Broadchurch: The Letter: A Series Two Original Short Story Read Free Page A

anti-drug rhetoric has been a massive blind to distract from a raging habit. But it doesn’t ring true. Jan Barnsley is one of those people you imagine being born middle-aged, attending the Women’s Institute when other girls her age were getting drunk at discos.
    ‘Councillor Barnsley?’ she calls. ‘Maggie Radcliffe, Broadchurch Echo . I’d like a word.’ There’s no reply but the television is instantly muted. ‘I’ve just come from Crown Farm,’ she adds. Through the door Maggie hears a prolonged hiss; it takes her a few seconds to identify the noise of an aerosol being sprayed. When Jan eventually opens the door, Maggie sees a can of air freshener tucked behind a china shepherdess on the hall table.
    ‘Maggie,’ she says. Her eyes are bloodshot but apart from that she doesn’t seem high. ‘I was just making tea. Come in.’ Jan walks gingerly in mauve carpet slippers. She waves Maggie into the sitting room where a synthetic magnolia scent does not quite cover the telltale smell of cannabis. Even in her shock, Maggie smiles to think of Jan trying to Febreze over the smoke like a teenager. There is no drug paraphernalia that Maggie can see, only a box of matches on the mantelpiece next to a carriage clock. As Jan carries in a full tea set, complete with custard creams on real lace doilies – doilies , for fuck’s sake – the smell is the elephant in the room. She winces as she sets the tray down – in embarrassment, thinks Maggie, although it’s nothing to how she’ll feel when this makes the Echo .
    ‘So, Miss Radcliffe,’ says Jan, ‘what can I do for you?’ The words are all in the right order, but Jan’s like a record being played at the wrong speed and she can’t make eye contact. Maggie realises that her initial assessment was off the mark. Jan’s as high as a kite but it’s a dark, paranoid state, far removed from the usual giggly daze.
    Maggie has two options: a direct challenge about Jan’s cannabis use or a more circuitous line of questioning. She goes for the latter; she’s enjoying herself, she realises. She wants to eke out the sport. She sets her teacup down and poises her pen above her notebook. ‘I’ve had a very interesting morning.’ Jan flinches but she’s not giving anything away – yet. ‘And on the strength of what I saw, I wondered if we could have a chance to chat through the proposed closure of the Cliffside drop-in centre? I believe you’re voting tomorrow.’
    Maggie can almost feel the rope spooling through her hands; let Jan hang herself with it.
    ‘It’s not a vote winner,’ Jan begins in that same stretched-out voice. ‘My constituents strongly believe …’ She trails off.
    Maggie feels that she’s losing the scent and needs a more direct approach to hook Jan back into the conversation.
    ‘Jan, please,’ says Maggie. ‘You need to be honest with me. Because I promise that whatever’s really going on, I’ve thought of a thousand explanations and none of them look good for you.’ She pulls from her handbag a sheaf of papers; topmost is the printout of Jan’s big anti-drug rant from last year. Jan’s eyes skitter across the newsprint. ‘“There are no circumstances in which we can condone illegal drug use”,’ Maggie reads aloud. ‘“Zero tolerance is the only approach if we are to save Broadchurch from the tide of addiction that has destroyed life in the big cities.”’
    Jan looks around the empty room, as though someone’s going to come and save her, and then her shoulders drop, like she’s let something heavy go.
    ‘The anti-inflammatory drugs gave me mouth ulcers, stomach cramps. I could barely function, let alone work. This way I can sleep at night. Do you know what it’s like to be in so much pain you can’t sleep?’ Jan lays her gnarled hands on her lap for Maggie to study. She tries to spread them and there’s no faking the wince of pain but her fingers remain crooked, some locked almost at right angles.
    Maggie has a