Safe With Me

by K. L. Slater

I can see patches of pink scalp shining through her sparse silver hair. It is chopped too short at the back and shows a bony protrusion at the top of her spine.

  ‘It was a long time ago.’ She shakes her bent head. ‘Best not to keep raking it all up.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I mutter.

  ‘But you can imagine what I thought when the police came round to the house yesterday,’ she says, looking up again. ‘I thought history was repeating itself.’

  ‘When I saw him fly off his motorbike and hit the road,’ I say softly, ‘I thought he was dead.’

  Chapter 9

  The conversation seems to dry up all of a sudden after that, and I get the distinct feeling that Ivy is waiting for me to leave.

  There is more I’d like to ask her about Liam but the moment seems to have passed. I say goodbye and make my way out to the car.

  The temperature has dropped much cooler outside now and I wish I had thought to wrap up a bit warmer.

  It would have been nice to sit with Ivy a while, get to know each other and have a cup of tea together. Some might say she owes me that at the very least but I’m not the sort to think the worst of people.

  Still, it seems so silly that we’ll both be spending the rest of the evening at home, on our own.

  * * *

  As I drive home, I try and focus on the reassuring hum of the engine but it proves impossible.

  The annoying thing is I know I can do it; I can easily cope with my delivery round. It’s just going to take time.

  Problem is, it’s time that Jim Crowe and the management team isn’t prepared to give me.

  When you look at it like that, I suppose you might say it’s the management team themselves who are forcing me to act deceitfully. I mean, what choice have I got really?

  I unlock the back door, and Albert sweeps out past my legs without giving me a second glance. There are times I wish I could be as single-minded as he is.

  I walk slowly upstairs without taking off my coat or shoes and stand outside the spare bedroom.

  My hand hovers over the handle.

  The last thing I ever wanted was to inconvenience the people who really value me, my customers. But sadly, I didn’t get a choice.

  Once the management cut the overtime, it was always going to end badly.

  I remind myself I am simply buying a little more time until I can get things sorted and back to normal. It’s just a necessary temporary measure, that’s all.

  I press my forehead against the door. It feels solid and cool.

  Every day I come up here after my shift and open the door just for a few seconds. I’m always careful to make sure my head is turned the other way.

  When the deed is done, I slam the door shut again and hurry back downstairs.

  Today though, something is pushing me to face it.

  To see it with my own eyes.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself. It’s only just over a week’s worth, after all.

  I grasp the handle and push hard. The door swings open and there it is, even worse than I imagined.

  A gigantic heap of undelivered mail.

  * * *

  I snap awake at 3.25 a.m.

  I started seeing the therapist in hospital, and after I was discharged, I carried on seeing her for the next two years.

  She showed me some breathing exercises. I try to do them now but it’s not working; I still can’t get back to sleep.

  I know the reason why. Today is my thirty-third birthday.

  I have hated birthdays for as long as I can remember. That overbearing feeling that you really ought to be doing something special or going somewhere that you’re not.

  I remember the kids at school, their birthday parties and fancy trips out, and then, a few years on, it graduated to cinema outings in town. Mother used to say it was all a big fuss over nothing.

  The odd invite I did get we’d always turn down, because if you accept someone’s hospitality, they’ll always expect something back.

  There’s this silly ritual at work. If it’s your birthday, you’re supposed to bring in cream cakes for everyone. Last week, Roisin turned forty over the weekend.

  Monday morning, she bought a large box of sickly looking confections from the posh patisserie in the centre of town. She brought one over on a plate for me but I told her I had an upset stomach.

  ‘Ah, come on, Anna, you have to celebrate with me.’ Roisin grinned. ‘It is the big four-oh, after all.’

  ‘Oh go on then.’ I chose a chocolate éclair just because those are the ones that tend to make the least mess. Roisin chose the same.

  ‘Ooh that pastry,’ she raved, licking her lips. ‘So light it melts in the mouth, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Did you know that choux pastry is made by melting all the ingredients into a pan and then piping it onto a baking sheet?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re a mine of information, Anna, so you are.’

  I smiled in spite of myself, and Roisin nudged me and grinned back.

  ‘We’re still waiting for Anna to have a birthday and bring some cakes in,’ someone at the back of the delivery office quipped.

  I put the paper plate down and began to walk away.

  ‘Anna,’ Roisin called, ‘you haven’t finished your éclair.’

  That’s why I’m careful not to eat other people’s cakes: so they can’t throw it back in my face.

  But all that doesn’t change the fact it’s definitely my birthday today.

  I toss and turn in bed for ages, rubbing my tight chest and watching the red neon digital numbers on my bedside table tick through the minutes and eventually the hours.

  Albert’s warm bulk presses against my leg, and I try to breathe in time with the soft rise and fall of his chest. My restlessness doesn’t seem to stop him sleeping at all.

  Albert has a simple life, untouched by the stupidity of people and their narrowminded ideas of how one should behave.

  My mind drifts on to thinking about the police and trying to figure out why they’re so slow in keeping Ivy informed about the accident.

  Surely by now they should have informed her of the other driver’s full name and address; at the very least, for insurance purposes.

  Her face seethes into my mind like a poisonous cloud and just sort of hangs there, clouding all my other thoughts. Those perfectly painted lips, those narrow, calculating eyes.

  * * *

  I toss and turn but, eventually, I must drop off to sleep because the next time I open my eyes it is beginning to get light outside.

  I can hear Albert scratching around in his litter tray downstairs.

  After visiting the bathroom, I walk downstairs and stop to enjoy the sight of the cards on the doormat.

  One pink, two plain white and one card with a striped border scattered below the letterbox.

  I gather them up and take them into the kitchen with me while I make my first cup of tea of the day.

  Albert sits on my lap cleaning his claws while I open the envelopes and drink my tea.

  There is one from Mary, a girl who’d been in my class at school.

  I’ve seen her once or twice around the streets near my house, pushing her new baby in a pram. Although I can’t say she was a friend back then, she was never mean to me the way some of the others were.

  I tear open the other two envelopes and read the cards out loud to Albert.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Anna.

  Can’t wait to see you Saturday night for the meal!

  All our love Amanda, Dave and Sarah xxx

  To Anna,

  Have a great day. . . can’t wait to catch up on Sunday!

  Luv Suze X’

  Later, when I’m arranging the cards on the windowsill, there is a knock at the door. This time I don’t hide until the caller goes away.

  ‘Delivery for Miss Anna Clarke.’ The delivery man beams. ‘Your lucky day, love.’

  I smile and take the massive bouquet from him. Closing the door, I carry t
he flowers inside.

  They’re my favourites: tiger lilies, and these are going to be beauties. Massive pale-green buds with a pink tinge, full of dormant life.

  ‘Let’s see who they’re from, Albert.’

  I inch my fingernail under the flap of the small white envelope that is taped to the cellophane.

  The front reads simply,

  ‘Anna’

  with a single line scored underneath.

  The card depicts a cottage garden in full bloom with fancy gold letters declaring,

  ‘It’s Your Birthday!’

  Inside, the handwritten message reads,

  ‘Happy Birthday Anna.

  Thank you for saving my life.

  Love Liam X’

  Chapter 10

  Thirteen years earlier

  Carla had found it impossible to get Daniel Clarke out of her head all week.

  It was unusual for this to happen because, despite the trauma and upset she witnessed in her young clients’ lives, she rarely had trouble leaving it all at the office.

  She relished the challenge of getting under a traumatised skin but Daniel’s case was more than that. This child troubled her. There was something haunting about him.

  But getting Daniel to open up wasn’t the only thing that vexed her as she’d tried to get some sleep last night. Her mind had steadfastly refused to be relaxed by counting imaginary sheep or picturing an idyllic beach.

  No, instead it insisted on reliving that fateful day two years ago when everything she thought was solid and real in her life began to crumble.

  That morning, her first job had been searching high and low for her favourite china mug.

  Like her gran used to say, there was nothing better than fine china for drinking your first cuppa of the day but, infuriatingly, it was nowhere to be found.

  Mark had made an early morning trip into town to Borge’s art shop to get more supplies. It hadn’t escaped Carla’s notice that, just lately, he seemed to spend more time selecting art supplies than he did actually producing anything that was remotely saleable.

  He also had a terrible habit of making a drink in the house and taking it down the garden, never seeming to notice when numerous cups containing skinned coffee remnants began to pile up on the shed’s work surfaces.

  She’d had that mug for years. It held just the right volume of liquid and she swore blind, like Gran, that the tea tasted so much better in it.

  When she’d looked in every cupboard, Carla finally deduced that Mark was definitely the culprit. He must have taken it down the bloody garden.

  After rummaging in the kitchen drawer for the spare key, she pulled on an old cardigan and shuffled down the weed-strewn path in her flip-flops to the bottom of the garden.

  The long, narrow lawn was bathed in sunlight. It was too early for next door’s kids to be out screaming at each other before school so, for once, it was blissfully quiet out here.

  Despite the cool breeze, Carla pulled her cardigan a little closer and stood for a few moments to enjoy the peace, turning her face towards the sun.

  It had been months since she had ventured down into Mark’s studio, mainly to save herself the ordeal of having to endure him showing her his virtually identical collection of paintings again. That, and telling her how much money he was going to make and how it was only a matter of time before some London gallery bigwig spotted his masterpieces online.

  After the third year of hearing the same speech time and time again, of being told how they must be patient until he got his big break and in the meantime how she should pay all the bills. . . she found it all a bit too hard to keep nodding enthusiastically.

  Carla continued her walk down the garden and unlocked the shed door. She snapped on the light and peered into the dim workspace.

  Unfinished canvasses leaned side by side against a wall; others, strewn like discarded sheets of thick cardboard across the floor.

  When Mark first got his shed, Carla went out and bought him a stack of plastic trays and specialised containers for his paints and brushes from Borge’s shop. He’d bounced around his new studio like an excited puppy, promising her an opulent life.

  ‘Once I’m established with the local galleries, you’ll have diamonds in the soles of your shoes,’ he enthused, grabbing her and planting a hard kiss on her lips. ‘I promise you, baby.’

  She frowned at her art shop purchases, now crusted up with dried-on paint and piled up in various corners of his workspace.

  A stack of expensive sable brushes lay abandoned next to the overflowing wastepaper bin, their ultra-fine bristles rock hard and fused together beyond repair.

  How Mark managed to produce anything worthwhile from this chaos, Carla couldn’t begin to fathom. True, the creative mind probably wouldn’t respond well to a neat, ordered space like her own office but this dump was seriously off the scale by anyone’s standards.

  Carla glanced around, her eyes scanning the jumble for a glint of the familiar duck-egg-blue china.

  She peeked inside empty boxes, brushed aside screwed up newspapers and half-dried-out pots of paint as she searched. Nothing.

  When she glanced down at the old armchair she froze, the air in the room suddenly thick and clogging in her throat.

  The lilac mohair throw that her gran had knitted just a few months before she died lay slung carelessly over the back of the chair, its delicate skein trailing on the paint-spotted floor.

  Carla had only used it a couple of times since her gran died because it was so very special to her and she was terrified of snagging it.

  She didn’t have that many beautiful things but those she did have were precious to her. She’d always been the same with things she cared about.

  Her parents had struggled to scrape a decent life on a council estate in Lincolnshire. Luxuries were hard to come by for Carla and her sister, and she readily admitted it had probably made her overvalue material things. And Mark knew that. When they first met he used to joke that she had what he called the ‘possessive gene’.

  But with Gran’s blanket it was different. It held a precious, emotive value that far exceeded any material worth.

  Something wasn’t quite adding up here, she realised.

  In order to reach the throw in the first place, Mark must have gone to her wardrobe and purposely taken it from the back of the shelf.

  Annoyingly, he would have also had to walk past the well-worn and slightly grubby cream faux-fur throws they used at night when watching TV and sitting on the two cold leather couches.

  Why wouldn’t he just use one of those?

  The china mug now forgotten, Carla picked up the throw and sniffed at it. If it stank of brush cleaner, Mark was a dead man walking.

  But it didn’t smell of turpentine, it smelled of something else altogether more pleasant. Not perfume exactly but a musky skin lotion, perhaps.

  It was not Mark’s smell.

  Carla tried to swallow down the sour lump that popped up into her throat, but it wouldn’t budge.

  She might be jumping to conclusions. Knowing Mark, he would have a perfectly acceptable excuse.

  She held the throw up to the light to check for stains and something fine snagged around her finger like a gossamer thread.

  It was a long, pale red hair.

  Carla squeezed her eyes shut to try and stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.

  She could overthink what happened two years ago as much as she liked but it wasn’t going to change anything.

  She remembered that the person she’d wanted to confide in, to talk to at that low point when she found the hair, was her sister.

  But why should Carla expect her support when she had let her down so badly? When she’d needed her, Carla had left her at the club to go off with some random guy, and that’s when she’d been attacked.

  Her sister and her mother had never forgiven her.

  When she came out of Mark’s studio, Carla thought about picking up the phone and calling her sister. H
olding out the olive branch. But in the end, she decided against it.

  Different decisions made back then about her marriage might have led to different results now but wallowing in regret was going to get her nowhere.

  She had no choice but to steel herself and move on with her life.

  Carla stepped into the shower, and as she’d hoped the scalding darts of water did the trick. Within half an hour she had dried her hair, applied minimum make-up and was fully dressed.

  Her broken heart was firmly disguised again for the start of another day.

  * * *

  When she got to work Carla avoided the staff room, dashed straight to her office and gulped down a steaming hot mug of extra-strength black coffee to give her fortitude.

  Daniel Clarke’s second counselling session was at nine thirty that morning and she hoped to make some headway.

  She had invested hours of thought these past few days into her approach for the session. She was determined to crack him, and she didn’t intend to wait for weeks on end, either.

  His case would be the perfect one to illustrate – anonymously, of course – her expert counselling skills in her interview for the high school job.

  She had taken time yesterday to avail herself of the contents of Daniel’s school file and get the full overview of his domestic situation.

  The father appeared to be absent from the family home, and as was so often the case, no reason had been logged in the school records. Daniel currently lived with his mother, Monica, and his fifteen-year-old sister, Anna.

  Monica Clarke had little contact with school. She rarely attended parents’ evenings, and there was a note warning staff that she did not generally respond to letters home.

  In Carla’s experience, single parents often worked more than one job. Also, they often worried more about putting food on the table and paying the bills than whether their children’s education was on track.

  Despite this, both Daniel and Anna were very bright academically with Anna being selected for the school’s prestigious ‘gifted pupil’ programme last year.