Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  All the while, I think of David with his secrets; and now David in the photo. There is no logic to it and yet, I suppose, ever since I killed him, I’ve been expecting another of David’s surprises. I couldn’t have suspected something like this but, among the confusion, there is a degree of inevitability.

  Killing David was never going to be the end of his legacy.

  The fans have cleared a clear oval in the centre of the windscreen and I ease my way off the car park. It’s only a couple of minutes until I’m swallowed by the darkness of the unlit country lanes. It’s the type of night where the cold is so all-encompassing that it scratches at a person’s soul; where the darkened, frozen tendrils slither unseen until warmth is a distant dream.

  I turn on the radio to distract from the night. Because things aren’t desolate enough, the presenter is doing a phone-in about the best type of cheese, which is intercut with Christmas music. There’s a time and a place for Cliff Richard – birthday parties for dementia sufferers, or Guantanamo Bay – but it’s definitely not empty back roads in the dead of night.

  The country lanes lead me to deserted A-roads, where there are a handful of headlights. I’m on autopilot and my mind meanders, wondering why other people are out at this unholy hour.

  It’s almost two and a half hours until I arrive home. It’s admirable that the radio presenter somehow managed to drag out a discussion about cheese to last the entirety of the journey. It’s a degree or two warmer in Gradingham than at the hotel, but the trees and bushes are still peppered with white. I switch off the engine and sit in the car as the windows immediately begin to steam. The winners’ photo is still open on my phone, but, as I zoom in on it, things feel different. Perhaps it’s the change of location, or maybe it is the mindlessness of the radio, but the picture of David doesn’t feel as shocking as it did when I first saw it. It will simply be someone who looked like my ex-husband, nothing to worry about. A coincidence of circumstance as opposed to anything more. I try to put it out of my mind as I turn onto my street.

  Some might think it strange – but I’ve always liked the sound of my address. It’s hardly apt for the weather, but 1 Sunshine Row has an appeal that belies the basic look of the red-brick block.

  I yawn as I unlock my front door and sleep suddenly feels close once more. There’s nothing quite like my own bed. Like a friend who’ll always be there.

  As soon as I step inside, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It’s instinct, like the sense of being watched, or that flash of panic a moment before something terrible happens.

  I turn on the light and stand on the welcome mat, taking in the room ahead of me. It is a two-bedroom apartment. There is no hall and the door opens directly into the open-plan living room and kitchen. There are few places to hide and, at first glance, everything feels normal. The television is on the stand where I last saw it. The router is at its side, with green and orange lights blinking. There is still a cluttered pile of mail next to the microwave; with a porridge-coated bowl in the sink and a carton of almond milk on the side that I must’ve forgotten to return to the fridge.

  ‘Hello…?’

  There’s no reply and I stand by the door waiting and listening.

  Nothing, except my imagination.

  I step across to the kitchenette, ready to drop my keys into the ceramic Tigger head that’s a constant feature of my day. Keys go in; keys come out. If it wasn’t for that, they would end up lost in coat pockets, bags, or who knows where. I found it at a collectors’ market when I was with David. It cost a fiver – but value isn’t only measured with money. It is worth so much more than that, though there are only two people who have ever known its true symbolism. There’s me – and there’s David.

  As I go to drop my keys into Tigger’s head, I stop with my hand outstretched towards the counter. When I left for the hotel, I took my keys from the ceramic head. Now, hours later, the counter is inexplicably empty.

  Six

  THE WHY

  Three years, eight months ago

  I’m sitting on the step of my flat when the battered Transit pulls in. The rims are rusty and the exhaust spews a dark, noxious cloud into the alley at the back of where I live. Over time, currencies come and go. People will trade rocks for metals; potatoes for beans. Gold is only valuable because someone decided they liked how shiny it is. Anything can have value – yet there is always a time in a person’s life where he or she needs a van.

  Ben clambers down from the driver’s seat as Jane trails around from the passenger side. He borrowed the vehicle from one of his mates, which is, as best I can tell, the way most people get hold of a van. Ben opens the back and then reaches in and picks out a large cardboard box.

  ‘It’s not as heavy as it looks,’ he insists.

  It would sound more authentic if he wasn’t rocking from foot to foot, while alternating his grip as if clinging onto a banana skin soaked in washing-up liquid.

  Ben rests the box on the lip of the van’s bumper and looks towards me. My flat opens into what is, essentially, a dead-end alley. The apartment above mine has a door that opens onto the road at the front, but nobody lives there. I don’t know who owns it and have always assumed it’s an investor, or something like that.

  ‘Where do you want it?’ Ben adds.

  I hold open my front door. ‘In the living room,’ I reply.

  He lifts the box, then lowers it. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I figured David can move things around when it’s all inside.’

  Ben bites his lip and it’s only then that I realise I’ve misunderstood what he was asking. He wasn’t questioning if I was sure about where to put the box…

  Either way, the moment is lost and he crouch-walks inside as a grinning Jane watches on.

  ‘He kept claiming it was awkward, rather than heavy,’ she says.

  ‘Where’s David?’ I ask.

  Jane turns towards the parking spaces on the road and then ends up looking back to me: ‘Isn’t he here? I figured he was inside. He left before us.’

  I check my phone, but there are no missed calls or messages. ‘I’ve not heard from him,’ I say.

  We stare at one another blankly for a moment. The journey from David’s place in Kingbridge is only a 20-mile drive to mine in Gradingham. It’s one road and almost impossible to get lost, even if he didn’t know where he was going.

  ‘Perhaps he had to stop for petrol…?’ I say.

  Jane stares at me for a second too long, but then seemingly catches herself and turns away as Ben re-emerges empty-handed from my flat. The three of us head to the back of the van and take out more of David’s belongings. Ben hoists down another box that he insists isn’t heavy, while Jane picks up a rucksack that’s locked with a small padlock. I grab a duffel bag that is soft and probably filled with clothes.

  We carry everything into my flat and put it down on the floor of the living room, next to the first box.

  Ben straightens himself and massages his neck: ‘I need a smoke,’ he says. He takes a step towards the door and then adds: ‘Maybe David will be here by the time I’m done.’

  There’s an obvious punch of annoyance and, though I don’t necessarily blame him, it’s very out of character.

  With Ben outside, Jane and I are left perching on a pair of stools next to the kitchen counter. She makes a point of turning around to take in the space, asking where David’s things are going to go without actually doing it.

  ‘I didn’t know Ben was smoking again,’ I say.

  ‘He’s not… not really. He only has the odd one when he’s had a stressful day or week.’

  I think about pushing it, asking what’s led to this particular slip, but I’m not sure I’d get an answer. It’s never a good idea with Jane to even imply that everything with her and Ben isn’t pure paradise.

  Jane takes the impasse to glance around once more. We’ve known one another since we sat side by side in primary school. We’ve had numerous silly teenage arguments but alwa
ys made up quickly. We’ve shared clothes and gossip; we obsessed about boys and bands. We’ve grown up together. It’s like I can read her mind and I’m certain it’s the same for her. We don’t always need words.

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ I say.

  Jane doesn’t bother to deny that this is what she was thinking. ‘I’m not saying you don’t,’ she says.

  ‘David’s landlord is selling up,’ I add. ‘It’s not his fault. I offered to let him move in. It was my choice. He didn’t ask.’

  That’s largely true. We’d moved onto seeing each other most nights, even if it was only for a movie and a glass of wine or two on the sofa. He’d mentioned that he might have to move away after his landlord sold and it was clear at what he was hinting. He kept coming back to it before I finally caved. He didn’t ask specifically, but he might as well have done. I had to ask myself whether I wanted him to leave.

  ‘You don’t have to justify anything to me,’ Jane replies. ‘But it’s a big step. You only met at my birthday six weeks ago.’

  The fact that she knows this apparently off the top of her head says plenty.

  ‘Didn’t you and Ben move in together during your second year at uni?’ I ask.

  ‘That was different,’ she says.

  ‘Was it? I thought you moved in together to save money and share costs…?’

  Jane bites at her nail and then turns and rubs my upper arm. There are so many times that I want to tell her to stop, but it’s gone on for so long that I figure it’s too late now. I suspect it’s more reassuring for her than it ever is for me.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  ‘David makes me happy.’

  Well, happy enough.

  She presses her lips together and I know she isn’t convinced. I wonder if there’s an element of jealousy. Ever since university, she’s had Ben. They’ve been a duo and I’ve been the single friend hanging around. It’s different now.

  I’m not in the mood to argue. Our fallings out are always around insignificant things, never anything important. I don’t get the chance to reply anyway, because the sound of raised voices drifts through the open front door. Jane and I exchange a bemused look and then we head out to the front, where Ben and David are at the back of the van. Ben has a cigarette in one hand and is jabbing a finger at David with the other.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Ben shouts. ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Just shut your mouth.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever I—’ Ben cuts himself off as he notices us in the doorway.

  ‘Everything all right?’ I ask.

  Ben and David exchange a look that I can’t read – and then Ben tosses his cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with his foot.

  ‘Let’s get this stuff inside,’ he says.

  Without another word, Ben grabs a box from the van and carries it towards the flat. Jane and I step out of the way to allow him to pass. David crosses back to his car, which he’s parked at an angle at the front of the van. I follow him over, watching as he removes a satchel from the back seat. There’s a bobblehead of some footballer on the shelf at the back, though I have no idea who it is.

  ‘Probably didn’t need the van,’ he says. ‘I don’t have as much stuff as I thought.’

  I nod towards the flat, from which Ben is yet to reappear. Jane has disappeared inside, too. ‘What was that about?’ I ask.

  He digs into the satchel with his back to me: ‘What?’

  ‘The argument with you and Ben.’

  David turns and shrugs. ‘Not much. We’re not going to let him spoil our day, are we?’ He starts to move past me and then stops, waiting until I’m at his side. ‘Number one, Sunshine Row,’ he says. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  Seven

  THE NOW

  This is the equivalent of when somebody starts a sentence with, ‘We need to talk’. The truth is that people never need to make a formal announcement about having to talk. If they need a chat, they get on with it. Pre-proclamations mean trouble – and so does the missing Tigger pot.

  Everyone who sees it assumes I’m a fan of Winnie The Pooh, but it’s nothing to do with it. When I bought it for £5, I was with David and he thought it might be worth more than the price. There was no way I could have known that such a seemingly insignificant piece of clay would change my life. It’s probably the reason I glued it back together after it was broken – I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It’s why it sits on my counter, housing my keys. The last thing I see before I leave the flat and the first thing I see when I return.

  But now it’s gone.

  I check the photo on my phone once more, zooming in on David’s face. I’m filled with the same feeling I get when I wonder if I’ve remembered to lock the front door. I suspect everyone has it at some point. I’ll leave as normal and set off on my journey and then, ten minutes later, for seemingly no reason, a thought will worm its way into my mind that I forgot to lock the door. Even if I remember specifically putting my key in the lock, the voice will continue to insist that I did that yesterday. That I definitely forgot to secure things today.

  And now I’m wondering if David can be alive.

  I know I killed him. I saw his lifeless eyes. I got rid of the body.

  Yet, not only is he in the back of a photo of what most would assume is my proudest moment; but the object that will forever bind our fates has disappeared.

  I scratch away the chills that ripple along my arms and then find myself rubbing the scar on my neck before catching myself. I decide that it can only be me who gets a grip on this madness.

  I search along both sides of the counter, wondering if I might have knocked it off and somehow not noticed.

  Nothing.

  I then check the drawers and cupboards, wondering if I moved it and somehow forgot. I look in the oven and the fridge and then move into the living room. I try underneath the sofa cushions and then underneath the sofa itself. After that, I flick through the racks of CDs and then try the cabinet underneath the television.

  Nothing.

  I look in the bathroom and the spare room. I try my own bedroom, checking the wardrobe and then going through my drawers. I have my head under the bed when I’m sure I hear a creak from the living room. I hurry to the doorway and stare across to the sofa and then the kitchenette on the other side of the room.

  There’s nobody there.

  ‘Hello?’

  There is silence except for the echo of my own voice, which I realise could be in my imagination, too.

  I find myself staring at the tissue box on the coffee table, wondering if it was on its side when I left. Then there’s my shoes next to the bed. Weren’t they straight, rather than askew? I can’t remember.

  The Tigger pot is nowhere to be seen, but, not only that, there is no sign of anyone breaking in. The door was locked; the windows are closed and secure.

  It’s almost half past five in the morning and nearly an entire day since I last slept. Yawn is building upon yawn, with tears of exhaustion running down my cheeks.

  I can’t bring myself to unpack my night bag, though there is one final thing to check. I go through my top drawer next to the bed, pushing aside the obligatory underwear until I find my passport at the back. I flick through the pages, looking at the stamps and then settling on my own face. Nobody takes a good passport photo. The range of expressions go from ‘a bit like a corpse’, to ‘potentially deranged’. Mine was renewed a little after I got married. It was less than three years back, though it feels like an age. I was so different then. Perhaps others can’t see it, but I can. There was an optimism and hope about me during our wedding. It was the marriage itself that took that from me.

  Underneath the passport is a little over £100 in cash, which is exactly what I remember having there.

  I’ve been out of the apartment for less than a day. Could David have been in, taken the clay pot, and then driven to the conference, milled around, and then… what? Anyone co
uld, I suppose. The timings are possible if someone could get themselves in and out – however unlikely that seems.

  I tell myself that things will figure themselves out in the morning. Later in the morning. The pot will show up in an obvious place and I’ll not be able to believe I missed it. David’s mysterious twin will turn out to be some hotel worker who was caught at the perfect angle in the perfect light that makes him look like my former husband. I’m tired, that’s all.

  I’m undressed and in bed when I poke my head out and check underneath for a final bit of reassurance. There is nothing there except shoes and empty boxes which once contained things like my phone.

  As soon as I’ve laid down, the digits from the clock burn bright through the darkness. I’m transported back to the hotel room, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.

  When I was younger, I’d always rest on my left side, facing the outside of the bed. After David moved in, we figured out that he did the same. I told him he could have that side of the bed and subsequently taught myself to sleep on my right arm. It now feels strange to sleep facing any other way.

  I close my eyes, cuddling the pillow into my ear and, the next thing I know, the digits on the clock are telling me that it’s a few minutes after eight. It takes a groggy few seconds for me to realise that I’ve slept for two and a half hours. It’s hardly a good night’s sleep, but it will do for now.

  It takes a few seconds more for me to notice the trophy on my side table and then everything that happened last night comes bubbling back to the surface like a dodgy kebab. I’m not supposed to be home; I’m supposed to be in a hotel. There was the phone photo of David, the missing pot from my kitchen.

  I pull myself out of bed and amble bare-footed into the living room. I glance towards the kitchen, but my keys still sit on the bare counter. I’ve not pulled the curtains and light is spilling across the living room. I head to the window and stand, staring out to where the sky is blue. It’s going to be another cold, clear day. I turn to face the room but instantly spin back. Something feels wrong, though I can’t quite figure out what. There’s a partially collapsed wall to the side of my apartment, with a pile of bricks on the ground. I’m not sure why, but it started to fall down a couple of years back. I find myself staring at it, wondering what feels wrong. It’s like seeing a pensioner in skinny jeans.