by K. L. Slater
I walk into the kitchen, where Mother is busy making sandwiches.
‘Hello, love.’ She smiles without looking at me. ‘Lunch will be ready in ten minutes. Had a good morning at work?’
‘Yes thanks.’ I carry on walking and head upstairs.
The living room door is closed, but I can hear the television is on in there. Football, yet again.
Before Brian moved in, Mother and I would often sit and have a cup of tea and a biscuit together while we watched the headlines on Sky news.
I’d tell her about anything eventful that had happened at work during the morning. She always seemed very interested.
She often asked questions about the processes I’d implemented at Kellington’s, which I enjoyed explaining fully to her, even impressing myself on occasion with my extensive knowledge of parking regulations.
Then she liked to take her afternoon rest while I caught up with my paperwork for a couple of hours upstairs.
Late afternoon we’d watch Homes Under the Hammer together. Then, as it got to the time when the residents of Baker Crescent began to arrive home from work, I’d go back upstairs to begin my evening monitoring session.
At one time, Mother would have known all about the BMW driver who nearly got clamped yesterday. I don’t bother telling her all that sort of stuff now, because Brian can always be relied upon to appear in the kitchen, spouting his unwanted opinions at us.
‘Parking violation?’ he spluttered last week when I was in the middle of telling Mother about a devious customer who’d parked up, looked around the store and then nipped out of the front entrance and across the road.
The woman had enjoyed the next two and a half hours perusing the Victoria Centre shopping mall, courtesy of Kellington’s free parking. Later, she had blatantly admitted, when standing in front of her clamped car close to tears, that she’d thought – to quote – you wouldn’t notice.
‘Incredible!’ Mother exclaimed.
‘You can’t blame folks for using their head and maximising the local facilities,’ Brian offered, even though it had precisely nothing to do with him. ‘It does no harm. She’d been in the shop, hadn’t she?’
‘Yes, she had, but it states clearly on the authorisation ticket I issue that customers can only park there for an hour, maximum. Buying furniture never takes longer than that.’
‘Says who? You’ve never bought a piece of furniture in your life, Dave. Everything’s always been provided for you, hasn’t it?’
As usual when Brian embarks on one of his rants, Mother found something pressing that needed doing in the other room.
‘They are the rules,’ I said calmly, staring blindly at the muted television. ‘And rules are there to be adhered to.’
Brian let out a hacking laugh.
‘Ha! You’re a fine one to talk. What about the rule that says fully grown men are supposed to move out of their mother’s house and stand on their own two feet well before they turn forty years of age? How do you justify flouting that rule?’
‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ I said tightly, trying to focus on keeping my breathing regular.
‘No, I didn’t think it would be.’ Brian jutted his chin forward aggressively. ‘Here, I’ve got another useful rule for you… Don’t mooch around in your bedroom half your life and sponge off your mother. Is that a rule worth observing?’
I’ve always known there’s absolutely no reasoning to be had with Brian. Since he’s officially moved in here, he seems to have become even more belligerent in making his bigoted opinions known.
‘Excuse me.’ I threw my shoulders back and walked past him to the hallway. ‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘Like what?’ His mocking tone followed me upstairs like a lingering bad odour. ‘Spying on people from your bedroom window, you mean? Lusting after that new girl next door while she gets undressed at her bedroom window?’
It’s precisely that kind of unpleasant altercation that has made me decide to change my routine and head directly up to my room when I get home from work each day.
Mother hasn’t commented on this new behaviour, but she now calls me when lunch is ready and I go down and bring the food back up to my room.
I haven’t got a television up here, have never needed one, but it doesn’t matter. I can watch most things online anyway. It’s far preferable to having to put up with Brian’s company.
I unclench my fists and see that my fingernails have left livid half-moons all over the fleshy mound of my palm.
People have always tended to underestimate me. They think I’m meek and harmless because I don’t make much noise, because I walk away rather than challenge.
But there’s a part of me they don’t know.
Sometimes, like now, I have a sense of a powerful uncurling sensation inside. Like a hungry snake awaking from a long slumber.
I open my laptop and check the CCTV camera footage. Part of my morning routine before leaving for work is to set both window cameras up at my bedroom window.
Providing I angle them correctly, they cover a satisfyingly large span of the rear gardens of this house and the surrounding properties.
One faces the left of the crescent, one the right. They’re motion-activated so it doesn’t take me too long to whip through the footage. I generally like to make it my first job of the afternoon.
There are three scenes lasting longer than the usual two-second blips of a bird or a cat that activate the cameras regularly.
At 11.51, Mrs Barrett took the rubbish out to her bins. At 12.11, Mother put some crumbs out on the bird table.
I press play on the final clip and watch as Brian walks down to the bottom of the garden. He peers into the thick tangle of bushes there and then turns around, staring back up at the house. He lights a cigarette and stays there for a few minutes before walking back up the garden until he is out of sight of the camera lens.
There is nothing there that needs further investigation, so I select all the footage and click delete, resetting the cameras for the next stint.
Using this method, and in conjunction with the hours I’m here at the window in person, I can ensure that our house and the surrounding properties are monitored constantly.
The people living in the vicinity don’t realise it, but they have their very own guardian angel watching over them every hour of every single day.
Chapter Forty
Holly
All four of the showroom staff had enjoyed a steady stream of customers throughout the morning. Holly herself had made two reasonable sales of a stylish floor lamp and a set of cut-glass tea-light holders.
Her commission today had only amounted to fifteen pounds, but who cared? Thanks to the big sale she’d pulled off yesterday, she was set for the month now, even if she didn’t earn another penny of bonus leading up to payday.
She’d enjoyed being busy. The time had gone quickly, but despite the distractions, Emily’s words still kept drifting back to her:
You knew I’d dealt with those customers first. You knew the sale belonged to me.
Holly sighed. What use did it serve to keep replaying it over in her mind?
It was obvious to everyone here that Emily had been deluded about this particular transaction. She was clearly just sour because she’d got it wrong. She had underestimated the customers and lost out on a sale. It was as simple as that.
But there was something else she had said that kept repeating on a loop in Holly’s head:
I got rid of the last silly cow who came here thinking she could snap at my heels, and I’ll have no problem getting rid of you too.
She had all but admitted that she’d ousted the last sales assistant who’d tried to make a go of it. Holly didn’t like Emily one bit, but she knew she’d be a fool to underestimate her.
Although she was doing well here, she was under no illusion that it was early days. She was still the new kid on the block, while Emily had the benefit of more experience, and Mr Kellington and Josh knew just how
consistently successful she was.
She’d really need to keep her wits about her from now on, because Emily could strike at any given time. She decided it was best all round if she just stayed as far away as possible from Miss Emily Beech and her spiteful intentions from here on in. That woman was trouble she didn’t need.
As Holly rearranged a little cluster of silverware on one of the occasional tables in the middle of the shop, she thought how that day she’d left for Manchester had been one of the few times she’d had the sense that her life was taking a turn for the better.
She had the same sensation right now, despite her concerns about Emily.
She enjoyed working here at Kellington’s, and although Cora sometimes acted a little oddly, she liked living in her comfortable home.
Perhaps, she pondered, a quiet word with Josh about Emily’s threat this morning might not go amiss. Speaking to Mr Kellington himself was a frightening prospect, but if she had to do it, she would.
She already knew that he thought well of her, and after the events of yesterday, maybe he had begun to get the measure of Emily.
She continued to tinker with the accessories, and before she knew it, her mind had drifted away from the task in hand.
* * *
She’d slept well that second night in Manchester. There had been no disturbances from Uncle Keith’s hacking cough in the next room, and no worrying for her life or about the half-dead drug addicts she had to share a space with, as had been the case the night before.
She’d fallen asleep with the curtains open. Although it had been too dark to enjoy the view, she’d taken great pleasure knowing it was there, and in the morning, she’d opened her eyes with that childlike, delicious sense of not quite knowing where she was and yet also sensing it was somewhere nice, and then seen the river thrashing around outside the apartment window.
She’d found it impossible to simply lie there staring at the ceiling. Instead she went out to the kitchenette, made a cup of tea and pulled a dining chair across to drink it in front of the French doors.
Despite the fact it was not yet eight o’clock, dog walkers meandered along across the bank, enjoying the early sunshine. She’d spotted a cyclist and two joggers and, to her delight, a fleet of racing rowers had skimmed past on the water.
She had sighed with a contentment she’d barely felt so far in her life. She wondered, could it actually be possible to live in a place like this, if her new start was successful?
She’d jumped slightly at a noise behind her as a sleep-addled Markus appeared in the hall doorway.
‘Morning,’ he’d said, his voice gravelly. ‘You’re addicted to that view.’
‘Morning.’ She’d grinned. ‘You’re right, I am. I could sit here all day.’
‘No chance of that, I’m afraid,’ he told her. ‘Brendan just texted to say he’ll be here at nine to take you to meet his wife.’
‘What?’ She’d jumped up then, spilling a few drops of tea onto the laminate floor. ‘I’d better get ready.’
She’d bent down and wiped up the drops with a tissue, a feeling of sick panic rising in her throat. It was both exciting and terrifying that she’d be meeting Brendan’s wife… Geraldine, he’d said her name was.
She’d been painfully aware that her future lay in Geraldine’s hands. What if she decided she didn’t like Holly? The job opportunity could dry up in a matter of minutes, and then where would she be?
‘You look like you’re about to burst into tears,’ Markus had said drily, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m making some toast. Want some?’
‘No thanks.’ She felt certain she’d choke if she ate anything on top of the nerves. ‘I just… I’m nervous about meeting his wife. I want her to like me.’
‘Chill, doll. Don’t you know you’re adorable?’
She’d grinned at his silly fake American accent and headed for the bathroom.
The shower had been good. She’d stood under the scalding needles of water, her face turned upwards with her eyes squeezed shut. The stinging pain had felt invigorating, as if she were purging herself of the doubt and dithering.
She’d wrapped a fluffy towel around herself and returned to the bedroom, cursing the meagre choice of outfits she had to choose from. Everything looked old and worn. There was nothing smart that would remotely impress anyone of Geraldine’s calibre.
She’d dried her hair – someone had thoughtfully placed a hair dryer on the dressing table – and pinned it back from her face. Then she applied a bit of make-up and felt gratified that she looked passable – mostly thanks to the glow the shower had afforded her.
She’d dressed in her less frayed pair of black jeans, paired with a neat blue wool sweater.
By 8.55 she was sitting waiting for Brendan’s arrival. Markus had seemed a little distant and had already gone back to bed with his tea and toast.
Chapter Forty-One
Holly
Brendan had led her out of the apartment block to a glittering black sports car that looked like it belonged in a Batman movie.
‘Wow, what make is this?’ she’d said, immediately regretting her naïvety.
‘It’s a Ferrari,’ he’d laughed, opening the passenger door. ‘Jump in.’
The car had growled like a disgruntled beast as it shot away from the kerb.
‘It’s about a twenty-minute drive to my place,’ Brendan had told her. ‘Relax and enjoy the ride.’
Holly had taken a deep breath and allowed herself to sink back into the plush cream leather seat. Watching as the streets of Salford passed her window in a blur, she’d felt like pinching herself more than once.
Brendan’s aftershave had smelled lovely: a mix of nutmeg and spice but not overpowering. He wore well-cut jeans and a plain black Hugo Boss T-shirt that tantalisingly hugged his firm, athletic physique.
She’d forced herself to focus on what was outside the car rather than in it, cringing when she realised that theoretically, Brendan was old enough to be her dad.
Easy conversation had punctuated periods of not talking. Chill-out tunes had played faintly in the background, and just when she’d thought she could no longer fight the urge to close her eyes, the car had slowed and taken a sharp turn to the right.
Brendan had held up some kind of remote in front of him, and the next minute, eight-foot-high fancy wrought-iron gates had swung open in front of the car.
Holly had bitten back a gasp. Brendan must already think her a hillbilly from the sticks, she was so embarrassingly over-impressed with everything.
The car had crawled through the gates and up a long gravelled driveway. Brendan drove around a fountain that formed a kind of roundabout at the top where the driveway widened out and parked outside the front door of the palatial white-pillared mansion.
The double-width front door had opened right away and a petite woman with wavy shoulder-length dark hair appeared. Brendan had jumped out of the car and opened the passenger door for Holly.
‘Welcome to our home,’ he’d said.
‘Hi, I’m Geraldine, Brendan’s wife.’ The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. ‘Welcome to Medlock Hall. I’ve been dying to meet you.’ She was dressed in jeans and a plain white blouse. Fluffy pink slippers completed her casual outfit.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Holly.’
Holly realised she’d made the assumption that Brendan’s wife would be some impossibly glamorous model-like creature who was probably dripping in jewels and wearing inch-thick make-up.
She was certainly attractive, but seemed ordinary and not full of herself at all.
They’d waved Brendan off – apparently he had to get straight back to the office for an important meeting – and seconds later, the growling Ferrari was rumbling back down the driveway.
‘Come on.’ Geraldine had guided Holly through a spacious hallway framed by a sweeping glass staircase at either side. When Holly looked up, she saw an open landing, studded with closed doors leading, she assumed, to bedrooms. ‘Let’
s have a drink and a chat.’
They’d walked across a striking parquet flooring, through double doors and into a stunning room that literally took Holly’s breath away.
Geraldine heard her tiny, inadvertent gasp and smiled, seeming pleased with her reaction.
The vast space was carpeted in a cream wool Berber rug. Two enormous black leather corner suites faced a wall of bi-folding glass doors that looked out onto an enormous decked area peppered with lavishly cushioned outdoor furniture, with what looked to be around an acre of landscaped gardens beyond.
‘Please sit down, Holly,’ Geraldine had said without looking once at the commanding view. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’
Instead of heading off to the kitchen, she’d rung a small silver bell on a side table.
A plump Filipino lady had appeared as if by magic carrying a tray laden with coffee and biscuits. She’d offered Holly a reserved smile.
‘Thank you, Patricia,’ Geraldine had said briskly. ‘You can pop the tray just there, on the table.’
‘Anything else, madam?’ Patricia had said whilst staring at Holly.
‘That’s it, you may go. Thank you.’ Geraldine turned back to her. ‘Now, Holly, tell me all about yourself and why you decided to come to Manchester.’
Holly had reiterated a lot of what she’d already told Brendan. Dithering, pessimistic Holly, who fretted constantly about whether her new start would materialise, had been suddenly replaced in her account of the last year or so by a confident, ambitious young woman who was determined to do well.
‘I don’t know how much Brendan has told you about exactly what we’re looking for,’ Geraldine had said. ‘It’s an unconventional appointment in a way, and therefore essential that we get the right person. It’s not a position we can fill with just anyone.’
Holly’s mood had instantly dipped. She’d lived her young life so far as the girl who nobody chose as a best friend, who nobody wanted on their netball team and who had gone unnoticed by all the boys at school, and at college too.
