by J. A. Baker
London
8
Celia
Celia turns her fist sideways and hammers on the door once more. No answer. This is the right address; she is sure of it. She checked it over and over again before setting off and timed her journey to get here for early evening so she would catch her friend when she returns home after work. She turns and looks around. Up and down the long avenue, people scurry along, keen to get indoors. Cars park up, squeezing into the tightest of spaces, doors slam, children chatter as they clamber out of vehicles, arms bulging with schoolbags and pictures, and all manner of belongings. Celia watches them as they slink off into the warmth and security of their homes. She considers stopping them, asking if they’ve seen the lady who lives here, but doubts that many of them know who their neighbours even are. Such a long road with so many houses and everybody too busy with their own lives to worry about anybody else’s. The place has a business-like feel to it, not the sort of street where people stop and chat or knock to borrow a cup of sugar. They look too official for that sort of thing; too active and aloof to become involved in the minutiae of one another’s lives.
Stepping over the gravel, Celia cups her hands together and peers in through the living room window, her breath misting up the glass in small, pulsing waves that grow and retreat in a fine circular motion. She stands for a while, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Something is wrong but she can’t quite work out what it is that’s amiss. There is something about this place, something that doesn’t quite feel right, like misshapen parts of a puzzle forced into place. A small tic starts up in her jaw as a flicker of a shadow darts out of view in her peripheral vision; a grey indistinct movement that sets her pulse racing. She twists around to look, but everything appears the same as it was a few moments ago. Nothing has moved. There is nobody in the room.
Stepping back from the glass, Celia rummages in her pocket for her phone. She’s tried ringing a few times but hasn’t received a reply and is getting concerned. This isn’t right. It’s not like her friend to just disappear like this, not like her at all. She usually gets in touch every couple of days to let Celia know how she is, and now her absence has set alarm bells ringing.
Holding out her phone, Celia squints down at it, wondering if she should call somebody. She has no idea who that somebody would be. Apart from Greta, their one-time foster mother, they don’t really have any mutual friends or acquaintances. They only have each other in common; fused together by their past. Thrown together by their warped history.
Scrolling down the list of numbers, more for inspiration than anything else, Celia feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up in fear. A prickling sensation covers her skin as she slowly places her phone back in her coat pocket and turns around, her chest closing up with unease. She lets out a small shriek as a pair of dark eyes stares out at her from the corner of the bay window. Holding her hand to her neck, she watches as a large black cat hisses at her then arches its back and leaps away from the glass, slinking its long body over the back of the armchair next to the window. Celia lets out a nervous laugh, her legs suddenly watery as she silently chastises herself for being so easily frightened. After an arduous train journey down from York, where she was forced to stand because somebody took her reserved seat, she is feeling rather fragile and could do with a sit down and a cup of tea, but instead is standing here in an alien environment with no idea how to get to her hotel, where her friend is, or how she should even go about finding her.
Fighting back tears, Celia sits down on the step, worry and fear consuming her. It was possibly too rash a move coming here. She should have stayed in York, rung the local police station, made them aware of her concerns, but as it is, she is here, sitting on Eva’s doorstep with no idea of what her next move is going to be. Greta always chastised her for being too impulsive. And she was right. Greta was always right.
Celia puffs out her cheeks and runs her fingers through her hair, suddenly weary of it all. Why would Eva stop calling, not reply to her texts and simply disappear out of her life? It doesn’t make any sense. They are friends, their bond too strong to break; united by fragmented childhoods, strengthened by their need to leave it all behind. And yet Eva is so fragile, so easily dented. She appears confident to those who meet her, but Celia knows her better than anyone. Underneath her tough exterior is a desperate, broken little girl waiting to be healed.
Celia feels her heart thrum out an uncomfortable erratic beat. If there is one true thing she knows about her friend, it is that she is also prone to bouts of anxiety and depression and… she doesn’t want to think about the other things. The things that they have worked hard to break away from. It was all such a long time ago. They’re now both fully functioning adults with decent jobs and busy lives. They are not the children that were abandoned by their parents, those hurting, damaged kids who struggled to cope with their lot in life. What they were does not define them. It’s what they are now that matters. And they are both hard working, conscientious members of society who, despite their ragged upbringing, have made it. Against all the odds, they have remained stoic and positive and are getting on with their lives. They keep in touch, helping one another with the day-to-day problems that life often throws their way, seeing it from the same perspective. Their lives have always ticked along fairly nicely since leaving home, getting half-decent qualifications and better than expected jobs. They have survived. Eva even made the move here to London from York on her own. No job to go to, no place to live. She just took the plunge and did it.
So, where is she? Why has Eva suddenly gone to ground?
A small pulse taps at Celia’s neck, making her shiver. She digs her nails into her palms. This definitely isn’t right. Eva needs her; she needs to be kept in check.
She can’t manage on her own.
Dropping her hands by her sides, she drums her fingers against her thigh, then stands up, turns once more and stares in through the living room window, her eyes sweeping over the furniture and bric-a-brac dotted around the place. That’s when it dawns on her. It’s the picture on the fireplace. It’s wrong. It doesn’t fit. The photograph is the puzzle piece that spoils the whole image. It isn’t the one that Eva has talked about for so many years, the one that Celia feels as if she knows every inch of. The image sitting there doesn’t match her friend’s description. It’s a sharp black and white picture of a young, fresh-faced couple, arms slung around each other, hair whipping into their smiling faces as if they don’t have a care in the world; not the small, blurry image of her parents that Eva has described to her in such great detail Celia feels as if she took the picture herself. Her heart starts up again in that irregular, sickly beat that makes her feel mildly dizzy and disorientated. Where has the picture gone and more to the point, where is Eva?
‘Can I help you?’
The voice sends a streak of electricity coursing across her skin, an uncomfortable tingling sensation that pierces her flesh and races through her veins. Celia whips around and finds herself standing face-to-face with a lithe, glamorous woman in her late twenties. Her blonde hair is scraped back into a loose ponytail accentuating her smooth angular features. Her face is free of make-up and her eyes are creased ever so slightly at the corners as she watches Celia intently, waiting for her reply.
‘Erm, sorry, yes. At least I hope so.’ Celia stops and clears her throat, suddenly embarrassed by her stance. She feels like a naughty schoolchild caught red-handed. She was so sure this was the right address, so utterly certain. ‘I’m looking for a friend,’ she says quietly, fatigue gripping her, ‘but it appears I’m at the wrong house. I’m so sorry,’ she whispers, her voice croaky with shame.
A thousand thoughts whirl through her head. She no longer wants to stay in London tonight. She has travelled all the way down here from York and is wishing she had stayed at home and gone with her initial gut instinct to contact the local police station. But even doing that would have felt silly and foolish; an over-reaction from an anxious friend. She
should leave here, get the next train home. This is ridiculous. She feels like a prize idiot.
‘It’s not Eva you’re looking for, is it?’ the woman says quietly, her chiselled features softening into something more welcoming, a look that makes Celia want to cry. She has passed a sea of indifferent expressions on the way here; everybody busy; everybody on their way to somewhere else, bustling past her with such a sense of purpose she felt as if she were invisible.
Celia nods and swallows down a hard lump that has risen in her throat. This is perfectly ludicrous. She is a grown woman with the means to get back home should she decide to; an independent, sharp-minded individual, so why does she always feel like the damage she carries on the inside is visible on the outside? No matter how hard she has worked at leaving it all behind, her turbulent childhood follows her around, a constant reminder of what sort of person she really is; broken and vulnerable. That’s what she and Eva have in common; their scars. Hidden from the world but glaringly obvious to one other.
‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? You don’t look too well,’ the woman says quietly, and before Celia can answer, she finds herself being ushered inside by this fair faced lady who insists she take a seat in the lounge while she boils the kettle and locates Eva’s forwarding address.
Celia stares around the carefully furnished living room, drinking it all in – the matching grey fabrics and contrasting black throws, the modern art hanging on the walls. She doubts this is how Eva would have had it although she doesn’t know for certain. She never visited her in London after Eva moved. They often made promises to one another to meet up but it never ever came to anything. And now, the one time she does make the effort and Eva isn’t even here.
Celia nibbles at her nails as she listens to the familiar clink of crockery coming through from the kitchen, all the while doing her best to stem the uneasy sensation that has settled in the pit of her stomach.
Eva has moved?
The feeling she had that something was terribly awry has proved to be correct. The Eva that Celia knows needs stability in her life. She craves a day-to-day routine and the last time she spoke to her, Eva made no mention of moving. She talked of her job and a handful of close friends. She even mentioned having a steady boyfriend. Her soul partner. Those were the words she used. That was what she had called him. Celia has no idea what his actual name is. Eva was pretty coy when it came to revealing any details about him but it was obvious that she was happy. So why would she suddenly up and leave?
Celia closes her eyes for a second and exhales, her nostrils wide with worry and exasperation. Everything was normal. She was so normal. Not the frantic, rash Eva of old, but a measured well-balanced woman with everything to look forward to. Or so it seemed. That’s the thing with Eva. She always did excel at lying. Maybe Celia doesn’t really know her at all. Maybe after all these years, everything she thought she knew about her friend, is way off beam; a complete tissue of lies. After all, Celia only knows what Eva has chosen to tell her.
Before being placed together with Greta, they had lived separate lives; mysterious, fragmented lives that were so chaotic and jumbled and miserable, they were only too happy to throw off those shackles and reinvent themselves the first opportunity they got. Celia told the odd untruth but was always plagued with guilt and retracted it almost as soon as she said it. Nothing major. It was more a case of building up her past, pretending it didn’t happen. All she ever wanted was the normal upbringing others had had. What was so wrong with telling everyone her dad worked in a bank and her mum was a fashion designer at a top retail outlet? It was better than the truth. Better than telling people her dad was in prison for murder and her mother was a raging alcoholic who barely even recognised her own children. And she was glad to be with Greta. It was a happy place to be, full of warmth and laughter and security. Celia welcomed being in such an environment, whereas Eva railed against it. She hated every foster parent she had ever been with. And apparently there had been many. Despite the attempts of a string of social workers, Eva couldn’t settle anywhere. All she talked about was being back home with her own parents even though her father was violent and her mother was ineffectual, making no attempt to protect herself or her child from his blows, often becoming embroiled in it, instigating many of the quarrels and arguments. Eva had been removed when she was no more than a toddler and had erratic contact over the years with her parents which had soon petered out.
Snatches of Celia’s teenage conversations with Eva come back to her as she sits and waits for the tea. There was another child. Or at least she thinks so. So much has happened in the intervening years, a lot of her early memories seem so blurry and intangible; half hidden in the shadows of her mind. She has enough issues piecing together her own formative years, never mind anybody else’s. And Eva told so many awful lies that even now Celia still can’t sift through the untruths to the actual facts. Eva never did realise or appreciate that living with Greta was a blessing.
‘Here you go.’ The voice snaps her back to reality as a cup of hot tea is handed to her and a small plate of biscuits is placed on the coffee table next to her chair. Celia smiles and sips at the tea, glad of its warmth and familiarity. The thought of eating a dry biscuit, however, makes her want to heave. But tea… She smiles; why does tea always make everything seem so much better?
‘Thank you,’ Celia murmurs, a sudden flush creeping up her neck and over her face. Lifting her hand, she brushes it over her forehead and runs her fingers through her hair, pushing auburn locks back out of her eyes.
‘Oh, and this is the forwarding address she gave us. I clipped it to a magnet on the side of the fridge along with all our other stuff. We haven’t received any post that needed forwarding on so I almost threw it out. So glad I hung onto it now.’
Celia reaches over and takes the piece of paper. ‘I’m Celia by the way.’ She almost adds that she is a friend of Eva’s but stops in time, realising how ridiculous that would sound. What sort of person would turn up on the doorstep not knowing their friend had moved house? It would make her appear foolish, perhaps even a little bit unbalanced, and that’s the last thing she is. Celia prides herself on being staid and sensible. She is the thoughtful one, the honest one.
‘Jesus, how rude of me!’ the woman replies, her smile lighting up the room as she slaps a hand over her forehead to indicate she is a complete klutz. ‘I’m Marie. Pleased to meet you, Celia, even though you did scare the living daylights out of me out there.’
Celia flushes even hotter, remembering how she clambered over the gravel and peered in the window like some sort of stalker.
‘Yes, sorry about that,’ she whispers, feeling her strength slowly being sapped away at the lies she is about to tell, ‘I got the dates wrong. I somehow thought Eva was moving next month and not this one.’ Celia turns away, pretending to scrutinise the goings on outside in the street. A car pulls away and an elderly couple walk arm in arm, their bodies hunched with age and weariness. She knows how they feel. It seems as if she has aged a good ten years in just one day, coming down here chasing Eva, worrying about her, trying to work out what she is up to. Celia takes a shuddering breath and swallows back her fear. If she is being truthful, she has a fair idea of what Eva is up to. That’s what scares her. She hopes she is wrong.
‘She’s moved a long way, hasn’t she?’ Marie chirps, ‘Not so sure I could do that. I really like living in the city. I love its vibrancy and the cosmopolitan feel, and there are so many great places to visit. So many fabulous galleries and coffee shops. Everything is at our fingertips here.’
Celia nods in recognition even though this is only the second time in her life she’s been here. She opens the folded piece of paper and reads the words written there, feeling the blood drain from her head. Doing her best to remain composed, she stares at the address, the location jumping out at her. She was right. Her fears have been confirmed.
Eva has done the one thing Celia has always tried to talk her out of doi
ng. So many times over the years she has begged her not to go through with it. So many times she has told her to leave it alone, to get on with her life and not rake it all up again. And now she has done just that; opened up a very nasty can of worms that once cracked apart, will be almost impossible to put back together. Eva is ripe for the irreparable damage a move like this could cause. She already is damaged. This will only increase her chances of free-falling into a deep depression.
Celia takes another gulp of hot tea, a tepid panacea for her current predicament. It’s clear now why Eva didn’t tell her of the move. She would have done everything she could to stop her. No good will come of it. Eva knows this and yet she has given up everything she has worked hard for, put everything on the line to unearth her past; a past that she is better off without. A past that didn’t want her.
Fighting back tears and a wave of anger at being kept in the dark, Celia straightens her back, drains her tea and stands up.
‘Thank you so much for this. I do feel like such a fool for getting it all mixed up.’
Marie cocks her head slightly to one side and smiles sadly at her, as if she is a small child. ‘No worries at all. When you do see her, tell your friend I’m remembering to water her azaleas and that they’re still going strong.’
Celia nods and scrunches the paper into a tiny ball before thrusting it deep into her coat pocket. Stupid Eva and her desperate need to go chasing what went before. A disturbed woman in pursuit of people who never wanted her. Celia shakes her head sadly. She has no idea why Eva has done this thing, made this rash move and not informed her, but Celia knows now what it is she must do. She will put her own life on hold to go after her friend. And she will find her. She has to. Leaving her to do this on her own isn’t an option. She knows what she must do to save Eva from herself. She has always known.
