by R. A. Casey
But I know it’s all in my head. I’ve felt like I’m being watched for years. Even when I was with Gregg. That night on the sofa with Glynn. I thought I saw something moving in the corners of my eyes then, too.
And there’s been other times. Times I’m alone. I’ll look up, and I’ll see something hovering there, just for a moment. And before I can even focus on it properly, it’s gone. Zap. Just like that.
I told Gregg about it once. He didn’t even look at me when I mentioned it. “Eye floaters,” he said. “Want to get yourself a pair of glasses.”
Dismissed. Shot down, just like that.
Yet another reason mine and Gregg’s marriage fell apart so drastically.
But now I’m here with Freddie, and just as I see the movement above, it disappears again. I blink a few times. Nothing there. Gone. Eye floaters. That’s all it is. It annoys me that Gregg was right all those years ago. It annoys me that he was right about a lot of things.
I’m lying here awake, listening to Freddie’s snoring. I can hear something outside. It sounds like teenagers laughing. Again, as much as I know it will bother the neighbours, I don’t mind the outside noise. Reminds me that I’m not alone.
I look at the streetlamp outside our window. It’s flickering again. Freddie rang someone from the council about it yesterday, and someone came to take a look at it. It looks like whatever they’ve done, it hasn’t done much.
But again. I don’t mind. The light comforts me.
And I know I won’t be sleeping tonight anyway.
I look over at Freddie. Look at his muscular outline lying there in bed beside me. And I want to lean over and wrap my arms around him. Hold him tight.
Instead, I lean over. Whisper into his ear the most sincere words inside me right now.
“I love you. So, so much.”
He grunts a little. Stirs. I want him to turn around. To tell me he loves me too. To distract me from what I know I’m going to have to do.
But then he rolls back into a comfy position and starts snoring again.
I smile, my eyes welling up with tears. Of course, I can’t hide from it any longer. I can’t put it off any longer. I need to face reality, to face the truth.
My gorgeous, caring boyfriend cannot delay the inevitable for much longer.
I step out of bed. Quietly as I can. I walk across the bedroom floor. The house isn’t a new build, but it’s robust. Well, for the most part. Not like the old cottage I used to live in. I learned where every creaky floorboard was in that place. Spent so many nights climbing slowly up the stairs to avoid waking Charlie up. Stepping into his room. Leaning down and kissing him on the head and telling him how much I loved him and how grateful I was for him and how I didn’t deserve him—
“Sarah?”
I stop.
Turn around.
Freddie is staring at me in the darkness with tired eyes.
“It’s okay, love,” I say. “Just need to pee.”
He nods. Rolls back over. “I love you,” he mumbles.
I smile and feel a tear roll down my face. I want to go back to bed with him. I want to close my eyes and let him wrap his arms around me and forget everything.
I want to ignore the truth. I want to run from reality.
But I know I can’t run from this much longer.
So I step out of the bedroom. I walk into the bathroom. Lock the door. Check it’s locked. Then check again.
And then I turn around to face this room that still barely feels like my own. I see the hole leading to the attic, right above the toilet, and I hear the creaking up there of the wind.
And then I stare at the cistern at the back of the toilet.
I walk over to it. Stand in front of it. My heart is thumping. My hands are shaking. And as I stand here, I have the horrible sense that Freddie might’ve already been in here. That he might’ve found it.
But no. If he found it, he’d have questions.
A lot of questions.
I put my hands on the side of the cistern lid. I lift it. Slowly. I have visions of dropping it. Of the immense bang. Waking Freddie up. Making him worry.
And having nowhere to hide what I found in the woods near Charlie’s old school today.
I lift it slower.
Place it down on the floor, being careful to stay super quiet.
And then I look down and see the plastic bag I placed in there staring back up at me.
I swallow a lump in my dry throat. My stomach does somersaults. I’m not sure I can do this. Not sure I can handle this.
But I reach inside the cistern.
The icy water wraps around my hands.
I lift that plastic bag out, and I stare at what’s inside it.
My heart beats faster. I swear I hear movement from mine and Freddie’s room, but it’s just those kids outside. A glass smashing somewhere.
I hold the plastic bag with my shaking hands, and I stare at what’s inside.
The thing I found in the woods today.
The very same thing I found in that parcel Calvin handed me yesterday.
The parcel I swore was real.
The parcel that went missing when I passed out.
The parcel Freddie claimed never to have seen at all.
I stare at it, heart pounding, wanting to vomit, and I read the words staring back at me.
I KNOW EVERYTHING
Written in red ink.
And beside that written note…
I see it, the other thing from the parcel, and my head starts to spin.
Then I fall to my knees and vomit into the toilet.
Chapter Sixteen
I decide it’s best not to tell Freddie about the note I found in the woods—or the rest of the parcel contents, for that matter.
Some things are best kept to ourselves, after all.
Right?
I go back to bed after vomiting into the toilet. I put the note back into the toilet cistern. And I put the other thing in there, too. The other thing I discovered. The thing I can barely even begin to understand how it has appeared after all these years. Why someone would choose to taunt me like this.
All I know is that I’m not insane. I did not imagine Calvin as Freddie suggested. I did not imagine the parcel.
But then that leaves questions of its own.
Because if that parcel was real… then how had it gone from in my hand one second to in the middle of the woods near Charlie’s old school a day later?
I swallow a lump in my throat. I’m in bed, and it’s early. The bedroom is stuffy. I can hear birdsong, so loud, almost too loud. Freddie is downstairs making breakfast. Quorn bacon butties, as usual. Another part of his meat-free kick. Disgusting. Look like fucking shoe soles. Smell even worse.
As I lie here, I rub my eyes. I’ve barely slept a wink. A fog hangs over me, the fog that always comes with a lack of sleep. I spent the whole night awake, tossing and turning, trying to think about everything. Calvin. The parcel. The note: I KNOW EVERYTHING.
The thing accompanying the note.
And then how that parcel went missing as I lay there collapsed on the kitchen floor.
Only to turn up when I just so happened to be at Charlie’s old school field a day later.
I can’t make sense of any of it. Nobody knew I was going to Broughton, for one, and especially not the school fields. I didn’t tell Freddie a thing about it. And I didn’t speak to anybody else.
But as I lie there, listening to Freddie whistling downstairs, I am met with a realisation that I can’t deny.
Somebody moved that parcel from my hand.
Somebody took it from me, and then they took it into the woods for me to find.
And there are only so many people it could be.
I think of Calvin. There at the door one second. Gone, the next.
Could he have sneaked in?
Taken it from me as a part of some game?
I think of him standing beside me at the school field. A memory resurfaced. He w
as there. That day Charlie went missing, he was there.
I can’t see how he wasn’t involved.
And yet…
There’s another possibility I’ve tried not to entertain. A possibility that makes me feel sick, right to the core.
What if it was Freddie?
I shake my head as I lie on the plump, sweaty pillow. I love Freddie. He loves me. He cares about me. He wouldn’t do a thing to hurt me.
And yet, I can’t help picturing him walking into the kitchen.
Taking that parcel—and its contents—from my hand.
Hiding it so I can’t find it.
I shudder. Maybe he did it innocently. Maybe he saw what I’d found and wanted to hide it so I wouldn’t freak out. Sure, it would be cruel to make me believe I was going crazy. But maybe in his twisted logic, it was better that way than to face the truth.
But… no.
If it were innocent, he would’ve had questions.
Lots of questions.
I know Freddie. He isn’t he type to let things go easily.
I think of who else it could be as Freddie clatters around with the pots in the sink. He’s sweet, but he doesn’t have the deftest of touches. I think of the people I’ve run into. I think of Glynn over at Broughton. What was he doing there? Did I catch him by surprise?
Was this something to do with him?
Was Charlie’s disappearance something to do with him?
I think of the bruise under his eye that night he came to visit me. The night we had sex. The questions I wanted to ask him, and the answers I couldn’t give.
I think of all these things.
But I draw a blank.
All I know is a man called Calvin came to my door, gave me the parcel, vanished without a trace. And I’m pretty sure that same man was there on the day Charlie went missing.
I think about going to the police. About telling them everything.
And then I feel a knot in my stomach.
Resistance.
One thing is for sure now, as I lie here in bed. Somebody knows something about my past. And I can’t help wondering if they know something about Charlie, too. If it links, somehow.
If maybe my hope, deep down, that he’s still out there, may not be in vain after all.
But then why do this?
Why do any of this?
And just what doors in my mind are going to be opened, all in aid of finding out the truth about what is happening to me?
I hear the front door close, and I know I am alone.
I yawn, but I figure there’s no point staying in bed. Today, I’m going to investigate. Maybe I’ll tell Freddie about what’s going on in time. But for now, I need to keep this to myself. Especially when I cannot rule out who is stalking me. Who is doing this to me.
I have to keep my cards close to my chest.
I walk into the bathroom. Use the toilet. And as I sit there, I can’t help lifting the lid and checking if the note is still there.
As I lift the lid, I have a horrible feeling that the parcel might be gone. That Freddie might’ve found it and moved it.
But when I lift the lid, I see it’s still there.
I pull it out, somewhat relieved. Well, as relieved as anyone with a note etched in red ink with I KNOW EVERYTHING scrawled across it staring back at them can be.
I decide I can’t keep it here. The toilet’s making an annoying squeaking noise, and if Freddie does his usual thing of fixing any problem before I even know it’s a problem, he’ll be in this toilet in no time.
I try to figure out where I can put it so he won’t find it. Our bedside cabinets are a bad idea. The attic, also a bad idea, especially after hearing about the state of that place.
But then maybe if I put it up there, it’ll be out of the way at least. And at least that way I can explain it easily. There has to be plenty of spaces up there to hide it, right?
I go to pull the hatch open to the attic when I hear a knock on the door.
I freeze. My heart starts pounding. Flashbacks to Calvin the other day.
But he wouldn’t come again, would he?
He wouldn’t risk it.
Surely not.
I head downstairs slowly. I stuff the contents of the parcel in my jacket pocket. My legs are weak. My whole body feels numb. I take deep breaths as I approach the door.
I can see someone through the glass standing at the other side.
Dressed in red.
A momentary sense of fear.
And then I hear a cough.
“Postie,” he says. “Got a parcel for you. You alright to sign for it?”
I sigh a breath of relief. The postman. Of fucking course. I need to pull myself together. Need to get a grip.
“Sorry,” I say, turning the lock, lowering the handle.
When I open the door, I see the postman standing there. He’s wearing thin-rimmed glasses, is in his early fifties, I’d guess, balding slightly on top. He smiles at me as he stands there in his grey shorts—why do postmen always wear shorts?
“Hi, Miss,” he says. “Not had the pleasure of meeting you or your fella yet.”
I nod. “Sarah,” I say. “Sarah Evatt. As you’ll probably know from the post.”
He chuckles back at me. “Sarah Evatt. Right. I’m Yuri. Nice to meet you.”
I nod, and I sign the electronic device he hovers before me. It’s a parcel for Freddie, much to my relief. Not sure my ticker can quite handle another mystery parcel just yet.
“Nice house you got yourselves here,” he says.
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Settled in?”
“Just about,” I say. And I sense he can tell I’m lying. Postmen must be excellent judges of character, the number of people they run into every day. Detecting sincerity and false sincerity must be an absolute boon for them.
He takes the little signing device away. Nods. “Well, I guess it can take time, huh? Never easy settlin’ into a new place. Anyway. I’d better be off. But it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Sarah.”
He turns around to walk down the pathway when I sense an opportunity.
“Is there a road called Fairhawk Avenue on your route, by any chance?”
He stops. Frowns. “Fairhawk? Doesn’t ring a bell. Let me guess. Got some mail for ’um?”
“Something… something like that. A bloke. Calvin. Can’t remember his surname. He came by here a couple of days ago with some mail for me. Said he was always receiving post for the couple who used to live here. Sort of… implied it was a common occurrence.”
The postman smiles. “I know what you’re trying to imply here, trouble. But believe me. I’m the best bloody postman in Preston I’ll have you know! I wouldn’t drop a clanger like that. Not a chance.”
He laughs, clearly messing around. And I smile too. Even though I’m disappointed not to find anything else out about Calvin.
“Sorry,” he says. “I wish I could be more help. If it happens again, get a surname and a full address, and I’ll look into it. But I’m pretty sure it ain’t me. It’ll be one of them Hartley’s Mail guys. Hartley’s are always screwing their deliveries up, pardon my French.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, trying to dismiss it. “I know how they can be.”
“Anyway,” he says, raising a hand. “It’s been a pleasure.”
I catch a glimpse of the mole on his Adam’s apple, and I freeze.
My mouth goes dry.
And I’m back there.
The burning sun.
The maize all around me.
Whispering in my ears.
A softness right through my body.
My heart beating faster and faster and his hands hitting my back and—
“Mrs Evatt?” he says.
I’m here again.
In my doorway again.
“You okay there?” the postman asks. “Looked a little unsteady on your feet there.”
I nod. I swallow a lump in my throat, my mouth so dry it’s crying out fo
r water, and I go to shut the door. “Sorry. Thanks for the parcel. I’ll… I’ll see you soon.”
He nods. Doesn’t look entirely convinced I’m okay. But then I guess he’ll deal with a lot of weirdos in his line of work.
I go to step inside, face flushed, wanting to douse my skin in cold water when I notice something.
The neighbour’s house.
Next door, to the right. An old woman lives there who keeps herself to herself. Moira, I think Freddie said she’s called. Always smoking. Never seen her without a cigarette between her lips.
But it’s what’s above her front door that catches my eye.
A CCTV camera.
I look up at that camera, and an idea sparks inside me.
I smile.
Chapter Seventeen
I press Moira’s doorbell and wait for a response.
It’s another scorching, beautiful summer’s day. A group of kids keeps biking around the neighbourhood, clearly playing some kind of bicycle-aided game of hide and seek. A grey-haired bloke walks with his little daughter on her pink scooter beside him. It’s all smiles. All happiness. Even the birds sound elated.
But there’s this sense of claustrophobia circling me. I feel suffocated. Like the events of the last couple of weeks and the summer heat are all conspiring to make me feel more and more ill at ease.
But Moira, my next-door neighbour, will mark a start.
A start of figuring out what the hell is happening to me.
And proving to Freddie that I was right about Calvin after all.
I push the doorbell again. Moira’s house is much like ours, only it looks a lot less well maintained, more run-down. There are garden gnomes everywhere. I’ve got to watch where I step so I don’t knock any over. In the window, I see a black cat staring out at me with bright green eyes. The windows look dusty. Dirty. I can almost picture the damp, mouldy smell inside there from outside.
I hear no footsteps. No movements.
I push the doorbell again when I see movement through the frosted glass.
“Just a second. I’m an old lady, for heaven’s sakes. Not as sprightly as I used to be.”
I step back, feeling a little guilty. Maybe I have been hasty. But it’s all with good reason.
