Dark Corners

by Darren O’Sullivan

  ‘I get things are pretty shit for you right now. But they aren’t easy for me either.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘My childminder costs have gone up, and I can’t afford to be here all the time, both for my family, and my pocket.’

  I knew what she was saying without actually saying it. She was telling me I didn’t have responsibly like she did. I didn’t have a two-year-old who needed my time. I didn’t have the mortgage she had. My life was a mess, but it was still less complex than hers. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sorry, Esther.’

  ‘I hate being a nag.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re more than entitled to be pissed off. I’m just grateful you can say it.’

  ‘Me too. See you soon.’

  She hung up and I knew, despite her being kind and understanding, she had had just about enough of my apologies. As I entered the train station, I vowed to make it up to her somehow. Although I wasn’t quite sure how or where I would start. Hanwell station was packed, as expected. And as I fought my way through the small gaps in the crowds, I wished I’d showered as I became conscious of my own smell of sleep and booze and regret. Ducking behind a brick pillar I opened my bag and rifled until I found a small canister of body spray, quickly coating myself in its sweet floral scent. An older person stood close by looked at me disapprovingly, but I didn’t care. I still didn’t smell clean, but at least I didn’t smell of body odour.

  A train pulled in and I jostled with the crowd on board, my shoulders pressed between two men who were much taller than me – one had his armpit perilously close to my face. Still, at least he had had a shower that morning. As the train lurched from the station, I felt my stomach lurch with it and within a minute I could feel a sweat start to break out across my top lip. I tried to remember how much I’d had to drink last night. I remembered coming home from work about seven, eating a Pot Noodle for tea and pouring my first glass of wine. From there, I know I drank more – there were two bottles on the side this morning. I had to wonder: was it OK I had become someone who drank to excess most nights? I almost let myself wonder what Oliver would say about it. Thankfully, the train announced we were pulling into West Ealing, stopping me from hearing his voice. It wasn’t healthy. I wanted to convince myself that I still didn’t know why he left, and that it was a complete shock, but I think deep down I saw it coming. He said we had grown apart; we had become different people. He was right, of course. He was open, honest, he had no shadows, he thought of the future, of the things that came with the future. Things I couldn’t bear thinking about. I guess I had always known it, but I didn’t see it, I didn’t want to. I saw us having our problems, as all couples did, but I thought we would work through our differences. I knew he loved me fiercely. And I loved him the same. I really thought we would go the distance. But love isn’t enough, is it?

  When I found his letter three weeks ago, I assumed, right up until the moment I opened it, it would be a note saying something sweet and funny. My heart crumbled when I read that he wasn’t coming back. The things I thought were little and we could work through were impossible for him.

  The man beside me coughed, making my head thump. He apologised and I smiled, but judging by his reaction, I was fairly sure it looked more like a grimace. Embarrassed, I looked away and opened my bag to grab a packet of ibuprofen. I swallowed three dry, then I pressed my head against the cold glass of the train door and counted my breathing, stopping myself thinking about Oliver, until Ealing Broadway came into view.

  Fighting my way off the train, I allowed myself to be swept up in the crowd heading towards the Underground and onto the Central line to finish my journey. I grab a bottle of water en route from a newsagent to stave off the claggy feeling in the back of my throat, forewarning me I would throw up, unless I was careful. As I paid, I looked through the gap in the sliding door where the cigarettes sat, wanting to be smoked. I almost asked for a pack of Marlboro but stopped myself. I was fucking up today as it was without having a cigarette after so long without one. So, I boarded the Tube with a fault sense of victory. After what felt like a lifetime crammed into the metal carriage, I made it to Shepherd’s Bush, unscathed.

  The Tea Tree, the coffee shop Esther and I set up three years ago, was about half a mile from the station and the walk usually took about ten minutes. However, as I stepped in the front door, the blast from the overhead heater making me feel nauseous once more, I saw it had taken me nearly twenty minutes to cover the short distance.

  There were five people inside, two older couples sitting and talking, and a woman on her own stirring a cup of tea. I didn’t catch a single eye as I made my way out back. As I passed the till, I couldn’t even look at Esther. I knew what face she would have on – her ‘I’m really pissed off but worried’ look she’d perfected ever since our second year at uni. I was feeling too sensitive to deal with it. She would calm down, she always did. Then we would talk and laugh and enjoy our work together. And she would go home to her family, and I would hold the fort until closing time this evening.

  Disappearing into the stockroom-cum-staffroom, I took off my coat, hung my bag on my peg and donned the floral apron that was my only uniform requirement. I hesitated before stepping back into the shop. My head was still pounding but I knew it wouldn’t be long until the ibuprofen kicked in. Until then, I needed to paint on a smile, and pretend I hadn’t drunk and probably cried myself into oblivion the night before. Easy, right? Just another Tuesday. Just another morning.

  Chapter 3

  19th November 2019

  Evening

  With the last customer gone I locked the shop door and closed the blinds, and felt exhausted. My hangover had faded by lunchtime, thankfully, but it had been replaced with an emptiness that had lasted the rest of the day, and with Esther leaving early, the final few hours of serving people, smiling politely and cleaning up the mess created by toddlers had been a slog. I hoped people didn’t think I was being rude. I tried my best to be upbeat, but really, I bet it came across as just beat. And now that the day was done, I wanted nothing more than to step under a hot shower before falling into bed. But I couldn’t go home, not just yet – Esther had left me a list of chores. I should have been a little annoyed she didn’t trust me to undertake the jobs needed for our business. But then again, these past few weeks, I’ve hardly been a paragon of trust. Sometimes it felt like she was actually my boss rather than my business partner. I guess that said more about me than her.

  Grabbing the list, I walked over to the speakers and connected my phone. Opening my music app, I loaded my ‘classics playlist’ and turned up the volume. Then, I set about cleaning the last remaining tables and loading the dishwasher. Tina Turner’s ‘Nutbush City Limits’ came on, a song that always made me feel better. It reminded me of a time long before business and broken hearts. A time before 1998. Before that night. Before Chloe.

  That song, like all the others in my playlist, took me back to being young, perhaps nine or ten. Mum and Dad were still together, still happy, and my memories were of endless summer days, the smell of rain on hot tarmac, of Refresher sweets in paper tubes, of bike rides, noisy clackers in the wheels and beads on the spokes that created an almighty din as we rode. This song reminded me of my friends. All of them.

  With the tables cleaned and the cups and plates in the dishwasher, I disinfected the counters and cashed up the till. Despite how I was feeling, it hadn’t been a bad day. Maybe the best mid-week takings we’ve had in a while. With the takings in hand, I was down to my last job. Double-checking the front door was locked, I went out back to the safe and opened it, removing the cash from Sunday and yesterday. Esther and I probably should bank every day, but it cost to deposit money, so we opted for twice a week instead. And whoever was last on Friday and Tuesday had to prepare for the bank run for the following morning. As I inputted the numbers and double-checked the amount in each denomination, I could feel a fresh headache begin to form behind my eyes. I knew I didn’t hav
e any painkillers left, so instead I grabbed a miniature bottle of Shiraz from the wine shelf and opened it. I told myself a glass of wine whilst doing the books was a normal thing to do, that I was just like everyone else. It wasn’t true, of course – drinking while battling the hangover from the day before wasn’t normal at all. But I pretended and doing assuaged some of the guilt.

  I sat at the table nearest the till and took off my glasses. I pinched the bridge of my nose, relieving a little of the pressure, and I let myself enjoy a few sips of the wine. Over the music, which had moved on from Tina Turner to an early Kylie Minogue, I could hear rain hitting the glass of the shop front. I used to love the sound of rain once, but not now. Outside in the street, the shapeless silhouette of a person came into view. They stopped outside the window. I couldn’t see their features through the blinds, and I couldn’t work out if they were looking directly towards me, or directly into the rainstorm. Regardless, I held my breath for a moment longer than I should have. My mind took me back to somewhere I didn’t want to visit. Just to be safe, I reached over and put the bag of cash behind the bin. When I looked up, whoever was there had gone. And then I thought, what if it was Oliver? What if he had come back to see me, to offer an explanation as to why he took off without offering so much as an apology for his inability to do it face to face?

  Jumping up, I knocked my wine over and dashed to the door. I unlocked it and stepped outside. The rain was falling so hard it hurt the top of my head. I looked left and right, but I couldn’t see anyone. As I locked the door again, a shiver ran up my spine. I reasoned it was the cold rain, and nothing else, but still, I turned the music down before cleaning up the mess I made, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up on end.

  When I’d finished preparing the morning bank run, I returned all of the money to the safe, grabbed my coat and locked the shop before walking as quickly as I could to the Underground. Despite it only being just after seven, it felt later, the darkness complete and all-consuming. The footpaths were littered with fallen leaves that only this morning looked beautiful; now they glistened like slugs under the streetlamps and were slippery underfoot. I walked fast, my head down, trying to see behind me until I reached the newsagent where I’d bought the water earlier today. I picked up a bottle of wine, paid, and feeling a little less uneasy I headed down the stairs into the warmer, stale air of the Underground.

  Chapter 4

  20th November 2019

  Morning

  I roll onto my side and try to open my eyes. I manage to open one, just a sliver and it closes again. My bedroom light is on, it’s too bright, it hurts too much. And the drill is there. Hammering away.

  Shit, Neve. You did it again, didn’t you?

  I fall out of bed, landing on my elbow, right on the knobbly bit that should have jolted pain into my hand, but instead it jolts the other way, a mainline straight into the space behind my eyes. The hammering becomes an intense throb. It hurts my head so much I think my eyes will burst. I gingerly get to my feet. I’m really hungover, more so than most days. I stagger into the kitchen, the bottle I bought on the way home is lying on its side, a small pool of red where the dregs had dripped. And there is a bottle of vodka beside it. Oliver’s vodka. I must have raised a glass to him last night. The bottle is empty. I cannot remember how much was in there when I got home after being spooked at work.

  I go back into my bedroom to grab my phone. No missed calls, no texts, no fiancé saying he is sorry for leaving without taking anything with him. But the consolation is, it’s just before seven and I’m not late for work. I shower, wash my hair, dress. It helps. I feel less like I want to pass out. I try to find my glasses; I must have left them at work. I still have an hour before the café opens. But I want to show Esther I meant what I said, about trying harder. I can get the till ready. Warm the place up. I may even dig the Christmas decorations out of the box in the back of the storeroom and start giving The Tea Tree a more festive feel.

  Despite the headache I’m feeling good about today and, grabbing a breakfast bar, I leave, locking my door behind me. It’s raining. Not like last night’s downpour, but the kind that feels like TV static on your skin. Stopping at the nearest shop I buy as many painkillers as I can without raising an eyebrow of suspicion, pop two and head into the station. Thankfully, the train is far less crowded than yesterday, and I find myself at Ealing Broadway in what seems much less time than usual. I even had a seat for the entire journey, a real treat.

  The rain stopped as I left Shepherd’s Bush station, and with my painkillers starting to kick in, I took my headphones out of my coat pocket and plugged into my playlist. As I turned onto Richmond Way, I could see our café in the distance. And even without my glasses, I knew something was terribly wrong. It was in the way people were slowing down as they passed the shop. The way they had to walk around something on the floor. I hoped I was mistaken, but as I drew closer, I could see rainwater shimmering on broken glass. A few more steps and I could see where the glass should have been. Our shop’s front door had been smashed in. I could see the tables and chairs scattered on the floor within. We had been robbed. I must have let out a gasp or a cry or something because people looked at me, their quizzical expressions changing as they realised it was my shop. I fumbled in my bag for my phone. It wasn’t there. I must have left it at home. Shit, Neve. Of all the days.

  A woman approached, she asked if I was all right. I wanted to say no, of course I’m not bloody all right. But the words didn’t come.

  ‘Has, umm, could somebody ring the police, please?’ I asked, unable to look away from the mess inside the shop.

  ‘I have already. They’ll be here soon.’

  I nodded towards her and started for the door, taking my keys out of my pocket as I approached.

  ‘Perhaps it’s best if you stay outside? Until the police arrive?’ the woman said. I didn’t look back, just put my key in the lock, trying to jiggle it open. It was stiff as it usually was, but eventually it gave, and I opened the door. I don’t know why I bothered. There was no glass in the frame. I could have stepped in without needing to unlock it. Just like the person who robbed us did.

  The sound of glass crunching under my weight seemed to echo off the walls and squinting, I scanned the room. Tables had been overturned. Chairs knocked over. But, as far as I could see, nothing was missing. The glass was still intact on the serving counter but some of the cakes from the display cases were gone. With my heart pounding so hard I could feel it behind my eyes, I leant over the counter. I expected to see the till missing or smashed open but it too was untouched. My glasses sat on the top, where I left them last night. Putting them on, I looked around the café once more. It was a mess, but I couldn’t see anything, besides a few cakes, missing. It confused me. Why would someone break in for a piece of cake?

  It didn’t take long before I could hear sirens approaching, followed by blue lights from the police car bouncing off the walls. Two officers stepped in, looked over the place, took my details, Esther’s details, and told me forensics would be out soon to dust for prints. They didn’t seem bothered by it all, but, I guess, awful as it was, little had actually been taken. They speculated it was probably a bunch of kids, but I was told not to tidy yet, not until the forensics had finished. All I could do was sit and wait for Esther to turn up so we could call a window company, our insurance, post on our Facebook page that we were shut – as well as everything else I knew we had to do but couldn’t yet process. I sat and waited for what felt an eternity for her to arrive, as I couldn’t call her. I didn’t know her number, it was stored in my phone as it had been for the past nearly two decades. Of all the days to forget your phone. I made a mental note to learn it. I bet she knew mine.

  Esther arrived twenty minutes after the police left. She looked as shocked as I must have done.

  ‘Neve? What the fuck?’

  ‘Someone broke in last night.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Yeah, shit.’

 
; ‘Have you called the police?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ I snapped. ‘Sorry. They’ve been and gone.’

  ‘Shit,’ she repeated as she stepped over a patch of broken glass and sat on a stool beside me. I wanted to hug her but didn’t.

  ‘I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t call the police!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Cheers, Esther.’

  ‘Sorry, I just… is there anything missing?’

  ‘A few cakes.’

  ‘Cakes?’

  ‘Yeah, a few chocolate muffins, some other bits.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  Esther stood and walked towards the display and looked in behind the glass. Then, leaning over, she looked at the till.

  ‘They didn’t even touch it,’ I said.

  ‘That’s weird. Lucky, but weird,’ she replied as she sat beside me once more. We both stared at the chaos of the shop, passive, like we were at the cinema. ‘They just took cakes?’ she asked again.

  ‘Little shits with the munchies, no doubt.’

  ‘Really? Are kids that bad?’

  ‘Worse,’ I said quietly, remembering how when I was a kid, it wasn’t cakes but booze from the local off-licence. ‘I’ve been told not to tidy until they come to dust for prints. Otherwise I would have started.’

  She nodded and looked to the bin which had been knocked over, the contents scattered on the floor. If we’d not been robbed, she would have no doubt said something about me not emptying them, especially as it was on the list. I almost offered an apology but saw she had narrowed her gaze on something and, following her eye line, I saw her look at the empty bottle of wine.

  ‘I only had one, while cashing up, and I paid for it.’

  ‘Neve, you were so hungover yesterday…’

  ‘It was only one. Just to take the edge off.’

  ‘That sounds like something a person with a drinking problem might say.’