by C. L. Taylor
‘I can explain!’ Adam shouts back. ‘If you’d just fucking calm down.’
Alice steps towards him. ‘Don’t you swear at my daughter. Get your hands off her. Now!’
There’s something in her tone that must remind him of his own mum because he immediately lets go of Emily’s wrists and steps away.
‘Take her home. She’s embarrassing herself.’
Alice snaps round at the sound of Laila’s voice but before she can respond, Emily launches herself across the courtyard. Alice throws herself at her daughter, wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her away before her outstretched hands can tear clumps out of Laila’s long, black hair extensions.
‘You’re a fucking bitch!’ Emily screams as Alice hauls her away. ‘You’ll pay for this. I swear it. You’ll both pay for this. You’re a pair of cheating, lying—’
‘Stop it!’ Alice hisses in her ear. ‘Don’t stoop to their level. Walk away. You’re better than this.’
Her daughter continues to shout and scream as Alice marches her up the stairs, twisting and gesturing and fighting every step they take. She’s still shouting when Alice pushes her towards the door of the pub, but the moment it closes behind them she howls and bursts into tears.
They half-guide, half-carry Emily down the street, Lynne on one side and Alice on the other. It breaks Alice’s heart, hearing her daughter sob so desperately. It makes her angry too, the callous way Adam spoke to her, even though he was in the wrong. There’s a part of Alice that’s proud of Emily for reacting the way she did. Not of the screeching and swearing, but because she let her anger erupt rather than holding it in. It couldn’t have been more different to her own reaction to Peter’s infidelity. When he broke the news that he was moving out because he’d met someone else she simply stared at him from the sofa, too shocked to move and too numb to speak. She made her feelings known later, ringing him up at all times of the day and night, telling him how much she hated him, demanding that he tell her the name of the woman he’d left her for, or else crying and begging him to come back. Peter being Peter, he simply ignored her calls, relaying a request to stop through their daughter instead. Emily took Alice’s side of course. She told Peter that she didn’t want to meet his girlfriend and never would (she finally relented after six months).
Alice meanwhile turned to wine to ease her through the pain and spent night after night searching the internet for clues as to her rival’s identity, torturing herself with comparisons that she had no way of knowing were true. Peter’s new love would be tall, blonde, slim and unlined. She’d be funny and witty and the best sex he’d ever had. When she did eventually work out who she was through surreptitious searches on LinkedIn and Facebook, she stared in shock at the photo of the middle-aged woman staring out from the screen. She was slimmer than Alice, that much was true, but there was nothing smooth about her face, and her hair rather than being the long, wavy blonde tresses of Alice’s imagination was a short, wiry elfin cut. She’d stared at that face for a very long time, then she’d closed the laptop and knocked back the last of her wine. She didn’t bother to look again.
As Emily sobs on her shoulder, she wishes she could take her daughter’s pain away. She wants to tell her that it won’t hurt as much as it does right now and that, one day, she’ll think about Adam and not feel a thing. But not now, not today. Today all she can do is listen as her daughter asks why, over and over again, and hold her close and let her cry.
As they continue to walk down the street, drawing closer and closer to their flat, she glances across at Lynne. While the drama was playing out on the pub patio she remained at their table, guarding their things, wondering where the hell they’d both gone. She took one look at Emily’s tear-stained face as they crossed the pub, scooped up the bags and coats and headed straight for the door. And she’s been full of sympathetic noises and reassuring platitudes ever since. As Alice smiles at her friend there’s a clattering sound behind them, like a can being kicked down the street. She turns sharply as someone, or something, darts behind a car.
‘Did you hear that?’
Lynne nods, unconcerned. ‘Probably a cat.’
‘Someone’s following us.’
They all stop walking. Even Emily stops crying and turns to look. Alice stares at the car, heart pounding, willing a cat to slink out from behind.
‘Do you—’ Lynne begins but Alice silences her with a ‘Sssh.’
‘Mum?’ Emily whispers. ‘What is it? What did you see?’
Alice takes a step off the pavement and into the road. She’s not going to walk directly up to the car. She’s going to try and catch a glimpse of whoever’s hiding behind it from the other side of the street.
‘Alice!’ Lynne hisses. ‘What are you doing?’
Alice holds up a hand, telling her to stay where she is.
There’s no one there, she tells herself as she nears the centre of the road, her gaze still fixed on the car. No one’s going to hurt you. There’s no one—
The vibration of her phone in her handbag makes her heart leap into her throat but before she can steady herself she spots a car travelling down the road towards her, its headlights on full beam.
‘Mum!’ Emily shouts. ‘Get out of the road.’
But Alice is already sprinting towards her. She makes it to the pavement a good three or four seconds before—
‘Stupid bitch!’ Laila shouts from the passenger window as the car zooms past.
It isn’t until Emily is safely tucked up in bed and Lynne’s in a taxi home that Alice thinks to look at her phone. She puts down the glass of wine she’s been drinking and pulls her handbag onto her lap. A new Facebook message from Ann Friend appears as she taps at the screen.
Flora can’t help you, Alice. Leave Simon alone.
Chapter 34
@onthecliffedge:
I hear the Harbourside Murderer has struck again.
@MotobkeBob:
You mean someone else has got pissed and fallen into the Avon.
@onthecliffedge:
Apparently this time the victim was a security guard from the Meads shopping centre.
@DiddleyBopDee:
Maybe a shoplifter pushed him in. lol.
@lisaharte101:
That’s someone’s child/dad/brother you’re talking about. Imagine if someone you loved went missing?
@DiddleyBopDee:
Jeez. Can’t you make a joke on Twitter any more without someone jumping down your throat?
@realmadwife:
If my kid doesn’t stop asking me to buy Robux EVERY SINGLE TIME he logs onto the Xbox I might disappear too. Can you swim to France from Bristol?
@refrigeratorcar:
Actually, that’s an interesting thought. What if none of these men are dead and they just decided to vanish? You know, made it look like they drowned and secretly started another life somewhere else?
@MotobkeBob:
Come to think of it there’s a phone box on that corner. I think it’s got TARDIS written on the side.
@refrigeratorcar:
Everyone’s a comedian.
@onthecliffedge:
Apart from Bob. He’s just a knob.
Chapter 35
Ursula
Saturday
As usual there’s no sign of Edward when Ursula gets up but there’s evidence that he returned home after she went to bed: his toothbrush is damp to the touch, as is the nail brush (some days earlier she figured out that’s how he knew she’d used it). And when she walks downstairs to make breakfast she can see that his wax jacket has been added to the coat rack in the hall. Stomach rumbling, she wanders into the kitchen and makes her breakfast. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a black-and-white cat slinking across the garden.
‘Ha!’ she says. ‘No baby bird for you.’
She wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing, taking the fledgling to the animal rescue centre. She’d read all sorts on her phone about returning it to the nest or putting it s
omewhere out of harm’s way. But Jessie, a member of staff in a green sweatshirt, took one look at the bird’s manky bloodied eye and declared that Ursula had done the right thing and it would probably pull through. She’d driven back home feeling really quite happy. But as the sky outside her bedroom window began to darken, so did her mood. She couldn’t get the image of Paul Wilson’s face out of her mind, or the frightened look in his wife’s eyes. What if he’d hurt her once he entered the house? The thought worried Ursula so much she felt sick. But what could she do? She’d rung the police and she’d given the woman her contact details.
You can’t save everyone. Nath’s voice was in her head when she pulled the duvet up around her chin, closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
No, but I could have saved you.
Now, toast finished, coffee drunk and everything washed up and put away, Ursula glances at her watch. It’s 6.42 a.m. and there’s been no knock at the door. Her parcels are normally delivered bang on time – 6.30 a.m., or near enough. They’ve never taken this long before. She walks to the front door, opens it and looks up and down the street. No sign of Bob’s van. She remains in the doorway for another few minutes, hands crossed over her chest and rubbing her arms, shivering in the cool morning air, then steps back inside. She looks longingly at Ed’s tweed jacket. She hasn’t got a spare coat and the temperature’s not going to creep above five degrees according to the radio. She touches the thick material, then shakes her head. It’s not worth it for the amount of grief he’d give her. She’ll put another sweatshirt on instead.
Five minutes later she jogs back down the stairs and takes another look outside. Still no sign of Bob and it’s 6.49 a.m. She’d normally be shutting up her van and setting off by now. She takes her phone out of the pouch, considers whether or not to ring the depot, then tucks it away again. Bob’s probably been caught in traffic and she doesn’t want to get him into trouble. He’s a nice bloke, if a bit slow.
At 7.07 a.m. she hears Ed leave his room and the sound of the shower running and reluctantly takes out her phone. Something’s obviously gone wrong.
‘Hello,’ she says after the call connects and her boss announces her name. ‘It’s Ursula Andrews. Bob hasn’t showed up and I’m not sure what to do. Should I come into the depot to collect today’s parcels?’
There’s a pause then a long, slow exhale. ‘Oh,’ Jackie Clowes says. ‘I’m so sorry, Ursula. I meant to ring you yesterday but it completely went out of my head. Could you come in?’
‘To the depot? Sure. I’ll just—’
‘To my office, please. We need to have a little chat.’
Now it’s Ursula’s turn to pause. ‘We need to have a little chat’ sounds ominous. Whatever Jackie needs to tell her it’s not going to be good news.
‘What’s it about?’ she asks, her heart fluttering uncomfortably in her chest.
‘I’ll tell you when you get here. I’ll see you in half an hour or so, that sound okay?’
As offices go, Jackie Clowes’s is about as bland as they get. There’s a company calendar on one wall with an image of a man hiking on a mountain, a spider plant bursting out of a tiny pot and a desk with a chair on either side.
Jackie looks up at Ursula and smiles tightly.
‘Thanks for coming in so quickly.’ She gestures at the free chair. ‘Have a seat.’
Ursula sits down, resting her feet on the floor and clasping her hands in her lap. As Jackie glances back at her computer screen Ursula shifts position, pulling her feet behind her and crossing them at the ankles, then she changes position again and crosses her legs.
‘Right, so.’ Jackie looks across at her. ‘We haven’t had a catch-up for a while. How’s everything going?’
Ursula clears her throat. There’s so much she could say but she doesn’t think her boss would be interested in the fact that her ex-best friend threw her out for stealing, her new landlord’s a weirdo and she’s worried about a customer’s wife who may or may not be the victim of domestic abuse. Instead she says, ‘Not bad, still enjoying the job.’
‘Good, good.’ Jackie nods but, if she’s pleased, her pleasure doesn’t register on her face. ‘No … um … difficult experiences or … customers?’
Ursula frowns. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘We’ve had … I’ve had … a complaint.’
‘About me?’
‘Afraid so. And it’s quite serious. They say you’ve been harassing them.’
‘What?’ Ursula’s mouth falls open.
‘Obviously I’m not at liberty to disclose who the complaint came from but they mentioned that you refused to hand over a parcel and you also attempted illegal entry into their property.’
Ursula sits up straighter in her seat as the penny drops. It’s come from Paul Wilson.
‘It was a man, wasn’t it?’ she says.
‘Actually it was a woman. She was quite distressed.’
‘That’s because her husband forced her to make the phone call. Jackie, I’m pretty sure she’s a victim of domestic abuse. I even rang the police. I know I probably should have told you about it but—’
Jackie Clowes holds up a hand. ‘I know about the police allegation. I also know that it didn’t come to anything. It was all part of your campaign of harassment, the woman said. She also said she’s been receiving unwanted phone calls from you and you’ve been sending taxis to her address at all times of the day and night which has caused her a great deal of distress.’
‘That’s not true! Check my phone. He’s made her say that, the husband. Honestly, Jackie, you need to believe me. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Jackie presses her lips together and gives her a look that says, ‘I really don’t want to do this but …’
‘Please, Jackie,’ Ursula begs. ‘Give me a different round or … or … I’ll do Bath or Keynsham. I can get up earlier. I need this job. Please.’
‘I’m sorry, Ursula. If this were the only complaint then I’d let it go, or at least give you a different route. But there was a second complaint, a different customer who said his parcels arrived damaged or thrown behind his wheelie bin.’
‘That’s not true! I’ve never done that. It must be Paul Wilson. He must have asked a friend to ring and—’
Jackie holds up a hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Ursula. It’s out of my hands.’
‘It’s not, though. You’re the boss. You can—’
‘It’s in the regs.’ Jackie touches a bound booklet to her left. ‘Obviously your van is your own but I’m going to need your lanyard and pass.’
Ursula stares at her boss’s open palm. This can’t be happening. Almost every penny she had she spent on the deposit and first month’s rent, and she’s only got three weeks left until Edward asks for more. There’s no way she can get another delivery job. Even if she got through the interview it would only take one phone call to Jackie to make them change their minds. She’s going to have to join an agency and hope to God there’s a job she can start straight away.
She removes the lanyard from her neck and places it into Jackie’s outstretched palm without making eye contact.
Ursula is halfway to the Meads shopping centre when she remembers that she’s been banned. With a heavy heart she takes a right rather than a left at the roundabout and heads back to South Bristol. She can’t risk a trip to Mirage Fashions, not with staff and the security guard on the alert. If she’s caught and they call the police, she’ll end up with a fine that she won’t be able to pay. Although, she thinks ruefully, if she was given a prison sentence instead at least she’d be fed three times a day and have a roof over her head.
Ten minutes later, and back in the kitchen of number fifteen William Street, she miserably surveys the contents of her food cupboard as the DJ on the radio warbles on about the latest Bristol City match and asks fans to phone in. She went food shopping the other day but there’s not much to choose from: half a loaf of bread, some Heinz tomato soup, most of a packet of pasta, a KitKat, a few dr
y crackers and a can of corned beef. She picks up the corned beef, umming and ahhing as she turns it over in her hand. At two pounds it wasn’t cheap and she had planned to buy some potatoes and onions to make a hash but sod it, she’s had a shit day and if she can’t go shopping to relieve her stress then a corned beef sandwich, a bowl of soup and a KitKat will have to do.
As she stands up she sniffs at the air. There’s been an odd smell in the kitchen ever since she moved in. At the time she put it down to damp – Charlotte’s house was riddled with it – but this is different. It’s a musty, uriney smell. She opens the door to the garden to let some air in, then fits the key onto the tab of metal on the side of the can. She turns it until the lid opens to reveal the slab of processed meat, then grabs a chopping board and squeezes the tin. The corned beef doesn’t budge. Sighing, she reaches for a knife from the wooden block but her favourite, the one with a long, thin blade, isn’t there. She looks for it on the draining board and then in the sink but the kitchen is as pristine as normal. Other than the missing knife there isn’t a single thing out of place. The knife isn’t in any of the drawers or the cupboards. It can’t have broken; Edward once told her how indestructible these particular knives are. He must have taken it, although God knows why. She reaches for another knife instead and slips it in between the slab of corned beef and the tin and wiggles it until the meat slips free. As she carefully slices it, making each sliver as thin as she can, the DJ stops speaking and the first notes of a song, picked out on a guitar, start to play.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
Ursula slams her hand onto the radio as the drums kicks in and the room falls silent before Jon Bon Jovi has the chance to sing. She presses her palms onto the counter, heart pounding, breath coming in short, sharp bursts, eyes shut. But it’s too late, the song’s already in her head, ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, going round and round on a loop.
‘No!’ she says as faces appear behind her closed eyelids: laughing and mocking, leering at her. ‘No!’
She opens her eyes again and stares out into the garden, desperately trying to remember the grounding technique that Charlotte tried to teach her the last time she had a panic attack.
