by S A Tameez
Looking directly in her eyes as if wanting to converse with the lost little girl deep inside, “Your father loved you so much – he would have run to the ends of the earth for you. I remember when you were born, your eyes met for the first time. I had never seen him look at anything or anyone like that. Never seen him so happy. He held you as if he were never going to let you go.”
“So why did he leave us? Why?!” Sarah cried. “If he loved me that much?”
“Life is an enigma – we don’t truly understand anything and definitely can’t control most of the things around us.” She ran her fingers through Sarah’s hair, “Listen to me, I struggled with it all because I was focusing on what I had lost, and only that. I had forgotten about what I still had. I have you and as long as I have you, he is always here with me.” She paused for a moment and swallowed as if the words were getting stuck in her throat, “Instead of thinking about his death, I think about the time I had with him.” She pursed her lips, “He was a wonderful man who brought so much joy into my life, and I will cherish that forever.”
“I’m finding it so hard without him. I miss him so much!” Sarah sobbed.
“I know, baby. I miss him too.”
They lay in bed until they both fell asleep from exhaustion.
When Sarah’s eyes opened, the room was cold and dark. Her mother had left. She questioned whether her mother had been there at all – her mind playing tricks with her. She often imagined herself getting up and going to the toilet without getting up. Her mind subconsciously telling her she was about to burst.
She was suddenly transported to a time where she would wake up to smell her father’s pancakes, protein-packed pancakes, he would claim. She smiled as she visualised the greasy odd-shaped pancakes set on the breakfast table and the kitchen worktops covered with ingredients.
He would greet her with a huge smile, pull a chair out and speak in the worst French accent she ever heard.
“Good morning, ma Cherie, and welcome to the place that serves the best pancakes in England.” He would then lean forward and whisper, “Or perhaps in the world,” He would wink.
The pancake mornings and the witty humour became less and less after the diagnosis – lung cancer. The irony of him having never smoked a day in his life was an excellent example of how life was a coin that regardless of how many times was tossed would land on tails.
He was a doctor and had practised medicine his entire life – he helped people – thousands of people and yet he could not help himself. He devoted his life to treating other people’s illnesses and when he needed the help, no one could help him.
Sarah’s hands clenched the bed covers tightly – she squeezed as she felt an uncontrollable rage overcome her. All those hours he spent treating sick people, helping them, saving them, improving the quality of their lives – and for what? Missing weekends with his family, cancelling days off, even some holidays – just to die, be forgotten. Does the hospital mourn him, even remember him? What about his patients, do they remember him? Remember that he changed their lives at the expense of his family’s time with him? His family’s rights over him. Do they even care? Did they care that he left behind a lost girl who needed him – a girl who looked at his photo every day because she was afraid of forgetting him?
The pathetic few words that a few of his colleagues said at his funeral before they went back to their own homes and played happy families, didn’t hold much weight. The forced sympathetic smiles and fake tears meant nothing to someone who was actually grieving. Saying sorry was so much easier than feeling sorry. Sorry for your loss, she despised the phrase – it had lost its colour – no substance, just a thing you say because you’re supposed to, like ‘good morning’; no weight, no meaning – nothing. Better to have said nothing, at least that would have been honest.
He deserved so much more than that ridiculous phrase, their fake personas, empty words – he deserved to be here. Deserved to be alive!
Deep breaths…
She looked at the old cuts on her forearms and began picking at the remaining scabs. A combination of pleasure and pain as she tugged at the skin. She hoped to see blood, but the cuts were too old and had healed well. She thought back to her childhood when she first noticed dry peeling skin on the corners of her fingers. She picked the dead skin off and it felt therapeutic. After a while, the fresh skin painfully tore off with it and that felt great also. She liked the pain. It was like eating a hot spicy curry that burned your tongue but was worth every mouthful. The pleasure overwhelmed the pain.
She thought to claw at her skin to feel pain surge through her but was distracted with her phone vibrating. She pulled it to her face and stared at the bright screen.
‘Incoming call… Melisa’
Guilt cut through her sharper than any blade ever could. That was the kind of pain she despised, it carried no pleasure, no satisfaction – nothing. The hideous marks it left were invisible to the outside world. She was a terrible friend. A terrible person. She didn’t deserve the people around her. She didn’t deserve anything.
After the phone stopped buzzing, she sat motionless, wishing she were brave enough to answer it, or to throw it against the wall, shattering it into pieces like they did in the films.
The phone buzzed again. This time she would answer it. She would wait for Melisa to stop telling her how worried she had been and how relieved she was that everything was alright and then she would lie to Melisa and tell her she was fine. Then say sorry for storming off, sorry for not answering her phone and sorry for being the worst friend in the world. Melisa will forgive her and tell her everything will be fine and that she was there for her. And then things would return to normal – if there were ever such a thing.
It wasn’t Melisa.
It was a Facebook notification. She felt pain in her stomach as if the butterflies had turned on one another and it was a fight to the death.
She pressed the notification button and saw a new message.
“Fancy some toast?” Her mother’s voice made her jump. She quickly put the phone face down on the bed.
“Jesus Christ!” Sarah said, noticing her mother’s eyes on the phone. “Don’t you knock?!”
“I tried, but the door was open,” her mother shrugged, “It was like knocking in space.”
“Very funny,” Sarah remarked, relieved that was wasn’t prodding on why she put the phone out of sight so suspiciously.
“So,” her mother said letting the ‘o’ linger before asking, “you fancy some toast?”
Sarah wasn’t sure how long she could suppress the urge to scream. The fuse was lit – it was just a matter of time. She wanted to be alone – needed to be alone. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone? Why was she here?
She then thought about all the things her mother said last night – the brief but intimate moment shared only with a mother and her child. The first time her mother actually spoke to her about her father. And how she felt – how he took a part of them both when he left – a big part – the best part.
“I would love some,” She lied.
Her mother smiled the way she did before her dad died. Either she hadn’t smiled like this since then or this was the first time Sarah looked at her properly. She couldn’t bear to look at her. Her dad did so much for her, he took care of her whenever she was sick, he bought her things all the time, he took her places. And when he got sick, like really sick, Sarah noticed the frustration in her mum’s expressions – always tired, having to do things. The yelling, the cries in the pillow. It was just like her father to not want to spend his dying days in the hospital; he was brave. He knew he was dying and wanted to spend his remaining days at home.
But he should not have. He should have known that her mother would still crave all the attention. She was finding it hard – she couldn’t cope – this was all too much for her – poor her. He was the one dying but she was the one who needed comforting. Pathetic.
Sarah caught a glimpse of her bottom lip quiver as
if the shock of Sarah’s compliance to accept her invite to eat toast was about to bring her to tears. Had her mother stood there for a minute longer, she would have surely cried. Which is why Sarah was glad she didn’t.
“I’ll pop the kettle on,” her mother said in a faint voice as she walked down the stairs. Sarah was glad she was gone. Not sure whether she would care if her mother walked out the front door and never returned. She couldn’t bring herself to feel sorry for her. Last night wasn’t real. Deep down, it was still all about her – poor her. First, the mother who couldn’t cope with a troublesome child, then the wife who couldn’t cope with a sick husband and now the widow that couldn’t cope with her loss.
Sarah’s stomach churned at the thought of eating breakfast. She hadn’t eaten breakfast since her father died. Mornings were always the hardest.
Her body was stiff, but she dared not stretch for the fear that it would relax her enough to fall back to sleep. She was a person who lived in two extremes – insomnia or sleep 14 hours and still need more sleep, never an in-between, never a balance.
“Life’s like a balancing trick”, her father would tell her. She never got the hang of it.
Do what makes you happy, was his favourite cliché. The clock never stops ticking, irrespective of how much you may want it to. And don’t live in regret – it’s a rocky road that never lets you move on. Among all that he taught her, a clear message that stood out – life is a journey, everyone’s journey is different, separated into two stages. You’re young and then you’re old. It’s near impossible to define when this transition happens in a person’s life. So, while you are young, be young – because you can never get that back. Make your choices and make your mistakes as they will prepare you for when you are old.
This type of talk drove her mother mad. She, resided on the opposite side of the spectrum, had a much less abstract view on life and was incredibly pedantic. She planned everything and looked ten years ahead before making any decision. She only ever played in the safe zone. Everything had to be done conventionally. In accordance with strict rules and norms. For her, life was a mathematical formula and as long as you lived by that, you were fine.
Sarah’s gaze fell on her phone, and she opened the new message.
It was Norman Hyde.
EC3R 5DD. 6.30 pm
She rubbed her eyes and then blinked a few times not knowing what to think. The first part of the message was a postcode, and the second part was a time but it took her while to process it.
Why would he message her a postcode and a time? People usually send a message with ‘Hi’. She read the message again and then again as if rereading it might decipher a code. But there was no code. It was what it was. A postcode and a time.
A meeting point and time? Did he want her to go there? Why? She shouldn’t go. Who was he, anyway? She didn’t know him, not really. She didn’t know anyone really. She obviously didn’t know Jane. Everyone hid behind masks, revealing only which parts they wanted you to see. It made her admire bad people – at least they were honest. They displayed what they were, so you knew exactly where you stood.
She put the phone on the bedside table and slithered out of bed, letting the covers fall onto the floor. A headache was brewing. The smell of bread was seeping into her room and she suddenly had the urge to eat and vomit.
“You want eggs with that?” her mother asked as she placed a plate with two pieces of toast in front of her.
One step at a time, Sarah thought. She could play happy family, but she wasn’t going to eat the stinking eggs. She shook her head. Unable to think of anything other than the mysterious message, EC3R 5DD. 6.30pm. She had memorised it.
“You got class today?” Her mother asked, seeming desperate to start a conversation. Unlike normal people who would have talked about the weather or something like that to break the ice, her mother would start interrogating. There was no stopping her. Was it really surprising that Sarah didn’t want to be around her?
“Yes.” Sarah nodded.
“OK. And what time you finishing?”
Why? Sarah wanted to snap but didn’t.
“At five… but,” Sarah thought about the message, EC3R 5DD. 6.30pm.
“But?”
“I will be hooking up with Melisa after that.” She said without making eye contact.
“Oh, yes, Melisa. She is a lovely girl from how you describe her. I am so glad that you have made some good friends.”
Sarah’s eyes shot up at her mother and she could see the panic in her mother’s eyes. Sarah wanted to throw the toast on the plate and shout, you mean as opposed to my normal bad friends! She hated that her mother looked at her like a victim. That she wasn’t responsible for her past life – always other people who were responsible for all those bad things that happened. Her mother lived in a bubble – a bubble that kept her safe.
“You should invite her around sometime.” Her mother suggested. Sounded innocent but Sarah knew what she meant: bring her over and she would judge whether she was a “good” friend or not. Time for her to play mother again. Wonderful.
“I will,” Sarah lied and forced a smile.
Chapter 11
After
Nick knocked on the green door of an end terrace house. The street looked compressed, as if the dinky houses had been cramped together too tightly. Suffocating. The road was stupidly narrow. Getting the car through was not easy and he imagined many of the parked cars had had their wind mirrors knocked a few times.
“Mrs Taylor Green?” Nick asked as an old lady with fluffy grey hair and a welcoming smile opened the door. She looked exactly how he imagined her – old and friendly.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour Mrs Green – I’m DS Nick Bailey, and this is DC Zoe Hall.” Zoe offered an impatient smile. “We want to ask you a few questions about what you saw this morning. Is that OK?”
“Ah, yes.” Her smile grew and her wrinkles made her eyes disappear. “You’d better had come in.”
She led the way into the living room.
“Don’t worry about removing your shoes; Brian will be round in the morning to wash the carpets.”
“Thank you,” Nick said as he sat down on a sagging pastel-green sofa.
“Brian’s my son, and he cleans carpets… he’s a good boy that one, my Brian.”
“I’m sure he is,” Nick said, “Thanks for agreeing to speak to us. Can I start by asking—”
“Tea?” she interrupted with her warm wrinkly smile. “I’ll put the kettle on,” She waddled out of the room before they could respond.
The creaky old house felt like the stage for an old film. Patterned with a thick and dusty carpet and wrapped in 70’s wallpaper. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling with cobwebs for decoration. An aroma of animals without a pet in sight. A few large paintings with thick gold frames hung from the walls. Scenery, mainly green hills and grey skies, a lighthouse that triggered something in Nick’s memory that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something from his childhood – perhaps a book or a cartoon. It made him feel fuzzy from inside and transported him to a different time. A time when he didn’t feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. If only there was a way to turn back the clock and start again. He would try his best to not grow up so fast. Drag out the simple days – no worries – no responsibilities – no dead bodies.
Zoe silently stared at the patterns in the wallpaper as if trying to untangle a hidden message. Nick thought to say something but nothing worth saying sprung to mind. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would easily accept an apology – not that Nick wanted to offer one. He wasn’t sorry for what he said, he was right. He was only giving her friendly advice. He was only sorry for saying anything at all. Not his place.
“I hope you like Custard Creams,” Mrs Green said cheerfully. She cautiously walked back into the room balancing a silver serving tray with a white teapot, matching cups, and a plate of biscuits. They had been skilfully
placed on the plate in a pattern that resembled a flower.
“Thank you, Mrs Green but—”
“Please, call me Margaret.”
“Margret,” Nick smiled, “Thank you for your hospitality; it is very kind.”
“It’s no bother. I love entertaining guests – I get it from my mother. After my father died in the war, my mother would bake cakes and invite people around and…”
Nick could sense Zoe’s impatience – the quiet sighs, rolling of eyes – the fidgeting.
“Mrs Green,” she said in an assertive tone and stopping the old lady in her tracks. “We’re here because you saw something that may help us in a murder case. If you don’t mind, we really need to know what you saw.”
“Of course,” Mrs Green said, “That poor little girl.” She poured tea into the cups. “Milk?”
“Yes please,” Nick offered a nervous smile. He glanced over at Zoe hoping she would just remain silent and let the old lady tell him in her own time, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. Zoe could easily change the atmosphere in the room.
“Can I ask you what you saw in the morning?” Zoe asked and removed her black notebook and a pen.
Mrs Green sat on the sofa opposite, clenching her cup of tea. She looked calm, as if she didn’t notice Zoe’s irritated tone.
“I used to walk Arthur in the mornings, Arthur’s my dog—was my dog. He died a few months back – he was a great dog, my Arthur. I continued to walk a couple of miles every morning as if he was still alive – you know, it was a routine, and I just kept it going. I normally get out by six-thirty-ish. The streets are usually quiet. As I walked along the river and close to where that poor girl was found, I saw a man walk towards me. He was white and wore a black jacket and dark jeans. I don’t think they were black, perhaps a dark blue. But I can’t be certain; my memory isn’t as good as it used to be.” She paused to sip her tea. “He was a tall, handsome man. Dark hair with a few streaks of silver – you know, the George Clooney type. Polite too. He smiled and said good morning as he walked past.” She walked to the table and snatched a biscuit out of the plate. “I don’t usually have these. Especially since my Jacob died, he was a good man, my Jacob. These were his favourite biscuits.”
