‘Please, Zara. I can’t stand up and tell the world that I wanted him to kiss me. I can’t. How would that ever be the reason I went with him?’ She pressed the dashboard to emphasise her plea and left small and sweaty fingerprints on the textured grey surface. ‘Please don’t make me do this.’
Zara held up a hand. ‘Look, I can’t make you go in and tell her but I strongly advise that you do.’
Jodie’s voice was unsteady. ‘I’m sorry I lied but it’s such a small thing. It doesn’t change anything else.’
Zara grimaced. ‘That’s the thing, Jodie. It could change something. You’ve got to get your story straight in your head. Those who tell the truth don’t need to rely on memory.’
‘That’s the only thing, I swear,’ she promised.
‘I hope so, Jodie. I really do.’ Zara started the car, the soft thrum sounding her surrender.
They wove through roads lined with building works, past shiny promotional boards touting luxury two-and three-bedroom apartments the locals couldn’t afford. You could tell which streets were really gentrified: they had a flank of Boris bikes standing sentry on the pavement. Of course, there was no such offering on the Wentworth Estate where row after row of four-storey buildings stood a nose width away from each other. Communal balconies ran the length of the dark-brick buildings, peppered with soggy clothes and the rusting sequins of satellite dishes.
Zara felt a pang of guilt as she parked her Audi on the concourse. ‘I’d like to talk to your mother,’ she told Jodie.
‘I—’ Jodie hesitated. ‘My mother isn’t really in a condition to talk about this right now.’ Her tone was neutral but Zara caught the tremor beneath.
‘That’s why it’s important for me to talk to her. You’re sixteen and your mum needs to understand what’s happening so that she can provide the support you need.’
Jodie shook her head. ‘I’m just so tired. Please, another day.’
Zara studied her for a moment. ‘Okay, fine,’ she said slowly, confused by Jodie’s reticence. ‘But call me if you need anything.’ She unlocked the doors and watched Jodie shuffle across the concourse. She appeared on the first-floor balcony and after a brief pause, opened a door and went inside.
Zara switched on the air conditioning and dabbed at her brow, careful not to smudge her makeup. She felt a wiry sense of unease and instinctively reached for her bag, a tan Céline tote preserved from her days in chambers. She glanced up at Jodie’s flat, then took out a brown glass bottle. She shook it once to gauge the number of pills inside. Satisfied with the dull clink of a healthy supply, she lay it on her lap for later. Calmed by the soft weight resting against her legs, she put the car in gear and moved smoothly off.
Jodie closed the door, lifting the handle as she pushed it back. She hated the long whine of the hinge for the way it announced that she was home; the way it would draw her mother to the corridor, can in hand and scowl fixed on.
Sure enough, Christine Wolfe shuffled from the living room, white-blonde hair in a mane of tangles. She regarded Jodie for a moment. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked, her tone already angry.
Jodie felt her nerve desert her. She had hoped to do this on her own terms: in the living room by the TV with a fresh can of Scrumpy and a cushion on the table for her mother’s feet – the happiest Christine Wolfe would ever be. Instead, Jodie stood between the chipped grey walls, caught like a deer in the headlights.
‘Well?’ Her mother stepped forward, the low light casting shadows on her face.
Jodie swallowed. ‘Police station.’ She said it blankly, without emotion as if it were a fact that could not have been changed.
Her mother jolted in shock. ‘You went to the police with your story?’ The bluish whites of her eyes grew wide.
Jodie felt the sting of her mother’s doubt. ‘Mum, it’s not a story.’
Christine smacked her palm against the wall. ‘Like you ain’t punished me enough?’ Her raspy voice struggled to climb. ‘What’d I do to deserve you?’
Jodie flinched. The snarl still hurt after years of wear. She knew what was coming next.
‘I was happy,’ said Christine. ‘And then you came along. Your father took one look at you and fucked off out the door – and I let him go ’cause of you.’
Jodie remained calm, knowing that her features in anguish would anger her mother further. ‘Mum, please. It’s the truth.’
‘I can’t fucking believe this. You’re telling me the police will be here asking questions?’
Jodie recognised the stirrings of a storm. The best thing to do was retreat but her mother stood between her and her room, simmering now in fury. Tears would provoke her further so Jodie stood still and listened.
‘You’re telling me I have to talk to the pigs? I ain’t tellin’ them nothin’.’ She threw up a hand in disgust. ‘Why does every fuckin’ thing always come down to me? This is your story, Jodie. This is your mess. Jesus Christ. I clothe you and feed you and take you to all your fuckin’ appointments. Do you know how much them bus fares cost?’ Christine smacked the wall again. ‘I do everything round here and you’re gonna stand there and tell me I have to do this too? I ain’t talkin’ to no pigs. They can fuck off. You hear me? They can fuck right off.’ She scowled. ‘Why couldn’t you just talk to your teachers like any other normal girl? Why’d you have to go to the pigs like some kind of idiot?’
Christine Wolfe was angry at Jodie, but angrier still at life, using the first to rail against the second. The indignity of it was too much. Unemployment. Alcoholism. Poverty. The stench of failure and being unable to climb out from under it. It was all too much. The only thing you could do was surrender and Jodie’s resoluteness made her livid. You couldn’t stand up to life. It would always beat you down. She shouted this at Jodie, hopelessly angry at her ugly, stolid face, needing something or someone to blame.
When the wind finally blew from her rage, she jabbed a finger at Jodie. ‘I ain’t havin’ no part in this,’ she warned. ‘You’re on your own, you hear me?’ Can in hand, she shuffled to the living room. ‘You’re on your fuckin’ own,’ she called back as she sank to her spot by the TV and propped her feet up on the table.
Jodie felt the adrenaline drain, leaving her hot and empty. She was motionless for a moment to make sure the rage had calmed. Then, she leaned against a wall and placed two hands over her head, not quite touching the scalp, the way she used to as a child pretending to wear a knight’s mail armour. The tiny rings of metal were extraordinary in deflecting pain. These were, after all, just words. She stood like that for a long while, working through the words, letting them bounce off her. Only a few remained by the time she reached her room: you’re on your own, they said. You are on your own.
Zara leaned on the kitchen counter, still drowsy from the Diazepam. Some days, the pills brought her peace, on others, only senseless fog. Often, she craved something stronger but was too wedded to her past and the sensible, overachieving version of herself to screw up her life that badly. The first time she tried cocaine, in an illicit huddle at a Bar Council conference, it was like pulling back the curtain on the Wizard of Oz. All the myth and notoriety, the unfettered hyperbole, crumbled in the face of reality. Instead of the giddy, addictive rush of lore, she just felt alert and happy. It was almost anodyne in effect. And so she tried it again, this time with a peer at a party, and came to appreciate the sense of wellbeing. And so she tried it again – and that’s when she understood how addiction took hold. It wasn’t a bolt of lightning that fused you to your poison but a mellow descent into its seductive grip. That was the last time she touched