by K. L. Slater
Mark seemed to understand.
I read somewhere that moving house was in the top ten most stressful life events.
Maybe that’s it; I’m just feeling the stress. Placing more importance and relevance on various things than I would’ve done back in my old house.
I don’t know whether that’s the truth of it, but I guess I’m willing to keep an open mind. Everything here is new and strange and I so want it to work out, maybe I’m just on high alert watching for anything that could potentially cause a problem.
‘Oh!’ I jump up, spilling the last drops of my wine when a loud buzzing noise sounds close to me. I look around wildly at the windows but can’t spot any more flies.
There it is again . . . a definite buzzing noise!
I look down and see Brenna’s phone moving slightly, half-covered by a cushion.
I dash to pick it up in case it’s Viv, but when I look at the screen, I see it isn’t Viv at all.
The name on the screen reads: Audrey Marsden.
Fifteen minutes later, Brenna is back from her bedtime story. ‘Your phone rang,’ I say.
My throat is so tight I’m surprised the words manage to get out at all.
‘I meant to turn the damn thing off.’ She picks it up and taps the screen, viewing the details of her missed call. Her face doesn’t change, doesn’t even miss a beat. ‘It’s nothing that can’t wait,’ she says simply. ‘Now, where were we?’
But I don’t want to talk to Brenna about my problems now. I want to talk about why Audrey Marsden has her number.
‘I saw who it was, Bren,’ I say, hearing a little tremor in my voice. ‘It was Audrey Marsden calling.’
Her face and body freeze. Her expression and posture stay the same for a couple of seconds until she deflates.
‘It’s nothing, honestly . . . not what you think, anyway.’
‘What should I think?’ I bite down on my tongue. ‘You know Audrey?’
‘I know her now,’ Brenna says easily, but her face is turning a telling shade of scarlet. ‘I didn’t know her before you moved in here.’
‘I’m sorry, Bren, but something isn’t quite adding up. You’ve made no secret of the fact you can’t stand Audrey, so why the hell is she calling you?’
Brenna sighs. ‘It’s only the second time she’s rung. The first time it was to ask me to keep an eye on you because you seemed very stressed. I don’t know why she’s called this time.’
If she’s telling the truth, Audrey might be ringing regarding our conversation about the previous tenants.
‘But why wouldn’t you tell me she called you?’
Brenna’s hands wave in front of her. ‘She asked me not to, and I didn’t see the harm in keeping it to myself, really, with you being stressed out and all. She seemed genuinely concerned and said they wanted you to feel safe and happy here.’
Something twists inside me. I’m not a ten-year-old child who needs an adult to supervise me. Both Audrey and Brenna obviously think me incapable of withstanding difficulties without their assistance.
‘I’m really tired,’ I say quietly, and Brenna stands up a bit too willingly.
‘Hey, no worries, I’ll get going. I know how much you’ve got on right now.’ Courtesy of Audrey Marsden, I think, a little spitefully.
She slips her phone into her jeans. Then she picks up our empty wine glasses and takes them into the kitchen. I follow her.
‘I’ll speak to Viv and sort out a date for you and Skye to come over. We’re well overdue for one of her Hungarian goulash feeds.’
She wants to pretend this never happened but I still feel peeved, so I don’t say anything.
In the hallway, I pop my head around Skye’s door. She’s supposed to be asleep now but she’s sitting up in bed with her lamp on, looking at a picture book.
‘Just seeing Aunt Brenna out. Be back in two minutes.’
She nods, pointing at the words on the page and whispering them to herself.
‘Quiet here, isn’t it?’ Brenna says as we pad downstairs. I’ve been careful to lock the apartment door behind me even though I’ll be no time at all. ‘I’ve never been in a converted house where you can’t hear a squeak from the other residents. Usually, there’s a lot more noise than in soundproofed purpose-built apartment buildings.’
I can’t even recall what I say. I think I just make an agreeable sound. I can’t stop thinking about why Audrey Marsden has taken to calling Brenna if they barely know each other. Her explanation doesn’t really stack up.
As we descend the last flight of stairs, an old familiar weight settles on my chest. The realisation dawns that people are talking behind my back, sidelining me. People I thought I could trust and had a solid rapport with.
I honestly felt like I had a deeper understanding of Audrey after our lunch together.
She’d tried to make me feel as though I was a part of the Adder House family by getting involved in Skye’s school arrangements as she had. Even though she obviously has her own secrets to hide.
But now . . . now all my old imposter insecurities are flooding back. Just as we get to the front door, something occurs to me.
‘When did you give Audrey your phone number?’ I keep my voice down, mindful of the echoing entrance hall.
Brenna frowns. ‘I didn’t. It never occurred to me to wonder how she got it. It’s not online, I know that.’
Brenna has online profiles pertaining to her research work, but I’ve looked before and only her work email and the university’s general landline number with her extension appear there.
But there’s an old-fashioned contacts book on our hall table that I’ve had since being a child. It has A-Z indexed pages and the cover is frayed and loose, but I’m very fond of it.
I write everyone’s address and phone number in there just in case my phone dies and I need to make a call.
It’s the only possible place that Audrey could have obtained Brenna’s number.
When Brenna has left, I go upstairs, kiss a sleepy Skye goodnight, and then go back into the kitchen. I pour another glass of wine for myself and sit at the breakfast bar with my laptop to google search ‘Sophie Taylor’.
The search page informs me that Google has found 114 million results. I scan through the first five pages but find nothing that looks remotely relevant.
I try searching other word combinations:
‘Sophie Taylor, Melissa Taylor Adder House’.
‘Sophie Taylor death’.
I try one awful combination after another, but there’s nothing conclusive.
I know that everyone has the right to be ‘forgotten’ online these days, that it’s possible to remove historical information.
What if someone had wanted references to the death of Sophie Taylor to disappear?
It’s so utterly frustrating, like searching for a needle in a haystack. And then I have a brainwave.
39
The next morning, I don’t have to wake Skye. She comes into my bedroom as I’m pulling up the blind.
‘Mummy, why have you moved my toys around?’
I turn to look at her. ‘I haven’t, poppet. Show me.’
I follow her into her room, a creeping unease stirring in my abdomen. She points to the floor.
‘My Sylvanian Family house was over there last night.’ She points in front of the wardrobe. ‘But when I woke up, it was over here and the mummy rabbit is completely missing.’ She scowls up at me. ‘I’ve looked but I can’t find her anywhere.’
I sit on the edge of the bed, my heart racing. Nothing makes sense.
‘The voice in my dream told me you have it,’ Skye adds and I breathe a sigh of relief.
She’s just dreaming they moved!
‘Mummy rabbit will turn up, sweetie, don’t worry. You probably moved the house when you were tired and just forgot.’
‘I DIDN’T!’ She stamps her foot.
‘Hey, madam! Remember Lily lives underneath us and it’s still early.’
&nb
sp; Skye follows me into the kitchen, her face surly. She looks tired, as if she hasn’t slept that well.
I’m reaching for the breakfast dishes when I hear her gasp. ‘Mummy, my painting!’
I look at the wall next to the fridge and see the last painting she did at Grove Primary is still there but it’s been torn right up the middle.
‘Oh!’ The unsettled feeling is back and Skye looks alarmed. ‘Maybe I caught it as I walked by and didn’t notice. Sorry, poppet.’
She’s not impressed and stalks out of the room.
Was it torn last night when Bren came over? I can’t remember looking at it, even when I got the wine out of the fridge.
I lean on the worktop for a moment, staring at the painting. It’s not in a position where I could damage it without noticing and I know Brenna would have said right away if she’d done it by mistake.
Besides, it looks cleanly torn. As if someone has done it on purpose.
When I take Skye to school, she’s quieter than usual. I hate the thought that she’s unsettled because of unexplained things at the apartment.
I think we’re both nervous. If someone had managed to break in without leaving a trace of entry and not waking either of us, I think they’d be after more than pocketing a toy rabbit and tearing up a child’s artwork.
I feel better for this thought. Put things into perspective, that’s what I need to do.
‘Mummy, what shall I do if Javeed is mean to me today?’ Skye asks quietly.
‘Why would Javeed be mean?’
‘Because of the owl.’
I’d completely forgotten about the owl trouble Miss Perkins mentioned yesterday. A bit of damage to a papier-mâché bird isn’t exactly the crime of the century, and anyway, I think if Skye had accidentally damaged it, she would have owned up to that.
I really ought to have talked this all through with Skye last night, but time ran away with me in the end.
‘Don’t worry about the owl, sweetie. Miss Perkins knows you didn’t do anything wrong, and she said it would all be forgotten about by today, remember?’
Skye doesn’t look convinced. ‘Javeed has lots of friends.’
‘Well, so will you have soon. Now, how about I make a macaroni cheese for tea and we watch a Disney classic together . . . The Little Mermaid ? How’s that sound?’
She nods in agreement but still looks distracted. I feel a twinge of guilt because I can’t seem to focus on our conversation like I usually would. It occurs to me that I seem to be fending off all her concerns lately and distracting her with something else.
This morning I can’t stop thinking about what it is I’ve decided I’m going to do after I drop Skye off at school.
The high street is busy with pedestrians, mostly commuters judging by the purposeful way they’re walking, some talking into their phones or clutching take-out coffee as they stride towards the Underground station.
In the sea of people, I spot a familiar face. The hair, the set of the mouth, the cold eyes . . . Janine! I knew it. I knew she hadn’t just disappeared from our lives, she’s been watching us, following us.
I position myself in her path as she strides towards me. She seems distracted and then her eyes widen, her step falters and she puts on an Oscar-worthy performance, pretending she’s shocked.
She tries to veer around me but I grab her arm and pull her to the side of the moving crowd. I feel sweat rolling down the middle of my back.
‘Get off me!’ She struggles to break free of my hold.
‘I know what you’ve been doing.’ My voice sounds strangely calm, menacing, even. Inside, I’m a shaking mess. ‘Following us, sending messages to the school. I know it’s you.’
She takes a step back, actually looks unnerved. ‘What are you talking about?’
I smile. ‘I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Why else would you be here? If it continues I’m going to the police. I—’
‘I’m here to meet a friend, although it’s got nothing to do with you.’ She looks over my shoulder and waves. ‘I could ask what you’re doing here, too. I hoped never to set eyes on you again.’
A woman appears from behind me. ‘Janine, is everything alright?’
The friend she is meeting.
‘So you haven’t been following me, or—’
‘You need to see a doctor,’ Janine snaps scathingly as her friend’s mouth falls open. ‘You have seriously lost it, you sad cow.’
And then they’re gone. Shaking their heads together, laughing, as they disappear into the throng of people.
I’m shaken. I press up against the shop window behind me and breathe deeply for a few moments.
The noise level is high, people talking to each other, chatting on phones. Horns beeping, engines revving . . . I need to get away from this.
I start walking again, feeling even worse since Janine has gone. If she’s not responsible for some of the strange things that have been happening . . . then who is?
Once I get clear of the Underground station, the people thin out a little. My heart rate has slowed a little and I don’t feel as overheated.
About halfway down the high street, I spot a sign with an arrow indicating a shop down a little snicket off the main street.
I open my bag to fish out the letter I put in there yesterday, so I can check this is the right place, and my hand flies up to my mouth. The little mother rabbit Skye was looking for earlier is in here, tucked behind my purse.
I stand still for a moment. I haven’t touched her little figurines since we moved in, except to tidy them now and again. And yet here it is. If Skye didn’t put it here then I must have!
I’m either losing my mind, or I’m so distracted with everything going on that I slipped it into my bag by mistake without it registering. That must be it. I’ve got to sort myself out; it could’ve been something really important I misplaced.
I push the toy rabbit further down in my bag and take out the letter to double-check.
Crystal Clear Opticians. This is definitely the right one.
I walk down the dim little alleyway, which opens out into a sort of quaint cobbled yard, and there the shop is, in front of me.
I’m relieved to see it looks like a small family-run business, rather than one of the big chains. Hopefully, it will be missing some of the hefty policy documents that force staff to follow a strict data-protection procedure when it comes to giving out information.
‘Morning!’ A lady in her sixties with grey, wiry hair and zany cerise-pink glasses smiles at me as I walk in the shop, activating an old-fashioned bell above the door. ‘I’m afraid Mr Frazer, the optician, is running a little late and isn’t in yet. Are you here for an appointment?’
This is looking more promising by the second.
‘No, I wanted to make an appointment actually, for my sister. She’s not able to get in herself.’
‘Ahh, well we can do that no problem at all.’ She walks over to a desk and sits down, pressing a couple of buttons and peering at a monitor. ‘Has she been here before?’
‘She has.’ I smile, ignoring the thumping in my chest. ‘And she was quite insistent I had to make the appointment here, as Mr Frazer did such a good job a year ago.’
I’m pushing my luck here making some assumptions, but it’s my only chance to get her onside.
‘Well, that’s nice to know. What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Her name is Sophie Taylor,’ I say, pleased she isn’t looking at me.
‘Here we are, I have her right here. 6 Adder House.’ She frowns. ‘I see we’ve just issued her an appointment reminder. How is she getting on with her glasses?’
‘I think she might need them adjusted. I’ve been telling her to come back in for a while.’
‘Tell me about it!’ She takes off her spectacles and pinches the top of her nose. ‘I have three adult children and all of them wear glasses. And can I persuade them to come in to see Mr Frazer without a fight? I cannot!’
We
share a smile, but I’m willing her to get a move on before I trip myself up somehow.
‘I’ll just get Mr Frazer’s diary up.’
I make an appointment for a week from now and then I take a breath. Here goes. ‘Could I ask a big favour? Could you possibly print off my sister’s details, so she can check them over?’
She looks blankly at me.
‘It’s just that she’s already moved from Adder House, she got your letter via the mail redirection service. She’s recently changed her phone number, too, and she wants to write her new details down for me to pop back to you.’ The woman’s eyes narrow. She’s not falling for it. ‘It’s fine if not, I just thought it would save time when she comes in next—’
‘Good idea!’ she says as the printer starts whirring. ‘We’re not supposed to give out customer details, of course, but I can see you’re only trying to help, which makes a change from some of the awkward so-and-so’s we have to deal with around here.’
She hands me the sheet and I take it, willing my hand not to shake for just a few more seconds. Outside, I rush back on to the high street and quickly read the details . . . there’s a next of kin on there with an email address and phone number. Also a date of birth and previous address.
I feel dizzy and elated.
At last it looks like I might have a chance to find out who Sophie Taylor is.
40
Back at the apartment, I sit and comb through the personal details on the optician’s form.
Aside from Sophie Taylor’s own details, it’s the next of kin I’m really interested in.
She’s named as Linda Gent, relationship: sister.
Before I can get cold feet I rattle off a short email.
Dear Linda,
I’m so sorry to send this unsolicited email but I am an old friend of your sister’s, Sophie.
Would it be possible to meet for a coffee or have a chat? I’m sorry to intrude but it’s really important to me that we speak.
Best wishes, Freya Miller
There’s only a little fib in there, that I’m an old friend of Sophie’s. If she agrees to meet me or chat on the phone, I’ll come clean right away and hope she’ll understand why I’ve had to stretch the truth to find a way forward.
