by C. L. Taylor
There was another awkward moment at the door where she didn’t know whether to hug him goodbye or just wave. Simon made the decision for her. He stooped down, kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’ The four words reverberated around her mind as she pulled the door shut and returned to the kitchen. I’ll be in touch. It was the sort of thing James Malone, her area manager, said after a visit. It was a polite goodbye, not the sort of thing you said at the end of a date.
Alice’s heart was heavy as she tipped Simon’s coffee into the sink and washed up his mug. When she went to bed fifteen minutes later she was certain she’d never see him again.
Over lunch Lynne nibbles at the corner of her sandwich and taps at her phone as Alice complains that she hasn’t heard from Simon since he left her house the previous night.
Lynne looks up sharply. ‘Seriously? You’ve got to fork out a couple of hundred quid to sort out your car and you’re stressing about him?’
‘But what if he got home and his ex was waiting for him?’
‘What, with an axe?’
‘It’s not funny.’
‘To be honest, Alice, if he has got a psycho ex you’re better off out of it.’
‘I’m worried about him.’
‘Worry about yourself for a change.’ Lynne sighs heavily. ‘Jesus. It’s like Peter all over again.’
‘How is it like Peter?’
‘You’re putting a man first instead of yourself.’
‘It’s nothing like what happened with Peter!’ Indignation burns in Alice’s chest. If anyone should be on her side it should be Lynne.
‘Look.’ Lynne sets down her sandwich. ‘What if Simon’s not as innocent as he appears? It’s all a bit Disney, isn’t it? The knight in shining armour rescuing you from your attacker and then—’
‘Simon didn’t rescue me. I’m the one that kneed Michael in the bollocks, remember?’
‘Okay, fine, but Simon chased after you with your purse, then he appears at work with a bunch of flowers, then he’s magically in the café that you choose for lunch. He’s everywhere you go.’
‘Turning up at work and Costa isn’t everywhere.’
‘If you say so.’
‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Because there’s something dodgy going on. Someone warns you off him and then scratches your car and instead of doing what anyone normal would do and run a mile you’re all over him.’
‘I’m not all over him. I just want to make sure he got home safely.’
‘You’re sucked in.’
‘By what?’
‘The scam. It’s all a big ruse. He and Michael are working together to extort money from lonely women.’
‘I’m not lone—’
‘Hear me out! Michael plays the bad guy, Simon’s the knight in shining armour. You turn to Simon because Michael’s scaring you, then the next thing you know Simon’s asking you for money. He’s wheedling his way into your life, Alice. He’s seen your flat and where you work, he knows loads about you, and you know next to nothing about him. Admit it, I’m right.’
‘Lynne this is ridiculous.’ Alice snatches up her sandwich and takes a big bite. ‘Honestly, you’ve come up with some random shit in your time but this is …’ She puffs out her cheeks to illustrate her point.
‘All right then,’ her best friend replies, a note of irritation in her voice. ‘Don’t believe me, but I think there’s something dodgy about him, and this story about his psycho ex fiancée seems a little bit too neat to me. He’ll be in touch with you. Guarantee it. He’s just making you sweat a bit so he doesn’t look too keen. But he’ll text you. I bet you a tenner.’
Alice sets her phone on the table, suddenly uncomfortable with it in her hand. She stares at it. There’s a part of her that wants it to vibrate with a new text message from Simon. And a part that really doesn’t.
‘Lynne,’ she says. ‘Do you think—’
The phone judders on the table, making her jump. She snatches it up and reads the text message that’s flashed up on the screen.
‘Well?’ Lynne asks.
‘He wants me to go to the cinema with him tomorrow.’
‘What did I tell you?’ Lynne holds out a hand. ‘That’ll be ten pounds please.’
Chapter 19
Ursula
Ursula works the drill in short bursts. Drrrrrrr. Stop. Drrrrr. Stop. The motion makes the soft flesh on the backs of her arms wobble and her teeth vibrate. She stops, listens, turns her head towards the stairs, then begins again. When she woke up that morning, a little after 5 a.m., she got out of bed and drove her van several streets away, then she rang in sick, leaving a message on her boss’s answerphone. She felt bad lying but it was the first time she’d rung in sick and she wouldn’t have done it unless it was absolutely necessary. Afterwards, she returned to the house and spent the next couple of hours lying in her bed, waiting for Edward’s footsteps to reverberate on the landing outside. Only when she heard the front door bang shut did she let herself relax. In order to carry out her plan Edward had to go to work not knowing that she was still home.
She pauses her drilling to swipe the back of her hand across her forehead. It was like someone hit fast forward on her day the moment Edward left the house. She dressed quickly, cleaned her teeth in record time (making sure not to touch any of Ed’s belongings), pulled on her trainers, then jumped into her van. She flew around B&Q, list in one hand, basket in the other, and paid with cash to avoid bank card faff. Then she jumped back in the van, unlocked the house, double-checked that Edward wasn’t in and set to work. It’s an expense she hadn’t budgeted for – the drill, chain, screws, latch and padlock – but she’d rather eat the stale crackers in the back of her cupboard than spend another night in a room without a lock. Working out how to fit the lock to the outside of the door and the chain to the inside wasn’t a problem – a quick visit to YouTube on her phone sorted that out. Neither is using the drill; her dad taught her how to put together a flatpack chest of drawers with an electric screwdriver when she was eleven, then progressed her DIY knowledge to a drill when she turned twelve. What will be harder will be tracing the man in the black-and-white photo. With no laptop, and no working camera on her phone, she can’t do a Google image search. She’s going to have to use a library computer instead.
She finishes the job as quickly as she can, twisting the screws into place then giving first the chain, then the padlock, a hefty tug to check that they hold. She nods, pleased with her work, then deposits her tools in the bottom of her wardrobe and closes and padlocks her bedroom door.
Knowle library is surprisingly quiet and Ursula joins a queue to speak to the librarian, hovering behind a woman who can’t borrow any more books for her child because the last lot were overdue. The librarian, a tall, thin man with grey hair and a neat beard, unlocks the woman’s account, then looks up at Ursula and offers her a quick smile.
‘How can I help you?’
She gestures at the bank of computers across the room. They’re all being used, apart from one. ‘Hello, can I borrow a computer please? I need to use a scanner.’
The man pulls an apologetic face. ‘You’re very welcome to use a computer but the scanner’s broken, I’m afraid. We’re waiting for a technician to come and take a look at it.’
‘Oh no.’ She touches the left pocket of her jogging bottoms where the newspaper clipping is being kept flat and smooth between two pieces of cardboard cut from an empty box of Weetabix. ‘Is he coming in today?’
The librarian shakes his head. ‘He’s not due until tomorrow, I’m afraid. You could try the central library. What is it you want to scan? Phone cameras are pretty good these days. Could you take a photo instead?’
Ursula shakes her head. ‘My lens is all scratched up. Any photo I take is so grainy and blurred it looks as though it was taken in the 1970s, and I need to run it through Google Images.’
The librarian laughs. ‘Ah. Well, if you’re a
fter a good quality replication I’d say a scanner is your best bet.’
Ursula considers her options. To get into the centre of town she could either take a bus or she could walk back to her house and use the van. A bus would be cheaper but would probably mean hanging around a stop for twenty minutes and the same on the way home. Taking her van would be quicker. She presses a hand to her belly as it tightens with excitement. She could go to the Meads shopping centre before she visits the library. Maybe pop into Mirage Fashions.
She never used to go into the city centre and did most of her shopping online. But then she had a breakdown at work, a month after Nathan died. She was teaching her Reception class in a tiny village school on the outskirts of Bristol. She was introducing the children to some new phonics and hadn’t noticed the window cleaner strolling through the playground until he was right up against the glass. She saw a knife, not a squeegee, in his hand and she screamed at the children to run. And as they shrieked and froze and stared at her in horror, she curled up in a ball under her desk and sobbed with fear. The headteacher was understanding. She told Ursula to go home, that it had been a mistake returning to work so soon, that she should see her GP and talk to him about PTSD. But Ursula didn’t go back to the empty house that was no longer a home and she didn’t take herself off to the doctor’s surgery. Instead she got in her car and she drove. She can’t remember why she went into the centre of town, or how long she walked before she drifted into the Meads. But she can remember the numbness in her chest and the feeling that something inside her had died. She remembers the row of jewellery at the back of the shop and the sharp edges of a pendant under the pad of her thumb. She remembers walking out with it in the clutch of her palm, staring at the security guard, daring him to stop her. But he didn’t. How could he? She was invisible. She didn’t exist.
Instinctively, she reaches into the right-hand pocket of her jogging bottoms and fingers the polished brass door knob that caught her eye in B&Q earlier. It was so bulbous and smooth in the palm of her hand, cool and calming, that it found itself in her pocket before she even knew what she was doing.
‘Before I go.’ She reaches into her other pocket and carefully extracts the newspaper clipping. ‘Do you know who this is?’ She holds it out towards the librarian, then snatches it away from his grasping fingers. ‘Sorry, I don’t want it to get crumpled.’
The librarian drops his hand and sits forward in his seat to get a better look. Ursula searches his face for any sign of recognition then sighs in disappointment as he shakes his head.
‘I don’t recognise him. Should I?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I need the scanner.’
‘Oh well. Good luck.’
‘Thanks for your help.’ She flashes him a smile in goodbye.
She cuts through Subway, thinking about the blank look on the librarian’s face as he looked at the newspaper clipping. He can’t be famous, the man in the photo, or he’d have recognised him. So why did she feel a frisson of familiarity when she first looked at it? Well, she’ll find out who he is soon enough. She just needs to get to her van and—
She squeals in surprise as someone walks straight into her, then yelps as her chest sings with pain. One look at the brown stain on her white T-shirt, the aghast expression on the face of the woman standing in front of her, empty cardboard cup in one hand and mobile phone in the other, makes her realise immediately why she feels as though someone just set fire to her chest.
‘I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.’ The woman waves her hands around desperately, her gaze flicking from Ursula to the shocked faces of the customers on the tables either side of them. ‘Let me … let me …’
‘Here!’ Another woman, with a toddler in a pushchair, leaps up with a wad of napkins in her hand.
‘Pull the material away from your skin!’ someone else calls. ‘Or it’ll burn.’
‘No, don’t!’ A man further down the room stands up from his chair. ‘It’ll pull the skin from your body. You need to splash yourself with cold water.’
With everyone still shouting, and ignoring the employee in his green polo shirt and stripy apron rushing towards her, Ursula turns and runs out of the shop.
She winces as the cold water of the shower hits her skin. She didn’t immediately run home. She headed for the toilets near Iceland first and splashed her T-shirt until it, and the floor, were sodden. Then she fastened her coat over her chest and speed-walked to the house, gritting her teeth as the wet material rubbed against her skin. Her chest is pinkened and sore to the touch but not badly burnt. As she steps out of the shower she gingerly wraps her towel around her body and steps out onto the landing.
‘Woah!’ She freezes, pressing a hand to her chest. Edward is standing outside her room. The door is ajar, the padlock hanging from the latch. She didn’t think to lock it when she hurried into the shower.
‘Ursula.’
She winces as she peels her hand from her damaged skin, then, suddenly feeling exposed in a towel that only reaches part way down her thighs, steps back into the bathroom and peers out at him. He’s dressed casually in jeans, boots and a navy-blue crew-neck jumper, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. She’s not sure why but she imagined he’d go to work in a suit. Not that she knows what he does for a job. The one and only time she asked him what he did for a living he was so prickly and evasive she resolved not to ask again.
‘What are you doing home?’ she asks, annoyed with herself for the note of distress in her voice.
‘I live here.’ He arches an eyebrow.
‘But you left this morning?’
‘And I’ve come home between shifts. Just like I do every day, not that you’d know. Why aren’t you on your round?’
‘Day off,’ she lies.
‘It’s not Sunday.’
‘I booked an extra day.’
‘I see.’ His gaze shifts towards the door of her bedroom, the padlock hanging open. ‘It appears you’ve been busy.’
‘I … um … I thought I’d save you a job.’
‘Did you now?’ His tight smile doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘You do realise that, officially, you’ve caused damage to the fixtures and fittings. I could withhold your deposit and kick you out.’
The threat isn’t entirely unexpected. Ursula knew as she set to work on her door that it would probably infuriate her landlord, particularly given his fondness for walking uninvited into her room, but she has a weapon of her own in her arsenal. It’s the secret she discovered in one of the kitchen drawers on her first morning in the house – his contract with the real owner.
‘You could do that,’ she says, tightening her grip on the bathroom door. ‘But as you’re breaking your tenancy agreement by subletting my room that probably wouldn’t be the best idea.’
Edward’s face remains impassive apart from the tiniest upwards twitch of his eyebrows. It’s the smallest of movements but enough for Ursula to register his surprise. Check, she thinks, the memory of her one and only chess victory against Nathan flashing through her mind. But does Edward have checkmate?
She waits, heart pounding, for his next move. Despite her height and weight advantage, she’s dressed in a towel with no weapon to hand and nowhere to retreat other than the bathroom. Edward might be small and slight, but he’s an unknown quantity – he could be a complete psychopath for all she knows – and there’s no correlation between size and aggression.
The air between them grows thick with anticipation as Edward keeps his beady eyes fixed on Ursula, his hands hanging loosely at his sides and the toe of one boot tap-tapping on the wooden floor.
You could always sleep in the van, the little voice in the back of her head whispers urgently. An apology rises in her throat. She wants to say something to break the terrible tension but a bigger part of her refuses to back down. She hasn’t actually done anything wrong.
As Edward steps towards her she braces herself. If he lunges she’ll pull back into the bathroom and slam the door in his face. B
ut her landlord doesn’t lunge anywhere. He walks straight past to his room, then reaches into his pocket for his key. He slots it into the lock, then turns back to look at her.
‘I like you, Ursula.’ Something glitters in his eyes that she can’t quite read. Mischief? Danger? Amusement? She can’t be sure. ‘You keep me on my toes.’
Before she can respond he slips into his room. He disappears inside and pulls the door closed with the quietest of clicks.
Ursula slides the safety chain across her bedroom door, then slumps onto the bed, not caring as her towel untucks from her chest and puddles around her naked body. Her hands, resting by her sides, are shaking so much she has to press them between her knees to still them. She fights to control her breathing, inhaling for four counts, holding for seven, then exhaling for eight until her pulse gradually slows and she slumps forward over her knees, closing her eyes as she hugs her legs to her body.
What are you doing? Nathan’s voice is as clear in her head as if he were sitting next to her. It’s not safe, Albi.
She smiles at his use of her pet name – Albi, Nathan’s very own ‘big bird’. She’s not heard that nickname for a very long time.
Yeah well, she answers him back, we all know what happens if I just walk away.
This isn’t your battle.
Everything’s my battle now, Nath.
She gets up, carries the towel over to her laundry basket, drops it inside, then stoops to pick up her coffee-sodden T-shirt and jogging bottoms. She drops the T-shirt into the laundry basket then, reflexively, searches the pockets of her jogging bottoms for tissues, change or pens and drops them into the basket too. As she crosses the room to her chest of drawers something rankles at her, making her pause: something about the jogging bottoms. She returns to the laundry basket and fishes them out. Something’s missing from the pockets. Her keys? No, they’re still on the chest of drawers where she left them. Her work ID? No, that’s right next to the keys. What then? The photo! It was definitely in her pocket when she got home. She remembers because she checked that it didn’t have coffee on it.
