Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down. Mary-Jane Riley
at her, wide-eyed.
‘Not a great a deal – I’ve sent off a colour piece and a one par breaking news story that’ll go on the website when I can confirm it: that’s it so far.’
Lin nudged her. ‘Get you. Colour piece. Breaking news. Hope you get a whatsit, a byline. And get paid.’
‘Ha! Haven’t broached the idea of money yet. Depends how much more I do.’
‘Anyway.’ Lin looked at her watch. ‘I must go.’ She jumped in the Mini and put the window down. ‘Come round for supper later, let me know how you’ve got on.’ And with that she drove away.
Alex shook her head, smiling. That was a hasty departure.
Lin was right about the money, though. She’d been so eager to get something more worthwhile than celebrity news or how to collect coupons into The Post that she hadn’t mentioned money to Bud. How naive. And how – she struggled to find the word – how parochial. She’d never had any ambitions to be a foreign correspondent or an anchor on a TV show. She wanted to make a living doing something she enjoyed. So how had she ended up in Sole Bay writing features for The Post?
Her choice.
She had given it a go in London; Bud had given her work, but it was mainly fillers for the paper, hardly ground-breaking stories. Sole Bay was where her heart was, so she’d compromised and come home, and generally she was content. But on days like these, when something half decent came along, she had the adrenaline rush, the tightness in her belly, the fizz in her head.
‘Excuse me.’
Alex turned towards the voice. It was PC Lockwood.
‘I thought you’d like to know’, he said without any preamble, ‘that there’s going to be a press conference at six. About the deaths on the boat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alex, surprised. ‘It was good of you to—’
‘It’s my job to tell you. It’ll be at the station in the town. Nobody’s saying anything until then.’ He nodded behind her. ‘Your mates have caught up with the story.’
Alex turned. Sure enough, a couple of likely-looking reporters were scribbling in notebooks. She recognized one of them, from the local TV, setting up his own camera before turning and facing it and doing a piece to camera.
She sent a text to Bud.
Press conference at six.
She got an immediate reply.
Go. Reporter will meet you there and liaise.
‘And thank you for all your hard work, Alex,’ she muttered. ‘You’ve done really well, Alex. Liked the colour piece, Alex.’
What else had she expected?
Suddenly the crowd on the staithe fell silent.
The police boat was pulling the cruiser across the water towards land.
Cambridge 1975
The silence was terrifying as my dad and I heaved the battered school trunk we’d found in a junk shop through a small doorway at the side of the old stone building and up Staircase C. As it bumped up each tread, worn smooth by the shoes of generations of students, my heart sank lower and lower. What was I doing here? An ordinary boy from an ordinary town who did as he was told, stayed on an extra six months at the local grammar, passed exams, a three-day interview and was now at Cambridge.
When Dad left, exhorting me to enjoy myself and meet people (subtext: a nice girl from a nice family – and thank Christ Mum hadn’t come: she would have been unbearably fussy), I sat on my narrow single bed staring at the beige carpet and nursing a glass of the Blue Nun I’d brought with me (‘to share with other students’, my mum had said hopefully), trying to ignore the slight smell of drains and praying nobody would knock on my door. Soon I would Blu-Tack posters of Bowie and college events to the wall and unpack my record player and books, but for now I was looking at bare magnolia walls, empty bookshelves, and a basin in the corner with an annoying dripping tap. And I kept glancing over to my desk nervously, looking at the array of invitations I had picked up from my pigeonhole in the porter’s lodge on my way through. I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to accept any of them. I had the sense that at any point I could be found out, that I didn’t deserve to be here, not really.
Then, unexpectedly, I felt a surge of happiness. I was here. I’d made it. Cambridge. Bright, glittering. I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could reinvent myself. I could be exciting, intriguing, interesting. No longer dull. There would be people to fascinate me. I might fall in love. I would no longer be ordinary.
I didn’t know then that I would soon be craving an ordinary life.
The first person I met was Stu.
He knocked on my door that night while I was nursing my Blue Nun.
‘Hi,’ he said, hopping from one foot to another, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m Stu.’ He held out his hand. I took it and he gave me a firm handshake. His hair was receding, and he wore jeans that had been ironed. His accent was pure Birmingham. Coming from the Midlands I recognized it instantly.
‘I saw your dad helping you earlier. I thought—’ His glasses had slipped again; he pushed them back. ‘I heard your dad, and I thought you were probably from somewhere near Birmingham—’
‘Somewhere near,’ I said.
‘I’m not sure whether I should be here—’ He trailed off, looking around nervously.
‘Where? On this staircase?’
‘No. Here. In Cambridge.’ His smile was hesitant.
I smiled back, warming to him. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Do you really?’ He came in and sat on my armchair. ‘Perhaps we can pal up. Go to things together. I’m reading Philosophy.’
‘So am I,’ I said.
So for the rest of the week Stu and I stuck together. It helped me because Fresher’s Week was an endurance, even though I guess that’s where it all began. It was a week packed with filling out forms, going to dusty rooms where professors lurked with warm sherry, and trying to avoid the jolly red-faced students trying to get us to sign up to their societies. But the old fear of being found out once again got in my way, so the only society I joined was the Philosophy Society. I felt that’s what you did at places like Cambridge.
Stu joined the Philosophy Society with me. He eschewed the same societies as I did. He talked to the same people as I did. He was good to have around, if a little dull, and I wondered if I’d still be friends with him at the end of our three years.
Then came the end of the week party at the college. I got ready carefully, putting on new jeans (unironed) and a tee shirt with some sort of logo on it, washed my hair and splashed out on aftershave that smelled vaguely spicy. The party took place in a dark hall – the Junior Common Room – with music from the Sex Pistols making the walls and floor vibrate. No food – that wasn’t the point – and the evening dissolved into a blur of cigarettes and alcohol and a joint or a spliff; I wasn’t even sure what to call it I was that naive, but I smoked as though I knew what I was doing.
Shamefully, I tried to shake off Stu, telling him I was going to get a drink, but I had no intention of finding him in the crowd again. I wanted some of that elusive excitement, and I thought Stu would cramp my style. Then I went back to someone’s room to carry on the party and started talking to a student who looked as though he had just stepped out of an Evelyn Waugh novel, complete with pullover, casually worn scarf (even at a party, and he told me later it was cashmere) and a cigarette in a holder. A mix of secrecy, amusement and