His and Hers

I don’t know why I believed Cat Jones was gone for good. It seems silly now, but I suppose I had imagined a little accident of some sort. Just something to prevent her from presenting the lunchtime bulletin ever again, so that I could step back into her shoes, and be the person I want to be. I am redundant now that she is here, and I can already feel myself start to crumple and fold into someone small and invisible. An unwanted and unnecessary spare part in a newly refurbished machine.

She tucks her bright red hair behind her ears, revealing diamond studs that look far more genuine than the person wearing them. Her hair colour can’t possibly be natural, but it looks perfect, just like her figure-hugging yellow dress, and the set of pearly white teeth revealed when she smiles in my direction. I feel like a frumpy fraud.

‘Anna!’ she says, as though we are old friends, not new enemies. I return the smile like an unwanted gift. ‘I thought you’d be at home with your own little one on your first day of freedom, now that I’m back! I hope motherhood is treating you well. What age is your daughter now?’

She would have been two years, three months and four days old.

I’ve never stopped counting.

I guess Cat remembers me being pregnant. It appears nobody ever told her what happened a few months after Charlotte was born. Everything seems very still and silent in the newsroom all of a sudden, with everyone staring in our direction. Her question sucks the air from my lungs and nobody, including me, seems able to answer it. Her eyebrows – which I’m quite certain have been tattooed onto her face – form a slightly theatrical frown.

‘Oh my goodness, did they call you in early because of me? I’m so sorry again, you could have had a nice morning off for a change, stayed at home with your family.’

I hold onto the presenter’s chair for balance.

‘It’s fine, honestly,’ I say, and manage a smile that hurts my face. ‘I’m looking forward to being a correspondent again to be honest, so I’m delighted you’re back. I actually miss getting out of the studio and covering real stories, meeting real people, you know?’

Her expression remains neutral. I interpret her silence as a way of saying that either she doesn’t agree, or doesn’t believe me.

‘If you’re so keen to get out and about again, maybe you should take a look at that murder that broke overnight? The body in the woods?’ Cat replies.

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ says The Thin Controller, appearing by her side and smiling like a monkey with a new banana.

I feel myself start to shrink.

‘I haven’t seen the story,’ I lie.

I think now might be a good time to pretend I’m sick. I could go home, lock myself away from the world, and drink myself happy – or at least less sad – but Cat Jones continues to speak, the whole team appearing to hang on her every word.

‘A woman’s body was found overnight in a place called Blackdown, a sleepy Surrey village according to the wires. It might turn out to be nothing, but you could go check it out maybe? In fact, I insist we find you a camera crew. I’m sure you don’t want to just… hang around here.’

She glances over at what we call the taxi rank – the corner of the newsroom where the general correspondents sit, waiting to be deployed on a story, often not getting on air at all.

Journalists with specialist subjects – like business, health, entertainment, crime – all sit in offices upstairs. Their days tend to be busy and satisfying, their jobs relatively safe. But things are very different for a humble general correspondent. Some had quite promising careers at one time, but probably pissed off the wrong person, and have been gathering unaired stories like dust ever since.

There is a lot of dead wood in this newsroom, but the tough varnish of media unions can make it tricky to carve out. It is hard to imagine a more humiliating seat in the newsroom for a former presenter than correspondent corner. I’ve worked too hard for too long to disappear. I am going to find a way to get myself back on-air again, but this is the one story I don’t want to cover.

‘Is there anything else?’ I ask.

My voice sounds strange, as though the words got strangled.

The Thin Controller shrugs and shakes his head. I notice the light dusting of dandruff on the shoulders of his ill-fitting suit, and he sees me staring at it. I force a final smile to dispel the latest awkward silence.

‘Then I guess I’m on my way to Blackdown.’

We all have cracks, the little dents and blemishes that life makes in our hearts and minds, cemented by fear and anxiety, sometimes plastered over with fragile hope. I choose to hide the vulnerable sides of myself as well as I’m able at all times. I choose to hide a lot of things.

The only people with no regrets are liars.

The truth is, even though I’d rather be anywhere but here right now, Blackdown is the one place I don’t ever want to go back to. Especially not after last night. Some things are too difficult to explain, even to ourselves.

Killing the first one was easy.

She looked as though she didn’t want to be there when she stepped off the train at Blackdown Station. I could relate to that. I didn’t really want to be there either, but at least I was properly dressed for the cold in an old black jumper. Not like her. It was the last service from Waterloo, so she’d already had a late night, but clearly still had plans for the evening with her red lips, blonde hair, and black leather skirt. It looked like the real deal, not fake like the woman wearing it. Her career choice always seemed so selfless and compassionate to others – running a homeless charity – but I knew she was far from being a saint. More like a sinner trying to make up for her wickedness.

Sometimes we all do good things because we feel bad.

Blackdown was deserted, just as it always is at that time of night, so she was the only passenger to get off and walk down the lonely little platform. It’s a sleepy variety of town, where people go home and go to bed early on weeknights, shrouded in a cloak of middle-class manners and conformity. A place where if something bad does happen, people remember how to forget surprisingly quickly.

The station itself is a listed building constructed in 1850, as the stone carving above the double doors proudly declares. A picturesque and quaint village railway, despite Blackdown swelling into a town several years earlier. It’s like going back in time and stepping into a scene from a black-and-white film. Due to its heritage, it is protected from all unnecessary forms of modernisation. There are no security cameras, and only one way in and one way out.

I could have killed her there and then.

But her phone rang.

She talked to the person who called all the way from the platform to the car park, so even if nobody had seen, someone might have heard.

I watched as she slid into her Audi TT, a company car she had decided the charity could pay for, along with other things, including a designer coat, a trip to New York, and highlights in her hair. I’d seen the yearly statements filed by her accountant. Found them in her home office – the desk drawer wasn’t even locked. She was regularly stealing money from the charity and spending it on herself, and it would have been a crime to let her keep getting away with it.

She drove the short distance from the station to the woods, and it wasn’t far for me to have to follow. I watched as she got out of her own car and into another. Then she tucked that beautiful blonde hair behind her ears and went down on the driver. It was little more than an appetiser, something to whet her appetite maybe, before hitching her skirt up and her underwear down for the main event.

I noticed how she liked to keep her clothes on, slapping away the hands that tried to help her out of them. It didn’t matter; the most beautiful part of her was still on show; her collarbones. I’ve always found them to be one of the most erotic parts of a woman’s body, and hers were so striking. The shape of the cavities between her shoulders and her clavicles, where her fragile bones protruded from her snow-white skin, was simply exquisite. Looking at them made me ache. I liked her shoes too; so much so that I decided to keep them. They are far too small for my feet to be able to wear – more of a souvenir, I suppose.

I saw how her face changed when someone was inside her. Then I closed my eyes, and listened to the sounds two people make when they know they shouldn’t be fucking each other but can’t stop. Like animals in the forest. Fulfilling a basic need without considering the consequences.

But there are always consequences.

I liked the way her face looked afterwards: shiny with sweat despite the cold, some colour on those pale cheeks, and her perfect mouth open a fraction, where she had been literally panting like a Best in Show dog. Lips parted just wide enough to slip a little something inside.

Most of all, I enjoyed the look in her pretty blue eyes just before I killed her. It was an expression I had never seen her face wear before – fear – and it suited her very well. It was as though she already knew that something very bad was about to happen.

Him

Tuesday 07:00

This is very bad.

If anyone ever finds out, they’re going to think it was me, but I’m reasonably confident nobody knew about our arrangement. Every time I see the victim’s body lying in the dirt today, I think about being inside her last night.

Sometimes it felt like I was watching her do the things she did to me, from a distance, as if she were doing them to someone else. I often struggled to believe our affair was real, as though this beautiful woman being interested in me was too good to be true. I guess now, given what has happened, it was. She got into the car, then unzipped my fly without a word and went down on me. After that, she let me do whatever I wanted, and I did, enjoying the small sounds that came out of that perfect mouth.

I had imagined doing those things to her for a very long time.

She was so far out of my league – I suppose deep down I knew it would have to end one day – but from the moment our late-night liaisons began a few months ago, she let me do anything to her. It made little sense to me given how beautiful she was, but I stopped questioning our incompatibility after a while. She was like a drug: the more of her I had, the more I needed to get high.

When a woman like that grabs your attention, they rarely give it back. She came and went like the tide, and I knew sooner or later she’d leave me washed up, but I enjoyed the ride while it lasted.

We both got what we wanted out of the arrangement – sex without the strings. It didn’t mean anything and I think that’s why it worked. No dinners, no dates, no unnecessary complications. She told me she’d got divorced a few months earlier, said he cheated on her. The man was clearly a fool, but then so was I, kidding myself that I was anything more than someone she used in order to feel better about herself. I didn’t mind knowing that was all I was to her. She had a reputation for looking good but being bad; beautiful people do tend to get away with far more than the rest of us. Most of the time. I thought if nobody knew about what we were doing, then nobody could get hurt. I was wrong.

‘Say my name,’ was the only thing she ever said during sex, so I did.

Rachel. Rachel. Rachel.

‘You all right, sir?’

Priya is staring at me, and I wonder if I’ve been talking to myself again. Even worse, she appears to be looking at the scratch on my face, where Rachel left her mark. I’ve never understood why women do that during sex, scratching with their fingernails like feral cats. Hers were always the same: long and pink with fake-looking white tips. I didn’t mind marks on my back that nobody could see, but she caught me on the face last night. I stare down at Rachel’s fingers again now, the nails roughly cut to the quick, and the two words painted on them: TWO FACED. Then I look back at Priya. Seeing my colleague staring at the faint pink scar on my cheek makes me want to run, but I turn away instead.

‘I’m fine,’ I mumble.

I make my excuses and sit in my car for a while, pretending to make calls while trying to warm up and calm down. I turn and stare at the back seat, quickly double-check the floor, but there are no visual signs of Rachel being in here, even though her prints must be everywhere. I lost count of the times and ways we did it in this car. Frankly, it’s as filthy as we were. I’ll get it cleaned later, inside and out, when a suitable time presents itself.

I don’t know what I was thinking getting involved with a woman like her. I knew she was trouble, but perhaps that’s why I couldn’t say no. I guess I was flattered. Meeting up with Rachel was always preferable to going home; there was nothing much there to look forward to after a long day at work. But if people found out, I could lose everything.

It’s still raining. The constant pitter-patter on the windscreen sounds like drums inside my ears. I have a headache at the base of my skull, the kind that can only be cured with nicotine. I’d kill for a cigarette right now, but I gave up smoking a couple of years ago, for the child, not wanting to inflict my poor life choices on an innocent human being. A nice glass of red would make the pain go away too, but drinking before lunchtime is something else I gave up. I consider my options and realise that I have none – best to stick to the plan.

Priya knocks on the window. I contemplate ignoring her, but think better of it and get out of the car, back to cold and wet reality.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Were you talking to someone?’

Just myself.

‘No.’

‘The big boss said he couldn’t get through on your phone,’ she says.

If she meant the words to sound like an accusation, she was successful. I take out my mobile and see eight missed calls from the deputy chief constable.

‘Nothing showing. Either he’s calling the wrong number or I’ve got a bad signal,’ I lie, slipping it straight back inside my pocket. Lying is something I’m pretty good at, to myself as well as others; I’ve had plenty of practice. ‘If he calls back just tell him everything is under control, and I’ll update him later.’ Having some hot-shot superior officer, who is half my age, shit all over my show is the last thing I need right now.

‘OK, I’ll let him know,’ Priya says.

I see her add that to the invisible list of things to do she always writes inside her head. There is clearly something else she wants to tell me, and her face lights up like a pinball machine when she remembers what it is.

‘We think we’ve got a print!’

What?

‘What?’

‘We think we’ve got a print!’ she repeats.

‘Finger?’ I ask.

‘Foot.’

‘Really? In this mud?’

The rain has already made a series of mini rivers across the forest floor. Priya beams at me like a kid who wants to show a parent their latest painting.

‘I think Forensics are super excited to be allowed out of the lab. It looks like a large recent boot print, right next to the body, initially hidden by dead leaves. They’ve done an incredible job! Do you want to see?’

I briefly stare down at my own muddy shoes before I follow her.

‘You know, even if they have managed to find a footprint, I predict it might belong to one of the team. The whole scene should have been properly cordoned off straightaway, as soon as you arrived,’ I say. ‘Including the car park. Any tracks we come across now will be worthless in court.’

The smile fades from her face and I breathe a little easier.

I don’t think anyone knows I was here, or has any reason to suspect my involvement with the murder victim. So as long as it stays that way, I should be fine. My best course of action is to act normal, do my job, and prove that someone else killed Rachel before anyone can point the finger at me. I try to clear my head but my mind is too busy and my thoughts are too loud. The one I hear the most plays on repeat, and right now it’s true: I wish I’d never come back to Blackdown.

Her

Tuesday 07:15

I don’t see the point in trying to get out of going back to Blackdown. It would just raise more questions than I have answers for, so I go home and pack a bag. I don’t intend to stay overnight, but things don’t always go according to plan in this business. It might have been a while, but I haven’t forgotten the drill: clean underwear, non-iron clothes, waterproof jacket, make-up, hair products, a bottle of wine, a few miniatures, and a novel I already know I won’t have time to read.

I put my little suitcase in the back of the car – a red Mini convertible I bought when my husband left me – then climb in and fasten my seat belt; I’m a very safe driver. I was worried I might still be over the limit after last night, but I have my own breathalyser in the glovebox for occasions such as these. I take it out, blow in the tube and wait for the screen to change. It turns green which means I’m good. I don’t need to turn on the sat nav; I know exactly where I’m going.

The journey down via the A3 is relatively painless – it’s still rush hour, and the majority of drivers on the road at this time of day are hurrying towards London, not away from it – but minutes feel like hours with nothing except the same views and anxieties for company. The radio does little to drown them out, and every song I hear seems to make me think about things I’d rather forget. Covering this story is a bad idea, but since I can’t explain that to anyone it doesn’t feel like I have a choice.

The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach worsens as I take the old familiar turn-off and follow the signs for Blackdown. Everything looks just the same as it always did, as though time stands still in this small corner of the Surrey Hills. A lifetime ago this was the place I called home, but when I look back now, it feels like someone else’s life, not my own. I’m not the same person I was then. I’ve changed beyond recognition, even if Blackdown and its residents haven’t.

It’s still beautiful, despite all the ugly things that I know have happened here. As soon as I turn off the highway, I find myself navigating a series of narrow country roads. The sky soon disappears from view, courtesy of the ancient forest that seems to swallow me whole. Trees that are centuries old lean across a network of sunken lanes, with steep banks of exposed roots on either side. Their gnarly branches have twisted together up above, blocking out all but the most determined shards of sunlight. I focus hard on the road ahead, steering myself through unwanted thoughts, as well as the shadowy tunnel of trees towards the town.

When I emerge from the canopy of leaves, I see that Blackdown still wears its Sunday best every day of the week. Pretty, well-looked-after Victorian cottages stand proud behind neat gardens, moss-covered dry-stone walls, and the occasional white picket fence. The window boxes on neighbouring properties compete with each other all year round, and you won’t find any litter on these streets. I pass the village green, The White Hart pub, the crumbling Catholic church, then I pass the imposing exterior of St Hilary’s. Seeing the girls’ grammar school causes me to step on the accelerator. I keep my eyes on the road again, as though if I don’t look directly at the building, then the ghosts of my memories won’t be able to find me.

I pull into the National Trust car park, and see that my cameraman is already here. I hope they’ve assigned a good one. All the BBC crew vehicles are exactly the same – a fleet of estate cars with an arsenal of filming equipment hidden in the boot – but cameramen and women are all different. Some are better than they think they are at the job. Several are considerably worse. How I look on-screen very much depends on who is filming me, so I can be quite fussy about who I like to work with. Like a carpenter, I think I have a right to choose the best tools with which to cut and shape and craft my work.

I park next to the crew car, still unable to see who is sitting inside. The driver’s seat is fully reclined, as though whoever it is has decided to take a nap. It’s not a great sign. It has been a long time since I was on the road, and staff turnover is high in news, so chances are it could be someone I’ve never worked with. This career path is steep and a little pointy, with not much room at the top. The best people often move on when they realise they can’t move up. I consider the possibility that it might be someone new, but when I get out of my car and take a look inside theirs, I can see that it isn’t.

The window is down – despite the cold and rain – and I see the familiar shape of a man I used to know. He’s smoking a roll-up and listening to eighties music. I decide it’s best to get the awkward reunion out of the way, if that’s what this is going to be. I prefer leaving people I have a history with in the past, but that can be tricky when you work with them.

‘Those things will kill you, Richard,’ I say, getting into the passenger seat and closing the door. The car smells of coffee and smoke and him. The scent is familiar, and not altogether unpleasant. My other senses are less impressed. I ignore my instinctive urge to clean away all the mess that I can see – mostly chocolate bar wrappers, old newspapers, empty coffee cups and crumpled Coke cans – and I try not to touch anything.

I notice that he is wearing one of his trademark retro T-shirts and a pair of ripped jeans, still dressing like a teenager despite turning forty last year. He looks like a skinny but strong surfer, even though I know he has a fear of the sea. His blond hair is long enough to be tied back, but hangs in what we used to call ‘curtains’ when I was at school, haphazardly tucked behind his pierced ears. He is a Peter Pan of a man.

‘We all have to die of something,’ he says, taking another drag. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘Thanks. You look like shit,’ I reply.

He grins and the thick ice is at least cracked, if not broken.

‘You know, you don’t always have to tell it like it is. Especially in the morning. You might have a few more friends if you didn’t.’

‘I don’t need friends, just a good cameraman. Know any?’

‘Cute,’ he says, then taps the ash from his cigarette out of the window, before turning to stare at me. ‘Shall we just get this done?’

There is a slightly menacing look in his eyes, one that I do not remember. But then he gets out of the car, and I realise he just meant the job. I watch while Richard checks his camera – he might not be a perfectionist when it comes to hygiene, but he takes his work seriously – and I feel a wave of gratitude and relief that I’ll be working with him today for so many reasons. Firstly, he can shoot the shit out of any story, and make me look good even when I feel bad. Secondly, I can be myself with him. Almost.

Richard and I slept together a few times when I was a correspondent. It isn’t something that anyone else knows about – we both had good ring-shaped reasons on our fingers to keep it that way – and it isn’t something I’m terribly proud of. I was still married, just, but I was a bit broken. Sometimes I find the only way to ease the worst forms of pain is to damage myself in a different way. Distract my attention from the things that can and will break me. A little hurt to help me heal.

I’d never defend infidelity, but my marriage was over long before I slept with someone I shouldn’t have. Something changed when my husband and I lost our daughter. A small part of us died when she did. But like ghosts who don’t know they are dead, we carried on haunting ourselves and each other for a long time afterwards.