by A J Waines
NO LONGER SAFE
AJ Waines
Copyright © 2016 AJ Waines
The moral right of the author has been asserted. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
without the prior permission in writing of the author.
Find out more about the author
and her other books at
www.ajwaines.co.uk
For Ruth and Mike Holmes
You are both amazing
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
About the Author
Also by AJ Waines
THE EVIL BENEATH
GIRL ON A TRAIN
DARK PLACE TO HIDE
Coming soon from AJ Waines:
INSIDE THE WHISPERS
Chapter 1
15 November
You were the last person I expected to hear from. After all this time. After all the cards and letters that had come back marked ‘return to sender’.
I drifted from the hall into the sitting room, carrying the envelope on both outstretched palms, like a piece of newly discovered treasure. One slice from Dad’s paper knife and it was open. At first I thought it was an invitation to a wedding, but there was no card; instead it was a letter wrapped around a glossy brochure of a castle nestling amongst snow-capped mountains.
It was your handwriting for certain. I looked straight down to the bottom of the second sheet to confirm it. Karen Morley. That’s when I had to sit down.
My head was suddenly too big for my body and I couldn’t trust myself to read without feeling giddy. Was it really you? I checked the address – Brixton – in London-terms that meant you were practically on my doorstep. No distance at all.
I made my brain slow down so I could trail my eyes across the curves of your fountain pen. That was a novelty in itself – the personal touch – when nearly everything that landed on our doormat these days was typed. But that was very much your way of doing things, Karen – making people feel special, making that extra effort to show you cared.
Would be wonderful to see you again…remembered your birthday…love to invite you…important time for me…
I read the first part again. It was an invitation, but not to a wedding. You were inviting me to a cottage in the Highlands – on holiday.
I slid from the arm of the sofa into the seat. Nearly six years without a word and now this. I tried to reach you after we finished Uni, of course I did. You were the one who stood out, the friend I thought I’d found for life. Once Uni was over, other associations tailed off and calls were replaced with Facebook updates with the odd round-robin email. But ours was different.
To be honest, I hadn’t expected you to fall away like you did, Karen. We’d established a real bond – or so I thought. Afterwards, you moved to Bristol while I moved back to London, but I was certain we’d visit each other; I’d travel one weekend, you’d travel the next. I had my heart set not only on keeping in touch, but staying best friends.
I did go to stay with you at the start – just once, remember? You replied to my emails for a while, sent a cheery card that first Christmas, but then, like the rest, you drifted away from me and I never heard from you again. Until now.
I held the letter under my nose, stupid I know, just to see if there was a trace of you left on the paper. Then I held it to my chest and allowed your presence to sink into me again. You were my inspiration, the person I wanted to be. I’d never felt that kind of admiration about anyone before. You brought everything alive and coaxed me out of my shell.
With no siblings and a small disjointed family, my only proper relationships were with my parents and I’d always found them impossible to talk to. It had never occurred to me to bare my deepest feelings to them. You were different. I knew straight away the first time I spoke to you. All my doubts and failings came tumbling out, because you made me feel so safe, without any sting of judgement.
No one had ever offered that to me before. No one else ever seemed to notice when something was wrong. I’d spent most of my life going it alone, because I was awkward and shy and people didn’t know what to do with me.
I brought my hand to my mouth. It must be a mistake. You must have mixed me up with someone else and posted the invitation to the wrong person. That would explain it. This was too much to expect after almost six years of silence; it was too big a deal. An invitation to spend fourteen days together out of the blue, without any preamble? But then that was you, Karen – always surprising people, keeping us all on our toes.
I heard the bread ping out of the toaster and hurried into the kitchen. Batting away coils of smoke, I retrieved the end result – crispy black, again. The setting button had fallen off the ancient Morphy Richards weeks ago. I dropped the charred slice in the pedal pin.
I was late. I ducked into the fridge and snatched the bundle wrapped in cling film. Mum still insisted on making tomato sandwiches for me every day for work. Nothing else on the bread, just tomato – they were always limp and soggy.
On the way back to the hall to grab my duffel coat, I passed the school photo of me, with buck teeth and pigtails, that my parents insisted on hanging on the door of the cupboard under the stairs.
I’d desperately wanted a sister when I was growing up, someone to share my family’s idiosyncrasies, of which there were many. I discovered how different we were from other families at around the age of six. Crisps, biscuits, sweets, soft drinks, for example, were forbidden. What’s wrong with fruit and water? my father used to say.
Mum never left the top button undone on her blouse, never wore shorts, never went bare-legged or open-toed even around the house; there were no low-necklines or miniskirts allowed. A female revealing flesh was seen as vulgar and ‘asking for trouble’.
The subsequent labels I started to collect in school reflected the indoctrination I was subjected to at home: ‘prude’, ‘religious freak’, ‘holier than thou’, ‘goody-goody’, ‘old maid’. Being around other people –Brownies, then Girl Guides,
the church choir – became lonely and hostile territories and I’d have given anything to have had an older sister holding my hand.
I picked up my scarf and gloves, but didn’t go any further. Hearing from you like this had shaken it all up again and instead of reaching for the door, I stood still. Then I went back; thinking, remembering.
I never understood why you took a shine to me. You and I were from different ends of the spectrum – you were way out of my league in every respect. Bright, charismatic and larger than life – you got a first in Anatomy and Human Biology (no surprises there) and I scraped through in English and History (ditto, regarding the surprises).
You were the sort of girl whose eyelashes curled up into long sexy sweeps without mascara, whose teeth were marble white without dental intervention. You were slim, but had shapely curves whereas I was ‘skinny’ in a way that made my bones stick out. If you were a Porsche, I was a clapped out Morris Minor – with an emphasis on the ‘minor’.
I was always in awe of you. You seemed to know something everyone else didn’t. I often wondered how you’d become like that – the one who naturally stole all the attention in the room.
I went back into the sitting room for the letter. Reading it again to the end, I was satisfied that it was intended for me; you’d actually got my birthday right – and you were hoping to use the holiday as a way to mark the occasion. With me. I could barely believe it. I checked inside the envelope expecting to discover the invite was some kind of trick, but it was empty.
The last time I’d heard from you was through a postcard. When was that? 2008? I couldn’t remember, but it was pressed inside my diary, so I could find out. It said something like, Hi – just back from a trip to Venice with Roland. Leaving Bristol soon, will let you know…
I never heard any more. Now, your letter was addressing me like there’d been no gap at all, as if we were best friends again and you were offering to pay (yes, pay – I hadn’t spotted that at first) for a two-week break together in the mountains. You could take photos, you wrote, scoring another point for remembering my favourite hobby. Can’t wait to catch up. You must fill me in on everything! you’d added.
I hadn’t taken in the penultimate paragraph until then. There was some very important news – how could I have missed it? You were a mother now. There was a baby girl! Nine months old. Crikey. There was no mention of the father.
It sounded like you’d been through a rough time. Melanie had been a very sick child; problems with her breathing. She was in a specialist children’s hospital in Glasgow and was finally going to be coming out after months of intensive care.
Hence the trip to Scotland. It made sense – you wanted to celebrate, while also being close at hand for a time in case there were complications. And you wanted me to be there. I shook my head, still woolly with disbelief. You suggested we travel up together – all I had to do was give you a call on the number you’d given.
I felt for my mobile in my pocket, then withdrew my hand. I’d ring later. I didn’t want you to think my life was so thin that your letter was the only thing on my mind. Then I remembered my new rules.
In the years since we met, I’d been putting into practice all I’d learnt from you. I’d stopped trying to fit in, stopped going along with things, hiding my real self. I’d been braver, standing up for myself more, saying what I thought and being more – what’s the word they kept using in the books? – authentic, that’s it. I’d been trying to be more real. I’d had a terrible set-back lately, I would tell you all about that, but I was still doing well. Karen – you’ll be proud of me.
My new rules meant I was going to call you straight away and let you know how thrilled and touched I was with your invitation.
By then, I knew I was definitely going to be late for work. Mr Domano would cut my lunch break, but I didn’t care. I pulled out my phone and dialled the mobile number you’d given. My shoulders fell when I reached your voicemail. I hadn’t rehearsed anything and was about to end the call when I remembered that the new me was meant to respond in the moment and be true to herself.
I babbled something about how much I’d missed you and what a treat it would be to catch up. It came out like a long, loud explosion, until I finally got to the point. ‘anyway…yes…I’d love to spend—’ I was interrupted by a shrill screech; the voicemail had run out of patience. Never mind, I’d try later.
As soon as I got to work, I marched straight past the lift and carried on along the corridor in search of an empty seminar room. Once inside the small room at the end, I put my bag on the desk and delved inside for the letter. I drew it out and pressed it to my cheek. You and I were good friends, Karen, weren’t we? Good friends could do this – have long breaks then pick up exactly where they’d left off.
With the vision of you fresh in my mind, I tried the number again. It rang three times and then your voice broke through. As soon as you spoke I felt the air warm up around me.
‘It’s Alice,’ I said. ‘Alice Flemming.’
‘I know who it is! I just got your message. It’s brilliant to hear from you.’ Your voice was just as I remembered it; sparkling and full of life. Your words seemed to flood into my bloodstream like a hit of alcohol.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long,’ you said. ‘My fault entirely. Can you forgive me? I’ll tell you all about it. Still – you’re definitely coming to the cottage in two weeks’ time? You like the idea?’
‘Absolutely. Sounds amazing.’
‘Not too short notice?’
‘No – I’m owed leave.’ There was so much to say, to ask about. ‘You have a little girl – Melanie. How is she doing?’
‘Good. Really good. I can’t wait for you to meet her. We’ll have a wonderful time, Alice. I’m so pleased you can come.’
We made arrangements to meet at King’s Cross and then you said you were getting into your car and had to go.
The following week I had an email with an amendment to the plan. Karen was now driving up to Scotland on her own, a day earlier, to check in at the hospital and she suggested it would be better if I went up under my own steam.
I’d already envisaged us sitting together on the fast train from King’s Cross, spreading ourselves out across four seats, our table piled high with crisps, cups of hot chocolate and magazines we didn’t read, because we had so much to talk about. She would have told me how much she’d missed me since those days we lived in the condemned house in our third year at Leeds. I would have reminded her about the slugs that got into our bedrooms and slithered across the carpet because of the faulty damp course. Joked about the hole in the bathroom floor that gave a panoramic view of Randy-Andy’s bedroom below. I would have made her laugh and she would have put her arm around me.
But that wasn’t to be. I was going up on my own.
I sent a tentative text saying I didn’t mind tagging along to the hospital one bit, hoping she might change her mind, but the reply was short and to the point. It’s better this way, she wrote. See you Saturday. There was an innocent ‘PS’ at the end after her name. Hope it’s okay if you do some of the cooking, as I’ll have my hands full with Melanie. It was followed by three ‘X’s – big kisses, her trademark.
I sent a reply saying I’d be delighted to help out and meant it.
You and me, Karen – like it was meant to be.
Only later, with the glaring beam of hindsight, did I see how easy it was for me to be swept along. Everything on the surface seemed perfect. All I could think of was that our bond hadn’t died after all; it had just gone into hibernation for a while. Inside I was smiling and couldn’t stop. Just think – you chose me!
Chapter 2
Alice is on board. I’ve done it! That’s another major result under my belt.
I knew I was pushing my luck after all this time. As soon as she realised the letter was from me, I thought she might rip it to shreds, but no – she’s come good.
Surprising really – it was a pretty tall order to expect he
r to head all the way to Scotland for two weeks, even though I did offer to pay for the whole thing. I was expecting her to dismiss me for being such a crap friend, but she said yes, straight away. She didn’t even suggest we meet in London first – for a drink, say, to catch up and re-establish things between us. She didn’t need any persuading whatsoever! She jumped at the chance to go away together.
I should have trusted that her attachment to me went deeper than I’d dared hope. She always thought highly of me – even put me on a pedestal.
Only a few more loose ends to tie up and everything will be in place. I can’t believe I’m this close.
It’ll be just like it used to be. Good old Alice! I know I can depend on her. Let the party begin!
Chapter 3
The very act of getting to the cottage turned out to be a massive undertaking. I should have recognised that as an omen that our little escapade was going to be far from plain sailing. I didn’t know travelling from London to Fort William would take eleven hours – and by the time I’d tried to make a booking on the overnight sleeper, all the cabins had gone. Even though I caught the train at 5.00am, the day was almost over by the time I arrived.
Snow was on the way; I could smell it, feel the weight of it in the air as I finally stood on the station forecourt waiting for a taxi for the last leg of the journey. A few hardy types had alighted with me with stuffed rucksacks, their trousers tucked into thick woollen socks, but no one else. This place really was in the middle of nowhere.
What I noticed most was the severe drop in temperature. London felt like it belonged to a different season, as if during the train journey I must have crossed through an invisible curtain into another world.
After around fifteen minutes in the taxi, the cab driver pulled off a main road into the grounds of Duncaird Castle, then into a side road, then a track along the edge of a copse of dense trees. I watched the meter whizz round with the speed of a one-armed bandit, whittling away half the money I’d brought with me.
