I Know You're There

by Sarah Simpson

  Twenty minutes later, feeling a little more human having licked sugary, spiced fingers clean, I arrive at the bistro, nestled into the main thoroughfare. Its town-centre position always confuses people, because, once through the door, your eyes are drawn to the enormous windows at the far end of the low-beamed room, opening out to a glorious sea view, framed with the warmth of Cornish stone walls, over a foot in depth. Priorities first, before removing my coat, I switch on the coffee machine. Today is likely to drag and it feels odd somehow being here in Mark’s place. I calmed down eventually last night after our heated tête-à-tête but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it’s left a sour taste in my mouth. With Mark’s reaction pushed aside, who sent the blasted photos? What kind of a person does this? I flicked through the photos forwarded from Mark at my request this morning, I texted him almost immediately, because Jesus, they were from earlier this year. I remember it well; we were all there together, Mo, Nigel, Daniel and Mark included. It was Nigel’s birthday. He had no plans so we insisted he met us for drinks then on to see some musical at the Hall for Cornwall in Truro.

  Do you not remember?

  I asked Mark.

  Vaguely

  Was his response. Yeah, embarrassed more likely, is what I thought.

  Returning from staff quarters upstairs, I remember Mark mentioning he’d roped Daniel in to ‘wash the pots and clear the glasses’ this lunchtime. That’s something else: does Mark take advantage of Daniel’s good nature? Daniel genuinely appears to enjoy the odd hours between here and the galleries, for companionship more than anything, but even so. I guess what really sits uncomfortably with me is the fact that Daniel went to Cambridge University. I can’t help but feel, God, it’s such a waste. Albeit, he didn’t manage to finish his course for whatever reason.

  With coffee, I take a seat in the window to make a start with the lists for today, who I need to assign to what, when all I really want to do is lay my head on the table and sleep. I’m seriously thinking about it when the front door scrapes open. I’m relieved to see it’s only Carl, the chef’s little helper. I’m secretly hoping Mark is elsewhere for the entire day. Even the entire week. Or longer still?

  Sitting here now I’m inconveniently reminded of how entangled I am into his life: my work, my home. Well done, Natalie! A brilliantly smart move of yours. This said, I still wouldn’t remain in a failing relationship for any reason, if this is what it is, but, like everything else in my life, it makes the whole situation so horribly complicated. How have we reached this point? Twelve months ago, I first met him, charming, funny, sophisticated but totally un-square. And kind, he always came across as genuinely kind. He was the friend of the owner of a wine bar near Falmouth Marina, the one I happened to manage. I say friends, they were more colleagues and Mark did kind of poach me for his bistro. At first that was all it was: a work-based relationship.

  It wasn’t until the office Christmas party, I began to see him in a different light. Foldaway tables, white starched tablecloths, candelabras and tea lights, sea shells and driftwood, strings and strings of shimmering fairy lights, a makeshift bar, along with a group of local musicians, on a dusky rose-tinted beach. Heaters, blankets, a huge log fire and a barbecue filling the air with smoked fish and the best steak patties. It was all so thoughtful, decadent and yet beautifully subtle. Weeks later, he’d turn up at the bistro, then we’d spend hours wandering along those same sands, some days with waves crashing against shallow rocks, sprinkling sea spray as fairy dust, other times with reflective, tranquil waters. Sometimes in wellies and stupid amounts of layering, other times with pumps and sunglasses. And without revealing the contents of past memory banks, I began to relax, feeling blockages melting inside, to trust and to feel valued.

  It’s funny how, in the beginning, little suffocating personal traits slipped by unnoticed. I didn’t realise Mark was perhaps as insecure as I was, some would argue suspicious and possessive. How did I miss the need for perfection, for timekeeping and the many army-type rituals? Because at the time we both fulfilled a desperate need in each other, and this was all fine until… the letters from my father, allowing the feeling of vulnerability to creep back in. So, I’ve locked my heart up again out of harm’s way? Or is this him? I can understand him being miffed if he believed I lied to him yesterday, but what bugs me is, why was he so quick to believe an anonymous troublemaker? Hadn’t this been the initial cracks in my parents’ relationship? Before Mum became sick, hadn’t this always been my father’s weakness? My mum, his wife, was a strong, independent woman with opinions and a life of her own, he didn’t approve. As a young child, I can remember his yelling and ranting, then, when this didn’t achieve the desired effect, it quickly turned to violence. I shake the images from my head. I will never forgive him. Never. You’d have thought he’d have learned some restraint following her diagnosis of terminal cancer. No, he became progressively worse.

  Somehow, I plough through the non-stop day on autopilot until it’s time to lock up again. It didn’t help that Daniel failed to show for his shift, which is worrying unusual. No, not unusual, unheard of. I’ll check up on him again later. I called him three times before he eventually picked up, an edgy tone to his voice, said he was feeling unwell, so was staying at home. Then, as we ended the call, a huge bouquet of pink-toned petals and shiny dark green foliage arrived, smacking of an apology – even the courier joked as much. At the time, all I could think of was, firstly, the effort in finding a suitable container for them on top of everything else and, secondly, why the need for further expense, Mark? Why not just talk to me? The card read:

  Sorry for being an idiot X

  An hour or so later, I texted him back.

  Yes, you were an idiot, but it’s okay x

  The emailed photos are just something else to add to the pile; letters, abstract notes, being knocked off my feet, my father being somewhere, anywhere free and the daily ominous feeling of being watched – it’s all too much to contemplate another fight, however worthy it feels.

  I try to call Daniel but now it’s diverting to voicemail. Perhaps he’s asleep and more ill than I appreciated? Dropping my mobile into my pocket, I wander the seafront towards The Crab and Tiller. But, I’ve a funny feeling – something dark, crawling somewhere near me. Since my earliest memories, there’s always been a darkness in my mind, in my dreams, in my memories, sitting on my shoulders. Each daily reaction and response, always with this spectre’s influence. Even when I’ve proper belly-ache laughed, it’s always been there, humming in the background. I feel it strongly now, something dark and ghostly stepping in time to each footstep, a little closer than it’s been for a while and for some reason, different?

  Quickening my step, I can’t help but wonder - what would Mum advise me to do? She had the best sense of humour, despite him, despite the cancer. Always found something worthy of a giggle, which was petrol over a fire for my father. I think he saw this as him being incapable of penetrating her sufficiently to break her. Ignore it. Why are you allowing him in? This is what she would ask. He can’t force you to see him, Natalie, father or not. You’re no longer the suggestible child. You’re much stronger than he is, just sometimes it doesn’t seem this way. It’s time to let go of the past, my angel. Remember, he will never break you if you remain strong.

  It wasn’t so bad at primary school, surrounded by the friends I’d grown up with; they didn’t ask questions. And at this age, despite being unhappy, you perhaps don’t question things you should because your life is what it is, it’s normal – for me the fear and pain were a given. And although Mum was so very poorly by the end of this period, she was still with me. Natalie, you will always be my angel even when Mummy isn’t with you any more, remember this, my beautiful angel. But secondary school was different, so vast, new pupils from the wider area, who didn’t know about us. Who didn’t comprehend each and every day I was petrified to return home and each and every night I cried myself to sleep. The emotional pain became far worse than any phys
ical. Ultimately, I was different. I isolated myself as peer groups changed and formed. I was always the weird one; they didn’t ask me why, not that I would have told them but, even so, I was branded some kind of freak. In the end my school life became as miserable as my home life. Lunchtimes were the worst. I’d walk for miles, anything so as not to suffer the humiliation of being seen alone during free times. Free times? My dreams of moving on to A levels before university slipped further away each hour into something erroneous and untouchable, until finally I bid them farewell. Kind of, anyway – can you ever truly let go of your dreams? Or is it more that they simply blur into regretful thoughts?

  Reaching the pub doorway, I take a tissue to blow my nose, then dry my eyes. Not now, Natalie. Inside, comforting smells greet me, freshly prepared meals and normal people chatting about their normal days; instantly I feel my spirit lifting. Sally, the waitress, smiles as she passes by with plates of sea bass glistening with butter, a wedge of lemon and a side of thick-cut sea-salted chips, my mouth immediately watering. I work with food all day, obliviously – it’s not until I’m somewhere removed I realise how hungry I am. Spotting Mo, at the far end of the snug room, I begin unfastening the buttons on my coat; she holds up a glass to indicate she already has the drinks in. Tonight her heartfelt smile wraps me up and hugs me before I even arrive at the table.

  ‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses, Mo handing me mine before I’ve even sat down. Pulling my chair to the table with one hand, I take a large gulp of the extra-large gin and tonic with a hint of freshly cut lemon and a sprig of thyme.

  ‘Can’t begin to tell you how much I need this.’ I sigh out.

  Mo studies me. ‘Everything okay, my sweet?’

  I fold my jacket over the back of my chair. ‘I could say yes, but then, I’d be lying.’

  Mo raises her left eyebrow. ‘Mark?’

  ‘Actually no, well, yes, I guess sort of, but not just Mark. It’s more complicated, which it would have to be, wouldn’t it? I attract complicated, I’ve decided.’

  ‘Aww, it’s not just you – isn’t life always a convoluted jungle? Come on, then, what’s troubling you today?’

  ‘A jungle with predators, agreed. The thing is – it’s Mark, it’s Daniel and at the back of it all…’

  ‘Your father.’ Mo finishes for me, touching my hand. ‘Poor you. I’ve been worrying about it too, the father stuff. If you hadn’t texted, I’d have knocked on your door later anyway. You needn’t be alone with this, Nat. I’m always here for you. Don’t be trying to cope alone with this, okay.’

  I give her hand a squeeze. ‘I know, thank you, means a lot to me. Makes me cross though. I always knew this time would come, his release from prison. Kidded myself I was ready. But I’m not, am I?’ Mo opens her mouth to speak. ‘That wasn’t a question, by the way. Sometimes when I’m alone, especially in my bed at night, it’s as though I can almost feel him, you know, outside my window or something. I’m trying my best not to let my imagination run away with me, Mo, but, heck… it’s so hard. I didn’t say but the other day, I could have sworn blind someone was in my flat. Heard things, while I was in the bath of all places, God, freaked myself right out. The stupid thing is, I knew the door was locked, no one could have been there, but even so. And all this was on the back of…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, I’m totally aware of how insane this sounds, but when I got home, my flat, well… it was tidy, as in… I can’t even remember tidying it. Oh, Mo, what is happening to my mind? I’ve lost the stupid cardigan, I can’t remember doing stuff and now I’m hearing things, I’m so blinking distracted all the time.’

  Mo laughs but I can see she’s concerned. ‘You and your imagination. I’m not mocking you, you know that, but this is exactly why you shouldn’t be alone with your thoughts when you’re… when you’re feeling low. You’re not sleeping either, does wonders to your mind, no sleep.’ Mo smiles. ‘And Mark? What’s his role in all this? Is he being a pain in the arse? Because I’ll have a word in his ear, no…’

  ‘No. Well, kind of, but that’s another story. How much time do you have anyway?’

  ‘As much as you need.’

  It’s an absolute relief to unload. I explain to her how Mark was sent photographs of me apparently gracing some plush establishment dressed up to the nines – even I think I looked good in them. Mo suggests maybe my father is behind this, reiterating my original concerns – Mark now being the male in my life. In a perverse way, it makes perfect sense: my father wouldn’t like this, making Mark a potential barrier for him reaching me. We both agreed my father could have easily checked Mark out. And wouldn’t this be a typical bully behaviour, to isolate, to divide and conquer? Just shows how much he doesn’t understand me. Mark is not my gatekeeper. I am the one he has to face, me.

  ‘Now, about the other thing,’ I say, ‘to do with Daniel.’

  ‘Yes, go on.’

  I’m about to speak, when a silhouette hovers over the table. ‘All done, ladies? Can I get you both another?’ Mo nods enthusiastically and the member of staff I’ve not met before disappears with our empties.

  ‘Daniel?’ Mo nods for me to continue.

  ‘Yes, Daniel… he paid me a visit last night, in a complete state, banging on my door. I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.’

  ‘Oh, what time?’

  I shrug. ‘Gone ten, some time.’

  Mo shakes her head. ‘In bed with a book, would have had headphones in.’

  ‘What? You’re able to listen to music and read at the same time?’

  Mo laughs. ‘No, an audio book. It’s my new thing. I always fall asleep reading a book. This way… well, I’m ploughing through two books a week.’

  ‘Right. So you wouldn’t have heard. Anyway, he was in a right panic.’ I’m reaching for my bag as the fresh round of drinks arrives. Mo adds tonic to the gin as I pull out the envelope I took from Daniel last night. I couldn’t trust him to rip it up as I’d advised, he’d have spent the night staring at it no doubt, so I kept it. I lay it flat on the table, address side up. Mo, who is taking a sip from her glass, stops half swig, slowly placing the glass down. I notice the shift in her eyes as she stares at the envelope for a moment too long before returning her gaze to me.

  ‘Oh, God,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, God? What – you’ve seen this before?’

  She picks it up, turning it over, then removes the postcard from inside.

  ‘“Tell them who killed your sister,”’ she reads out loud as the nice rosy colour drains from her cheeks.

  ‘Mo?’ Mo’s eyes remain locked on the postcard. ‘Mo? You’ve already seen this?’

  She shakes her head, reaches across the table, pulling her handbag towards her. I can’t help but gasp as she pulls out an identical envelope before removing the postcard from inside, laying it next to Daniel’s on the table. ‘Snap. Almost,’ she says. I tilt my head to read the words on Mo’s postcard.

  EVERYONE HAS THEIR SECRETS.

  ‘Everyone has their secrets. Jesus. Shit. Who is doing this? Mo? Who would do this to you and to Daniel?’

  Mo shakes her head. ‘I’ve really no idea.’

  ‘I mean, why? For what purpose? It’s so creepy.’

  ‘Has to be someone connected to us both.’

  ‘Someone who thinks they know something about you both. Or, at least, something about…’ I stop myself – how do I say this without sounding as if I think Mo has some shady dark secret she’s hiding from me? Does she? ‘Whatever it means, it’s giving me the creeps. Shit, Mo.’

  ‘Did Daniel mention how he received this? Because like mine—’ Mo picks up the envelope to show me, ‘—it has no postal mark.’

  I nod. ‘I noticed. Which suggests it’s someone in the house. Or at least, someone who has access to the house to plant them in the pigeonholes.’

  Mo holds out her hands. ‘Hold on a minute, before you start scaring yourself stupid, not necessarily. Someone, anyone could have added these to our other
post box. The one on the outside wall of the house?’

  ‘Yes, of course, the one clogged up with all the junk mail. Of course, hadn’t thought of that.’ I take a glug of gin. ‘Then one of us must have unwittingly popped them into the personal pigeonholes.’

  ‘Nigel,’ we both say together. Nigel is the only one who remembers to empty the outside post box. I’d walk past it for months, despite it overflowing with leaflets and newspapers, consider it, then forget about it. Somehow it’s become Nigel’s job, or, more, he’s the only one who can be bothered. I’d probably leave it there until the box dropped off the wall with the weight.

  As if reading my mind, Mo adds, ‘But let’s not start jumping to any silly assumptions here. This needn’t have anything to do with poor Nigel. Bless him. Not only this, the front door is left on the latch in the mornings for our postman. Anyone sufficiently brazen, could stroll right in. That said, the obvious conclusion is, Nigel has emptied the box and popped the envelopes into the pigeonholes. He wouldn’t have known what they were, would he? All very innocent.’

  I nod. Mo is right. We agree the best way to resolve this is to ask Nigel, tonight, back at the house. Providing we’re back before seven. People shouldn’t disturb personal space beyond seven is Nigel’s motto. I’ve often found myself tiptoeing past Nigel’s door beyond his personal cut-off time.

  27

  Natalie

  ‘Tell them who killed your sister. Oh, poor Daniel, like he’s not upset enough about his sister’s death.’ Mo sighs out heavily. ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if this is what ruined his Cambridge chances.’