by A J Waines
I stepped out of the bath and wrapped my bathrobe around me tightly, before creeping barefoot into the hall.
The door of the sitting room was wide open and nothing stirred inside. I dashed towards the coffee table and picked up my mobile, then turned to the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, so I stood outside trying to listen. I could hear a tiny fluttering sound followed by louder slaps as if someone was checking through my wardrobe.
My jaw snapped shut. I’d gone into every room when Levi was here, even checked the shower cubicle, but he’d called me just after I’d looked under the bed and I’d been distracted. The wardrobe was the one place I hadn’t checked. Rosie must have darted in there when she heard me approaching.
I gave the bedroom door a gentle shove and waited for it to swing inwards, my ears and eyes on full alert, my muscles crackling with anticipation. A movement made me jump; the curtains flapped against the wall, the sash window standing wide open. I jerked my head to the left; the wardrobe was open too, clothes dropped on the floor – but there was no one there. I checked under the bed again, but the chill in the room told me the window had been open for some time.
Rosie was long gone.
I leaned out of the window and looked down below. At ground level, a wheelie bin was on its side, wrappers and empty tins spilling onto the path. Rosie must have climbed down the drainpipe like a cat burglar, but which Rosie? The sweet, eager one, wanting to take care of me or the resentful one, keen to show me how much I’d hurt her?
My mind kept returning to those few awkward moments in the woods before the gamekeeper found us. What if…?
I ducked back inside and slid the window shut, flicking the flimsy catch at the top. Maybe it was time for a full security upgrade. I turned round, about to flop onto the bed with relief, then I froze. Instinctively, my fingers gripped the collar of my bathrobe pulling it up around my neck.
Rosie had left something.
Lying innocently across my pillow was a single red rose.
Chapter 44
Rosie
I’m meandering aimlessly across the Common near Sam’s flat, not caring that it’s started to rain.
Sam’s keys are no use to me anymore. I hid for a while after she came back to the flat, but she had someone with her. When he started hammering and clattering away, it was obvious she was getting the locks changed. To double-check, I sneaked out of the wardrobe to take a peek and I was right. Oh, well. She must have realised I was coming in. Leaving the rose on her pillow just now would have told her that, anyway. It was only a matter of time. Now I need to think of another way to reach her.
A dog darts out of the bushes and yaps at a boy holding a ball and I think of Rupert, the dog I used to see at Erica’s.
I can remember every detail of what happened when Erica died. I walk on and let the scenes roll, hoping they’ll take my mind off how upset I am about Sam.
Erica’s house in Chelsea was big and stately. I loved going there; it was like walking into House & Home magazine. My feet didn’t make a sound on the carpet and all the furniture was plush and comfortable. She used to take me to a room at the top of the house; a small box room in the eaves. She insisted we had to traipse up there, even though her foot was sore after the operation and she found the stairs difficult. I don’t know why we couldn’t have chatted in the fancy drawing room downstairs instead.
Erica was kind enough, but she was a bit long in the tooth and I don’t think she ever really understood me. I didn’t feel that much of a connection with her. I said I did – to make her like me – but it wasn’t true. She didn’t have the same depth that Sam has. Sam seems able to see right inside me; although I’ve learned that’s not always a positive thing.
The last time I saw Erica, she was cold and off with me. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong and she didn’t tell me. I think she’d decided I was too much trouble in the end and wanted rid of me. Just like everybody else. She had a long list of well-rehearsed excuses, of course – about how it might be good for me to see someone new, about how we hadn’t made much progress recently. I started to boil. It wasn’t fair. Why did people say one thing and mean another? Why did they claim they were interested when they bloody well weren’t?
When the session was finally over – our last session, she’d decided – I didn’t want to say a nice, friendly goodbye. She held the door open for me, ready for our sad little farewell – after eighteen months – but I stormed out without a word and didn’t look back. I bet that gave her a shock.
I did go back, of course. She didn’t know I’d copied her keys and had been popping in for regular visits.
Rupert, the little dog, didn’t seem to mind me turning up. He barked the first couple of times, but after that he knew who I was. He was old and spent most of the time curled up in his basket in the hall, anyway. He used to lift his head at the sound of the key in the lock, sniff the air and go back to sleep again. Her husband was never around during the day and Erica had got into a little routine of going to the library just after our session, every week. I’d watched her, followed her and knew how long she took.
So, shortly after that last time, I let myself back in to the house. Rupert didn’t even look up. I wandered through all the rooms and sat down in every single chair. I sank into the cushions, handled her ornaments. I wanted to belong inside that house – for it never to forget me, even if she did. I smelt the flowers, took away the dead leaves, shifted a few items round here and there to leave my invisible mark.
I found her file of notes about me in the filing cabinet in the study and read through chunks of it. It upset me. Hateful words, critical, tearing my personality to shreds. She’d never liked me; it was all a farce. Nice little earner, taking money and not caring a jot. I thought she was my friend! I felt crushed and devastated; I ripped out sheet after sheet and stuffed them in my bag.
Next, I went into the bedroom. I’d used the shower in the ensuite before, but this time I thought I’d have a lie down instead. I could tell which side of the bed she slept in; her familiar tiger-striped reading glasses and a ladies’ handkerchief were on the bedside table. I rolled back the duvet, took off my boots and got into bed. It was a mistake. I must have been tired. I didn’t hear her come up the stairs, slowly, one at a time in her slippers.
‘Rosie?!’ She stooped over me, sounding cross. ‘How the hell did you get in?’
I sat bolt upright, still half asleep, taking a moment to remember where I was.
‘What are you doing? How dare you?!’ she shouted at me. Can you believe it? She really shouted, like I was a common thug. Her true colours were shining through now, good and proper.
‘Don’t worry, I’m going…’ I said, squashing my feet into my boots.
‘Did you break in?’ she asked sharply.
I held up the keys and dangled them in front of her face. ‘Duh…’ I said.
I was pissed off by then. She was totally overreacting. She knew exactly who I was and how harmless I’d be. We were friends, almost, for goodness’ sake. I wasn’t doing any harm. In fact, I’d been helping her out around the house for weeks, if only she’d put two and two together.
‘I think you need to give me those keys and leave,’ she barked, holding out her hand. ‘This is totally unacceptable.’
‘Totally unacceptable,’ I mimicked, my hands on my hips. I jerked towards her suddenly to see what she’d do and she recoiled, dragging her bandaged foot, nearly losing her balance. She was scared.
I laughed.
‘Silly cow! What do you know about never being properly loved through no fault of your own? How can you know what’s it like to never belong?!’
She didn’t have a clue and I despised her for it.
She started backing away from me, heading towards the phone. ‘This is a matter for the police,’ she huffed, snatching at the handset.
She was about to press numbers on it, so I went straight after her. She was forced to turn round to see her way to the stairs and lower
ed the phone, more concerned, now, about getting away from me.
Her chest was heaving under her lacy blouse and cashmere cardigan. I always hated her clothes; so old-fashioned. She got to the top of the stairs and held on to the newel post with her free hand, then she swung her good leg onto the top step and let it take her weight.
I was right behind her, but she was going so slowly, I decided to squeeze past and get to the front door first. I thought if I left without any further fuss and nothing was damaged or stolen, she wouldn’t report me.
I barely touched her. In fact, it was an accident really, her foot got caught up with mine and my heel jammed against the skirting board for a second, before she let out a whimpering cry and tumbled forward.
By the way she landed near the bottom of the stairs I knew straight away that she was dead. Her limbs were kind of limp and floppy and the light had gone out of her eyes. Rupert down the hall didn’t even stir from his basket.
I thought it would be better if I put the phone back, but she was lying on it, so I lifted her shoulder and rolled her over a fraction to find it. She bumped down another step when I let go of her; it gave me a hell of a fright.
I took the phone back upstairs, wiped my fingerprints off it and put it back on its cradle by the bed. Erica’s eyes were open staring at the wallpaper as I came back down. I didn’t want to touch her again, or take her pulse or anything. I just wanted to get away.
There was no point hanging around after that. Before I left, I opened my bag and slid out the pretty Thank you card I’d always kept tucked away, ready for the right time for me to give it to her.
I was going to leave it on the doormat, but I decided I might as well hand it over in person, so I left it in her hand, making sure I didn’t have any contact with her lifeless fingers. I wasn’t feeling particularly generous at that point, but it seemed only right, under the circumstances. I hadn’t got around to signing it, but it hardly mattered now that she was dead.
On my way out, I called over to her. ‘It’s been a real pleasure, Erica. You taught me to stand up for myself, so I hope you’ll see it’s all been worthwhile.’
So, I suppose she got her proper goodbye after all.
Chapter 45
Sam
I plucked the rose from my pillow, not knowing what to do with it. It was just like the ‘signature’ rosebuds Rosie had dried and pressed on the cards she’d sent to Erica and me – only this rose had thorns. I carried it at arms’ length into the kitchen and dropped it in a plastic bag, my jittery mind telling me I should keep it as evidence.
I went back to the bedroom to see if anything else was out of place, but there was nothing obvious. I got changed, pulled on the nearest clothes from the pile on the floor.
I didn’t know what the ‘gift’ implied. Red roses are a symbol of love, but they’re also traditionally tossed into a grave at a burial. Knowing how abruptly Rosie could swing from one emotional extreme to another, I could imagine her having both interpretations in mind.
Was she about to take things one step further, like she must have done with Erica when she’d ended their sessions?
I stood by the window Rosie had escaped from. So quick. So unpredictable. Would she be waiting for me out there somewhere, ready to nudge me off the platform as a train came in or push me into the path of a bus?
Would she?
I picked up my pillow and tugged off the pillow case in a bid to clear away any lingering trace of her.
Wretched woman! How dare she burst her way into my life like this?! How could I shake her off once and for all?
At that point, my thoughts swung to an image of Rosie’s room in the Lakes and the book that lay open on her bed. Now I thought about it, it wasn’t just the book about soulmates that unnerved me. There was something else.
I pictured the leaflet I’d noticed for a takeaway pizza place – she’d used it as a bookmark. There’d been a scribble on the logo, but not just any scribble, I realised.
It was a specific doodle.
A sketch of a little ladybird, in fact, and I knew exactly where it had come from. It was one of Miranda’s tiny creatures. She was leaving a trail of them behind her wherever she went these days, on napkins, tube tickets, receipts, shopping lists. It meant only one thing. Rosie had been near Miranda. Too near for my liking.
Ah. The penny dropped. The anonymous note about the baby – now I knew who’d sent it.
They knew each other.
How much had Miranda told her? A shiver ran across my shoulders making my teeth chatter. Did Miranda know what Rosie was capable of?
I tried Miranda’s number, but she wasn’t answering. That in itself wasn’t unusual. I braced myself to leave a message, but instead it rang and rang and finally cut off. Now that was unusual. I felt a queasy lurch inside my stomach and called again. This time the phone went straight to an automated message which said: ‘It has not been possible to connect your call…’
What? I rang Con’s number without a second’s hesitation.
‘Where are you? Is Miranda with you? Is she okay?’
‘Whoa… hang on, slow down, Sam.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s painting at her flat – she wants to get a canvas finished and needs to be on her own.’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
A breath of silence. ‘This morning sometime. What’s going on?’
‘She’s not answering her phone. Her voicemail was switched off a minute ago, now I can’t get through at all. That’s really odd, don’t you think?’
There was a huff of annoyance. ‘I think you’re overreacting. Miranda’s been great lately, her new medication has really settled her. She doesn’t want to be disturbed, that’s all.’
‘It’s not her state of mind I’m worried about,’ I said. ‘Has she mentioned someone called Rosie to you?’
‘Rosie? Not that I know of. What’s this about?’
‘Has she mentioned any new friends? Has anyone new been hanging around lately? A woman with red hair – no, a woman who looks a bit like me – actually, a lot like me? Dark straight hair, in a bob?’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell, but she meets lots of people at the Arts Project.’
‘It’s one of my patients, I think she might have taken a shine to Miranda, but she’s not stable, she’s…’ I didn’t know how to end the sentence. ‘We should go round to Miranda’s flat and make sure she’s okay.’
‘Sam, I’ve got a rehearsal in twenty minutes,’ he said wearily. ‘You’ll have to go on your own.’
‘I’m worried, Con. I’m serious. This woman might have…killed someone.’
He laughed. ‘Might have? Did she or didn’t she?’
‘The police don’t know yet. It’s not a laughing matter.’ I hurried into the hall for my coat. ‘I’m going over to Camden myself, then,’ I said and cut him off.
For once I really hoped Miranda would lay into me for disturbing her. At least then I could be sure she was alive and kicking.
There was a light on when I arrived at Miranda’s flat, which was a good sign, but no one was answering the door. On the way over, I’d thought again about my conversation with Con and the way I’d started to describe Rosie. Gradually, over time, she hadn’t just been altering her appearance, she’d been making herself look more and more like me. The busy ginger hair now straight and dark, the weight loss, the contact lenses, the stylish clothes. With someone else, I might have been flattered, but this made me freak me out even more.
My mind raced back to something Mrs Willow had said just after Christmas, as Rosie left my flat after an appointment. ‘Is that your sister?’ were her words, as she watched Rosie drift off down the stairs. I’d laughed it off at the time, putting it down to failing eye-sight, but Mrs Willow had been spot on. ‘She looks just like you,’ she’d said. Now I saw the significance, it was seriously creepy.
I pressed the bell five more times and heard it trilling loudly inside the hollow recesses of t
he hallway. I ducked down and pushed open the letterbox to peer inside. I smelt a pungent mix of linseed and oil paint, but couldn’t hear a sound. I pushed the door hard to see how much it budged. When Miranda was home, she only left the latch in place and the door shifted a fraction at the top and bottom. Under my weight it didn’t move at all, which meant it had been bolted. She only ever did that when she went out.
There was one more test to try. I angled my head over to the left, so I could see the coat rack. Miranda’s winter coat had gone, but what really freaked me out was the pale blue scarf that was hanging in its place. It was mine. The one I’d noticed was missing recently.
Rosie had been here.
I spun round, reeling in panic. Was Rosie with Miranda? Where had they gone? They could be anywhere.
It was a long shot, but I frantically pressed the buzzers for the flats either side to see if anyone else was around. There was no reply from one side, then I heard a sash window slide open above me. A man in a string vest shouted down.
‘Bugger off,’ he called out. ‘I ain’t buying nowt.’
‘I’m not selling anything,’ I shouted, standing back on the edge of the pavement so he could see I was empty-handed. ‘I’m looking for Miranda Willerby from number three. Have you seen her today?’
He clucked as if I’d offended him and I thought he was going to slam the window shut. ‘Artist lady?’ he said unexpectedly.
‘Yes. She’s my sister.’
‘You don’t look nowt like her,’ he said. ‘She’s blonde and cute and—’
I cut across him. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘Yeah, as it happens. She was with someone. They went out.’
‘Man or woman – can you remember?’
‘I dunno. Wore an anorak with the hood up, but they was shorter than her boyfriend, so it wasn’t him. I’ve seen ‘em before. Carrying paintings in and out.’
‘Anything else? From the other times you saw them, maybe?’
