins to build a picture of her daughter in her mind. ‘She was my youngest – I have a son, Sean, who’s two years older – but Megan was the baby of the family. I know we spoiled her but that didn’t spoil her, if you know what I mean. She was no trouble, always did as she was told and she couldn’t have been more thoughtful and caring. Not a day went by without her doing something that was sweet, or funny, or just made my heart clench with love.’ Ruth’s smile broadens as she adds flesh to her daughter’s memory.
The spider’s web of wrinkles around her eyes that mark the ten years Ruth has lived with her heartache cut a little deeper and her smile falters. Her short, dark brown hair emphasises her paling complexion.
‘What went wrong?’ asks the reporter.
Ruth’s eyes flick towards me. ‘She fell in with the wrong crowd.’
I know my aunt better than I know my own mother. The look she gives me is not one of reproach. I’m no more responsible for Meg being led astray than she, but we carry our own guilt. I shift uncomfortably, aware of the wall of glass next to me that seems suddenly fragile.
‘Megan had been doing extremely well at school. Eleven A star GCSEs,’ Ruth continues. ‘Sean had gone off to university and we expected her to follow suit, but when she went into sixth form, everything changed. In those last two years, she went from being able to talk to us about anything, to not wanting to be in the same room as me or her father. I thought our relationship with our daughter was unbreakable but it was as if someone had hacked into her mind and completely rewired it. Geoff and I tried everything to get her back on track, from cajoling, to bribery, to threats, but nothing worked. As a last resort, we grounded her, something we’d never had to do before, but when she wasn’t barricading herself in her room, she would sneak out as soon as our backs were turned. We could see what was happening and were helpless to stop it.’
Ruth pulls at her polished fingernails and I find myself looking through her and into the past. I spent more time with Meg than I did my own sisters and of all the memories I have, the one that rises quickest to the surface is our last trip to school to pick up our A Level results. I have a vivid picture of standing with a cluster of friends as we tore open
