Renée Knight - Disclaimer

“Thank you, Mrs. Rossi, thank you so much. Do you think Jamie would talk to me?”

“God no. He’d be furious if he knew I’d been talking to you. Even now. He completely clammed up about it — never talks about it. Sometimes I wonder whether, you know, anything had happened before he went up to uni. I mean, Brigstocke was obsessed with Jamie.”

“What do you mean? Did you ever suspect anything while Brigstocke was teaching Jamie?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know… No, no, not really. I’m not sure. Jamie trusted Mr. Brigstocke. It was Mr. Brigstocke got him through those exams. They spent a lot of time together.”

“Listen, let me leave you my number and if you think Jamie might want to talk, then please, give me a call. He might not be the only one Stephen Brigstocke took an interest in.”

It’s been a good day’s work. Productive. Catherine is building up a picture of Stephen Brigstocke, and it is not a pretty one. That makes her feel better, a little safer. She is not the only one who is hiding things. She is about to leave when Kim hands her a piece of paper with the address and phone number she’s been waiting for.

She is in no rush to get home. Robert had said he’d be late, so she takes her time, gets off at an earlier tube stop and decides to walk the rest of the way home. It’s a nice evening. She passes her local bookshop, stopping to look in the window. It is full of temptation — full of things to cleanse her palate. She is stepping over the threshold when she hears her name called from across the street. She wants to ignore it — she feels the bookshop sucking her in, dragging her to its shelves — but the voice calls again, closer now, at her shoulder.

“Catherine.”

She turns and is met with a wide smile from a friend she hasn’t seen for a while.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, how are you?”

“Good. I’m good. What are you doing now?”

“Well, I was about to go and buy a book — need to find a birthday present.” Why is she lying?

“Oh, come and have a drink. Come on, a quick glass of wine.” The friend is beguiling. The sun is shining. Robert will be home late. They can sit outside, have a glass of wine, smoke a cigarette. She gives in, allows herself to be led away.

It is still light when she gets home, but even so, she pulls down the blinds and turns on the lights. Robert will be another hour. The silence in the house invites Stephen Brigstocke back into her head. He had been held at bay for a while: the company of her friend, a glass of wine, had helped push him away, but now he has slipped back in. The piece of paper with his telephone number is in her purse. She takes it out and looks at it then presses the number into her phone. Her finger hovers over the word Call. What will she say? Her mouth is dry. What if she makes it worse by phoning? She doesn’t know what to say. What does he want? Why hasn’t he called her? Maybe he hasn’t been back to that flat since she put her note through the letter box. Maybe he doesn’t have her number. Or maybe he does but is choosing not to use it. Perhaps he doesn’t want to speak to her. So then what does he want? He sent her the book — he wrote the book — so she would read it. And she has. She must let him know. But he sent it to Nicholas too. Was that to get at her? There was no note to Nicholas — a note could have made everything clear to him, but he didn’t do that. It was a warning to her, to let her know that he knows who her son is, where he is, a threat. He needs to know that she has read the book. She can do that. But does he want an apology too? For her to say she’s sorry? An admission of guilt? That is too much to ask. But she can give him something. She can put her hand out at least, if it means he will leave her alone. Yes, she is prepared to go some way to meet him. It would be better to write, not speak. She can’t trust herself on the phone. He wouldn’t believe her anyway — better to compose some words and send them to him. She deletes his number and puts the piece of paper back in her purse.

She opens her laptop and finds the site for The Perfect Stranger. She has lost count of the number of times she has studied that page. Nothing ever changes on it. She clicks Review. Careful now. Be very careful. His wife told her he was dead. His own wife denied his existence. She didn’t trust him. Catherine must be careful. He is sick, this man. He has shown how twisted his mind is. She tiptoes out the words: “There is a pain at the heart of this book which is undeniable. It is rare for a work of fiction to create such powerful feelings in its reader.” Should she give her name? No, too risky. No one must connect her to this book, and it could come up in the future if someone Googled her. Still, he needs to know that it is her, so she signs herself Charlotte, the name he has given her in the book, and then presses Submit.

I sleep during the day now and stay awake at night. I like the dark. I am not alone. Nancy is with me and I have my laptop too. It is my pet — I use it to do my shopping, like sending the dog out to bring in the newspaper: groceries delivered to my door. What a clever chap. It’s mainly canned stuff. Like the war. Meat in tins. Chunky chicken. But it doesn’t matter what I eat, it all tastes the same because another flavour overpowers everything; even when I’ve brushed my teeth until the gums bleed, I can’t get the taste out of my mouth. It makes everything sour. And tonight it is particularly bad.

I have just read a review. Is it a nibble? By now she must know that Nancy is dead, so it is me she is talking to. I feel the twitch on my line. “There is a pain at the heart of this book which is undeniable. It is rare for a work of fiction to create such powerful feelings in its reader.” She’s called herself Charlotte. Is that an acceptance of her guilt? But the more I read it, the more I see it for what it is: “… such powerful feelings….” She doesn’t say what those “feelings” are. Powerful revulsion? Powerful loathing? I want precision, not vague feelings. I want shame, fear, terror, remorse, a confession. Is that really too much to ask? This little review has got right up my nose. It is just so, so carefully written: careful not to apologise, careful not to accept responsibility. I should have known that she would try to slither her way out of it. How dare she presume that her empty words, so nimbly crafted, will be enough? Even after all these years Mrs. Catherine Ravenscroft, award-winning documentary maker, mother of Nicholas the vacuum cleaner salesman, continues to twist the knife with her painted nails and her sly review. She has made a mistake by thinking that her pithy little missive will satisfy me. It has provoked me. It is an insult. I’m not interested in her acknowledgement of my pain. It’s too late for that now. She needs to feel it, to know what it’s like. Only then will I get through to her. She needs to suffer as I have.

Catherine wakes. She hadn’t remembered falling asleep, but her head tells her she has slept for some time. Her eyes are sticky with it. The bed is empty and light squeezes through the bottom of the blind. She allows her head to sink back on the pillow. The sun warms the room. It must be a nice day out there. It is after ten. Robert left hours ago. She thinks how pleased he will have been to see her so sound asleep.

He told her last night he’d have to be in early this morning. It was the first time in ages he’d even mentioned work. She’s been so self-absorbed, but last night Robert unburdened himself: he had let things pile up at work; he was feeling swamped. Catherine knew how he hated not being on top of things; he needed to be one step ahead so that he could feel in control. If he wasn’t, it made him, well, not quite panic, but certainly become very anxious. He was a lawyer, people relied on him to get things right.