My parents passed away seven years ago and I drifted away from friends when I moved to Cavendish Street, but my brother James was concerned about me for a while. He thought I was hiding away; from the world, from my past. I’m running without going anywhere, stuck on life’s dusty treadmill. My brother was the one who was always right. He always guessed the culprit when we watched Midsomer Murders and Poirot together. And he was always smug about it, pointing out the murderer in the first ten minutes as we huddled under the duvet watching the old TV/VCR combo while Mum and Dad argued downstairs. We were uncool kids, although he got cooler as he moved into his mid-teens. I didn’t. And as he fell in with the popular crowd, his smugness became more and more irritating. While my geekiness, my propensity for escaping into fantasy fiction and films, became more and more lame.
Maybe that’s why we don’t call each other anymore.
I give up pretending to work. I open Facebook and type Matthew Mason into the search bar. As my fingers move along the keyboard, I get a delicious feeling of mischief that I haven’t had since James and I created the “terrible two” club in our shed, designed to fight crime and solve mysteries. I was ten, James was twelve. We didn’t solve anything, but we did eat a lot of liquorice all-sorts and read the Beano.
There are a few Matthew Masons. The first two are older, with beards. There’s a young guy pouting, with bleach blond hair and an orange tan. Then, about five down, I see him. I almost skipped straight passed him, because the profile picture makes him appear far younger than he really is. I click on it and go through to his Facebook page, which is set to private with a few public photographs.
His profile picture is a selfie taken in the mirror. It’s one of those photos where the camera flash obscures some of the person, and casts the rest of the room into darkness. It’s possible that Matt has used some sort of retro filter on top, because everything appears unnaturally washed out, like an Instagram picture. My top lip curls up. It’s such a try-hard photograph. His pose is awkward. He’s clearly trying to emulate the kind of selfies posted by lads half his age, with his arms sticking out to emphasise his bulky muscles, and his gaze not meeting the camera. He comes across as vain and cocky, not someone I would ever find attractive.
When I click on the picture, it shows all the likes and comments from his friends. Most of the comments are from women, or more specifically, girls. They can’t be much older than twenty, these girls. I actually make a disgusted noise in my throat when I read them: looking hot. Hellooooo bicep. This guy has a wife and a daughter and he’s friends with all these girls? I poke around on his page some more. In the “about me” section it says that he’s a personal trainer. I think back to my conversation with Edith. I guess his job could explain where he goes, although Laura told Edith that he was between clients right now. But, seriously, does he only train with twenty-year-old girls? Most of them are probably at uni and can’t afford a personal trainer, unless the world has changed that much since I was a student. I lived on baked beans and noodles for the three years.
I move the pointer back to the search bar and type in Laura Mason. Unlike her husband’s, her profile picture is easy to spot. There she is, result two, smiling at the camera in a smart-casual blazer with tasteful make-up and straightened hair. She resembles one of those solicitors on an accident claim advertisement. Everything about her picture says “I’m approachable, but also professional”. I already find myself approving of Laura and the way she puts herself across on the internet. Her page is public, but it’s more like a professional advert than anything personal. She rarely posts, and when she does, her posts are motivational quotes about business and work. After a few moments of poking around, I’m bored.
I get up off the bed and walk over to the window. The shouting has stopped, but another noise is coming from across the road. I listen more carefully. The sound is grunting. My cheeks flush with embarrassment when I realise they are sex noises. I’m listening to Matt and Laura have sex. God, not only have I stalked them on Facebook, but I’ve also listened to them having sex. I reach across to draw the curtains when movement across the street distracts me. It’s April’s room. Her light has been switched on. I could swear that I saw her move.
I feel sick to the stomach. I pull the curtains back, blocking out the view of the street. As I walk back towards my bed, I touch my stomach lightly. It’s churning, unrestful, like my body is anticipating an awful event, but my mind can’t think what it could be.
They’ve made up again. First they were shouting, then everything went quiet, and now I can hear kissing and mumbling. I put my headphones on and turned the music up. I don’t want to hear that. I’ve been writing in my diary, it’s the one thing I like to do. I don’t like talking so much. Mum is always on at me about making more friends. She’s obsessed with it. But what’s so wrong with wanting to write and draw and listen to music?
I lift up one side of my headphones and shudder at what I hear. How am I supposed to go back to sleep now? Not that I sleep properly anyway, not when I know he is in the house.
Chapter Ten
Hannah
The next morning, I have that hangover feeling from not getting enough sleep. I even have that sense of regret, that feeling that I did something bad. I’m a little ashamed about internet stalking the Masons last night. But deep down, I know I haven’t let it go. I’m still so curious that I leave my living room window wide open, and sit on my sofa with a cup of tea, no TV on, listening. Maybe I’ll hear them arguing again.
Laura Mason leaves for work at 7:30am. She’s wearing a grey skirt suit and high heels. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her make-up is subtle. I don’t get a good view of her face, but it appears to be a little more swollen than usual. It could be the early morning, it could be from crying, or it could be any number of things, including my imagination. It’s nothing concrete that I can build my suspicions on.
I have to think about this rationally—which is difficult when you’ve been living in the opposite of logic and reason for so long. What do I really suspect is going on with the Masons? First, Matt Mason strikes me as the typical alpha male dirtbag who likes to control and manipulate women. But, the counter argument to that suspicion is that Laura Mason gives the impression of independence and strength. She didn’t mind standing up to Matt when we were walking to the co-op. She did nothing to make me believe she was frightened of him. She doesn’t have the air of a meek, battered woman at all.
Second, their daughter April is quiet and subdued. I think back to her screaming in the middle of the street, and the panic rises in my chest again. No child should ever scream like that. It had pierced through the air and echoed around the street. My skin crawls as I think about it. What makes a child scream like that? Could it have all been for attention? Or is there something else going on? Maybe it’s this strange maternal urge to protect her that’s clouding my judgement, but my gut tells me that April is in trouble.
A mother who spends all her time at work. Parents who fight. A father who’s immature and vain. It’s like a pot getting ready to boil over. I didn’t save Derek when he died right in front of my nose. Maybe I can stop whatever might happen to April.
After Laura leaves, Matt comes out and begins tinkering around with his car. I pretend to be typing on my laptop, but really I’m watching the road. April is there. She sits on the kerb, with her head low. Sometimes she takes out a small book from her pocket and scribbles a few notes inside. Other times, Matt orders her around, getting her to fetch him tools or cups of tea. April doesn’t smile a lot, even when Matt jokes around with her. Sometimes he ruffles her hair and she moves away, as though flinching. Unless it’s my wandering imagination…
“What’s the matter, A?” I hear Matt say.
I move closer to the window, pretending to be dusting or tidying so I don’t raise any suspicions.
“Are you in a mood or summat?”
April shrugs.
“Women,” Matt says with a shake of h
is head. He gives her this huge smile, which doesn’t reach his eyes. He smiles like that a lot. All of the Masons have mastered the art of the fake smile. “You’re all the same. Rag week is it?”
April gazes up at him now. Her eyes flash with emotion, but I’m too far away to tell what it is. Anger? Fear? She gets to her feet, shoves her hands in her pockets and scuttles quickly back into the home.
Matt throws his spanner down and it clatters loudly against the pavement. “Fucking kids.”
His burst of anger makes me start. I move away from the window, trying to angle my body so I can see between the curtains, but remain out of sight. Matt is collecting his tools and shoving them into a bag. He slams the bonnet of his car and locks the car door. Then he disappears into the house, wiping the grime from his hands onto his jeans.
Laura and Matt could not be more different from each other. She’s so prim and proper, him so rough and rude. I can’t help but wonder why these people are together in the first place, and why they thought it was a good idea to bring a child into their mess. People can be so selfish. They think children will fix all their problems, when in fact they’re bringing more lives into an already messy situation. I should know. I’ve lived it. I’ve been the pawn in their little games. I know exactly what it’s like.
For some reason, I feel uncomfortable knowing that Matt and April are alone in the house together. I shake my head. He’s her father, for God’s sake. What am I thinking?
I’m about to move away and force myself to get on with my own life, when Matt comes out of the house in fresh clothes. He locks the door, and starts off up the street. My heartbeat quickens. I know what I should do. I should mind my own business. But all I can think about is Edith saying to me in her smoker’s rasp: where does he go? Because it’s weird for a dad to leave his young daughter alone so often. It’s weird. And, yeah, I know she’s thirteen and that’s old enough to be home alone for a few hours, but it’s still an odd thing to do.
Before I know it, I’m slipping my feet into shoes and grabbing my bag. I leave through the back door and hurry along the alleyway. My pulse is racing, and I’m filled with an exhilaration that feels different to the usual creeping anxiety that builds through my body. For once I have a plan. I have a desire to leave this stale house and go out into the open air. It feels strange to have a goal.
So I can’t screw it up. If I’m going to let myself go this far, I have to do it for a reason. I have to commit.
It’s getting on for midday, and it’s another hot morning. I hadn’t even checked what I was wearing before leaving the house, but I glance down now, and remember that I pulled on my white skirt and red T-shirt. It could be worse. I generally lounge around in sportswear, but it was too hot for jogging bottoms today.
I quicken my pace so that I find Matt ahead of me. He’s walking with purpose, his hips and shoulders swinging as he walks. I, on the other hand, walk with stiff, short steps. I fold my arms across my chest as though trying to protect myself. I keep pushing hair away from my face like a nervous twitch. I guess I’m not usually aware of my ticks, but now, as I can’t help but think about what I look like and whether I stand out, I can’t stop noticing them. I change my speed several times, trying to seem like I’m just out for a stroll, but also keeping up with Matt. There’s no point trying to hide behind corners or in shadows. It’s so strikingly bright that there’s nowhere to hide. Luckily, Matt’s concentration is not directed at me, but the street ahead. I’m safe from suspicion. For now.
We pass the co-op and continue down the main shopping street. Our suburb is tiny, and there isn’t much here—a butcher who sells more second hand DVDs than meat, a liquor store, a newsagent, a church—then Matt takes a right.
I’m following along behind him, taking the same turning he does. My heart is thumping now, and it’s not just because I’m stalking someone so I can snoop on their private life, it’s because this is the furthest I’ve been from my home in a long time. I brush the hair from my face, then bite my thumbnail. This street is more residential, but there is a pub on the corner that I’d never noticed before. From the outside it has the appearance of the kind of place filled with alcoholics and men who still complain about the smoking ban. The sign says “The Dog and Partridge” and has a faded painting on the front and back. It swings on squeaky hinges above a door with peeling paint. My stomach drops when Matt walks into the pub.
I’ve not set foot in a pub for years. The thought makes me feel physically sick. All those people, all that noise. But I can’t go back now. I have to go in. I pull my phone out of my skirt pocket and check the time. It’s five minutes past midday. The pub will have opened a few minutes ago. There’s no way it’ll be busy now. Matt could see me in there, and then what would be my excuse? That I wanted a drink at this time? I notice the chalkboard advertising their sandwich menu. I can say I popped in for lunch. That’s a normal thing for a person who works from home to do. Not that I know a lot about being normal.
I can’t go back now. I swing open the door with an arm that feels double its weight, and fight my way through the fog of anxiety. There’s music on, a cheesy pop song from the sixties I think. Maybe a one hit wonder or a chart-topping pop tune. The woman behind the bar is singing along as she wipes a rag down the bar. She must be over fifty, and has one of those pursed mouths with deep wrinkles that smokers get. She nods and smiles at me, her eyes large behind thick lensed glasses.
“What can I get you, love?”
I’m already embarrassed by my lack of Yorkshire accent, and I have to check my pocket to reassure myself that I brought my purse with me, although I’m not sure how much cash I actually have. But I answer in a quiet voice, “A Coke please,” before scanning the room, checking for Matt Mason. He’s not here, but I can see a doorway to another room.
“That’s the dining area. Are you after lunch?” the woman asks. She plonks my Coke on the counter and lifts her chin. “One fifty.”
“Um, no thanks,” I say handing her the cash. “Just the drink for now.”
“Right you are, love. I’m here if you change your mind.”
I move away from the bar and find a table close to the restaurant entrance. My stomach lurches when I see the back of Matt Mason’s head, but I tell myself to stay calm and not do anything to attract attention to myself, like gawping over at his table. So I set down my Coke and settle into my seat, pretending that my phone is really interesting. When I finally allow myself to look at his table, I see that Matt is not alone. He’s with a woman.
It takes me five minutes of ignoring the sweat forming on my forehead and the panic rising in my chest, to get a good view of her features through what I hope are subtle glances. She’s young, too young. She could be a first year University student, dressed in that “couldn’t-give-a-toss” kind of way most students prefer. It’s the “just rolled out of bed and pulled on the first clothes available” style. Her apparel consists of joggers and a strappy top. Most of the girls from the University dress like that, with their hair pulled up into a messy top knot. Their eyeliner smudges down to their cheeks, and they’re always in knock-off Uggs.
This girl wears the same kind of clothes, but she’s not wearing make-up at all. She doesn’t need to. She’s exceptionally pretty and a true English rose, with almost black hair, and peachy skin. She stares at Matt as though he’s saying something really interesting, occasionally reaching over to touch his hand. Their conversation appears animated and relaxed. I see the girl tip her head back to laugh a few times. Then she strokes his face, leaning in to kiss him.
A hard lump forms in my chest. I can’t help thinking of Laura—prim and proper Laura—who means well, even if she isn’t the warmest person. She’s at work right now, assuming that her husband is doing his bit in their partnership by caring for their child. Instead, he’s out with this teenager, kissing her in public. I cut off that thought. I’m angry with Matt because of what I’ve seen, but maybe I’m jumping to too many conclusions. I don’t have
any proof that he doesn’t care for April. All I know is that he’s a cheating scum-bag. I can’t keep letting my imagination get the better of me. One of these days it’s going to take over completely.
“Want some company, sweetheart?”
I pulled away from Matt Mason and his mistress to find a swaying man leering at me. He leans down towards my table, so that I can smell the beer on his breath, and see his yellowing teeth. He must be well past fifty, and has an unpleasant smattering of grey stubble on his chin. I lean away from him, gripping the edge of the table acting as a barrier between us.
“No thank you,” I say.
“Leave her alone you drunken old git,” the barmaid shouts. She shoos the man away with her cloth, and he stumbles away grumbling.
But the damage is done. That hard lump explodes in my chest, finally letting out all the anxiety that has been building since I left the house. I get shakily to my feet, but I’m struggling to breath and my mind is racing. If I stay, the drunk man might not leave me alone. He might try to touch or kiss me. He might follow me home and hurt me. I have to get out of this place, but my legs are wobbling beneath me and I feel like I might throw up. The thought of vomiting in public makes it even harder for me to breath.
Get through the next ten seconds.
Behind me, there’s the sound of broken glass and an image flashes across my mind.
Broken bones. The glass. It was all my fault.
“Are you all right, love?”
The words come to me as though through water. My ears are thumping with the sound of my pulse, and the pub drifts in and out of focus. The woman with the glasses is staring at me with her huge bug eyes and I have to get out of that place. There’s movement from the restaurant. I guess I’ve made a scene and now Matt and his mistress are about to come out to see what the commotion is. I have to get out of this place. Finally, my legs start to work. I push passed the woman, desperate for fresh air. I run out of the pub.
Saving April Page 5
