A little reminder...

Jonny used to be famous. He's happily retired, with a wife and daughter. But sometimes the past just won't stay buried.

Be aware this story deals with darker themes, including sexual assault and violence.

You don’t remember my sister. You probably don’t remember me, to tell you the truth. But we remember you. We know all about you.

So, I’m just leaving this here. As a little reminder…

….

The note disturbed him. He’d known his fair share of wackos and crazies – it came with the territory, but there was something in the phrasing, the emphasis on you, or, more to the point, the fact he’d found the piece of lined yellow paper stuck to his fridge, tucked neatly behind the letter from his daughter’s school about the Swiss skiing trip.

Someone had been here. In his house.

He wouldn’t tell Marie. God knows she had enough to deal with, what with the French au pair going AWOL to spend a week in Ibiza with less than 24 hours’ notice. He’d told his wife to ditch the girl, but she’d turned on the big Bambi eyes, said this was a one-off, the girl was so good with Imogen, and he’d relented. He could never say no to his sweet little duckling.

He checked the doorbell-cam and the security system. Nothing of course, but the note was evidence enough, a silent yellow siren blaring at him. Stupid, stupid – how could he have gotten so lax? His music career might be long over, and his hairline with it, but to women of a certain age, he’d never stopped being a heartthrob. Their heartthrob.

Yet some instinct told him this wasn’t some middle-aged fangirl sending him missives stuffed with her own pubes (a real incident). No, this was some other set up. Get him spooked before hitting him in the wallet.

Tension dug into his chest, needles then daggers, sharp pricks stabbing down his arm.

Calm down, Jonny. You need to think clearly.

He forced himself to sit, to breathe. In the old days he would have had a spliff, but Marie didn’t approve of that sort of thing, and he’d sworn off since they got married. Belly breaths would have to do.

He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table. His wife would tell him to report the incident to the police, but the thought of explaining the situation to some bored duty officer was like an ice pick stabbing through his forehead. But he couldn’t ignore the situation, put Marie and Imogen at risk.

He was just going to have to find some other way of dealing with it. His sweet little duckling would never need know.

#

‘It’s not much to go on, hun.’

Jonny frowned. He didn’t like this woman. Didn’t like her bored, am-I-bothered attitude, her false eyelashes. She tapped her long fake nails on the desk, so unlike his darling Marie’s sweet little cuticles. It was one of the things he loved most about his wife; her beauty was all natural.

He leaned forwards in his chair, trying not to seem too desperate. ‘But will you take the case?’

The woman glanced down at the piece of yellow paper he’d pushed across her desk with no more interest than if it were a water bill.

‘We’ll look into it.’

She pushed the note back towards him, and his frown deepened, cutting yet more worry lines into his skin. The tension had been building inside him again, bashing about like wasps in the walls. He had to get her to understand.

‘It’s not me I’m concerned about. I have a wife. A daughter.’

The woman nodded, couldn’t have seemed less interested in his personal life. ‘Any previous stalkers?’

‘No. Well. A few slightly over-zealous fans, I suppose.’

The woman’s eyes lost their slightly glazed look. ‘You’re famous?’

He smiled a modest smile. ‘Guess I was pretty big in the nineties. Blue Eyed Baby and all that.’

Nothing stirred behind the fake lashes. He tried not to let the sting show.

‘It doesn’t really matter anyway. There wasn’t anyone specific.’

Though his memory was pretty hazy about that time, if he was honest. It felt like another life.

The woman tapped her over-pointed nails on the desk again. ‘I can assure you that our agency will look into it. But we need as much information as you can give us, and if you get anything else, no matter how small it may seem, you let us know.’

He nodded, got up to walk out, felt the crick in his back. Getting old was a piece of crap.

‘Excuse me, Mr Fields? We need to discuss payment?’

‘Oh. Right.’

Jonny sat down again, the flair of embarrassment heating his cheeks as she took him through the paperwork. While her words were brusque and business-like, there was something mocking in her manner. Like he was a grub wriggling on her hook.

Marie would have told him to say something firm yet polite, reminding this woman how clients should be treated. But he couldn’t quite muster up the words, and he exited the office in a hurry, almost running into a girl carrying bundles of folders coming from the other direction.

She was young. Sixteen at most, fresh faced and pretty, sweat shining on her skin from the long climb upstairs. He took in the tightness of her black blouse, and the way it clutched at her breasts. The skintight jeans. The open collar, plunging and inviting.

‘Excuse me. Sir.’ The girl scowled. She had a pierced tongue and a pouting mouth.

Disgust rose in him like a wet ball of flesh at the back of his throat, killing his desire as quickly as it came. He edged round the girl, thanking the sweet Lord for his beautiful wife. He didn’t even care when the girl muttered something unpleasant as he passed. All he wanted to do was go home.

Home. He smiled as he walked into the car park. Stepping into the hallway with its Klimt prints (Marie’s) and city skylines (his). Imogen’s converse thrown higgledy piggildy on top of his brogues. The sanctuary of the kitchen island, a bowl of cashews and a bottle of rosé . Wafts of sourdough bread and lemon scented cleaner. Casserole in the slow cooker and the distance mumble of Marie on a voice call.

He was so pleased with his daydream that he almost didn’t notice the note on his BMW, nestled gently behind the windscreen wiper.

Oh dear, little boy. Running off to tell?

Don’t think Mummy can kiss it all better this time.

Catch you soon, Georgie Porgy.

#

‘Oh my God, Dad. Is that you?’

Jonny looked up, shocked that his thirteen-year-old had managed to drag her eyeballs away from her phone long enough to actually notice. He’d been idly leafing through one of his old photo albums, the one from the early days of the band.

‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Wow.’ For once, his daughter didn’t actually sound sarcastic. ‘And who’s that?’

‘That’s Joey.’ (Drummer, talented bastard, always stoned.) ‘That’s Mick.’ (Bass player, moody and mouthy, now an investment banker.) ‘And that’s Kyle.’ (Lead guitarist and Jonny’s best friend. Well. Former best friend.)

‘You all look pretty pissed.’

‘Language, Immy.’

Imogen completely ignored him. ‘And what about her?’

She pointed at the girl in the background of the photo, the one with the leather jacket and look of bored distain. She was leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand.

‘Don’t know. Some fan, probably.’ He took the album from her and shut it. ‘Aren’t you meant to doing homework or something?’

Imogen rolled her eyes so far back in her head she looked possessed. ‘I don’t have any.’

‘Liar.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’d better finish before your mother gets home, or we’ll both be in trouble.’

‘Fine. In a minute.’ The girl picked up her phone and, with considerable skill, navigated her way from the living room to the kitchen without looking up from her screen once.

Teenagers. He picked up the album again, and found himself looking at the photo, the one Imogen had been so interested in. She wasn’t wrong – they’d been pissed out of their skulls. High too, probably.

He tried to put the album away, but the girl in the corner drew his curiosity. There was something familiar about her, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He’d known a lot of girls like her – dressed older than their years, trying to piss their parents off by hanging out with a bunch of rockers. He remembered one Dad punching him in the face, pulling his darling from under Kyle’s arm – not knowing his little princess had already eagerly dropped her knickers the night before. The middle-aged skinhead had tried to break Kyle’s nose, only to miss and hit Jonny square in the jaw. The girl had gone ballistic at her dad, screaming bloody murder until the rozzers showed up – luckily it turned out they were big fans of the band, and the whole thing had been smoothed over. He and Kyle ended up autographing their notebooks.

But that wasn’t this girl. No, this girl was… was…

Probably not important, he decided, shutting the album. The whole note business was getting him paranoid. Like Joey after too much grass.

Thump, went the ceiling.

The album jogged from his hands and landed face up on the floor, centrefold open. The yellow note, taped over the paper, its words scrawled large and red.

You shoved her knickers in her mouth and called her a whore.

Jonny picked up the album, trembling. This was his home. His family. His sacred bloody castle. And this – this – this psycho was trampling all over it with their crazed, imaginary bullshit.

He threw the photo album at the wall. it slumped face down, spine broken.

‘Fuck off!’ he screamed, kicking the album. ‘Just fuck off out my life, would you?’

He stopped. A pale face in the corner of his eye, small and oval. Frizzy mouse-brown hair. Thick red plastic glasses, a tight black top, baggy blue jeans, white trainers. Fearful eyes.

A fawn catching glimpse of a wolf.

Imogen ran before he could say a word, ran and slammed the door shut. He could hear her pounding up the stairs, another door slamming. Sudden bass pounding through the ceiling.

Jonny stood still, the thudding music merging with his own pulse. Somehow, beneath it all, he heard a key twist in the lock – Marie, back from her book club. Orbital, they’d been discussing. He didn’t know why he remembered that. She might as well have been on the other side of a void.

He tried to call out her name, to tell her – what? That he was being stalked? That they, their family, their way of life, were under attack? That everything he’d built, everything he’d worked so hard for was threatening to crumble down, and all because of some girl who he didn’t even—

The front door opening. The tapping of high heeled shoes.

‘Darling?’

Her voice a balm, soothing his soul.

‘I’m in here.’

Marie’s face peeped round the door – small and elfin, framed by dark, bobbed hair. Her skin, the sort of pale ivory that requires year-round SPF, was dotted with raindrops. She glittered in the yellow light.

‘It’s cats and dogs out there,’ she complained, running delicate fingers through her damp hair. ‘How’s Immy been? Done her homework?’ She stepped further inside. ‘You doing OK?’

How to even begin to explain? ‘I’m fine.’

It was an obvious lie. But Marie seemed too distracted to notice. Imogen’s muffled bass was still thudding through the ceiling, and his wife frowned hard at it, crinkling her nose like a rabbit’s.

‘What a ghastly noise.’ She let out a tiny sigh. ‘Honestly, what must the neighbours think... I’d better go have a word, I suppose.’

She stepped back into the hallway. He wanted to tell her, oh God, how much he wanted to tell her…

He said nothing. She shut the door.

As it closed, a great wave of loneliness hit Jonny, standing there in his living room with the broken photo album. Above his head, the heavy bass turned up a notch, and the sound was a pickaxe in his skull, chipping and chipping away. He took a deep breath, trying to keep himself under control, but the buzzing was growing, and he knew that with just one more push—

The music stopped.

Jonny breathed out. At last.

Everything’s OK. The notes are making you paranoid. Everything will go back to normal. Everything already is normal. There’s nothing to be concerned about. All you need to do is breathe.

He could hear someone’s light footsteps coming down the stairs: Imogen, most likely. He should say something, apologise for frightening her. They could talk things through.

A knock on the living room door. Strange, he thought. In this house, no one ever knocked before entering.

‘Come in,’ he said, automatically.

A woman stepped inside. She wore a crisp white blouse, black trousers, her blonde hair sensibly tied back. She spoke with an even quietness, and a soft French lilt. She was also holding a gun.

Shit, he thought. So much for Ibiza.

#

Jonny pressed his back against the chair.

He was stark naked. The au pair had told him to undress with a characteristic quiet, gentle efficiency, the same voice she once used to tell Imogen to do her homework or get ready for school, before she tied him to the chair. Thinking about this ice queen being in the same room as his sweet little girl made him want to hurl.

She sat opposite, legs neatly together, eyes on him, gun very much aimed at his crotch region. Her fixed gaze reminded him of a starved alley cat, waiting patiently for a mouse.

‘Camille,’ he croaked. ‘Don’t do this.’

The girl remained unmoved.

‘Please.’ He wriggled, testing the strength of the binds; Girl Scout perfect. ‘Think of Immy. Marie.’

Was that a hint of laughter in her eyes? ‘Do not concern yourself, Mr Fields. Your wife and daughter are quite safe. Please rest assured, I will not lay a finger on either of them.’ Them being ever so slightly but pointedly emphasised.

‘Once again, I must remind you not to scream, make loud noises, or do anything stupid. If you do, you may lose something that is… precious to you.’

Such coolness in those grey eyes. She had such a bonny face, Camille, so innocent, browned by the sun and dusted with freckles, much younger looking than her years. Yet reach her eyes and you found metal shields on total shutdown.

‘Please.’ He could hear how desperate he sounded, how pathetic. ‘Don’t hurt me.’

Camille didn’t say a word.

Jonny forced him once more to focus on his breath. He had to be the calm one in the situation. To take back control.

‘What do you want? Money?’

A sneer marred the girl’s pretty lips. ‘Money? After all this, you think this is about money?’

He didn’t answer. In truth, a part of him had hoped, prayed almost, that it might be about money. But the breeze around his privates and the dead look in Camille’s eyes told him this could never be the case.

Gun still aimed at his gentlemanly region, Camille leaned across and plucked the photo album from the floor. She showed it to him, thumb on a photo. The photo.

‘Do you know who this girl is?’ she asked.

Something thudded, louder and louder, and Jonny couldn’t tell if the sound came from outside or his own heart. He shook his head.

‘My sister.’ Camille’s words were so quiet, he hardly heard them. ‘Half sister, technically. Dead before I was even born.’

She spoke like she was reading a script, a story. If it was a story, it couldn’t possibly be true.

‘Let me fill in the blanks in your memory, Mr Fields. When this photo was taken, my sister was 14. Her dad was taxi driver and a drunk, a nasty one, violent, beat her mother – our mother. Music was her only refuge. Your band was her favourite. She started the fan club at school, made mix CDs of all your hits, worshipped the very ground you all walked on – but you, Jonny, you were her idol. Her blue-eyed rock angel.’

Camille’s voice caught. A chink in the armour, a scratch in the record.

‘My sister and one of her school friends managed to get back stage at one of your gigs – couldn’t believe their luck. They were finally going to meet their idols. It was all so thrilling for them, only for you, it was just another couple of girls, wasn’t it? Old enough to be pretty, young enough to be dumb.’

He didn’t like the way she was talking, twisting the past to suit her own truth. He opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong, that she’d got it mixed up, but her gun hand twitched and he froze.

‘You got talking to her taller, prettier friend,’ Camille continued, as if she hadn’t even noticed his attempt to interrupt. ‘Of course, my sister got jealous. You know how teenagers are.’ She chuckled, a low and bitter sound. ‘You gave the friend your number, but my sister stole it from her handbag on the bus home and called you later that week. You chatted a while, made a connection. You told her to meet you that weekend, so she snuck out the house – no one noticed. My mother had… other things on her mind.’

Her lips pursed with distaste, knuckles tightening around the gun. Jonn’s stomach lurched. If only he had a spliff right now, something to calm himself, something way to help himself think.

‘You went on a bender round pubs in Camden. Fun night, par for the course for you, but not for her. She was, as the English say, “off her face.”’

She flicked her free hand, as if dismissing the expression.

‘So there she was. Too drunk to stand, in her mother’s “borrowed” black minidress, no money for a cab. You and Kyle bought one for her. You got in with her, making sure she “got back safe”. Next thing she knows, she’s on a bed. There’s something in her mouth and a man on top of her. Blacks out again and she’s another cab, taking her back to Lewisham. Her knickers are gone. Her dress is ridden up, dirty. She must have “gotten lucky”.’

Camillie leaned forwards, the gun barrel pointing mere millimetres from the tip of his penis.

‘Why doesn’t she feel lucky? She’s spent the night with her idol. All her friends are going to be so jealous. So why doesn’t she tell them? Why doesn’t she tell anyone? Why does she feel so much shame?’

He felt the barrel edge brush against him, just slightly. A dribble of piss dropped onto the carpet.

Camille looked down, very pointedly, at the small wet patch on the floor. She met his eyes, then leaned back in her seat. The gun still kept its aim.

‘Now, you are probably wondering – how did she die? It isn’t very interesting – OD’d in some scummy basement alone. No one knew she was dead for three days. One can only imagine the smell.’

A few more drops of piss landed on the carpet. Jonny squirmed in the chair.

‘When my mother learned her daughter was dead,’ she told him, ‘she left the house of her drunken taxi driver and took a plane to Paris with the money she’d been squirreling away for years. After a while, she met my father. They got married. Had me. I grew up in ignorance of my mother’s previous life until last year, when she told me the whole story. Gave me my sister’s diaries. She said she wanted someone to know, not the police, but someone who would care. She did not know it then but her story opened a hole in me that day that sucked all my world into it, dragging every hope I had for the future, every belief I had in the world. That life was good. That people are good. And it has never closed, that hole. It eats my heart.’

Camille’s gaze locked onto his own. At last, the calm composure cracked open, revealing a darkness, a well of hatred so deep that to even glimpse it was like staring into the abyss.

‘You’ve made a mistake,’ he stammered, in the face of her darkness. ‘I’m not a bad person. I’m sorry about your sister and everything but it isn’t my fault. I’m not a bad person.’

His words choked into sobs. He cast about in desperation from something, someone to save him.

‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Don’t kill me!’

Through blurred tears, he thought his saw Marie, a white dressing gown and spa slippers on her feet, floating towards him like an angel. A final vision, come to comfort him in his hour of need.

He blinked hard. This was no dream. She was real.

‘Help!’ he screamed, struggling against his binds. ‘Call the police!’

Camille sighed. ‘Now, now, Mr Fields, settle down, you’ll wear yourself out.’ She turned her head towards Marie. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘Not a problem. He does like to make a fuss.’

Marie looked down at Jonny. Stared at him like he was an unpaired sock or a stained shirt. Out of place. Soon gone.

‘Don’t tell me you believe her,’ Jonny wailed. ‘It’s all lies, everything she says.’

Cool and magisterial, the elfin face was impassive. Only a slight thinning of the lips suggested any emotion.

‘Please. My darling. My little duckling—'

‘Don’t call me that.’ A flash of fire in his wife’s eyes. ‘Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.’

She turned her back on him. Spun on her heel. He heard her say, ‘The carpet cleaner is under the stairs.’

And then the door clicked closed, with a final snap.

As if on cue, Camille rose from her chair. No pity. No malice. He was under the power of a merciless judge, jury and executioner, and there was no defence.

She pressed the gun into his penis.

‘Now do you remember?’

Another tear trailed down his cheek. He thought about Imogen, his dear, sweet, innocent girl. He thought about his wife, the woman he once believed her to be. He thought about being young. About being fearless. About a life, so full of promise. About—

—a girl lying under his body, so still she might be dead. Kyle saying something, always bloody talking. The girl beginning to stir a little, slurring her words, and his head pounding, thumping like a blinder. If only Kyle would shut up. Kyle saying something again, handing him the thong. Stuffing it in her mouth. If only she’d be quiet. He liked them to be quiet. Nice and good and quiet—

The gun fired. The memory was lost in his scream.