Daniel, I would like you to meet Tommy. He will be taking care of you following your move to Cornwall. At the time Daniel questioned why he should need someone to take care of him, despite realising to question was stupid, and anyway what did he expect after Cambridge? Tommy will not reside with you. But he will be watching you, or, I should say, he will be watching over you. When I am unable to.
But, Father, Daniel protested, I want a clean break, a fresh start. I don’t want to be looked or watched over. But they didn’t trust him. Cambridge had apparently been his last chance to redeem himself, he’d failed miserably, asked to leave before completing his third year. Asked to leave rather than being expelled. At the time, no one understood. No one listened. No one believed him. He wasn’t being paranoid. How was he ever supposed to flourish at university when he was being followed, stalked and attacked? But no one would listen to him. In the end, even the tutors who mentored him were in on it too. One huge conspiracy to bring him down. If it weren’t for Jacob, he wouldn’t have had anyone. But Jacob couldn’t always be around; Jacob had his own life to lead, as he would often tell him.
Daniel turns over in his bed, a bead of sweat trickling along his brow onto the pillow. He’d heard those words before, the ones Tommy used – there is suicide and then there’s suicide. His mother had used these very words, before he left for the college. It’s time to prove yourself, to move on and face your life like a proper man, she’d told him. Through Daniel’s entire senior school years and then sixth-form he’d been sent for weekly therapy appointments. His mother had made a point of never discussing these appointments with him, but then, she didn’t ever discuss her own appointments with her therapist either, so Daniel wasn’t surprised. It was a most taboo subject in their household, his mother’s special appointments, time away, weeks away from the home. Then, as Daniel said goodbye to her, he’d whispered in her ear, ‘Rebecca. She killed herself, didn’t she?’
His mother had turned and walked away; before leaving the room, her last words had been, ‘Yes, but there’s suicide, Daniel, and then there is suicide. Isn’t there?’ And this had been the last time he saw her.
Tommy is a retired mental health nurse and a full-time carer with many clients he looks after in St Ives. He advises people; whilst he’s not a carer as such to Daniel, not in the true sense of the word, he’s there on call should he need anyone and always near to pop in. Like a replacement parent, only more available, Daniel thinks, whilst his parents watch on from a distance.
Daniel throws off his covers, grabs his fleece from the chair. With no chance of sleep, he’d rather be sitting up, watching TV, anything. He heats milk in the microwave to make hot chocolate. His nanny used to make him chocolate after the nightmares when he was young. Turning off the sitting-room lights, he settles down in front of the large window looking out into the small walled garden.
He sits here for some time staring at the same oblique shadow in the dark of the garden. Puzzled by its sudden appearance, positive he’d not noticed it the previous night. It’s too large for a cat, or a dog for that matter – maybe it’s one of those hydrangea bushes? He understands lots about plants, having spent a great deal of his time when he was home from boarding school with the resident gardener. He had a kind face and when Rebecca was busy, rather than be alone, Daniel followed him around the vast gardens.
He takes a slurp of hot chocolate. Not only was this shadow not there last night, but it appears to have moved slightly in the last few moments. And there it goes again. Daniel spurts his mouthful across the floor as the unidentified shadow edges closer to his window. In the darkness of the room, Daniel’s heartbeat accelerates as he clambers from the sofa. Should he bang on the window? Yell for help? Phone the police? No, not the police. Anyone but the police. Remembering his mobile is in the bedroom, he decides to tiptoe across the floor a few feet to move closer to the window, then crouches low behind the long drapes. His breathing caught in his throat, slowly he peeps around the stiff material into the garden. The shadow has now moved away from the window, sitting in the centre of the lawn, and has without any doubt morphed into a man.
At least, he thinks it’s a man; it could be a woman. The figure is dressed entirely in black, wearing a beanie hat, and has a hooded donkey-type jacket. It’s a cloudy night, there’s no sign of the moon never mind stars, so it’s far too dark to make out any features. Gulping for breath, Daniel darts from his hiding place; he must reach his mobile. Seconds later, he’s dialling Natalie’s number, pacing his bedroom. But there’s no answer. Daniel looks at the screen. It’s 02.24 – Natalie will be in bed. He should be in bed, tucked up in oblivion. Should he run from his apartment, sound the alarm, wake everyone up? Or is this being unreasonable? Placing one foot in front of the other as if walking through a minefield, he makes his way back to the sitting room, towards the window to take back up his surveillance spot.
‘One, two, three,’ he whispers before popping his head back around the drapes. The person has vanished. Daniel edges his body out to the left to gain a better view. There’s no sight of the man or woman. Did he imagine it? Or has Jacob decided against his promise and come for him after all? Plopping himself on the floor at the foot of the sofa, he pulls his knees tightly to his chest. ‘He comes to bad intent,’ he whispers. ‘Is this what the note meant. Was it warning me of this person?’
Sinking his hand into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms, he pulls out the new note. The one he found earlier amongst the junk mail in his pigeonhole; he’d still not quite fathomed what to do with it, other than show it to Natalie tomorrow. Lowering his eyes from the darkness outside his window, he locates the torch on his mobile to shine it onto the postcard.
IT IS THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER WHICH DOTH MOCK.
‘It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock?’
44
Natalie
It’s Thursday. The Gallery is closed and I have the day off. Later this afternoon, I’m visiting the Tate with Mark, because we are still hanging on in together. At first, I’ll admit I groaned – talk about a busman’s holiday, which is completely typical of Mark – but this was before he informed me it is in fact a Cornish Gin Tasting event and delicious local suppliers will be showing off their silky clear wares. Suddenly, it sounded like a most fun afternoon. Obviously, Mark has an agenda, crawling up to the Tate manager in the hope of having his galleries, or at least the one just off the seafront, to be included in the weekly Tate art walks and talks tours. Why he would encourage lines of walking-gear-clad people bumbling their way around intricately balanced art is beyond me. But he assures me these aren’t the usual tours, the usual walking types, whatever they are. Those who are obviously not looking to shove expensive art into damp, obligatory crumb-lined rucksacks. I know this because I have said disgusting, repugnant rucksack.
‘Anyway…’ I slip my arm through Mo’s as we head our way down the pathway into town ‘… I find most art pieces attractive once I’ve sampled a little gin.’
Mo laughs. ‘You’re such a naughty secret non-supporter, Nat. How can you keep a boyfriend whose entire life revolves around art, when you’re such an art cynic?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ I shrug. This is an honest answer; I’ve been wondering the same myself. ‘I guess it’s the opposites attract theory. And maybe it’s not working and that’s why Mark keeps trying to change me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just a feeling. The odd comment. The look, you know the one.’ I tug at Mo’s arm to do the best impression of Mark’s disapproving glance as I can. Mo laughs out loud. ‘You’ve seen it too, haven’t you? Come on, admit it.’ I laugh. ‘Anyway, I do like art – I used to paint myself. I’m just not a fanatic. I’m not fanatical about anything, other than keeping my father away from me. Oh, and now trying to find out which lunatic is sending the notes and trying to generally freak me out, if this isn’t one and the same thing.’
We enter the Farmers’ Market; it’s a weekly event in St Ives
. Mo, in particular, loves it. Normally, I would too if it weren’t for feeling a little conspicuous in crowded places. There’s just one too many faces to watch, too many places for someone to dodge and hide. We stop at a cheese stall where Mo happily accepts samples of the differing Cornish blues and all things smelly. ‘I’ve not long cleaned my teeth,’ I tell her when she proffers a thumb-sized sample in my direction. Which is the truth, that and the fist now clenching my stomach, and the fact I feel as though as I’ve squeezed up tight to a radiator, my skin is so clammy, and I’m all too aware of my heartbeat. One minute, I am happily listening to the cheese seller and the fundamentals of cheese-making, then I am overwhelmed by that same feeling again. The one of being watched. Slowly, I turn; it may have been a total coincidence but I’m as sure as I can be, someone has this split second darted from my peripheral vision.
I tap Mo on the shoulder and whisper in her ear. ‘One moment, I’ll catch you up. Need the ladies’ room.’
Now, I’m here, alone. Wandering and combing the stalls with wary eyes. All too aware I’m looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack, but I have to do this. My gut instinct is telling me to. If only I could catch you, whoever you are. If only I knew for sure who you are. My mind flicks back to my father’s latest letter, waiting for me last night.
If you don’t come to me, respond to me, I will come to you, Natalie.
If this isn’t intimidation, I’m unsure what is. But what I can’t work out is, in your words, you’re so blatant, so what is with all the creeping around? Wouldn’t you simply confront me? Or are you waiting for a special moment. To catch me alone? Are you trying to frighten me first? Isn’t this what you always did, when I think of it: keep chipping away, punching the same bruise over and over until it could take no more, all the time on the surface, limiting the damage?
I feel a hand on my shoulder and spin around so fast I knock the bag of cheese, clutched by Mo, from her hand to the floor. ‘Gosh, Nat—’ she looks me over ‘—that was a tad violent.’
‘Sorry.’ I scramble to the floor for the cheese, then pop it in the hessian bag over Mo’s shoulder. ‘You took me by surprise.’
‘Clearly. Anyway, you done? Shall we carry on round? You sure you’re okay? You’ve gone ever so pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ I feel Mo’s eyes appraising me. ‘Okay, so I’m not so fine. But only because…’ I tap my forehead ‘… I can’t stop this. My imagination. I can’t stop it from, you know… always searching for something, someone.’
Mo links her arm back through mine with a consolatory smile. How can she be so relaxed about it all? We continue to drift, moving away from the food area to the crafts and gifts section, when we draw level with the stall I came here for. ‘Here.’ I nod to Mo. ‘I need some more lip balm. Have you tried this, by the way? It’s gorgeous and completely organic.’
‘Yes, so you said, but judging by the rate you seem to get through them, I’m guessing they’re poor value for money. And not exactly cheap, are they? Unlike my Vaseline.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You only bought one a couple of weeks ago.’ She rolls her eyes.
I laugh. ‘Silly. No, I can’t find it. And this is far nicer than Vaseline.’ I pay the girl behind the stall and drop the lip balm into the bag across my shoulder. ‘About the missing lip balm, now you’ve mentioned it—’
‘Oh, Natalie, please, don’t—’
‘Look, I’m not being funny but…’ Mo stops to pick up an ornate glass jar containing a beeswax candle, sniffing and inhaling its scent ‘… don’t think me utterly bonkers but… I think someone has taken it.’
Mo moves on to the next candle, lifting it to her nose. ‘What, taken it, as in stole it?’
‘Yes.’
Placing the candle back on the table, she turns to face me. ‘Someone at work or something? You think they took it from your bag? Or do you mean you’ve left it somewhere?’
‘No, I mean, someone has taken it from my flat. I couldn’t find it to take anywhere, this is the point. I know it sounds anal but…’
‘Oh, Nat, it must be there somewhere, rolled onto the floor or something. Somewhere you’ve not thought of.’
‘It’s in a glass jar. I’d have noticed it dropping and rolling on the floor, wouldn’t I? Anyway, I’ve turned the flat upside down looking for it.’
‘Then you must have taken it out with you by mistake and forgotten. Have you checked all your bags?’
‘All of them. I only have three, for goodness’ sake, since we did the charity shop clear out day and you made me get rid of all my comfort bags. You forgot the coriander, by the way.’ Mo stares at me blankly. ‘The coriander. You said you needed some, yesterday, you were going to pick it up here.’
As we wander back towards the fresh groceries, Mo squeezes my arm. ‘You’ve had another letter, haven’t you, so you’re all on edge, pretending you’re fine, but I know you too well.’
A few weeks ago, mornings out like this were normal. Even a couple of hours ago I felt more normal than I do now, but this one feeling, that one glimpse of someone, something, and the floodgates have opened. ‘It seems you do.’ I sigh.
‘Come on, love. I can see how awful this situation with your father is. Even from the brief encounters you’ve told me about, he was, is, a horrible, vile man. But let’s keep this is in perspective. He’s not been in your flat stealing your lip balm, or your cardigan either.’
‘Look, I know it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that but, in all actuality now, how can you be so certain? Because I can’t, however messed up it sounds.’
Mo pulls me to a stop. ‘Nat, think about what you’re saying. There’s been no break-in or at least not one you’ve told me about. Which means to get into your flat either you’ve left the door open or he has a key.’
She’s right, I’m being stupid. I nod and smile. In my mind, alone with my thoughts, I sound completely rational. When I repeat these thoughts to someone else, I sound clinically insane. But it’s not only the lip balm, is it? It’s everything else too. How come I’m the only one who’s stressing out, other than poor Daniel? He’s as stressed about the notes as I am. I tried to call him earlier, worried, because I had missed calls from him in the early hours, which is really odd.
Mo pays for the coriander and together we walk on. We’ll keep strolling now until we arrive at the café on the seafront. The wind is picking up and the boats in the harbour strain against the buoys they’re tied to, the tide slopping around them. In the café, we find a table near the window. Order our usual and I begin to feel better for the normality of this same old place, same old situation.
‘Did I mention I visited Nigel again? As in, I popped by his flat and he let me in. And… we had coffee together, with biscuits. Ginger nuts.’
Mo takes a bite from the golden, fruit-rich Hevva cake as I stir my cappuccino. ‘No, you didn’t. Sure I can’t tempt you?’ She nudges her cake towards me. I decline only because I’m eating out with Mark later after the Tate and it’s one of these five-course sorts. ‘How was he? I should have called in too – you’ve put me to shame. I only haven’t because…’
‘I know, don’t feel bad, I wasn’t sure if I was doing it for him or me, to be honest. But I was pleased I did. I’ve never seen him like this. I mean, I’ve obviously not known him for long but even so. Unshaven, clothes looking like he’s slept in them and his sitting room, well, his sitting room was all kind of normal. As in not perfectly tidy.’
‘Poor love. It’s hit him hard, all this, hasn’t it? This Polish girl incident.’
I’m reminded of the woman in the photo frame and how protective he seemed over it. ‘Hmm. You don’t think there’s more to it, do you? With him and the girl?’
‘How would we know? It’s certainly looking that way. Not to say this horrible business wouldn’t upset anyone, but…’
‘No, exactly, it upset me and I don’t even know her. But this is Nigel, you know, in-control-no-matter-what Nigel. And t
here’s something else.’
‘Go on.’ Mo leans into me from across the small circular table. ‘Sounds ominous.’
‘There was a photo on the mantelpiece, of a young woman. It wasn’t there when we visited before, a few days ago.’
Mo pulls a face, then shrugs. ‘Can’t say I remember what was on the mantelpiece.’
‘No, but we would have noticed if it had been there, I’m sure of it.’
‘So? Who is she, this woman? You mean you think it’s this Polish girl? Is this why he’s behaving so oddly because there was more to the relationship between her and him than he’s letting on?’
‘I’m not sure but he was extremely cagey about it.’
Mo leans forward. ‘Has he ever mentioned owning other properties in Truro to you?’
‘No, not that I can remember. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing. Only a thought, maybe he was her landlord or something like that.’
‘A bit random, Mo. Has someone suggested this, then?’
‘No. Well, yes, kind of. But I can’t say who. Confidentiality.’ Mo looks around the café. ‘Someone from one of my meetings.’
‘I see. And they said Nigel was a landlord?’
‘Not exactly. In fact, not at all. Look, you’ve got me at it now, reading things into situations. Forget I mentioned it.’
‘Something else too – you remember we asked him if he had received a note like us?’
‘Yes, he’d thrown it away, he thought. Which is very him – you can see him thinking “what a load of old nonsense” before ripping it into little bits.’
‘Exactly. Except he hadn’t thrown it away.’ Mo raises her left eyebrow. ‘I came across it in one of his books on the shelf in his sitting room.’
‘And? What did it say?’
‘Not sure. It fell to the floor. Before I could read it, he scooped it up and away. But, even more odd – it had a handwritten message on one of the sides. In Nigel’s writing.’
I Know You're There Page 20
