Naomi yanked her gaze from the long window and directed it at the door. Nathan vanished. Something had stolen her attention. She drew breath and held it, lying still, sifting a sound that wasn’t the birds. Her inner radar was on high alert. As soon as she realised someone was slowly coming up the stairs, she fumbled with the buttons on her nightdress, fighting to fasten them before anyone walked in.
<><><>
Henry was dreaming of playing golf. He was on the green on a glorious morning and he couldn’t connect with the ball. He drifted to the surface and opened his eyes and noticed that Camilla’s half of the bed was vacant.
When he’d got into bed the night before, he’d known Camilla was awake even though she was unmoving and silent on the outer edges of the bed. She was radiating waves of stiffness. Exhausted as well as confused that she’d lapsed into one of her silent periods that took her a hundred miles away and as many minutes to reach, he’d gone straight to sleep.
He listened to her movements in the kitchen now. From the speed of the cupboard doors opening and closing, her mood was still the same. And he’d arranged a game of golf that morning. Dare he mention it? Good question. Tact required. He drew up a hasty plan which amounted to listening to Camilla offload whatever was eating her, then offering to feed her.
Henry sat up and looked at his Rolex watch on the bedside table. It was seven-fifteen. He was due at the golf course at ten. He’d have to talk about Annabel first. After last night, it seemed unavoidable. With any luck, there’d be time to overcome problems and steer the conversation towards golf. Delicately.
Henry put on his watch then his glasses, then ambled to the window to examine the September sky. It was clear, bright, dry, still – ideal for golf.
The front lawn, a perfect rectangle, was neatly mowed like a giant chessboard in symmetrical light and dark squares. The tree-house was just visible in the big oak tree in the far left corner. The flower borders were still in full bloom and burdened fruit trees were relieving themselves in the far right corner. A small wild rabbit hopped across the lawn. A grey squirrel who seemed to have lost something, followed. Henry smiled. Life wasn’t so bad.
His thoughts strayed to the colour of the golf course bathed in morning sunshine, and aimless male chat, and standing with Richard on the velvet grass overlooking the entire expanse with the small clusters of trees, the bunkers, the flags, the organic scent of freshly mowed grass and distant manure.
It had been two years since Henry had taken early retirement and twenty-three months since he’d regretted it. He couldn’t go back. He had the gold Rolex watch now – the parting gift for thirty years of successful service in an excellent accountancy firm. His former life had passed away, leaving him with the strange concept of spare time.
The inscription on the back of the watch said, This is your time now. So retirement began at fifty-eight. It turned out that having plenty of time to do anything in the world meant that the appeal to do any of it mysteriously faded.
Camilla, forever busy, was unimpressed. He dodged her disapproval by sloping off to the library. From there, he could browse through papers, gather an armful of crime books and contact Annabel over his Facebook account that Camilla knew nothing about.
His new life was empty. Being handed time had been paralysing. One warm Wednesday, his neighbour and friend, Richard Pearson suggested they take up golf together. Henry couldn’t imagine either connecting with a tiny ball on the ground, or finding it once he’d clobbered it as far as he could. But sure, why not? The same day, the nasty dragging feelings lost strength and the haunting ceased. Golf had filled a hole.
Henry meandered quietly down the stairs and into the kitchen to discover an assault-course of pots and pans. Camilla was on all fours, furiously scrubbing the inside of a cupboard. She pulled back to look at him. ‘Why did they have to rush into things, Henry? She’s just a child.’
Henry was bored with the topic, but since his opinion neither mattered nor counted, he stood in silence.
Camilla consulted her watch. ‘Do you think it’s too soon to call Naomi?’
‘Yes, Camilla, by about a week. They’ll barely be out of Manchester. They’re on honeymoon.’
She plunged her hands into a steaming plastic bowl of water and wrung out a cloth. The scent of disinfectant drifted Henry’s way.
‘Why not let Cynthia do that in the morning?’ Henry said in his most sympathetic voice.
He got a black glance before Camilla disappeared inside her cupboard and started scouring again.
‘Don’t mention that useless woman to me. Before we left for the wedding, I wrote her a note instructing her to leave the light on in the hall. She didn’t. This morning, listen to this,’ she reappeared and Henry made sure he listened. ‘I found the back door unlocked. I wouldn’t mind, but I told her specifically to check the doors were secured. I’m going to have to let her go.’
Henry was about to remind her that she’d waded through three cleaners in as many years, then reconsidered. The revised comment came out as, ‘I’m sure you know what’s best.’
After a slight pause, ‘Of course, if you’d agree to move out of this huge and unnecessary house, I could manage without help.’
Henry thought a moment. ‘We’re happy here, Camilla.’
‘We? We should never have left South Africa.’
Henry dried up. Thankfully, Camilla didn’t pursue the topic. Uncomfortable watching her work, Henry said, ‘Cup of tea?’
She ignored him. ‘Why couldn’t he have allowed her to at least finish her degree?’ It took Henry a while to realise they were back with Nathan.
‘She’ll finish her degree, Camilla.’
‘We’ll see,’ she yapped.
Henry unleashed his planned line. ‘Can I make you some breakfast?’
Camilla stopped and stared at him, puzzled. ‘What’s the matter with you, Henry? Spit it out.’
‘I hate seeing you like this. Just give the lad a chance to make her happy. He loves her. Isn’t that what counts?’
‘Not entirely. He has a lot to prove and so far, I’m unconvinced.’
‘He isn’t on trial, Camilla.’
She eyed him intently. ‘Oh yes, he is.’
‘And as for Annabel –’
‘I don’t want to talk about her.’
Henry hovered, out of ideas. ‘You don’t?’
Camilla paused. ‘It’s a good job you’re not an ambulance, Henry. Your response time is about ten hours too late. The emergency, so to speak, has passed, and you slept through the whole of it. Oblivious. I wanted to discuss Annabel last night, but as usual I had to muddle through on my own, so now I don’t want your input. Too late.’
Henry revisited the conversation from the previous night and was stumped. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You never have. That’s the problem.’ Her voice faltered. She recovered. ‘I’m finding this whole conversation humiliating. Can’t you go down to the golf course or something? I’d rather be on my own.’ She drowned her cloth and fiercely wrung it out.
Henry suppressed a grin. ‘I don’t like leaving you like this.’
She eyed him knowingly, one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘I’m sure you’ll cope.’
Henry wandered into the lounge and sunk happily into the nearest sofa just as the doorbell rang. In a flash of panic at the thought of anyone seeing him dressed like this, he stood.
‘No, you stay there, I’ll get it,’ Camilla sarcastically called from the hall, slippers clapping heavily against the wooden floor. The chance to dash upstairs had passed. Camilla had already opened the door and was exchanging words with someone in hushed sentences. Henry strained to listen. The voices were drawing closer. Henry instinctively sat down and tensed.
Camilla appeared first, followed by a policeman carrying his hat. He wore a dark beard and round glasses and the kind of expression that prodded Henry with anxiety. Camilla’s face had softened. Her hair was the usual neat mushroom shape, faultlessly smooth.
Her dark eyes were full of some emotion he couldn’t place.
Camilla walked slowly past him and sat carefully by his side, taking one of his podgy hands into both of hers. They were lukewarm and damp and smelled of floral disinfectant. The clock marked out its slow march from the mantelpiece, as demanding as a metronome.
‘This is PC Robert Hill. Something’s happened. He wants to talk to us, Henry.’
<><><>
Naomi set her eyes on the door handle. Her fingers clenched the bedcovers. She was buried up to the neck in duvet when the clunking of a key turned in the door. It was loud and sinister and invasive. Her muscles locked when the handle started to move.
A tall figure appeared in dark clothes, carrying a tray. The balaclava he still wore took her right back to her first sight of him the night before, when he’d leapt out and claimed her life, ripping from her everything that was comforting and familiar. He looked no less menacing here in daylight as he strode towards her with a red tray and what looked like a bowl of soup and bread roll and a plastic cup.
Her pulse beat against her fists beneath the covers. His black jeans were ripped on the knees. Above them he wore a dark blue sweatshirt with Jack Wills in unsubtle white letters. The skin on his hands was smooth and clean – they were the type of hands that pushed a pen or computer keys. She was curious about the colour of his eyes behind the narrow slits, but the priority was to avoid eye contact. After an initial glance and the cramming in of as much information as possible, she buried her head in her knees.
He deposited the tray on the bedside table and the smell of fresh bread and chicken soup filled the space between them. Naomi was yelling inside her head. Leave me alone. Don’t touch me. Get out. After hesitating for a few moments beside the bed, as if listening to her and understanding her clearly, he left.
Naomi only let go of the tension when the key finally turned and the sound of his footsteps gradually diminished. She released her breath and wondered when he’d return and when she’d be forced to confront what he really wanted. Every part of her sensed the unfolding of a plan. The more she pieced together the events of the previous night, the more obvious it was that none of it had happened randomly. She wondered if he’d have waited all night to have snatched her in the way he had. If Nathan had been with her, would he have been taken too, or just dispensed of instantly?
The other guy from the cemetery didn’t seem to be here at the house with them. Her instinct told her that it was only herself and him for now, the two of them tucked away in this deserted place under open skies swirling with fluffy clouds and fresh country air and little evidence of human life.
Her palms were as clammy as the joints behind her knees. She wiped her hands and looked at them. They shook. The ghost of her engagement ring still haunted the fourth finger of her left hand.
With no appetite for the food, Naomi realised instead that she needed the bathroom, pronto. The feeling, all too familiar, was brought on by stress or panic. She’d experienced it every time she’d played the piano to a crowd or an examiner. Her piano tutor called it the fight or flight response. Labelling it didn’t help. Performing was the only laxative she’d ever needed. Being kidnapped at knifepoint was as effective.
Naomi kicked free of the covers and swung her legs over the bed in the direction of the bathroom. The bed was shoved up against the doorframe. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder at the chains and prayed they’d be long enough. The metal rings connected to the bed, dragged noisily along the bedframe. On unsteady legs she made it to the bathroom and found a toilet on the outside wall, right behind the door. Better still, she could sit on it, just, but only with her arms outstretched. She rushed back to the bed and tugged at it frantically, only to discover that it was bolted to the floor.
‘Crap,’ she muttered, aptly, and returned to the toilet. She’d have to go then accept that sorting herself out would involve standing up and taking a couple of paces forward. At least she could sit down. The flush handle was on the right side. Plus, the sink, back to back with the bed, she could also reach. Could be worse. It struck her suddenly and with chilling clarity how every detail had been meticulously measured. The luxurious corner bath and overhead shower behind the glass screen were hopelessly out of reach.
A few minutes later, Naomi dawdled to the bed and sat straight-backed on the edge, unsure what to do next. No options presented themselves until a door slammed and a car engine roared to life outside, igniting in her a spark of energy. She jumped up and strained against the unyielding metal chains to glean whatever she could out of the window. The car pulled away. She had no view of it. A hollow silence descended and brought a kind of aloneness she’d never experienced.
Now what?
Thoughts fired up, diming her senses. Should she mourn the past, or panic about the present? There seemed no point in either. For company, she tried to summon the faces of those she loved most, but her mind bubbled like a cauldron and was too dark and murky to conjure images.
The magnitude of the situation weighed down until she couldn’t support her head. She felt it drop and loll around.
I don’t want to die. Dear God, please don’t let me die here. Help me?
But the words seemed to echo inside her head. She felt incapable of ushering them beyond the low beamed ceiling of the room. The future she’d expected had been torn away. So there was no future. There was only an empty green world beyond a long window, and bitter regret and unquenchable fear. And chains.
4
(Twelve months earlier)
The Royal Northern College of Music, Oxford Road, Manchester: international magnet for seriously talented kids and producer of world-class concert soloists. The sight of it made Naomi feel small and spectacularly average compared to some of the musical gods that had strutted the corridors and filled the concert halls, defying the normal rules of human imperfection. How soon would people realise she was an imposter?
The large shiny lettering looked bigger and more polished than usual and carried more significance as they passed the building and followed it around the corner past the huge windows that only reflected the moving car and gave away few secrets of what lay inside.
Naomi already knew the college well. She’d been part of the Junior RNCM which had kept her busy every Saturday for the past few years and required thousands of hours of practise in between. This visit was different. This place was about to become home. The strangers bustling in and around the building were about to become her new friends and family. She could not imagine how.
The Sir Charles Groves Hall – residential hall to six-hundred and odd students – sitting right next door, announced itself in more bold aluminium lettering. They drove by in silence and circled the building to locate the entrance.
It was all chaos and confusion at the reception desk. Naomi was queuing to get her room key. The parking area she’d just left had told the same story: a swarming hive of loaded cars and bewildered-looking parents led by teenagers who looked relieved that other kids had parents too. They could all begin the process of forgetting family and abandoning every lecture they’d been taught since the cradle, starting today. Some looked more ready than others.
Henry and Annabel were trying to park the car amid the madness. Camilla stood by Naomi’s left shoulder unable to keep still in the short queue. She kept tapping her heels in frustration. Being in the role of helpless person in need of directions and instructions wasn’t her thing. When she wasn’t in charge, she compensated by being awkward and impatient.
Camilla was adding to Naomi’s general sense of unease. A list of unlabelled concerns swam through her mind, infecting her with foreign feelings, all unpleasant. She didn’t need Camilla creating a fuss. She could do without embarrassment being thrown into the mix.
‘It needs more than one person to attend to all these students,’ Camilla said, not gently, aiming her comments at the desk where one poor young lad was the solution to everyone’s problems and was doing a great job of looking ch
eerful about it.
Naomi looked the other way and blushed. Camilla’s agitation was contagious. There was only one Chinese girl and her parents in front of them now. Naomi watched as the girl was given forms to fill in, told to return them as soon as possible. Then she was given a white plastic key card and directed to a representative from the accommodation company – a youngish girl sitting not far away in dungarees and Doc Martens beside a stack of welcome packs. Camilla’s gaze settled on the rep as the lad behind the desk pointed her out to the girl in front.
‘You get the key, I’ll get the pack,’ Camilla said, delighted she’d found something to do that would hurry things along. The Chinese girl turned to interpret to her parents, giving Camilla the chance to beat her in the race to dungaree girl.
Naomi stopped watching and breathed more easily now she was alone. It didn’t last. Her attention was grabbed viciously by Annabel clawing her shoulders from behind and announcing into her right ear that she’d already seen a deliciously hot guy carrying a double bass. She’d even heard someone call out his name and was beside herself with excitement that it was Will.
‘Look out for him,’ she told Naomi, who couldn’t have been less interested in Will, his whereabouts or his double bass.
The lad at the desk labelled Luke, was looking at her, smiling, rubbing his hands together as if he was either eager to help, or desperate to be done. Naomi gave her name. Luke located it and crossed it off a list. Forms were passed across the desk, the key card given, the girl from accommodation who would help her from here, pointed out. Camilla was still keeping her busy. The Chinese girl was waiting now, the picture of serenity and patience.
Either Side of Midnight Page 4
