‘They won’t do anything,’ I say. ‘And it’s late. Maybe best to wait until morning.’
He frowns, shakes his head. ‘It needs reporting! I don’t understand why you’d think otherwise.’
‘OK,’ I say, cold sweat pooling at the bottom of my back.
Of course, my husband doesn’t understand my reaction. He doesn’t know I was arrested. He doesn’t have a clue as to who I was back then.
But one thing is for sure: I’d rather not see the police again.
When Dev finishes the call, his face is like thunder.
‘What did they say?’
‘They’ve given me a poxy crime number.’ He rolls his eyes and affects a mocking tone. ‘“An officer wouldn’t usually attend an incident of this nature.” Can you believe it?’
‘That’s terrible but I expected it.’ Relief floods my chest. ‘Did you tell them how bad the vandalism was?’
‘I tried. But they seemed to regard it as just a bit of spray paint.’
We were used to graffiti, living in a city, but this wasn’t just graffiti. The glass was indelibly marked and the messages were horrible. Troubling. But not troubling enough for me to want the police here with their searching questions and narrowed eyes. If they started digging, there’s no knowing how long it would take them to find my real name – and the case files along with it, which I’ve tried so hard to keep buried.
I make some tea, and we sit in the living space staring out into the darkness of the night. The lake gleams under the moonlight, a fluid surface of silver and ink that makes me want to retch. I pull a blanket around my shoulders and look away.
From my comfy seat on the sofa, I feel as if the glass barely separates me from the night outside. The expanse of dark water feels vast, as if it’s capable of swallowing everything in its path. I’m not sure I can ever get used to it.
‘This makes me want to run back to what we know,’ I say. ‘I can’t stand the thought that people hate us being here already. Anyone could be watching us out there and we’d never know it.’
‘Don’t think like that, Merri. We’re not going to throw away an amazing future here because of some jealous loser who can’t handle other people’s good fortune.’ Dev puts down his mug and turns to face me on the sofa. ‘Think about it. They’ve got pressure groups here just like in other places … in Cornwall and Wales … Troublemakers who loathe people who can afford second homes. The papers are full of it. And if they think they can intimidate us, we’re sunk.’
I nod, but what if there’s something more behind it?
‘I’m going to text Jack.’ He picks up his phone again before glancing at my expression. ‘Trust me. I’m not going to let anything bad happen.’
I know Dev means well – but I don’t rate his chances of scaring off the kind of people who’d do a thing like this.
Dev doesn’t know how rotten-to-the-core people can be.
But I do.
31
Sixteen Years Earlier
I stood at the kitchen sink, washing the dinner dishes when Mrs Webb’s voice sliced through the air like a knife.
‘Did you track mud in here again, Janey? Look at this floor!’
‘I – I don’t think it was me,’ I mumbled, my voice small and uncertain.
Mr Webb appeared in the doorway, his presence loosening some of the tension. He glanced from me to the faint smudge on the floor, then to his wife. ‘Let it go, Maureen,’ he said, his voice calm but firm. ‘It’s just a bit of dirt. No harm done, eh?’
Her face crumpled. ‘What are we going to do?’
Suddenly she wasn’t talking about the floor. She reached for the kettle and I saw her hand was trembling.
‘What are we going to do?’ she said again.
‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘But don’t take it out on the girl.’
