I Know You're There

by Sarah Simpson

  ‘Tell me about it. But those were the words. I mean, it’s intimating he had something…’ I can’t even say it without feeling like I’m too pointing the finger.

  ‘Come on, let’s get the bloody elephant out of the room, shall we?’

  I tilt my head to one side. I agree but I’m not going to be the one to say it.

  ‘Daniel,’ Mo continues, ‘is completely devastated about his sister’s suicide. There’s not a chance he knows anything about… well, let’s face it, shall we? Someone is suggesting – murder, here.’

  Thank God for Mo. ‘I know, it’s sick. I think they’re trying to cast doubt in his mind,’ I say.

  ‘Agreed. Suggesting either he did it or he knows who did. I’ll tell you something, there’s not a chance that lad…’ I smile to myself; Mo always refers to Daniel as a lad but he’s only a couple of years younger than me at twenty-eight. ‘Not a tiny chance,’ she continues, ‘that if he is covering for something so sinister he wouldn’t have blurted it by now. God love him, but he’s bloody awful at keeping secrets.’

  ‘Totally, exactly how I feel. Daniel talks to me; hence he brought the note to me.’ I lower my voice. ‘He’s explained, in detail, the very moment he discovered his sister, how she was already dead. I mean… the poor guy, he’s sat and cried, told me where he found her, the position she was lying in and, bloody hell… the expression on her face. He was only a child himself, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, enough.’ Morwenna waves her hand. ‘It’s all too tragic.’

  ‘But…’ I bite my lip, feeling so disloyal to Daniel.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I still feel odd about all this, you know, how we were saying about his father, his relationship with Daniel. The need for Tommy? Something so properly odd about the entire set-up. Something unsaid.’

  ‘There is this. Do you think we should talk to Tommy? About the note? Discreetly? I feel horrible for saying this but without Daniel’s knowledge? I don’t see any point in worrying Daniel any more than the poor lad already is. But, Nat, what if Daniel’s in some kind of danger?’

  ‘Hmm. Maybe. Danger though? You reckon he could be?’ There’s me worrying about my stupid father, the stupid photos, when a good friend could be in proper danger. ‘But then, that means you are too?’

  ‘I am more than capable of looking after myself.’

  ‘Not doubting you are, Mo. Even so. But then, why target you and Daniel, if this is about something that happened in Daniel’s past? We could be jumping to conclusions here, missing the point. Why you and Daniel? Why not me and Nigel too?’

  ‘I work in an art gallery, not forensic psychology. Maybe Daniel and I sold someone a dodgy painting.’ She laughs.

  A further large gin and tonic later, we’ve discussed the pros and cons of speaking with Tommy, then decide to wander back up the hill and call it a night. It’s been in my mind all evening, but I resisted asking Mo the meaning behind the words on her note. If she wanted to confide, she would. Anyway, it’s hardly a revelation is it – everyone has their secrets? More a given, isn’t it? Is there anyone out there who doesn’t have secrets? Mo and I’ve become so close, if it were anything significant, she would have told me. The only upsets Mo has ever mentioned are, obviously, the tragic death of her husband, then the subsequent metaphorical loss of her son. If I’d a parent alive as lovely as Mo, not Mark or anyone would have a chance of driving a wedge between us.

  ‘Here we go.’ Mo pulls the front door key from her handbag. ‘Another eventful day to add to the list.’ She smiles at me. ‘We’ll never grow bored living round here, will we? Still, as long as we all stick together, eh? Never forget we have each other.’

  ‘Quite.’ I lay an arm around her shoulders and squeeze. ‘Thanks, Mo. I hope you know how much I appreciate having you around.’

  ‘Aww. Stop it, you’re making me blush.’ She pushes the door open into the reception hall. We both stifle a titter, checking our watches. It’s a few minutes past seven so we won’t be knocking on Nigel’s door tonight, having missed the deadline. From his flat we hear the news channel and from Daniel’s we hear the melodic tones of the classical music he so loves. He must be feeling a little better at least. It strikes me how within a relatively short period of time, we’ve all become so comfortable with each other, developed an understanding of each other’s habits and ways of living, to become a big family living under one roof. And, of course, all of us have our faults, our individual habits and, especially, we all have our secrets, some of them darker than others. Maybe?

  I’m clutching the local newspaper I found stuffed in the mailbox, thanks to Nigel, I’m guessing, now clear of junk mail, stepping over the threshold into my flat, ready to begin my search of all rooms, a habit, now I’ve started, I doubt I’ll be able to break. However, despite the happenings of the last twenty-four hours and possibly with thanks to the gin, I’m feeling oddly relaxed. I wander into the sitting room to switch on the TV for immediate background noise and I smell it. My breathing rises and quickens; I’m aware of each heartbeat. That sweet smell, again? Am I imagining it, or is it something I already have in my flat? I wander over to the kitchen where a half-used Yankee Candle sits with lid removed. Lifting it to my nose, I take a deep breath in: hints of vanilla, maybe it is this? Sufficiently sweet. Even so… I throw the newspaper to the coffee table, removing my mobile from my coat pocket, and make my way through to the bedrooms and bathroom. I spend time looking for irregularities and dark peculiarities, angular bulky masses, potentially disguising a body. Tonight, I extend the search beyond the inside of wardrobes, to underneath the bed, inside washing baskets and the airing cupboard. Anxiety grows and spreads if you don’t push against it, the book said. ‘Stupid, stupid, sanctimonious book.’ Still, I find nothing, no one. This paranoid behaviour needs to end. He’s been released from prison; it doesn’t mean he’s creeping around inside my flat.

  In the kitchen, I pour cereal, filling my bowl with milk too high, so it trickles over the side of the bowl. I’m wiping up the mess when my eyes meet the coffee table with the haphazardly thrown newspaper. Underneath it. On the floor. Address side up. A white envelope. A typed address. The same as the others. With the notes.

  28

  Daniel

  Daniel is already feeling bad. He’s let Natalie down, should have been at the bistro helping her. But he was beckoned here; feeling torn, frightened by the notes, he had no choice but to come.

  ‘The thing is, Daniel, you’re too utterly stupid to appreciate this.’ Jacob bangs his fist to the table. ‘They’re enduring you, nothing more. Suffering you. Do you not see the difference? This isn’t friendship, it’s tolerance. One being consensual, the other, entirely obligatory.’ He pauses; Daniel freezes. ‘You’re allowing yourself to become too close.’ He leans in to whisper in Daniel’s ear. ‘Do not let them in. Trust no one.’

  Daniel holds his breath. The whispers are worse than the ranting. This isn’t good; Jacob must be watching his every move. He’d hoped this time he was safe, that Jacob wouldn’t come so close, after the last time.

  ‘Natalie. Natalie.’ Jacob laughs. ‘Oh, sweet Natalie. Will you never learn, Daniel?’

  Daniel doesn’t answer. Something deep inside warns him not to. Remembering Rebecca.

  ‘I asked you a question – have you no manners?’

  The fist twisting Daniel’s stomach jumbles all the words inside his head. ‘Sorry,’ is all he manages. Jacob’s sigh tunnels through his ears, like a train on rickety rails, in time to the beat of his heart. Lifting his head, he sees Jacob moving to the opposite side of the table. And he can’t help but wonder how many rows have erupted before over this piece of abraded wood. Each groove telling a story. Each cut indicating an instrument thrown in anger, like the dining table in his childhood home. A deep mahogany with rounded ends, set in the middle of a wood-panelled room, deep crimson drapes kinking with the floor. A sideboard filled with shimmering crystal. The table with war wounds, the wood-panell
ing with indentations, some of the crystal missing, smashed. All resulting from ordinary family mealtimes, one minute silence, next minute crying, screaming. All normal to him, cowering into his food.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Daniel nods. ‘I am. Sorry.’

  ‘Please. Not for me, Daniel. You suppose I am incapable of seeing through a lie? Sorry?’

  ‘It’s not a lie. I am sorry.’

  ‘Then why? Why repeatedly act in a manner to be sorry for?’

  Daniel thinks this through. He can’t falter for too long, but he needs to think about this one. Why does he do this? This Victorian house in St Ives has allowed him to feel, what? Something new? Belonging? Happy? Connected? Understood? Liked? Is this why he’s let down the barriers? ‘Because I’m lonely. I think this is why I do this. Loneliness.’

  ‘Lonely,’ Jacob scoffs. ‘Must we really regurgitate all the reasons why?’

  ‘No.’ Lonely is something Daniel should be accustomed to by now; he understands it’s no excuse.

  ‘Then, you’re willing to accept the consequences, in order to not be lonely?’

  ‘No. I’ll try harder,’ Daniel whispers.

  ‘Try harder? At what precisely?’

  ‘Being lonely. I’ll try harder at being lonely.’

  ‘Good boy, Daniel. And especially?’

  ‘Natalie. I’ll stay away from Natalie.’

  ‘You see.’ Daniel jumps as Jacob’s hand reaches towards him. ‘You needn’t bring such anger to our table. You know how it needs to be? I’ve better things to be doing than watching you. Looking out for you.’ He stalks to Daniel’s side of the table; leaning down, he whispers over his head. ‘That’s why I needed to send the notes. To remind you.’

  Daniel watches from the corner of his eye as Jacob rights himself, paces towards the rutted open doorway. Today, his clothes are immaculate, his shoes are shining, he’s feeling back in control. Reaching the door, he turns back. ‘A week. Same time. I’ll not be returning here for the week.’ Then, he leaves. If only Daniel could have a week of not having him around, of not seeing him everywhere, of not hearing him each time he acts or opens his mouth, judging his every movement. He’s not a fool; Daniel understands, Jacob is always watching.

  29

  Natalie

  I’ve promised my evening away with Mark tonight, but I’m desperate to speak with Mo. All day at the bistro, I’ve not managed to remove that smell from under my nose or the note from under my skin. It was bad enough Mo and Daniel receiving notes, now it’s really personal.

  We’re gliding along the snaking coastal roads; dense spiky bracken with tiny yellow flowers reaches out to granite stacked rock pillows. I glance across at Mark, focused on the approaching bend; should I confide in him? He seems somewhat distracted tonight, which is when he has a tendency of being dismissive, making me feel like a drama queen. I bite my tongue.

  As we drop down the other side of the cliff, the burnt-orange sun balances on the top of a charcoal Atlantic, but all I can think about is the note. I should have caught up with Mo this morning, but I slept in, only finally dropping off around three a.m. Normally, I’d have run straight to hers last night in such circumstances but she was having friends over from one of her many groups, the reason for us needing to leave the pub early. That and too many large gins.

  I jump as Mark places his hand on my leg. ‘You’re quiet tonight. Everything okay? We’re good with – you know, now, aren’t we?’ Something else bugging me: Mark is acting as though our ‘to-do’ over the photos never happened. He sent flowers. He’s decided to trust me. Therefore, nothing to discuss. Topic closed. Which is super marvellous for him, but I need answers: who sent the blasted photos and why? All conveniently shoved aside.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to taint the evening. Let’s not bring it up, Natalie!’

  No, Mark, I’ll sit alone and chock on it instead. You carry on, though, feeling contented with your black and white emotional stance.

  ‘Sorry, am I? Tired, nothing more.’

  ‘You look it.’ He takes his eyes from the road to smile at me. ‘That wasn’t meant as an insult, by the way, merely an observation.’

  I return the smile. Looking tired is so far down on my list of what to be worrying about. ‘It’s fine. I’m afraid there wasn’t a thick enough concealer in my toolbox. Only ones that lie to me: instant brightening, full coverage, brighter eyes. Little packages of useless hope.’

  ‘We’re quieter at work now the main season’s over. Why don’t you take some time off? Do something for yourself.’

  There it is again, the blinking switch: one minute he’s down my throat, the next, he’s Mr Tender himself. ‘Really, I’m fine. Anyway, the last thing I need is more time on my hands.’ For what purpose? To fret, to ruminate and become even more paranoid? ‘Give me a few days, I’ll be back to my sparkly self. Promise.’ If this is all the doings of my father, he’ll not continue for long in this covert manner, he’ll show his form, then we can all move on. If this is him. And if it’s not?

  Mark taps my leg, my hackles automatically rising. I hate being tapped; prodded is even worse. ‘You won’t be helped, will you?’ he says.

  Although he’s smiling, I’m aware we’re teetering on the edge of yet another sensitive subject and we’re already on the tetchy aftermath of a blow-up stage. We’ve rowed before about my apparent ‘overwhelming pig-headed need for independence’. I find it difficult to accept help. I like to find my own way. Mark resents this, sees it as me pushing him out.

  I shrug. ‘No, it’s not that I won’t be helped. I understand you’re trying to help. It’s properly thoughtful of you. But I’d rather be, you know – occupied. Busy. At the moment.’

  ‘Because of this business with your father? Don’t look at me like that, Mo mentioned it briefly, by accident, then said I needed to ask you for details.’

  ‘Yes, well, I was going to tell you, any way it’s not only because of my father, it’s… just because I prefer to keep busy.’ Time to spill about my horrible background but what about the notes. Should I tell him about the notes? Surely Mark should be top of my list for who to go to for both? But there’s something blocking the words. ‘My father is old news.’ What is wrong with me?

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Mark removes his hand. He’ll sulk for a couple of minutes, feeling all rejected. I can’t be bothered to pander to him. We’ve only been in this particular relationship for six months or so; I’m not so certain we’ll make another six the way we’re both behaving. Maybe it’s not because of him, with the occasional spoilt-child ways, maybe it’s me and my paranoid, spectre-on-my-shoulder ways. Mark has many, many good points. I keep reminding myself of this. I need to give us a chance, especially if this is all my doing.

  I nod my head towards the coastline. The sky has blushed to such colours, if they were painted, you’d think the artist was either colour-blind or smoking something psychoactive. The lushest of ambers merge with shimmering tones of flushed pinks, a carbonised smudge lurking in the background. Underneath, the flattened waves gently reach in and out over golden sands, radiant in the dark. ‘Utterly stunning. Don’t think I’ll ever be bored of moments like this.’ I reach out.

  ‘Exquisite. Me neither.’ He smiles.

  By the time we swing into the car park at Lusty Glaze, an awkward atmosphere still lingers. Not particularly bad, more distant, and disengaged. All horribly familiar. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve subconsciously wandered from a relationship, a fog of personal hang-ups spreading until it became impossible to see or grasp anything salvageable through it. I think I have this unseen barrier; once a disagreement or person crosses it, it simply blocks the way through.

  Mark takes my hand, and together we tread our way down the 368 steps carved into the cliff. Mark, fascinated with detail and precision, told me how many there are – that and the childlike need to brag about his personal fitness with the speed he climbs back up them. Me usually resisting any speech, so as not to give away the short
ness of my breath. The steps lead us some hundred feet down to the natural amphitheatre-formed sandy cove to the most enchanting whitewashed brick, bamboo and glass construction. In the summer there are outdoor cocktail bars and finger-licking grills, beach sports and water sports with the most glorious views. Lining the cliff, prettily painted beach huts stand hand in hand. Thousands of fairy lights twinkle as the sea warbles in the distance. There’s a chill in the air, the sun has long fallen into the sea but where we sit there are several enormous lanterns, fire eagerly burning inside.

  ‘Will you be warm enough here?’ Mark asks.

  I indicate the long woollen coat I’m wearing, reminding me, I’ve still not solved the mystery of the blinking cardigan. I feel my cheeks blush, understanding I’ve probably just reminded Mark too. I brace myself for questioning but it doesn’t come. Do I really have to tell him the only feasible conclusion is I must have accidentally thrown it out, somehow? After we order from the specials board, we make polite conversation, mostly Mark telling me about his plans for the galleries and the exhibition he’s involved in at the St Ives Tate Gallery. I’m more than happy for him to take control of tonight’s conversation, despite my mind continually doing its own thing and drifting. I keep visually slapping my face to stay focused on him.

  Eventually our food arrives, my mouth salivating after yet another day of reduced sustenance. I’ve chosen the main course option of scallops with chorizo and fresh parsley and Mark has opted to stay in control, to cook his own meal on a hot stone, the aroma of sizzling sirloin filling the air as he cuts, seasons and grills each mouthful to taste.

  ‘I’m aware of dominating the conversation tonight.’ He refills my wine glass and I eagerly take more of a glug than a gracious sip. I’m gobsmacked: he does notice when I take a conversational back seat.

  ‘I’m enjoying listening to you,’ I say, praying I’ll not be tested on the past hour.