Safe With Me

by K. L. Slater

  ‘That’s nice,’ I murmur.

  Mrs Peat looks down into her teacup and frowns. She places it back on the saucer without taking a sip.

  When Liam finds out everything that’s been going on with the RMIB visit, he’ll no doubt want me to move in almost immediately.

  Unfortunately, I won’t be able to see Mrs Peat nearly as often then. Perhaps I should tell her that now; it would be unfair and selfish just to stop my visits.

  Ivy won’t have a say in the matter because, if she objects, Liam will come here. To my house. To live. He is aware of her mental instability now; she can’t hide it away any longer.

  I swallow down the bad taste that fills my mouth and I wonder, fleetingly, why I can’t just allow myself to be happy. Just this once.

  ‘No, you don’t understand, dear,’ she says. ‘This young man, he wanted to know about you. Although I’ve never met him, I believe it was your friend, Liam.’

  My head jerks up from my thoughts.

  ‘I saw all those cars and uniforms outside, Anna,’ she says. ‘And your hair, has it fallen out?’

  ‘Who was he? What did he want?’ I say faintly. It couldn’t have been Liam; he didn’t even know about Mrs Peat. Was this another official nosing around in my business, someone who was trying to get information from my neighbour? Surely the Investigation Branch weren’t going to start interrogating Mrs Peat now?

  That would definitely constitute harassment; I could mention it to the solicitor tomorrow.

  ‘He asked me things like how long had you lived here, what had happened to your family and – this is the curious bit – did I know if you had any living relatives. He said you were taking a nap.’

  Then it all made sense.

  ‘Liam,’ I whisper and some clarity returns to my thoughts.

  ‘Yes.’

  My guts cramp hard. ‘What did you tell him about me?’

  ‘I told him I’m not in the habit of gossiping about my neighbour, and if he has any questions then he needs to address them directly to you.’

  I take a couple of seconds to regulate my breath again.

  How does Liam even know about Mrs Peat? It must be something else I have forgotten I told him. What else have I blabbed out that I don’t realise?

  ‘He got quite agitated, and I ended up asking him to leave,’ Mrs Peat scowled. ‘Young whippersnapper, sticking his nose into your business. You should watch out, dear.’

  ‘He’s a good friend.’ I scowl. ‘He’s only looking out for me.’

  ‘You should be careful, Anna, you’re too trusting by far. You must look after yourself, remember?’

  She glances at me as though she is about to say more and so I look away.

  Mrs Peat is mistaking his concern for something more sinister but she doesn’t know how he feels about me. She doesn’t know how our closeness has taken us both by surprise.

  I plump up her cushions and tell her to use the brush handle to alert me if she needs the slightest thing. I’m not going to be here, of course, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  ‘But there’s something else I want to talk about, dear. The most important thing. It’s about—’

  ‘Later, Mrs Peat,’ I say, jumping to my feet. ‘I’ll call round later, and you can tell me then.’

  I take her teacup into the kitchen and notice there is just hot water in the cup, which is very odd because I definitely remember using a teabag.

  Chapter 64

  Joan Peat

  For years, Joan had been waiting for the right time to tell Anna what happened.

  Today, when Anna called round, she’d actually stayed longer than a couple of minutes. But it was still too little time for Joan to gather the courage to finally unburden herself.

  She sat in her chair now Anna had gone and closed her eyes.

  She should run through it one more time in her head, in case Anna called round later like she’d promised. It was important Joan got the order of events just right.

  The whole tragic episode was imprinted on her memory.

  All the sights and sounds were as clear as when it happened, thirteen years before...

  Joan turned down the television and listened.

  There it was again, a sort of thumping, a dragging noise – then a child crying, hysterically crying.

  Joan happened to know that Anna had gone to her drawing class after school. She’d popped around earlier to collect her pastels and notepad to take with her. Anna had looked pale and tired, her eyes wider and more haunted than usual.

  ‘Is everything alright, dear?’ Joan enquired.

  Anna nodded and mumbled something about being late and, before Joan could say anything else, she was off out of the door.

  Banging, yelling, sobbing. . . it was getting louder.

  Joan jumped up and grabbed her listening glass from the table.

  She headed for the dining room wall because Anna had once let slip that her mother sometimes shut Daniel in the understairs cupboard if he was misbehaving. But then another loud scraping noise told her that whatever was happening had moved upstairs.

  Joan climbed up her own stairs and tiptoed down the long, narrow landing, avoiding the dodgy floorboards that would betray the fact she was eavesdropping. Although she needn’t really have worried – the level of racket that was coming from next door.

  She placed the glass on the wall and listened. For a few moments, all had dropped quiet again and then it started again.

  Daniel was wailing, and Joan could hear his mother slapping him hard.

  Dear God, the child was pleading with her to stop.

  Joan pulled the glass away from the wall and wiped her own wet cheeks. She couldn’t just carry on letting this happen without doing something.

  It was clear Monica was getting more brutal with the boy, especially, she had noticed, when Anna was out of the house. Her only witness, or so she thought.

  Joan rushed back downstairs and ran around the front of the houses to next door.

  She knocked, but there was no response. She rattled the handle, but the door was locked. She banged on the glass with the flat of her hand.

  Nothing.

  Joan walked back down the drive and back into her own house again. Maybe her banging on the door would stop Monica Clarke now.

  But minutes later there was more bumping and banging, more wailing and crying. Joan walked back around to next door. This time, in her hand, she clutched Anna’s spare key.

  She knocked again and again. When there was no answer, she slid the key in and unlocked the door, closing it softly behind her.

  She looked down to see Monica’s own door key on the floor. It must have fallen out of the lock when Joan banged and rattled the handle. She kicked it aside.

  The kitchen was in disarray, dirty dishes and saucepans piled high. Joan wrinkled her nose against the sour smell and walked into the middle room.

  She noticed the crosses on the walls in the dim light but her attention was firmly focused upstairs. The wails, the slaps, a sort of distressed gasping of air and then. . . oh, the silence.

  Joan began to climb the stairs. She could hear someone moving about, but mercifully, Daniel had stopped crying now.

  As she reached the top of the stairs, the air grew thick enough to choke her. There was what she could only describe as an awfulness hanging in front of her like an invisible cloud. It was all she could do not to turn and run back out of the house.

  Joan didn’t call out; she didn’t speak at all. She simply carried on moving, light-footed and determined, along the narrow, uncarpeted landing.

  Silence.

  The odd floorboard creaked as she tiptoed along but she was past caring about that now. She had to find out once and for all what was happening to the boy, to Daniel.

  A scraping noise alerted her to the middle bedroom. She knew this to be Daniel’s room.

  Joan swallowed hard, pushed the door and immediately staggered back.

  ‘Dear God,’ she gasped, ho
lding on to the doorframe for support.

  Daniel’s lifeless body hung from the doorframe of the walk-in cupboard. Mercifully, his face was turned to the wall but he was swinging, very slightly, as if in a gentle breeze.

  Next to him, Monica Clarke stood on a chair, a noose around her own neck. Her eyes wide open, tears streaming down her pale, twisted face.

  ‘What have I done?’ she whispered to Joan. ‘Can you help me, Mrs Peat?’

  Joan couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

  ‘Please,’ Monica Clarke sobbed. ‘He was playing a silly game, he slipped—’

  Joan took a step forward. She watched Monica’s eyes darting around the room, thinking of a way out.

  ‘I told him to be careful. When I saw him, what he’d done to himself – I wanted to die myself. My son, he’s gone—’

  ‘He was crying; you were hitting him,’ Joan said calmly. ‘I heard it all.’

  ‘No! I was trying to stop him hurting himself, you see, Mrs Peat.’ Monica’s feet shifted on the rickety wooden chair. ‘I was trying to help him.’

  Joan thought about the fear she’d seen in both Daniel and Anna’s eyes at the mere mention of their mother.

  ‘Please.’ Monica clawed at the rope around her neck. ‘You can help me explain to the police. Help me down.’

  Joan felt herself walk forward.

  And as she moved towards Monica Clarke, she thought about the bruises she’d seen on Daniel’s upper arms. She thought about how Anna’s hands shook when it was time for her to go back home.

  She thought about the day Arthur tried to intervene when Monica dragged Daniel back round, and how she’d stuck two fingers up and told Arthur to ‘Fuck off, you old twat.’

  Joan stood in front of Monica now.

  She tried not to look at Daniel, at his slight body swaying lifelessly on the rope. It was too late for the poor child, but it wasn’t too late for Monica Clarke.

  ‘Thank you,’ Monica whispered, craning her neck to one side so Joan could get at the rope. ‘I’ll never forget this. If you could loosen the knot, I can slip it off my head?’

  Joan stared.

  ‘Mrs Peat?’

  She looked straight at Monica Clarke and took a step back.

  ‘May God forgive me,’ Joan said out loud and then she kicked hard at the chair that Monica Clarke stood on.

  Her neighbour shrieked as the chair tilted and tipped but it rebalanced itself and one of Monica’s feet remained flat on the seat.

  ‘What are you doing, you mad old—’

  Joan kicked again, this time harder, and the chair skittled aside.

  Monica Clarke gave a gasp as she bucked and twisted on the end of the rope she’d tied herself. Joan turned and walked out of the room, the guttural choking noise filling her ears.

  By the time Joan reached the bottom of the stairs, all was quiet.

  She picked up the door key on the floor and hooked it loosely on the inside of the lock. Then she used Anna’s spare key and locked the door behind her.

  Then Joan Peat went back home and put the kettle on.

  Chapter 65

  Present day

  Amanda

  Amanda Danson had no real evidence to support her suspicions so she hadn’t actually mentioned it to anyone yet.

  It was just a feeling. That was all.

  As she kept telling herself: it was one thing knowing for certain you were being watched but another thing entirely to prove it.

  Of course, it could be that she was simply going crazy but more likely it was just that, after what happened at work, she was feeling very nervous.

  It had been a fairly uneventful day up to early afternoon but her stomach felt fluttery whenever she thought about seeing Liam later. It had been a long time since she’d felt like that about anyone; everything had changed after the tragedy. She had kept her head down, created a new, low-key existence.

  It had all been so. . . final.

  But this was supposed to be a fresh start, and she liked to think part of Carla was still alive. Through her, Carla lived on.

  She had spent the morning actually looking forward to seeing Liam later and even planning to pick up a bunch of flowers for his sweet gran on the way over there.

  At two fifteen, after ten minutes tidying the role-play area, everything changed.

  Amanda had been just about to go up for her afternoon break when Carol Hartnell, the nursery’s Business Manager, approached her.

  Carol’s partner, Susan, owned the West Bridgford franchise of Busy Bees but she basically left her to run the place and boy, did Carol enjoy wielding her power.

  ‘Pop into my office when you’ve got a minute,’ she said discreetly to Amanda as she whisked past. Her eyes darted everywhere at once, noting what tasks had been neglected by the staff.

  ‘What did she say?’ Sarah hissed from the carpeted reading area when Carol went back to her office. Obviously Carol hadn’t spoken discreetly enough.

  ‘She wants to see me.’

  ‘Ooh, I wonder if it’s about the lead TA job?’

  Amanda shrugged but she supposed Sarah could be right. It might well be about the new position that was coming up in a couple of months at the Mansfield branch when Janis Lawton moved back down south. Amanda had indicated an interest in the lead Teaching Assistant vacancy but that was before the accident and she hadn’t thought much about it since.

  ‘You’ll be set up if you get that,’ Sarah gushed. ‘A big pay rise, very nice.’

  ‘I doubt they’re going to just hand it to me like that,’ Amanda laughed. And a big pay rise still wouldn’t bring her salary anywhere near what she’d been earning before but there was no sense lamenting those days. ‘There’ll be interviews. Janis said that Karen Butler from the Mansfield branch was hanging her nose over it.’

  ‘Ugh, she’d put parents off bringing their kids in,’ said Sarah, blobbing out her tongue. ‘Perma-tanned chav.’

  Amanda couldn’t help smiling; it was a good observation, if a little cruel.

  She finished folding the mini police uniforms onto a hanger and left the other roleplay clothes for someone else to do later.

  ‘Back in five.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Sarah called.

  Amanda walked over and tapped at Carol’s open office door. Carol looked up, smiled and beckoned her in but there was a tightness about her face that Amanda didn’t like the look of.

  ‘There has been a concern raised by a parent that I have to get to the bottom of,’ she said as soon as Amanda sat down. Carol wasn’t one for niceties.

  Amanda felt the muscles freeze in her face. ‘A concern about me?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Carol nodded.

  Amanda mentally scanned through her dealings with parents and children over the past week. Nothing untoward sprang to mind.

  It had been a completely normal week with only the usual occurrences; the odd harmless scuffle between kids and one or two very minor first aid cases. That was it.

  ‘So,’ Carol said, finally looking up from a printed A4 sheet, ‘a potential client emailed Mansfield HQ to report, and I quote, their “very bad experience with Miss Amanda Danson, at the West Bridgford branch”.’

  Amanda opened her mouth to protest but Carol raised a hand to silence her while she continued to read.

  ‘“Miss Danson seemed distracted and disinterested when I came in to view the facilities with a view to my youngest child starting the nursery. Several times I had to repeat information that I consider to be key, and she took a personal telephone call in the middle of my appointment”.’

  Carol stopped reading and put the piece of paper back down on her desk. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back in her chair, looking at her expectantly.

  Amanda opened her eyes wide and shook her head.

  ‘I swear nothing like that happened, Carol.’

  She knew she sounded defensive and unconvincing but she was telling the truth. Her mind was still racing through the week, trying
to match up anything that could be construed as negligent or unprofessional. She came up with a blank.

  ‘Did the person leave their details?’ Amanda asked. ‘If I knew their name I could—’

  ‘I haven’t got that information,’ Carol shook her head. ‘Apparently, they told Mansfield they weren’t interested in any involvement in an investigation but simply wanted to let this branch know about their experience as a new client.’

  Amanda wrestled with a sharp niggle of injustice.

  ‘But anyone could just ring up and say things about any one of us,’ she tried to reason. ‘They should at least be required to leave their names to prove they’re genuine.’

  Carol’s face darkened.

  ‘This is not the response I’d hoped to get from you, Amanda.’ She slid a sheet of paper over the desk. ‘Take this away with you and have a good look through it. It’s a list of the appointments you’ve conducted with new parents for the past two weeks.’

  Amanda took the list but she didn’t look at it.

  Of course she felt defensive, she was being attacked through no fault of her own. She couldn’t deal with this happening, not after what had happened in the past. It was like history repeating itself.

  ‘I already know there’s no point in going through this list.’ She glared back at Carol. ‘I would never take a personal phone call in the middle of an appointment.’

  Sure, her mum had called her at work a couple of times since the accident just to check she was OK. But she had definitely been on her break both times, never in the middle of showing a parent around.

  ‘Well, I have to add there have been one or two comments made to me lately from colleagues, so it’s not just this complaint that concerns me.’

  Amanda was speechless. Who had been ‘commenting’ – code word for snitching – to their common enemy, Carol? Not Sarah, she was dizzy and thoughtless at times but surely. . .

  ‘I realise you’ve had the accident to contend with and, if you recall, I did suggest you take a little more time off if you needed it,’ Carol continued. ‘People have noticed your attention span isn’t what it was, and you seem to have lost interest in social activities that are important to the branch as a team.’