by Lisa Hall
‘Hello? Robbie, are you home?’ Nothing. The house is silent, and Robbie is definitely not here.
Pushing open the kitchen door, I hold up the umbrella, ready to strike if anybody is behind it. A faint hint of a citrusy scent reaches my nostrils, as I step into the room. The empty room. I cast my eyes about, but at first glance nothing looks out of place. Breathing in, the lemony smell hits my nose again, and a wave of nausea makes my stomach clench. Closing my eyes, I let the umbrella drop to the floor, one of the spokes catching my leg as I do so. I barely notice, so intent am I on trying to battle the flashback that rages behind my eyes.
That smell. So familiar, and yet at first I can’t quite put my finger on it. All I know is that the smell is making my stomach turn, and when I close my eyes all I can see is the blue-and-white bedspread of Liz’s spare bedroom. I gasp, my throat working as I try to swallow. Behind my eyelids, the vision plays out. The light is dim, it’s dark outside and the orange glow from the street light is the only thing that lights the room. I feel hands pushing at my top, ruching the fabric up into my armpits, exposing my black bra and pale skin to the chilly air. A figure looms over me, but try as I might, I can’t make out the features. My stomach flips, half with fear, half with the alcohol I’ve drunk, and I want to be sick. I try to push them off, try to buck my hips so I can roll out from beneath whoever is straddling me, their knees pressing hard into my rib cage, but my limbs feel leaden and won’t move. Somewhere below me, I hear the thud-thud of the music and I turn my head to try and scream before a hand clamps over my mouth, the citrus scent filling my nose.
Now, back in my empty kitchen, that faint smell is still tainting the air and I lose the battle against the bile that rises in the back of my throat. I manage to reach the sink before leaning over and throwing up for the second time today.
‘Jesus,’ I breathe, grabbing an empty glass from the draining board and filling it to the brim with cold water. I rinse my mouth out with half of it and take a few sips from the water that remains. Running a shaking hand through my hair, wincing at the faint sheen of grease it leaves on my fingertips, I take a better look around the kitchen.
At first, I don’t think anything is different; everything appears to be as it usually is. Then I notice the back door key. It lies on the work surface, next to the fruit bowl. Frowning, I move towards the back door itself. Usually, I leave the key in, a legacy of too many going missing, and Gareth’s irritation at having to replace the lock. I place one hand on the handle and gently press it down. It doesn’t move under my hand – the door is locked, just as I’m sure I left it. Robbie must have used the back door, then locked it and taken the key out without thinking.
I pick up the key, the metal cold against my hot, sweaty palm, and push it back into the lock. That may explain the key, but it doesn’t explain the lingering smell of that lemon-scented aftershave. I take another sip of water, my mouth dry and my throat scratchy, and cast my eyes about once more. That’s when I see it. The magnetic letters that have clung to the fridge door since Robbie was at preschool have been rearranged. Usually, they sprawl across the fridge in no particular order, holding up various reminders, appointments, and in the old days, school trips. Now, they spell out the words:
STILL WATCHING.
On shaking legs, tripping over the umbrella that still lies in the middle of the kitchen floor, I run upstairs, slamming my bedroom door behind me. I lean against it, the handle digging into my back as I press hard against the wood, convinced that any second now I’ll feel fists hammering on the other side, as someone tries to batter their way in. Shit. Shit, shit. My hands cover my mouth as if holding in a scream. Does that mean he (whoever he is) has been in the house? Is he still there, hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out on me?
Calm down, Rachel. I suck in a deep breath through my fingers, letting it out slowly and repeating the action until I feel my blood stop thumping in my ears and my pulse returns to normal. I press my ear to the door, but there is only silence. Am I being paranoid? Maybe Robbie just got a new aftershave? But why would Robbie rearrange the magnetic letters? Is Jason really so innocent or was it him in the house? All of these thoughts run through my head, but none of them make me feel better, or any safer.
I have to get out of here. I flick my wrist to look at my watch. It’s after lunchtime; Robbie should be home in a couple of hours. If I can just stay out until Robbie gets home, maybe things will be OK. I shake my head; once again tears are not far away. I need to speak to someone; I need some reassurance that I’m not going crazy, that everything is going to be OK.
I pull the cordless phone towards me from where it sits on the bedside table and dial Gareth’s number. He’s probably in a meeting, but I just need to hear his voice, even if he does tell me I’m being paranoid. I wait, nausea subsiding as the call connects and it starts to ring. I frown as I listen to the ring tone – it’s the double ring of the UK. The call goes to voicemail and I hang up, feeling puzzled. Is Gareth back already? Did he get an early flight? Maybe he’s going to surprise me.
I wait a moment, letting my pulse return to normal. Gareth will be home soon. We may not be getting along, and he may not be as supportive as I would have hoped, but at least I don’t feel so … vulnerable, so exposed when he’s here.
Feeling better for knowing that Gareth is on his way home, I dig in the wardrobe for my running skins and pull them on. Tying my hair back into a ponytail, I tug on my trainers and slide my door key into the tiny pocket in the back of my shorts. I can run, blow away all these paranoid thoughts, try and figure out if I even am paranoid, and with any luck by the time I get home Gareth will be back. Gatwick is only an hour away and if his phone has a double ring tone then he must be back, his flight must have landed. I fasten the rape alarm to my wrist and turn towards the edge of the woods. Carrie has the underwear now, and it’s only a matter of time before a DNA match is found, and all this will be over. I won’t be beaten by fear.
It doesn’t take long to lose myself in the rhythm of my feet pounding the pavement, then the mulch of the dead, wintry leaves squelching underfoot as I turn into the woods. I stick to the trail closest to the edge of the woodland, the one that runs parallel to the pavement on the other side of the thin row of trees that marks the edge of the woods. My headphones dangle loosely on either side of my neck, irritating in the way they swing across my chest, but habit is to bring them and I don’t want to wear them, too anxious to allow myself to shut myself off completely. Weak sunlight dribbles its way through the bare branches of the trees overhead, and as it touches my skin I could almost be convinced that spring is on the way.
My thoughts collide in time with my pulse, as I follow the winding trail thinking over everything I have discovered since the night of the New Year’s Eve party. Everyone seems to have a different take on it, and everyone seems to have their own reasons for not wanting to speak about that night. I remember Melody telling me that she was with someone she shouldn’t have been. Liz, telling me about her problem with alcohol. Jonno’s veiled comments about Gareth and how I should ask him about things directly. And then there’s Aaron. I’ve only got Neil’s word for it that he was at the party – and despite Aaron telling the police he wasn’t there, he was deliberately vague with me when I asked him. Is he being vague for a reason, or is he just toying with me?
I stop, unscrewing my water bottle and taking a sip. My palms rest on my thighs as I lean over, gulping in great lungfuls of clean crisp air, before I start to run again. As I find my pace, I think I hear someone coming up behind me, and without looking over my shoulder I move over to the side of the path to let them through. The path is popular with joggers, cyclists and mums pushing their toddlers in all-terrain buggies and it’s rare to run without crossing paths with a few people. I wait for whoever it is to overtake me, even slowing my pace a little, but the rustle of footsteps stays a small distance behind me, as though whoever it is is tracking me.
A prickle of fear runs down my spine an
d my breath catches in my throat. Why won’t they overtake me? I speed up, hoping to out run whoever it is. One glance over my shoulder is all it will take for me to see who is behind me, but some irrational part of me, the part that is broken, the part that was smashed to pieces at a New Year’s Eve party nearly three weeks ago, tells me not to look, tells me to run harder than I ever have before back to the safety of the main village road. I’m running at full speed now, my chest hurting, every breath painful as lactic acid builds up and makes my muscles burn. At the crossroads I sprint straight over, headed towards the bustling main road of the village. As I see the archway of branches that will lead me back to concrete, I risk a glance over my shoulder before tripping and crashing to my knees, my ankle twisting brutally as I fall.
I bite back the shriek that rises to my lips as pain shoots from my ankle to my knee. I look up to see my pursuer, but there is no one there, the pathway empty apart from a tiny grey squirrel that blinks beadily at me from the foot of a huge oak tree.
‘Fuck.’ I hiss the word out through clenched teeth, and rest my head on my knees as hot tears spring to my eyes. My ankle is already throbbing and swollen.
‘Rach? Are you OK?’ I raise my head slightly to see a battered pair of Dr Martens in front of me. ‘Give me your hand, I’ll help you up.’ Amy stands in front of me, one hand held out.
‘Thanks.’ I take her hand and let her pull me to my feet, taking care not to put too much weight on the ankle I have twisted.
‘Let me help you home.’ Amy tucks my arm through hers, the warmth of her seeping through her jacket into my skin.
‘I’ll be fine honestly, it’s just twisted.’ My teeth are starting to chatter, and as it’s not especially cold out I think it must be the shock of the fall. I try to put my foot down fully and let out a little hiss of pain, immediately taking the weight off it again. Amy gives me a sideways glance, her brows knitted together briefly before she shakes her head.
‘I don’t think so, Rachel. Look, I know you’re not talking to me, but let me take you back to mine. It’s closer than your house, and I’ve got some ice and some bandages we can use on that ankle.’
Without much choice in the matter I let Amy help me and we half walk, half hop in silence back to her house. Having Amy beside me is a comfort I’ve missed, but I still don’t know how I feel about what she did – who does that to a friend? I trusted her and she sold me out for a few quid. She doesn’t seem to know what to say either, and I am relieved when we reach her front door. She manoeuvres me into the cramped sitting room and gets me sat down with my foot raised. The pain pulses up my calf, making me wince every time I try to get comfortable, and I gulp down the painkillers Amy brings me. She returns to the room moments later with a tea towel wrapped around ice, and a box of bandages.
‘I didn’t do it, you know,’ she says, avoiding my eyes as she holds the freezing tea towel to my purple, swollen ankle. ‘Talk to that journalist, I mean. I would never do that.’
I hiss through my teeth as she holds my foot a little too tightly.
‘But you had her card in your bag.’
‘That doesn’t mean I spoke to her.’ She finally raises her eyes to mine, and I look away, not sure what to think. ‘You jumped to conclusions, Rach. You saw one thing and put two and two together. Only, you didn’t make four.’
‘You really didn’t speak to her?’ I ask. ‘She knew things that I had only told you.’
‘Only me? Or Gareth as well? And Liz?’ Amy drops the tea towel and moves back, to the armchair behind her. ‘Not that I’m blaming them, but you can’t just assume it was me that spoke to her.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, as I realize that Amy isn’t the only one who I told everything to. I was so caught up in my own reasoning, once I saw the card in her bag that I never even stopped to consider that maybe it was someone else who talked. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘She wanted to talk to me,’ Amy goes on. She picks up the box of bandages and I think that maybe I have been forgiven. ‘But I told her to sling her hook. She must have slid her card into my bag on the way out. I wouldn’t ever have told her anything, Rach. You’re my friend.’
‘I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.’ My eyes water, and it’s nothing to do with the fat, swollen mess that my ankle has become. ‘I’ve missed you.’ And I have – so much. With Gareth away, and everyone around me seeming to keep secrets from me I’ve never felt so alone before.
‘Missed you, too.’ Amy grins, pinning the bandage with a flourish, before her smile dies on her lips. ‘What’s happening, Rach? You look exhausted.’
I tell her about Liz bringing the underwear to my house, and that Carrie has taken them for testing. Then I tell her about today, in the house. The overwhelming feeling that someone had been there, going through my things, leaving clues to mess with my mind.
‘Shit, Rach,’ she breathes, her eyes wide. ‘You don’t think …?’
‘I don’t know – I don’t honestly know if he’s there, watching me, waiting for the next time that he can …’ I break off, the thought too frightening to complete. ‘Or if I’m going mad. Seeing things that aren’t really there.’
‘And you spoke to everyone at the party? Asked them what they saw?’
‘Nearly everyone. There’s just one person – Katie Fielding. I haven’t been able to get hold of her, so I’m going to go and see her later, if I can walk on this,’ I gesture to my ankle, ‘she’s the only person I have left – let’s just hope that she did see something, and she didn’t realize it. I have to find out who did this, Ames – I have to finish it.’
An hour later, I hobble up the path having taken a cab from Amy’s to home. I feel so much better, now I know that we are speaking again. And she believes me, that’s the main thing – even if it does feel as though she is the only one. The light is starting to fade as I make my way up the path, filling the front garden with dusky shadows, and I feel apprehensive at entering my own home, even though every light is blazing inside. As I step into the hallway, I breathe in deeply, but there is no hint of the lemon scent that welcomed me home earlier. There is a light shining from beneath Gareth’s office door, and I let out a sigh of relief. He’s home. Even if he is shut away in his office, inaccessible to me, at least he is in the house if … whoever came in earlier, decides to come back. I shuffle along the hall to the office door, and gently push it open, but when I peer in, I realize it’s not Gareth sitting at his desk.
‘Rob? What are you doing?’ Robbie’s head snaps up and a deep shade of crimson starts creeping up from his neckline to his cheeks.
‘Mum! I didn’t know you were home.’ He closes a drawer and gets to his feet.
‘I was at Amy’s.’ I hobble further into the room and he frowns at me.
‘What have you done?’ He comes around to my side of the desk, spying the bandage wrapped tightly around my foot. ‘Shit, Mum, what happened?’
‘I fell over, running. Amy rescued me.’ I give a tired smile. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Dad? He’s not back yet. Still in Croatia, isn’t he?’
‘I thought … what are you doing in Dad’s office?’ My mind feels fuzzy, and I wonder what painkillers Amy gave me – hopefully not her left over Tramadol.
‘Just looking for … a ruler. I’ve got college stuff to do and I’ve lost mine. Come on.’ He wraps his arm around my shoulder and I lean against him gratefully. ‘Let’s get you a cup of tea, and I’ll order a pizza if you want.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, my gaze drifting to the pile of papers on the side of Gareth’s desk, but I’m too tired and my ankle hurts too much to make sense of any of it all, least of all why Rob would be in Gareth’s office, so I accept his excuse and offer of pizza and let him lead me into the kitchen.
21
NOVEMBER – FOUR WEEKS BEFORE THE PARTY
I am heading out of the vet surgery at the other end of West Marsham village, a very grumpy Thor walking along beside me. If he could talk, he’d probably be swearing – there
is no dog that hates the vet more than Thor, even when it’s something as simple as a worming tablet. I pull gently at his lead as he stops to sniff yet another lamp post on the way back to the car, relieved when he finally starts walking, albeit slowly.
The temperature has dropped right down now we are at the tail end of November, and although it’s only six o’clock, ice crystals glitter on the pavement as I walk as briskly as Thor will let me to the ticket machine to pay for my parking. I hate the village car park at this time of night – tucked around the corner from the High Street, it is deserted by not long after five o’clock on a week night, and is poorly lit with plenty of shadowy corners, but this was the only time I could get an appointment for Thor. I chatter to him under my breath, as I tuck his lead into the crook of my arm, juggling my purse and the ticket in one hand, the cold making my fingers thick and clumsy. I am thinking about getting home, hoping Gareth has lit the fire in the front room, and whether I have time to cook something decent from scratch when I get in before the first of my evening clients arrive, so I don’t hear the footsteps approaching, don’t realize that anyone is standing behind me until I hear his voice.
‘Hello, Rachel.’
I jump, my heart skipping in my chest as coins shoot out of my purse and roll across the tarmac of the car park.
‘Shit. You made me jump.’ I glare at Aaron, before stooping down to start picking up the coins I’ve lost.
‘Let me.’ He scoops up the last of the coins and hands them to me, his fingers lingering on mine for far too long. I suppress a shudder and start feeding the coins into the machine without thanking him. ‘So, how have you been, Rachel?’
‘Fine.’ I yank my exit coin from the slot and start walking back to my car, Thor panting next to me.
‘I haven’t seen much of you, not since you visited me at the Riverside house.’ He smirks, amusement in his voice.
‘I didn’t bloody visit you, and you know it.’ I whirl around to face him, anger making my cheeks blaze red. ‘I spoke to Gareth, you know. I told him that you lured me there, telling me Gareth wanted me to drop those keys off. I told him you’ve been harassing me.’ But I’ve always been useless at lying, face to face anyway (I push away the thought of how I lie to Gareth every time I see Ted), and I can’t quite maintain eye contact.
