‘Even so… you’re still unusually quiet. You sure you’re okay?’
Words are failing me tonight, something lodged between my brain and voice box. ‘Sorry,’ is all I find.
‘No need to be sorry. You’ve clearly stuff on your mind. Look, why don’t you talk to me about your father?’ He holds his hand up as I open my mouth to respond. ‘Yes, I appreciate, here, now, may not be the best of moments. But, Natalie, we don’t seem to have any other moments, do we? We’re both always too busy. You’re not overly keen in my being at the flat, because in your mind I’m the landlord and the boss, despite everyone understanding we’re together. But it’s one of your many funny little rules and—’
‘One of my many funny little rules?’
‘You have several, not in a weird way, in a sweet kind of way. Anyway, I was saying…’
What have I to lose? Maybe it will help clear my mind. ‘What would you like to know?’ Perhaps if I was more open, this fog between us could lift? How will I know if I don’t at least try? I’m thirty with a succession of failed relationships behind me. Not that there’s been some kind of lengthy list, but the few I’ve had died after only a few months. And I take full responsibility for each of them; after speaking with Mo, I’ve realised how difficult I find it to trust men, not on a daily basis, only in relationships. I always feel as though there’s something unsaid, something waiting to change the course, to become caustic in nature.
‘Your father, why are you so afraid of him? Things are obviously pretty bad between you two but, Natalie, why do you physically recoil at the mention of him?’
I pop the last morsel of scallop into my mouth; the spicy hints and sweet juices of earlier are lost on me. ‘Fine. I mean, it’s not, but I get your point. Where would you like me to start? Wait, stupid question. From the beginning, right?’
Mark smiles, sliding a fat hand-cut, sea-salted chip into his mouth.
For the next hour the beauty of this spot, the romantic ambience of the setting, fade somewhere into the background as I revisit the dark caves in my mind. I begin with my earliest memories, of the scorching rows between my parents. Correcting myself – it’s unfair to suggest parental rows, implying a two-way hostile interaction; my mum, as I relayed, was strong, independent but an ever so gentle person, anything but confrontational. She loved me more than anything in the world. I always knew this: she told me so each and every day. My father, he was an alcoholic, and because of this he never lasted more than six months in any job he had. Each time he would promise it was the last bender, as he called them, Mum and I knew it wasn’t. His alcoholism turned him into a liar, a thief and an extremely unhappy, irate man. My mum, before she became sick, worked two jobs to pay the mortgage, to simply put food on the table.
Over time the rows became louder. My father would trash the room, hurling anything breakable at the wall, until there wasn’t really anything left to smash. After this, Mum became his target, his punch bag. By this time, I was nearing the end of primary school and, although she would chastise me later when we sat, me crying, her gently stroking my back, I’d always throw myself in front of her for him to hurl me like a dirty tea towel against the cupboards, the walls, the floor. With hindsight, I should never have done this. It only ever served to upset Mum more and make him even angrier. So, the day I returned home from school to find Mum crying, yet unhurt, and my father sober, I knew something was terribly wrong. I still shiver with the memories.
She sat me down, gently advised me she had cancer. I’d heard the word before but I didn’t really understand the implications. Through my tears, I couldn’t grasp how something you were sick from could take you away to the place in the sky in as little as two or three months, as she told me. I’d been sick plenty of times; never did I think this could happen. For a week or so the mood in the house was differently unpleasant. Heavy, crammed with fragile unsaid words hanging precariously in tense air. Then my father lost his latest job, he attempted to fob them off, the reason for his ineptitude being down to the heartfelt sorrow for his wife, but the gossip had travelled our small village – he was nothing more than a drunk. And that afternoon, although Mum was fading away before our very eyes, he still came home and beat her some more.
This was when I finally snapped, picking up the poker from the fireplace, only wishing we could have afforded the coal to light it, to be able to scorch his skin with red-hot metal. Instead, I hit him, over and over; in those few minutes, I lost control. To this day, I still hear Mum, screaming my name; she knew what would come next. The last I can remember is the look on his face, pure undiluted evil as he turned to catch my eye. Snatching the poker from me, he raised his arm behind his head. I watched as it came down towards me in slow motion. This time, my arms did little to protect me; his fury was with an intention I’d not witnessed before. Then it went black. I’m not sure how long I was asleep, before eventually waking, tucked up in a bed, Mum by my side, pale and drained. The smell of disinfectant in the air. Tight bandages gripping my temples. My father had been taken by the police; my mum told me.
The next few months were little more than a blur of wretchedness. The most unbelievable pain. Sudden death. Loss. Bottomless grief. Unreal loneliness. A weird numbness. Followed by a foster home or two. Those months morphed into sterile years and more foster homes. Until the day he was let out from a too short stint in prison and came back for me. Rehabilitated, they said. He has a right to fight for the right to see his daughter, they said. Now, it frustrates me. Why didn’t I put up more of a fight to resist these official powers and manipulative promises from my father? The detachment from life didn’t help, with a belief I had no choice but to listen to the protocol of social services. I was a teenager, alone, damaged and changed forever. At the time I didn’t think it would ever be possible to feel again, fear included. In the end, I simply gave up caring; he could see me or not. I’d blanked out so many of the vicious memories. Two months was all it took for the real father, away from the eyes of the authorities, to show his true colours.
I suddenly realise I’ve been talking without taking a breath and Mark is completely silent. ‘But this time,’ I continue, aware of tears rolling freely over my cheeks, ‘this time, he nearly killed me. He tried to kill me.’
Mark reaches across the table for my hand.
‘That’s why he was sent to prison,’ I say. ‘That’s why I will never forgive him.’
30
Daniel
It’s the early hours of the morning. Daniel has tossed and turned for most of the miserable night. Without realising, he’s kicked the blankets from his bed to the floor, his body and legs clammy and exposed. He might have fallen back into the depths of REM sleep for now but it won’t be long before the cold wakes him. That or the images he’s again submerged in.
The alleyway is unlit. Why did he take this route from the pub? He’d normally take the main road, lit with street lamps. Where is everyone? His mates, in the pub, did they leave him? Or did he leave them? Was he ordered to leave or did he decide of his own volition? He shakes his head, hitting it with the palm of his right hand. Why can’t he remember? He’s consumed a considerable amount of alcohol but he’s positive there were four of them this evening. Leo. Johnny. Rory. Marco. And him. So, five of them. Where are they now? Then it comes back to him. Jacob. Jacob was there too. Not in the beginning but he definitely showed his face at some point during the evening.
But what happened next? Why is he alone in this dark alleyway in Cambridge? Unsteady on his feet, he catches a cobble jutting out from uneven ground; his right foot hooking around his left, he tumbles clumsily to the damp, stony floor. His face squared against fusty cobblestones. His heart hammering through his jumper. He left the pub without his jacket? In a hurry? On the floor, he struggles to pick himself up, but his muscles have fallen asleep. He feels himself begin to sweat despite shivering; something in the pit of the stomach tells him he needs to get up, to run. But instead, he lies still, listening to his hear
t pumping in his ears, inhaling musty smells from the walls closing in around him. Someone is watching him, standing over him? ‘Marco? Leo? Rory? Johnny? You there?’
Silence. Even the footsteps he was aware of a few minutes ago have stopped.
Somewhere behind him, someone strikes what sounds like a match. Turning his head to face the wall, he sees a shadow, perfectly formed in the light of a small flickering flame. The sweet smell of something drifting in the air as the shadow slides along the wall towards him. Again, Daniel attempts to motivate his muscles; internally he cries for his legs to lift him. Why did he choose this alleyway, the home of the shadow?
‘No. Leave me alone,’ Daniel screams out.
One big push to engage his limbs and he hits the floor, pulling the bedside lamp on top of him. His breathing somewhere near his throat, he scrambles for the switch for the lamp lying beside him. Finally, filling the room with light, he pulls himself to the bedside table, dragging his legs up tight to his chest, still not fully awake, a terrible pins-and-needles sensation moving through his body. It’s okay, breathe, I’m safe. It was only another dream.
It’s a few more minutes before Daniel regains his breath and climbs back to his bed, with a book from the floor in his hand. Reaching for his bedclothes, he quickly covers himself up. He’ll stay awake now, read, anything to rid himself of the dark feeling in his gut, too afraid to sleep in case he returns to the alleyway. As he opens the old hardback book a white postcard slips to his lap. He forgot he hid it there earlier, out of sight, out of mind, at least until he could share it with Natalie. He turns the postcard over, knowing it must mean something. Natalie told him not to worry about the notes, probably just some sick nutcase, but even so. His eyes flick over the words, over and over. They must mean something – why can’t he find what it is? The note is telling him something, but what?
THE ROBBED THAT SMILES STEALS SOMETHING FROM THE THIEF
It doesn’t make sense. ‘Why would someone who was robbed be smiling?’
31
Natalie
I’m up early, showered and dressed, a woman on a mission. After an emotionally revealing evening with Mark, he dropped me home, offered to come in with me, but I was feeling bizarrely okay. Brave. But I suspect the after-meal liqueurs may have played a part in this. Or perhaps there is something in what they say, a problem shared and all that stuff. It wasn’t exactly the ideal way to spend a romantic night out, blubbing into my food, snot and tears galore, but it was at least best this way. If I’d any inclination Mark was to hurl me under the spotlight, I wouldn’t have turned up for the show. Now I do feel lighter, clearer, ready to deal with whatever the sick pervert thinks they’re up to. One small thing: I didn’t mention the notes to Mark, thought I’d speak with Mo first. And there’s only so much you can drop on someone over a meal. If I properly emptied the contents of my mind, he’d think I was completely loop the loop.
I polish off cereal and top up my coffee. Then I stand overlooking the bay, cloaked in an advancing sea mist soon to swallow the flat, before making its way inland. I decided last night, from here on, I’m to finally stop running, having already wasted too much time. I need to face whatever I need to. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like not to be me, and also what do other people find to worry about or do we all have dark silhouettes sleuthing in our closets? Mo’s received that note, so does this mean she has something in her closet? The fact she didn’t mention the meaning of the note – was this because she didn’t want to share the truth it proclaimed? Or am I now thinking as the pervert would want me to? I mean, they suggested Daniel’s sister was murdered, for God’s sake. Maybe this is a vile game to force people to reconsider their part in the dark areas of their pasts? It’s always fascinated me how memories can distort. How context can distort our perspective and so, memories with it. We all change, don’t we?
Placing my mug on the coffee table, I pick up the postcard sent to me.
THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM.
What the heck is this supposed to mean anyway? ‘Things are not always what they seem.’ I know this, I don’t need to be told, but what are you trying to tell me? Is this something my father would write? I lock my eyes onto the words, hoping the meaning will suddenly become obvious.
THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM.
On the other hand, I resent giving this any thought space. That’s exactly what you want, isn’t it, what you’ve been hoping for, playing inside my mind, stomping around, making me question everything? Each dark outline, every footstep somewhere close behind me. But this is worse, these notes are urging me to question not only everything, but everyone. Everyone? I hate myself, but this is what happens, and I’m guessing Mo and Daniel must be doing the same. Someone who knows me, my insecurities, or are they simply guessing, using ambiguous claims applicable and relatable for anyone? Then there’s the nagging question, if this is my father, why would he send notes to Daniel and Mo? For this very reason? So I begin to doubt this is him, sending red herrings?
I can deliberate over these things during daylight but as the sun sets, the winter nights draw in, I can’t allow my mind to start tapping into innate fears of the dark and being alone. Images of lying wide awake in the depth of the night as a child, waiting, scared and badly bruised, never travel too far away from me. Tucking the postcard into the back pocket of my trousers, I move around the flat collecting all I need for the day. If I wait any longer, Mo will be up and gone. I’m about ready to leave when I remember my tinted lip balm. One of my quirky customs is not being able to leave the house without applying the lip balm. Neither can it be any old lip balm. I fell in love with this natural organic coconut-oil concoction I discovered a couple of years ago, pottering around the Porthleven Food Festival. Which reminds me I’m nearly at the bottom of the pot. Job four hundred and twenty-two to add to my memory list.
I’m staring, perplexed, at the shelf over the basin in the bathroom because it’s not where it should be. I flash back through my mind. I didn’t take it with me last night. I only really ever wear it during the day because of the salty, skin-stripping air. Did I change my mind? I retrace through my movements last night – no, I definitely didn’t, because I wore the ‘perfectly plum’ lipstick, which I took with me, should I need to touch up. As it happened bare lips were the least of my problems following the downfall of tears. But 100 per cent I can see myself, getting ready, in this very mirror, and the little glass pot of balm was here on this shelf. I’ve had no reason to move it. I keep an un-tinted one next to my bed, which is still there. I begin searching in the oddest of places, under the bath mat, in the washing basket, amongst the toilet rolls, in case I somehow knocked it in without realising.
Satisfied it’s not anywhere in the bathroom, I move on to the bedroom. It’s nowhere visually obvious. I’ve not made the bed, so I throw the duvet to the floor, then the pillows, before tossing them all back on the bed in a heap. I look underneath the bed, in my shoes, lying idle, then decide to pull everything from under the bed. Next, I return to the sitting room where my rucksack-style handbag sits on the sofa, all ready and packed for the day. Maybe I’ve already picked it up, thinking I’d forget it what with leaving early to see Mo. I turn it upside down, the contents spewing on the sofa and floor, everything but the blasted lip balm. I reach for my jacket flung over the arm of the sofa, feeling it all over for something hard. Nothing.
This is stupid, pathetic, but it’s really bothering me because – where the heck could it be? It’s only a lip balm but it’s not this that’s bugging me. I know I left it where I always do and now it’s missing and I can’t think of anything else. I slump onto the sofa, all my resolve and calm of earlier quickly evaporating into a fog in my mind. Because I can’t get away from the fact someone must have taken it. From my flat? Last night? Whilst I was out? Whilst I was sleeping? I slept soundly for the first time in ages. Did someone slink into my flat? This is ridiculous – who breaks into someone’s flat to steal a blinking lip
balm?
But it’s not just the lip balm, is it?
THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM.
I run down the steps towards town, late, feeling completely dishevelled. This isn’t how I wanted to start another day. And I’ve missed Mo again. I can’t let something as stupid as a missing lip balm bring me down to where I was a couple of days ago. I’ll probably find it somewhere obscure, like in the fridge, in the dishwasher or on top of the washing machine. If it hadn’t been for all the other things, I’d literally be thinking nothing of it. A missing lip balm does not mean I’m being stalked by a psycho and it certainly doesn’t prove someone has been in my flat. Again. But what if someone has?
32
Morwenna
With a duster in hand, Morwenna glides her way around the delicately placed pieces of pottery. Radio Cornwall sounds in the background; she’s hoping it will lift her spirits. She’s no reason to feel down. A fun time was had with her friends last night – friends are something to be thankful for. She woke early this morning. She could swear she heard Nat next door, which was unusual. Nat rarely rises before her. She’s envied her many a time for this, being able to sleep in. For years now Morwenna’s not needed to set an alarm. If the gulls don’t wake her, her brain hits 05.30 each morning and, ping, she’s eyes-wide-open awake. Her sleeping habits haven’t been the same for years, not since she lost John. He used to wake her with a cup of tea each morning, then it would take at least another twenty minutes for her to be sufficiently together to leave the bedroom. She was content.
She and John had been together since school, soul mates, rarely ever argued; she thought they had the perfect relationship. Then, with the click of the fingers, everything changed. One minute she couldn’t have asked any more of her life, the next she battled each day to want to live it. It was her son who kept her going. If it hadn’t been for him, things could have turned out very differently. But she couldn’t give up, not when she had a son who needed her – he’d already lost his father, he needed her support, or at least she thought he did. Morwenna steers her thoughts away. So long as he’s happy, she tells herself, it’s all that matters. This morning, she could easily have pulled the duvet over her head, lay smothered in the dark until it passed, this horrible sinking feeling, a fogged mind, stealing any kind of perspective. Each connecting limb weighted, a feeling of complete emptiness.
I Know You're There Page 14
