‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, neither did I. I queried it with him. Apparently, he merely copied the typed message on the reverse of the card. Trying to make sense of it. Something about things making more sense when you write them down.’
‘I see. I think.’
I take a sip of coffee. Mo pours another tea from the pot. Shuffles her chair a little closer to the table. ‘I’ve had another one,’ she whispers.
‘Another note?’
From her pocket she pulls a postcard and lays it flat on the table, turning it for me to read the words.
ONCE ONE, ALWAYS ONE. IT WILL FIND YOU BEFORE YOU FIND IT.
‘What the hell, Mo? Seriously, this is all becoming worse than creepy. We have to tell someone. What’s it supposed to mean anyway?’
‘Once an addict, always an addict, I guess. Someone is trying to tell me, in case I didn’t get it from the first note – they know about my little dark secret. Although the first note may not have been about the… oh, no matter trying to decipher whatever this lunatic is attempting to do. I don’t know why I’m even giving it my attention.’
‘Because it’s sheer madness and quite scary, Mo. We need to pay attention. What do you mean about the first note, the one that said everyone has their secrets – that one?’
‘I’ve no idea what I was going to say, love. I’m fed up with the whole business, I know that.’
There’re a few near tears from Mo, clearly this is upsetting her more than she’s letting on. Am I shocked about the whole addiction thing? No, not really. Or maybe I was a little at first because Mo always seems so strong and together. That’s not to say I don’t still see her this way, because I do. But I suppose it’s easy to think someone I’ve perhaps been leaning on morally, especially, is perfect in every way. In reality, who’s perfect in every way? According to Mo, addiction is anything you do on a regular basis that has negative consequences on your life. Jesus Christ, this must mean the world is riddled with addicts, me included. But what neither of us can fathom is, who else found out about it? I didn’t. And I’m as close to Mo as anyone. Someone holds information on us all, private information. What are we missing? I wish I’d caught a glimpse of Nigel’s note. If it weren’t for the state he was in I would have been more persistent he shared it with me. I’ve had a text off Daniel. He wants to meet up urgently, but it will need to wait until tomorrow. I’m already late for Mark, and I’ve yet to get changed into something arty and appropriate.
I leave Mo in town, doubly late as I’d forgotten I also need to go to the bank and the chemist before home, and of course there’s a massive queue for both counters. Thirty minutes, even later, I hotfoot it up to the house. I’m sweating by the time I reach the front door, which is strangely already locked. I begin rummaging in the pit of my bag for the key as the door opens.
‘Daniel. Good timing.’ Daniel’s not smiling, but has a childlike, panicked look about him. ‘I have your text but I’ve no time now. I’m late for Mark. Can we get together tomorrow?’
I step into the front hall. ‘Will that be okay, Dan?’
He nods. ‘Okay. I only wanted to tell you something. About the shadow in the garden.’
‘Shadow in the garden, is that why you rang me?’ I look at my watch. I should have been at the Tate two minutes ago. ‘It was probably a cat or something. Try not to worry too much but we’ll chat about it tomorrow, okay?’ I run up the stairs, feeling awful. Daniel won’t stop worrying; what a stupid thing for me to say. If he’s still up when I return later, and he usually is, I’ll give him a knock.
I enter my flat. I’m only a foot over the threshold before I get a whiff of that smell again. What is it? I take a deep breath in, then fly around the flat like a mad person, banging doors flat against walls, the usual checks, but this time I also pull all the clutter from under the bed, just in case it’s obscuring someone. Then in the wardrobe I stab at the clothes hanging long enough to hide a body. What am I doing? It’s broad daylight.
But what is that smell? The scent of paranoia? The headiness of anticipation? Or has someone been in my flat? Again?
45
Natalie
The Tate Gallery event was fun. The gin, delicious. Who’d have thought you could tint, hint and adapt gin in so many ways? Even Mark seemed relaxed and I didn’t show him up, or at least that’s what the gin told me. Afterwards we popped back to his whitewashed brick and glass pad, overlooking the harbour beach, and because of the gin I fell fast asleep and would happily have stayed asleep for the rest of the day and probably the next too. I tried my best to persuade Mark to stay in, but he had pre-arranged chats with the manager of our next stop restaurant on Sennen Cove beach. Apparently, he’s loaning artwork to enhance the new décor. It beats me where he gets his energy from. What I’d have given for stringy, melty pizza on the bed or, better still, in it. Which is stretching it because Mark would never go for the crumbs-in-bed thing. So, we went and while Mark had his chat, I sat on the decked balcony, sipping a cocktail, staring out into the horizon. Everything perfectly still, but for the evening surfers, drifting to and from a distant low tide. The sky is a melange of blues and ambers, broken by mackerel-scale clouds. I imagine kicking off my shoes, being magnetically pulled to the water’s edge, gradually treading further and further out, my dress floating on the surface like a giant jellyfish. Free.
Two people facing one another, a table overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. A bright ball of orange flames floating across the surface from east to west. Food fit for your last supper. Isn’t it always worse, when things are bad, when everything else is so dreamy perfect? Mark deciding now is a good time to share he knows I’ve been back to visit Nigel. Does he actually have hidden CCTV in the house or what? Someone has obviously advised him about my impromptu visit to a neighbour in need – who? He won’t say or, as he puts it, he doesn’t know, it isn’t relevant. He intended to talk to me about something else tonight, something important, he tells me, but clearly this is no longer the time. I try to appeal to him. When we first met, he was that kind person who took the time to unravel the sadness, acknowledging a person in need; he doesn’t appreciate how difficult it is for me to admit this either. But I see this now: I had so many unmet emotional yearnings. Why can’t he accept Nigel needs help?
We’ve left the restaurant and we’re heading back; Mark is focusing on the driving and I’m gazing through the passenger window. Classic FM plays in the background, sucking my emotions in with each provocative piece, drifting between bafflement, possibly resentment but also – sadness? It’s the point I want to ask Mum, is this me? The fine-tuned orchestra of my past playing its way into my present. Or is this Mark and we’ve come as far as we can on our journey? I’m miles away when Mark’s hand reaches over for mine and for a minute I want to grab it, hold onto it, cherish whatever it is he is offering me. But there’s that little voice in the back of my mind saying – don’t let him in any further. He’s already creating problems so what’s the point? Then a softer voice says: But if only you’d let him, Natalie, you could be happy, you never know. But can I take the risk? Not all men are like my father, are they? All couples have their moments. I take hold of his hand, turning to glance at him. Taking his eyes from the road, he meets mine. There’s that warm smile of his again, the one I seem to have buried under all the rubbish of late.
‘Sorry,’ he whispers, squeezing my hand.
‘Me too,’ I reply. But here’s the thing – am I? For what exactly? There’s a tightness in my chest, tears threatening to surface, the pressure inside building as I push them back, clenching bare toes against kicked-off shoes. I turn back to the blackness the other side of the glass. I don’t like to cry; it makes me feel even more vulnerable. If my father ever saw me cry, it would only enrage him further. His blows would increase along with the burning hatred I’d see in his eyes. Each kick, each punch, was it really so many years ago? The bruises still feel so sore. I look down, unaware I’ve removed my hand from Ma
rk’s and wrapped my arms across my body. It was always the same dilemma when the blows came: did I try and cover the largest areas of my body or did I wrap my arms around my face, my head? I needed more arms, more hands, less body. Usually, I’d opt for both, positioning my arms wherever I felt the impact could strike next. It was easier in the earlier days, he was so predictable – rarely would he strike my face – but towards the end, it was wherever took his fancy.
‘About the Nigel incidents,’ Mark says.
I can’t help but release a sigh. ‘How many times? There were no “Nigel incidents”.’
‘Sorry. Bad choice of words. What I’m trying to say is – I’m sorry about…’
‘I know what you want to say, Mark. But this is just it – in your heart, you still said what you meant.’
‘I’ll try harder.’
I let my head roll back against the headrest. ‘You’re not really getting it, are you? There’s no need for you to try. I’ve not had an affair, Mark. I’m helping out a friend. I visited a friend once to check if they needed help in particularly difficult times. I really don’t understand how you…’
‘Twice.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Twice. You’ve been to his flat twice.’
I close my eyes and count to ten. Flipping, shitting, shit! This isn’t me, it’s definitely him. Earlier tonight, around ten minutes after our third course arriving, Mark explained how he felt I was too friendly with Nigel and even if a growing relationship wasn’t my intention, it was most probably Nigel’s. In other words, I was leading him on. We both were apparently racing along a slip-sliding precarious pathway to red-hot adultery. I think it was a further five minutes before I managed to re-engage my lower jaw with my top one. What the actual hell? ‘You seriously cannot be serious?’ I asked. ‘I never thought you to be so unbelievably insecure.’ He said something about where there was smoke, there was always fire. This was when I raised my voice sufficiently to turn the heads of people at surrounding tables. ‘That’s crap. No, there isn’t, sometimes there is smoke without fire. Stop being so bloody one-dimensional, black and white. You only want to find the fire to prove some stupid hang-up you have, that clearly you’ve not bothered yourself to tell me about.’ I must have hit a sore point; Mark bowed his head, and minutes later he changed the subject.
Mark doesn’t do angry, he does streams of articulate words, measured, precisely targeted, followed by sulky with a defensive wall appearing around the same time as my defensive one, after the red mist has dispersed. Sometimes, I worry I’ll spontaneously combust. The fourth course arrived; whatever it was I couldn’t taste, my tongue too bound by the teeth wrestling it to the floor of my mouth. I told Mark about the notes, he laughed it off for some reason, I asked if had received one, but – absolutely not. I began to probe further on this but he shut me down. I asked him about the photos and why someone had been shit-stirring; feeding him information about me. Who was it? Of course, he said it didn’t matter and was highly irrelevant. Of course it bloody mattered. As though things were not screwy enough at the house. It mattered a great deal. Who could I not trust?
We pull into a twenty-four-hour petrol station. ‘I’ll be quick,’ Mark says. I nod at him. I didn’t ask for him to be quick. Does he think everyone is always on some kind of time-constrained mission? I’ve one eye on Mark through the driver’s side mirror, while the other one can’t help but focus on his mobile sitting in the compartment behind the gear stick. Flashing at me. Go on, take a look, you may find the answer to what you’re wondering. Mark will be a few minutes yet. I glance over to the lit-up store; there’s only one other person paying. My hand hovers towards the mobile; I jump as Mark taps on the window. He’s asking if I want anything, whilst still filling up with fuel. I shake my head and smile. Yes, I want to know the truth. Why won’t he tell me? Because it wouldn’t be fair, he’d argued in the restaurant, then changed this to because he doesn’t know who his informant is and, again, it’s beside the point. I hear him finishing off, securing the petrol cap, my eyes fixed on him in the mirror. My hand lurks towards the mobile. Someone else has reached the queue inside; I can do this. Mark paces towards the store. I illuminate the screen. He is now wandering around, a loaf of bread in arm, hovering by the milk products.
Password. Password. Of course, Mark’s phone will be protected by a password. Bugger. Bloody bugger. And it will be some peculiar concoction, not his childhood pet.
Mark is now making his way to the cashier. I’m not really sure what makes me do this – impulse, intuition? I open the glove compartment, holding my breath. Then I’m clasping my mouth; I can’t believe what I am seeing. Liar. Mark has blatantly lied to me. He’s a proper liar. Out of the corner of my eye I see his silhouette fast approaching the driver’s door. Shut the compartment, my mind is screaming, but I freeze. Why has he lied to me? I asked him only hours ago; he denied it. Why?
46
Daniel
Daniel’s been unable to remove the shadow in the garden from his mind; he’s felt too unsafe to leave the flat. Morwenna called by an hour ago but it’s not the same. Natalie understands him in ways he can’t be sure the others do. He could talk to Tommy but Tommy has this matter-of-fact, flippant attitude – sometimes it feels as if he doesn’t take Daniel seriously, as though he’s mocking him. And can Daniel trust him? Is he all and who he says he is? Nigel isn’t at his best lately and Daniel doesn’t really know what to say to make anything better for him, so he feels too awkward to knock on his door. Then again, can he trust Nigel? Why did he have Natalie’s cardigan, the one she’s been looking for? Although Natalie said Daniel was mistaken about the cardigan.
It takes longer than usual to make the climb to the cottage. Asking Jacob for advice isn’t the best move either, but as Jacob always reassures him, contrary to Daniel’s misgivings, he always has his back covered. What an odd expression – why would someone cover his back? It’s not as though he walks around without a shirt. Over the years Daniel has learned Google is incredibly useful for these strange sayings he has been able to find meaning and reason behind the words. Now, inside the cottage, sitting at the old table, Daniel notices Jacob’s obvious agitation with him, making him doubly concerned about saying the right thing. Sometimes he worries if Jacob can read his mind or if he has spies – how does he know so much about him and the people he cares about in the house? The other week Daniel even combed his flat for CCTV cameras. When he was a child, the family home was riddled with CCTV cameras, even his bedroom wasn’t spared. The gardens, the tennis courts, the swimming pool area – eyes followed everywhere.
‘Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca.’
‘Stop. Please. Stop.’ Daniel lays his head flat on the table. ‘Please.’
Jacob laughs. ‘Always there, isn’t it? No matter where you go. No matter who you meet. Always there. Rebecca. With you, inside you.’
‘Please.’
‘Why did you ask to meet?’
‘I needed some advice,’ Daniel mumbles into the table.
‘So?’
Slowly Daniel lifts his head. Is it safe to come out from his mental lockdown? ‘I need to know, did you come to my flat? In the middle of the night. Did you come into the garden?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I saw a shadow in the garden. One minute it was there, the next it was gone.’
‘A shadow or a metaphor, was it?’
Why can’t he give him a straight answer? ‘A metaphor?’
‘Come, Daniel, two years as an English student, you still ask – what is a metaphor?’
‘I know what a metaphor is. I meant…’
‘Perhaps it was a rogue conscience you saw?’
Daniel clasps his hands to his face. Jacob’s playing games with him. He’s a master of game-playing; rarely has Daniel ever beaten him.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time for a conscience to be skulking the grounds in the dark. An unrested conscience. Grappling with its keeper. Outcast and negle
cted. You may run but you can never hide – who said that? Wise fellow. Dull, predictable, yet wise. Come on, Daniel, you know this, you do so disappoint me sometimes.’
Daniel shouldn’t have come. What was he thinking? How could Jacob possibly help? When has he ever made things better? Daniel’s so confused because there are also the times when he doesn’t know how he’d have coped without him. That’s why he came: for all his evilness, he’s safe, understanding Daniel better than anyone, perhaps more than Daniel understands himself.
‘Natalie.’
Daniel jumps at the mention of his friend, feeling a warmness inside at the mention of her; she’s kind and ever so lovely. Mark’s a very lucky man. The warmness is replaced by a cold slab of fear. If Jacob has learned how he feels about Natalie; he could view her as a threat. Daniel shrugs.
‘You don’t care about Natalie. Is this why your eyes flicker at the mention of her?’
‘I do like her but no more than anyone else.’
Jacob’s laugh bounces off the walls. ‘No, of course you don’t. That’s right.’
‘I didn’t come to talk about Natalie. She’s just someone who happens to live in a flat in the house. She’s no different from any of us who live there.’
‘Is that so? Enlighten me to the us in the house.’
‘Okay.’ Anything to remove the attention from Natalie.
‘You like them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Trust them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’re more a fool than I thought.’ Jacob stands from the chair, wandering to the old Cornish Range. ‘Do you think the family were happy here, Daniel? You think Mrs Cottage cooked lovingly right here in this spot,’ Jacob stamps his feet, ‘while Mr Cottage looked on?’
‘Probably. How would I know?’
‘Because you’re a fantasist, Daniel, an old romanticist. You’ve pictured them, haven’t you, in your mind’s eye?’ Jacob leans forward, slamming the palm of his hand on the table. ‘Seen them, gathered around this very table. Happy. Without darkness. Something you feel so detached from. Do you still see Rebecca? Happy, not dead. The two of you running through the garden?’
I Know You're There Page 21
