An hour later Morwenna wanders between the higgledy-piggledy, narrow cobbled streets and squashed-in fishermen dwellings, pausing at the bakery on the corner. The shelves in the window are stacked high with enormous meringues and local pastries. Five minutes later she makes her way to the seafront gallery armed with birthday-girl treats. The tide stretches out beyond the harbour wall and small boats idle in white sands where only a few weeks ago this stretch was riddled with families and sandcastles. The mist of earlier has cleared and, as she does each morning, she takes a moment to thank her lucky stars for the view. Today, the Atlantic Ocean is a glassy sapphire pond with emerald swirls, lapping tenderly in the distance, luring her to slip off her shoes and follow. To her right is the town’s lifeboat station where fishermen bring their daily wares of mackerel and bass to be served the same day in one of the many colourful restaurants. She fills her lungs with salt-braced air and opens the gallery door.
During the morning she busies herself changing the window display, ready for a new artist exhibiting beautiful watercolours. Lost in thought, she jumps with the tap-tap on the window; looking up, she sees Daniel, his usual grin across his face but with something else – worry? Beckoning for him to come in, she climbs from the window as he closes the door behind him, pulling a bunch of bright, clashing pinks, reds and orange dahlias from behind his back he sings Happy Birthday to her. ‘Thought, I’d forgotten?’
‘Oh, my gosh, how beautiful, how thoughtful, Daniel, you little love. Thank you so much.’ Reaching forward, she kisses the side of his cold cheek, smiling to herself, Daniel always tenses when people do this, reminding her of when she used to kiss her son as a teenager. Funny one with Daniel, he’s a touchy-feely type of lad by nature, but only on his terms. Burying her nose between the petals, she breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent. ‘Truly beautiful! All my favourite colours too, how thoroughly kind of you. And there was me thinking you’d forgotten.’ Morwenna winks at him.
Daniel stretches his lips. ‘Right, and I won’t be seeing you later either, will I?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so. I’m out on the town straight from work, you know how it is. Popular girl and all that. Party, party.’
She doesn’t miss the crease forming across his brow – presumably he’s thinking she’s forgotten the party – so she nudges him, tapping the side of her nose. ‘Between you and me remember. The party. The surprise.’
‘The party, yes, of course. Don’t tell Natalie, she’ll literally kill me.’
‘Come on, let’s find these beauties some water, shall we?’ Daniel follows Morwenna through the gallery to the back kitchen area.
‘Where’s Emily?’ he asks.
‘Finished during the week. She’s only here for the holiday weeks and weekends now the summer’s over. She’s her college work to think of. Claire should be here soon, though.’
‘Will Mark not think about closing up, then, with it being quiet?’
‘You kidding me? Mark? He wouldn’t do that, would he? You know what he’s like, bless him. It’s not as though he needs to worry about the cost of keeping open, is it?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Anyhow, it’s not completely dead. We still have a steady flow of customers and it gives us a chance to catch up with the artists, bring the new stock in. Redecorate too.’ Morwenna picked at a loose piece of paint on the door frame. ‘This close to the sea, it needs doing regularly, I’m afraid.’
‘Hmmm. Shame though – I like Emily.’
‘So you’re not here to see me at all. Charming.’ Daniel blushes, parting his lips to object. ‘I’m only kidding.’ She squeezes his arm. It’s clear to anyone, Daniel enjoys talking to females more so than men; he’s visibly far more comfortable around women, chatting easily, no agenda, always considerate, intelligent too. Literature is his thing. Most days she catches him with a different book and he’s often to be found in the library, not forgetting the regular delivery of purchased books. ‘Pop by on Saturday, she’ll be here then. Where you off to now?’ she asks, nodding at the rucksack on his back. Daniel’s face clouds with the same expression as when he tapped on the window. ‘All prepared, somewhere nice?’
Daniel raises his shoulders. ‘Somewhere. Somewhere to read, to someone, I mean.’ He reaches back to tap the rucksack. ‘Likes me to read to him.’
‘I see, didn’t realise – someone I know?’
Daniel turns his gaze to a piece of pottery. ‘Just someone who enjoys my books.’
‘Right. Is he old, then, this friend of yours?’
‘Old? No. Not old. I mean, older than me but not old as in… an old man. Why would he be old?’
‘I kind of assumed he was, what with you reading to him.’ Morwenna fills the kettle. ‘Can he not read for himself, then, this friend?’
Daniel hesitates. ‘Yes. He can read. But he prefers me to read to him. He doesn’t have any books, for one thing, so he shares mine and also…’ Morwenna turns to see Daniel glancing around the room ‘… also, he struggles sometimes.’
‘Struggles?’
‘Suffers with anxiety. Only sometimes. So me reading to him helps him relax. That’s what they say about reading, isn’t it? Helps switch the mind off. That’s what they used to tell me. Reading will help relax you.’
It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask who they are and why Daniel needed to be told to relax, but it’s not her business. ‘Got you,’ she says despite being none the wiser.
It all sounds a little odd. Most people know most people in St Ives – why hasn’t Daniel mentioned the name of this person? With Daniel’s empathic nature, sometimes she worries people will take advantage of him. Then again, what else is he to do? Clearing glasses with very part-time hours at Mark’s bistro isn’t enough to occupy him. She’s often thought he must become lonely. Mark mentioned he offers Daniel work not because he needs him or because Daniel needs the money, but at his father’s request. From what Daniel’s housekeeper, Tommy, advised, Daniel receives an extremely healthy allowance from his mother and father each month.
‘Just be careful, Daniel. Okay?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Just… be wise. Don’t be letting people take advantage of your kindness, is all I’m saying.’
After tea and Hevva cake, Morwenna watches him wander off up past the streak of whitewashed and brightly clad shopfronts, chattering away to himself. She can’t help but wonder what his parents are thinking of.
3
Natalie
I don’t mind some graffiti. I mean, it can be little more than scrawled obscenities in grossly inappropriate places, but some can be amazingly artistic and enhancing. But there was something odd, properly unnerving about this graffiti. I spotted it on my way home from work. Scribed across the frontage of a disused shop, a once treasured gift shop, small in appearance but quite the bottomless pit inside. Intricately poised knick-knacks consuming each millimetre of layered shelving.
The shop wasn’t boarded up or anything either. The artist, if that’s what they are, chose to graffiti directly onto the glass, which in itself is unusual. I mean, what if the owners want to reopen, only closing to do a stocktake or something? The image itself was of a woman, who gracefully held a handkerchief to a petite nose, delicate and feminine but with a face full of sorrow. To the right of this slight figure were words, painted in gold in the most beautiful old-fashioned calligraphy:
The walls can always crumble; the doors can be unlocked but none of it really matters when you deem what lies inside.
It wasn’t even the words that took me back; obviously they meant something to someone, I thought. It was only as I stepped closer, I noticed the inscription on the handkerchief in red lettering, Natalie. Bloody hell – Natalie.
In the tiniest of brushstrokes, more like a fine felt-tip pen, it read, Natalie. How odd, what a coincidence, I told myself, swiftly moving away. It’s not as if I have a monopoly on the name, is it? I’d be pretty vain to think this artist was thinking of me
, sending me an abstract message, wouldn’t I? But I’m as sure as I can be, the graffiti was not there when I first walked past earlier in the day and it had vanished by the time I returned for work the following morning.
This was the beginning. This moment. These words. Nothing obvious, nothing concrete, only tapping at the surface of paranoia but it was enough to reset the alarm and wake me up.
4
Daniel
This was never a climb Daniel wanted to make, not because of the intolerant ascent or the jagged rocks obscured by shingle stubbing at the toes, challenging the ankles, or even because of his indifference to the most spectacular view across the turquoise bay. But because of the gut-tugging trepidation of who or what is awaiting his arrival and with the understanding some paths lead to dangerous heights, so incongruent to the beauty they ripple through.
Finally reaching the last stretch of path trailing the top of the cliff, Daniel doubles over, hands reaching for achy knees, struggling for breath. Running was not his best decision. The weight of the world in the rucksack on his back bouncing off once broad shoulders. It’s not long before he senses the spectre-like shadow creeping over him. It’s him, Jacob, and he’s been left waiting. Daniel has left him waiting. Hearing Jacob draw in deeply, he braces himself.
‘You’re late.’
Apparently, Daniel is always late, no matter what; even when he’s early, he’s late. Still bending over, Daniel flicks his hand behind him. ‘It’s an awful climb up here,’ he says. ‘I struggle with my breathing, this last bit especially. If we could meet down in…’ Words muttered from a forged bravery. Why is he making this more painful than he need? The urge to always speak what sits in his mind will do him no favours. Sometimes he could slap himself stupid. Gulping back air, he holds his breath, but instead of the eruption he’s expecting, he hears the laugh, more of a chortle. Jacob rarely laughs as he does. But then, if he lived this quarantined, withdrawn life, governed by rules and lines, too fearful to cross, would he laugh? Daniel straightens himself, watching as Jacob turns away, making his way across the clifftop towards the tumbledown stone cottage. Condemned years ago for its proximity to the edge, the garden perceptually becoming lesser each time he visits. Each time he’s summoned.
Reaching the doorway, Jacob calls over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps if you were not so, how shall we put it, weak? Impulsive? Maybe, if you could learn the art of restraint, we could meet down there.’ He throws his head over the golden sand bay towards Daniel’s home town of St Ives. ‘Really, Daniel, how many times must you be told? Please do take a glance in the mirror before you visit. You seem to be under the strange illusion meeting here is for my benefit? That somehow it’s me who needs managing?’
‘No, not at all.’ Daniel is quick to reassure, sensing Jacob’s hackles rising, a sharp edge to his voice. ‘All I was saying was – it’s a tough climb. I didn’t mean to be late.’
Jacob twists his face. ‘Tell me, do please tell me, is it your wish to be seen in town with me? Honestly? I’m almost interested.’
‘No. You’re right, of course.’ It can never be; Daniel has no idea why he was even suggesting it. He’s right. He’s always right. Daniel cannot be seen with him again. Not ever. Not for either of their sakes. If people knew Jacob as Daniel knows him, and not as they think they know him, they’d not like him. If truth be told even Daniel hates him, loathes him at times. But they have this kind of forced, complicated relationship, have been through so much together. Sometimes Daniel wishes they could start over, perhaps go their separate ways. Natalie said something once, in the way she often says these things: sometimes it’s the shit that keeps you together rather than the good things. Daniel didn’t say at the time but he thought it: this was him and Jacob. It’s the shit that keeps their relationship. Daniel can’t ever tell Natalie about Jacob, despite her already knowing him. Daniel can’t ever tell anyone about Jacob and their secret.
‘Come along, then.’ Jacob strides ahead through the open door of the cottage.
If only Daniel had the strength to walk away years ago, when Jacob’s grasp was weaker before the damage was done. Only this morning Daniel decided: Today’s the day when I finally stand up to him. I’ll not show up at the cottage, then maybe he’ll give up, finally set me free. But before he’d even reached for his towel from the shower, the other thoughts took over: But he does kind of look out for me, and he’s helped me out so many times in the past, wouldn’t it be cruel to turn my back on him now? Maybe, Jacob needs me more than I need Jacob?
‘Coming.’ Daniel shuffles towards the entrance. Inhaling deeply, stepping over the stone threshold into the semi-darkness. Jacob is oddly, incredibly sensitive. Daniel’s life finally appears to be on the mend; he’s mixing with some really nice people, beginning to care about them. He worries Jacob will become… unreasonable? Jealous? Feel threatened? Maybe this is understandable, Jacob’s been with him through the thick and thin of his most desperate times. Or is it more that he’s always been there when things have gone wrong?
‘Through here, then,’ Jacob calls.
Daniel continues through, ducking his head, stepping over sandy rubble and stones scattered across aged flagstones. He imagines the cottage is little changed from the previous owners, who refused to run from the tumbling plot years ago. A worn-armed reading chair still sits in the corner of the kitchen area and a tall wooden sideboard dominates the wall next to it; one of its doors swings on salt-tarnished hinges. An old Cornish range rests at the heart of the room. Daniel swears he can still smell the aromas of saffron buns and homemade variations of Cornish pasty. He trundles towards the centre of the room where the battered oblong oak table resides. Most of the cottage remains furnished, Morwenna told him; the lifelong owners were unable to shift their belongings before the original roadway crumbled into the sea. Sometimes Daniel wonders how long the cottage has left to live before it too plummets to the depths of the Atlantic Ocean. And despite the fear and the dread it houses for him, he finds this sad because it’s almost become a second home.
‘Stop dawdling. Sit down, for goodness’ sake.’ Jacob spits.
Daniel reaches for the only remaining unbroken chair to sit opposite him, his thighs tensing in the hard seat as he absorbs the wordless conversation between them, all the time aware he’s being studied by this creased face, forming a mocking frown.
‘You’re weakening.’
‘How do you mean?’ Daniel asks.
‘Trusting people, becoming too close, allowing them into your life, listening to their opinions, considering their ways. Letting your guard down.’ Jacob’s voice rises.
Daniel studies him for a minute. He understands this man has his best interests at heart and, maybe justifiably, he’s worried about him. But the problem is, he kind of likes his new life in Cornwall; he doesn’t want this new-found happiness to be taken away. Not this time. He remains silent, wracking his mind for the right words, the best reasoning, ones to not jumble out all wrong only to be shot down as soon as they’re whispered. ‘I…’
‘You’ve not forgotten about what happened before?’
Daniel shakes his head. How could he ever forget?
‘Good. That’s good. Don’t ever allow yourself to forget.’
Daniel shuffles in his seat, his cheeks blushing; he daren’t tell him, more than anything he wants to forget. Each night before he falls asleep he prays for things to be different, to be allowed to forget. And maybe this time he’s ready to move on, to be truly independent and cut free the craggy umbilical cord holding their relationship together. Petrified Jacob will intervene again, sensing the loosening of his grip. But on the other hand, maybe Jacob is right – look what did happen the last time. ‘I’ll never forget,’ Daniel reassures him. This much is true. He lost his best, only true friend. She was all he had in the normal sense, the only one who genuinely cared. She meant everything to him, understood him in ways no one else did, especially his parents. He loved her.
‘Never,’ Daniel
repeats. ‘Never.’ If he hadn’t forgotten before, maybe she would still be alive.
Sensing Jacob’s eyes scrutinising his every breath, again he wonders, but maybe it is time to tell someone else about Jacob? About who Jacob really is? Of the hold he has over him? Or does he just put this all down to the consequences of bad shit?
5
Natalie
‘Pass the mixing thing, will you?’
‘The what?’
‘That there, the hand-held thing with the twisty bits sticking out. Blinking cake should have been in the oven an hour ago. It’s never going to cool down in time to ice, is it?’ Why do I always put myself under pressure? I should have done this last night. And why am I always saying ‘I should have’? ‘Do you find you’re always saying “I should have”, Dan?’ I ask, not properly submerging the mixing tools sufficiently, so creating a cloud of white flour between us.
Daniel waves a hand through the air. ‘Should have?’
‘You know – should have done this, should have done that?’
Daniel shakes his head. ‘Nope. Don’t think so. I either do it or I don’t.’
‘God, you’re so lucky. I’m forever beating myself up with them.’
‘Except… sometimes, I do. There are things I regret – is that the same? Then I wonder if I should have. Shouldn’t have, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Don’t get me started on regrets.’ I could literally turn hair grey if anyone asked me to list my regrets. Officially, I am Natalie, the ruler of regrets. But then, as Mo also wisely tells me, hindsight is a most wonderful thing. What I definitely regret is giving into myself tonight, looking over my shoulder on the way home from work. It wasn’t particularly late but with the nights’ drawing in it was so, so dark. I had that horrible feeling of someone behind me, not quite close enough to hear footsteps over the thrum of the sea, it was more of a feeling. I resisted initially, reasoned with myself this feeling was more to do with the letter I received earlier this week than being followed. The letter that made me vomit. Informing me of his imminent release from prison. How can that be right, a monster being let loose in the world again?
I Know You're There Page 2
