Safe With Me

by K. L. Slater

  Years ago, she’d never have tolerated this thin layer of grey dust that now covered everything. Some days, she could feel it settling on her own body like a fine shroud.

  Joan sometimes wondered if she might end up like that Dickens character, Miss Havisham, in Great Expectations; pale and dusty and covered in cobwebs.

  It could easily happen if she lost her visitors, her lifeline.

  In fact, it seemed she might already be losing Anna. She felt increasingly that Anna was keeping secrets from her, things she didn’t want Joan to know. That gave her a sour twinge in her throat because Anna had always told her everything, had always seemed to value her advice, too.

  Even as a child, Anna had confided in Joan. Told her some of the awful things that happened to her brother in that house.

  At first, rather than judge her, she had tried to get to know Monica Clarke a little better.

  Despite the things she’d heard, the things she’d seen, she had tried to do the Christian thing and reach out to her neighbour.

  It was clear to Joan that Monica was a woman who had clawed her way through life relying largely on her own resources.

  She never said as much and Joan never knew her background but she didn’t need to. She could see it.

  The lack of trust in the younger woman’s eyes. The way she bristled on the odd occasion Joan popped round with a dish of lasagne or a wedge of Victoria sponge.

  Joan could see, plain as the nose on her over-painted face, Monica had suffered a thousand disappointments in life, probably caused by other people letting her down. As a result, she shunned any offers of help.

  In the end, and after Daniel’s birth, the two women came to a sort of unspoken understanding that suited them both.

  Joan used to keep Anna at hers a lot. In fact, when Daniel came along, Anna all but moved in with her and Arthur.

  She had her own bedroom upstairs which Arthur let her choose the wallpaper for.

  ‘Remember, it’s our secret,’ Joan used to whisper in her ear before she went back round to her mother. They both knew Monica wouldn’t like it, and she didn’t want to push her too far.

  Monica Clarke was one of those women who didn’t see why her kids should have more in life than she herself had been given.

  Joan still thought of the spare room upstairs as Anna’s bedroom. The same wallpaper remained although the bed had gone now and it was used mainly for the storage boxes full of Arthur’s clothes and belongings that she still couldn’t face giving to the charity shop.

  She’d like to talk about those days with Anna again but Joan worried she might get upset. Besides, the rate she was in and out the house these days she’d be lucky to catch her in long enough to chat.

  Joan stared out of the window. She thought Anna had said her friend was out of hospital now so she couldn’t still be going there to visit each day.

  Joan was curious to know exactly who this friend was. All these years, she’d never known Anna get close to anyone at all.

  Things had started changing since the accident Anna had witnessed. Granted, this had included positive developments like Anna breaking out of her rigid routines at last, but other things were happening too that Joan found rather more worrying.

  Anna pacing around in the early hours, although that seemed to have improved a bit lately. But then Joan had heard dragging and bumping sounds upstairs, and when Anna popped round today she had a bandaged hand with no real satisfactory explanation.

  It would be nice to be a fly on the wall in Anna’s house for a little while. It might give Joan a clue as to what was happening.

  A long-lost memory fluttered and then settled in the forefront of her mind.

  Joan had quite forgotten how she kept an eye on the house for the months Anna was an inpatient at the clinic.

  She stood up and waited for the feeling to come back into her legs before she moved slowly into the kitchen.

  People didn’t ought to underestimate her just because she was old. They might be surprised. . . some of the things she could do if she wanted to.

  Joan slid open the wide drawer next to the sink and lifted the clinking cutlery tray.

  There it was. The spare key to Anna’s house Joan had clean forgotten she’d had for all these years.

  Chapter 32

  Anna

  The front door clicks shut behind me and I step fully into the lounge.

  The front of Liam and Ivy’s house is north-facing and so the room is cool and silent, despite facing on to the road. A faint damp odour persists; the smell of age and of furnishings that are years past their replacement date.

  Ivy keeps the house relatively clean and tidy but there is just so much stuff here.

  Neat piles, but nevertheless disorganised piles, of documentation lie dotted around, cluttering up every room. I’ve heard Ivy mumble numerous times, ‘I’ll read that properly later,’ when she adds yet another letter or a leaflet to a stack of mail.

  It’s fairly obvious, looking at the towering backlog, that she never gives it another thought.

  If the police have sent anything recently it will probably be ‘filed’ towards the top of one of her piles, so I sift through two or three stacks in the living room. My injured hand starts aching right away but I press on.

  It is soon obvious there is nothing in here of interest to me but I stand for a minute longer, alone in the house without anyone knowing.

  Granted, it is a shame I’m having to resort to such measures but I’m just going to have to force myself to do what is necessary for the good of Liam and Ivy.

  I move to the doorway, deciding to leave the kitchen until last, and begin to climb the stairs beyond. I can’t afford to delay, not knowing exactly how soon they will return.

  I turn left at the top of the stairs and enter Ivy’s bedroom.

  The bed is made, the curtains open and a faint breeze wafts in through the scalloped nets, offering at least a little respite from the fusty smell that pervades the top floor of the house.

  I am trying to work quickly but my bad hand is hampering me and my good hand is clumsy with jangling nerves.

  I slide open the bedside drawer. Nothing here short of hankies, a pot of chest rub and a dog-eared Barbara Cartland novel.

  The drawers under the bed hold only age-old bedding and towels. The dresser under the window boasts Ivy’s dated toiletries and a fine covering of dust but when I turn my attention to the free-standing dark-oak wardrobe with its ornate coving, I spot the old-fashioned long brass key still in the lock.

  Inside, the space is dark and deep, with Ivy’s clothes nestling together in a clean line. I’m almost expecting to find fur coats, a sprinkling of snow and then maybe Narnia. But there are just more dresses here that surely belong to a time many years hence. A polka dot fifties-style halter-neck dress, a fuchsia-pink satin cocktail skirt complete with frivolous nets.

  I feel a little softening inside despite Ivy’s treatment of me but it’s silly of her to keep such useless items for the sake of memories. I read somewhere that most people only wear twenty per cent of their wardrobe, eighty per cent of the time. In Ivy’s case I think she wears a mere five per cent, ninety-five per cent of the time.

  Shoes line the bottom of the wardrobe floor, the vast majority no longer suitable for Ivy’s age and lifestyle but I am impressed with her organisational skills. At first glance, her bedroom looks as cluttered as everywhere else, but upon closer inspection I see it is actually quite tidy and arranged efficiently.

  Periodically, I stop and creep to the top of the stairs, listening. The house remains deathly quiet so I am able to work methodically through the bedroom but there is no sign of anything that can assist with speeding up the police investigation.

  I drop down on my haunches and peer into the back of the dark space beyond the rows of vintage shoes.

  Although it might seem an unlikely place for anyone to store a business card, I remind myself there is no substitute for thoroughness.

  Pushed r
ight to the back are three shoeboxes, stacked one on top of the other and partially hidden by a pair of dated knee-length suede boots. I feel a flutter in the back of my throat as I slide the top shoebox from behind the boots and sit on the end of the bed with it.

  It is half-filled with old letters, most of them yellowing and well-read, from Ivy’s sweetheart – probably her husband – a serving soldier, back then.

  The second box is more interesting. The documents look more official.

  I’m primarily looking for something that might give me a head start on the police investigation but I’m not averse to discovering other information that might prove interesting.

  I leaf through the neatly folded contents of the box. A stack of Liam’s old school reports which I would like to read thoroughly, but can’t risk doing so. Expired insurance certificates, old warranties and receipts.

  Working one-handed as quickly as I can, I rifle through and find a padded envelope at the bottom. When I see Liam’s name written on the front in black marker pen I wonder if this might contain information that Liam himself can’t remember.

  I sit very still for a moment and listen.

  Silence.

  I reach inside the envelope and extract the contents, spreading them out on the bedspread.

  A handful of photographs and a thick wad of folded papers. When I open them out I find old correspondence from the courts regarding Ivy becoming Liam’s legal guardian.

  My eyes flit through the complicated wording. There is something strange here but for a few seconds I’m not sure exactly what, until I spot that only their first names are familiar.

  I read through the details again more carefully. The surnames on the papers have been documented as Wilton for both of them, rather than Bradbury.

  Perhaps Ivy changed both their names by deed poll because she was trying to forget the trauma of Liam’s father’s accident. After all, he had been her only son. Most people would want to preserve the family name for memories’ sake but Ivy isn’t most people. She’ll go to any lengths to keep Liam exclusively hers.

  There are five photographs in all. All are of Liam as a baby and small boy. Someone has written his name and age on the back of each one. In each picture, Liam is alone. In his pushchair, lying on a lawn in the sun, two at a play park and one standing on a chair at the kitchen sink, playing with the washing-up suds.

  I set the photographs aside and slide a single sheet of paper out of a tatty brown envelope addressed to Ivy and marked ‘Confidential’.

  It’s a shame Ivy has driven me to gather scraps of information in this manner. If only she could have been more open this unpleasant activity might well have been avoided.

  I unfold the typed sheet. The old-fashioned typewriter print is faint and uneven and the edges of the paper yellowing but the heading, in rickety block capitals, is bold and clear:

  ‘PSYCHOLOGICAL REPORT’

  I scan the short sections, noting some quite startling words and phrases.

  ‘Delusional. . . a danger to themselves and others. . . psychopathic tendencies. . .’

  I take a gulp of air as I read the final line.

  ‘Recommended: Three further months of incarceration.’

  My eyes skip to the two signatures at the bottom of the page.

  ‘Psychiatrist: Dr A Meakin and Patient: Ivy Wilton.’

  Chapter 33

  I’m about to go back to the beginning of the report and read it properly when there is a short, sharp knock downstairs.

  I gasp, scattering the papers as I jump up off the bed. My arms prickle with goosebumps as I jolt upright and shooting pains zip across my cut palm. I stand there, frozen to the spot.

  They are back.

  It takes a second or two to snap to my senses with the realisation that I can’t afford to wait until they come through the door.

  I hastily stuff half the papers back into the envelope and pile the rest back into the shoebox. I then shove everything back into the wardrobe.

  As I close and lock the wardrobe door, I realise it has gone quiet once more before a snapping and scraping noise has me on edge again. My mouth instantly dries out and I fight the building tickle in my throat to avoid a full-blown coughing fit.

  I creep to the top of the stairs ready to face Ivy and Liam. I am trying and failing to come up with a convincing excuse of why I am trespassing in their home.

  Searching for the police contact so Amanda Danson can get her comeuppance isn’t going to cut it, I’m afraid. They don’t even know I have a key.

  All quiet and then another sharp bang. I prepare myself for the sound of the back door crashing open and being discovered.

  Liam will be confused and upset and it will be difficult to explain to him that I am here only for his own good. So often, people just can’t see what is best for them.

  But the back door does not crash open. Everything remains quiet downstairs.

  I creep over to the bedroom window and, concealed by the net curtain, I peer down to the road.

  Two officers, a man and a woman, walk away from the house, back down towards the bottom of the street.

  Dizzy and disorientated, I sit back down on the end of the bed to steady the hammering in my chest. The police must have called hoping to catch Liam in, to talk to him about the accident.

  I had been so close to being discovered. My skin is crawling at the thought of what might have happened. My forehead feels really hot, but when I press the back of my hand to it I find it is cool and clammy.

  Again, I go to the window and breathe a sigh of relief when the dark uniforms turn the corner and disappear.

  I move back to unlock the wardrobe once more so I can restack the boxes properly, as I found them.

  But I can’t resist it. I have to pull out the third box.

  I don’t have time to look properly, of course, but a quick glance reveals it’s just full of old newspaper cuttings anyway. Births and deaths no doubt – old people always seem obsessed with that sort of thing.

  I rearrange the boots and shoes in front so that the boxes are partially hidden, as before. Then I slide the thick envelope stuffed with the interesting paperwork inside my fleece jacket and zip it up.

  Downstairs, a white envelope sits on the mat, evidently the reason for the police officers’ visit. Liam’s name is written on the front.

  I snatch it up and add it to the hidden depths of my fleece.

  As an afterthought I walk into the kitchen and take a quick look in a couple of drawers. Nothing.

  When I walk out I spot a pile of mail on top of the fridge-freezer. I lift the top few sheets down and there, sitting loose on top, is a Nottinghamshire Police business card.

  There is an extension number written on the back in blue ink, and I am guessing this is the card the police left when they came round to inform Ivy that Liam had been injured.

  Ivy has tossed it on to the pile like it’s a piece of junk mail.

  I pick it up and slide it into my jeans pocket. It certainly won’t go to waste now.

  Before I leave, I check the road both ways from the safety of the living room net curtain. When I am sure it is clear, I slip out of the front door, pulling it closed behind me until I hear the latch click into place.

  I walk briskly but confidently up the road to my car. Only when the driver’s door is closed do I allow myself to release a long sigh of relief.

  I feel like I’m on fire inside so I open the window a touch and unzip my fleece. Both envelopes slide out and I hold them for a long moment before popping them out of sight into the glove compartment.

  I sit back for a few moments, closing my eyes and taking a few breaths to try and clear the thick fuzz from my head. For all I had reservations on encroaching on Ivy and Liam’s privacy, I have to admit that my sacrifice has paid dividends.

  I have already started the engine and belted up when I spot the black cab coasting down the road. I turn the engine off again and sit back to watch.

  The cab stops o
utside Liam’s house, and the driver’s door opens.

  The driver gets out and takes several bags from the boot, offloading them at the front door. By the time he gets back to the vehicle, Ivy has managed to get her feet on the ground and is hoisting herself to a standing position with the aid of a stick.

  It is painfully obvious that, far from improving, she is growing more unsteady on her feet each day. The fact she is obviously in denial about her own health makes a bit more sense to me now.

  ‘Delusional’, was the word the report used.

  The driver removes Liam’s wheelchair from the boot and unfolds it by the back passenger door, but Liam shakes his head and hobbles up the path himself, flouting Dr Khan’s advice about resting his leg.

  Although I’m surprised at Liam’s range of movement, it still strikes me as a ridiculous scene. Two people that have trouble getting around, struggling for no other reason than being too stubborn to ask me for help.

  Reality hasn’t kicked in for them yet. They have people visiting, fussing around and asking if there is anything they can do. Let’s see how much fun it is six months down the line when the realisation hits that Liam may well have to cope with lasting effects from the accident including his memory loss and mood swings.

  Ivy will be out of her depth coping with the physical demands of caring for an invalid when she is already struggling herself both physically and psychologically.

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the car. As I walk across the road I remind myself that I was Liam’s guardian angel in the road as he lay bleeding and dying.

  Metaphorically, I continue to hold his hand. Nobody can stop me doing that.

  I knock at the front door but, predictably, there is no answer. I walk round to the back door and catch Ivy returning from putting the rubbish out. She looks surprised to see me.

  ‘Hello Ivy,’ I say. ‘Lucky I saw the cab; I was just about to drive home.’