I Know You're There

by Sarah Simpson

We make easy conversation, meandering down the wiggly, uneven steps between the cottages. Me stopping to take a photograph of a terraced whitewashed swelling snuggled amongst its neighbours. The front door falls some six feet high above the pathway, up several mottled stone steps with ornate wrought-iron balustrades. ‘Thinking of doing some painting again,’ I explain to Daniel, who’s regarding me with suspicion without thinking to question me. ‘Don’t you just love this place? Looks like a hobbit should live here or something mythical.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you painted.’

  ‘I don’t. Well, not properly, not like an artist kind of thing. But I used to do it for fun, you know.’ We carry on walking down the steep bank and I link my arm through Daniel’s. ‘Often when I was little, Mum used to take me to the beach.’ I appreciate now – she needed to escape the house to top up on sanity. ‘She’d read, I’d paint or draw whatever I saw and, after, we’d share jam sandwiches and perfectly julienned carrot sticks. It used to feel so indulgent and kind of clandestine. Occasionally we’d push the boat out and have ice cream too.’

  ‘Amazing memories, Natalie, you’re very lucky to have them. Why did you stop? The painting. Because you lost your mum?’

  I catch Daniel’s eye. Daniel has this knack of asking the questions most people stop asking and wondering once they move into adolescence. The ones we should ask; they feel natural, but we think better of it. Children are so good at this. ‘Good question.’ I’ve not revealed too much of my past to Daniel. Is this because I’m ashamed? Or is it more simple, that I don’t wish for my past to have any part of my present? But then it means I’m lacking identity and also denying some truly heart-warming nostalgia. It’s wrong, I shouldn’t cloud it all because of my father. Mum and I shared some magical moments.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘I’m not really sure. Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked myself the question. Sometimes, things happen, suddenly we begin doing things or stop doing things without any rhyme or reason, don’t we? That’s life, I guess, sometimes life can be a bitch. That’s what stopped me. Because life was a bitch.’

  ‘Yes, life can be a bitch.’ Daniel smiles. ‘I like that – life can be a bitch. Life is often a bitch.’

  I turn to look at him. ‘Yeah? Other than Rebecca, your life’s been a bitch too?’ We reach the bottom of the walkway to meet the main narrow thoroughfare through town. Daniel pauses as he always does at the bakery window to wave to Olly, dressed in his baker’s apron, behind the rough-and-ready chunky wood counter. We both spontaneously take a deep breath in, pasties, buns and stone-ground bread filling our lungs. I swallow as my mouth fills with juices and my tummy rumbles in response.

  ‘Some of the time, yes, life’s been a bitch.’ He smiles. ‘Some of the time.’ This is something else about Daniel: his ever-ready sunny disposition, his mannerisms often incongruent with his words. He finds the light somehow even when he’s fumbling in the dark. I give myself a private nudge, aware I’m staring at him, wondering whether to press him for anything more, when he continues. ‘You could say much of it has been a bitch.’

  ‘Really? That’s sad. You can always talk about it, you know, with me, if you need to. I understand sometimes it feels easier not to – dragging back through the bad stuff doesn’t always help. But sometimes, I don’t know, maybe it can be healing.’

  Daniel shifts his rucksack on his back and for a minute I think he’ll shrug me off. ‘I like your other expression. Shit happens.’ He giggles. ‘Shit really happens sometimes, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Tell me about it. So what shit happened to you, Dan? Before you came to live here?’

  Daniel looks down to his feet, each step deliberate. ‘I’m referring to when I was younger.’

  Rebecca would be about my age now and Mo has often implied Daniel views me as a surrogate sister. ‘Other than Rebecca, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, him.’

  Him? His father? Or the weirdo, I mean, seemingly perfectly nice, Tommy?

  ‘I was thinking the other day – everything would have been okay if it wasn’t for him. He’s been the shit element of my life. Right from the very start.’

  ‘Your father, Dan? You mean your father?’

  ‘My father?’ Now on the seafront we stop to allow a couple of guys guiding a dinghy on a trailer across the pavement, down the lifeboat ramp onto the beach. ‘Yes, my father,’ he says. ‘Textbook controlling.’

  Is it me or did he have to consider this? Between his father and someone else? ‘Got you. Has he always been like that?’

  Daniel nods. ‘I can only really remember him from nursery age, but, yes, from then. I was ten when I lost Rebecca, she was thirteen.’ Daniel lowers his voice. ‘Sometimes, I wonder if it was his fault. If it was all his fault. Or maybe it was my mother’s? Can I tell you something private?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sometimes, I have these flashes of things that happened, then they go and I can’t reach them any more.’

  ‘Bloody hell, really?’

  ‘Like a vivid dream but with everything sort of disconnected. Then, I can’t remember whether it’s reality or a dream.’ Daniel stops and turns to meet my eyes. ‘These flashes, they frighten me.’

  ‘I bet they do. Have you ever thought about seeing someone about them?’

  ‘What, a therapist, you mean? Waste of time. I’ve spent my life with therapists from one school of thought or the other. It’s all too tangled and locked in. Sometimes they make me feel really sad and other times, so afraid.’

  We continue to walk, too early for lunch so head out onto Smeatons Pier, hoping to catch a glimpse of our resident seals who often take shelter in the harbour. It’s high tide and boats of all guises bob up and down on once brightly coloured buoys. ‘Christ, this is awful, Dan,’ is all I manage.

  ‘But then maybe I’m being unfair to my father,’ Daniel backtracks. ‘It’s not like any of it matters any more, does it? We’ve all, sort of, moved on…’ he smiles ‘… as you have to when life is shit.’

  But that’s just it, Dan, isn’t it? We don’t move on, do we? We only blunder through. ‘Can I ask, your mother, was she not there for you during these horrible times? Just, you hardly mention her.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t. Not for me anyway. I don’t mention her because I don’t have anything to do with her or, more, she doesn’t have anything to do with me. Not since then. She can’t bear to look at me. I see the hate in her eyes when she does. As much as I could despise my father, I’ve only ever had him around. I think my mother wishes – it was me who died.’

  ‘Oh, God, that’s an awful way to feel.’ I can’t think of anything near intelligent to offer.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course, it is.’

  ‘I guess so, but it’s normal to me.’

  A few steps onto the pier, Daniel stops to peer through the window of the tiny stone building – St Leonard’s Chapel, built for local fishermen, a place where families came to pray for their safe return in such perilous seas. Through the window on the pier it is possible to see all the way through to the other side of the building and out to the harbour. ‘It feels sad here,’ Daniel says.

  ‘Sad?’

  ‘Yes. Life doesn’t always listen to your prayers. Sometimes it has its own agenda. Not everything is within our control, is it? The sea. No one rules the waves. The tides. It feeds on us, not the other way around. The tide, the moon, they are in control. There’s always someone else in control.’

  ‘I suppose… if it’s not family, it’s employers or the government or even the law.’

  ‘Like him. He’s always in control. Sometimes I come here, Natalie, to ask for help.’

  Who is him? His father? ‘To ask for help?’ What is wrong with me? This is the most Daniel has ever disclosed and my speech has been reduced to a matter of one-syllable-worded questions.

  ‘But what if we are beyond help?’ Daniel’s eyes glisten with wetness. ‘And what if my father wasn’t to blame? Maybe, I only nee
ded to blame him – what then?’

  ‘Dan, I…’

  He shakes his head. A couple of seconds pass between us, him looking back at the chapel, me studying his face for clues. Slowly, he turns to face me, the beginning of an impish smile forming. ‘Race you to the end?’

  I’m stalled. Momentarily taken aback by his sudden change of direction, I don’t answer.

  ‘Last one buys the ice cream?’ he presses.

  I glance around me. Mark wouldn’t get this – he’d think it unbelievably juvenile and he’s right, it is. Grabbing hold of Daniel’s rucksack, I yank him backwards, taking him by surprise before propelling myself forward into a sprint. I’m thirty, yet moments like this allow me to feel ten again and they feel so right, so liberating. Maybe this is what Daniel and I share: we both lost our childhoods through no fault of our own and we both still crave those times to be free of life. ‘Two scoops,’ I shout. ‘I’ve got this one.’

  23

  Daniel

  Later that day, back from his late afternoon meeting, Daniel decides to take some advice Tommy once gave him. When he’s feeling all tied up inside, unsure how to untangle his thoughts from his memories, simply write them down. Simply, Daniel thinks, something else said to confuse? Flopping himself to the floor aside his bed, he reaches underneath for the familiar feel of soft leather he’s been using as a kind of diary. Pulling his knees to his chest to support the book, he begins to write, titling the entry – CAMBRIDGE.

  I think, this is when it all began to go wrong again, that first night Jacob showed up in Cambridge. Looming, all satisfied, upright and supercilious, one shoulder against the beam of the doorway, a foot brushed up against the other. Smiling that smile. He’d found me. How? It didn’t matter, my time was up. I’d spent the previous few years hiding and dodging. Always with eyes cast over one shoulder just in case. In some perverse way it was almost a relief.

  My mates were all too far gone, flying too high to notice me slip away. Jacob knew I’d follow him; I knew I had no choice. He was back and I needed to keep him as close to me as possible, I needed to understand why.

  Together, we walked a stretch of the river Cam. It was dark and ominous; I was shivery and on edge. Always attentive to where he held his hands because I was so vulnerably close to the water’s edge. It was so hard to keep my inebriated wits about me. We must have walked and talked for hours because by the time I headed back for student digs, the sun was already beginning to rise. The air was stony cold, I was quivering. It was made clear this wasn’t to be a fleeting, by-chance visit. My freedom of the past few years had drawn to a close. There was nothing I could do.

  From here, my days at Cambridge were numbered. Crossed off on a chalk board. So easily rubbed out of existence. I didn’t appreciate, there was so much still to happen in between then and my leaving.

  But still, I can’t tell anyone, can I? Not even Natalie. I can’t hurt Natalie. I can’t betray Rebecca. However much I want to; I can’t tell anyone about Jacob. He would probably kill me.

  24

  Natalie

  I’m wandering back from my afternoon with Daniel, a tummy full of sumptuous Callestick ice cream. Daniel rushed off to the residential home for vulnerable and elderly people on the road out of St Ives, a huge Victorian residence with spectacular views over the bay. It doesn’t surprise me; in the short time we’ve been friends, I’ve always appreciated his thoughtfulness, that he reads to one of the patrons on an individual basis. At least, I’m assuming this is where he ran off to. Enjoying our ice creams side by side on the bench, we’d forgotten all about him needing to be away. You’d have thought his life depended on it, the way he sped off along the front.

  Lost in thought, I’m startled by a banging on the glass from inside the gallery. I’d not realised I was outside the gallery. Mo pulls a funny face, at the same time beckoning me to step in. I shut the door behind me. Mo is still on her hands and knees, adjusting the window display or something. Sometimes I wonder if it’s Mark’s need for perfection or Mo’s need, because for all the constant tinkering it always looks pretty much the same to me.

  ‘Sorry, lovely, made you jump, didn’t I?’ She climbs to her feet. ‘I’ve been looking out for you, didn’t want to miss you.’

  ‘Everything okay?’

  Clearly not – she looks uncharacteristically flustered. ‘I’ve been trying to call you. Have you not got your mobile with you?’

  I reach into my pocket, remembering I’d put it on silent at lunchtime. ‘I was with Daniel, why, what’s up?’ Glancing at my screen, I notice a queue of missed calls and messages. ‘Crikey, I’ve been in demand. Missed calls from you and Mark.’

  Mo shakes her head and ushers for me to follow her. ‘Mark’s been here, twice, looking for you. Acting all uppity and… well, quite frankly, odd. Pacing around. Questioning me over and over.’ Morwenna contorts her face. ‘“You must have some idea where she is, she’s supposed to be your friend,” he kept saying. I told him, exactly, I’m your friend, not your bloody keeper. But he was so persistent. “Why’s she switched her mobile off?” he kept on. “How the bloody hell do I know?” I told him. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him so agitated, Nat. You two had a row again or something?’

  Automatically, my stomach begins to churn the undigested ice cream, forcing me to feel vulnerable on one hand and defensive on the other. ‘No. Not at all. I’ve no idea what his problem is. Again. We’re supposed to be off out later. I’ll cancel if he’s in one of his moods. I can seriously do without it. In fact—’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better give him a call now before he spontaneously combusts.’ Mo reaches for my arm.

  ‘I won’t do any such thing. He can call me again if he’s a problem. I’m not pandering to him, Mo. To be honest, he’s walking on thin ice with me with how I’m feeling. I can do without it.’

  Mo nods, squeezing my arm. ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. Let him stew for a bit. Maybe he’ll burn himself out.’

  Instead I stay for a little longer to chat about my time with Daniel, or more about his disclosures. Part of me hating myself, because I despise gossips and this truly isn’t my intention, only there’s a small part of me who feels responsible for Daniel, and I know Mo feels the same. We end up locking up the gallery together to walk the short distance home. Mo feels we should take what Daniel says with a large pinch of salt but I’m not so sure. Tommy has confided to Mo how Daniel’s past grief often confuses his ponderings in the present but I’m not completely buying it. That said, there’s little we can do to help him other than listen and make ourselves available for him. I’m also debating cancelling my night out with Mark. I can’t be bothered with his recent odd behaviours. I’m running through potential excuses, apart from the obvious, when my mobile trills out, piercing the cold evening air. Removing it from my pocket, I stare at the screen to see Mark’s name and his distinguished face glaring back either side of the cracked screen. I’ve never noticed this before – does he glare on all my photos of him?

  ‘You answering that, then?’ Mo nudges me.

  For a second I consider rejecting the call, but what am I thinking? How do people manage to make me feel guilty, despite my innocence? I’ve no idea what he’s playing at, yet I still feel as though I’ve done something wrong to warrant it. Is this normal? Isn’t this what my father did? He did the crime; I wore the guilt like a tailor-made cloak. How could I possibly have my own father sent to prison? What kind of a daughter, person, does that?

  ‘Mark?’ I say into the handset, hearing the self-protective edge to my tone.

  ‘Natalie. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘I’m sorry? Where have I been?’

  ‘Like I said,’ he repeats, slowing his speech as if I’m incapable of understanding, ‘where the hell have you been? It’s a straightforward question, requiring a straightforward answer.’

  ‘Excuse me. What is your problem? Wait,’ I tell him, then usher Mo with a flapping hand to continue up the steps t
owards the house, feeling my cheeks redden with anger and humiliation. Turning my back, I find a step to sit on, demanding he explain his anger. Holding the phone just off my ear – he has no idea how loud he is – at first I am almost amused, then confused, which rapidly gives way to an anxious feeling. My earlier paranoia of being watched, of being played with, beginning to hammer on my conscience. I find myself repeating, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I was with Daniel. Ask him.’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, Daniel, what are you finding so difficult to understand here, Mark? Or are you saying you have a problem with this?’

  ‘Bloody Daniel.’ He laughs. ‘He’ll say whatever you ask him to. He’s hardly a bloody reliable alibi, is he?’

  ‘Alibi? Alibi? For Christ’s sake, Mark, listen to yourself, will you? Like I need a bloody alibi? What has got into that head of yours?’ Eventually, with tears threatening, I end the call and make my way up the steps, wishing I’d asked Mo to wait for me. What the hell is going on? Who would do this? My convict of a father? But for what purpose? And how would he know about Mark and my relationship? Something else that makes no sense whatsoever. Over and over Mark raged about not appreciating deceit and betrayal. Dishonesty being the hugest of flaws. I do know this, Mark. Eventually, I was able to find a reasonable gap to ask him what the hell he was actually talking about.

  ‘I’ve photos,’ he said. ‘Proof.’

  ‘You’re not making any kind of sense. Proof of what, exactly?’

  ‘Proof of you messing me around,’ he spat.

  ‘What?’

  Apparently, it began with an email from a generic, perfectly untraceable account, as it would be, suggesting I had dishonest plans for the afternoon. Mark spluttered the email out to me. Undoubtedly, I would inform Mark I was with a known close friend, to defend myself. After this, later this afternoon, photographs were sent to Mark. Photos of me, apparently all glammed up, heading into some swish bar or somewhere flash. ‘Dressed to impress and hardly for a casual between-friends lunch with Daniel,’ Mark shouted. ‘Just tell me, Natalie, who were you really with?’