‘I’m not worried, it’s Mark.’ My eyes roll automatically. ‘He can be so bloody precious.’
‘Everything okay between the two of you?’
‘Time will tell, won’t it? I don’t know, maybe we’re too different, maybe opposites don’t attract, they simply annoy each other, rub each other the wrong way constantly. Initially, the differences are entertaining, sweet, funny, then they just become tiresome and frustrating. Which isn’t sounding good, is it, Mo, given we’ve only been together a few months, let’s face it?’
Mo sips at her wine, probably thinking it best not to comment because it’s none of her business and I need to work this one out for myself. But I want her advice. I need a clear, rational head to bail me out.
‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s funny, thoughtful, clever.’
‘Your landlord and boss…’
‘My landlord and boss.’ I smile. ‘But he’s also quite particular, quite bossy and has set ideals. If I’m honest, he’s also a little bit, dare I say, possessive.’ Looking out through Mo’s window, I see the twinkling lights from the old harbour wall, reflecting down on what appears to be smoked, dark glass rather than water; the whole town looks like bright little lanterns floating in the sky. ‘Ignore me, I’m probably not speaking any sense, because of all this.’ I remove the envelope from my coat pocket, thrown over the arm of the sofa I’m leaning against.
‘Did it come today, Nat?’
‘Was here waiting for me downstairs, tonight.’
‘No wonder you’re feeling a little… sensitive. Bless you.’
I turn the envelope over in my fingers, not sure what I am hoping to achieve – maybe magically to make it vanish. ‘You’d think he would have given up, though, wouldn’t you, by now? Left me alone. I was thinking earlier, if she wasn’t such a sweet old dear, I could murder my ex. neighbour for falling for my father’s plea to find the misplaced address of his beloved daughter.’
‘I’m sure. But how did he know to call her? And I’m assuming he called her from inside?’
‘Uh-huh. Some old pal of his, I’m guessing, in Falmouth, went sniffing around. The same as they did the first time to get my old address. Cornwall just isn’t big enough sometimes.’
Mo nods. ‘Come on, then, let’s open it, get it over and done with.’
I begin to pull at the envelope’s flap. ‘Do you have scissors, please? I can’t bear to touch where he’s… you know.’ I can’t bear the thought of touching anything that could even have been breathed on by him, never mind touched, never mind spat on.
Mo nods. ‘Of course, yes, let me.’ She rushes off for the kitchen area.
Moments later, I place the scissors onto the coffee table and decide the best option is to quickly skim through the contents to ensure nothing alarming stands out, like – when you’ve finished reading this take a look from your window and give me a wave! There’s nothing other than the predictable on first inspection but as I reach the mid-section, my eyes reread the words, and a fist clenches my stomach. I was right to feel bad about this. I feel the colour draining from my face. Eventually, I glance across at Mo now sitting on the edge of the sofa. I whisper, ‘He’s out. Oh, my God, Mo, he’s out.’
‘Out? What, as in – out? Out of prison?’ she says, placing her wine glass on the low-level table to take my hand in hers. ‘But I thought he had months to serve yet, I thought his release day was some time next year? I’m sure that’s what you told me.’
‘Originally it was supposed to be, but, for some insane reason, he’s been let out early, hasn’t he? The last letter did say his release was imminent but still I didn’t think so soon, oh, thank you very much!’
Mo squeezes my hand. ‘What else does it say, Nat?’ she asks gently.
‘The same old self-pitying shit. You know, how he fully appreciates why I wouldn’t want to see him, which he clearly doesn’t, else he would bugger off and leave me alone, wouldn’t he? It’s probably easier if I read it to you, if you don’t mind. I need to share it.’ Mo inches closer to me on the sofa and nods for me to begin.
‘I know you must hate me and, trust me, I would hate me too. No, I do hate me, more than I can tell you. But all I want is to have the chance to meet with you. I want to explain to you my story. I’m asking a lot and I know it’s all a bit rich. But you were always a good girl, kind and that, unlike me. I’m desperate, Natalie, for a chance to put stuff right. I let you down big time, I understand. But I’m really desperate, Natalie, you are all I’ve thought about, talked about. The thing is I’m now a free man. My prison days are over. And the hope of seeing you again is all that kept me going and is all I now want to do. And you know what, it’s what your mum would want too, she’d want you to meet with me. If she was still with us, that’s what she’d want, you believe this too, don’t you? God bless her soul. So I was thinking, if you can’t do this for me, maybe you can do it for her at least. I can meet you any time, I’m never far away, staying with some old mates at the moment, my mobile number is at the bottom of this page.
Please, Natalie, for Mum.
Dad x’
The word Dad makes me gag. How dare he? Screwing up the sheet of contaminated paper, I throw it to the floor. ‘Makes me want to vomit. How dare he use Mum’s name to get to me? What he’s forgotten is this is exactly how he used to behave before; he’s obviously not changed at all. Mum was dying horribly of cancer, I would have been nine, after the beatings, he used to say, “Don’t tell anyone, for Mum’s sake, you’ll only make her worse. Then it will all be your fault.”’
I fall into Mo’s embrace as she pulls me to her. ‘Bastard,’ she whispers into my hair. ‘Total, utter bastard.’
13
Natalie
I ended up staying longer than I’d intended at Mo’s, which means I’ve an hour before Mark arrives to collect me, expecting me to be all together, smiley and perfect for his friends of a kind. All I actually want to do is crawl under my duvet and shut out the world.
It’s only as I’m sliding the key into the lock, I notice my hand still trembling. Could this be the several glasses of wine without food or the letter? My anxious state keeps flitting between that and anger. What’s wrong with me? Why do I still allow him to get to me? This letter doesn’t change anything. I knew his release was happening; regardless of if it is now or next year, what difference does it make?
As I push the front door open into the dark, a shudder slithers down my spine. I reach to the right for the light switch. Should have asked Mo to come here instead – this would have been the sensible option, Natalie. Entering alone after the letter was never going to be one of my smartest moves. But there’s something so homely about Mo’s place. It’s not that I don’t love my flat, I do – the décor is completely me, cosy elements combined with minimalist. Typical of me, really, desperate to be all organised and proper but unable to be without the comfort. The minimalist bits perhaps not as they’re supposed to be because this is the problem with minimalist: there’s no room to hide for someone who’s naturally untidy.
The spotlights instantly fill the room and instead of the subtle ambient light I would normally prefer, I turn them up to the maximum, blinking as my eyes adjust. Another note to self: next time leave the lights on. What about the environment – can I be forgiven for this one little oversight? Wandering into the kitchen area, I’m surprised to find it nowhere near as untidy as I thought I’d left it, dashing out in a hurry this morning. The anticipated pile of late evening and breakfast crockery is non-existent; the kitchen surfaces are clean. Shiny granite clean, not a smear to be seen anywhere. I think back. I was at Mo’s first thing this morning, then ended up leaving in haste thinking I’d have plenty of time to clear up before Mark’s arrival tonight, like he’s the king or something. I’ve almost impressed myself – I must have cleared up before I left. How distracted am I? No wonder I’ve lost the bloody cardigan.
Shrugging it off, I pour myself a generous gin and tonic, ignoring the nagging voic
e telling me I’ve perhaps had adequate alcohol already on an empty stomach, then continue through to the bedroom. A quick shower, before stepping into something suitable. How did Mark put it? Oh, yes – simply sophisticated is how he described the other female member of tonight’s dinner party. Roughly translated this means wear something Mark has gifted me. It’s not that I don’t love your easy style, Nat, I do, it’s more because, you’re such a beautiful woman, sometimes it’s nice to wear something a little more… special, than your usual.
I replay these words through my mind. Is this controlling? Or genuine kindness? Derogatory or complimentary? If Mark were to wear stuff I didn’t like, would I recommend something different? Would I notice? Does it matter either way? I mean, it’s not as if he’s blatantly stating he hates my style, is it? But it does niggle and I do catch myself pulling funny faces when I replay his words. The big question is – is this him or is this my self-destruct button calling?
Selecting a simple emerald-green silk dress from the wardrobe, some nude leather sandals, I kick myself because the damn elusive cardigan would have worked perfectly as a slip over the top. I wander to the armchair in the window for the bath towel, usually flung over each morning, but it’s not there. I bend behind the chair. It must have fallen to the floor – perfect, a damp towel. I don’t have time to be rolling on the floor for towels, so I dash to the airing cupboard for another. I’m wandering back to the bedroom when I realise I’m holding a hand towel. How do you not notice the difference, Natalie? I fling open the airing cupboard door and pick up another hand towel? I’m confused because I could have sworn my hand towels were piled on the right and my bath towels were piled on the left. But they are not, it’s the other way around. ‘Seriously, Natalie, get a grip, woman.’
With the gin and tonic in hand, I switch on the TV mounted on the bedroom wall; there’s something about showering with silence, listening for every creak in the floorboard, the forced entry of the front door. Soap clogging my ears, shielding my eyes. Silence and showers are a definite no-no.
As I step over the threshold into the bathroom the light sensor kicks in, dousing the room in extreme brightness, no one hiding in here unobserved. But, ‘What the…?’ I freeze to the spot. Holding my breath, the heart beating a little too fast. The floor is covered with the contents of my dirty washing basket. Did I do this? What was I thinking? I tipped the basket out this morning, one last look before work for the cardigan, must have forgotten to put it all back. Through the mist of several large glasses of wine and gin, combined with the shock from the letter, the morning drifts away in a blur. In the past, when I’ve been upset, I’ve attempted the obligatory tidying, cleaning to distract concept and it did help. I felt better because I also did something useful. Typical of me to forget something.
I place the glass I’m now squeezing on the white shelf unit over the bath, then release the steel taps, stepping back a little too slowly; cold water trickles down the inside of my shirt sleeve as it does each time. I jump back, noticing I’m beginning to feel a little giddy, and can’t decide if I really want to be in the shower alone, vulnerable and exposed. ‘Stop it, Natalie, for God’s sake!’ I’m being ridiculous, spooked completely by the man who calls himself Dad and the emotionally challenged letter. Even so, I decide on a bath; at least that way I can hear properly. Not that I need to hear anything. I shouldn’t have had this last drink, especially as I need to be relatively sane tonight. I drop the last item of clothing clinging to me onto the floor on top of all the other washing, then kick it all against the wall and step into the overly bubbly bath. So he’s out of prison, but it’s not as though he could just wander into my flat, not without kicking the door down. And there are only three keys in circulation. I have one, Mo has one and Mark has the master set.
Paranoia really is a terrible thing; it makes you question even the most certain.
14
Daniel
Woken abruptly by the front door shutting in the early hours of the morning, the lowered voices of Natalie and Mark filling the high ceiling reception, followed by rhythmical steps up the stairs. He had popped in on Nigel earlier, having ummed and ahhed for a good twenty minutes first at his front door. Should he knock, shouldn’t he? The seven o’clock Nigel visitation deadline had passed but he really fancied some company and it turned out Nigel was fine with it. They chatted easily for a couple of hours, mostly about shared book experiences; it was late by the time he left. He’d already begun to stir before hearing the voices in the hallway with the low-level sound of perpetual crying. His face dampened by tears. His covers strewn across the base of the bed, his legs trembling uncovered, his body exposed. Then, Daniel realised it was him crying, for Rebecca.
Each time he closed his eyes, he saw hers, dark and sad with no life, staring obliquely towards the ceiling. Void, opaque eyes that had always been full of such love before. Was she now trying to communicate with him? Was she worried about something? He’s sure she spoke to him, kind and gentle mutterings, that changed to angry, brittle and hostile jabs. Distorted and unrecognisable. Was she warning him or chastising him? Despite her vulnerabilities, he can see now, his sister was always a motherly figure to him. ‘Daniel,’ she whispered last night. She always pronounced Daniel as if it had only two syllables, more Dannule, her special name for him.
He turns his head to face the alarm clock on the bedside table: 05:07. Sitting himself up, he reaches for the metal angular bedside lamp, before retrieving his latest manuscript from under the bed, a dark fantasy novel, his eighth novel and as with the others he will self-edit, have it professionally bound so to join the other seven hidden under his bed. For no one to ever read because they would never be good enough; his father told him this many times and his father is always right.
Sometimes, he wonders why he throws such weight behind his father’s words, how his influence is so pertinent in his life, given he’s never properly spent time with him. Or his mother. At home, which is strictly a generic term, he was brought up mostly by staff after Rebecca. At boarding school, when the others would return home for occasional weekends, he knew they wondered why he never did the same. But then, what would have been the point? He could sit and read in his room as easily at school as he could at home. School was a challenge too, he wasn’t in with any of the cliques, he didn’t enjoy sport and was labelled as the ‘one with the therapist’, but he kept his head above water by offering his services for missed homeworks, tedious assignments and generally all the things the students neglected for having a good time. It wasn’t until Cambridge when he realised his life had been nothing more than a lonely black hole. His only light had been Rebecca. ‘What were you trying to tell me, Rebecca?’ Daniel whispers.
15
Natalie
It’s autumn, the air has a gorgeous, almost spring note to its step, the sky is a bright cyan blue and, as luck would have it, the three of us have a day off together. I’m tiptoeing across the cool, tropical golden sands of Porthminster beach, vividly framed by evergreen dense shrubbery and trees. Tender waves lap at Godrevy lighthouse, perched on its rock-strewn island; not to be confused with the tranquil vision it summons, as underneath lie the remnants of shipwrecks and the lives it has stolen. Today, I’m with Mo and Daniel, pumps in hand and, you’d think, without a care in the world, stopping every so often to collect the odd salmon-pink and pearl-white shell, for Mo’s bathroom collection.
‘It’s a shame, isn’t it?’ I break the comfortable silence. ‘We hardly ever make it to the beach in summer. Either working flat out, or you can’t see the sand for the bodies. Personally, I can’t be doing with it then. This is how I love it.’
When Mark and I first got together we’d spend hours, on a blanket, feet buried in the sand, watching the sun go down. He took me to Mullion Cove, somewhere I first fell in love with as a child, with Mum. It was dusk, the winds were screaming with the sea smashing against the stalwart harbour wall, Mum holding my hand so tightly, both of us jumping back as sea
spray threatened. This is power, this is greatness, Mum told me. Your father is none of these. He will never have the strength to break us, you understand.
Mark and I ate al fresco on that same wall, legs dangling, feet entwined, a bottle of champagne and a hoard of local delicacies. And as the orange, bloodshot sphere travelled across the sky, engulfing us in shocking pinks and colours I didn’t know existed, I couldn’t help but feel the difference. Mark wasn’t my father. He made me feel safe, he was non-toxic, he cared, and we chatted and giggled until the sphere sank, inch by inch, into serene waters.
‘Emmets,’ Daniel spouts, in the voice of Colin our postman, who’s served the town since its Victorian days, it seems, and is required to negotiate the twisted, heaving thoroughfares during summer months. ‘Bloody emmets!’ Daniel continues. ‘Everywhere. One every two feet from wherever you’re standing, at any point, any time of the day.’
‘God. You sound just like him, Dan.’ I laugh. ‘How often do you reckon he says that on his rounds? Poor old Colin.’
‘Hmm. Doesn’t care who hears him either.’ Mo frowns. ‘Poor blighters on their one holiday of the year. Still, they probably have no idea what he means by it. Emmets!’ She tuts. ‘Poor sods, don’t mind them myself. It’s the second-homers I begrudge. Killing our towns off, making it impossible for normal people to stay put, inflating house prices to impossible levels. Still, at least this new law passed will stop it from here on, if it’s not all too late.’
‘True.’ Mo’s right, it makes me sad too, seeing closed-up homes along the seafront. ‘Good job we’re in with our landlord, eh? Else we’d all be pushed inland too.’
‘Absolutely. Don’t you be falling out with him, that would be proper selfish.’ Mo bumps shoulders with me.
I Know You're There Page 6
