The piece of paper with his telephone number is in her purse. She takes it out and looks at it, then presses the number into her phone. Her finger hovers over the word Call. What will she say? Her mouth is dry. What if she makes it worse by phoning? She doesn’t know what to say. What does he want? Why hasn’t he called her? Maybe he hasn’t been back to that flat since she put her note through the letterbox. Maybe he doesn’t have her number. Or maybe he does, and is choosing not to use it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to speak to her. Then what does he want? He sent her the book – he wrote the book – so she would read it. And she has. She must let him know. But he sent it to Nicholas too. Was that to get at her? There was no note to Nicholas – a note could have made everything clear to him, but he didn’t do that. It was a warning to her: to let her know that he knows who her son is; where he is; a threat. He needs to know that she has read the book. She can do that. But does he want an apology too? For her to say sorry? An admission of guilt? That is too much to ask. She can give him something though. She can put her hand out at least, if it means he will leave her alone. Yes, she is prepared to go some way to meet him. It would be better to write, not speak. She can’t trust herself on the phone. He wouldn’t believe her anyway – better to compose some words and send them to him. She deletes his number and puts the piece of paper back in her purse.
She opens her laptop and finds the site for The Perfect Stranger. She has lost count of the number of times she has studied that page. Nothing ever changes on it. She clicks Review. Careful now. Be very careful. His wife told her he was dead. His own wife denied his existence. She didn’t trust him. Catherine must be careful. He is sick, this man. He has shown how twisted his mind is. She tiptoes out the words: ‘There is a pain at the heart of this book which is undeniable. It is rare for a work of fiction to create such powerful feelings in its reader.’ Should she give her name? No, too risky. No one must connect her to this book, and it could come up in the future, if someone googled her. Still, he needs to know that it is her, so she signs herself Charlotte, the name he has given her in the book, and then presses Submit.
18
Early summer 2013
I sleep during the day now and stay awake at night. I like the dark. I am not alone. Nancy is with me and I have my laptop too. It is my pet – I use it to do my shopping, like sending the dog out to bring in the newspaper: groceries delivered to my door. What a clever chap. It’s mainly canned stuff. Like the war. Meat in tins. Chunky chicken. But it doesn’t matter what I eat, it all tastes the same because another flavour overpowers everything; even when I’ve brushed my teeth until the gums bleed, I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. It makes everything sour. And tonight it is particularly bad.
I have read a review. Is it a nibble? By now she must know that Nancy is dead so it is me she is talking to. I feel the twitch on my line. There is a pain at the heart of this book which is undeniable. It is rare for a work of fiction to create such powerful feelings in its reader. She’s called herself Charlotte. Is that an acceptance of her guilt? But the more I read it, the more I see it for what it is; such powerful feelings – she doesn’t say what those ‘feelings’ are. Powerful revulsion? Powerful loathing? I want precision, not vague feelings. I want shame, fear, terror, remorse, a confession. Is that really too much to ask? This little review has got right up my nose. It is so very carefully written: careful not to apologize, careful not to accept responsibility. I should have known that she would try to slither her way out of it. How dare she presume that her empty words, so nimbly crafted, will be enough? Even after all these years, Mrs Catherine Ravenscroft, award-winning documentary-maker, mother
She opens her laptop and finds the site for The Perfect Stranger. She has lost count of the number of times she has studied that page. Nothing ever changes on it. She clicks Review. Careful now. Be very careful. His wife told her he was dead. His own wife denied his existence. She didn’t trust him. Catherine must be careful. He is sick, this man. He has shown how twisted his mind is. She tiptoes out the words: ‘There is a pain at the heart of this book which is undeniable. It is rare for a work of fiction to create such powerful feelings in its reader.’ Should she give her name? No, too risky. No one must connect her to this book, and it could come up in the future, if someone googled her. Still, he needs to know that it is her, so she signs herself Charlotte, the name he has given her in the book, and then presses Submit.
18
Early summer 2013
I sleep during the day now and stay awake at night. I like the dark. I am not alone. Nancy is with me and I have my laptop too. It is my pet – I use it to do my shopping, like sending the dog out to bring in the newspaper: groceries delivered to my door. What a clever chap. It’s mainly canned stuff. Like the war. Meat in tins. Chunky chicken. But it doesn’t matter what I eat, it all tastes the same because another flavour overpowers everything; even when I’ve brushed my teeth until the gums bleed, I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. It makes everything sour. And tonight it is particularly bad.
I have read a review. Is it a nibble? By now she must know that Nancy is dead so it is me she is talking to. I feel the twitch on my line. There is a pain at the heart of this book which is undeniable. It is rare for a work of fiction to create such powerful feelings in its reader. She’s called herself Charlotte. Is that an acceptance of her guilt? But the more I read it, the more I see it for what it is; such powerful feelings – she doesn’t say what those ‘feelings’ are. Powerful revulsion? Powerful loathing? I want precision, not vague feelings. I want shame, fear, terror, remorse, a confession. Is that really too much to ask? This little review has got right up my nose. It is so very carefully written: careful not to apologize, careful not to accept responsibility. I should have known that she would try to slither her way out of it. How dare she presume that her empty words, so nimbly crafted, will be enough? Even after all these years, Mrs Catherine Ravenscroft, award-winning documentary-maker, mother
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