Safe With Me

by K. L. Slater

  Perhaps Liam had to look for something when I was resting. Someone has been rooting around, I’m sure of it.

  Just as I’m about to swallow the remainder of the port, a group of dark uniformed bodies appear from around the corner like a bunch of soldiers. One moment the yard is clear, the next it is filled with official-looking people.

  I drop the glass and run into the middle room, the sounds of scattering shards filling my ears.

  Chapter 61

  Someone bangs hard on the back door. I catch a flash of Albert’s back end as he disappears upstairs.

  ‘Miss Clarke?’ The glass in the kitchen door rattles. ‘Open the door please, we have a warrant.’

  A warrant? You can’t be arrested for failing to deliver a letter or two.

  ‘Liam,’ I whisper, balling my fists in an effort to stop my hands shaking. ‘Help me.’

  I look longingly through to the kitchen at the small brown bottle of sedatives that sits on the worktop.

  The banging at the door grows louder.

  ‘Miss Clarke, please open the door. We are at liberty to force entry to your property if you do not comply.’

  Sometimes they have those battering rams that just take the whole door down. I’ve seen them on the television. I jump as someone knocks at the front door too.

  I imagine what the neighbours are thinking. If everyone around hears the shouting at my door, I will be the subject of spiteful gossip in the whole of the area. I have to put a stop to it.

  I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. Standing at the door, I watch the distorted shapes of the uniforms standing on the other side of the fragile textured glass.

  ‘What do you want?’

  I hope my voice sounds strong; I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me shaking and terrified. They are bullies, all of them.

  ‘My name is Len Dichmont, Miss Clarke. I’m a Senior Officer with the Royal Mail Investigation Bureau, and I have a warrant to search these premises for stolen mail.’

  ‘Stolen mail?’ My voice is too faint for them to hear.

  Referring to it as ‘stolen mail’ is just plain ridiculous. The mail upstairs is simply undelivered; nobody has stolen anything.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I shout, swallowing down the rising bile in my throat. ‘I don’t have to let you in.’

  ‘I’m afraid you do,’ the disembodied voice retorts. ‘We have a warrant, Miss Clarke, and the two police officers accompanying us here have the authority to force entry if necessary.’

  I run back into the middle room and press my back against the cool plaster of the wall. If only Liam was still here, he’d know how to deal with them.

  My impulse is to run, hide, but the problem isn’t just going to disappear, not now. They’ll end up battering the door down.

  ‘Miss Clarke?’

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  ‘Open the door.’

  I take a deep breath and steel myself, try desperately to think logically.

  I have Liam and a new life waiting for me. Despite the fuss they are making I am not a dangerous criminal; I have just got myself in a bit of a fix at work.

  I know it will be the end of my job when they find the mail mountain, but so what? As I have already told Liam, I can manage without the income, at least for a while.

  Slowly, I walk back in to the kitchen. I stand in front of the glass, take a breath and unlock the door.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I say, making a real effort to keep my voice steady. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  The man called Len Dichmont composes himself after an initial fleeting expression of surprise that I’ve finally opened the door. His tubby belly strains against the gold buttons of his official-looking black jacket, and he takes a long step forward into the house, sweeping a hand over his greasy comb-over.

  ‘We have a warrant to search these premises for stolen mail,’ he says again, swelling with his own importance. ‘Please stand back, Miss Clarke.’

  I feel a steady rage fill me as the all-male group tramp through my kitchen into the middle room. There are three RMIB officers with two police officers at the back. A bit overkill by anyone’s standards.

  ‘Isn’t there enough crime on the streets to keep you lot busy?’ I sneer at the police officers, following them into the room.

  ‘Let’s try and keep this as civil as we can,’ Dichmont says, holding out a large brown envelope towards me. ‘Here is the warrant if you wish to inspect it before we commence the search.’

  ‘You can stick your warrant where the sun don’t shine,’ I snap back.

  Dichmont reddens and places the envelope on the dining table, consulting his clipboard.

  ‘I am required to formally ask if you wish to declare anything before the search takes place, Miss Clarke. Do you admit to withholding property of the Royal Mail on these premises?’

  ‘No!’ I scream, kicking the leg of a dining chair. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, you arsehole.’

  Dichmont’s jaw tightens.

  ‘Please remain here while my officers perform the search.’

  The two other RMIB officers split up. One walks through to the lounge, the other back into the kitchen.

  One of the police officers pulls out a chair and, despite my anger, I collapse into it. They won’t find anything down here but I’m damned if I’m going to make their lives any easier.

  I rest my elbows on the dining table and cover my face with my hands. Despite my efforts to remain calm and level-headed, I can’t help crying. Someone touches my shoulder.

  ‘Get off me,’ I scream, hitting out blindly at one of the police officers. ‘Don’t you fucking touch me.’

  The officer backs off with raised flat palms. He shoots a look at the others, and I cover my face again.

  I can hear cupboard doors opening and shutting, plastic bags rattling, drawers being purged of their contents. I feel raw and exposed, as if I’m sitting here naked in front of them all.

  I desperately need my tablets to calm down but I know it will be a mistake to take any more. I have to keep my wits about me.

  A RMIB officer emerges from the lounge and heads for the stairs door.

  This is it. My worst nightmare is happening.

  A strange sensation prickles through my face and arms. As I watch, he seems to move in slow motion. Then the speed snaps back to normal as he reaches for the door handle.

  ‘No!’ I yell, outraged and terrified. I jump up and lunge forward at him. One of the police officers grabs my arms from behind.

  ‘Come on now, love,’ he says. ‘Calm down. Let’s just get it over with, eh?’

  The other RMIB officer comes out of the kitchen, and the two of them disappear upstairs.

  Dichmont blinks. He opens his mouth and closes it again. This obviously isn’t going the way he has imagined.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I say. ‘You can’t just come in here, tearing my home apart, you bastards.’

  The rigidity of rage leaves me as quickly as it came and now I feel spent, all hope is draining away. The police officer lets go of my arms. Clumps of hair fall from my fingers on to the table, and I sweep them away on to the carpet.

  Recent memories flip through my mind like a slide show. The delivery office, the undelivered bags locked in the postboxes, hauling them upstairs and dumping them in the spare room.

  I hear creaking on the landing and recognise the sound of the dodgy floorboards just outside the spare bedroom. Any second it will happen. One of them will shout down their discovery, and Dichmont will march upstairs, all smug and accomplished.

  I have already decided that I will not utter a word when they try to question me about the mail they find. I will bury my face in my hands and refuse to look at them, to make their job as hard as possible.

  I silently pray they won’t arrest me. Who will feed Albert and look after him? Liam doesn’t even know I’m in trouble.

&nb
sp; I throw my head back and release a wail, an explosion of frustration and regret.

  ‘Miss Clarke—’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I yell. ‘Get out of my house.’

  ‘Come on now—’ a police officer starts to say and then stops as heavy boots begin to descend.

  A strained hush settles over the room. Both RMIB officers appear in the doorway, and I brace myself.

  The tall one shakes his head. ‘Nothing up there, sir.’

  ‘Huh?’ Dichmont can’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘Nothing at all, you say?’

  ‘Negative search result, sir.’

  I stand up from the table.

  How can it be? Slowly, the invisible fist releases its stranglehold from around my throat and I start to breathe again. I feel my clenched fists slowly relaxing.

  ‘Negative result,’ I mumble to myself.

  Dichmont’s face floods crimson.

  ‘I don’t know how you’ve managed it,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘We know you’ve been bringing mail back here, Clarke.’

  His two henchmen shuffle their feet. It hasn’t taken long for him to drop his fake show of being polite and calm.

  I feel stronger already. The rage has returned but this time in a more controlled and focused way.

  ‘Get out,’ I hiss in Dichmont’s face. ‘And take your two monkeys with you. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’

  I haven’t a clue whether I can take any action against them but it is worth the threat just to watch Dichmont’s face drain of colour. I really do have a solicitor now, who I will be seeing with Liam tomorrow afternoon.

  They file silently out of the room into the kitchen.

  ‘So sorry for your trouble, Miss Clarke,’ I shout as they walk past me. ‘Apologies for being such dumb arses and wasting taxpayers’ money, Miss Clarke.’

  Nobody reacts, although one of the police officers has the audacity to give me a reprimanding look.

  ‘What?’ I challenge him, indignation seething from every pore. ‘Tell me you wouldn’t be completely pissed off, if it was your house that had just been wrecked for no good reason.’

  He carries on walking and says nothing.

  ‘Look at this mess,’ I screech after them from the kitchen doorway as they tramp off down the drive. ‘Who the hell is going to clean this lot up? Bastards.’

  I slam the door shut and stagger back inside, shaking.

  I’ve uttered more expletives in the last ten minutes than the rest of my life put together.

  ‘And do you know what, Albert?’ I say as he gingerly pokes his head around the bottom of the stairs. ‘It feels bloody brilliant.’

  Unconvinced, he glares at me and saunters past to investigate the mess and the strange smells of the unwelcome visitors.

  The house has been violated. Strangers breathing in my private space.

  I could get the matches from the kitchen door now and burn the place to the ground. Maybe that’s the only thing that can really cleanse it after this.

  I glance through the window at the houses overlooking my garden and see one or two nets twitching. Let them look; I’ve nothing to hide. The RMIB search has just proved that.

  When I’ve locked the kitchen door, I dash into the lounge and watch them pile back into their vehicles. When the last one has pulled away and disappeared down the street, I take three sedatives again instead of my usual two.

  In the lounge I sit down wearily on the settee. The bravado evaporates and I feel shaky and worried again.

  How on earth could they have missed the mountain of mail upstairs? I had even heard the floorboards outside the spare room creaking. . . surely they must have gone in there.

  I stand up and walk over to the stairs door. Climbing the stairs slowly, my heart races and the ever-present headache pounds in my temples.

  I have to get rid of that mail today. If they come back again they won’t miss it a second time.

  Len Dichmont is the kind of man who does not like being proved wrong. He won’t want to admit defeat and will probably press for another search as soon as he gets back to his office.

  Several strides down the landing and I reach the creaking floorboards: the very same ones I’d heard only five minutes earlier as the RMIB officers reached the spot where I am standing now.

  The spare room door is slightly ajar, which is unusual. I always close the door fully behind me without fail each time I empty mail in there. It helps me feel as separate as possible from the monstrosity concealed in the room.

  So they must have opened the door. Yet if they had done so, how come they’d missed what was in there?

  I push the door, and as it swings fully open I stagger back, my throat so dry and tight I double up coughing.

  I have to screw my eyes shut, count to three and open them again before I can believe what I am seeing.

  The room is empty. The mail mountain is gone.

  Chapter 62

  Thirteen years earlier

  Carla did not fall into a peaceful sleep after taking the tablets.

  Hounded by the local press and even by her neighbours, she packed a few things into a small case and fled to a bedsit the other end of the country, leaving her mobile phone and her name behind her.

  There, she laid low, steeped in her misery.

  Carla swallowed the sedatives the doctor had prescribed two at a time and washed them down with cold white wine.

  She couldn’t stop the banging in her head, the fractured thoughts.

  She kept losing track of how many tablets she had taken. Then all the tablets were suddenly gone and the wine glass empty.

  The walls of the room seemed to warp in and out around her.

  She slid her legs to one side of the chair and tried to stand up but her body felt as though it were made of rubber.

  Over she went, stumbling and falling headlong across the room, smashing her head on the stone fire surround.

  For the last time, Carla Bevin closed her eyes.

  Chapter 63

  Anna

  The undelivered mail was in Danny’s bedroom. I am certain of it.

  But then the horrid smell in this house seems real too, even though I’m the only person that can smell it.

  It’s true I’ve been in a bit of a bad way lately but I distinctly recall bringing the mail bags home each day and lugging them upstairs. And I remember burning the letters when the two police officers called unannounced to ask about the accident.

  Surely, I can’t be imagining the smell in the house. Its cloying, sickly sweetness sticks in my nostrils, making me gag. It is real. I can’t explain why Liam cannot smell it, nor why the two police officers could not smell it the day I burned the letters.

  Sometimes my memories get a bit blurred, good and bad ones together, until it is virtually impossible to separate them. But after all, what are memories but pictures in your mind?

  There is no such thing as a memory-keeper, no entity exists that has the power to declare whether things really happened or not. All we have are the pictures and the short films we play over and over in our mind’s eye. That’s really all anyone can base their past experiences on.

  A flurry of images surge into my head. Undelivered mail. The accident. Liam.

  It feels almost impossible to separate them and determine which are true anymore.

  It’s so hard to watch someone I care about making such a terrible mistake. Having a blind trust in someone who would only hurt them seems to me like utter self-destruction.

  Nobody will listen to me.

  My whole life seemed transformed from the moment the accident happened. I’d thought of myself as a kind of fortress but something snuck up behind me and promised me the chance of happiness again. A real family connection that I thought I’d lost forever when Danny died.

  And now that bitch Amanda is constantly calling Liam, trying to steal him away before my very eyes. He won’t realise until it’s too late, until he’s been betrayed.

 
Past regrets wedge themselves like a hunk of gristle in my throat.

  I’ve turned a blind eye once before in my life with disastrous consequences. Back then, I’d ignored my gut feelings and allowed others to take away the one precious thing in my life.

  If I’d made different decisions, if I’d not trusted Amanda Danson, I could have prevented Danny’s death.

  What kind of a person would I be if I let it happen all over again?

  Bang, bang, bang.

  It goes again. It’s coming from next door. Mrs Peat must be in trouble. I race round without looking through the side window, kicking over the milk stand and snatching up the key.

  ‘Mrs Peat.’ I burst into the room. ‘Are you okay?’

  She is sitting in her chair as usual, clutching a yard brush with the long handle aimed at our adjoining wall.

  ‘Oh there you are, Anna.’ She frowns. ‘Linda gave me this brush in case I needed help in the middle of the night.’

  ‘What help do you need, Mrs Peat?’ I say quickly.

  ‘Anna, are you feeling alright, dear? I heard voices, people were—’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ I say tightly. ‘But I’m a bit tied up at the moment. Do you need something?’

  ‘Let’s have a cup of tea and I’ll tell you all about it.’ Mrs Peat remains infuriatingly unruffled despite me being so obviously on edge. ‘There’s something I want to tell you, something I should have told you many years ago, Anna.’

  I sigh and go back into the kitchen and make the tea. I have two attempts before I get everything in the correct order. For some reason my mind just can’t seem to slot things together.

  It’s no use trying to escape from Mrs Peat; I’ll just have to stay for ten minutes or so to placate her. She has seemed hell-bent on living in the past just lately and I can do without it.

  But as a concerned neighbour, after how Mrs Peat has cared for me better than my own mother in the early years, I’ve most certainly failed miserably.

  I haven’t seen her for days, haven’t so much as given her a thought.

  ‘Now dear, first things first,’ she says when I go back in the room. ‘Earlier, a young man came to see me. He sat in that very chair where you’re sitting now.’