by C. L. Taylor
‘Sure.’ He hands them across and watches his uncle’s face as he reads both messages then flips the cards over.
‘Maybe they’re old. Your mum’s always been a bit of a hoarder.’
‘No. They’re new. Look.’ Gareth taps the unsmudged part of the postmark on the first card. ‘You can see the date stamp.’
‘Have you rung the police?’
‘I rang them after the first postcard arrived, to see if there was an update on Dad, but they said that no new information had been added to Dad’s missing person case for years, so …’ He shrugs. ‘I told them about the postcard but the bloke I spoke to seemed like he couldn’t have cared less. There’s something else. I thought I spotted Dad in the Meads.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah, on the CCTV, or at least I think it was him. I went after him but …’ he shakes his head ‘… by the time I got there he was gone. Logically I know it couldn’t be him, but what if it was?’
Tony takes a sip of his pint then sets it down on the bar. ‘I suppose there’s a small chance your dad could still be alive. People have secrets, reasons why they disappear. I wouldn’t have put John down as one of them, but you only know what people want you to know, not what they don’t.’
‘But why now? Why get in touch with Mum after all these years? Why the postcards? Why not just knock on the door?’
‘Maybe he’s ill … dying and doesn’t want her to see him …’ He gives Gareth a long look. ‘Or maybe he’s got regrets.’
‘That’s what I thought, but why not just ring? We’ve got the same phone number we had when he disappeared. And the second card was hand-delivered. If Dad is alive he’s nearly eighty.’
‘Doesn’t mean he can’t walk.’
‘Well yeah, he might have walked into the Meads but … I dunno, maybe it was wishful thinking, me spotting him like that. I’ve been thinking about him a lot and maybe I saw what I wanted to see. I’d rather the postcards were down to him rather than William Mackesy trying to wheedle his way into Mum’s will.’
‘The psychic?’ Tony laughs. ‘The dead talk to me too – mostly asking me why I was such an arsehole to them while they were alive.’ His smile remains fixed but something shifts in his eyes, a shadow behind the bright blue irises. Tony takes a long swig of his pint, then sets it down on the bar. ‘You got any other suspects?
‘Well, that’s why I’m here, really. When I got back from work earlier Mum was packing to go on holiday. We’re not going on holiday,’ he adds hastily as Tony’s eyes widen. ‘Neither’s she. The thing is, when I asked her who she was going with she said Dad and that Ruth had told her it was a surprise.’
‘Ruth? Our Ruth?’
‘I don’t know any others.’
Sadness fills Tony’s eyes. ‘God, dementia’s a bitch. Your mum and Ruth haven’t spoken in … must be forty, fifty years.’
‘I know. That’s why I’ve come to see you. Either Mum … you know, went back in time and was reliving a previous holiday, or Ruth’s been in touch.’
Tony shakes his head. ‘What, with the offer of a holiday? Mate, I just told you. They don’t like each other. Never have. They’ll go to their graves without speaking.’
‘But what if Dad’s been in touch with Ruth?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ Gareth suddenly feels incredibly stupid. It’s a ridiculous theory – that his dad would track down a woman his mum fell out with forty-odd years ago.
‘Does she still live in Wales?’ he asks, despondence flattening his voice.
‘Used to. She’s in Keynsham now.’
‘Keynsham!’ Only a twenty-minute drive from Bristol.
‘Yeah. Do you want her number?’
‘Course I do. Have you seen her? Since she moved down, I mean.’
‘Once. It was a while back, mind. Must be at least … I dunno … eighteen, twenty months ago. Something like that.’ Tony scratches the back of his neck. ‘You know what I’m like. I flit about.’
That’s one way of describing his lifestyle, Gareth thinks as he picks up his pint and drains a third of it in one quick gulp. He glances round the pub as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Everywhere he looks, people are laughing, chatting and smiling. There are two blokes playing pool, shouting obscenities at each other to try and ruin the shot, a man and a woman kissing at the other end of the bar, and groups of friends crowded around tables so small their knees knock. As Gareth surveys the joyful bubble of life that surrounds him he feels a sharp jab in his chest that’s got nothing to do with heartburn. This used to be his world – down the pub every Friday and Saturday night, pub quiz on Tuesday and darts on Thursday – but he can’t remember the last time he saw his old mates Barry, Alan, Dai and Doug. There were quiet patches when the others got married, and again when they had kids, but it has to be five years at least since they were all in the same room.
He looks back at Tony with his bulbous red nose, the spidery red veins on his cheeks and the slight tremor to his hand when he sets down his pint. That could be him in twenty-five years if he’s not careful. As he takes a sip of his pint he thinks about Kath, sitting in his living room in her sweatpants with a cup of tea in her hands, and his heart aches with longing and regret. He can chase down a shoplifter but he can’t work up the courage to ask his neighbour on a date. Why? What’s he so afraid of? The worst that can happen is she says no and things are a bit awkward for a while.
He sets his pint down on the bar. It lands heavily, making Tony raise an eyebrow.
‘Everything okay, Gar?’
Gareth grins at him. ‘It’s going to be.’
He’s made a decision. He’s going to stop second-guessing himself and tomorrow, in his break, he’s going to buy a bunch of flowers. After work he’ll take them round to Kath’s. He’ll thank her for looking after his mum then he’ll ask her out for dinner. What’s the worst that can happen?
Chapter 28
Ursula
Friday
You … you … you … you … you …
Ursula swears under her breath and presses the eject button on the van’s CD player. She’s tried breathing on the CD and rubbing it on her sweatshirt, but no matter how hard Whitney Houston tries, she can’t get past that one word of ‘I Will Always Love You’. The CD is scratched and no amount of breathing, spitting or rubbing it is going to bring it back to life. Poor CD, poor Whitney, Ursula thinks as she takes the silver disc out of the player and lays it on the seat beside her, both of them dead. With all her other CDs scattered in the footwell of the passenger side it’s either the radio or silence and Ursula’s had enough silence to last her a lifetime. She presses the preset button for Radio 2 then immediately clicks away as Jeremy Vine announces, ‘On today’s programme we’ll be talking about loss and—’
‘Sorry, Jeremy,’ Ursula says as she presses another button. ‘Not today.’
George Michael’s dulcet tones fill the cab and Ursula smiles: ‘Don’t Let The Sun Go Down on Me’, one of her favourites. She sings along, one arm resting on the rolled-down window, one hand on the steering wheel. She passes a primary school where children are filing into the playground hand in hand with their parents, and feels a tight twinge of regret. She loved teaching, she was good at it, but she couldn’t go back, not after she’d scared her class so terribly. What happened that day was a big part of why she’d moved in with Charlotte. She couldn’t continue to live in the house she’d shared with Nathan and she couldn’t drive past her school without thirty small, frightened faces looming up in her mind.
As she passes the school an image pops into her head from the film she saw at the cinema the night before, of the main character sitting on top of a mountain as the sun sets and he wrestles with the decision he has to make. It was a good film, a thriller with loads of action and a hero you really rooted for. Even so, Ursula had ummed and ahhed about going. It was over thirteen pounds for a ticket – that was a lot of tins of baked beans –
but she needed to get out of the house. It was either that or sit alone in her room in an empty building, thinking about the poor woman at number six. Ursula hadn’t taken offence when she’d screamed at her to fuck off and leave her alone. That wasn’t anger she’d heard in the woman’s voice, it was fear. She wasn’t agoraphobic and she hadn’t locked herself in, of that Ursula was sure.
She rang the police as soon as she was out of sight of the house and reported her suspicion that a woman and her child were being kept prisoner in their own home. Ursula was nervous as she spoke but was reassured by how seriously the female officer took her allegation. Later, as she finished her shift she felt sure she’d done the right thing. But that surety hadn’t lasted. The moment she put her keys in the door of number fifteen William Street, doubt began to creep in. What if she’d got it wrong? What if the woman really was mentally ill and a police visit pushed her over the edge? Even if she’d got it right the woman could still be in danger. If the husband found out the police had been round he might beat up his wife, or worse. The thought made Ursula feel sick. She couldn’t live with herself if someone died because of something she’d done. Not again.
The thought propelled her out of the house and back into her van. She needed to steal something, to relieve the tight feeling in her chest. She was halfway to the Meads when she realised that all the shops would be shut, so she parked up in the centre of town and walked the streets until a bus stop film poster caught her eye. A trip to the cinema meant one hundred and twenty minutes when she wouldn’t have to think.
The film had distracted her, but not in the way she’d imagined. She’d walked in late, then caught a glimpse of a man she thought she recognised, cast in shadow, several seats back. When she turned round to take a second look the woman sitting next to him had glared at her like she was the scum of the earth. She knew immediately who she was – the red-haired manager of Mirage Fashions who’d stalked the racks the last time she’d been in. What was it she’d nicked that time? She couldn’t even remember. Her initial reaction was to get up and leave, but then she decided that she had as much right to be in the cinema as anyone else and stayed in her seat.
As George Michael’s dulcet tones fade away a newsreader’s voice fills the cab.
‘Thirty-two-year-old mother of one Kerry Wilson was stabbed to death in her home in South Bristol last night. A man has been arrested and is being held in custody.’
Wilson. An image of a brown parcel with a white label. Wilson. It was on a parcel she loaded into her van that morning. She goes cold all over. Paul Wilson. The man from number six.
‘Move! Move! Move!’ Ursula presses her palm to the horn, sounding it repeatedly at the bin lorry that’s blocking the road. One of the bin men appears and gestures for her to back up.
‘We’re not going anywhere for a while, love!’ he shouts, but she’s already put the van in reverse. It takes her two, maybe three minutes tops to navigate an alternate route but every second feels like a lifetime and as she turns the corner into The Crest her heart is beating in the base of her throat. She’s not sure what she expects to see outside number six – police tape, officers, maybe men in white suits, something to alert her to the fact that a crime’s been committed. But the house, and the surrounding area, looks exactly as it did the previous day.
She runs up the steps and thumps on the door, then peers through the living room window. No child, and no woman. She bangs on the door again and is just about to crouch down to peer through the letter box when the door swings away from her. It only opens a couple of inches, constrained by a gold safety chain, but it’s enough for her to see who’s on the other side.
‘You’re alive!’
The woman doesn’t reply. She stares at Ursula blankly, her face – or at least the tiny sliver of it that’s visible – is impassive.
Relief so powerful it almost makes her cry surges through Ursula’s body. ‘You’re not Kerry Wilson.’
The woman gives the tiniest shake of her head.
‘It was on the radio … a Kerry Wilson was killed by her husband and I … I thought it was you. I thought that you might … I was worried that you might be dead.’
The other woman’s lips curl, but it’s not a smile of amusement. It’s not sadness either; it’s wistfulness. Ursula stares at her in alarm. She wishes she were dead.
‘Sorry?’ Ursula says as the other woman says something so softly she doesn’t catch it. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘You shouldn’t have called the police.’
‘They were here? They came?’
The woman nods.
‘Did they speak to your husband?’
The woman’s breathing becomes quick and shallow. She’s not maintaining eye contact any more. Her pale blue eyes are flicking back and forth, scanning the street below.
Ursula turns sharply but there’s no one there. ‘What’s your name?’ she asks as she turns back.
‘Nicki.’
‘Did the police tell him not to lock you in any more? Is that why you can open the door?’
‘You need to go.’
‘Is he due back? He’s not normally here at this time of day.’
‘Please. You have to go.’
‘Wait!’ Ursula shouts as the door begins to close. ‘Let me give you my number. I want to help you.’
‘I can’t … you can’t …’
‘Please. One second.’ Ursula puts the parcel she’s holding on the low wall beside her and frantically digs around in the pockets of her hoody for a pen and a piece of paper. She rips a ‘sorry you were out’ slip from the pad, scribbles down her name, number and address and just manages to shove it into the gap before Nicki closes the door in her face.
‘Wait!’ She snatches up the parcel. ‘You forgot this.’ As she raises her hand to tap on the door she senses someone watching her and swings round.
There’s a man at the bottom of the steps. He’s tall, but not as tall as Ursula. He’s clean-cut and attractive, dressed in a smart navy suit with a white shirt and paisley tie, with dark hair that’s short at the sides and longer on top, swept back with gel. He’s the husband; Ursula can tell from the proprietorial way his gaze flicks from the front door to her. She keeps very still as his eyes travel the length of her body and then return, dismissively, to her face. She’s endured a similar sweep from men before, more times than she can count: curiosity swiftly followed by an analysis of her heavy breasts, thick waist and sturdy legs – (‘Would I?’) and then they scan her face (‘God, no. Definitely not’). But there’s something different about the way Paul Wilson is looking at her. He’s studying her the way a man might look at another man when they’re looking for a fight (‘Can I take him? Can I not?’).
‘Can I help you?’ His whole demeanour changes when he smiles. There’s light in his eyes and an easy, friendly smile that would be utterly disarming if Ursula hadn’t just watched him give her the once-over.
He walks up the steps towards her and holds out a hand. ‘I take it that’s for me.’
For a split second she has no idea what he’s talking about.
‘The parcel,’ he says, as though she’s slow.
‘You’re not normally here at this time.’
‘Am I not?’ He makes a big show of glancing at his watch, pushing back the sleeve of his suit jacket and holding his arm further away than is necessary so he can look down his nose at the time. ‘I suppose you’re right. Are you keeping track of my movements?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It was a joke.’ He squeezes her arm. His fingers tighten around her bicep and remain there for one second, two, before he lets go.
In the distance she can hear a child crying, a dog barking and the faint squeal of an ambulance going by. The street is still deserted. It’s just her, Paul Wilson, and Nicki, hiding behind the door.
‘You knew I’d be here,’ she says steadily. ‘That’s why you ordered a parcel, isn’t it?’
The man’s gaze flicks towards the
upstairs window of his neighbour’s house. Checking whether there are any witnesses, Ursula thinks. He might terrify his wife but she’s standing firm.
‘Are you criticising my shopping habits?’
‘Of course not.’ She forces a smile onto her face. Two can play at this nicey nicey charade.
‘I don’t think our paths will cross again,’ Paul Wilson says. He reaches, again, for the parcel. ‘If I could just …’
Irritation is starting to show on his face, in the tight set of his jaw and the twitch of his nostrils, but Ursula doesn’t move her hand from her side.
‘Possessions are so important, aren’t they?’ she says. ‘That’s why we like to keep them safe.’
‘Aren’t we the philosopher?’
‘Just making conversation.’
‘You like a chat, don’t you? No, wait. That’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s gossip you enjoy.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.’ And there it is again, the full beam of his grin: friendly, unassuming and warm. It’s terrifying, Ursula thinks, how easily he can flick the switch. Is that why Nicki’s still scared? Because Paul charmed the police? Did he tell them that his wife was agoraphobic, that she was mentally unstable, that the well-meaning courier had it all wrong? ‘My parcel, if you please.’
This time Ursula raises her hand, but as Paul’s fingers close around the package she has to force herself to let go.
‘Come here again,’ she hears his voice calling softly after her as she walks down the steps to the pavement, ‘and it’ll be the last thing you do.’
Chapter 29
Alice
Lynne doesn’t sound convinced when Alice explains on the phone that she’s not feeling well. ‘Came on overnight, did it?’ she asks. ‘This terrible cold?’
Alice coughs pathetically, then picks up the length of kitchen roll she’s laid out on the counter and noisily blows her nose. ‘My throat was all scratchy when I went to bed and when I woke up this morning … it was all I could do to get up.’ Her voice sounds feeble, even to her own ears, but in a fake rather than a convincing way. But there’s no way she’s going to work today, not after Simon dropped his bombshell last night.
