‘I saw him, following you the other night, from work. I wasn’t following you, I was about to say hello, then I saw Mark – so didn’t. Mark doesn’t approve of people talking to you, I’ve noticed. Still, I wondered at the time, why he was walking so far behind you. Now it makes sense – he was watching out for you.’
What the hell? Mark was following me? Is he really so controlling and insecure? Or does Daniel have this all muddled up? It wouldn’t be the first time. And how does he mean, Mark doesn’t approve of people talking to me? He must have this all topsy-turvy. Perhaps Daniel saw us both on the same street, we happened to be walking in the same direction at the same time, now he’s adding this distorted slant, by accident. I feel a shiver slinking down my spine. All this time I’ve felt someone watching me, waiting for my father to pounce, has it really been Mark? Stop it, Mark wouldn’t do that, it’s an absurd thought. Would he? What should I do? Confront him? Or say nothing, because there’s a good chance Daniel has this all confused. But I know all too well, I won’t be able to leave this be now. I need to talk to Mark. As soon as I finish work, I’ll call him.
Before I leave I ask Daniel if he fancies getting together again after work, so we can have a proper chance to talk. He considers it for a few seconds, apparently torn. Before declining, claiming important things to do. Odd. Daniel has never turned down a chance of meeting up before. Has he been warned off by Mark?
42
Natalie
I’m not quite quick enough stepping into the reception hall. Nigel pushes his door to before I’ve chance to call out to him. I know he saw me but he’s doing that thing we all do from time to time: if I don’t gain eye contact I can pretend I’ve not noticed them. I caught the shadow of him earlier when I left this morning, and I do mean a shadow – his normal upright back and stand-to-attention shoulders were slumped in a way I’ve not seen before and, I’m as sure as I can be, he was still unshaven. Nigel has never been unshaven. In fact, thinking about it, his clothes appeared as though he’d slept in them all week, never mind all night. I mentioned this to Mo, texted her on my way to work; she suggested we call around again perhaps tomorrow, maybe invite him over for supper or something. But I’m here now, so why wait?
Gently, I tap on the door. Nothing. I imagine him inside his flat, freezing to the spot, holding his breath, hoping for me to go away, if he’s perfectly quiet, I’ll leave him alone. But I’m not going to leave him alone. Two weeks ago, I would have, but sometimes we don’t appreciate we need help; we don’t always want it either. But this is only life being the bully, attempting to isolate. I recognise the desperation – he needs a friend even if he’s incapable of realising this. What I can’t quite fathom is, he’s such a matter-of-fact strong man and, whilst appreciating this suicide incident is unbelievably awful, I’m surprised it’s crushed him quite as much as it has. I tap on the door again. ‘Nigel?’ I say softly into the wood. ‘Nigel, it’s me – Nat. Can you open the door, please?’ I shuffle my feet and wait for a few seconds before adding, ‘I’d really like to speak with you.’ Make it about me and maybe he’ll answer. Then, I suppose I’m being selfish: this is about me, my need to try and help him. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t want help and wishes I would bloody well bog off.
As I begin to turn away from the door I hear a scuffling from the other side, then, slowly, inch by inch it opens, in time to resigned sighs. I’m now wishing I’d let him be. Face to face, he doesn’t speak but distrait eyes meet mine and on impulse I reach out for his hand. He doesn’t flinch but still says nothing. ‘Can I come in?’ I ask, expecting him to respond with his usual rebuffs, it’s not a convenient time, he’s in the middle of cooking his dinner, the six o’clock news is about to start, his favourite play on Radio 4 is in full flow. Instead he nods before turning away, leaving his door ajar. I follow him in and in silence we walk through to his sitting room. Where he begins to pick up books from the floor, a newspaper from the sofa and a couple of heavy crystal tumblers, the remnants of a sticky bronze-coloured liqueur in both. I meet his eyes; reaching out, I touch his arm again, waiting for the flinch but it doesn’t come. This being the most contact we’ve ever shared. ‘Please, Nigel, please don’t clear up for me. I’m not here to find out if you’ve cleared up. I’m here to see you. I’m not interested in whether your place is spotless or not. Really, please don’t tidy on my account.’
He nods again. ‘I do appreciate this, Natalie. Nonetheless, I need to – letting things go will never help. Coffee?’ he asks me. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘Thank you, milk—’
‘One sugar. I know.’ Nigel trundles off to the kitchen.
It’s only when I’m alone, I wonder, how does he know how I take my coffee? He’s never made me coffee before. Why the hell does it matter? Nigel has always been a stickler for facts and details; he’s obviously absorbed and stored this information from some point. I wander over to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf to the right of the front window, where heavy damask curtains are drawn, and I can’t help but notice they are also uneven. The first time I ever stepped foot in this room, I remember being in awe at the fall of his curtains, as if he’d measured each pleat with a ruler.
I cast my eyes over the shades-of-wine-coloured, worn-looking hardback books. I bet they smell so good. I fight back the urge to lower my head and begin sniffing – what would Nigel think if he caught me? There are rows beyond rows of the classics and what looks like the entire works of John le Carré. Reminding me how little I know of this man. The bookshelf is lined from the ceiling to the floor, without a millimetre gap between each cover, each book spine perfectly aligned to the next. To be honest, the classics I’d have expected: he and Daniel have the air of classics about them. The bottom shelf is adorned with what look like old encyclopaedia-type books. They speak to me, asking me to touch them, so I lift one of the heavy hardbacks. Pictorial Knowledge, Volume 8, it states. As I open it I’m met by a warm, comforting musty smell, reminding me of the smell of our old outhouse shed. People think I’m odd but I find this smell strangely pleasant. I breathe in deeply whilst running my hand over the aged page.
‘My grandfather’s.’ I start at Nigel’s voice and turn to see him standing close behind me. I didn’t hear him creep back in the room.
‘There’s something quite beautiful about it,’ I say, feeling my heart rate returning to normal.
‘Yes. Quite. That’s why I kept them. They’re a mishmash of everything. Almost as if they were written in wonder of the world. At each new advancement, each new discovery. Something so disorganised about the content. Someone too excited to apply any ordered content to them.’ I don’t say it, but I think it: Nigel likes disorganised? Have I completely misjudged him? He places the tray he’s holding on the walnut coffee table in the centre of the room, sitting on top of a sombre-coloured woven rug, something ever so homely about it. As I’d have expected, he’s made a proper pot of decanting coffee, nothing instant and convenient about this man. And on an ornamental china plate, there are custard creams and, oh, my gosh, ginger nuts.
Nigel moves to my side and lifts another of the books from the bottom shelf, Volume 2. ‘Look at this.’ I find myself staring at him. There’s a vulnerable warmth to him, I’ve not noticed before. A strong, manicured hand gently turns the page. ‘Everything in here from the flight of aircraft to the growing of seeds, the droughts in India to the mechanics of the brain. A real general waffle about all they knew. No particular order. Quite remarkable.’ I nod, still watching him. ‘I’ve met people who communicate like this. No relativity to their speech, but a need to inform you of everything they know. No context. No point. And here it is in beautiful book form.’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I know what you mean.’ I’ve never quite appreciated Nigel’s emotional intelligence before either. Always assumed him to be almost robotic in his ways. Clearly, he’s not; he’s a people watcher like me. He’s observant, thoughtful and something else, only he doesn’t feel the need to share his obs
ervations. I put the book I’m holding back in its place, bending down again to pick up Volume 6. As I open the cover I feel Nigel wince, taking a sharp breath in, as a piece of card floats to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘was that your bookmark? Have I gone and lost your special place?’
The card is swooped up before Nigel can draw his next breath. ‘It’s fine.’ All the softness of a few moments ago now vanished.
Then it occurs to me. ‘Nigel…’
‘It’s nothing,’ he says.
I recognise the card; I have one upstairs. ‘The postcard, Nigel. That’s the note, isn’t it? The one Mo and I asked you about. The note. The one you said you thought you’d thrown away? Remember?’
‘Yes. You’re quite right. It is.’
But there is something different about Nigel’s postcard, something very obviously different. It is handwritten, not typed. ‘But yours is handwritten and ours are typed.’ For a moment Nigel doesn’t answer me but continues to clutch the card to his chest, covering it from me, like a small child caught with something they shouldn’t have. ‘Nigel?’ I probe.
He turns, stepping away from me, enough steps so that when he holds the postcard up, I am unable to read the words. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It’s the same. See.’ He holds up the card and this time all I can see is the same style typed words.
‘But…’
Then quickly he flips the card over to show the reverse side. ‘It’s the same. I simply rewrote the sentence on the reverse.’
‘But, why?’
Placing the card safely back into the book he’s still holding, he wanders back to the bookshelf to file the book away, then lifts the one I’m holding from me to return to the shelf. Turning his attention back to the tray of refreshments, he lowers himself into the erect reading chair and begins to pour the coffee. ‘Because I wanted to see how it felt to write the sentence.’
I can’t think of anything sensible to say, so I say nothing but step towards the sofa and sit, taking the china mug he is offering me. Is this odd? What is normal in such circumstances?
‘Sometimes, we need to write things down to make any sense of them. I needed to rewrite those words,’ he says, as if reading my mind.
‘I see, and did it help?’ Though I don’t see at all.
‘The mind takes things in differently depending on whether we write the detail, speak the detail, listen to the detail or read the detail.’
I have heard this before, but it still seems like an odd thing to do – but then Nigel can be odd. ‘And then did it make any sense? The words, the sentence?’ I really want to ask what the words are but clearly Nigel doesn’t want to share them; he hid the postcard away so quickly you’d have thought it proffered the password to all his memories.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘In that, I know what whoever this is is trying to tell me. What they are referring to. However, I’d rather not speak about it.’
I have zero chance of getting Nigel to reveal the words and I’ll only alienate him if I try. I sip at the strong coffee, subtly gazing around the room. On the fireplace I spot a photograph, framed, of a beautiful young woman with dark long hair. She’s happy, smiling, demure. Putting down my mug, I step to pick it up. ‘Who’s this, Nigel? She’s beautiful.’ I glance back at him. Am I imagining it or do his eyes glisten?
‘Someone precious to me.’ He holds out the china plate. ‘Biscuit?’
‘Funny.’ I ignore his offering. ‘I didn’t notice this before, the other day.’
‘No. You wouldn’t have because it wasn’t there before.’ He puts down the biscuits. ‘Only in my mind,’ he adds.
I return the frame to the fireplace, take a biscuit, then sit back down. ‘Is everything okay, Nigel? I mean, other than the obvious shock you’ve had?’
Gently, Nigel smiles. ‘Things have been better, Natalie.’
Nigel, like Daniel, would never call me Nat. I nod. ‘I’ve noticed you’ve not really been out, and I don’t think you’ve been to work, not since… you know. The police thing.’ Nigel takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Look, you can tell me to mind my own business. It’s just, well, I understand what it’s like to be alone with the crappy stuff. I’ve been there. I also understand you’re a very private person and probably don’t want to talk to me. But I’m, we’re…’ I circle my hand behind me in an attempt to communicate the entire household ‘… all worried about you.’
‘Thank you, you’re kind, but I’ll be okay. I only need a little time, then I’ll return to work. I’ve not taken any leave this year, so perhaps I am due some, time to think.’
‘It’s hit you hard, hasn’t it, this business with your colleague, employee of yours? I mean, I’m not saying it shouldn’t, because of course it is dreadful, but even so… the thing is I’ve never seen you like this.’ As I say this, I’m conscious of how strange I must sound. I hardly know Nigel, yet here I am chit-chatting as though we’ve been married for years. I don’t know him at all, from Adam, in fact. And now I think I know him less than I even believed.
‘No. You won’t have.’
What I do appreciate is he is brilliant at word rationing – this is like pulling teeth. Part of me is desperate to shake the words from him, force him to open up and speak. Then the other part appreciates I’m being selfish, it’s not what Nigel wants and so long as he understands he has someone, should he need to share, isn’t this all that matters?
‘You’re extremely generous and thoughtful, Natalie. Please don’t assume I’m not grateful. But this is complicated and I need to work it through myself, if you don’t mind. But I am appreciative of your concern.’
We natter for a little longer, and I find myself warming all the more to this obscure character. Yes, he can be strange, distant, even aloof, but there’s also a solidness to him, an inner intelligent strength. I can’t help but feel there’s also a lot to him not so obvious to the eye, maybe even some demons buried beyond the steely surface. Certainly something has managed to crack the self-assured façade of the Nigel we all know or at least think we know.
After Nigel has seen me out, I’m no more than two steps up the stairs for my flat when something stops me. Turning in my tracks, I step back down to the hall. I’m rummaging in my bag for a piece of scrap paper, and manage to find a blunted pencil and an old receipt to scribble a note. I slide it under his front door and leave. I’m sure he’ll say no, but you never know, he may decide he could do with some company after all and meet me for lunch this week.
Opening my front door, I pause on the threshold. Are there any alien sounds, heavy ominous breathings or strange aromas? I feel my way along the wall for the light switch, holding my breath; however, the place hasn’t been ransacked and there’s no sign of any decapitated rodents. Turning on the TV, I plonk myself onto the sofa, curling my legs beneath me with the underlying bubbly feeling in my stomach. A few months ago, everything was relatively plain sailing. And now? There are the weird note scenarios, me, Mo, Daniel and Nigel all receiving metaphorical messages. Nigel’s note bothering me more and more. And why didn’t I ask him why he said he’d thrown it away when he must have known he hadn’t? He isn’t the kind of person to make those kinds of mistakes – he’d deliberately hidden it within the book. But then, Nigel is anything but himself, bless him. Or is he? How would I know?
Then there’s my father. Is he following me? Is he sending the notes? But it still doesn’t make sense – why would he send the others’ notes? Has he been in my flat or has anyone else for that matter? It’s not as though I can go to the police because I can’t say whether my flat has been violated or if it’s just good old paranoia returning to play. I’ve nothing concrete to report. A couple of items moved or missing – I’m so absent-minded lately, I could have put those things down anywhere. There’s the rat’s head. My stomach rolls with the thought of it attached to the bare skin of my foot. But Mo is right, it could easily have made its way in on the bottom of the box. And let’s not forget, there has been ab
solutely no sign of a break-in. The windows are all secured, my front door is always locked and, not to mention, I’m on the first floor of the house with an external door to enter first. Mark. Could he have been following me? No, Daniel must have this wrong. He’s acting strangely but it doesn’t make him a stalker, does it? There are the emailed photos of me, for one thing – he would have hardly sent them to himself, would he? But there is the issue of his random, sudden questioning about my past relationship. I mean, my ex, Seb, doesn’t even live in Cornwall any more, never mind St Ives. So where has Mark been digging, or was this simply an innocent question?
I really can’t go here. I need to stop suspecting all and anyone close to me – it will be Daniel and Mo next. Or anyone who so much as glances in my direction. The entire population of the world appears to have gone crazy, or am I missing something so obvious I’m unable to see it?
43
Daniel
‘You’d love to hate me, wouldn’t you?’ It’s not a question; this is an accusation. ‘Yet,’ Jacob chortles, ‘you hate to admit it, but you love me.’
The image, the words, roll over and over in Daniel’s mind. It’s been hours since he returned from the cottage and even more hours since he first lay in this blasted bed, without sleep. Is this true, what Jacob boasted? Daniel loves him, and ultimately that’s why he’s never been strong enough to walk away from him. No matter how much he hates him at times, the love binds him and confuses him, and in many respects steals his life from him. He hates to love him but can’t see a life without this love, like an addiction. Precarious, suffocating, domineering love.
After Daniel lost Rebecca, he clung to this possible love, however wrong it felt, however deep down he always wondered if it had played a part in her death. Yes, the coroner’s report, the police statements stated it was suicide. But there is suicide and then there’s suicide. Daniel heard Tommy say this once, not long after they had been introduced.
I Know You're There Page 19
