by Adam Croft
‘Do you think that might be at play again?’ she asks.
‘It’s possible.’
I remember all the things we talked about before. About how I used to be a very accomplished pianist for my age. My parents were thinking about taking me out of mainstream school and putting me through a musical academy. There was talk of scholarships, of trips to New York under invitation from academy programs. And then, overnight, I decided I didn’t want to do it any more. Piano wasn’t for me. I wanted to play basketball instead. Why? Because I knew I wasn’t any good at basketball. My success with the piano scared me. I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of pressure. Even as I think back, I can feel my chest tightening, my breath quickening.
‘And are you still taking medication?’ Maisie asks.
I nod. ‘Fluoxetine.’
‘How do you feel about that?’ she says, looking down at her notes. She’s remembered me saying I didn’t want to go on Prozac. How I was scared when I found out what fluoxetine’s more common name was. I’d told her all the horror stories people had told me, or I’d read online.
‘It’s become a part of me now,’ I whisper.
‘What about side effects?’
‘No, nothing,’ I reply. Truth be told, after reading some of the stuff about Prozac online, I didn’t even look up an official list of side effects. I didn’t want to. I’m a firm believer that you see what you want to see. The last thing I wanted is a checklist in my mind, so I could panic every time I sneezed, yawned or scratched my nose.
We sit in silence for a moment or two before Maisie speaks again. ‘So why have you come to see me today? Do you need my help with something?’
It sounds silly, but this is a question I don’t really know the answer to.
‘I’m not sure. I just... I haven’t been myself recently. A couple of things have shaken me. And generally I just feel like I’m plateauing. I’m not going anywhere with my life. I feel like I’m slipping again. And I know that last time I came to see you a lot of stuff started to make sense. I made some changes and started to think and feel differently. So I guess... I dunno. I guess I thought that if I came back to see you again, you might be able to do the same thing for me now.’
She nods. ‘Do you remember when you first came to see me? The very first session? I mentioned that I’m able to give you the tools and information to change whatever you want to change, but the desire to do so needs to come from within you. You are able to help yourself far more than I or anyone else can.’
I think about this for a moment. I hate feeling like this, but I still don’t know if I have the energy or the willpower to drag myself out of it. Besides which, there’s the panic attacks, the anxiety, the thoughts... If my mind is constantly playing tricks on me, do I have the fire to fight it with? That’s a question I don’t know the answer to.
My phone rings in my pocket. I apologise to Maisie and tell her I’ll put it on silent. As I look at the screen, I see the call is from a withheld number. Immediately, an icy chill runs down my spine and I feel my breathing start to quicken.
And that’s when I know I need all the help Maisie can give me.
14
I feel brighter when I leave Maisie Haynes’s clinic. Not better, but brighter. As if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. It’s still a damn long tunnel, and there’s a lot of stuff to get past on the way, but at least the end is visible.
As I walk back towards the bus stop, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. Only faintly, but enough for me to realise and reach for it. When I look at the screen, I see the withheld number is calling me again. This time, I decide to try and put some of Maisie’s tips into action. I take a deep breath as I run through the possibilities.
Who could it be? Absolutely anyone. But what’s the worst option? Potentially, that it’s Gavin Armitage. Is that likely? No. If the police have been speaking to him, I’m the last person he’ll be calling. Besides which, I haven’t heard anything since Tuesday. That’s three days. Would he be stupid enough to call me? I doubt it. But what if it is him? I’m in control of the call. I can hang up. I can report it to the police. Can he hurt me over the phone? No. Not physically. And as soon as I heard his voice I’d hang up anyway, so his power is limited. I could go straight to the police station from here, and I’d be safe.
Running through that logical progression of worst-case scenarios in my mind helps ground me, and I decide to swipe the phone and answer. The overwhelming likelihood is that it won’t be him anyway.
‘Hello?’ I say, trying to make myself sound bright and confident, but failing miserably.
‘Hi, is that Alice Jefferson?’ the voice says. I recognise it immediately.
‘Yes, hi.’
‘Hi, Alice. It’s PC Jason Day. We spoke on Tuesday when I came to your house.’
‘Hi,’ I say again, for the third time.
‘I just wanted to ring to give you an update, really. We’ve been having a look at the details you gave us. Can you confirm the spelling of Gavin’s name for me please?’
I spell out his name and surname, as it was written on his business card. I can still see it in my mind’s eye. Every letter, every crease, every printed pixel.
‘Yeah, that’s what I’ve got written here. Only we can’t seem to find any record of anyone locally with that name. Then again, he might use a different name for his work. Sometimes people do. You don’t know him by any other name?’
‘Uh, no,’ I say. As if I wouldn’t have bothered telling them if I did. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Okay, not to worry. I’ve sent an email to the address he emailed you from, and I’ve tried calling him on the mobile number you have, but I’ve not had anything back yet. We’ll see how things go over the weekend. It was Saturday you went in, wasn’t it?’
I tell him yes, it was.
‘Well maybe he only works weekends or something. Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll keep trying. Give me a call if you hear anything else, alright?’
‘Hang on,’ I say, trying to keep PC Day on the line. I can’t quite make sense of any of this. ‘Have you been to his studio? He might be there. That’s the only other thing I have.’
‘Not yet,’ he replies. ‘We’ll do that if we don’t get any response within a day or two.’
I struggle to believe what I’m hearing. ‘So you just sent an email and tried phoning him? Seriously? This guy’s been stalking me and taking photos of me leaving work. And you haven’t even been to the one address we have for him?’
There’s silence for a couple of moments. I can almost sense PC Day squirming awkwardly.
‘It’s never easy in a situation like this,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to use the old “budget cuts” line, but everything goes through a process of grading and prioritisation. If we thought you were in immediate danger, we would’ve been straight down there and Mr Armitage would be in custody now. The fact that we haven’t is probably a good thing. It means we don’t think you’re in any immediate danger.’
I lean back against a shop window as I try to take this in. On the face of it, it should sound encouraging. Not in any immediate danger. Surely that’s a good thing, right?
It should be.
The only problem is, I’m not entirely convinced he’s right.
15
As I turn the corner into my street, I recognise the car parked outside my house straight away. It’s one I haven’t seen for a while, but it’s unmistakeable. The black Audi is getting on a bit now, but it still looks the same as the day they drove it off the forecourt, thanks to my dad spending three hours every Sunday morning cleaning, drying and waxing the thing. It’s that sort of effort that made me never want to own a car.
The car doors open in unison as I approach, my mum climbing out of the passenger side and trotting towards me with her arms outstretched, a sympathetic smile on her face as she envelops me in her fake-fur hug. Dad stands stoically at his side of the car and tries to look pleased to see me.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, hoping I don’t sound too shocked or ungrateful. I barely see my parents these days, and it’s not like them to turn up unannounced.
‘We were passing in the car, and we decided — I decided — we should probably pop in and see you,’ Mum says, making it sound more like an obligation than a desire. I know that isn’t true, though. Dad’s the one who tends to hold back a little more. If it was up to Mum, they’d see me every week.
‘Shall we go in?’ Dad says. ‘Bit nippy out here.’
‘Uh, yeah. I’ll put the kettle on,’ I reply, leading them up the steps to my front door.
They’ve only been here once or twice before, but even so, every time they do come Dad acts as if he’s never set foot in the building in his life. He steps around deliberately, his hands clasped behind his back, looking up at the walls and ceiling as if he’s ambling through an art gallery. Mum scuttles through to the kitchen and makes herself at home.
‘So how are you keeping?’ she says, as she pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and sits on it. ‘We haven’t been very good at sticking to those weekly phone calls, have we? I know I haven’t.’
‘No, I know. Sorry,’ I say. I immediately wonder why I’m apologising. I’ve got nothing to apologise for. My parents and I have gradually drifted apart over the years, and that’s no-one’s fault. We’re all very different people.
I feel dreadful saying it, but neither of my parents were great for me when I was going through my lowest periods. Dad couldn’t handle it full-stop. He made all the usual noises about it not being a ‘real’ illness, about needing to occupy myself with something, or needing to ‘snap out of it’. Deep down, I think he’s scared. He didn’t want to admit it was a real illness, because that would have meant his daughter was ill. And what parent wants to admit that?
Mum, on the other hand, tried to be helpful but in all the wrong ways. I felt smothered and claustrophobic, feeling as though I was constantly fighting off phone calls and messages checking up to make sure I hadn’t topped myself. She was always emailing over links she’d found online to various articles espousing natural remedies or ‘mood boosters’, as if all I needed was to boost my mood a bit. She was trying to help, I know, but it was too much. I didn’t want her involved; I just wanted her to know. I felt she had a right to know. After all, dealing with my illness was one of the reasons I had to leave home. Making my own way in the world, independent of my parents, was a huge part of learning to live with myself — in more ways than one.
‘How’s work?’ she asks. I instinctively look at the clock and realise it’s mid-afternoon. On any other day I’d be at work right now, but I’m not. Mum and Dad would have known that, too. So why were they waiting outside my house, as if they were expecting me to return at any minute?
‘Yeah it’s fine,’ I say. ‘I’m not in today, though. Obviously.’ I hold Mum’s gaze for a little longer than I usually would. She picks up on my unspoken question.
‘Alright. We came through town on the way up here and we saw you at the bus stop. We didn’t want to pull over and startle you, so we thought we’d wait at your place until you got back.’
Didn’t want to startle me? This strikes me as a pretty odd way of phrasing it. That’s not the first thing that comes into my mind, though.
‘But I thought you said you were passing? Wouldn’t it make more sense to come off the bypass and in at the edge of town, rather than all the way round and through the town centre? I mean, unless you were coming here straight from your place, of course, in which case coming through town would’ve made more sense.’
Mum’s silent for a moment. Dad realises he might as well come clean.
‘Your mum wanted to come and see how you were doing. I told her that you’d call if you needed us, but she wasn’t having any of it.’
Mum seems affronted at this. ‘Well no, that’s not quite true. And anyway, what’s wrong with me wanting to pop down and see you?’ She aims this more at Dad than at me.
Something still isn’t quite right, though. Even if they were making a special trip, why would they come down on a Friday afternoon when they knew I’d be at work? Unless they knew I wasn’t.
‘So who told you I was off work today?’ I ask, leaning back against the counter with my arms folded across my chest. I stay silent and wait for an answer. It’s Dad who finally speaks.
‘Kieran’s been worrying about you. He got in contact with your mum a few days ago.’
That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I’m not quite sure what to say. ‘Right. Why?’
‘Because he’s worried about you,’ Mum replies.
‘But what’s that got to do with me not being at work today? What is he, psychic?’
Dad sighs. ‘She at least deserves the truth, Jane.’ He looks at me. ‘Kieran’s been in touch with one or two of your work colleagues too.’
I realise I’m standing with my mouth open. ‘What the hell? What gives him the right—’
‘He’s worried about you, Alice,’ Mum says. ‘Not about you splitting up, but...’
The look Dad gives her tells me that they weren’t meant to know about this either. Mum stands and comes over to me, placing a hand on my arm to placate me.
‘We’re just looking out for you, sweetie. Kieran cares for you and he wants to make sure you’re alright. Regardless of anything else. When your colleague mentioned to him that you weren’t in work today, he let me know, just in case there was anything we needed to worry about.’
Great. So now everyone’s been talking about me behind my back, conspiring to keep an eye on me, make sure I’m not going loopy or posing a threat to myself or anyone else.
I try to remain calm, keep my voice level.
‘There isn’t anything anyone needs to worry about. I took the day off work because I had an appointment in the middle of the day and yes, I really couldn’t be arsed to go in for an hour or two either side of it. And yes, I phoned it in this morning as a sick day because I forgot to book it off in advance. Alright?’ I know I’m telling a small lie, but that seems like nothing compared to the deception of them creeping around behind my back for God knows how long.
I can see tears starting to form in Mum’s eyes. ‘Alice, we—’
‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ I say, ‘I’ve got plenty to be getting on with.’
16
My head feels foggy and muzzy as I roll over and look at the alarm clock. It’s ten to nine. I never sleep in this late, even on a Saturday. I realise the pent-up stress and anxiety from Mum and Dad’s visit yesterday — not to mention the visit to Maisie — probably didn’t mix all that well with the bottle of wine I consumed in front of the TV last night.
I’ve still heard nothing further from PC Day or anyone from the police. But today’s Saturday. It’s one week since I called Gavin Armitage, one week since I went to his studio and had the photos taken. Like PC Day said, maybe he only works weekends. Perhaps he’s got another job, too. He might be right. I doubt it, but he might be. Either way, I know Gavin works weekends.
With my state of mind as it currently is, I know exactly what I intend to do today. My mind’s made up. I’m going to go down to his studio and confront him, ask him why he’s been taking secretive photos of me and why he feels the need to operate under a false name.
A small part of me tells me this is a stupid thing to do. What if he’s dangerous? I have half a mind to text Mandy and let her know I’m going there, in case something does happen. But that means I’ll have to give her the address of Gavin’s studio, in which case I can almost guarantee her going down there and making a scene. She’s far more likely to do something stupid, whereas I only want answers.
Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed a large kitchen knife from the block in the kitchen and zipped it up in my handbag. What if I get stopped by the police? But then, why would I? I’m not exactly the sort of person who’s likely to be subjected to a stop-and-search. Either way, I decide
that the risk of things turning nasty with Gavin is higher than the odds of the police stopping me on the way there.
The cold air hits me square in the face as I open my front door. I head down the steps towards the street, faster than usual, and my foot slips a little on the icy step. The jolt of adrenaline is enough to stop me dead in my tracks.
This isn’t me. I’ve never wanted to confront anyone over anything in my life. It’s not how I operate. I prefer to bury my head in the sand or avoid any sort of situation which might provide confrontation. So what am I doing, heading off to the studio of a man I barely know, whose name I know to be false, who’s been stalking me, complete with a kitchen knife in my handbag? On the face of it, it’s sheer madness. Yet it feels absolutely right. I need to know who this man is. I need to know what’s going on.
I start walking again, quicker this time, almost marching in the direction of Gavin Armitage’s studio. The bitter wind whips around my neck, and I can feel my earlobes turning numb. But none of it bothers me in the slightest. I’m like a homing missile, my focus on one place and one place only. I see nothing else.
When I get to 86b Reynolds Street, I pause for a moment and then press the buzzer. I don’t know how long I stand there. Probably only a couple of seconds, but it feels like hours. I press the buzzer again, then step back towards the edge of the kerb, looking up towards the first-floor windows. It’s dark inside, but then it would be. It’s a photographic studio. When I was here last week, most of the windows were covered up.
I step back towards the door again and peer inside. It’s just the same corridor and staircase I saw last week. There aren’t any lights on in the corridor. I don’t recall if there were last week either, though.
