Watching Edie

by Camilla Way

  But I’d cut her off. ‘I’m fine,’ I snapped. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’ I turned back to staring out at the street.

  ‘But you look bloody terrible! You’re never here, I don’t even know what you’re doing or where you’re going half the time.’ Her voice had been desperate.

  My eyes had swum with tears and for a second I imagined telling her everything, begging her to help me, to make it all go away before it was too late, to put a stop to Connor and me. But the moment passed and instead I turned and said furiously, ‘There’s nothing wrong! Leave me alone.’ And I walked out of the room, and out of the house, slamming the door behind me.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Maya, pushing away the rush of sadness and regret, ‘let’s go to the shops, shall we? Buy us something nice for lunch.’ When I put her in her buggy I look at the shiny black eyes gazing back at me and feel my heart tighten with love.

  And then, near the gate, I see James cycling towards us. Hurriedly I lower my head and pray that he won’t spot me, but a few seconds later I look up to see him slowing to a stop right beside us. ‘Hi!’ I say too brightly as he gets off his bike.

  ‘Hey,’ he replies, and there’s an awkward silence before we say at the same time, our voices clashing jarringly, ‘How are you?’ and, ‘Yeah – fine, fine.’

  He’s wearing big, Fifties-style glasses today that I’m vaguely aware have become fashionable recently. A mortifying memory of our evening together flashes into my mind and I stare hard at the ground.

  ‘All set for Christmas?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘I’m going to Monica’s for lunch, actually. Should be nice.’

  ‘Yeah? That’s … great then,’ and there’s another painful pause as we continue to avoid each other’s eyes.

  ‘Well …’ I say at last, ‘better … you know, better go.’

  ‘Right. OK.’ And I think I’m going to get away with it until he suddenly says, ‘Look, can we … can I talk to you for a moment?’

  We go to a nearby bench and at first neither of us speak as Maya looks gravely from one to the other of us from her buggy.

  ‘I’ve tried to ring a few times,’ he says.

  I glance away. ‘I know. I meant to get back to you …’

  ‘I’m sorry that things went a bit weird the other week.’

  ‘Honestly, please don’t worry about it. It was my fault, it wasn’t … I don’t think I’m really your type, am I?’

  He laughs, and it’s a nice laugh, deep and warm. ‘Trust me, you’re anyone’s type, look at you. I was just a bit taken by surprise, when you …’

  I feel myself flush. ‘Yeah,’ I say quickly, looking away.

  ‘It’s just that I’ve been single since I split with Stan’s mum, I wasn’t expecting—’

  ‘What?’ I ask. ‘That I’d jump on you? Make a holy show of myself? Yeah, I get that. I felt like a big enough twat at the time, so please don’t feel you have to go on about it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Been feeling a bit of a twat myself, if that’s any consolation.’

  We sit in silence for a while until at last I sigh and say, ‘Are they even real lenses in those glasses of yours?’

  He grins. ‘You think I’m a pretentious tit, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not.’ And when he raises his eyebrows at me, I bite back a smile and say, ‘Well, yeah, maybe a little bit.’ We both look down at our feet and laugh.

  ‘How’s Maya been?’ he asks after a few moments.

  ‘Yeah, she’s been brilliant.’

  He looks down at her. ‘She’s lovely.’

  ‘Nothing prepares you, does it?’ I say. ‘For how much you love them. I look at her sometimes and think, wow, she’s just the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And it’s crazy how much they love you, too, isn’t it? How they look at you and need you and love you no matter what. I get these mad rushes of happiness sometimes – never felt like that before, never thought that I could.’ I stop, suddenly realizing that he’s staring at me. ‘What?’ I ask.

  He smiles. ‘Nothing.’ He takes his glasses off and, after considering them for a moment, chucks them on the ground. And then he leans over and kisses me, and it’s different, this time; it’s OK.

  I leave him sitting on the bench, promising to call him soon. By the time I reach my road I have to keep my face turned from passers-by because I’m smiling so much and I don’t even notice the police car parked outside our building until I’m nearly at the door. It’s only then that I see Monica on the front step talking to a couple of officers. I sprint the last few yards, pushing the buggy in front of me.

  ‘But what are you going to do about it?’ I hear Monica asking as I reach her. ‘He’s not supposed to come anywhere near us! Surely there’s something you can do?’

  The first officer, a woman, is blandly soothing. ‘As we’ve already said, Ms Forbes, we’ll be looking into it.’ Monica laughs in bitter disbelief as the officers move off towards their car. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ they say, in a way that I guess is supposed to be reassuring, before getting in and driving away.

  She turns to me then and the expression in her eyes makes my heart lurch. ‘What happened?’ I ask, but instead of answering she leads me wordlessly into her flat.

  I gaze in at what was previously Monica’s well-ordered home. Somebody has completely ransacked it. Pictures have been ripped from the walls, furniture smashed, mattresses slashed, cupboards emptied. Everything I look at as I make my way carefully through the wreckage has been destroyed. Ryan and Billy stand in the midst of it all, ashen-faced.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper, when I can speak. ‘Who did this? Are you all OK? Was anyone hurt?’

  She turns a kitchen chair the right way up and sinks into it. ‘We weren’t in. Got back from the shops and found it like this.’

  I stare at her. ‘And do you … I mean, was it him? Phil? Did anyone see anything?’

  ‘Of course it was him,’ she says angrily.

  ‘Did he take anything?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Only my phone.’

  And looking at her pale, pinched face I feel her terror, suddenly. It’s as if I can taste it, touch it, understand it in a way I hadn’t before. ‘But how did he get in?’ I ask. ‘This place is like Fort Knox.’

  Billy hangs his head. ‘I forgot to lock and bolt the back door after letting the dog out.’

  ‘He must have come over the garden wall,’ says Monica, and I look around at the damage and mess as an icy chill creeps up my spine. No one speaks for a long time. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea,’ I say at last. ‘Billy, have a look on your phone for a locksmith.’

  When he doesn’t reply I glance up at him and realize he’s barely heard me and it strikes me suddenly how very young he is, this tall, well-built seventeen-year-old, as he stands there with his arms wrapped around himself, his eyes flitting anxiously from his mother to the chaos surrounding him. ‘Billy,’ I say, more gently now, going over and putting my hand on his arm, ‘go and call a locksmith.’

  Later we sit in tense silence while Monica smokes cigarette after cigarette and bites at the loose skin around her thumbnail. ‘He’s messing with my head,’ she says suddenly, grinding her cigarette end into an overflowing ashtray. ‘It’s a warning, that’s what this is – letting me know that he’s still around, still watching me.’

  ‘The police will find him,’ I say. ‘They’ll get him for this.’

  She shakes her head. ‘They’re useless. He doesn’t give a shit about them anyway, that’s why he’s done this in broad daylight. Maybe when he’s finally killed me they’ll take some notice, but until then it’s: “Don’t worry, we’ll look into it.”’

  Her landline phone rings and we both jump, staring at it mutely for a few seconds before she pounces on it. I can tell that it’s the police. She talks in tense monosyllables then listens silently to what they have to say before slamming the phone back down in disgust.

  ‘Reckon they’ve talke
d to him and he’s got an alibi,’ she tells us. ‘Says he was nowhere near here and he’s got a list of witnesses to prove it. They searched his place for my mobile, but there’s no sign of it.’ She thumps the table. ‘Who else would it be? Who else is going to do this? Of course he’s got an alibi. He’s not that bloody stupid.’

  ‘What else did they say?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that they’re “satisfied he wasn’t involved”.’ She shakes her head. ‘Christ, I hate him. He’s loving this, knowing he’s had this effect on me.’

  I look from Monica’s face to Billy’s, and feel a familiar dread begin to build inside me.

  When a couple of hours later I return to my flat, I lie down and try to take a nap while Maya sleeps. But it seems as though the second I close my eyes and start to drift, I’m hit by a memory of that last night in Fremton so vivid and disturbing that I wake with a pounding heart, my body shaking, my skin damp with sweat. I had seen myself running from the quarry, the surrounding, darkening fields pressing in against me, my lungs screaming for air. But the faster I’d tried to run, the slower I became, my legs growing heavier until I could barely move them at all. I’d looked over my shoulder and cried out in fear to see Connor following behind. I’d turned back, renewing my efforts, trying in vain to make my legs move. And then there, ahead of me, was Heather, slowly walking towards me, her eyes fixed on mine. Closer and closer she came, the smile on her face making me scream and scream in horror.

  When my heart finally calms I lie awake, still far too upset to sleep, the sick, frightened feeling refusing to leave me until, desperate for distraction, I reach for my phone and turn it on to find an email waiting for me. Clicking on the unread message icon I see Jennifer Wilcox’s name and with trembling fingers I open it and read the four lines of type.

  Edie. From your email I gather that you have been in touch with Heather. I would like to talk to you if that is the case. I can come to London this weekend, if it’s convenient. Perhaps we could meet somewhere near Euston station. Let me know. Jennifer

  Outside my window the sun disappears behind a cloud and, just like that, spring turns to winter again.

  Before

  No one talks much in the hot, messy lounge of Connor’s flat; mostly they play computer games or watch TV and smoke weed. I don’t know what I’m doing here or why I’ve come, not really, or even what I’m expecting to happen. I just want to make sure Edie’s OK, because she hadn’t seemed it, at the quarry – she hadn’t seemed OK at all.

  When Connor comes in and calls Edie’s name she jumps up eagerly and goes to him, smiling in relief as he pulls her down on to his lap. When my eyes eventually drift up to his face I flinch as I meet his hard green stare. Slowly, his eyes still fastened on me, his hand moves upwards until it disappears beneath Edie’s short skirt. I quickly look away, staring out of the window while my cheeks burn.

  Outside, the sun blazes in the cloudless sky, belting down upon the motorway, and I wonder about them, all those people in all those cars as they leave Fremton far behind, on their way to someplace else, someplace better. I glance back to the room, to this ragged band of strangers suspended up here with me in this hot, stuffy flat, and I try to make sense of how I came to be here, how it came to be that I should end up here too.

  ‘Heather,’ Connor says, breaking me from my thoughts. ‘Get me a beer from the fridge.’

  I don’t reply.

  He raises his voice, just a fraction. ‘Are you fucking deaf?’

  I glance at Edie but she ignores me and a long, uncomfortable moment passes before I reluctantly get to my feet. Self-consciously I pick my way through the bodies littering the floor, gingerly stepping over legs and ashtrays and empty cans until I reach the door. In the kitchen where hot sunlight pours in through smeared glass and the floor feels tacky beneath my feet, I bend down to a tiny fridge. A sour, stale smell hits my nostrils as I open it and quickly pull a can free. And when I straighten up again, Connor is standing behind me.

  ‘You all right there, Heather?’

  Wordlessly I hand him the beer and he takes it from me, popping open its ring pull and taking a long swig, not moving from his position, nor dropping his eyes from mine. Suddenly he takes a step towards me and I hurriedly back away until I feel the knock of the sink’s hard edge against my spine. He sniggers, and placing his beer can on the table comes closer still and, leaning forward, his hands grip the sink so I’m trapped between his arms. His face is inches from mine and I can smell the beer and cigarettes on his breath as he murmurs, ‘What you doing here, Heather?’

  My mouth is very dry. ‘Come to see Edie,’ I whisper.

  ‘Yeah?’

  I nod.

  ‘You fancy a bit of that, do you?’ He smiles. ‘That it? That why you were chatting shit about me? Want her for yourself?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Let me go. I want to go home.’

  ‘I don’t like people telling lies about me,’ he goes on, his face moving a fraction closer. ‘You listening?’

  I feel my scalp creep and still he doesn’t move or drop his gaze. I see something so dark and disturbing, so devoid of warmth in his eyes that fresh fear pulses through me. It’s like looking at the green oily surface of the quarry, its secret deathtraps looming suddenly into view. And as we stare at each other my expression must alter, showing him what I have understood, that I’ve seen through to his lonely rotten core, because in that instant the hatred in his eyes deepens, sharpening its claws and baring its teeth. My lungs empty of air.

  ‘Connor?’

  I cry out with relief to see Edie appear in the doorway behind him. She looks from one to the other of us and as Connor straightens up I quickly move away from him. ‘Edie, come home with me,’ I say desperately before Connor can speak.

  She shakes her head but doesn’t answer. I see her hesitation and for a moment a faint hope climbs inside me. ‘Please, Edie,’ I beg, ‘I’m scared he’s going to hurt you. I’m so worried for you, you’ve changed so much, you look so awful …’

  ‘You better shut your mouth,’ Connor warns.

  ‘You could find someone else,’ I blurt, ignoring him. ‘Someone nicer—’

  ‘That right, is it?’ he interrupts. ‘Not good enough for stuck-up little cunts like you? That it?’

  Edie still hasn’t spoken and I have to swallow hard to clear the lump in my throat when I see the desperation in her eyes. I turn back to Connor’s hateful face, and say, quietly, ‘Yes.’

  He makes a lunge and I just have time to hear Edie shout, ‘Get out of here, Heather, get out,’ and see her step between us before I make it out of the kitchen and out of the flat, slamming the door behind me. I hurtle down six flights of stairs until I reach the bottom and I don’t stop running until I’ve left the estate behind.

  I stay away from the flat after that, brooding on the plan I had begun to form and spending my time hanging around at the end of Edie’s street, hoping to catch a glimpse of her and reassure myself that she’s OK. But it’s not until a few weeks later, at the beginning of August, that I see her again. I’m sitting in the town square, eating a Greggs sausage roll and wondering if it’s too early to go and hang around outside her house when I spot her walking past on the furthest side. I get to my feet and watch as she approaches the payphone outside the police station. As she digs out her purse I make a large loop round and duck behind the phones’ shelter, and there I wait, straining my ears to listen.

  ‘Connor?’ she says, her voice muffled, ‘It’s me.’

  I hold my breath as she falls silent, listening to him speak. Then, ‘No, Connor, please baby. No … no, I don’t want to … I don’t want to.’ She begins to cry and I ball my hands into fists. ‘That’s not true,’ she says. ‘Listen to me … I … but I do! I do love you. I love you so much! You’re all I have, Connor, why don’t you believe me? I’d do anything for you.’ She falls silent again, and then, eventually, reluctantly, says, ‘OK. Yes … OK, I will. I promise.’ She hangs up the phone, and I wa
tch as she slowly makes her way back across the square.

  I’m on study leave from school, and I sit with my father in the kitchen as he tips baked beans on to some burnt toast and passes me my plate before retrieving a hardback book from his jacket pocket and opening it to read. Within seconds he’s absorbed and I watch him silently for a while. Since Mum left, a kind of peace has settled between the two of us. I leave him to his work and he in turn takes no notice of what I do, accepting without question that it’s my schoolwork I’m preoccupied with while I’m alone up in my room. And although this is a relief after living with Mum’s constant, critical scrutiny, it also leaves me with an unsettling sense of freefall, as though I’m about to step off a very high cliff and there’ll be no one to catch me when I land.

  Suddenly Dad looks up from his book, catching me staring, and I watch as he mentally fumbles around for something to say. After a long pause he murmurs, ‘It might be a good idea to go over your UCAS forms this evening, Heather. You shouldn’t leave it too late.’

  I manage to nod and, satisfied, he returns to his book. As my beans go cold I let myself imagine saying, ‘Actually, Dad, there’s no point in applying for uni, because I haven’t a hope of getting the grades I need anyway.’ So far I’d managed to fob my teachers off with tales of illness and ‘trouble at home’. But there was a sense of things unravelling, of the lies I’d told spinning out of my control. My parents and I have talked about my plans to study medicine since I was eleven. They’ve been putting money into my uni fund for years. And I had always studied as hard as I possibly could, desperate not to disappoint them, even paying my birthday and Christmas money into the post office account myself. Still I allow the fantasy to run in my head, how easily I could blow the world wide open with a single stroke; tell Dad about the awful grades I’ve been getting, how I’ve ruined everything, force him to see me – really, actually see me – for once. But of course I don’t. Instead I go back to thinking about Edie and the last time I saw her.