I Did It for Us

by Alison Bruce

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

"From the first time I saw them together I knew it felt wrong. I didn't like the way he touched her or the self-conscious way he played with Molly and Luke. Joanne saw none of it of course. So I did it to prove to her that she was wrong. I did it for us."

Emily's instincts tell her that best friend Joanne's new boyfriend is bad news. Emily fears for Joanne. Fears for Joanne's children. But Joanne won't listen because she's in love. So Emily watches, and waits . . . and then she makes a choice.

But Emily has a past, and secrets too. And is she really as good a friend to Joanne as she claims?

Release date: January 4, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 352

Sample

I never considered suicide. I didn’t sit on a bridge parapet or stare into the neck of a bottle of pills. I looked into the future and I considered every way I might turn. And I don’t think I wanted to die. Not then.

But each choice I faced swelled with hopelessness and the only achievement by the end of each day was counting the hours that I’d squandered and being glad I wouldn’t have to live them again. I had options, everyone does, but none that I could face; they filled me with nausea, the feeling of vertigo I remembered from childhood, when I’d climbed the rocks by the pier at Clevedon beach and was too scared to scramble back down.

My parents wouldn’t help me this time though. They said they would, but their stiff body language and guarded expressions had said otherwise.

And through it all the only constant was the virus-like thought that told me to just let go, to take control one final time and surrender. To choose nothing over something. Wasn’t that what I was doing anyway? To fall, to swallow, to just not bother breathing anymore.

I never considered suicide but in those darkest times it considered me. It courted me and acted like my only friend. I never sent it packing but I woke one day to find that it had tired of me and had slipped away. Probably to find someone else.

 

 

 

It took three days for my life to fall apart. That doesn’t sound like a long time to wipe out a marriage, a career, family support, love, finances, security, sanity. I could have said that it took ten minutes but if I’d kept those ten minutes to myself then I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Three days then to step from one life into another.

I’d driven along East Road in Cambridge countless times. I was aware of the building, curved and large with unimaginative cream brickwork and government-issue sliding doors. I was certain that it was a multi-storey car park when I’d first noticed. Later, I read the signage and registered the lion and unicorn crest over the entrance.

Dieu et Mon Droit.

God and My Right.

I never expected the building to mean anything to me.

I made myself visit a week before the trial. The doors slid open. A few feet inside stood a security desk and the frame of a walkthrough metal detector. A lone security guard stood nearby. He was the only person in view, a wiry and unsmiling man who stared at me until I spoke first.

‘Am I allowed to look around?’

‘It’s a public building. Anyone can go in.’

I nodded and he checked my bag, then I stepped through the metal detector and he double checked by passing an electronic paddle through the air, inches from my body.

‘Which way do I go?’

‘Just follow the signs,’ he said then walked away. I took the stairs and spent the next half an hour without seeing another soul.

The newness of the building was reinforced by fresh white walls and unscuffed beige floor tiles. Outside each of the three courts were rows of grey metal seats bolted to the floor. The signage was midnight blue printed with sans serif lettering in a milky white font. The doors along the corridor were all pale beech wood.

No two items matched but each was repeated. Doors, signage, thermostats and smoke alarms. Again, again, again. The effect was uniformity but without statement.

It left me feeling strangely mute. I thanked the security guard as I left and my words came as a whisper.

We were at the court building in a side room.

I was being represented by Dominic Templeton and he faced me across a small table, which he was using as his makeshift office. I didn’t choose him, he was allocated to me, but DI Briggs told me to trust him, to tell him everything I could. We never reached the position where I referred to this man as anything other than Mr Templeton. He was far better educated than me with my single A level and I felt reminded of this every time he spoke. I could hear myself trying to sound more formal, picking words that I normally wouldn’t use, and I wondered why I didn’t have the balls to be myself.

‘Mrs Stirling?’

I’d tried ‘Call me Emily’ but he ignored me.

He tapped the paper between us. It was a photograph of the clothes I wore that night. They were spread out and arranged with the top and the skirt the approximate distance apart as they would have been when I wore them; exposing the skin from the top of my hips to a couple of inches below my bra.

‘You have to be ready to respond to the accusation that you dressed in a provocative manner.’

We’d been through this discussion before and now, minutes before my testimony, he’d come back to it.

‘It was a Halloween party.’

‘Were all the other women dressed like this?’

‘No. Why does that matter? I was there with my husband, why would I be wary of what I chose to wear?’

‘So what you wore was acceptable, only because you were with Mr Stirling?’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘As a lone woman would you have dressed in that way?’

I opened my mouth to speak but then changed my mind. Mr Templeton’s attention was both critical and disappointed. ‘You need to avoid opening yourself up to that kind of evaluation. Your choices will be scrutinised.’

‘I have the right to dress as I choose. It doesn’t equate to an invitation for sexual assault.’

‘It shouldn’t,’ he corrected me, ‘but there are incidences when it encourages inappropriate behaviour.’

‘Inappropriate behaviour? That’s rowdiness or stealing road cones, not this.’

He sat straight backed with his fingers woven together in front of him. He stared into his palms for several seconds before replying. ‘But this isn’t one of those cases. Andrew Tyler was a close family friend and his behaviour, it will be argued, was either out of character or not what you claim it to be.’

‘Why are you going over this again now?’

‘Your choice of clothes needs to be out of character too. The court must believe that you didn’t dress in order to titillate or encourage the defendant.’

A court usher opened the door before I could reply. ‘Please come through.’

I stood immediately. Dominic Templeton gathered his papers with less haste.

‘You’re not required yet, Mrs Stirling,’ he told me. ‘Don’t you have someone who can wait with you?’

I had family there but they were already seated in the public gallery and my instant reaction was to try to hide my disorientation. ‘I’d rather have some time on my own,’ I lied.

He didn’t react and said nothing more until he reached the door. The usher held it open and Mr Templeton looked back in my direction although his gaze didn’t quite meet mine. ‘Remember what we just discussed, Mrs Stirling. Tread carefully.’

I couldn’t be myself in front of him and now I couldn’t be myself in court either. Being myself was no longer good enough.

The usher walked in front of me and bowed to the court as he entered. I reminded myself that I was not on trial. And I stepped forward.

I didn’t need to be hidden from public view or escorted in and out through a private entrance.

But I was.

There was a screen shielding me from Andy Tyler. From the time I made my initial statement I’d been referring to him by first name and last name together. It distanced him from the Andy who was my husband’s best friend.

I knew about the screen, I wasn’t sure whether I should ‘bravely face him across the courtroom’ or ‘have to give evidence from behind a screen’. Like most people, my knowledge of courts and trials had come from newspapers and been tainted by TV drama. I’d agreed to the screen but hadn’t understood that it would also shield me from the public gallery and that I wouldn’t be able to see the faces of the people I needed the most.

From the witness box, I could see the judge, jury and both the defence and prosecution lawyers. The screen was concertinaed and made from tubular steel and pale blue fabric. It looked as though it belonged in a hospital corridor and blocked out everything else in the courtroom. I wondered who else was on the other side, the officials I couldn’t see, expressions that I wanted to be able to read.

And hiding from Andrew Tyler suddenly felt like cowardice.

I beckoned towards Mr Templeton and he approached me, stony faced. He turned his head so that I could speak quietly in his ear. ‘I don’t want the screen after all.’

‘It was brought for your benefit, Mrs Stirling.’

‘Please remove it.’

I knew that in facing Tyler I wouldn’t be able to stay partitioned off from everyone else but when the screen was wheeled away I only took a quick glance at the court. To my very left was a long bench occupied by three people including the usher. None of them were looking towards me and it was only when my gaze was sweeping across a group of seats in a recessed area of the wall facing the judge that I saw my mum’s pale face and realised that the public gallery was nothing more than two rows of chairs.

My attention rested on them for such a brief moment that I saw them all as an unmoving snapshot. Mum, then Ben with a small tight smile, Dad looking down at his lap. I paused for a moment at Jess; we’d always been able to read each other’s expressions. But when her eyes met mine I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I gave a tiny shake of my head and moved on. Andy Tyler’s parents were there too and my gaze hurried past them, avoiding the dock where Tyler waited and landing back on the judge.

Judge Geraint Williams looked about sixty. He had a close cropped grey beard and an expression cultivated to look enquiring. Until he spoke I thought he looked like a teacher, or perhaps one of those college tutors that it was okay to address by their first name. But with his first words those ideas vanished. The sound of his voice stirred an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach. His tone was without emotion. He talked of proof and demanded clarity over the most minor details.

I took the oath and was handed my own statement. I’d known this was coming.

Dominic Templeton stood. ‘Please read your statement to the court, Mrs Stirling.’

I lifted the sheets from the table but my hands were shaking. I placed them back down and the only option was to read them with my head bowed. My voice was amplified but so was the way it trembled. I began.

My name is Emily Laurel Stirling. I live at the address overleaf. I am making this statement following an incident when I was attacked and raped by a man I know as Andrew Tyler. I’m a white female, age thirty, height five feet five, weight nine stone two pounds with light brown hair and blue eyes.

On the evening of Saturday 29 October 2016 my husband Ben Stirling and I attended a Halloween party at Mr Tyler’s house along with twelve other guests. Although I didn’t know them all well, they were all people who I’d met on previous occasions. We arrived after 8 p.m. but before 8.15 p.m.

Mr Tyler lives approximately half a mile from our house and we drove to the party with the intention of drinking, walking home and picking our car up the following day.

My husband was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a wool winter jacket and I was wearing a black skirt and top with a heavy cape. My husband’s T-shirt depicted a skeleton and my outfit was also themed for Halloween because we had been told that the event was a fancy-dress party.

Mr Tyler lives alone and I have known him since 2012 when I met my future husband. He has been my husband’s closest friend since they were at school together. Mr Tyler was the best man at our wedding but I only know him in that capacity and have never socialised with him without my husband being present.

The words were mostly mine but more stilted. I’d been led through the statement as I’d given it and expected to clarify every sentence. The resulting paragraphs sounded stiff and self-aware. I wished the nerves weren’t so evident in my speech but they were all I could hear and I wondered whether I sounded as though I was lying. I tried to avoid either hesitating or rushing, and described the events of that night while fighting to keep my voice from shaking.

Progress was slow but no one questioned or challenged this. A court moves at its own pace. It was like a slow-moving mechanism. We stepped on and passed through the machinery.

Counsel for the defence was Rebecca Hobbs and I tried giving her a polite smile when she first addressed me. It wasn’t returned.

‘Mrs Stirling, how long have you been married?’

‘Just over three years.’

‘And how would you describe your relationship with your husband, Mr Stirling?’

‘Good,’ I glanced across at him and he pressed his lips into a tight smile. ‘It’s strong,’ I corrected myself. ‘We’ve been very close since we met.’

‘So, would you say that it’s an honest relationship?’

I nodded then reminded myself that they were waiting for the verbal response.

‘Yes. Yes, I would.’

I made sure that I spoke clearly and that my tone was firm. My job involved public speaking and I knew how to communicate with a roomful of people: make eye contact with different parts of the audience, speak with conviction, make each point clear and concise. Be natural and let the audience warm to you. That was the hardest part.

Rebecca Hobbs continued, ‘So two years ago when you told your husband, Mr Stirling, that his friend Andrew Tyler had . . .’ She paused to refer to her notes as though my quote was alien to her. ‘That he had “tried it on” with you, your aim was to be honest and open with your husband?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did you expect to happen as a result of making this accusation to your husband?’

I hesitated. I couldn’t remember what I expected at the time, but I could remember feeling stung when Ben had laughed and tried to brush it off. ‘It was important he knew,’ I replied.

‘Did you expect something to change between Mr Stirling and Mr Tyler as a result?’

‘I wanted my husband to be aware.’

Rebecca Hobbs flicked the paper in her hand in order to straighten it. It made a small cracking sound. She raised her voice slightly. ‘Are you telling me that you wanted your husband to know that his friend was sexually attracted to you but that you were still happy to continue having the same contact with Mr Tyler? To have him as a visitor to your house? To accept lifts from him? To . . .’

‘No,’ I snapped, my tone too loud and harsh for the room, ‘of course not.’ I took a breath and tried to gather my thoughts. I glanced across at my mum and could tell that she’d heard the panic in my voice. ‘I thought my husband might distance himself from Mr Tyler.’

‘So, you wanted to end their friendship?’

This time it was Ben’s gaze I met before replying. ‘No, I didn’t. I had to tell Ben but it put me in a difficult position. I didn’t want to hurt him, but not telling him would have played on my conscience.’

‘It must have hurt you when he didn’t take you seriously.’ She didn’t pause for me to reply, ‘Do you worry that he thought you’d made it up?’

‘No.’

‘In your opinion then, why did he refuse to act upon what you’d told him?’

I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t reflect badly, either on one of us or on our marriage. The silence stretched out until any reply would have sounded like a fabrication.

‘Mrs Stirling?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You hadn’t given it any thought, then?’

I gathered myself enough this time and raised one hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. ‘I thought about it and, although I don’t know why my husband didn’t distance himself from Andy Tyler, I assumed that it was because he trusted both of us and had no expectation that anything would actually occur.’

I felt relieved at my reply and glanced at the jury. Several of them seemed to be making notes. I hoped that was a good sign.

Rebecca Hobbs appeared satisfied with my response. ‘So, in summary, you’re glad that you confided in your husband, you feel that he believed your claim that Mr Tyler had made an advance towards you of a sexual nature and you understood why he chose not to act upon that information?’

My moment of feeling positive vanished and I felt my face redden. Surely everyone could hear the difference between what I’d explained and the way it had just been described. I doubted that I had the ability to challenge her so I agreed. We moved on.

‘Which brings us to this latest incident. The alleged assault took place on the night of Saturday 29 October last year as you and your husband were attending a party to celebrate Halloween?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have any concerns about attending a party where you would come into contact with Mr Tyler?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘It didn’t cross my mind. I had no reason to think that the other comment hadn’t just been a one-off. I’d decided it was in the past.’

‘So, you didn’t consider Mr Tyler when you chose what to wear that evening?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You described your outfit as a black skirt and top.’ She handed me a photograph of the clothes in question. It was taken just before they were bagged and passed to the police lab for analysis. ‘Are these the items you wore on the night in question?’

‘They are.’

‘And the top is what I would describe as a basque, is that correct?’

‘It’s that style,’ I agreed. Not for the first time, I shot a glance at Dominic Templeton, wondering when he planned to intervene. He remained expressionless.

‘Would you describe this as your usual style of dress, Mrs Stirling?’

‘No, it was Halloween.’

‘I see. And which character were you trying to be?’

‘No one in particular.’

‘You bought your outfit from a fancy-dress stockist. Do you remember the name of the outfit?’

‘I saw a photo I liked, I don’t remember reading the packaging.’

‘I see. It’s actually called “Vamp or Vampire”. The definition of vamp being a woman who aggressively seduces men. What made you choose such a provocative outfit?’

‘I chose it because I liked it.’

‘So you accept that it could be considered provocative?

‘It was a bit daring by my standards.’

‘It attracted attention, I believe.’

‘Not everyone had bothered to dress up. I felt a bit awkward when we first arrived but when more guests turned up it was fine.’

‘And how much contact did you have with Mr Tyler during the evening?

‘He was talking to my husband early on and after a while I left them and went to the kitchen for another drink.’

‘So you spoke to Mr Tyler?’

‘I would’ve said “hi” or similar.’

‘Do you remember what he said to either you or your husband at that point?’

‘No, I don’t remember him saying anything in particular.’

‘I see.’ Rebecca Hobbs tapped her index finger to her pursed lips as though my reply had thrown her off course and now she needed to reconsider her plan. ‘And when did you next encounter Mr Tyler?’

‘I was still in the kitchen when he came through. A few of us stood out there but I wasn’t talking to anyone at that moment.’

‘Why were you there then?’

‘I was getting a drink.’

‘And how long would you say this was after you first went to the kitchen?’

‘It’s difficult to say. Probably fifteen or twenty minutes.’

‘So, you’d gone to the kitchen for another drink and you were there again?’

‘Yes.’

‘And by then this was . . . third . . . fourth drink? Or maybe more?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I see. And what were you drinking that evening?’

‘Wine, mostly I think.’

‘Mostly?’

‘I might have had a couple of shots later on.’

‘Very well, we’ll come back to that. But on this occasion, you’d returned to the kitchen for your third, possibly fourth drink and Mr Tyler entered the room?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And you spoke to him?’

‘I did. I offered to pour him a drink as well but he picked up a bottle of beer.’

‘And what was the subject of your conversation?’

‘He asked if I thought Jess would be able to make it along later but I told him she was busy with work.’

‘And this is the business that you ran together?’

I noticed the past tense but I didn’t correct her.

‘That’s right.’

‘What was his relationship with your friend, Jessica Foley?’

‘They’d been dating for several weeks.’

‘And what was his response when you told him that she wouldn’t be there?’

‘He told me I should have made sure she came along. The conversation was very light-hearted at that point.’

‘So, he felt you should have brought her with you?’

‘Yes. But we had a lot to do.’

‘But you managed to make it to the party?’

‘Yes, I did. I’d promised Ben that I would be there.’

‘I see.’

‘I smiled and I told him that Jess would have been there if she’d wanted it enough.’

‘And what did you mean by that?’

‘It wasn’t meant to be insulting, it was banter.’

‘Banter? Please explain.’

‘I suppose I was teasing him that she might have better things to do.’ I knew my choice of words had been poor and Rebecca Hobbs didn’t miss a beat.

‘You were teasing him. I see. Was that the end of the conversation?’

‘Yes, it was.

‘When did you next see him?’

‘It was a while later – I don’t know how long – when I went to the bathroom and he followed me up the stairs.’

‘Please explain what happened next.’

‘It’s in my statement.’

‘Yes, but in your own words.’

My gaze flickered from her to the jury to the public gallery. Those who looked at me were expressionless, the rest looked away, invariably downwards as though hanging their heads was the order of the day.

‘I went into the bathroom and made sure that the door was properly locked, not because of him . . .’

‘Mr Tyler?’

‘That’s right, not because of Mr Tyler but because that’s something I always check. And then I went to the toilet, washed my hands and left.’

‘And how long did this take?’

‘A few minutes I guess – longer than usual. It’s always awkward in somewhere strange.’

‘In what way?’

‘I’m always self-conscious, I don’t want someone hearing me pee, or hearing how much toilet paper I use,’ I tried to sound lighthearted, to hide my discomfort with a joke. Maybe being overheard in the bathroom doesn’t bother most people but it has always embarrassed me and the whole truth was that I couldn’t make myself go at all knowing that he was standing outside the door and overhearing everything. And maybe the fact that I was drunk by then magnified my inhibitions rather than defeated them. I had decided to leave it until we reached home. I doubted we’d be staying much longer. ‘When I opened the door, he was still there.’

‘Please, go on.’

‘I made a comment, “all yours” or something. I don’t remember but I know he looked at me strangely.’ I closed my eyes to help me describe it. ‘He looked in my direction but he didn’t seem focused on me. He seemed angry and distracted. He pushed his way in before I’d had a chance to step on to the landing. It seemed rude. I think I said, “Oi,” but then I realised that he’d grabbed hold of me and was pulling me back into the bathroom with him.’

‘And how did you respond?’

‘I asked him what he was doing.’

‘How?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘In what manner did you ask him? What tone did you use? How loudly did you speak to him?’

‘I said, “What are you doing?” My voice would have been raised to some extent because I blurted the words out as he dragged me.’

‘No one reported hearing you call out. Is it possible that you weren’t as vocal as you thought you were?’

‘It was a party. It was noisy downstairs.’

‘I see.’ It was the fourth time she’d used those words and I hated them already.

‘He shut the door behind us and, although I could tell he was agitated, I didn’t immediately feel threatened. My first thought was to try and make sense of what he was saying, as though there might be a legitimate reason for him wanting to talk to me like that. But I could tell straightaway that he was angry about something and I was immediately annoyed because he’d been quite rough as he’d grabbed me.’

‘But you didn’t call out for help at this point?’

‘No, I didn’t. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing and he said he could say the same for me and I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. I went to open the door again. I said, “We don’t need to be in here to have this conversation,” but he held me back and reached across and slid the lock.

‘He asked what I was playing at with Jess. I didn’t know what he mea. . .