by C. L. Taylor
‘Five things,’ Ursula says aloud. ‘Five things I can see. I can see a patio. I can see grass. I can see a tree. I can see a cat. I can see a wall. Four … four things I can feel. I can feel the counter under my fingers. I can feel the tiles under my feet. I can feel air on my lips. I can feel the cold.’ Her breathing slows as she slowly reconnects with her surroundings. ‘Three. Three things I can hear. I can hear birdsong. I can hear a drill in the distance. I can hear …’ She pauses, frowning as she tries to make out the third sound. ‘I can hear scratching.’ She turns sharply. ‘I can hear scratching coming from the basement door.’
Chapter 36
Gareth
It’s after 8.30 a.m. when Gareth finally picks up the phone to call his boss. He should have done so an hour ago but whenever he picked up his mobile the thought of what he was about to say made him put it back down again. But he’s going to have to make the call now. If he leaves it any longer he won’t have a job to return to. He sits down in his armchair, his stomach twisting at the sight of his mother’s empty chair.
‘Hello, Mark Whiting.’ His boss’s clipped tones bite at his ear.
‘Hi, Mark, it’s Gareth.’ The words come out in a rush. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be in today. My mum’s gone missing.’
There’s a pause then, ‘Oh dear. I’m really sorry to hear that. Have you been in touch with the police?’
‘Yes. I rang them straight away.’
He’d rung everyone he could think of before he rang the police – Sally, Yvonne, Uncle Tony, his cousin Maureen and the hospitals – then he’d checked the landline to see if there were any missed calls (there weren’t). He was sitting in the warmth of Kath’s kitchen, his voice becoming more and more strained with each call. When there were no other avenues to explore he rang 999. The operator was as calm as he was anxious and asked him question after question – how old was his mum, what had happened, what was her name and date of birth, had she ever gone missing before and was the behaviour out of character? There were more questions, about what she’d been wearing, her medical condition, and where he was calling from. He’d expected the call handler to pass him on to a police station. Instead she told him that she’d circulate the details to his local unit and someone would come round.
The next hour, as he returned to his house and Kath made him umpteen cups of tea, squeezing his shoulders whenever she passed, was one of the worst of his life. Every fibre in his being told him to get up from the table and go and look for his mum but he’d been told to stay where he was in case she came back. Finally, there was a knock on the door. Two uniformed police officers introduced themselves, then ran over the questions he’d already answered on the phone. They also requested a few recent photos of his mum and then asked if they could search the house. When he asked why and was told they needed to check if his mum was hiding, it was all he could do not to cry.
When they returned to the living room carrying his mum’s hairbrush (‘In case we need a DNA sample,’ the female officer explained) he showed them the mystery postcards and Kath, standing beside him, had gasped softly when he’d explained about his dead dad. He showed the police the CCTV footage next, pausing as Sally, then Yvonne entered and left the house, then froze the screen as his mum appeared in the frame. She was carrying a black handbag and was dressed in grey slip-on shoes, a brown dress and her best M&S red wool coat. It was for best, she’d tell him, refusing to wear it if he ever tried to get her into it for a visit to the doctor’s.
The female officer took a screenshot of the image of his mum on the CCTV and reassured him that all available officers would look for her. ‘Where might she have gone?’ she asked. ‘Any favourite places? Any relatives? Anywhere with any significance? Old addresses? Places she loved when she was younger?’
Gareth’s mind went blank. It was so long since his mum had gone anywhere other than the corner shop and the post office that he couldn’t think of a single place she might be. He silently remonstrated with himself. Why hadn’t he talked to her more about her past while he still had the chance? He’d been so wrapped up in the day-to-day challenges of caring for her that he hadn’t taken the time to just talk. It was only when the male officer discovered the memory box that he even remembered that it existed. They took it with them when they left, promising that someone would be in touch. Shortly afterwards Kath gently explained that she needed to get back to Georgia to check she was okay, apologising for leaving him alone. Then it was just Gareth, his thoughts, the silent television and the dip in his mum’s favourite chair.
‘Gareth? Gareth, are you still there?’ The rough tones of his boss’s voice snap him back into the living room and he grips the armrest, anchoring himself to the chair.
‘Yes, sorry. What was that?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Liam Dunford.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Liam. You know he’s been reported as missing? The police came to see me last night.’
In the split second Gareth takes before replying he feels a rush of emotion – incredulity, frustration and, most powerfully of all, rage. How dare Mark Whiting mention Dunford in the same breath as his mother? Does he have any idea what Gareth’s been through in the last thirteen hours? How terrified he was when the last of the light faded away and the world outside his window turned black? There was no way his mum would stay out after dark, no way at all. Why hadn’t she come home? Was she lost? Walking in circles or heading in completely the wrong direction? Had she fallen? Was she lying somewhere unable to get up, somewhere no one could see? Whiting doesn’t give a shit about any of that; he just wants to make sure his rota is filled.
‘Seriously?’ He takes a sharp, raggedy breath. ‘I ring you to tell you that my mum’s disappeared, that she’s been missing all night and you ask me about that bastard?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He could be at the bottom of a lake for all I care.’
‘Gareth,’ Mark says slowly. ‘I’m not sure I like your tone.’
‘Well I don’t like your tone either. My mum could be … she could be …’ He presses a hand to his chest, unable to speak. But it’s not acid burning beneath his ribs, it’s fear.
Gareth sits at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a rapidly cooling cup of tea in front of him. He’s screwed it now, totally screwed it, not just his career but his entire life. The mortgage might be paid on the house but his mum’s rapidly dwindling savings are almost gone thanks to the government deciding that anyone with more than a certain amount of money has to pay for their own carers. That just leaves him and the pitiful salary he gets as a security supervisor. Or rather, he got. He wouldn’t be surprised if when the post arrives tomorrow it includes his P45.
‘Oh God.’ He sits back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. At some point, preferably sooner rather than later, he’s going to have to ring Mark Whiting back and apologise. But not now. Whiting would enjoy hearing him grovel and he can’t deal with that level of smugness, not until he’s calmed down a bit.
It seems he’s not the only one to lose his rag; from the high-pitched screeching coming from next door it sounds like Kath is having a battle of her own.
‘I don’t want to go to school!’ Georgia’s voice drifts through the wall swiftly followed by Kath’s, ‘Well you’re going whether you like it or not.’
‘I want to join the search for Joan.’
‘You can do that when you get back from school.’
‘I want to go now!’
‘Stop making excuses and go to school!’
‘I hate you. I hate you so much!’
Gareth raises his eyebrows. He’d never have got away with screaming at his mum like that when he was a kid. He’d have suffered a swift clip round the head followed by, ‘Wait till your father gets home.’
He sits forward in his chair. Is that where his mum’s gone – to look for his dad? He used to work at WD and HO Wills, a cigarette manufacturing plant in Hartcliffe, after he
left the navy until it closed in 1990. Then, somewhat ironically, he worked as a hospital porter in St Michael’s until he retired in 1998. But there’s no factory in Hartcliffe any more. It was flattened years ago and now it’s Imperial Retail Park. It’s in South Bristol, a good hour’s walk from the Meads and two miles from Gareth’s house. It’s not somewhere he’s ever worked and he can’t remember taking his mum there for years but, in theory, she could walk there. He stands up, phone in one hand, the small, white card the police officer gave him in the other. He should call and tell them what he’s remembered. But what if the police can’t get over there for another hour? It could be too late. If his mum is in the retail park she’ll be confused and upset and he needs to be the one to find her, not a stranger in a uniform.
Chapter 37
Alice
Are you watching me? Alice stands at the glass double doors of the store, searching for her stalker, scanning the walkway for anyone who isn’t striding around the shops. Anyone watching her is likely to be stationary, resting up against a wall or a column or sitting on a bench. She’s been a nervous wreck all day. When one of the clothes racks collapsed at the start of her shift she shrieked so loudly that Lynne came running.
She still feels shaky, but not as much as she did last night when she read Ann Friend’s message about Flora. Unsure what to do, she rang Lynne. Ten minutes later her best friend was at the front door.
They talked for hours, reading and rereading the messages, trying to work out who could be behind them. They drew up a list of suspects beginning with people who might hold a grudge against her: Peter, his new girlfriend, Jenna who she’d sacked, Michael, and Adam. Then they spread the net wider, writing down anyone Alice had ever had a disagreement with: the hairdresser she’d complained about, the manager of the rival fashion chain who’d once accused her of luring away her staff, even her grumpy ‘mail-stealing’ neighbour on the first floor. Then they wrote down all the people that might have a problem with Simon. There were only two names on that list: Flora and the woman from Costa. With Simon refusing to answer his phone there was no way of knowing if there were more.
On Lynne’s prompting Alice texted him, telling him about the latest message. She’d expected silence but he’d replied almost immediately:
Whatever you’re doing, stop. It’s over. Forget you ever met me.
She tried calling but he didn’t pick up and when she got voicemail six times in a row she had to admit defeat.
‘He must care about me,’ she said to Lynne, ‘or he wouldn’t have replied to the text.’
‘If he cared he’d pick up the fucking phone and tell you what’s going on.’
By this point in the conversation it was nearly two o’clock in the morning and neither of them could see straight for tiredness and red wine so they decided to call it a night. They argued about who should take the sofa and who should take the bed but Lynne won out and Alice dragged herself off to her room. When she got up five hours later she rang DC Mitchell to tell her what had happened the previous night but the call went to voicemail. It’s nearly six hours later and she still hasn’t heard back.
‘Hey!’ Lynne nudges her elbow, then immediately apologises as Alice jumps out of her skin. ‘Sorry, but I was just wondering what to do with this?’
Alice looks at the thick winter coat she’s holding towards her and shakes her head. It’s not a coat they have in stock. ‘What is it?’
‘That shoplifter, you know Godzilla, she left it in the changing room last night. Kaisha hung it up in the staff changing room when she checked the cubicles but I’m wondering if we should just chuck it?’
‘No, she might come back for it and if we’ve binned it she’ll kick off. I can’t deal with that at the moment. Could you, um … could you just tuck it under one of the counters? We’ll keep it for a week and chuck it if she doesn’t come back.’
‘All right.’ Lynne doesn’t look convinced but she tosses the coat over her arm. ‘Fancy grabbing some lunch?’
‘I, um … I thought I might go out and get some air. Wander round a little bit.’
‘Great idea. I’ll just go and grab my bag.’
‘No, don’t. I just … I just need a bit of time alone.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to be on your own.’
‘I don’t, not at home, anyway. But I’m just going windowshopping. There’s loads of people about. I’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah, and your stalker could be one of them.’
‘Cheers!’
‘No … I mean … I just want you to be safe.’
‘I will be.’ She touches a hand to Lynne’s arm. ‘Whoever’s behind this wants me to be scared and lock myself away. But I’m not going to do that. If I want to go out, I will.’
Lynne doesn’t look convinced and when Alice walks out of the shop, coat on, handbag slung across her body, her silence follows her.
As Alice walks down Broad Street she can’t help but feel bad about Lynne. She doesn’t like lying but if she told her where she’s actually going she’d have disapproved. Both Lynne and Emily have told her over and over again that she’s got to let this thing with Simon go. And maybe she should. Trying to work out what the hell’s going on has given her sleepless nights and made her feel more stressed than she has in a very long time. But it’s not even about Simon any more. Any feelings she had for him vanished when he chose to dump her rather than explain what was going on. No, this is about her anonymous messenger. She doesn’t like the fact that someone is pulling the strings of her life. She’s going to find out who they are and take back control.
The barman at the Evening Star looks up as she walks in, then reluctantly puts away his phone as she approaches the bar.
‘What can I get you?’
‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Screw not drinking at lunchtime. She’s going to need all the Dutch courage she can get.
‘Anything else?’ He gestures at a red-backed menu lying on the bar. ‘Any food? We’ve got a new chef.’
‘No thank you.’ She’s already decided that she’ll grab a sandwich from Sainsbury’s on her way back to work.
As the barman tips a measure of gin into a glass Alice takes her phone out of her bag. No missed calls from DC Mitchell. And no texts or messages, other than one from Emily, thanking her for looking after her last night. When her daughter got up that morning Alice took one look at her puffy eyes and pallid skin and asked if she was going to ring in sick. Emily looked appalled. ‘Just because Adam’s a fuckwit doesn’t mean I have to miss a day’s pay. I’ll let him stew. Silence is the best weapon, Mum.’
She wondered if that was true. She’d been doing the opposite with Simon and it hadn’t got her very far. As the barman plonks a gin and tonic in front of her, Alice pays, then carries it across to an empty table. It feels weird coming back to the bar where she first saw him but it’s the nearest pub to work. Quiet too. She’s not going to be overheard.
She knocks back half her drink, but the inside of her mouth dries as she taps at her phone then holds it to her ear. He probably won’t reply, she thinks.
‘Hello?’ a male voice says. There’s a pause, as though he’s about to say something else but he falls silent instead.
‘Michael, it’s Alice.’
Another pause, and doubt starts to creep in. There’s almost no chance he’ll be able to help her, but she can’t just dismiss Lynne’s theory that he and Simon set this whole thing up. It’s no more unreasonable than the idea that Flora would stalk her, or Peter’s pregnant girlfriend suddenly decided to try and ruin her life.
‘Hi,’ Michael says and Alice’s heart twists in her chest.
‘Where are you?’ she asks.
‘Sorry?’
‘Are you still in Spain?’
‘Why? What’s this about? If it’s about your car I already told the police I was in Barcelona and I’ve got friends who—’
‘I know. They told me.’
‘So why are you calling?’
> ‘Do know anyone called Simon?’
‘Who?’
‘Simon. He picked up my purse after … after you attacked me in the pub …’
‘I’m sorry.’ The words come up in a rush. ‘I’ve got to stop you there, Alice, to say how sorry I am. I’m … I’m really fucking sorry. Honestly I … I’ve never, never hurt a woman in my life. I just … I’d been drinking since I woke up and … there’s no excuse. I’m an alcoholic and I’m getting help. I’ve got some friends out here who’ve booked me into a place where … you don’t need to know all the ins and outs and I’m rambling. I’m just so sorry. Really. I would have apologised earlier but the … the police said I should leave you alone.’
Alice says nothing as his words sink in. Instead she stares past the bar towards the corridor where Michael elbowed her at the base of her throat and then tried to kiss her. The memory, the spit glistening on his lips and the pink peak of his tongue, makes her feel sick, but she can’t reconcile that lurching, aggressive man with the bumbling, apologetic voice in her ear. It’s as though Michael was wearing someone else’s skin that day and what happened stripped it away, revealing a stuttering mouse of man.
‘I forgive you,’ she says and as the words leave her mouth she feels a weight drop from her shoulders. ‘Do you know him, or where he is?’ she adds quickly. ‘Simon? The blond-haired man who picked up my purse?’
‘Simon … Simon …’ Michael deliberates over the name. ‘No, that’s not ringing any bells. If I’m honest my memory of what happened is a bit hazy anyway but I’m pretty sure I don’t know a Simon.’
‘Right. Okay.’ She doesn’t know whether to feel disappointed or relived.
‘I really am sorry.’
‘I know you are.’ She pauses, unsure how to end the call then simply says, ‘Goodbye,’ and takes the phone from her ear. She taps the screen to end the call, then reaches for her glass.
