Angela Clarke - Trust Me

Nasreen

Freddie

A

Freddie

A

Nasreen

Nasreen

A

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Kate

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Nasreen

Freddie

Kate

Acknowledgements

Reading Group Questions

Q&A With Angela Clarke

About the Author

Also by Angela Clarke

About the Publisher

Hurriedly she opened her wardrobe, pulling her coat from the hanger and shoving it into her bag. She had minutes at most. Panic burnt through her body. Every fibre felt like it had been stripped raw. Tears welled up and over her eyelids, splashing onto the carpet. She tried not to snivel. There was still a chance to get away. She made it to the hallway before she remembered the photo. Her heart squeezed. She couldn’t live without it. Not now. Running back into her bedroom, she reached for the frame on her bedside table.

A noise sounded behind her. A thud, and then the front door opening. She froze. Held her breath. Her hand outstretched. Shaking. Her heart hammering in her ears.

Too late.

New message:

Wanna go to a party?

Going to be bangin.

Trust me.

The table is shaking. Kate realises she’s gripping it. She is shaking. The video on the computer screen is jerky. Handheld. Shot from a mobile. Live . It’s a room: square and shabby. A single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Beer bottles and empty cans brimming over with cigarette ends colonise the space. She can’t see any windows. But there’s a closed door in the background. Is it locked? Two crude drawings – an animal and a circle – have been spray-painted in black onto the back wall. A stripped, stained duvet has been made into a hasty bed. Her brain can’t – won’t – process what she’s seeing. It’s like something blunt-edged is smashing into her, trying to gouge out the fear that’s been buried under decades of safety, food, shelter and scatter cushions. But it’s there. It’s coming. An innate force within her. She recognises danger. Fight or flight. She says the words over and over in her head, until she realises it’s a command: fight or flight! Kate doesn’t move. She doesn’t make a sound. She is watching it happen.

A voice on the video shouts: ‘Like up the post! Get this to one thousand likes!’

He sounds like one of the boys from her class. Young. Excitable. A child.

The girl on the screen turns to look at the camera. Her eyes focus in recognition. They look past the lens. Out. Realising. Pleading. They’re looking straight at Kate. Fight or flight? The girl twists, tries to push herself up on her elbows. The man forces her down. His slim muscular back is turned toward the camera. Kate can’t see his face.

‘No!’ The girl manages.

She said no.

The girl’s speech is slurred. ‘You’re hurting me. Please. No.’

Kate reaches toward her. Her fingers futilely prod the screen. Push her laptop. She is at home. In her house. Watching this. Where is this being filmed? Somebody must hear the girl’s shouts? Someone must stop this.

Comments from viewers float up over the feed:

They’re so young lmao

She a slut!!

She said no. This is rape.

This is rape.

‘Just one more!’ the man shouts. Man? His skin is smooth, hairless, young. The girl jerks back. Claws at his face. Kicks her legs.

She said no.

He slaps the girl hard. The noise a loud crack. She’s flung sideways. There’s a scream. Is it the girl? Is it the man? Is it Kate? The girl scrabbles, swings up, punches him in the face. A fighter. She’s a fighter.

The camera judders. Lurches up. ‘Hey?’ calls the voice from behind. Unsure. Young, she’s convinced now.

‘Skank!’ The man roars, grabbing a bottle. A glass bottle. He smashes it down at the girl. Her face. Her hands. Frenzied. Slashing. There’s screaming. Blood. The camera convulses. The boy’s voice grows frantic. She can’t make out what he’s saying.

The man swipes toward the camera. ‘Turn that off!’ She sees his blood-splattered face. And the video feed goes dead.

Kate pushes away from her dining table, away from the computer. She stumbles, grabs the doorframe. Vomits. Liquid smacks the vinyl kitchen floor. Again. Again. She’s shaking. Cold. Bile. Retching. Then she drags herself, shuddering, teeth chattering, to her phone. Pulls it down to her. Dials 999.

‘Hello, emergency service operator, which service do you require? Fire, police or ambulance?’ It’s a woman; she sounds calm.

Kate’s voice bubbles from her throat, as if someone is speaking through her. She forces the words out. ‘Police. You’ve got to get to her. She said no. Someone needs to get there. You’ve got to…’

‘Where are you calling from, ma’am? What is the nature of your emergency?’

Kate blinks as if her own eyelids are heavy, weighted with blood.

‘I’ve just seen a young woman raped – stabbed. There’s a lot of blood. Please: you’ve got to help her!’

Oh my God. She shook her head. No way was she gonna move in with him. She was only twenty-four. Was he crazy? She had her whole life ahead of her.

‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea.’ Freddie swung her legs over the side of the bed.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

She’d let him get too comfortable. She’d got too comfortable. ‘This – us, like it’s fun and stuff, but no.’ She thought of her parents’ wedding photo: her mum twenty-four years old in her lacy white dress. Each time her dad smashed the frame during a drunken rage, her mum just replaced it without mentioning it.

‘No?’ He sat up, the duvet falling off his naked body. ‘What have the last few months been then? You’ve stayed the last twelve nights and you’re saying this is just – what? A fling?’ His eyes were wide. Stung.

Shit . She’d let her guard down. She didn’t want to be a jerk. ‘You know I’ve been sofa-surfing for months.’ She grabbed yesterday’s knickers from the floor, turned them inside out. ‘This has just been temporary, while I find new digs.’

‘You’ve been fucking me because it’s convenient?’

It wasn’t like it was all one-sided. ‘You’ve had perks too.’ He was thinking with his dick.

‘Thanks a fucking lot, Freddie!’ His cheeks burned red.

Anger she could deal with. She pulled her bag open. ‘Where’s all my stuff?’

‘I gave you a drawer.’ He pointed at the Ikea set under the telly and Xbox. His bottom lip shook.

‘You gave me a drawer?’ No one has ever made space for you before, Freddie. That must mean something.

‘Don’t you like staying here?’ He reached to brush back the frizzy curtain of hair that had fallen over her face.

Yes . She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out of there. ‘It’s not that.’

‘You don’t like me then?’ He let his hand fall back against the blue duvet.

‘Course I like you.’ She dived at the drawer. Quicker would be better. Pulled it open, started scooping her stuff into her bag.

‘Then why don’t you stay?’ He was up now, moving toward her. His arms wrapped round her as he kissed along her naked shoulder, her neck. She felt her body give under his touch, as one hand ran over her shoulder, circled her nipple. The air in the room was hot, foetid. August was gradually turning the heat up on London. Smothering them. She would hurt him. Hurt them both. Be strong, Freddie .