Knife Edge

by Fergus McNeill

  They emerged from streets of sturdy old stone terraces that huddled about the feet of the skyscrapers and soon hit the dull concrete and asphalt of the highway, the muffled rhythmic bumps marking time on the uneven surface. The back seats were clean and the whole interior smelled of that sickly air-freshener that valet companies used. Naysmith kept his mouth closed and breathed through his nose as he stared out of the window at the railway tracks running alongside, lined with battered cargo wagons and tall boxcars bearing the Union Pacific logo. Vast trucks with polished chrome and elaborate paintwork kept pace on the inside lane until the taxi slowed and cut across to the off-ramp. They were near the airport now, with the telltale scatter of wretched business hotels, grey blocks of misery beneath neon names. Overnight incarceration for those not worthy of a place in the city – for the reps with their samples and their brochures, and their stink of desperation.

  It was a flat fare from downtown – thirty-eight dollars – and he handed his last two twenties to the driver before getting out. Extending the handle of his case, he made his way inside the airport and went to check in.

  There was a long queue for security, but he used the time to assess the passengers in front of him, identifying which of them would be slow and making sure he wasn’t behind them at the X-ray machines.

  The departure area felt like a European airport – long and quiet and bland. There were rows of black faux-leather seats for people with no lounge access, and a few duty-free shops, but everything seemed more expensive than it should. He found a bottle of perfume for Kim, then checked his wallet and frowned. Not something he could charge to the company credit card, so he turned and made his way to the nearest cash machine.

  Inserting his card, he tapped in his PIN and gazed down at the small screen. There was a pause before it cleared and displayed a message he hadn’t seen before: Insufficient Funds.

  Insufficient funds? He’d only asked for a hundred dollars. Straightening up, he hit the ‘Cancel’ button and took his card, staring at it. There had been four or five grand in that account; he hadn’t made any withdrawals on this trip, nobody could have stolen his details …

  Turning away from the machine, he took out his phone. Kim had a card on the account, but she never withdrew more than twenty or thirty pounds at a time …

  He hit the speed dial for her name and lifted the phone to his ear, but the call went straight to voicemail. Again.

  A whole weekend without a call or even a text message.

  Naysmith stared at his phone for a long moment, then slowly returned it to his pocket. Sudden suspicions rose in his mind, like the first wisps of smoke, but he stamped them down before they engulfed him – there was nothing he could do until he got home. Unclenching his fists, he forced his shoulders to relax, then turned and made his way towards the departure gate to wait for his flight.

  He slept fitfully. The plane was half empty, so there was no chance of an upgrade, but one of the flight attendants had taken a shine to him and moved him to the emergency-exit row, where he could stretch out in relative comfort. She woke him as they began their descent into London, fastening herself into the jump seat opposite him a few moments later. He watched her as she clicked her seatbelt into place – early thirties, bottle-blonde hair, with nice eyes and the mandatory excess of make-up.

  ‘Good trip?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not bad.’ Naysmith smiled reflexively. Flirting became an automatic response after a while. ‘More business than pleasure, unfortunately.’

  She grinned at that.

  ‘What is it that you do?’

  He smiled to himself.

  ‘I work with people,’ he mused. ‘Keep track of them, get to know how they function, who they are. Helps me to deal with them better.’

  ‘Like a corporate headhunter? Or more of a troubleshooter?’

  ‘It’s kind of a unique role, but I suppose headhunter is close enough.’ He sat back for a moment, openly admiring the curves of her figure accentuated by the smart airline uniform, then leaned forward with a grin. ‘Now, let me see what I can guess about you …’

  By the time he got home, his mood was black. An endless succession of calls to Kim, starting as soon as he stepped off the plane, and every one had gone straight to voicemail. He’d wondered if she’d lost her phone, but there was no reply from the landline number either.

  Nothing since he’d left for Canada.

  He wanted to be concerned about her. Angry, even. Mentally, he was ready to shout at her when he got in, to tell her off for worrying him with her silence.

  But she wasn’t there and, as he put his bags down in the hallway and walked to the foot of the stairs, it dawned on him that he’d known she wouldn’t be. Something was wrong, and it had been wrong before he left.

  There was a folded piece of paper – a conspicuous white square – propped up on the hall table. She had left him a note. Closing his eyes for a moment, he steadied his breathing, calming himself before he opened it.

  Rob,

  I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry, but I just can’t do this. If you care about me, please don’t try to contact me. Just forget about us, and forgive me if you can.

  Goodbye.

  K

  He stood absolutely still for some time, staring down at the paper. There was a terrible, cold knot in his stomach, and he became aware that his hands were sweating.

  Breathe, damn it!

  He took a moment, centring himself, then read the letter again, committing it to memory. All the pieces were fitting together now – all the little warning signs that in his folly he’d ignored – and he suddenly understood.

  His hand crumpled the note, screwing it up into a tight little ball of paper.

  He needed to think, think clearly. And then, when he was fucking calm, he would find Kim and bring her back. It might take a while, but time meant nothing to him. He wasn’t going to lose her – not now, not ever. Dimly, he was aware that his fingernails were gouging into his palm and he unclenched his hand.

  It would be a game like no other.

  38

  Taunton was just as she’d left it. The same small town, with the same small shops – an unglamorous, in-between sort of place that she’d been so desperate to escape ever since her childhood had run aground. And now she was back.

  The sunlight was harsh and she squinted as she walked slowly down towards the river and leaned on the black railings. Below her, the water slid lazily by, drifting beneath the bridges as it wound its way through the town. On the opposite bank, weathered old men were dotted along a low pontoon jetty like statues, their fishing rods motionless while orange floats gleamed bright against the murky brown.

  A group of young girls made their way along the path towards her, turning aside to descend on one of the benches in the small strip of grassy park, laughing, gossiping. She’d sat there herself so many times, with a teenager’s impatience to escape, certain that the grass would be greener elsewhere, but that seemed like a long time ago now. Taunton might not have changed, but she had.

  She turned to stare at the white ironwork of the North Street bridge, and the reflection gently rippling on the smooth surface of the water below it. Why couldn’t things have worked out just a little bit more simply for her?

  Pushing herself up off the railing, she wandered slowly along the concrete riverbank. To her right there was a large paved area where boys were pulling tricks on their skateboards, rumbling down the slight slope then clattering up against the low walls and down again. Practising their moves to impress the girls.

  She remembered coming here with boys, catching the flicker of interest in their wandering eyes, learning how to keep their attention, especially as she came to realise how much she desired it. She was never quite sure what it was that they saw in her, but the way they watched made her feel like she was worth something – a temporary escape from the shadow of her popular sister. At first she’d tried to keep control, to set limits, but the ones who would take n
o for an answer always seemed to condemn her for it afterwards. Frigid, tease, bitch – she’d grown to hate those names. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to the edgier guys. Somehow they were always the most exciting, the most honest. There was an inevitability about being with them and she accepted it. Friends whispered behind her back, but she knew it was just jealousy – she dared to go where they wouldn’t. It took courage to surrender, and there was freedom in letting go.

  And so she had come to value those relationships, working hard to hold on to them. She had finally realised how little men wanted from her.

  And how much.

  The tarmac path sloped up to join the road bridge and she turned right, gazing idly in the shop windows as she wandered towards the town centre. There were a lot of coffee shops here now – that was new – but the rest of the shopping area looked disappointingly familiar. She bought herself a frappuccino, then started to make her way slowly back down towards the river.

  Sarah wouldn’t finish work until after five thirty. She checked her watch – 3.35 p.m. Still much too early …

  … but the bed and breakfast place would be open for check-in now. She sipped the last of her drink, then dropped the empty container into a litter bin with a sigh.

  Might as well get it over with.

  She’d found the B & B on the Internet. It wasn’t far from her old school – an imposing Victorian house set back from the road, the harsh brick frontage softened by tall trees. Along the front of the property ran a long wall topped by white stonework – matching the brick and stone of the building itself.

  It was only a couple of minutes’ drive from where she’d left the car and there was no difficulty finding it – a large wooden sign with gold lettering painted on a maroon background boasted of en-suite bedrooms, colour TVs and four-poster beds.

  She turned left, bumping across the pavement and passing between the two grand, sculpted gateposts. Beyond the perimeter trees, the gardens had been levelled and tarmacked over – a smooth grey sea of car park, with the house jutting up in the centre like an island.

  There was only one other vehicle – a small blue minivan, its nose tucked neatly against the fence that lined the side of the property. Kim pulled in beside it and switched off the ignition. As she got out, she glanced up at the house – three storeys and very tall, looming against the bright sky, dark windows glaring down on her.

  Lifting open the hatchback, she hefted the two smaller bags out onto the tarmac, then stood for a moment, staring at them. So little to show for her life away from Taunton, she thought. The big case would have to stay in the car – it couldn’t come with her just now.

  Trundling the bags across the car park, she followed signs directing her around to the far side of the building, where a stone portico housed a flight of three steps leading up to the windowed front door. A small card taped inside the glass announced ‘Vacancies’.

  Inside, there was a terrible hush that made her think of visiting elderly relatives when she was a child. Every sound seemed magnified – the creak of the door closing behind her, the clatter of her shoes on the polished wooden floorboards – and the weight of the house’s disapproval pressed down on her, as though her very presence disturbed the peace. She decided to carry her bags rather than pull them.

  Ahead of her was a wall with a small serving hatch closed off by a pane of frosted glass, and below it a semicircular table with an old brass desk bell.

  She glanced around, then tapped the top of the bell, listening as its loud ring slowly died under her hand. On the other side of the wall there was movement, the unhurried approach of purposeful footsteps, and the frosted glass slid open to reveal a severe woman in her fifties with immaculate short grey hair.

  ‘Good afternoon?’ It was more question than greeting, and she peered over the top of her spectacles as though the arrival of guests was a terrible trial for her.

  ‘Hi, I’m Kim Nichols. I’ve booked a room?’

  The woman, wearing a navy-blue buttoned cardigan, studied her for a moment longer, then consulted a large, leather-bound book.

  ‘Ah yes, here we are.’ She glanced up. ‘For a week?’

  ‘That’s right. Maybe longer, I’m not sure …’

  The landlady looked at her doubtfully.

  ‘It depends on my work,’ Kim explained. And on escaping Rob. ‘Can I let you know in a couple of days if I’ll need the room longer?’

  ‘Well, we do get so very busy,’ the woman told her gravely. ‘The earlier I know the better …’

  She hesitated for a moment, before her desire for money overtook her disapproval, then leaned closer to the hatch as though bestowing a great kindness. ‘But I can probably let you have it a little longer as things stand at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Kim smiled.

  The woman nodded to herself.

  ‘Now, if you’d care to fill out one of these …’ she handed a registration form through the hatch ‘… and we require an imprint of your credit card, or a deposit of two nights’ stay in advance.’

  Kim handed over her credit card and filled in the form.

  The landlady seemed to brighten once she’d authorised the payment. She received the completed form graciously and passed Kim’s card back to her along with a room key on a heavy plastic fob.

  ‘I’ve put you in our number eleven,’ she explained. ‘It’s very cosy, up on the second floor. I would have offered you something on the first, but a young lady like you won’t be troubled by the stairs, as some of my older guests would be.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Breakfast is served between seven and nine and is taken in the room at the end of the hall there …’ She indicated it with a slight tilt of her head. ‘And the stairs are behind you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  And then the woman was closing the hatch.

  ‘Do let us know if there’s anything else you require. Good afternoon.’

  The hatch slid shut, and the footsteps moved away.

  Jamming the massive plastic tag into the pocket of her jeans with some difficulty, Kim picked up her bags and approached the old wooden staircase. An ornate, carved banister gleamed with polish, though the narrow strip of elderly carpet that ran down the centre of the steps was held in place by scuffed brass rods.

  She climbed noisily to the first floor, where the stairs ended and a broad hallway traversed the length of the house. Engraved brass plaques indicated ‘Rooms 6–8’ to the left and ‘Rooms 7–10’ to the right.

  Which way was number eleven?

  And then she noticed one door that was different to the solid dark wood of the others – a magnolia-painted fire door, with a small brass plate that read ‘11 & 12’. Passing through, she found a steep flight of grey-carpeted steps squeezed in between two walls, so narrow that she almost had to take her bags up one at a time. At the top, the steps turned sharply onto a tiny landing with a skylight window and two doors.

  Kim fished out the key, opened the door to number eleven, and peered into her room.

  At least it was clean.

  She was right up inside the roof of the old house – she could tell from the odd shape of the walls and the sharply sloping ceiling. It was very small and the only light came from a tiny dormer window, showing the minimal furnishings that between them managed to fill the cramped little room.

  An old portable TV occupied one end of the dressing table, with a single wooden chair beside it, and there was a built-in wardrobe with three anti-theft clothes hangers. One corner of the room had been partitioned off to make the en suite, but it was only big enough for a toilet and a washbasin.

  Kim sighed.

  There were no four-poster beds up here – no room for them. She pictured herself a young damsel from a nineteenth-century novel, imprisoned at the top of the house until she surrendered herself to an arranged marriage. Smiling sadly at the thought, she sat down on the bed, feeling the dip in the middle where it had seen one too many nights of pas
sion.

  ‘It’s very cosy, up on the second floor … I can probably let you have it a little longer …’

  Kim let herself sink back onto the bed, resting her tired eyes for a moment.

  No wonder the landlady thought it might remain available.

  But it was clean and, more importantly, it was cheap. And right now, she didn’t know how long she’d have to make her money last, how long it would be before she was free of Rob. She prayed it wouldn’t be too long.

  It was a little after seven when she turned onto Gordon Road. She knew there was just enough room to turn around at the end of the narrow cul-de-sac, but she managed to find a space and pulled up almost outside the terraced house she’d shared with Sarah for so many years.

  She switched off the ignition and sat for a while, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cooled, trying to think what she would say. She’d sent her sister a text message to tell her she was coming, but that was all – no reason for her visit, no hint of what had happened. It wasn’t the sort of thing you did over the phone, but now that she was here, the prospect of doing it face-to-face seemed impossible too.

  The street was so familiar – an unbroken line of two-storey houses on either side, pressed in tight to the narrow pavements. This was where she’d felt her first taste of freedom, her first step away from her old life, even if it had meant staying in the same town.

  This was where she’d lived before she met Rob.

  But she knew she couldn’t stay here now – it simply wasn’t safe. He’d been here too often, picking her up and dropping her off in their early days together, spending the night sometimes – he’d brought her back here for Sarah’s birthday, and at Christmas.

  No, she couldn’t stay. She would get in and get out as quickly as she could. That would be safest, and the less interrogation she had to face the better.