EVERYONE HAS THEIR SECRETS
It’s not about the note; she gets days like this. The note bothers her but then, so what, really? So what if someone has found out her guilty secret? It was only a matter of time. St Ives isn’t big enough; someone at some point would have spotted her. But who? And what do they hope to achieve by telling her? After John died, she would have taken almost anything to help, to drag her through each day. For months she hauled herself through the motions, did everything she was required to do for her son’s wellbeing but nothing more. It was all so terrifying. She and John had an old-fashioned relationship, she can see this now. John took care of anything technical or financial, she saw to anything domesticated. After he died, it was all she could do to keep breathing, never mind become the administrator of the household. How she didn’t lose everything… She must have come so close.
Gradually as months passed the emotional pain began to improve but simultaneously her physical health declined. For months she suffered before finally visiting her GP with chronic back pain. He supplied her with extra-strong painkillers along with a warning of potential side effects. Not to be taken for long-term use, he advised. But they did more than ease her pain: they lifted her psyche; they made her feel maybe she could live again. Possibly, she could be happy again. No one told her back pain was a common symptom of depression and anxiety. Looking back now, she can see her pain derived from no injury; it was more likely to be psychosomatic. The painkillers gave her something she couldn’t achieve herself: relief, in more ways than one. But then, she couldn’t see life without them.
Years later, when she first attended the St. Ives group meeting, she sat mute, her coat fastened to her neck, arms stiff by her side. Then, when they gathered at the end for coffee and biscuits she slunk away. The second time, she would have done the same if it weren’t for a kind lady, Pat, who insisted she stay for coffee – we’ve all been there, sweetheart, we’ve all sat at the back too afraid to speak. The time after that, she sat shaking but finally found the words to say – I’m here because I am an addict, because I have an addiction. This was also the first time she believed it for herself; saying it out loud to others somehow made it real, and with this came the feeling of responsibility for change. These few words helped change her life. She was with people who understood, who knew as well as she did – no matter what happens, no matter how long the abstention lasts, the addict is always sitting on the shoulder, always knocking on the door. In each community wherever she travels, there will always be someone or something to help feed the addict. And no one more capable of doing this than herself. Anger? Regrets? Guilt? John’s death? Did she inadvertently kill John? some would say knowingly; she does, on her low days.
Morwenna puts away the cleaning cloths, turns the sign on the door to OPEN. Understanding at any point she could return the sign to closed, pop through town, along to the dodgy newspaper shop for the little cylindrical pills, kept under the counter. She also understands today she needs to speak with Nat. Morwenna deliberately withheld the meaning of the words on her postcard the other night, it didn’t seem right to tell her story as an afterthought. This reminds her, she also needs to give Mark a shove; this business of his and not coming clean to Natalie is keeping her awake at night. The thing is, Morwenna thinks, sometimes we lock ourselves into our own worlds, looking out onto the lives of others, thinking we are the only ones with problems, with pasts, with something dark sitting on the conscience. In truth how many of us are living with some kind of inner conflict, with some kind of secret? At one of the meetings, someone once said to her: It is these secrets we hold close, determining who we are, without us realising. They control every thought, response, and reaction. No one will ever understand us, not really.
33
Natalie
It’s dark by the time I lock the front door to the bistro. I’m later than I hoped to be, staying on to finish the paperwork. The lunch service was unusually busy, some last-minute coach party rolling in, and I was already a day behind with the ordering. But I managed to grab five minutes at lunchtime to text Mo asking her to meet for drinks after work.
A strange feeling creeps over me as I’m rattling the door to check it’s secure. That sensation of being watched, a kind of warm energy you feel with another body in near proximity. Still holding onto the door, I turn my head, first left then right, scanning the darkened doorways. I’ve no chance of spotting anyone if they don’t want me to see them. Too many obscured corners. With a stiffened body, I glance back to my left towards the centre of town, the quickest way to The Crab and Tiller, but there’s no one around, only deep, dimly lit doorways, better known as perfect hiding places. Quickly, I turn to my right. It’s the longest route, for sure, down onto the seafront, but it’s much better lit by all the restaurants. In the distance, I see a couple, arms linked, where these cobbles meet the road dropping down onto the front. If I’m quick, I can catch them and stalk somewhere close behind them. I dart to the right, quickening my step without breaking into a run, holding my breath. This is ridiculous, I tell myself, you can’t let him get to you. I mean – what’s the worst he can do? Actually, probably best I don’t use this particular rationale, given he would have killed me the last time.
After the lip-balm morning, I managed to move on with my day, convince myself all this is nothing more than a chain of out-of-context coincidences. But when I checked my mobile before texting Mo, I’d another missed call from an anonymous number. Everyone has missed calls from anonymous numbers, I told myself all afternoon. Some hungry salesperson telling me I’ve had a car accident despite my not owning a car probably. But when you’re fighting the demons sitting in your mind, and you’ve only just managed to silence them, it doesn’t take much to reset them off, yelling in your face again.
Slightly out of breath, the muscles in my neck and back tightening with tension, I press on. The feeling of the presence of someone behind still crawling all over me, but I refuse to turn my head and check. Instead, I listen to each and every minute sound, with ears as acute antennae for approaching threats as I speed along the seafront. It’s a good few minutes before I push myself through the front door of the pub, scrambling for the nearest bay window to peer back out into the dark. At first, oblivious to the surprised couple – I’m practically sitting on their laps. ‘Just looking for a friend,’ I explain. ‘It’s all right, he’s not there, thank God.’ It’s only as I blunder myself away from their table I realise why they looked at me so strangely, other than the forced familiarity. It’s all right. He’s not there. Thank God? Thank God – who says this about their friend?
I’m removing my coat, hoping I’ve found the correct table, what I trust to be Mo’s belongings scattered over the surface and chair, as she taps me on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, love. I was bursting for the ladies! What you having to drink? G and T?’
I plant a kiss on her cheek. It’s cold and warm at the same time. ‘I’m getting these,’ I say.
‘How about we put them on a tab and fight about it later, then?’
I smile. Mo obviously feels this could be a heavy session. I’m certainly not going to be the one to put up a fight. ‘Great. A tab it is – a large G and T. Thanks, Mo.’
I could be wrong here, reading into things unnecessarily, but I’m certain there’s a look of unease sitting at the back of Mo’s eyes. Has she something to tell me after all?
34
Natalie
It’s late by the time Mo and I giggle and sway our way up the path from town, all our problems feeling manageable and we are with a plan, of a kind. We’ve chatted about our respective notes and come to only one obvious conclusion – the note dispatcher is someone who has a connection to us all. We then changed this to – not necessarily, but after several gins we stopped caring so much. Stupid notes. Even the creepy shit, me being positive I’ve heard things, seen things, the missing bits and pieces, are not exactly okay but not life-changing either. So, we’ve not so much a plan as a state of mind
. We’ve also decided, no matter what the time, we’ll be knocking on Nigel’s door. Maybe he’s also received notes. And he’s the sanest, most normal one in the house to confer with. Mo’s revelations about her past addiction have surprised me. Not because I can’t empathise, because I absolutely can, but it’s a little bewildering – you think you know someone so well, then realise you don’t.
It’s only as we climb the final steps a short distance from the house, we stop laughing and freeze. A police car? A police car, parked illegally outside the front door. It is empty; our gazes simultaneously move to the two officers knocking on the front door. Neither of us speak or move; my legs begin to quiver, as a moment of sobriety passes between us. I’ve done nothing wrong, but it doesn’t stop the feeling I must be guilty of something. Or something worse?
Mo nudges me from my trance. ‘We should go see what’s going on,’ she says.
I nod but all words are stuck. Something in the pit of my stomach preventing me from taking a step forward. My father’s face flashing through my mind. ‘What’s the silly bastard done?’ I finally let out.
‘Who?’ Mo asks.
‘Him. The one who calls himself father.’
‘How do you know it’s anything to do with him?’
‘I don’t. Just usually it is if it involves the police…’ I meet Mo’s eyes. ‘I can’t move, Mo. My legs aren’t working – you go ahead.’
‘I’m not leaving you,’ she says. ‘Come on, lean on me, I’ll help you. We’re going together.’
Mo links her arm through mine as we begin to step forward just as Nigel opens the front door and engages in conversation with the officers. They speak in hushed voices; we’re not close enough to hear. But close enough to note the worried expression on Nigel’s face. We stop, both look at each other then back to the door.
‘Do you think we should go over?’ I ask.
‘Not sure, feels kind of intrusive, doesn’t it? Looks as though they’ve called to speak with Nigel.’
‘Well, it can’t be anything bad, then, can it, else they’d go in, wouldn’t they? In his flat, I mean. Maybe it’s something trivial. Neighbourhood-watch-type things?’
We watch on as Nigel disappears, leaving the officers loitering on the doorstep. ‘Come on.’ Mo urges me forward again and we begin to shuffle our way towards them. We’re only a few feet away when Nigel returns, wearing his jacket. Hearing us, the officers turn in our direction. They nod as the three of them tread down the steps to the squad car, Nigel staring straight ahead as if he’s not noticed us.
‘Nigel?’ I hear Mo almost whisper. ‘Everything okay?’
Nigel nods curtly before climbing into the back seat.
‘Nigel? Do you need us to do anything? Is everything okay?’ Mo continues.
The thirty-something-looking officer, now climbing into the passenger seat, turns to us with a half-smile. ‘We won’t keep him long. Are you his wife?’
It takes me a moment to realise he’s directing this question at me.
‘No, she’s not,’ Mo jumps in. ‘We live in the flats upstairs. What’s going on? Is there a problem?’
‘Then, I’m sure Mr Woods will fill you in later, if he chooses to.’ The officer bobs his head before reaching for his seat belt and shutting the door.
Nigel, in the back seat, doesn’t respond to us but stares down to his lap as the car manoeuvres a three-point turn then pulls away.
‘What the hell?’ is all I manage.
We watch the car until it disappears out of sight.
‘Should we call someone?’ I ask Mo.
‘Like who? Nigel doesn’t have anyone. Well, not that I know of.’
‘No, I mean, like a solicitor.’
Mo unlinks her arm from mine, squeezes it, then guides me up the steps towards the front door. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing too serious. They didn’t arrest him, did they? Anyway, Nigel is a solicitor. He’ll know what to do. What his rights are and all that. He’s in his own very capable hands.’
‘His rights? Oh, God, that makes it sound so serious.’
‘I only meant…’
‘Anyway, he’s a commercial solicitor, not a criminal…’
‘Natalie. For goodness’ sake, come on, let’s go on up. Nigel doesn’t need a criminal anything.’
In Mo’s flat, I shrug off my coat, snuggling into her sofa as she makes a pot of tea. Apparently it will help us feel better but I fail to see how. I’m staring absently out of the dark window as Mo continues to offload her thoughts. ‘I mean, it could be for absolutely anything. And if you think about it, Nigel has to be the least dodgy person we know, I’d say, wouldn’t you?’ Mo giggles. ‘It’s becoming quite the little den of iniquity, this house, isn’t it?’ I can’t bring myself to see the funny side right now. ‘Listen, Nat, you little worrywart, he will be fine, you’ll see.’
‘Sure, it’s just we didn’t need this, did we, on top of everything else?’ I sigh. ‘Still, like you said, it’s unlikely to be anything awful.’
‘What did your note say again, Nat?’
‘Things are not always what they seem!’
Mo places two china mugs in front of us. ‘Quite,’ she says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, we’re jumping to conclusions here because of the police, but it could be, I’m sure it is, something quite simple.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Or it could mean, Nigel is some kind of twisted psychopath and we’ve overlooked it.’ Mo catches my eye and we burst into a nervous laughter. ‘The Cornish version of Jack the Ripper. Maybe he’s not a solicitor at all but uses the bike to get to a hidden white van he collects his victims in. Maybe Tommy is his creepy accomplice.’
Mo rubs laughter tears from her eyes. ‘Stop it, Nat, you absolute fruit loop.’
As I feel my eyelids grow heavy some time on, I drag myself up before I end up spending the night on Mo’s sofa, which is scarily tempting. I used to love my flat – I still do, really. But now, there’s something always hanging in the atmosphere that never used to be there. Leaning over, I kiss Mo on the cheek to say my goodbyes.
Back out on the landing, I pause to listen for any voices drifting up from downstairs. I’m unsure if Nigel has returned as yet and, as much as my heart urges me to knock on his door, check he’s okay, my head advises this isn’t something Nigel would appreciate. Now, at my own door, I softly place my head to the wood and listen. I’m not really sure what for. I never used to do this. What am I expecting to hear – furniture being knocked over? Smashing crockery? Or the faint whisper of an alien breath, also listening, waiting, anticipating my return?
Inside, I scramble for the light switch, rebuking myself for being ridiculous whilst my heart hammers on my chest. I move swiftly and deftly between rooms, performing ritual checks. Once satisfied I’m alone, I prepare myself for bed. Only when I’m in bed do I remember, I’ve no glass of water and, although I rarely drink it anyway, I’ll be unable to sleep without the ‘just in case’ water next to my bed. Plodding to the kitchen, I notice the post, thrown carelessly on the coffee table. Before I can stop myself, I’m flicking through the small pile and straight away I spot the envelope. Handwritten. My father’s scrawl. In an ideal world, I’d walk away, return to bed, open it in the morning, but there’s not a chance I’ll be able to sleep for thinking about it. Or I could cut it into a million pieces and flush it down the toilet without bothering to read it. But then, I’ll only worry it said something like – I’ll be at yours in the morning, waiting, be ready. So, I’ve no choice here. I open it. Anyway, this is far from an ideal world.
Natalie,
I’m beginning to think you’re not the girl I thought you were. Someone who always looked for the good in people. Someone who believed in second chances. I get this is maybe my third chance. But the Natalie I knew would have given this to me. Please tell me you’ve not changed? Please tell me, you’re willing to give your own dad, your own flesh and blood, a chance. I’m all you have, remember. You know
– this is what your mum would have wanted. For us to be together again. I can help look after you. We can do stuff together. I was sick before, very sick. But, I’m better now. And I reckon I’ve said all this before but this is the truth this time. We’ve got a lot to make up for, me and you. I just want a chance. You owe me this, especially you owe your mum this much. Blood is thicker than water, it’s true. Do this for your mum, Natalie, please.
Please don’t make me wait much longer for both our sakes.
Love Dad
I climb into bed with heavy limbs. Why can’t he leave me alone? Why can’t he see the damage he’s already done, have the good grace to disappear off the face of the earth? And how dare he write my mum’s name and honour into his sick requests? My mum hated him. I know she did. I pull the duvet up to my ears and roll onto my side. How do you ever go from loving someone enough to vow to spend the rest of your life with them, to hate, raw, base hate? How can anyone change so much? How can you ever feel you can trust anyone when relationships are able to shift as violently as theirs did? Jesus. Not all men are the same, Natalie. Not all men are the same. Are they? I curl myself into the foetal position.
THINGS ARE NOT ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM.
For one thing, Mo has her secrets, or not so secret given someone else clearly knows. Who’d have thought poor Mo still struggles the way she does? I knew she was still grieving for her husband, John, but – I’d no idea about the pills, the depression. The pain. On one hand, I’m pleased she felt able to share it with me, on the other hand, shit. Who actually is anyone? If they’re not who we think they are. It hasn’t changed how I feel towards Mo, if anything it’s pulled us closer, but it has rocked the boat a little more. What else don’t I appreciate about the people close to me? We always think we know, yet rarely do we ever truly see what lies beneath the surface. Sometimes, I wonder if I even know myself. I mean, I’ve never had the chance to be who I should have been, so who the hell has that made me?
I Know You're There Page 15
