by Anne Brooke
Nothing.
Fists clenched and tight by her side, she skittered back, sandals clicking the fact of her presence out onto the path. Her heart was beating so loudly she thought anyone could hear it. She should call the police but what good would it do? They’d send no-one. Now in the swift turning of a second, she’d had enough of being scared. And, for the first time, fully understood that decision.
‘You bastard!’ Kate yelled out through the hallway. ‘Enough! This is enough. Don’t you see? I’ll have no more of it!’
Shouting out whatever came to her mind – obscenities, threats, and everything in between – she ran through her house, pushing open doors and yelling into the emptiness beyond. The hallway, the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, the study and upstairs onto the landing, the spare rooms and finally at last into her own bedroom, filling everything with noise and movement. There was nobody here at all, nothing out of place, no threat, no mystery. She’d been wrong. Her bedroom appeared, as had the other rooms in her home, to be as innocent as daylight, harbouring nothing.
No, she couldn’t have been wrong. The front door had been forced, hadn’t it? Someone had tried to get in, had succeeded but achieved little. No violence, no robbery, no damage. It was madness; she couldn’t understand it. If forcing the door and leaving it open had been done purely to scare her, it had worked. But only partially. Because now she was more angry than scared, more confused than wary. She’d moved beyond the point of fearing any attacker; now she simply wanted to hurt him. But no, that was wrong too. She felt fear. She also wanted to live.
Shaking her head and trying to clear her thoughts, find a way through the maze, she stepped into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Behind her something rustled and she spun round.
Something had been altered from this morning. Someone else had been here.
On the pillow, a strip of paper fluttered. The buzzing in her ears grew louder and her throat felt tight, as if a knife was being pressed against her again. What was it? A letter? Another threat? But it wasn’t that, it wasn’t that at all. She held in her hands the corner of a page torn off from something else. On it fragments of red felt and the glitter of one lone star.
It took her thirty seconds to stumble down the stairs again and pick up the phone. The sweat on her skin almost caused her to drop it and she cursed to herself. She should indeed call the police. No, she wouldn’t call them. They wouldn’t believe her and it would waste precious time. Time she no longer had. Besides, she no longer wanted to hand over her life to anyone else. Not any more. She wanted to carve her own path. The rasping of her breath was the only sound she could hear as her fingers jabbed at the familiar numbers.
At two clicks, the ansaphone switched on. She tapped her fingernails on the hall table as she waited for the message to finish.
‘Nicky? It’s me, Kate. I’m ringing to see if things are all right. I need to know how you and the family are. I need to know … no, don’t worry. I can tell you’re not there. You’re probably painting. For your exhibition or something. That’s … great. I’ll … I’ll come round. Now.’
She ended the call. Grabbing keys and purse from the living room, and still clutching the torn paper, she ran out of the house, not caring about the door and trying not to listen to the thoughts and fears in her head. So many of them. And, God, she hoped that none of them would be true.
Afterwards she remembered nothing of her journey. It was a jumble of cars and roads, trees and people, and the sudden onset of another summer shower. She came out of the junction in front of a car on the main road, which flashed and hooted at her, but she took no notice. There was plenty of room. Let them wait. She accelerated into town, ramming her right of way under the bridge, past the Lammas lands and then hurtling across the roundabout heading right. Today the Brighton Road was packed with oncoming traffic and it was all she could do not to force them to give way before her. Surely they could squeeze in somewhere and let her through? But no time for confrontation either or for the stopping and questioning any accident here would bring.
‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered over and over again. ‘For God’s sake, come on.’
At last the road was clear and she was on her way, slamming the gears into fifth and racing up the slow incline, then right past Busbridge Lakes and into her friend’s road. Stopping at an angle to the pavement, she skidded slightly as she did so on leaves compacted by rain, a fact which drew the eye of a passing mother with a pram. Not bothering to lock the car, she raced down the path and, heart thumping in staccato rhythm, hammered her fists on Nicky’s front door.
She had no idea what she would say to her friend, or even if her fears were justified at all. But she had to see her, to reassure herself that everything was well.
‘Come on, Nicky,’ she whispered, her voice choked. ‘Come on, please, please be in. Please let everything be all right.’
It took a lifetime for the door to open, but in truth it couldn’t have been any more than a minute or so. And when it did, the person behind it wasn’t whom she’d hoped she would see.
It was David.
For another second beyond time, the sight of him reassured her. If he were here, surely everything was as it should be? And then logic kicked in; no, it was Thursday. Thursday 7 July. Shouldn’t he be at work? Kate blinked and then looked at him again.
His face was grey, gaunt. As if he’d been up all night with no chance of sleep. Or peace.
When she reached out her hand to touch his arm, he flinched away but she carried on until her fingers were tight around his elbow and she could feel the warmth of his solid flesh beneath the thin shirt.
He glanced down at her fingers as if he didn’t know what they were, or why she had touched him. He didn’t look up.
‘David?’ she shook him, and finally his eyes lurched up at her. Unseeing. Empty. ‘David, what’s wrong?’
‘It’s Nicky,’ he said, and she could barely recognise his voice. ‘She’s missing.’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘What do you mean missing?’ Kate asked, heart twisted inside her and still standing on the doorstep poised to enter. ‘She can’t be. Since when? Why didn’t you ring me?’
David’s face closed up and his eyes darkened.
‘Because I knew,’ he said. ‘Because I knew what you and Nicky did.’
For a second, Kate had no idea what he meant. Then the knowledge of his suspicion kicked in. The night she’d told Nicky about the rape. The night Nicky had stayed. He thought they’d been together. He must have thought they’d made love. She let go of him, her fingers touching and clinging instead to the mottled wood of the door-frame. It saved her from stumbling and from somewhere she found the words to tell him the truth.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No. You’re wrong. That’s not what happened. No matter how much I want it – and I do – it’s not how Nicky would act. It’s not what happened. Believe me.’
She’d never been this open with her friend’s husband and because of it she wanted to run but still she found the courage not to break his gaze, willed him to understand she was not lying. And the rain continued to fall, but it was no longer of any concern. From within the house, she could see the soft lights behind the man barring her way, and hear the sound of the twins’ voices. Both of them. Thank God, thank God. And the sound of somebody else, not Nicky.
At last, David nodded and the darkness lifted a little from his face.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. I believe you.’
She swallowed. Shut her eyes for a second. Moved on.
‘Is that your mother?’
‘Yes,’ David spoke as if returning from a great distance. ‘She was looking after the twins yesterday, while Nicky tried to catch up with her painting. She rang my mother in the afternoon, said she was walking into town and then she’d pick the children up afterwards. But she never did. When my mother eventually brought Charlotte and Louise back herself, there was no-one here. And then I came home. I
thought there was no need to ring anyone else.’
When she said nothing, he sighed. ‘I’m sorry I thought what I did, Kate. You’d better come in.’
Inside, the air smelt of cooked fish. Kate heard David’s mother say something and then the twins were running towards her, a gaggle of colour and noise. As usual, they stopped short just before they reached her, but this time she found herself almost crying at the sight of them.
Louise giggled. ‘I got a book from Gran’ma with a cow in. Do you want to see?’
‘Yes, of course. Let’s go and look at it together, shall we?’ Kate took a deep breath and glanced towards their father for approval. He gave no sign that he was listening so she carried on. ‘Charlotte, do you want to come too? You can show me what Grandma got you as well.’
The elder twin stared up at Kate, brown eyes solemn.
‘Auntie Katie?’ she said.
‘Yes? What is it?’
‘Mummy isn’t here. Do you know where she is?’
As Charlotte finished her gentle question, her grandmother stepped out of the kitchen. Kate had only met Mrs Fletcher a couple of times before, at family parties, and for a moment couldn’t place her. Like David, she looked pale and her hair was unbrushed, dark rings crinkling around her eyes. She had the same strong features as her son. Now, Kate nodded at her and then looked away.
‘Mummy will be back soon, Charlotte,’ she said as she crouched down to be on a level with Nicky’s daughter. ‘You’ll see. You just have to be patient. Now, come on, let’s go and look at your new books, shall we?’
Heart thumping, Kate spent precious minutes being shown the twins’ books. She kept trying to catch David’s eye, to tell him without speaking in front of his daughters that there were things she needed to say, urgent things. And she needed to say them now. But he wouldn’t look at her and it was at last his mother who caught and understood the message. Mrs Fletcher bustled towards the girls, holding out both hands and releasing the scent of roses from her slight frame.
‘Come on, girls. Why don’t we go upstairs and I’ll give you a bath.’
‘But, Grandma,’ Charlotte said. ‘It’s always Mummy who gives us a bath and that’s not till the evening, after Daddy’s home.’
‘Daddy is home, silly.’ Louise frowned at her sister. ‘It’s a special day. Grandma, if we have a bath, can I play with the bath frog first?’
‘Of course you can, just as long as you let Charlotte have a turn with it too.’
Kate listened to Louise and Charlotte as they made their way up the stairs with their grandmother. Their voices were happy, carefree, although she thought there was an undercurrent of confusion in Charlotte’s tones. An inkling that something was unusual, without any understanding of what that something might be. Please God, she thought, please God let it be all right.
She looked at David. He returned her gaze for a second before easing himself down into the nearest chair. His movements were like those of an old man. Weary, without hope. Kate opened her mouth to speak but he made a sudden, dismissive gesture with his hand and glanced upwards. With a nod, she looked away.
As patiently as possible, she waited until she could hear the sound of running water and splashing, and then turned to David, sitting stiffly in his chair, as silent as winter.
‘Have you rung the police?’ she asked.
‘No. Not yet. She’ll come back. I’m sure she’ll come back. She’s only been gone since yesterday. It’ll be fine.’
‘David.’
‘No, I don’t think … I …’
Kate leaned forward and gripped both his wrists. His words staggered into emptiness and he reeled as if drunk.
‘David, please, we have to ring them,’ she said, forgetting her own recent uncertainty as to the usefulness of the action. ‘We don’t know what’s happened to her.’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘Why not? Why the hell not?’
‘Because … because …’ he blinked. ‘Because if I do then all this will be real. It won’t be a terrible dream any more. Will it?’
Holding his hands, Kate tried to transmit her own small supply of courage to him. After a few minutes, she released her grip and, pushing away the abandoned toys, sat on the floor in front of him.
‘David, you have to listen to me,’ she said quietly. ‘Are you listening to me?’
Apparently unable to speak, he nodded and brushed both hands upwards over his face and through his receding hair. He nodded again.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘You won’t know this, but there’s been someone stalking me, and also sending me threatening letters, both before the attack and after it.’
David made a swift movement, cut off almost before it had begun, as if he might interrupt her, but she shook her head.
‘No, please,’ she said. ‘You don’t understand. It does matter. Let me finish. Earlier today, I fell asleep in front of the television. When I woke up, the door was open. Somebody had broken in. Nothing was taken, but something was left. In my bedroom, I found a strip of paper, torn off, on the pillow. The corner of something I think Charlotte might have drawn.’
The image of what she feared ricocheted across Kate’s heart again, and she choked down a sob, shutting her eyes tightly until the wave had passed. Whatever happened, thank God the children at least were safe. But Nicky … Nicky … no, don’t think it, don’t explore it. She couldn’t bear the thought. When she looked up again, David’s face was tight, as if a hundred emotions were contained within him that he couldn’t express. His hands were sliding up and down on his chinos, up and down. It was all she could do not to reach out and stop the constant movement, its threat of madness, its imminent loss of control.
‘Show it to me,’ he said, roughly. ‘Show me the paper.’
Without a word, she retrieved the folded remnant from the pocket of her skirt and handed it to him. He opened it out and stared at it. He said nothing. She was about to take the picture back when David’s face crumpled in pain. He took several deep breaths as if he might never breathe normally again. Kate wanted to comfort him, but didn’t know how, and knew in any case that she’d forfeited the right to do so.
At last he was able to speak.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s part of one of Charlotte’s pictures. Something my wife treasured, something she kept in her studio with the rest of what the twins have drawn.’
The way he’d said my wife instead of the more natural Nicky knocked Kate back onto her haunches, and she hugged her legs closer to her body.
‘Why?’ he continued, staring at Kate as if she were the instigator of the way his life had suddenly swung out of kilter. And she was, she knew it. ‘Why was this left with you? What does it mean? And where’s Nicky?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kate said, stumbling over the words and trying to find her way through it all towards some kind of logic. ‘I don’t know. It’s a message. I think … the man who’s been threatening me wants me to know that he has something that’s … important to me. I thought it was the twins, but they’re safe. I think he might have taken Nicky.’
‘For fuck’s sake. Where’s he taken her? What’s he going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kate sobbed out. ‘But we have to ring the police.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
David sprang up and took out his mobile from his pocket. After a swift glance in her direction, he turned from her. Long moments later, she heard him connecting to the local police, his clipped tones somehow managing to contain the throb of fear beneath, and giving them the minimum of information. Kate tried to breathe calmly and stop herself shaking. When he turned round again, he was pale but his jaw was set.
‘What do they say?’ she asked.
‘They want us to come down, give them a statement, take the details properly.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘We should do that then.’
‘You don’t have to come with me.’
‘No. Please let me.’ Kate reached o
ut, made as if to touch his arm, but then thought better of it. ‘Please. I need to do something. I can’t simply stay here.’
David closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. ‘Okay. The police will need to talk to you anyway at some point. It may as well be now.’
‘Thank you,’ Kate whispered and then shook her head. ‘But what about the twins? Can your mother stay?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll ask her.’
Kate heard him mounting the stairs and then the bathroom door being opened. She could hear splashing and children’s voices, then the soft murmuring of adults. A question spoken, an answer, then further, lower talk. After several moments of this, the door clicked shut again and she heard David returning downstairs. This time, she thought, she would face him, and the justified accusation of his expression, standing.
She met him at the bottom of the staircase. He looked at her once and nodded.
‘My mother can’t stay,’ he said. ‘But she’ll take the children, have them overnight, and then see how things are tomorrow morning.’
‘But don’t you think …?’
He held up one hand. ‘Please, Kate. I don’t know what to think. But if something’s happened to Nicky, then I don’t want my daughters to know it first-hand. They love their grandmother; they’ll be more secure with her. At least for tonight. Tomorrow can fend for itself.’
She could see the sense in it. And besides, even if she couldn’t, she had no right to give advice. On any account.
‘Should I help get them ready?’ she asked.
Her friend’s husband shook his head. ‘It’s okay. We can manage.’
The situation being as it was, Kate couldn’t blame him, so she made no further move to help with the dressing of the twins, the hurried packing of overnight bags, the choosing of toys to take and the general feel of something practical, something normal – or almost normal – taking place. Instead, with the hubbub beating a rhythm over her head, she stayed downstairs, staring out at the garden and Nicky’s studio, or wandering aimlessly round the living room, touching some of the ornaments and running a gentle finger over the frame of one of her friend’s paintings.
