Apple of My Eye

by Claire Allan

  I’m trying to think. Would Martin have given a key to Jim during the restoration work? Not that it could be Jim. He’s in London too, or so I’ve been led to believe. We’ve a couple of spare keys, but I’m pretty sure they’re still in the kitchen drawer where they always are. I’m running all the scenarios through my head, when I realise my mother’s wringing her hands, looking as if she might cry.

  ‘What is it, Mum?’ I ask, alarmed. My mother isn’t normally one for breaking down.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eli. I think it might be my fault.’

  That makes no sense at all. How could it be? I blink at her.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I start.

  ‘The police said the security system hadn’t been set.’

  ‘But I was sure …’ I say as I try to remember.

  I can visualise myself picking up my bags, my keys. Stopping to go to the kitchen to grab my pills. Mum saying she needed a last-minute wee, just as I’m tapping in the code. It’s raining heavily and my car door’s open. Did I wait for Mum before I went out to close the car door? Did I finish the code? Did I shout to her to tap it in and pull the door behind her when she was done?

  ‘It was me,’ she says, her face red and her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I mustn’t have hit the right buttons. I thought I’d set it, but I mustn’t have. I’m not used to those things. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.’

  I want to be cross with her but she looks so pathetic.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ I say.

  She shakes her head. ‘No, it isn’t. Eli, someone was in your house. After what happened with the broken window, I made it easy for someone to get in. They could’ve done anything.’

  ‘They didn’t though, Mum,’ I say, pushing my own fears down. ‘They probably saw my car wasn’t there and that’s why they felt so bold.’

  I try not to think again of what might have happened if I had been in. Would they have left a note again? Had a drink in the kitchen? Would they have hurt me? How far would any of this go?

  ‘But what if—’ my mother starts.

  ‘Ifs don’t matter,’ I tell her. ‘Isn’t that what you said to me? It only matters what actually happened.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Eli

  Mum sleeps beside me that night. It feels comforting to have the solid presence of my mother in the bed beside me. There’s something familiar and reassuring about it. Just as there’s something reassuring about waking up to the familiar sounds of the house I grew up in. The slow hum of the traffic building on the street outside. The rattle and hiss of the old radiators and the way rain beats against the windows.

  I know every creak and hiss of this house like the words of a well-loved song. It’s safe here. I’m safe here.

  My dreams were muddled last night. Confused. I felt as if I were looking for something, but I couldn’t find it, or when I did it just led me to something else to look for – just out of reach. I’d woken on and off for the first few hours, the weight of anxiety pressing down on me.

  Mum and I are supposed to go shopping today. We’ve planned it. A walk to Victoria Square and a look around the baby shops before lunch somewhere nice.

  It feels soured now. I don’t have the energy or inclination to shop for baby things. I can’t play at being enthusiastic when my head’s still swimming.

  I should take this chance to call Martin, but he’ll probably be on-site already. Part of me, of course, doesn’t give a damn that he’ll be on-site. Why should he live in his bubble of security while I’m spiralling?

  Then again, I don’t want to make a show of myself, shouting and crying down the phone to him. I know I’ll shout and I know I’ll cry. I can feel the weight of it all sitting on my chest, the rest still to come out.

  Maybe I’ll ask Mum to phone him when she wakes.

  My stomach gurgles and I realise I’m hungry. I need to eat something and I need to move about a bit, so I creep as quietly as I can out of bed and get dressed before going downstairs to the kitchen.

  While I’m making tea and nibbling gingerly on a digestive biscuit, I run through the same lists of names and possibilities as last night. Anyone who has access to a key. Or has had access to a key before. Any women in Martin’s life of whom I should be suspicious. Not that I know every woman he comes into contact with, of course.

  I even consider booking a flight to London and travelling over to confront him. But travelling when I’m so heavily pregnant and feel so rotten doesn’t seem like the best idea. I need to get out of the house, I realise. Get some fresh air, maybe some perspective. A quick walk around the block might work.

  I grab my coat, purse and keys and slip out into the wet Belfast morning. It’s not long before I’m regretting my decision to go for a walk. As the rain runs off the tip of my nose, I think of running for home but see Kitty’s Kitchen, a bakery run by one of my old school pals, ahead of me.

  In that moment, I realise how much I miss her and how long it’s been since we actually saw each other face-to-face. We spent so much time together when we were teenagers, I don’t think either of us could’ve thought we’d ever grow apart. Some people think Facebook helps people to stay in touch – I think maybe it gives us the illusion we’re still in touch because we see occasional insights into each other’s lives.

  I make the decision to call in, not caring that I look like a drowned scarecrow. I just need a friend. Pushing open the door, the heat hits me, as does the smell of freshly baked bread and cakes.

  I see Kate at the counter, her dark hair tied up in a ponytail. A bright red apron. A smile for her customers. I know she’s a mum herself now. I feel wretched that I’ve not even seen her baby yet – not that he’s a baby any more. He must be two or three by now.

  My shame almost gets the better of me and I’m considering leaving, when she calls my name from across the shop, giving me the same wide smile as she gave the customer she’d been serving when I came in.

  ‘Eli! Imagine seeing you here! It’s been so long,’ she cheers before telling one of her assistants to give her a few minutes.

  We’re hugging within seconds. I try to warn her that I’m drenched and she’ll end up soaked too, but she laughs.

  ‘I’m not made of sugar and I won’t melt. It’s so nice to see you. You’re looking well.’

  I accept the compliment, even though I know she’s lying.

  ‘Well, for a pregnant lady with no make-up on and her hair like a scarecrow, I suppose I do look well.’ I smile.

  ‘You couldn’t look bad if you tried. Here,’ she says, guiding me to a table and chairs by the window. ‘Sit down. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, epidural?’

  I’m warmed by her humour.

  ‘You know what, Kate? It’s just nice to be in your company. I’m up visiting Mum for a bit and needed some fresh air.’

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ Kate says, taking my hands in hers across the table.

  Her eyes are bright, her expression warm. I realise just how much I’ve missed our friendship.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’ve not called in sooner,’ I say. ‘How’s your little boy?’

  She smiles and reaches into her pocket for her phone.

  ‘A complete terrorist but I wouldn’t have him any other way. Keeps me on my toes.’

  She shows me her phone and the picture of a young child, grinning at the camera, his face covered in ice cream. He looks as happy as Kate looks proud.

  ‘Do you know what you’re having?’ she asks, nodding towards my tummy.

  ‘A girl,’ I tell her, and I find myself smiling. A genuine smile. It surprises me, in a nice way.

  ‘Ah, that’ll be lovely. Wee girls are so special,’ she says. ‘Sure, look how close you and your mum are.’

  I smile again. Think of Mum back at her house, still sleeping. I realise I didn’t leave a note to tell her where I’d gone and she’ll only worry if she wakes to an empty house.

  ‘Actually, I’d better be off,’ I say. ‘Mum’ll
be worried.’

  Kate reaches across the table again and takes my hands. ‘Can I ask you something? Is everything okay, Eli? You seem a bit out of sorts.’

  I wish in that moment I could sit there and tell her everything. That someone’s stalking us. That Martin might be cheating. That I’m thinking about every woman in our lives and wondering if I know who it is he’s seeing. I want to tell her about the whisky glass and the anonymous message – but I can’t bring myself to do that.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie, forcing a smile. ‘It’s been so lovely to see you.’

  ‘Take my phone number,’ she says, ‘in case you want to talk any time.’

  I nod and take out my phone, tap her number in and give her mine in return.

  ‘I’m here any time you need,’ she says with such genuine warmth that I will myself not to cry and look like a total eejit in front of her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Louise

  I love you. The simplest sentence in the world. I wondered how many times I’d said it in my lifetime. To my parents. My grandparents. To lovers. To my husband. To the cold, silent baby in my arms.

  I wondered how many times I’d meant it. Really meant it. Felt each word as if saying them wasn’t enough. As if the expression itself was woefully inadequate for how I really felt. So many times it was a rote response. Something to say.

  Like a prayer in Mass. Carried along with the rhythm of the words, the pattern they make:

  The Lord be with you

  And with your spirit.

  Drummed in from an early age.

  I love you.

  I love you, too.

  I knew when I’d first told Peter I loved him, after we’d been dating for three months, I’d been sure I meant it. But it wasn’t until a few months later that I felt the full force of the meaning behind those words. It overwhelmed me.

  To be in love with someone.

  To have my heart want to burst with affection for them.

  It was terrifying. To feel that way.

  It made me feel vulnerable.

  When you tell someone you love them, truly love them, when you feel as if that’s the most intense thing you could ever feel – you open yourself up to so much. You make yourself vulnerable.

  For me, ‘I love you’ meant I see the real you. I like what I see. I love spending time with you. You make me happy. I want you in my life.

  I need you in my life.

  Please don’t leave me.

  Please don’t hurt me.

  Please don’t trample on my heart.

  Peter didn’t trample on my heart. He didn’t break it. It was broken when my baby didn’t breathe. Nothing else mattered then.

  Love certainly didn’t matter. Love was cruel. Love was fleeting.

  I was sure nothing and no one could make me love again.

  Except for this baby. My baby. That’s why I needed to have her, you see. Because didn’t I deserve to believe in love again?

  And I felt those first flushes of love as I watched them. It was love that made me stay close to their house, watching and waiting. Hiding in the shadows. It was love, for my baby and for the God who was answering my prayers, that gave me the patience to keep waiting, even if that patience was wearing thin.

  It was love that had me standing in a shop, looking at cuddly toys. There was a bear wearing a red scarf, a soft heart embroidered on one end. I looked around me, just to make sure there was no one I knew nearby. I didn’t want them to see me buy this. I didn’t want them to wonder why. I didn’t want them to know it was for my baby. My first gift to her. I hoped she’d keep this bear always. Until its fluff was threadbare, its stuffing flattened. I hoped she’d always look at it and remember that love could be pure. I already knew that I’d never hurt her. And she’d never hurt me. She’d heal me.

  I’d picked up the teddy and walked to the till, smiled at the woman serving. Agreed that it was a lovely bear. I took the bag she handed me, with this toy inside, and brought it home, where I packed it in one of the cases I had ready to take to our new home.

  I already had one place lined up to look at.

  It wasn’t fancy. Not like the home I’d lived in with Peter, where I always thought we’d raise our children, but I didn’t need fancy to be happy. I just needed a baby.

  It wouldn’t be long now.

  With every day that passed, we were getting closer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Eli

  Martin calls me just after teatime. He sounds stressed. Launches into a monologue about the pressure of the big meeting tomorrow morning to discuss the progress on-site and the potential for another project.

  I listen, wait for him to ask me how I am, which he eventually does after several minutes of work talk. I want to tell him I’m not fine. I want to tell him about the latest message. I want to ask him if he’s given a key to our house to anyone else, but he sounds so stressed about the meeting that I don’t want to add this stress to his plate. Not when I’ll see him tomorrow anyway.

  After I hang up, my mother gives me a stern look. I knew she wouldn’t be happy.

  ‘Why, Eliana, did you not ask him about the message?’

  ‘I’ll see him tomorrow,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll talk then. Face-to-face. He has that big meeting in the morning and I don’t want to jeopardise it for him.’

  ‘You let him get away with too much. You always have. Is it any wonder he’s acting the way he is?’

  ‘We don’t know anything for definite,’ I say defensively.

  I know I’m kidding myself. I know I’m denying all the evidence that’s been put in front of me, but I don’t care. I’m too tired to care.

  ‘If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s most likely a duck,’ she continues in her best lecturing voice. ‘I’m not trying to be harsh, darling, but maybe you need to start accepting that he’s not the man you thought he was.’

  It would be churlish of me to scream at her, ‘But I don’t want to,’ but that’s how I feel. I just want it all to go away.

  *

  Mum and I move around each other like chess pieces all evening. She’s annoyed at me. On edge. She thinks I’m letting him get away with murder and that I shouldn’t give a stuff if he messes up his big meeting. He deserves to have bad things happen to him.

  I take myself to bed early at around nine, hope that sleep will come, but instead I toss and turn all night. When morning comes, my head hurts. As much as I love her, I don’t want to have another chat with my mother. I just want to get up and dressed and go home.

  Martin is due back mid-afternoon. I want to be there before him. I want to speak to Constable Dawson about the break-in and the message I’ve received. I’ll call the police station, see if he’s on duty and if I can speak to him. It’ll be harder for him to fob me off face-to-face.

  I want to possess as much information as possible before I talk to Martin. I want to see if the police can trace the message I was sent. Then I can confront Martin with what I know.

  Confront. That word says it all. It will be a confrontation. Probably a horrible one. One in which he’ll say all the same things he said on Saturday again and try to persuade me I’m the only woman for him.

  I’ll want to believe him, of course, because it’d be easier to believe him. I’d love to put it all down to some vindictive person doing the rounds, someone who has a grudge against him or me or just has too much time on their hands. Then the pair of us can move on with our lives, ignoring their petty notes and, hopefully, they’ll soon get bored. Or they’ll slip up and the police will track them down.

  The alternative is that Martin might admit there’s truth to it all. My life might implode. I may have to make tough decisions. He might tell me he’s in love with someone else. The cleaner. His secretary. A client. Rachel, even.

  He may take the decision out of my hands.

  We’ll have to choose who will move out, or if we’ll both move out. I mean, I’ll p
robably be the one to move, because it’s his house, really. We bought it together but he’s sculpted it into what it is now.

  Then there’ll be hushed tones from friends and colleagues as I walk past – the poor woman whose husband did the dirty on her when she was pregnant. There’ll be sneaky glances to my left hand to see if I’m still wearing a wedding ring. Custody battles over who has this weekend or that holiday with the baby we’ve made together.

  Everything about this makes me feel sick to my very stomach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Eli

  The drive back to Derry is arduous. It’s frustrating at the best of times – the lack of a decent motorway or even dual carriageway between the North’s two leading cities often makes it slow-going. Today, however, it almost tips me over the edge as I find myself caught behind every tractor, extra cautious driver and slow-moving vehicle between Toome and Drumahoe.

  And that’s without the trauma of extra roadworks and delays.

  By the time my car is climbing the hill to the Waterside area of Derry, past Altnagelvin Area Hospital, I’m desperate for the toilet, grumpy and exhausted. All I really want to do is go home and hide under my duvet, but I’ve phoned the Waterside Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) station on my journey and have arranged to speak to Constable Dawson in person.

  A very polite female police officer warned me over the phone that it’s unlikely the police will be able to trace the text message I received, but they’ll keep it on file.

  ‘There are sites set up specifically to allow people to send untraceable messages. These new technologies, we try our best to keep up with them but we tend to find if people want to be menacing, they find their ways. Why tech companies allow their software to be used in such a way is beyond me,’ she’d said, leaving me devoid of hope that any of this would be solved quickly.

  I’m almost at the police station, when my phone starts ringing. It’s work. There’s no way I can ignore it. No one calls staff on their days off without good cause.