The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  The door handle rattles and I jump, pressing the phone to my chest. I wait.

  Thump-thump-thump. The door judders in its frame and my pulse skyrockets.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ Your voice is dark and angry.

  ‘N, N, No one.’ I cut the call and twist the dial on the shower.

  ‘I heard you speaking.’

  ‘I’ve hardly got someone here in with me, have I?’ I retort. ‘And you’ve taken my mobile, haven’t you, so I can’t call anyone?’ My heart is pounding so hard I’m surprised you can’t hear it. I hope you don’t remember the pay-as-you-go phone I bought a couple of years ago when I had to send my iPhone off for repair. If you take this too I don’t know what I’ll do.

  The door handle rattles again. Harder this time and I place my palm against the tiles to steady myself.

  ‘Unlock the door.’

  ‘I’m drying myself.’

  ‘I insist…’

  ‘One sec, please…’ I’m not wet, still fully dressed and I yank off my clothes and wrap my towel around my body. Coughing as I open the mirrored bathroom cabinet to mask the sound I scoop my tampons out of the box and nestle my secret phone inside. I heap tampons back on top, shaking them to ensure the black plastic is covered. I put the box back in the cabinet and stack my Veet on its lid and shut the door.

  I crouch and run my hands along the bottom of the bath and shake the droplets of water on my hands over my shoulders.

  ‘Come. Out. Now.’ Your voice has an edge. That edge. And I take a deep breath before unlocking the door.

  47

  Later, I’m on a day ward dunking a ginger nut into a cup of weak tea and as the sugar hits my system I start to feel a little less shaky. I reach over for my bag and delve inside for my mobile. I’m still angry with my parents but I want to let Mum know it went OK. She’ll be worrying. I’ve a missed call from Linda and my jaw tightens as I see her name. She’s left a voicemail and I unlock my phone, intending to delete it, but curiosity gets the better of me and I press play.

  ‘Jenna, it’s me. Linda. Your dad has called and told me that you know about… well that you know and I never meant to… I shouldn’t have… Anyway, it wasn’t you – Casper, I mean – or me. He was old and he was dead when I found him. I’ll send you a copy of the reports so you can see if you want to. The vials were just… stupid. And the other stuff… Look we’ve always been so fond of you, John and me. He’s not well. Did you know that? He’s having tests and can’t be stressed. I’m hoping we can sort this out between ourselves. Call me. Please. If I can just have the chance to—’

  She runs out of time and a mechanical voice offers me a list of options, and I choose to listen again and again as the ginger swirls in my stomach along with sadness. John and Linda have been part of my life for so long. My world has shrunk a little bit more.

  I’m half dozing when Dr Kapur strides into my cubicle and swishes the curtain closed around me.

  ‘How are you feeling, Jenna?’ he asks in a loud voice. I’m sure he must think the flimsy material acts as soundproofing.

  ‘Fine.’ I give the stock British response as though he has not just snipped off a piece of my heart to study.

  ‘Nothing you want to tell me?’ he questions, consulting his clipboard.

  I shake my head and he scribbles a note before clicking the end of his ballpoint pen and tucking it into his pocket.

  ‘I will be reducing your medication but I would like to see you again in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘A couple of weeks?’ I instantly place my hand over my chest fearing the worst. ‘Is something wrong.’

  ‘Physically, everything’s looking good. Better than good.’ He smiles reassuringly. ‘But your side effects have been a little… extreme. And I want to make sure the reduction in medication is alleviating them.’

  ‘Side effects?’ There are so many I wonder if he’s referring to anything specific.

  ‘Your paranoia.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ I don’t remember telling him.

  ‘Vanessa said…’

  ‘Vanessa?’ I’m the one speaking too loudly now. ‘She’s my therapist. She can’t share…’

  ‘Vanessa works in very close conjunction with us. We were the ones who sent you to her. When she’s concerned about one of our patients, as she has been with you, she’s quite within her rights to—’

  ‘What about my rights? It’s a betrayal of confidence. I trusted her.’

  ‘You still can. I can reassure you she wouldn’t discuss—’ But his voice is silenced by the voice inside my head whispering: don’t trust anyone.

  It’s almost a disappointment when I am told I can leave and as the smiling nurse hands me my aftercare instructions, side effects to look out for, and list of numbers I should ring in an emergency, I almost ask her if I can stay. I don’t relish the thought of seeing Mum or Dad, especially Dad, or going back to the flat. She asks who is picking me up and I tell her my parents are here somewhere, most likely in the cafeteria, and she offers to call them but I tell her I’ll do it.

  I take my time dressing, and when I can’t avoid it any longer I pick up my phone. A text message has come in from an unknown number and when I open it I feel my chest tighten.

  ‘Hope you got the message on your fridge yesterday? I’d hate for YOU to have an accident.’

  48

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Open your mouth.’ You force your thumb between my lips and press down hard on my bottom teeth. I try to thrust my head backwards but your fingers are gripping my chin. Tears well and I clutch your arm with both my hands and try to push you away, but I’m weak.

  ‘Come on,’ you say. ‘It will make you feel better. You know it will.’

  Exhausted, I stop struggling and as you loosen your grip I slump back on my seat.

  ‘Just one.’

  You loom towards me and I try to shake my head from side to side but I’m sick. Dizzy. Scared.

  ‘For me.’ Your tone softens now.

  I can’t fight you any more. I open my mouth. You pop the capsule on my tongue. It tastes bitter and you hold a glass of warm water to my lips and I swallow.

  ‘Good girl,’ you say as you brush my hair away from my face, fingertips soothing my brow.

  I close my eyes. Wait for the numbness to spread. Gradually, my muscles relax. I feel like I’m floating.

  The next time you speak your voice sounds muffled as though you’re coming from very far away. I think you say: ‘I only want to make you feel better,’ but I can’t be sure of anything any more.

  I’m drifting in and out of consciousness. My limbs are heavy and I seem to have lost co-ordination. There’s the sensation of movement. You’re carrying me and I struggle to break free but my body feels as though it’s made of lead.

  ‘Shhhh,’ you say. Your arm is around me and my head fits perfectly into that space between your head and shoulder.

  ‘Please,’ I try to say but my tongue is thick and I can’t form the word properly. I’m falling back into blackness. It’s a relief not to feel any more. Not to think.

  ‘I can’t let you go, Callie,’ you whisper.

  49

  I am still shaking when I wake up, stiff and uncomfortable, on the sofa. It has been two days since my biopsy and I haven’t been to bed yet. Each time I sleep it seems I fall back into Callie’s memories and I’m scared of what I might see when I close my eyes. I’m scared of the darkness of my dreams. The things I can’t always remember as I wake, sweating and screaming. The finer details fading, slipping just outside my consciousness once more, and all I’m left with is a thick coating of fear.

  ‘I’d hate for YOU to have an accident’ the text to my phone had said, and I know if I take it to the police I will be dismissed again. There’s no way of knowing who sent it and it’s so carefully worded it may not be interpreted as a threat – but I know it is – and despite my incessant checks the front door is locked, the
chain is across, the furniture I’ve dragged in front of the door hasn’t moved, every little sound I hear I convince myself someone is here with me.

  I try to stay awake with perpetual cups of coffee, pacing the flat, studying my mind map, endlessly Googling. It’s been ten days since the body was discovered at Burton Aerodrome – why haven’t the police identified it yet?

  Who was in my flat? The local news hasn’t reported any other burglaries the past few days and I wonder whether mine could somehow be connected to Tom and Amanda’s breakin. I go back to the day of Callie’s funeral and check the archives around that time. It takes hours of reading until I find it. A small paragraph reporting the breakin and then days later a follow-up.

  Police have arrested two men in conjunction with the burglary at Chester Road. All items have been recovered except the cash taken from the safe and an unusual necklace, pictured below. Police ask if anyone has information about this item to contact them on the number below. It is believed the pair have been responsible for a spate of burglaries that have all taken place while the homeowners have been attending funerals.

  Below is a photo of Amanda’s ruby and diamond star necklace. Neither of the men named are Neil or Owen and I think Tom’s breakin was probably unconnected to Callie, but what about mine? My mind keeps flicking to the message on my fridge.

  ‘Stop Digging’

  Oh God. I’m so scared.

  As dawn begins to break I slump on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV glowing in the corner, the sound down low so I can hear if anyone tries to get into my flat again. Listening. I’m always listening.

  One hundred and eighty-four days ago Callie’s heart was transplanted into my body. Sometimes now I hate her, this girl who allowed me to live. I don’t know what she wants. What she’s trying to tell me. I don’t know what’s real any more and what isn’t, and there’s no one I can talk to. No one I can trust.

  Outside the window the sun rises gold but even in the first twinges of daylight I still feel it. The prickling sensation of eyes on me. Watching me. Waiting. And I stalk around the flat again. Checking inside the wardrobe, behind doors, under the bed but there isn’t anyone there. There never is.

  There’s a thickness in my throat as I swallow down my medication. My nose is streaming and my forehead is burning. I’m dying. The thought pops into my mind unbidden and I push it away. Of course I’m not. But what if I am? What if my body is starting to reject Callie’s heart and I never find out what happened that night for Tom and Amanda? I cradle my heavy head in my hands. Despite the warnings I have received I have to try again but I don’t know which way to turn.

  In the kitchen, I study the mind map, and as the sun shifts in the sky it reflects in the silver of the fridge handle. The dazzling brightness triggers a memory, mine this time, of the first visit I made to Nathan’s house, pulling the garden chair cushions from Nathan’s shed, upsetting the flowerpot. That glint of silver before I ran from the spider. A door key.

  I step into Nathan’s hallway and lock the front door behind me, slipping the key inside my pocket. I’ll put it back in the shed before I leave. The house is still. Quiet. But I find the silence oppressive rather than reassuring. Although I know there’s no one here, Nathan is at work, I only crack the lounge door open a fraction before squeezing through and I tiptoe towards the window. Dropping my bag, I hook back the curtains and peep out onto the street. I count the ways this could go wrong but although an air of unease hovers over me, there are no neighbours pointing at the house, talking worriedly into mobile phones. I don’t think anyone saw me come in, and after I few minutes I feel calm enough to move. I don’t know what I hope to find here but I feel both excited and scared; my pulse is rapid and light.

  I have never been upstairs before; we never made it from the sofa to the bed that night, and as I remember what we did, his hands on my body, I swallow down bile. On the landing there are three closed, glossy white doors in front of me and I push the first one slowly open. It’s the bathroom, smelling faintly of bleach. I scan the room taking in the wicker laundry basket in the corner, the blue tiles around the bath. It’s exactly as I had dreamed it and, if I had a smidgen of doubt before, I am now as certain as I am of my own name that my dreams are Callie’s memories. I open the mirrored bathroom cabinet but there’s no box of tampons, no Veet, just Nathan’s lonely razor and some aftershave.

  The bedroom is next; the tall oak wardrobe stands in the corner where Callie pulled her overnight bag from in my dream. So she did want to leave Nathan. I sit heavily on the end of the neatly made bed, quilted throw hanging even and straight and think about the texts she sent to the unknown person. It seems likely she was having an affair, and Nathan found out and hit her, and I wonder if it was the first time or if he’s beaten her before? He doesn’t look like a violent man. ‘Attentive’, Tom called him. But I think there’s probably a fine line between being attentive and being controlling, and it seems Nathan crossed it. If he hadn’t emptied their savings account she’d probably have left him sooner and the thought she might still be alive saddens me, conflicting with the knowledge that if she were still here, I probably wouldn’t be. She was probably on her way to meet her lover when she died, perhaps the payday loan she’d applied for had come through and she was dreaming of her happy every after. But I’m only speculating, and even if I had definite proof I know I can never tell Tom and Amanda their daughter was unhappy with Nathan, and I feel I’ve failed them somehow. My thoughts race and my head throbs. I press my hand against my forehead. It comes away hot. I should go home. I’m really not feeling well but I can’t help wondering who Callie was sleeping with: if it was Owen, if he was a friend of Nathan’s. I rummage through the wardrobe and chest of drawers, not quite sure what I’m hoping to find, but there’s no clutter to sift through, just clothes crisply pressed and folded.

  The third bedroom is just as neat. Orderly. Housing only a single bed and a wooden blanket box. I lift the lid and I’m greeted with an array of brown padded envelopes. I tip out the contents of the first one. It’s a pile of Valentine’s cards and ‘I love you’ notes and I feel desperately sad as I read them. Callie and Nathan were happy once. The next envelope is bursting at the seams and as I look inside I am shocked to see bundles of cash bound together with elastic bands, and as I pull them out I see something else at the bottom of the envelope that glints in the light. It’s a necklace: rubies and diamonds shaped like a star. It’s the pendant that was stolen from Amanda during the burglary on the day of Callie’s funeral. Why would Nathan have this? I remember Tom telling me Nathan didn’t go to the wake, but surely he wouldn’t have broken into Tom’s house? The next envelope is light, and at first I think it’s empty but my hand pulls out three passports, and I flick to the photos in the back. There’s one for Nathan, one for Callie and one for Sophie. Sophie, who is supposed to be in Spain? How can she be there if her passport is here? Nathan must know she’s not abroad. Why’s he lying? Why hasn’t she been in touch with her parents? A thought hits me hard. What if the body in the airfield is Sophie’s? Is that what Callie has been trying to tell me? Just how dangerous is Nathan? There’s a sick feeling in my stomach as I bundle the passports back into the envelope, and they slip from my fingers as I’m startled by a crashing sound. The garden gate. I scoop everything from the floor and shove it in the box and I hold my breath as I wait, hoping for the rattle of the letter box as junk mail is pushed through. A key scrapes the lock and a draught shoots upstairs as the front door opens. Nathan is home. I look around the room wildly. There’s nowhere to hide. And then with a sinking feeling I remember.

  I left my handbag in the lounge.

  50

  Panic stutters in my veins as I listen to Nathan’s movements downstairs. There’s the thump of his briefcase hitting the floor, his shoes thunking on the mat. Please don’t go into the lounge spins around my mind like a mantra but then it strikes me that I don’t want him to come upstairs either. I feel as though I’m made of stone
my muscles are so tight. I daren’t move. Hardly dare breathe. A creak. The stairs. He’s heading this way. I try to remember whether I’ve put everything back where I found it but I can’t remember whether or not I closed the bathroom cabinet. Ever so quietly I take exaggerated steps over to the window and look outside, desperately searching for another exit but I know there isn’t one. His footsteps come closer and closer. Sweat pools in the small of my back; my T-shirt is clinging to me. I’m surprised he can’t hear the frantic pounding of my heart. There’s a second of complete silence. Stillness. Why has he stopped moving? I rest my forehead against the door, picturing him standing on the other side, his hand reaching for the handle. I’m sure the doors were closed when I arrived. Now they are all ajar. He must know someone is here. What will he say if he finds me? What will he do? The shrill sound of a mobile slices through the air and I instantly delve into my pocket, but Nathan snaps: ‘Hello’, and the ringing has stopped. It wasn’t my phone and I breathe a sigh of relief and put mine onto silent.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ He sounds angry. Really angry. I’ve never heard him speak that way before.

  There’s a tickle in my throat and I swallow hard. Don’t cough.

  ‘I’ve told you to never contact me again.’ There’s a beat. ‘I know. I saw. It’s really not my problem, is it?’

  A pause.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Fuck!’ He sounds furious and a whimper escapes and I clamp my hands over my mouth and crouch down, resting on my heels. My knees feel too rubbery to stand. ‘It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. OK, tomorrow night.’

  A pause.

  ‘Around ten o’clock then, and then we’re done. Understand? You never. Ever. Contact me again.’

  There’s a slam and my shoulders jerk upwards but seconds later water pitter-patters into the bath as the shower is switched on. I’m hesitant to move. Convinced he’ll notice the bathroom cabinet is open and spring out at me as I try to leave. Seconds turn to minutes and I know I can’t have long. I slip off my shoes and hold them in one hand and I reach for the door and slowly pull it towards me. It squeaks. I screw up my forehead but the water still runs. The bathroom door remains closed. The staircase seems endless as I take the stairs one at a time, pausing after every step, every creak, looking behind me, and when I’ve reached the bottom I retrieve my bag from the lounge and try to open the front door. It is locked. I am reaching into my back pocket for the key when I realise there’s something different. The sound of the water has stopped. The bathroom door clicks open. I clamp my lips together to stop a sound escaping and I fumble to unlock the door as quickly as I can. The floorboards shift above me. The lock springs open. A shadow falls on the stair carpet. My fingers grip the handle. He’s coming. I wrench open the door and I am outside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind me. And then I run.