Swimming in the Shadows

by Diane Janes

  His presence was strong inside the house. Just being surrounded by his things brought him closer. I lingered, drinking in the sensation, casting around for excuses to prolong my stay. I crossed the room and straightened the curtains, glancing out of the window as I did so. The sky was losing its pinks now, shot across with the purplish greys that preceded dusk. The notion came into my mind that I was taking a last look round because I would never come here again. I had to fist tears out of my eyes and pull myself together.

  Rob had left a sweater lying across the back of a chair by the door. I picked it up and put it to my face, feeling the thick, soft wool against my skin, inhaling the scent of him, his unique desirable sweetness, as fresh and strong as if he had only taken it off a moment before, but when something small fell from it I jumped back, thinking of spiders. The thing at my feet was not a spider, but a curl of paper – a refugee from some torn writing which had avoided destruction by clinging to a sleeve. It was only possible to make out one word: Strangle. It looked as if there had been another letter joined on to the e. Strangles, Strangled, Stranglers – that would be it. A list of tracks – wasn’t Rob always humming No More Heroes? I tossed the little bit of paper at the fireplace, but it missed and fluttered back on to the rug as if determined to survive. I retrieved it and this time stood near enough to the fireplace to drop it directly inside the grate. It was only as I straightened up that I spotted an earring lying on the mantelshelf. It was one I had mislaid weeks before, which Rob had evidently found but forgotten to give back. I retrieved it and put it into my pocket.

  Then I noticed something else on the shelf. Rob was far from the tidiest of mortals, so there were in fact a number of items which did not strictly belong there – a spare set of car keys, a two-pence piece, a rather grubby, much folded piece of lined paper, and underneath the paper a beer mat. He had obviously emptied his pockets on the way into or out of the house. It was not one of these items which had arrested my attention, however. The beer mat lay at a careless angle, part on, part off the shelf, not quite level thanks to there being another small object underneath it. A loop of silver chain hung over the edge of the shelf, offering a clue to the nature of the hidden article.

  I picked up and unfolded the paper first, immediately recognizing the running order of a home-made car tape – a list of tracks which began with Talking Heads – Psycho Killer and culminated in a torn corner alongside: rs – No More Heroes. I smiled – Rob having a back-to-the-seventies moment. I refolded the list and returned it to the shelf. The beer mat I recognized as the one Rob had used to take down the phone number of a lad in the pub who was willing to loan him a strimmer for use in his garden. Though I barely touched the beer mat, the movement disturbed the chain underneath so that it slid to the floor in a single sinuous movement and lay on the rug at my feet. I could see that it was a cheap necklace of the kind currently favoured by the early teens; one of those chains with a single initial suspended from it – a letter J.

  I stared at the necklace for a long moment. For some reason I found myself reluctant to pick it up, but of course I had to – it must be picked up and put back exactly as it had been before I disturbed it. I attempted to drape the necklace over the edge of the shelf, in faithful imitation of the way it had been originally, but the chain seemed to have a life of its own, plunging treacherously to the floor like an escaping snake every time I tried to balance the beer mat on top of it. After three attempts, I pulled myself up short. What the hell was the matter with me? Did I think I had to fool Rob into believing that I had not seen the necklace? If Rob had been bothered about me seeing the thing, would he have casually left it lying about in his living room? There were at least two perfectly innocent explanations for the necklace coming into his possession. He was a teacher, for goodness’ sake. On the one hand, he might have confiscated it from someone – there were strict rules about wearing jewellery in school. On the other, it might have been handed to him as lost property. In either case, he had probably put it in his pocket and forgotten all about it, along with the beer mat. No doubt he had intended to take it straight back into school – just as he had planned to return my earring. He taught dozens of girls whose names began with J – Joannes, Jodies, Jessicas – it probably ran into three figures.

  The crash as something hit the window made me jump and cry out. I turned instinctively to see what had made the noise, discarding the troublesome necklace on the table alongside my note before approaching the window to investigate. There was a ghostly avian imprint in the centre of one pane. Probably a sparrow hawk misjudging his direction in pursuit of small prey. I peered out anxiously but there was no sign of a stunned bird lying on the ground outside.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ I told myself. ‘All this stuff with Alan is making you crazy, so that you’re spooked by anything.’

  I drove back to Heb’s Cottage, had some supper and went to bed early, setting my alarm for six. By quarter to seven the next morning I was on my way, showered and breakfasted, with the road atlas on the passenger seat beside me and an overnight bag in the boot. For some reason I felt absurdly excited, like a child setting off on holiday, the cloudless blue sky no doubt adding to the illusion. The radio had not worked since an unfortunate accident to the aerial at a car wash in Richmond, so I put on an Abba tape and joined in with the vocals, filling the car with a loud, cheerful noise. The journey engendered an illusion of leaving all my problems behind. Alone in the car I could be in the moment – no need to pretend anything to anyone, be on the lookout for booby traps, or try to make decisions about the best thing to do.

  There was relatively little traffic in the dale, but once I reached the A1 I stopped singing and had to concentrate. Heavy lorries charged south with scant respect for my little Fiesta, and it was not until I reached the junction with the M18 that things calmed down enough to leave me space for thoughts unconnected with the perils posed by my fellow motorists. It had all been very different in those far off days when Dad took the car out for ‘a spin’. Rural roads had been virtually deserted then. His car had been his pride and joy: all polished and gleaming. Just like him in a way – always well turned out so that people noticed and admired the exterior and never wondered what exactly lay inside.

  How faithfully I had imitated him, I thought, hiding behind an assumed identity – an act entirely alien to most people, but one which almost made kindred spirits of my father and me. He too had invented so much of himself – the man who espoused music he did not listen to and books he did not read. Had he really played cricket for his regiment and had ‘a good war’? How were we to know? Then there was his marriage, that greatest lie of all: a pantomime played out before an audience who never suspected the existence of the packet he treasured for thirty years containing letters from the real love of his life, the mysterious Jean, who had gone away to teach in South Africa so many years ago.

  A man who had kept everyone at a distance. Too late now to question whether my father’s coldness and indifference had been no more than my just deserts. Had I not shunned him all through my teenage years, watching him with cold, suspicious eyes? And all for nothing. My father had never harmed any of those girls. I was as sure of that now as I had once been convinced of his guilt, for the night Antonia Bridgeman died my father was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from the first bout of surgery on his heart. In the years that followed several more girls had supposedly fallen victim to the mysterious Nicholsfield killer, and by that time my father was already dead. It was too late to turn the clock back, too late to make amends. Only a series of chance coincidences had forged a chain of suspicion in my mind. I could only pray that he had never guessed the direction my thoughts had taken. When I remembered my father now, he no longer appeared to be a figure of fear but rather a lonely, disappointed man, sitting at a roll-top desk, occasionally re-reading the letters from the one woman who had truly loved him. Perhaps it was this vision of my father which had persuaded me to drive south in the hope of saving another man fr
om drowning in a well of false conclusions and misunderstandings. It was almost like making amends.

  I had been driving for over two hours by the time I reached Newark, where I drew in at a service station for a coffee, but although the sun was still shining and the driving easy, the holiday feeling had gone, its place taken by a creeping list of uncertainties. Even the phrase ‘Last Port of Call’ had taken on a vaguely sinister aspect. There was an air of finality about it, suggestive of a doomed ocean liner equipped with a Grim Reaper at the gang plank, beckoning passengers aboard.

  And then there was my growing dread of coming face-to-face with Alan. It was not going to be easy after a gap of more than six years. I reminded myself that I was strong and independent now – a very different, grown-up kind of person who was not obliged to fall in with his every suggestion. I had nothing to fear from him. Not, I hastened to assure myself, that I had ever been afraid of him in the past – not really afraid of him – just completely dominated, steamrollered, carried along by his certainties, unable to resist the tide.

  Well, it was different now. I was different.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I was feeling tired and travel-worn by the time I finally saw the sign which announced that I had crossed the county boundary and entered Norfolk. I pulled in at the next lay-by and consulted the map, noting that it was still about thirty miles to Neatishead, and not all of the route lay along dual carriageway. It was also a long time since breakfast and I decided that a revision of plans was called for. In the first place, I would find somewhere to stop for lunch and in the second, in spite of my previous reservations on the subject, I would find somewhere to stay the night. I would initiate contact with Alan and then, irrespective of whatever ideas he might have on the subject, I would enjoy a decent meal and a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed in preparation for what promised to be a difficult day ahead. One more night wouldn’t make any difference and there was sure to be a place with vacancies on the road between Norwich and Wroxham: not only would it be sensible to have somewhere lined up, I could also take the opportunity to wash and change.

  My first priority was easily accomplished. I had an indifferent sandwich at a roadside pub, followed by coffee but no pudding. Tonight, I thought, when I’ve met Alan and we’ve agreed on the best way forward, I’m going to have a really good meal somewhere with pudding afterwards.

  The Norwich Ring Road was busier than I had anticipated and my order in the pub had been slow to arrive, so it was getting on for two o’clock by the time I took the turn for Wroxham. I spotted the sign soon afterwards: The Sunset Motel – 2 miles on the left. I left the main road, taking first one turn and then another down the side roads indicated by further brightly painted boards until I found myself driving along a narrow lane between high hedgerows. It already seemed a good deal further than two miles from the main road and an inauspicious location for a motel. I had just begun to conjure up mental images of the shower scene from Psycho when the hedges gave way to a huge open forecourt, surrounded on three sides by neat rows of white wooden chalets, each with primrose painted gables which joined to form a bright yellow chevron against the sky. The doors and window frames were all picked out in this same yellow, as was the sign on the single-storey office building at one end, where the word ‘Reception’ was set in blue letters against a setting sun, orange on the yellow background. The place looked surprisingly prosperous and other parked cars indicated that I was not the only guest.

  Reception was deserted, but a single press on the bell summoned a short, plump woman, slightly older than myself, who said that yes, of course I could have a cabin for the night and would I please fill out a registration card.

  ‘You’re quite a long way off the main road for a motel,’ I said as I printed my name and home address on the card.

  ‘People said we were mad when we first started out,’ said the woman. I could tell at once that it was something she often said, perhaps two or three times a day, in fact. ‘But a lot of people like the quiet and once folks get to know you’re here you get repeat visitors and recommendations. We’ve got a lot of regulars. Now then,’ her tone became more businesslike, ‘we can do a breakfast tray to your room if you want it. Cereals, juice, long-life milk, fresh bread roll, butter, jam and a piece of fruit. You’ve got the tea and coffee-making facilities in the cabin already, of course. Or, if you prefer, there’s a very good café just back on the main road where they do a cooked breakfast that I’d be happy to recommend to anyone.’

  I declined the in-house breakfast, paid in advance with my Barclaycard and was allocated the key to cabin number four. I moved my car across from Reception and unlocked the cabin door on to a pleasant room fulfilling all the usual expectations: en-suite bathroom with a good supply of towels, floral-patterned duvet on the bed, hanging space, a television and a bedside telephone, beside which a card bore the legend:

  Dial 0 for Reception

  Dial 9 for an outside line

  National calls will be charged at normal rates

  This telephone will not connect international calls

  I unloaded my bag from the car, had a swift wash and exchanged my lightweight sweater for a warmer hooded top, vaguely registering that the large white logo proclaiming me a member of some fictitious sporting club was just the sort of thing Alan had always loathed. Well, tough luck – I had total control over my wardrobe these days, and a sale bargain was a sale bargain.

  In spite of my efforts, I felt sweaty again as soon as I was dressed. The reality of an encounter with Alan could not be avoided for much longer. I tried to reassure myself that in such singular circumstances as these, anyone might feel nervous. There was something else, of course. Something at the back of my mind which I didn’t really want to acknowledge – a rather startling truth. The thought of seeing Alan unexpectedly invoked a strong feeling of revulsion.

  Suppose Alan was difficult. Suppose … It occurred to me then that with somewhere other than the car to leave my things, I had slightly improved my chances of keeping my new identity a secret. Alan did not need to know anything about Susan McCarthy – not at least until I had sounded him out and established exactly how the land lay. Police questions would have to be answered, of course, but we would probably be interviewed separately, and if I asked them not to reveal my name and address to Alan they would probably have to respect my wishes.

  I took some notes and coins out of my purse and stuffed them well down into my jeans pocket. That way there was no need to take a handbag or a purse full of clues like credit cards, from which Alan might accidentally glimpse too much information. Just cash, car keys and the motel key would suffice for now.

  I took a swift parting glance around the room. Time was ebbing away. Alan was waiting for me and I ought to make contact without wasting any more time, but then the telephone caught my eye. Rob was coming home today. They were supposed to be leaving the field centre around midday, which meant that he might conceivably be back at the cottage by early afternoon. I dialled nine for an outside line, then the area code followed by Rob’s familiar number. My heart leapt when the phone stopped ringing, but it was only the answering machine.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ I said, conscious that my voice sounded brittle, even as I attempted to register cheery. ‘I hope everything went well with the trip. I’ll be in touch again soon. Bye.’

  As I got into the car I realized that I had forgotten to say ‘I love you’. Too late now. I Just Called To Say I Love You. I hummed it as I manoeuvred the car out into the lane. It was one of those songs which I thought I knew but didn’t, so I kept singing snatches and coming back to the chorus, until I was so irritated with myself that I had to banish the song by deliberately singing something else: something I did know.

  We’ve Only Just Begun. I knew that one, of course. It was one of the Carpenters greatest hits. I was still singing it when I crossed the bridge at Wroxham, glimpsing the briefest shimmer of the river and the boats below. That was one of the things I remem
bered about the Broads. From the road you could hardly begin to guess about that world of water and reeds that stretched for mile upon mile, whereas once down there on the water you could go for days at a time and be scarcely aware of any cars at all. Roads were things glimpsed occasionally as you went under a bridge, belonging to an entirely different world.

  In spite of looking out for it, I almost missed the turn for Neatishead and had to brake rather sharply, earning an angry reproach from the horn of a following motorist. My hands felt slippery on the steering wheel as I negotiated the lane. I came into the village suddenly – a tiny place which appeared to be utterly deserted. I couldn’t immediately see anywhere to park, but eventually I found a space in a small area above the staithe. The question now was where on earth would I find Alan? Not in the little shop surely, and the pub was closed.

  I walked from one end of the village street to the other, but no obvious solution presented itself. I wondered if Alan was watching from somewhere close by, concealed by the net curtains which hung in one of the cottage windows perhaps, making absolutely certain that I was alone before revealing himself. I glanced from side to side and over my shoulder. It was absurd, of course, because there was no one watching, but the thought of being under observation made me feel uncomfortable all the same. I glanced at my wrist to check the time, only to realize that I had forgotten to put my watch back on after my ablutions at the motel.

  What if I was wrong about Neatishead after all? Or maybe Alan had taken Thursday’s silence as a refusal. Perhaps replying on the day itself was too late? Could there have been some mistake resulting in the non-appearance of my message in today’s edition? I had not thought to buy a paper and check that my confirmation was there.

  It only remained for me to look out on to the staithe itself. I hesitated, doubting now that Alan would have come at all. As far as I could see there was no one there, not even a fisherman sitting hopefully on his creel, a sight I had assumed to be obligatory on every Norfolk staithe, as compulsory as the heron at each bend in the river. It was much quieter here than at most of the public landing places. Just a narrow harbour hemmed in by trees, which today still had plenty of mooring spaces available. There were a couple of yachts and three or four small cruisers tied up on either side of the dyke – fewer than half-a-dozen craft and all apparently deserted.