35
Daniel
Daniel has been awake most of the night again. As if the police knocking on the door, then witnessing Nigel being led away was not bad enough, those new words kept circling his mind all night. Sitting on the edge of his bed, feet pressed to the floor, he picks up the latest note from the bedside table.
HE COMES TO BAD INTENT.
‘He comes to bad intent,’ Daniel reads, over and over until the words no longer make any sense. Does it have a connection to the police being here? Randomly appearing on the floor near the front door around the same time as he spotted them, but was it before or after? The police have this effect on him; he always feels on edge in their presence, even the mention of them is bad enough. His father used to advise him, never to trust them. If he comes across them in town, he averts his eyes, keeps his head low. ‘He comes to bad intent,’ Daniel whispers. There’s something familiar about it but he can’t reach whatever it is.
He heard the police, returning late, early this morning. The slamming of the car door, lowered mutterings – he didn’t dare look out of the window in case they caught him. What if they took him away this time? He argued with himself for some time after, wishing he could find the courage to check on Nigel, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the front door. Especially as, by then, he’d already found this note. Maybe it was a sign the police had come to do him harm, or maybe someone was warning him someone had bad intentions towards him?
Daniel wraps himself in his striped dressing gown, makes his way through to the kitchen, clutching the note. It must mean something. The other notes, they feel familiar too, now he thinks of it. Natalie laughed out loud when he reread the words of the last one. ‘“The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief!” What the hell, Dan? What’s that supposed to mean?’ She was only trying to make him feel better about it all, but it didn’t work. Someone was trying to tell him something, for sure. And what he couldn’t bring up with her was that this has something to do with him – Jacob. He said so. Somehow Jacob’s managed to deliver these notes without being caught, to his house, his friends too. Or is he only claiming this as his work because it suits him for some reason? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s claimed someone else’s dirty work. He claimed it was him following Daniel in Cambridge, but was it? Anyway, why would he send notes to Daniel’s friends? Because he’s jealous of them? Believing I spend too much time with them? They may have more authority than he does over me; in his eyes, he’s losing an element of control?
In the pit of his stomach, Daniel also worries this could have something to do with Rebecca. Each time he closed his eyes last night, counted in his head, turned on the bedside lamp, attempted to read – her face appeared. Kind of watery, her lips full of laughter, eyes glinting with mischief, soft with the warmth she always showed him. But not long after the face transformed to doleful and desperate. Before becoming nothing more than empty black eyes. The cold skin obvious. Dead to the world. A blunted expression. Pure hopelessness. Mirroring his desperateness. Daniel, my funny Daniel. Always take care of Daniel, he heard, over and over.
Then came, red. Blood everywhere. Seeping into the pure wool carpet, splashed over beige paisley wallpaper. Daniel not able to let go of her hand. Her blood decorating his arm, his father pulling him away. He can’t remember where his mother was, though. Was she sick again? Spending time away in her special place? He’d thought she didn’t go there until much later when he was boarding at school? Everything has blurred together as one matted mess. But he can remember being whisked off to his grandparents’ that day; by the time he returned the following day, Rebecca was gone. The room scrubbed clean behind closed doors. Still, so many gaps, he can’t find the missing images, the missing words. The entire period fades behind a fog of random words, sounds of crying and destructive feelings. Terrible, alone feelings. Rebecca was gone. Was it his fault?
TELL THEM WHO KILLED YOUR SISTER.
Did Jacob send this note? Does he know who killed Rebecca? Natalie says she killed herself – did he tell her that? Or did Tommy? His father? Jacob? All of them. He’ll talk to Natalie again; she’ll help him work it out. Or should he? What if Jacob finds out he’s been talking to Natalie again?
36
Natalie
‘We won’t keep you, love,’ Mo says as Nigel opens the door to us. I’m shocked at first at the state of him; he possibly looks worse than I do, which is saying something.
‘No, we only want to check you’re okay. You know, after last night, the police and everything.’ I hold up my hand defensively. ‘Not being nosey or anything. We’re concerned about you, nothing more.’
I can tell Nigel is embarrassed; he blushes slightly. There’s also something unusually disorganised about his manner. I’m half expecting him to shoo us away; the thoughts of how best to politely get rid of us are there to see. After a few seconds of not properly meeting our eyes, he opens the door fully, then, turning away, he wanders into the security of the flat. Mo turns to me, I shrug, we follow him. Nigel’s flat is pretty much identical to Daniel’s except in reverse. Unlike Mo’s and mine, with the open-plan areas of sitting room, dining and kitchen, this is more traditional Victorian. The same high ceilings, deep skirting, just the rooms remain individual and square. Nigel leads us through the small inner corridor into the sitting room. The décor is plain and functional, everything with reason to be there. Unlike Mark’s plush bachelor pad where all is for show and I’m even scared to sit on his taupe linen sofa underneath fine cashmere throws.
I’m surprised to see the closed curtains, so un-Nigel. There are cups on the dining table, a plate with crusts of hand-cut toast and an empty packet of chocolate digestives. I’ve not been inside Nigel’s flat too often but never have I witnessed used or clean crockery out of place. ‘Please, sit down,’ Nigel says reluctantly. I’m guessing, he hasn’t showered yet this morning: he has a five o’clock shadow; his generous straight hair with a kink is unkempt but kind of suits him. His navy polo shirt has a slept-in look about it. I’m pretty sure he’s worn this entire outfit through the night.
‘We’ll not keep you,’ Mo repeats.
‘It’s okay.’ Nigel takes a seat, rubbing his eyes. ‘It’s fine, please don’t fuss about it.’
‘You not catching your usual train, Nigel?’ It’s a stupid rhetorical question but, to my knowledge, Nigel’s never not turned in for work, all the time I’ve been here.
He shakes his head. His eyes are bloodshot – has he been crying?
‘It’s just with noticing the police here last night, we came to see if you’re okay? If you need help with anything? Bit silly, I know, what with you being a solicitor but—’
Nigel waves his hand to cut Mo off. ‘Really, there’s no need for your concern. I’m tired, nothing more.’ He gazes between us, loitering on the edge of our seats, wanting to reach out to him but neither knowing how to help this hugely self-contained person on the brink of something before us. ‘The police.’ He sighs out loudly, then stands, wandering to the window, finding the cord to open the curtains. ‘Sorry, I… I hadn’t realised they were still closed.’ Daylight fills the room as Nigel’s angst becomes all the more obvious.
‘The police,’ Mo says and we both nod.
‘Yes, the police. They came to ask me to identify a body,’ he says, slumping back into the chair, turning the stainless-steel watch over his wrist.
This I wasn’t expecting. ‘A body?’ Mo says, me clasping my hand to my mouth. ‘Oh, my God, Nigel. A body, bloody hell, how awful.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. Is.’
I lean forward. ‘Nigel. Who? Who was it? Is it?’
‘A young girl. Woman. Someone who worked for us. She… she took her own life. No family here – she’s Polish. When she first came to work for us she at least had a boyfriend. She’d told me a few months back, things didn’t work out. I believe he left Cornwall for work further up country.’
‘How sad. So they asked you to identify the
body? Bloody hell,’ Mo repeats.
‘Yes. Quite,’ he says. ‘It didn’t feel right to open up the office today.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ Mo reaches over to tap his knee. ‘How well did you know her, this poor girl?’
Nigel looks to his intertwined fingers, with knuckles growing pale as he squeezes them. ‘Not very. I employed her. Helped her out from time to time, financially mostly. Helped her find accommodation. Nothing more. A hard worker, always worked hard. Reliable.’
‘So sad,’ I say. I’m about to ask how she died then stop myself as it suddenly feels indulgent.
Nigel stands. ‘Tea?’ he asks. Both Mo and I nod. ‘Oh and… hung herself. Before you ask. She hung herself. Next-door neighbour kicked the door down not long after apparently. Taken her parcel around, left by the postman. Said he always leaves them round the back somewhere for her normally, but he saw her through the back patio window. Hanging.’ Nigel leaves the room.
I mouth, ‘Oh, my God,’ to Mo; she shakes her head in mutual understanding.
We end up staying with Nigel for longer than we anticipated. Despite us both being conscious of work commitments it doesn’t feel right to up and leave. He looks so lost. Finally, we order him to get himself some rest. Promising to check in on him later whether or not he wants us to. Mo offers to prepare him a meal and bring it down, which he accepts, shocking us both. He must be in a bad way. It’s only as we’re leaving that the words slip from my mouth. I could kick myself instantly for them. I thought about it earlier, whether or not to broach the situation with the notes, then decided, quite rightly, now is not the time. But something Nigel says as we are leaving triggers the same thought processes and the words break loose.
‘Funny you should ask,’ he says, showing us to the door. ‘I did receive a note.’
When I ask what it says, he can’t quite recall, which isn’t too surprising given the circumstances. The notes and messages behind them seem petty in comparison. But he promises to look the note out at first, then soon changes this to, on recollection, he thinks he’s already disposed of the total nonsense postcard. So, chances are, we may never discover what it said. I’m unbelievably desperate to push him on this matter – Nigel isn’t someone to forget a few words. But understandably, Mo discreetly nudges me out of the door with one of her stares. But not before I notice the look of relief scribed across Nigel’s brow.
37
Natalie
It’s late when Mark comes to the bistro to collect me. For once, I’ve been sufficiently organised to bring a change of clothes with me to work, so I’m already changed, ready for the night, physically anyhow. In truth, I’d rather be having a sofa night in PJs. We’ve tickets for The Tempest at the Minack Theatre, perched high on Jurassic-looking granite cliffs holding back the Atlantic Ocean. At least it’s a clement evening, as Mo calls it, because this theatre is all outdoors. One of Mark’s favourite venues; to be fair, it’s not difficult to understand why. It has a magical, humble yet majestic ambience, with tiers of stone seating carved into the cliff face, forming an arched auditorium, overlooking the pretty Porthcurno bay. The last time I was here was for a classical orchestra at Christmas time, the symbols in perfect symphony with the crashing of the waves, biting at the rocks like a hungry dog.
We park in the allocated field a small walk from the surrounding natural-appearing gardens, only the hardiest of exotic plants daring to flourish in such a dramatic climate. Unsurprisingly, we’re early; Mark is always early wherever we go, other than when I make him late. It slightly irritates me, not only because I’m always erring on the generous side of being late, but because it makes him so – hurry, hurry, hurry – stressed before we even commence the evening. Again, on the way here, I find myself wondering what it is keeping us together, in so many ways, we are so different. In the beginning, I only saw the charm, the intelligence, the thoughtfulness. His assured ways made me feel so secure. I’m not entirely sure why it doesn’t feel this way any more, other than the situation with my father has opened up feelings of vulnerability again. Somehow, the security I once felt now feels more like being trapped, tied up, unable to run.
Mark has organised and packed – no doubt – a most delicious, extravagant picnic to eat al fresco. This should delight me. Instead, it peeves me, an uncomfortable aggravated feeling that he needs to plan and arrange for everything. I should feel lucky, shouldn’t I? Occasionally, I wish he’d mess up and forget, that we’d end up starving, diving in for last-minute fish and chips or anywhere we find open on our way home. Perhaps, his super efficacy forces me to question myself, makes me feel bad about myself? Maybe I should be more like him, organised and thoughtful? I’ve far less to achieve in a day than he does, yet I could never be so prepared. At the back of my mind, I’m aware I have many personal hang-ups; despite my disorderly, chaotic childhood, ultimately it was always controlled. I was trapped. I’m terrified of feeling this way again.
Other cars begin to arrive in the car park. ‘Shall we make a move?’ Mark strokes my arm. ‘Have you something warmer to wear? I did say to bring something warm – there’s a biting wind.’
There he goes again, as if somehow I’m not capable of discerning I’ll be outside, it’s October, I’ll be sitting for a couple of hours on a clifftop – it will be cold. ‘I have.’ Discreetly I brush off his arm, reaching for my coat behind his seat. ‘I told you, I’ve my coat. But really – is there any point in rushing in?’ I look around the makeshift car park. ‘There’s hardly anyone here yet. It’s a while, isn’t it, before it all kicks off?’
‘Hmm, but the preferential seating will go as soon as people start piling in.’ Mark smiles. ‘We’re here, so we may as well. Don’t you think?’
Why does he put it as a question, when obviously it isn’t? Sighing, I unfasten my seat belt, then begin awkwardly pulling the coat over too many jumpers in a confined space. Mark reaches across, as he always does, attempting to help me, because clearly I’m not capable and may end up tangled somehow or putting it on back to front. Stop it, I tell myself, he’s being kind, nothing more, be grateful. It’s not as though I’m a screaming feminist; it’s nice to feel cared about. So, is it that I wish to feel cared for, at the same time also scared of what lies behind the intention? Mark isn’t trying to control me or own me; this is my problem, not his. I allow him to help me, whilst biting my lip. Mark isn’t the one who’s changed, it’s me, recently, in the last few weeks, more intolerant, more guarded, more suspicious and with this more brittle, and I hate it. But then wouldn’t anyone be feeling on edge, given the present goings-on? The very happenings Mark is all too happy to dismiss whenever I attempt to broach them.
‘I’m sorry for being grumpy, Mark. I understand how much you love this stuff.’ I cast my hand over the bay.
‘Stuff? And you don’t?’ Mark frowns slightly.
Stuff really was a poor choice of word. ‘Of course, I do, maybe not so much as you do but of course.’
Mark turns from me to look through the windscreen. ‘You should have said, Natalie. I didn’t realise this was all mostly for me,’ he says.
‘You don’t need to look so hurt. It wasn’t supposed to be an offensive comment. But, in all honesty, you’ve never really asked what I like, have you? You kind of presumed.’ Mark opens his mouth to speak. ‘Look, I do love coming to these places with you. I mean, look at it – I’d be a complete ass not to, wouldn’t I? All I meant was, I’m the type of girl who’d be equally happy with a beer watching the sun go down on the bay, my bare feet in cold sand. You know, how we used to.’ Mark continues to stare out to sea. ‘Oh, God, you’re not going to become all sulky on me, are you?’
‘Not at all,’ he snaps, the gentleness of earlier evaporated. Why did I have to say anything? Why couldn’t I have simply enjoyed the evening, kept my mouth shut? Instead of always testing that self-destruct button. ‘Perhaps it’s me – you don’t want to share these times with me,’ he says, unfastening his seat belt. ‘Have you conside
red that?’
A jittery feeling stirs in my stomach. I don’t want any unnecessary animosity. I understand it’s me who has caused this fragile atmosphere. The mild irritation I felt only moments ago is nowhere to be seen; it’s left me alone to deal with the consequences it caused. I really need tonight, to enjoy time away from the increasingly odd environment back at the house – why didn’t I check the words before they left my mouth? Again. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m being grumpy because I’m tired, which isn’t fair. Of course, I want to be here with you.’ I lift his hand and plant a kiss on it. ‘Can we start over? Please?’
Some hours later, my mind is boggling with Shakespearean speak, I’m a little bit tipsy on champagne and wishing I’d read The Idiot’s Guide to The Tempest, if there’s such a thing. We leave the magnificent theatre, sandwiched between a swarm of bodies, all enraptured and buzzing. I grip Mark’s hand tight as he guides me through, back towards the car park. ‘Did you enjoy it?’ he asks as we finally find some space to amble between parked cars.
‘I loved it,’ I honestly reply. ‘I’ve no idea what happened or what on earth they were talking about half the time, though the animated expressions gave me a good idea. But the setting is always super amazing. Gorgeous.’
Mark laughs. ‘You should have checked in with your mate beforehand.’ He nudges my shoulder.
I Know You're There Page 16
