‘No reason, just desperate,’ I joke.
Desperate to get to the bottom of that photograph. Carrie hasn’t seen anyone out of place, as far as I can tell. The puzzle of who sent the box remains. The writing on it seems to blaze in the air before me: I’m watching you.
Carrie peers anxiously out of the window again, taking advantage of the lull in conversation. Grabs the cat treats and opens the back door.
‘Smudge! Come on!’ Shake, shake, shake.
The mystery box lies where I left it, on the back seat, and I’m so glad I didn’t show it to Carrie after all, because I can’t help wondering… Is Smudge’s disappearance a coincidence, or another step in a campaign to scare a dying woman?
Eleven
Then
Last night Mum turned the music up extra loud to cover the arguing, but it hadn’t barricaded out her shrieks of pain. I’d put my hands over my ears and tried to sing along, like I always did, mute tears streaming. When silence had finally descended, it had been scarier than the shouts, and sleep had refused to come so that I could escape into it. I dreaded getting up for school, but hadn’t dared risk Dad’s rage if I was late, either, so when the alarm went off, I crept downstairs for breakfast. Terrified of what I’d find, I imagined a steel cage wrapped around me for protection.
After a lifetime of walking on eggshells, I’d developed a hunched tiptoe to my gait, perfect for going unnoticed as I crept past Dad, who sat at the rickety breakfast bar. While I helped myself to a huge glass of milk from the fridge, Dad took another swig from his ‘special water bottle’. He started most mornings by pouring himself a vodka from it. I was ten, old enough now to realise when Dad was drunk – which was most of the time.
He cut into the fry-up Mum had made for him.
Spat it out.
‘It’s cold! Can’t you even get this right, you stupid cow?’
Mum seemed glued to the cooker, all big eyes and biting lip, with no reply, no movement. It was the kind of stillness only people who have spent years living in fear can achieve. We both watched silently as Dad picked up his plate and hurled it at the wall. I crouched down. Too slow. A stray shard of ceramic nicked my cheek. Exploded fried eggs and a massacre of tomatoes slid down the pale pink walls to join the sausages rolling on the floor.
Dad took a gulp from his water bottle and spat another incoherent insult, making Mum wince. She absorbed the abuse, not saying a word. Mum never said anything to criticise Dad, too scared of him to ever risk confrontation.
Silence goaded him as much as arguing back, though. His chair screeched over the terracotta tiles as he pushed it back and stood. He lurched forward a step, swayed, stumbled. Only saved himself from falling flat on his stupid, ugly face by bracing against the wall.
‘Do you hear me? I’m watching you, you little bitch.’
Another step forward, momentum propelling him at Mum until he loomed over her, nose pushed against hers. ‘One of these days you’ll push me too far. I’ll kill you. And your brat.’
Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke, landing on Mum’s chin. The veins on his nose and cheeks reminded me of the crazy paving we’d got in the backyard. But it was his bloodshot eyes that scared me. They made me think of a picture of the Devil I’d seen in a book at school, where fire spewed from his mouth. All that was missing from the man standing in front of me were the horns.
His hands twitched, ready for action.
No! I squeezed between him and Mum, her last and only line of defence. Hands on my hips, I pulled myself up as tall as I could. I barely reached his chest.
‘Leave her alone! I hate you! Go away!’
Iron fingers in my hair. Head slammed back against the wall, rat-tat-tat, quick as machine-gun fire. Stars blazed, dizzying, no gravity until I hit the floor. Dad stepped over me, foot catching my side, then stumbled from the room, leaving me in a heap on the floor like a scrunched-up piece of paper. Discarded, unwanted, thrown away. The story of my short life. I sat up. Something sticky was dribbling down my face. Blood? No, egg.
The tiniest whimper came from Mum, counting itself lucky to escape. She didn’t move until a window-rattling snore came from the living room. She helped me stand up, dusted off my clothes, wiped my face clean with a cloth.
‘You all right?’ she checked. I nodded, and her mouth faked a smile. ‘Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling, eh? Right, off you go to school. And you know the rules, let’s keep this in the family.’
Keep it in the family. As though it was something special to be guarded. But my insides felt hot with rebellion. I wasn’t going to keep quiet and take it any more, not after the talk we’d had at school the other day all about secrets.
‘Find someone you trust, ideally an adult, and talk to them. Never be afraid to tell your problems to somebody, and it will be okay,’ that’s what my teacher had told us.
I’d only got one friend at school. Not even a friend, really, but Jessica didn’t seem to mind too much if I sat next to her in some of the classes, and sometimes, when no one was looking, we whispered to each other. It was nice having somebody to talk to even if it could only be in secret. So as soon as I escaped the house, I ran as hard and fast as I could to my friend’s house, and knocked on the door, breathless.
* * *
Jessica’s mum answered. I liked her mum. She had a big, beaming smile, nothing like my mum’s, which only lived on the corners of her mouth, ready to switch back down into a timid line if Dad appeared.
My teacher’s words ringing in my ears, and my head ringing from the blows, I didn’t even wait to find Jessica. Instead, I grabbed hold of both Mrs Norbury’s hands and let the words pour from me. Her mouth dropped open as she listened. At some point she must have led me into the kitchen, but I barely noticed as I emptied out the truth of my life. Jessica peered into the room, giving me a funny look, but her mum shooed her away and made me a hot chocolate with milk, not just water like I got at home.
Finally, the words slowed to a trickle, then a drop, until they stopped. Mrs Norbury hugged me.
‘You’ve been a very brave girl,’ she said. ‘Thank you for trusting me.’
The heat I’d felt before returned, but now it felt comforting, not angry. Everything was going to be okay, because I’d done exactly like teacher said and told somebody my problem. They were going to help me, and I’d never have to be afraid in my own home again. When she dropped Jessica and me off at school, I almost floated.
* * *
Concentrating on lessons was hard when my head was full of pictures of Dad being arrested and led away in handcuffs from my home. I itched to be there to see it, fidgeting in my seat in impatience.
At home time, I ran until I got a stitch and walked the rest of the way as fast as I could, holding my side. There were no police cars in my street, not a hint of flashing lights or uniforms. Perhaps Dad had already been taken.
There was a car I didn’t recognise, though. Maybe it was CID, like on telly. Cool.
When I let myself into the kitchen, voices mumbled through the walls of the living room, sliding through the cracks of the closed door. Dad’s deep boom was among them. I crept up to the door, my heart feeling like it was beating so fast it might escape up into my mouth and pop out. I pressed my ear against the flaking cream paint. It was enough to make out the occasional word.
Dad apologising. Mrs Norbury’s voice, higher than normal but still recognisable. So that was whose car was parked outside. Her husband telling Dad to ‘make sure it doesn’t happen again’ and saying something about ‘being put in a difficult position’.
What did it mean? Dad was in trouble, right? He had to be. He’d been really, really bad.
The voices were getting louder, closer. Before the door could open I ran back into the kitchen.
By the time the four adults trooped into the kitchen I was sat at the breakfast bar, head resting on folded arms, legs swinging pendulum-like as if I’d been sitting there, bored, the whole time.
‘Here’s the little tyke,’ said Dad, ruffling my hair. ‘The kid’s got one hell of an imagination – hey, one day she might make a living out of it, become a bestseller. I’m sorry you got dragged into her stories, though.’
He shook his head in mock despair. Around me the adults swirled with awkward jokes and expansive gestures, laughing a little too loud, a little too keen. The corners of Mum’s mouth mutinied into a smile that didn’t reach her anxious eyes.
‘Apologise to the Norburys, sweetheart,’ Dad added. ‘You almost got your dad in a load of trouble.’
‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’ My jaw stuck out, as stubborn as my crossed arms. The adults gave an uncomfortable chuckle.
‘You mustn’t tell tall tales,’ Dad said.
Mum finally chipped in, looking at Jessica’s parents. ‘You can see what we have to deal with.’ Her hands moved as if washing each other, anxious.
Mrs Norbury didn’t seem to know where to look. Her eyes slid over me as if I wasn’t there. There was no sign of the beaming smile that had made me feel so safe earlier.
‘Well, we must be going. We need to collect Jessica from her gran’s house,’ she said.
At the doorway, Dad’s arm wrapped round Mum’s shoulder, imprisoning her.
‘Great to see you,’ he called one last time, waving his new friends off. They waved back through their open windows.
We all watched them reverse off our drive and trundle away, growing smaller. Indicated left and disappeared. Then Dad closed the door. His smile melted into a glower that made my stomach curdle and a warm sensation trickle down the inside of my leg.
It had been a mistake to say anything. A mistake to hope.
Honesty had got me absolutely nowhere.
Twelve
Now
An evil, targeted campaign. Or two coincidences. That’s the choice facing me. My hands open and close to a slow imaginary beat, as I vacillate between the two while simultaneously trying to ease my mild arthritis. At this time of year the cold often makes my fingers ache, thanks to the amount of breaks the bones have suffered. Good job my ribs don’t do the same.
Open: has Smudge been taken by the same person who is sending Carrie threatening messages? Close: has he wandered off, at the exact same time as someone’s pranked my friend?
I’m in my usual seat in the corner of the waiting room at the eating disorder clinic which I have to attend every Wednesday and Friday. I’ve come here straight from Carrie’s, and it’s a relief to get away – already I can feel my racing mind calming into coherence. The clinic is a sort of home from home in many ways, particularly as I’ve been an inpatient several times, the longest period a year. The nose-tingling smell of antiseptic feels safe and comforting. The way the hard-wearing buff carpet tiles are laid so the nap alternates its direction, north-south, east-west, is as familiar as my own carpet. The crack above the nurse’s door that runs up to the ceiling; the tinny radio playing jingly-jangly music from decades ago; they are like old friends.
I know the nurses, too. The ones with strident voices and businesslike attitude who are soft as brushed cotton. Maria is my favourite. A short, round woman with a smile as brilliant as her postbox-red hair.
There are no posters in the waiting room, which is a blessing. No repeat reading until the messages become like Chinese water torture of the eyeballs, the words dripping into the brain. Still, my eyes slide over ‘no patients beyond this point’ for the millionth time, and stare blindly at the magnolia wall as I return to the puzzle in my mind. Generally, I enjoy a mental challenge, but this is several levels above a cryptic crossword or brain-teaser.
The more I think about it, the more I decide I’m letting emotion override logic. Some bored kids have almost certainly decided to bait a vulnerable, lone woman, which is horrible, but nothing too much to worry about.
More concerning has been my own reaction. The fact that I made links that don’t exist and allowed myself to get so stressed out means I’m letting my imagination get the better of me.
I’ve always had an inventive mind, losing myself in stories I make up and drawing pictures of fantastical creatures. It’s one of the reasons I’m so good at my job, listening to what people want in their ideal dress, then taking the best bits and creating something wonderful for them. Making people’s dreams come true and seeing the look on their faces is incredibly rewarding. But my imagination can also be a curse; I must not get carried away. Instead, my scattered energies need to be focused on practical help for Carrie, sorting her bucket list, while simultaneously making sure I stay healthy.
I’m looking forward to talking it all through with my counsellor, the lovely Rosie, although it’s tempting to leave bits out. It’s been drummed into me that omission is destructive in therapy, though. The problem is that in Rosie’s opinion, many of my problems are stemming from the support group – and she’s never approved of me going there. It’s something we’ve discussed a number of times. Mixed messages, she says, warning of confusion, and there being a price to pay later, in regrets. I should listen. But I don’t. The group fills a void in my life left by the loss of my children and husband, allowing me to speak exclusively about them with no anorexia-driven agenda. Unlike here.
A door opens near me, and a nurse pops her head round it. I don’t need to look at her name badge to know she is Ruth.
‘Twenty-three,’ she calls. Like bingo. A thrill runs through the seated people, a murmur of interest. Another person seen; a little closer to my own number being up.
The first time I entered through those doors I’d been convinced I wasn’t ill. I’d only agreed to come to the clinic to shut people up, convinced as I was that I was too fat and too old to have an eating disorder. According to my therapist, although most people think of anorexia as a teenage condition, it’s not uncommon for it to develop in women in midlife, often triggered by trauma of one kind or another – most frequently divorce, bereavement or empty nest syndrome. My husband was gone, along with my kids, and that definitely coincided with the start of my eating disorder.
It’s been a long, hard road to recovery, with several nasty setbacks, but this time I’m doing much better. The team give me realistic goals to achieve, saying a full recovery would be the ideal but that not everyone can get there. Instead, any level of improvement is to be celebrated – and even something as simple as maintaining weight rather than losing it is a big step for many of us. They also realise that, like me, eating disorder sufferers often have several relapses before recovery. Knowing they understand my everyday struggles has removed a lot of my pressure.
Recovery can be a scary thing to contemplate for people like me. Even now, I sometimes catch myself viewing it with ambivalence, and there are times when it takes more strength to eat than not. But every day I fight. So far, for the last ten months, I’ve been winning.
Finally, I’m called into a side room. The nurse quickly makes a note of the digital readout on the scale. Looks up from the clipboard, smiling.
‘Okay, it’s the same as last weigh-in, so well done.’
She listens to my heart, takes my blood pressure and then I’m done. Time to sit down to speak with my counsellor.
‘How did the fundraiser go?’ asks Rosie.
‘Good, yeah, really good.’
‘You seem tense. What’s been happening.’
‘It’s Carrie. You know, that girl who… ’ I trail off.
Suddenly I feel nervous about admitting what’s been happening. Even with the most positive spin it sounds crazy now I’m about to say it out loud. Rosie isn’t in the mood to let me off lightly today, though. Instead of filling in the blanks of who Carrie is, she gives me a look. A look that says, come on, finish the sentence.
When I don’t, she gives me a verbal nudge.
‘Remind me how the two of you first met.’
She knows, but I know better than to argue.
I like Rosie. Her office seems chaotic, her desk a mess of notebooks and Post-it notes and
pens and half-full mugs of coffee left so long they’ve developed a scum on top. Her hair never seems to be brushed, and her tops tend to be half tucked in, half hanging out, as if she’s been interrupted while dressing and had to run from the house. It’s comforting, and always makes me feel relaxed. But for all the seeming disorder, she’s as sharp and precise as a pin when it comes to analysing emotions. There’s an agenda here as to why she wants me to tell the story of my complex history with Carrie, and all I can do is spill and let it play out.
‘I hadn’t realised when I met Carrie just how she was connected to me. She came to the support group and something about her vulnerability made me feel for her almost immediately. There’s twenty years’ age difference between us, and I wanted to mother her. Take her home and look after her,’ I say.
Rosie’s gaze is steady. It doesn’t flicker away to her notebook once, or to the pen resting lightly between finger and thumb.
‘What was it about her that made you feel that way?’
My fingers run over my lips, trying to find the right words. ‘She was new to the area, and I remembered what that was like. I think she reminded me of Claire a little.’
‘Claire Paver? In what way?’
‘A young, lost girl. Someone who needed help.’
Claire was nineteen when I met her, during my second enforced stint at the clinic, after I’d been sectioned. She was already an old hand, having been sectioned herself innumerable times since she turned twelve. Her teenage years had been as structured as a prisoner’s: breakfast, 8 to 8.30 a.m.; snack, 10.10 to 10.25 a.m.; lunch, 12.15 to 1 p.m.; afternoon snack, 3.10 p.m.; supper, 6 to 6.30 p.m.; final snack, 9.30 p.m. Our meals and snacks were supervised, and the toilet locked until half an hour after we’d all eaten, to ensure we didn’t deliberately throw up.
‘Keeping my food down isn’t the problem – it’s getting it down me in the first place,’ Claire always joked.
The Perfect Friend: A gripping psychological thriller Page 5
