The Verdict. Olivia Isaac-Henry

for the vast iron structure that spans the Great North Road, as an anti-jumping fence is to be erected.

      After a couple of minutes I’m shivering and, certain no one has followed me onto the Tube, I head home. Even if my pursuer is imaginary, the texts are real. Turning into my road, I half expect to see a police car, but the street is empty, apart from a few people like me, hurrying to get home, out of the cold and dark.

      My flat is on the top two floors of a tall Victorian property. The lounge and kitchen are on the lower floor, the bedroom and bathroom in the attic. I can only afford it because it belongs to friends of Andre, who had nightmare tenants and were willing to take a considerably lower rent from someone who didn’t get raided by the police for growing cannabis. There are still holes in the ceiling where they hung the lights.

      Once back inside, I fetch a half-empty bottle of Californian white wine from the back of the fridge. In the local saver shop you can buy it for £3.49. Chilled to nearly freezing, it has no taste.

      I sit at the kitchen table, unscrew the cap, fill my glass and stare out of the window at the blurred City skyline in the distance. I finish it quickly and pour another. Many years ago, I set myself a limit, no more than two glasses of wine on a work night. This rule, I’ve broken three times: when my husband discovered my infidelity; when my son called me a whore; and again today, when an unidentified body of someone who died a violent death is discovered on the Downs outside Guildford.

      IT’S HIM.

      Not her, not the missing schoolgirl, Hayley Walsh – him.

      The landline rings. My head’s a little fuzzy from the wine. I go to the lounge, lift the receiver and wait for a low voice, to repeat the menace of the text.

      ‘Hello, darling.’

      It’s Audrey. I should have known. She’s the only person who calls me on the landline.

      ‘Hi, Mum.’

      ‘How are things with you?’ she asks.

      ‘Fine.’

      ‘You don’t sound fine.’

      ‘You always say that,’ I reply.

      ‘I can’t help worrying about you, Julia. Neither can your father.’ Robert Hathersley is not my father. ‘I know you made your bed, as they say, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care.’

      I ignore the implied criticism.

      ‘Did you ring for a reason?’

      ‘Do I need a reason to ring my daughter?’

      I wait.

      ‘I spoke to your husband today. Am I still allowed to call him that?’ she says.

      ‘How did he seem?’ I ask.

      ‘He’s not happy.’

      ‘But did he sound upset, anxious?’

      ‘I imagine he’s all of those things after the way you’ve treated him.’

      My husband could never stand my mother. Only since our separation have they started having cosy chats together. To him, Audrey’s just another weapon to use against me. Not that she sees it like that.

      ‘I made myself clear I’m one hundred per cent on his side in this matter,’ she says.

      ‘Your support is always valued.’

      ‘Well, I can hardly condone your behaviour, Julia. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe fidelity in marriage is important. And it’s just as well I did take that line, because he let me talk to Sam.’

      My heart jumps. ‘How is he?’

      ‘How do you think? Angry, confused – he’s a teenage boy. I had one of those once and they’re like that at the best of times. Not just boys either – you and your sister were moody little madams.’

      I hate being lumped together with my step-siblings and try to get her back to the point in hand.

      ‘Mum – Sam.’

      ‘Oh yes. Well, he said he’s OK. Studying hard for his A levels. We didn’t talk about you know what, but I know he misses you. I’m sure if you called him, or wrote to him …’

       You’re a whore. I hate you. I wish you were dead.

      ‘I’ll think about it.’

      ‘Which means no.’

      I walk back to the kitchen and top up my glass. ‘It’s too soon. I need to give him time.’

      ‘Oh well, it’s up to you. But if he were my son …’

      ‘I’ve got to go, Mum.’

      ‘Wait a moment, Julia. Before you do, I was thinking, I mean asking, if I could come and stay tomorrow night.’

      ‘You hate London. And you know it’s only a one-bed flat.’

      ‘There’s an exhibition on at the Tate Modern and Vanessa Miller – you know, my old friend, we used to work together at Rackhams – said she was going.’

      ‘You hate modern art more than you hate London.’

      ‘I do not hate modern art. You’re always telling me what I do and do not like. I’m open to all kinds of art.’ As long as it predates 1900. ‘And don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements. I can take the sofa.’

      Audrey Hathersley would as soon sleep on a park bench as a sofa.

      I can’t think of a good excuse for putting her off and she did lend me the deposit for the flat, which she had to lie about to Robert to get hold of. Besides, having company might do me good – stop me rattling around in my own head.

      ‘Have my bed. When are you coming?’ I ask.

      ‘Vanessa and I are going to the midday viewing then having a spot of lunch. I’ll be there by five. I can let myself in.’

      After I’ve hung up, I return to the kitchen and ferret around for something to eat. There’s half a packet of crackers left and a little cheese in the fridge. I eat them with the remains of my wine. I’m just finishing the glass and thinking about going to bed when the landline rings again. I pick it up, expecting Audrey’s forgotten something.

      ‘Hello,’ I say.

      Silence.

      ‘Hello.’

      Sharp breaths hiss at me through the receiver. I’m about to put the phone down, when a voice whispers, ‘Better get your story straight.’

      A low, rasping voice. An unnatural voice, not the caller’s own. Not a text to my mobile phone, a call to my landline – a link, a specific location. Whoever’s making contact knows where I live. It’s intimate and menacing. I want to ask who it is, but the words won’t escape my mouth. The line goes dead.

      I rush to the window and look outside. A black and white cat is scratching at the door of the house opposite, desperate to escape the damp chill of an October night. Headlights swing from the main road and onto our street, briefly spotlighting the cat, which ceases its scratching as if ashamed to be caught in so undignified an act. The lights power past and it’s left yowling for its absent owners. Nothing else moves. I look at my mobile then the landline, waiting for it to ring again. It doesn’t.

      I reread the text from earlier. It’s still there, it’s real, I’m not losing my mind. I need a plan. It can only be a matter of time before this person states their intention or someone joins the dots.

       Chapter 8

       1995 – Archway, London