I Know You're There

by Sarah Simpson

  Hurriedly, she grabs her bathrobe, tying it tightly around her, then dashes out into the hallway, and begins to thump on Natalie’s door. ‘Natalie? Natalie? You there, love? Open the door.’ Almost immediately, she hears the lock turning from the other side, and seconds later Natalie is standing in the doorway, pale with pink blotches and clammy. ‘Oh, my goodness, what’s happened? I heard you screaming. What is it, love?’

  Natalie doesn’t say a word, instead she opens the door wide for Morwenna to enter, shutting it tight behind her. Still not saying a word, she gestures for Morwenna to follow her through to the sitting area, stopping just before the dividing kitchen benches. Natalie is pointing at the floor, one hand cupped over her mouth. Where the head of a rat, brains spewing, eyes bulging, glowers up at them. Natalie heaves, turns and scampers from the room as Morwenna listens to her impromptu vomiting from the direction of the bathroom. Good God, what else must this poor girl deal with? Poor Natalie, it was only the other day when she was chattering about her innate fear of rodents. And now this. Morwenna continues to stare at the disembodied rat. Decapitated rodents can surely only take this appalling terror to another level altogether.

  40

  Natalie

  Another nightmare twenty-four hours. What with Mark’s odd and random questioning last night and now this, the bulging, wandering eyes of a rat. Perfect. Shit, what is happening? I’m perched on the edge of the bath when Mo comes to find me, having attempted to leave the bathroom a couple of times but, oh, God, I can’t remove the image, the noise and that bloody smell, the moment I stepped barefoot onto the rat’s head. I can’t stop the involuntary heaving no matter how long I sit here for, my foot now bright red, verging on scalded from the water in the bath. I still feel disgustingly violated and for all I know the rat’s head is still sitting in virtue on my cream carpet. One eye separate from the other.

  ‘Sweetheart?’ Mo says, wrapping an arm around me, squeezing.

  ‘Is it still there, Mo?’

  ‘No, love, it’s gone, don’t you worry. I’ve sorted it.’

  ‘And the eye? The separate eye?’ I feel my stomach roll again.

  ‘Yes, yes. All gone. Both eyes.’

  ‘You absolutely…’

  ‘Sure. Yes. No rat’s head left in there, or any other body parts, for that matter.’

  ‘Where have you put it? You’ve not put it in my bin, have you?’

  Mo laughs. ‘Give me some credit. Of course, I haven’t.’

  ‘So where…?’

  ‘Chucked it out the window. Now, let me fetch your cleaning stuff – this is a gloves job. Need to scrub the carpet.’

  ‘Oh God. This is so gross.’ And it is completely gross but I’m still not sure which is worse, the rat’s head in my flat or the fact I’ve not had much time to consider yet, but – how, why? Has someone been in my flat? Again? I know Mo will dismiss this probability, think I’m being paranoid, but how else could a rat’s head make its way in here?

  Reading my mind, Mo interrupts my racing thoughts. ‘It is quite disgusting, agreed. But that’s all it is, Nat. Before you start becoming all paranoid about someone stalking you, coming into your flat whilst you’re out and all that business—’

  ‘I’m not being funny, but what else am I supposed to think? It’s hardly slipped out my pocket, has it? Crawled out from the cupboard of its own volition? It’s a bloody head, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Okay, okay, granted, but there has to be a perfectly reasonable explanation here.’

  ‘A reasonable explanation? Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. I mean, could you have trodden it in, by chance? There’s so many cats around here, a rat’s head in itself isn’t so unusual. My cat used to eat everything but the head of whatever it caught, leaving the crunchy remains for me to deal with.’

  ‘Urgh, stop it, please.’ I feel my gut lurch again. ‘Don’t you think I may have noticed, or at least felt the crunchy, squidgy bulk, if it was stuck to the bottom of my shoe?’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose, maybe.’

  ‘Err. Definitely. It was still pretty much intact when I trod on it, trust me, the head part at least.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. So that box, the one in the kitchen on the floor?’

  ‘Brought it home from work – it’s the old food mixer, being thrown out in place of its younger, fitter model. But before you say it, I’m pretty sure we don’t have rats’ heads in the bistro kitchen either. Anyway, I found it outside the box, not in it.’

  Mo waves her hand at me. ‘Yes, yes, I know you did, but did you put the box down at all, you know, when you opened the front door, outside, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, obviously, it’s way too bulky to hold in one hand, looking for my key, opening the door, I would have put it down, of course.’

  ‘Well? There you go.’ She laughs. ‘Sorry, Nat love, but you must have placed it down on top of the rat. The rat’s head, anyway.’

  ‘Jesus. Could my luck get any worse? Who else happens to attach the head of a rat to their parcel?’ I shiver at the thought. It was still light when I returned home. I was earlier than usual – Mark sent me off home – but surely I’d have noticed it on the doorstep? But then I guess if I wasn’t looking for it… ‘Suppose that could be one explanation.’

  ‘I think it’s more than likely, don’t you? Come on, don’t let that imagination run away with you. If it wasn’t for all the other… happenings, you’d be thinking it a perfectly feasible explanation.’

  By the time I’ve scrubbed my foot raw with my new luxurious exfoliating brush, now in the bin, Mo has scrubbed my carpet clean and returned next door for a well-earned bath. There isn’t a rat’s head to be seen anywhere, and, since the large gin Mo delivered to me whilst I was whimpering to myself in the bathroom, I’m kind of accepting, she’s right, it’s just one of those horrible, disgusting incidents in life. ‘Shit happens. Even dead shit. Body-less dead shit.’ Now to move on to finishing this meal without continually regurgitating the decapitated rodent over and over in my mind. Wishing to God I’d opted for a vegan dish? Standing here de-heading king prawns is not helping my case. Bulging black eyes everywhere. I take a large swig from my tumbler. Thank God this is only the rehearsal; hopefully Mo is a lot hungrier than I am. Because I have zero appetite.

  Not only this, but it’s also set me off thinking, thinking back – we kind of adopted a stray cat when I was young. Graham. I loved him to bits, always sneaking him to my room each time he showed up. My father hated him; my father hated everything and everybody except his bottle. Now I think of it, I reckon he was actually jealous of him. The only reason he allowed me to keep him was because Graham used to kill the resident rats and mice. Then the bastard would collect up the dead limp bodies by the tails and chase me around the house with them. He knew, he knows, perfectly well – I’m petrified of them. But how would he have gained access to leave it in my flat?

  41

  Natalie

  I’ve chosen a table inside the café today. Fine misty rain hangs in the air swallowing the view of the harbour. Normally, I love this ghostly weather, but today I’m so not needing any encouragement. I’ve the café to myself other than a couple dressed in waterproof trousers, matching fleeces and heavy brown walking boots. Could this be me and Mark one day if we manage to survive the ride? Except ours would need to be his and hers North Face or whatever it is breaking the technical barriers of science, fully researched by Mark. I used to love wandering the rock-strewn meandering paths along the coastline. I could argue I’ve no longer the time for such dilly-dallying but, let’s be honest, it’s more – I’m too scared someone will jump me, take me by surprise, topple me off the edge, watching me plummet to the depths. The very someone I feel near me every second of the day. Observing me. Breathing down my neck, whispering in my ear. How many times did I look back over my shoulder today on my way here?

  Footsteps. I’m sure I heard footsteps from behind this morning. Not normal footsteps; hushed, calculated footsteps.

/>   Okay, so the rat incident hasn’t helped. And this could all be a string of unfortunate coincidences, but I’m not having it. I’m becoming nervous of my own shadow. Are you the snoop, man called Father? Looking for revenge? Believing it’s my fault you’ve spent these last few years in prison? That’s what you told me countless times, the first few months, actually years, all banged up with no idea as to why. Seriously? You think I’m to blame? Then after you began your prison rehabilitative counselling programme, your letters changed, became all self-pitying, then regretful became remorseful. But were you only hoping to wobble my resolve, haunt my conscience? Your intent remaining the same, to cause me pain? Is there guilt on my conscience? Yes, of course, who would be happy to send their father to prison? You’re playing me, aren’t you? I can smell it and every day I sense your frustration. I hate myself for allowing you to affect me in this way but, when it comes down to it, no amount of therapy will ever change the fact – I am scared of you. Always have been and I expect I always will be.

  I jump, feeling the hand on my shoulder. Cricking my neck, I shoot around to see Daniel’s smiley face.

  ‘Bloody hell. Daniel.’

  ‘Sorry, am I that late? I was held up,’ he says, lifting his rucksack from his back, carefully placing it on the chair next to me.

  I glance at my watch. ‘I meant you made me jump, anyway, no problem, but I haven’t long today. Deliveries coming in soonish.’ Daniel pulls out the chair next to me; his hair is damp and he smells of sea air. ‘Have you been out walking?’ His clothes are also moist from the mist, wet enough to make me think he’s been wandering in it for some time. His skin looks as though he’s stepped from a sauna.

  ‘No,’ he says, then thinks about it before changing it to, ‘Well, I kind of have.’ I’m about to ask him what he’s been up to when Joe arrives at the table with a coffee and hot chocolate.

  ‘I’m assuming it’s the usual,’ he says. We thank him, then Daniel adds more sugar to his already extra-syrupy drink. Clearly he’s no longer going to embellish.

  ‘Dan? What do you carry in the rucksack each day? It always looks so heavy.’

  ‘Oh…’ he pats the rucksack like a pet ‘… mostly books.’

  ‘But why do you need to carry books? As in, why not just a book?’

  ‘Because I’m never sure which one to take with me. Depends, you see, what mood he’s in.’

  I’m assuming he’s referring to the man he’s told me about, the one he reads to up at the residence. I used to believe it to be an old people’s home but it’s not. It’s more a home for vulnerable people, whatever the age. It’s admirable of Daniel and I’m sure he also takes something from the arrangement, given his obvious love of books and observable loneliness. But even so. ‘So you’re like a walking library, then. But surely you just continue through the same book, then start the next one?’

  ‘It’s not quite so simple. Like I said, it depends on what mood he’s in, then we choose the book. Although, we have been reading the same book now for several months.’

  I look into Daniel’s eyes. Is he winding me up? He doesn’t break into his usual grin, so I’m guessing he’s unaware he’s admitted to doing exactly what I suggested. Reading one book at a time. He takes a noisy slurp from his mug. Like many of Daniel’s unusual behaviours, I decide to leave it alone, especially as there’s something kind of distant about him this morning. ‘So, this guy you read to, what’s he like?’

  Daniel cocks his head to one side. ‘I’m not sure really.’

  ‘Not sure? Well, nice, horrible, thoughtful, intelligent, or a total cantankerous git? That kind of thing.’

  Daniel laughs. ‘Yes, all of them.’

  ‘Interesting,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, he’s that too. Hostile sometimes as well.’

  ‘Really? I bet you feel like leaving those days. How ungrateful of him.’

  ‘No. I can’t leave, you see, I have to be there. He doesn’t mean to be scary or rude, makes him more interesting I suppose. The thing is, Natalie, I think he needs me.’

  ‘Needs you?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve grown used to each other. I think he’d feel alone without me.’

  ‘I see – then that’s incredibly sad. How old is he?’

  ‘I’m not too sure. He’s older than me or, at least, he must be.’

  I can’t help but feel there’s something truly wrong about this relationship, or whatever Daniel thinks it is. ‘You’re not bullied into visiting, are you? As in, you’re not scared of him if you don’t go?’

  ‘Scared?’ Daniel wipes chocolate powder from his lips. ‘A little, suppose. He can be quite intimidating, but I also understand why. I believe, deep down, he cares about me. I’m sure he does. He’s just different. We’re all different, though, aren’t we? You and I are very different. As Mo says, “It wouldn’t do for us all to be the same.”’

  ‘I guess, just, you know, I worry because you’re…’ how do I put this without sounding patronising or belittling? ‘… such a kind, giving person, people can take advantage sometimes of your good nature. You’re probably too lovely to notice.’

  ‘Trust me, Natalie, this benefits us both. I enjoy reading to him. Reading books I love feels so much better, sharing them with someone. Why all the questions?’ There’s an edge to Daniel’s voice, one I’ve never noticed before. One of detachment? Or is this my paranoia?

  ‘No reason, just taking an interest. You should consider joining a book club, meet like-minded people,’ I offer.

  ‘Just taking an interest.’ He frowns. ‘Good idea about the book club. Do you know of any?’

  ‘Not exactly, but there must be one in St Ives. I’ll ask around.’ We sit and sip in silence for a stretched minute. ‘Anyway, the reason I asked you to meet was because I’ve not seen too much of you lately, so wrapped up in my own stuff. What with you not being very well – sorry if I’ve been a rubbish friend.’

  ‘It’s okay, you really don’t need to justify yourself. You’ve done nothing wrong. Anyway, I’m feeling better now. You’ve never been a rubbish friend. Ever. Have you?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not, not intentionally anyway.’

  ‘Good.’

  Daniel is definitely preoccupied today. ‘Mark mentioned you’ve not answered his calls recently, Dan. He wanted to ask if you fancied doing a few extra hours in the bistro or gallery this week. And Mo said she knocked on your door a couple of days ago but you didn’t answer. Don’t worry, I explained you’d been poorly. You sure you’re completely better now?’

  ‘I wasn’t really poorly.’

  ‘Oh. No?’

  ‘No.’ Daniel lowers his head. ‘I was frightened. Then when someone was knocking at the door, I assumed it to be the police.’

  ‘The police? Why on earth… oh, Daniel, you mean because of the other night, at Nigel’s?’ He nods, clasping his hands together on his lap. ‘Oh, silly you, that wasn’t anything for you to worry about. They were there to see Nigel about something, not to see you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’ I smile at him. ‘Besides, why are you so worried about the police?’

  ‘I always am. Can’t help myself. Reminds me of Rebecca, seeing the police.’

  ‘Poor you, I understand. But, Dan, those horrible times are all over with now, aren’t they? Time to put those memories aside. You really need to try and move on; however awful it was. It’s important to let go.’

  ‘I know. But the note, Natalie, I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it. It’s set it all off in my mind again. The police came to the house when Rebecca died. I remember as clear as day, like looking at a static photograph. Rebecca lying there, not moving, not smiling any more and blood, so much blood. Screaming in the background. My father’s face. So white, almost blue. Then, the paramedics followed by the police. I thought they were going to take me away. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t. But I’ve been waiting ever since, always been waiting for them to come and take
me. So, the other day, I assumed they must have been looking for me. Wait a minute.’ Daniel bites his lip. ‘It was my mother screaming in the background.’

  ‘Yes, well, I can’t even begin to imagine how awful—’

  ‘No, I mean, I couldn’t remember. I’ve been trying to recall if she was there when Rebecca died. I still can’t remember properly but those screams, they must have been hers.’

  ‘Dan, I—’

  ‘Then the police. Did they come for me?’

  I take his hand and squeeze it. ‘Why, oh, why would the police have come for you? You didn’t do anything wrong. Your sister killed herself.’

  ‘Do my parents know this?’

  ‘What? Yes, of course they do.’

  ‘Then why do I feel as though I did something wrong, and you weren’t there, so how would you know? No, Natalie, there’s something not right. My father—’

  ‘Daniel, you’re simply out of sorts because of the stupid note and the insinuations behind it. Someone has made you feel you’ve done something awful. Someone wants you to feel bad. I’m sorry, but you must know how you’re always so suggestible. So literal.’ Who would do this to Daniel? And for what purpose? ‘Don’t believe the notes, okay. Whoever is sending them is trying to get under our skin. Trying to frighten us. We have to stay strong and stick together. If we all look out for each other, we’ll be okay.’ This isn’t strictly how I feel inside but I can hardly relay this to Daniel.

  ‘Yes, so this is probably why Mark has been watching you. That’s what he’s doing, isn’t it, looking out for you?’

  ‘Mark? Watching me? What do you mean?’