The Apartment

by K. L. Slater

  Afterwards, walking back, I impulsively decide to prolong the luxury. I stop at a small café I spot up a side street and order a latte, which I drink sitting in the sunshine, nestled at a tiny table outside on the pavement.

  I reach into my bag for my phone just in case the school has messaged about Skye. Despite enjoying a laid-back morning, I realise I’m still feeling tense underneath because of Skye’s bad mood, and I find myself expecting the worst all the time.

  I’m relieved to see there is no text, but I spot the two letters the postman gave me this morning. The first one is a letter from the bank confirming my change of address to Adder House.

  I pick up the second letter and see that in my haste to get out of the house this morning, I neglected to notice that although the letter is addressed to apartment six, the name is a Miss Sophie Taylor.

  It feels wrong opening a letter addressed to someone else, but Dr Marsden categorically said there had been nobody else in the flat before us. Could it be just a circular?

  Sophie Taylor.

  I whisper the name out loud to myself. Roll it around on my tongue. She sounds like a real person, if that makes sense.

  A knot of discomfort sits on my chest as a thought looms large in my head.

  The woman who died that the Marsdens don’t want to talk about . . . could I have stumbled here on to something that would provide a bit more information?

  I could write ‘not at this address’ on the mail and pop it back in the postbox, but I decide against that.

  Right or wrong, I make a snap decision and open the letter.

  Dear Ms Taylor,

  It will soon be twelve months since you and your daughter, Melissa Taylor, had your eye tests. We are pleased to offer you another appointment at your convenience, please telephone . . .

  The rest of the optician’s letter blurs out as I try my hardest to convince myself it’s a mistake, but my gut feeling is that Sophie and Melissa Taylor were tenants in apartment six after all.

  This leads to another fundamental question that makes my head spin. Why would Dr Marsden lie about something like that?

  34

  It’s a ten-minute brisk walk from the café back to Adder House. I don’t look over at Kensington Gardens, nor pause to listen to the birdsong when I turn into Palace Gate.

  I zap my key card at the door and enter the house, silently praying Dr Marsden isn’t lurking around to ask me inane questions about where I’ve been this morning. I just feel like I need a bit of quiet thinking time.

  My prayers are answered. The entrance is empty and I’m able to head straight upstairs.

  I stop outside the door next to our apartment and press down on the handle. Of course it’s locked.

  It’s time to ask Dr Marsden why this apartment is vacant and who were the last people to live there.

  Once inside, I shrug off my coat, slip off my shoes, and sit down on the sofa. I reach inside my handbag, pull out the letter to Sophie Taylor and read it again. Then I start to formulate a plan of things I need to do.

  A few minutes in the calm, quiet atmosphere, and I feel the tension finally begin to seep out of my body.

  A few minutes later, though, I’m roused by the sound of someone walking around.

  Not above me, because we’re on the top floor. Not below me, either. Oddly, it sounds like it’s coming from the other side of the wall.

  I jump up and press my ear against the wall that adjoins the empty apartment next door. At first there’s nothing, then I hear the soft thud of footsteps again.

  I creep down the hallway and out of my apartment door, listening to the house in general, but the landing is deathly quiet. I tiptoe next door and try the handle again. It’s still locked.

  When I press my ear to the door, there’s nothing to hear. A crazy thought occurs to me. Could someone be secretly living in there?

  I decide to go downstairs to see Lily Brockley. She’s made it clear we are always welcome, so I’ll see if she has time for a chat and a cuppa.

  She’s already said she’s not sure what’s happening to the apartment next to ours, but perhaps I can bring Sophie Taylor’s name into the conversation and see if I get a reaction.

  But I’m disappointed. There’s no answer from Lily’s flat.

  I go back upstairs and busy myself unpacking a couple more boxes. There are no more sounds from next door.

  I have to be back at school at one o’clock to pick up Skye, so I nibble at the Waitrose goodies in the fridge and scoff a chunk of freshly baked bread and cheese.

  I’m hit by a wave of lethargy where I literally can’t keep my eyes open. I lie back on the couch to rest my eyes for a few minutes.

  At the sound of the shrill ring of my phone on the floor next to me, I spring awake and sit bolt upright, my heart racing. My mouth is dry and I have that horrible panicky feeling you get when you sleep too deep and too long during the day.

  I snatch up my phone and answer without even looking at the screen. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Miss Miller?’ a voice says curtly. ‘St Benjamin Monks here. I’m afraid nobody has come to collect Skye and she’s getting quite upset.’

  ‘Oh God! What time is it . . . sorry. Sorry, I fell asleep, I’m on my way.’

  I end the call before she can answer and rush to the door, slipping on my shoes and belting downstairs. I can’t believe I let this happen, school was out ten minutes ago.

  I run. Up Palace Gate, down Kensington High Street, dodging pedestrians and pushchairs, drawing irritated stares as I plough my way through shoppers. My chest burns with exertion but I don’t stop until I get to the church and dash around the back to the school.

  I get to the gate just as Miss Perkins and Skye appear at the main door, looking out for me. Gasping for breath, I wave and Skye breaks away from her teacher’s hand and runs to me, her face tear-streaked.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry.’ I pull her to me and she buries her head in my middle.

  ‘Why didn’t you come, Mummy?’

  Miss Perkins reaches us. She’s holding a large piece of cream paper in one hand. She doesn’t look angry at my late arrival, merely impassive.

  ‘I can’t apologise enough,’ I tell her, still out of breath. ‘I fell asleep! I can’t believe I did it, I was just so tired and I lay down just for a few minutes and then the phone rang and . . . anyway, I’m so sorry.’

  Miss Perkins nods without comment, and I feel bad that she’s been working all day in a busy classroom and I’m the one complaining of feeling tired.

  Skye looks at her teacher and then back down at the ground.

  ‘No harm done,’ Miss Perkins says, and I think how kind it is of her to let me off the hook so readily. ‘We had . . . let’s just say, a little misunderstanding this morning, didn’t we Skye? But I think that’s been sorted out now.’

  ‘Javeed said I broke the wing off his papier-mâché owl, Mummy, but I didn’t!’

  ‘Oh dear.’ I turn to the teacher, a bit nonplussed by Skye’s sudden outburst. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We put the bird sculptures outside the classroom to dry in the sun while we did PE in the hall, and when we came out, Javeed’s owl had been damaged.’

  ‘But why did he think it was you, Skye?’

  She doesn’t answer but wipes tears away roughly with the back of her hand.

  ‘Skye went out in the middle of the lesson to use the bathroom and Javeed was convinced that’s when the damage was done,’ Miss Perkins says regretfully. ‘I’ve had a chat with Skye and she’s adamant she didn’t go near the artwork at all. Please don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be forgotten tomorrow, but I thought it was best I mention it as she’s bound to be upset.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thank you.’ This is not the start I’d hoped for, for Skye. I haven’t helped the situation in turning up late to collect her, either.

  We wave goodbye to Miss Perkins and she hands Skye what I can now see is a painting. I take her rucksack and we walk out of the sch
ool grounds together.

  ‘I painted us at the park,’ she says glumly, holding up a painting. The paper is mainly bright green with daubed figures dotted here and there.

  ‘Oh, I see us! There we are, sitting on the blanket eating our sandwiches,’ I say. ‘Lovely. And who’s that?’ I point to two dark, featureless shapes standing under a nearby tree.

  ‘That’s Daddy and Janine,’ Skye says matter-of-factly. ‘And this one here’ – she indicates a small black figure lying prostrate on the ground nearby – ‘this is the little girl who used to live in my bedroom.’

  35

  When we get back to Adder House, I press the keypad and Skye rushes in, ploughing straight into a surprised Miss Lilian Brockley.

  ‘Ooh, sorry!’ Skye gasps, backing away.

  ‘So sorry,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘I hope she didn’t hurt you, Lily?’

  ‘Hurt me? Nonsense. I’m made of sterner stuff than that, my dear.’ She smiles at Skye and holds up her seed bag. ‘I’m just off round to the garden to feed the birds. Would you care to help me?’

  ‘Yes please! Can I, Mummy?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, feeling relieved that Skye has perked up at last and I’ll have a few minutes to settle my thoughts down.

  ‘I’ll bring her back upstairs when we’re finished,’ Miss Brockley says, and the two of them walk out of the entrance together and head for the garden.

  I get into the apartment and pour two glasses of orange juice, one for Skye when she returns. I drink it standing at the window, looking down on my daughter, who is chatting Miss Brockley’s ears off by the looks of it.

  I’ve detected a bit of frostiness from other people here towards Lily on a couple of occasions now.

  Lily told me she hasn’t got grandchildren, and Skye is bound to get a bit lonely at times as an only child moving into a new area. So theirs is an unlikely friendship that works well for both of them, I think.

  I smile as I watch them and then my attention switches to something else. There’s a very faint buzzing noise that’s quite irritating.

  I look up, but the top windows that I usually open in the morning are closed now, so it isn’t coming from outside.

  I take another sip of juice and listen. The noise is barely there, but now that I’ve heard it, I can’t ignore it and it’s annoying me.

  I look around the room but there’s nothing obvious here, unless Skye has left something turned on and it’s pushed down the side of a seat cushion.

  I walk across the room and stand in the doorway, and here, the noise is definitely louder, although you could easily not notice it if the television was on.

  A few steps back towards the middle of the hallway, it’s louder still. I open the door to Skye’s bedroom and instantly recoil at the sight of the window, buzzing with what seems like a million flies. The room is full of them.

  I scream and jump back outside the room, slamming the door behind me and running into the lounge. I’ve never been flaky about much in my life, but ever since learning at school all about the disgusting habits of the housefly – Musca domestica – I’ve hated being near the vile creatures.

  And there’s something else, too. The furniture has been moved. Her toy box and the pink wooden chair under the window . . . they’re at the opposite end of the room.

  I bang on the window, but Skye and Miss Brockley don’t look up.

  My heart is pounding on my chest wall and I feel as if I’m going to be sick, but I dash out of the apartment, not bothering to lock the door. I hurtle down the stairs and hammer on Dr Marsden’s apartment door, stooped over, trying to get my breath back.

  There’s no answer, so I burst out of the front door, leaving it wide open and run around to the garden, calling for help.

  ‘Heavens, whatever’s wrong, Freya?’ Lilian Brockley clutches at her throat, startled.

  ‘Flies . . . millions of flies . . . in Skye’s room,’ I manage.

  ‘In my room?’ Skye looks alarmed.

  ‘Come on, we’d better have a look.’ Lily leads the way, striding back down the side of the house and in through the front door where Dr Marsden suddenly appears.

  ‘Does anyone know who has left this door wide open?’ His voice thunders.

  Skye flutters around me like a distressed butterfly.

  ‘Sorry . . . it was me. There are flies . . . upstairs . . .’ I start coughing, my throat is so hoarse and dry and I feel as if I might be sick. I haven’t got a phobia exactly, but if there’s one insect I can’t bear near me, it’s flies.

  ‘Apparently there are hordes of them, in the child’s room,’ I hear Miss Brockley say.

  ‘I’ll go up there with you now,’ Dr Marsden tells me calmly. ‘This sort of thing is easily dealt with.’ He looks pointedly at Miss Brockley. ‘I’ll take it from here, Lilian.’ But Lily doesn’t move, she stands there almost protectively.

  ‘You haven’t seen them,’ I say, my voice still slightly manic. ‘I’ve never seen so many. Where can they have all come from?’

  ‘Were there any on my toys . . . and my bed, Mummy?’ Skye looks close to tears and I regret blurting everything out in front of her.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll sort it out,’ I say hastily before remembering something else and stepping towards Dr Marsden. ‘And the furniture’s been moved in there!’

  He glances at me, his lips pressed into a tight line. He doesn’t comment.

  We’re all huffing and puffing by the time we get up to the third floor.

  ‘You really need to start locking doors around here.’ Dr Marsden frowns when he spots the apartment door is wide open.

  He walks in first, followed by Miss Brockley and then me and Skye. I brace myself as he opens her bedroom door.

  ‘Hardly millions,’ he remarks with a wry smile.

  I walk into the room and count five dozy flies on the glass and windowsill.

  ‘Yuk, can we still get rid of them?’ Skye screws up her nose.

  ‘They’ve all gone,’ I say faintly. ‘The room was full of them, the glass thick with them. I—’

  I walk up to the window and stare through it blankly. Then I look around the room. Only minutes ago, it was a swarming black mass of tiny buzzing bodies in here.

  ‘Come downstairs,’ Miss Brockley says kindly, giving Dr Marsden a look. ‘Moving can be very stressful, one might exaggerate all manner of things in one’s mind and—’

  ‘I didn’t imagine it!’ I instantly restrain myself. ‘I’m sorry but they were here . . . I swear. And the furniture has definitely been moved. Skye, did you move your toy box and your chair?’

  I look down and see my daughter’s big blue eyes looking up, confused and fearful as she shakes her head.

  ‘I thought you’d done it, Mummy,’ she says.

  36

  The backdrop of squealing, laughter, and shouting in the playground merges into one sound, but sitting here in your secret place, you can still hear birdsong.

  Wait . . . wait . . . there she is!

  She walks out slowly. Alone. Her eyes rolling around the playground furtively. Her little hands are in fists and her arms are close to her sides. She is distrusting, expecting the worst from her peers, no doubt.

  Click . . . click . . . click goes your camera.

  A boy and girl run up to her. The girl takes her hand and drags her over to the lowest part of the wall, close to where you are sitting.

  Three other children join the group; two girls and a boy. The child’s shoulders hunch up underneath her ears. ‘What’s your name?’ the tallest boy asks.

  She replies in a voice so soft you can’t hear her, but by his reply, you know she’s told him.

  ‘Sky? That’s stupid. That’s like your name being grass or soil or something.’

  ‘Or mud!’ the girl says in delight. ‘Let’s call her Mud!’

  ‘You’re supposed to call people by their proper name.’ Skye frowns at them in turn. ‘If you don’t, I’ll tell on you.’

&nbs
p; ‘If you tell the teacher, nobody will ever speak to you again.’ One of the other girls presses her face closer and Skye takes a step back.

  ‘We’ll play chase,’ Javeed announces. ‘And I say there’s no stinky thick MUD allowed.’

  The children laugh and organise themselves for the game. Skye is still part of the group but an outsider, standing apart.

  You note the determined set of her jaw, her shoulders square and head held high. She has her mother’s attitude. She won’t be beaten down lightly.

  It will take skill to break them both.

  When the children go inside, you put on your gloves and pick up the journal.

  Little Douglas barely sleeps all week, waking this very morning at 2 a.m. for no apparent reason. He refuses to go back to sleep and clings to me so tightly I can barely move an inch.

  I conclude he has probably had a nightmare but I eventually settle him again by stroking his feather-soft hair and murmuring assurances. Soon, he nuzzles into my side and grips my finger with one chubby hand as if to reassure himself I won’t slip away.

  Today is the fourth and, I very much hope, the final session with Professor Watson.

  He intimated last time that he has almost concluded his work with Dougie.

  Working on the maternity ward yesterday, Rosalie mentioned a welcome bonus that I hadn’t been expecting.

  ‘Professor Watson is going to pay you an amount to cover your expenses in taking part in his study. We don’t pay a fee exactly, but I think you’ll find his contribution quite generous.’

  I did not protest, despite it being the courteous thing to do. With my sister’s illness worsening by the day, I am hardly in a position to turn down the offer.

  Instead, I smiled and thanked Rosalie. Money is always so tight and any extra will be a tremendous help.

  ‘The next session is very important,’ Rosalie continued. ‘Please be prompt and do all you can to keep the baby relaxed prior to your arrival.’