‘Lovely to see you too, Natalie. That nice young man let me in as he was leaving. Said I was welcome to you. Now then, you not gonna give your old man a hug?’
57
Natalie
I think about pushing past him, clambering down the stairs, but then he’ll have free access to my flat. My keys are somewhere on the kitchen workbench, so if I slam the door, push him out with force and run for it, I’ll also be locked out. I’ve no idea where Mo is with her spare key. And I can’t slam the door in his face because he now has his scruffy brown lace-ups wedged up against the door, leaning his full weight onto it, grinning at me. I can smell stale alcohol on his breath and a hazy trace of uncleanliness. His eyes that bore into me are bloodshot with a hint of yellow about them. My mind flashes back to the last moment I looked into his eyes just before the final blow to knock me out, to almost kill me. I feel the quiver rising rapidly up from my feet, spreading fast.
‘You letting me in, then, or what?’
‘Leave now or I’ll call the police.’
‘Go on, then.’ He laughs.
He knows full well I don’t have the means at the moment. He also appreciates that with a mighty shove he’ll be able to push past me, out-strength me. ‘Exactly what do you want from me?’
‘A normal father, daughter relationship, what else?’
‘It’s too late for that, it will never happen, so you’re wasting your time.’
He removes his eyes from me to look over my left shoulder into the flat. ‘Nice place you have here. Not done too badly for yourself, have you, Natty?’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Your mum always called you Natty.’
‘You’re not my mum.’
‘You’re sharp too, aren’t you? Chip off the old block.’
‘I’m nothing like you. Don’t insult me.’
‘Look, let me in, we can talk, you and me – we’ve lots to talk about, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you and nothing I want to hear from you,’ I tell him, feeling the pressure of his weight on the door increase. ‘Either you go or I’ll call the police.’ Despite my shivering, I’m aware I’m beginning to sweat, growing weaker against his bulk. ‘Leave now. Please.’ I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him for here. If he pushes his way in and shuts the door, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I can tell he feels I owe him.
‘And what’s in it for me to leave?’
‘Just go,’ I half scream, half cry as he sniggers, the stench of alcohol becoming more toxic and overwhelming. The corridor begins to cloud and spin behind him. His foot inches further into my hallway as I shunt backwards. I feel tears trickling over my cheeks and a horribly floaty feeling consuming me.
He whispers in my ear, ‘You didn’t think I’d forget, did you? What kind of a bitch sends her father to prison?’
‘You tried to kill me. Twice,’ I sob, feeling my hair being yanked as I’m pushed further backwards. I feel I’m about to black out, only remaining on my feet with the support of the wall behind me now. He has my hair in his grasp as I begin to tumble. I’ve nothing in me to yell out. I’m ashamed and humiliated, I’m about to surrender to his greater strength when I feel his existence suddenly lift away from me. I fall to the floor, staring up to where he was looming.
‘Watch it, mate,’ I hear, ‘she’s my daughter. I’m here to see my daughter. I’ve rights.’
Through the mist, I see him pinned against the wall outside my flat. Someone holding him there. Nigel. I say nothing as he then manhandles my father away, out of sight along the corridor. I listen on. Nigel doesn’t say a word. I hear him marching him down the stairs. Then, in the echoic hall I hear Nigel muttering something about being a lawyer, a witness and my father’s next step will be back in prison if he sees him anywhere near me again. The front door opens, then slams to. I’m still shaking.
It’s another thirty minutes before I regain some kind of composure. All these years of knowing and anticipating this very moment, added to all the emotions of the day, the lack of sleep, the tiny amount of food, have crashed and collided. I’m unbelievably cross with myself for becoming the mess I did. Nigel has been especially sweet, made me tea, resisted comment and listened to me waffling on in presumably some form of incoherent manner.
‘Don’t beat yourself up so cruelly,’ he says. ‘We all have our breaking points. It doesn’t make you weak, Natalie, only normal.’
‘Even you?’ I can’t help but ask, then instantly regret. Have I forgotten what he’s been like these last few weeks? ‘Sorry, I’m not thinking straight.’
He smiles. ‘Even me. It’s not always the event itself, is it? It’s when several events come together, stirring dark associations. Everything comes crashing down at once.’
‘Is this what’s been happening for you?’
Nigel nods. ‘The note. “How often do you think – I wish I’d?”’
‘Is now a good time, Nigel? To talk, I mean?’
‘The note. You see, it couldn’t be more true. The photo you saw, the young beautiful woman? She was my girlfriend, my life, Jennifer.’ Nigel stands and wanders to the window, looking out into the muddy sky. In the reflection I watch as he closes his eyes, at the same time clenching both fists. ‘I killed her,’ he says. ‘Me. I killed her, Natalie.’
My chest is tight, my breathing short. What is he saying? ‘Nigel?’
‘We were to be married, the following spring. Do you know how old I was, we were?’
‘No, I…’
‘Eighteen. Eighteen, Natalie, so young, so naïve, so stupid.’
‘I don’t understand. What do you mean? What happened?’
‘The night I proposed to her, I’d been planning it for weeks, rehearsing it in my mind, but I was so nervous. It was the first time I sampled whisky, believing it would give me some Dutch courage. We dined at a small pub in Mousehole, nothing grand. Finally, I found the courage. I led her to the harbour wall, where I proposed.’ Nigel remains upright, staring out of the window. I am still frozen to my spot. ‘I should never have been driving. I must have been over the limit. I swerved to avoid a deer on the way home, we left the road, hit a bank of trees. It was another day before we were discovered. Both badly injured, not to mention dehydrated. Both of us must have been unconscious for a while. A Farmer found us. Unbelievably, unjustifiably, I pulled through – the times I’ve wished I hadn’t. Jennifer was dead.’
Shit. Shit. Shit. ‘It was an accident…’
Nigel raises his hand, still with his back to me. ‘Anna, the Polish girl, was not much older than Jennifer. Like Jennifer, she’d had a tough time, no one to turn to. I didn’t realise it at the time but I think I was helping her for my own selfish reasons, to try and put some of the guilt to bed. I tried to look after her as I did Jennifer, only as an employer and friend. And like Jennifer, she died on my watch.’
Slowly, I stand to step towards Nigel. But he steps away, sensing me. ‘Please, don’t come any closer, Natalie. Your sympathy will only make me suffer more. Please. So there you have it, each and every day – I wish I’d…’ I stand perfectly still as Nigel passes me by, until I hear the front door shut behind him. Oh, my God, the pain we have living under this very roof, the regrets, the guilt, and Mark too. None of us are exempt, it seems.
58
Morwenna
It’s been a long and emotionally draining day. Morwenna’s feet feel particularly heavy as she treads the stairs up to her flat. She pauses for a moment, her key in the lock, to see if she can hear anything from Nat’s flat, but there’s nothing but silence, so she carries on in. If she were Nat, she’d have a long hot bath, try and catch up on some sleep, which is exactly what she recommended her to do earlier. Hopefully she’s tucked up in bed right now.
From her freezer she pulls a pre-made lasagne she meant to leave out this morning to defrost. She keeps forgetting all sorts just lately. Too much on her mind. She left poor Mark, who was demonstrating his stiff-upper
-lip, things-are-what-they-are attitude. Deep down, he is hurting. Deep down, she thinks, we are all hurting. Then, when she was lost in thought wandering through town, thinking about all the poor lost souls who attend the meetings, who should she stumble in to? Only their newest member, the guy from Truro who knew Nigel’s Polish employee, Stu. How strange, what a coincidence. Morwenna was about to engage but hesitated noticing something odd about his demeanour. Feeling guilty, she nonetheless, pretended not to recognise him, head down, scuttling onwards. But Stu wasn’t having it, turning on his heel to stand in her path. Morwenna grimaced, with the smell of stale alcohol and sweat. ‘Not saying hello?’ He blew in her face.
‘Oh, Stu, gosh – sorry, miles away, I didn’t recognise you, out of context.’
‘How about a drink then?’
Think you’ve had enough already, and there was something about him tonight she didn’t recognise last week, a general shiftiness, a spiteful look in the bloodshot eyes, something rather unsettling. Clearly, there was no abstinence in his household this week. ‘Sorry, love, I’ve somewhere I need to be, catch up next week, shall we?’ She said, stepping away from him, before hurrying off.
‘Snotty cow,’ she heard him call after her. Charming, absolutely charming.
He then began to shout, ‘Just like my daughter, she’s a snotty cow, you two make a good pair, you and the other toffee-nosed arsehole you live with. I’m a lawyer, you know, I’m a lawyer…’
What on earth is wrong with people? she thought, tutting to herself.
She pours herself a deliciously large glass of Chardonnay, thinking of how intimidating she found Stu tonight. Fills the bath, undresses and steps into the deep bubbles. Then, it dawns on her. His daughter - Natalie? Toffee-nosed arsehole, lawyer - Nigel? Oh. My. God. Stu is Natalie’s father? Surely not? Bloody-hell, so not poor down and out of luck, Stu, at all then. How has she missed this? How wrong you can be about people, it was Nat he was referring to, his daughter? And Nigel, he was actually referring to Nigel? How has she been so stupid? And this means, he’s been here, to the house? Otherwise how else would he know Nigel? Unless, Nigel is the mystery landlord? This is all too much, she thinks. She has to see Nat. She’ll give it thirty minutes, then see if there’s any signs of stirring from Natalie’s flat.
Today really hasn’t rolled out as she hoped, again. In fact it’s been awful. And, she was hoping to talk to Nat about the day John was killed in a car accident, rid herself of the ghosts trailing her. Poor John. A heart attack behind the wheel, the police informed her. A heart attack at such a young age. And she’d known all along, John was suffering with high cholesterol issues; his GP advised following a strict diet. But they both pretty much ignored him. John was too young to worry about the consequences of high cholesterol, so they thought. Each and every day, she fed him meals lovingly prepared – lovingly prepared sufficiently to kill him. How many times has she wished she listened, if only she hadn’t been so stupidly blinkered? She killed him, it being with love is completely irrelevant.
John would still be here if she’d listened to the GP. If she’d listened to the GP, she wouldn’t be an addict waiting to happen either and just maybe her son would still call her, if she hadn’t killed John.
59
Truro Cathedral
FOR FREEDOM AND MERCY AND TRUTH.
I read the words. ‘For freedom and mercy and truth.’ No freedom, no mercy, just the truth?
Cold musty air smothers my lungs, warm vapour leaks from dry lips as I recite the statement over and over. How thoughtful of someone to leave me this note, today. Typed on a postcard but also here in front of me, carved in stone. ‘To gain freedom, to seek mercy, to tell the truth.’
I’m enclosed by fourteen Victorian archways, pointing to even higher arcs, and whoever, whatever they point to observes me, shivering. Understanding, I am bad. I have failed. Or have I? Am I?
I seek freedom but do I deserve it?
I seek mercy but am I justified?
I seek the truth when I already know it, I’ve always known it.
But they don’t. They like me. They think I’m nice. Despite me being a killer.
Standing, I make my way to the intricately carved wall at the rear of the cathedral. My footsteps following somewhere in the air around me. Bowed windows, stained – red, blue, green, yellow, black, forming pictures of curious olden days, people swathed in cloth, scrutinising each step I take. I keep on moving round to the left avoiding the roped-off area; reserved for those in the choir, it says. Slowly, with a tight chest, I approach the rear of this magnificent building and there it is – the cross, light shining down, encircling it. Yet there is no window? The light begins to drag me to it; like a moth I have no choice. It knows. It understands I intend to kill again. As the magnetic pull on my body increases, I throw myself at the wrought-iron panel to my right, tightly wrapping fingers around cold stakes. I’m not ready to move yet. ‘Yes, you are,’ the voice says. I spin around to see where it’s coming from; I see no one but – I’m no longer alone.
‘I need more time,’ I plead.
‘No. Your time has been plenty.’
I think about this; have I given them enough time? ‘Each one of them guilty, each one of them a liar. Disgusting, filthy liars, like me. I warned them but they chose to continue, unperturbed, guiltless. Each playing a game with the other. The notes – what kind of arrogance goes unperturbed by the messages I sent them? They were all supposed to divide, not glue together in resoluteness. All placed in the house for good reason: to pull apart the lies and deceptions. Natalie, is it you who keeps the peace? Who strengthens the glue? Natalie, the bitch, the most devious of them all. I enrolled her, trusted her to do the right thing. Loved her. Looked out for her. She is mine to keep. Forever and ever. Amen.
‘Natalie, sweet, sweet, Natalie, everyone’s friend, she will have no freedom, or no mercy. But she will finally have the truth. But first the little lapdog must go,’ the voice whispers.
‘Daniel?’ I say.
60
Natalie
Nigel left over an hour ago. I’ve been unable to settle myself since, immobile on the sofa, in silence. I’ve not even managed to switch on the TV; it’s all closing in on me. As I’ve found answers only more questions have appeared. What is going on in my life? Everything, everyone I thought I knew, has changed. And I’m not wrong, I know – someone has been in my flat. I can feel it. Someone has taken my things; someone has definitely been following me. Was it my father or have I only been side-tracked and distracted by him? The notes – these are key, I’m sure of it. I touch my bare arms, noticing goose-bumps; the heating is off and I’m as cold as stone. I need to get away from here. I need to talk to someone.
I jump up from the sofa, grabbing my door keys from the side. I’ve nothing on my feet but it’s the least of my worries. Moments later I’m knocking on Mo’s door. She doesn’t answer. I press my head to the door; in the background I hear the melodic classical music she tends to play when feeling thoughtful. Next, I creep down the stairs one at a time with two voices in my head: one frightened of disturbing Nigel, the other wanting to stamp my way down, desperate to disturb him, to speak with him. I pause briefly outside his door only to be greeted by silence. I picture him slumped in his upright chair staring at the photo frame on the mantelpiece; my hand hovers an inch from his door before I force it down and myself to step away. Next, I’m softly tapping on Daniel’s door, counting to ten – he always answers by ten. But there’s no sound or sign of him. I tap louder. Where is everyone? All here but not for me?
Back in my flat, I pour myself an overly generous medicinal drink, switch on the TV to find something, anything simple and mindless, slumping back into the sofa. What a hell of a day. Mark… I knew we were on dodgy ground but I wasn’t expecting it to end so suddenly. We both understand – the end is what it is. I’m both sad and numb. Then, bloody hell, poor Nigel, whoever would have thought it? And there’s me thinking I’m the only one with a to
rtured past. Another hour passes and I’ve done nothing but ruminate, finish off the wine and eat my way through two family packets of cheesy Wotsits, making my mouth orange and zingy. Despite the alcohol attempting to override my inhibitions, I’ve managed to leave Mo in peace and Nigel too; instead I’m back at Daniel’s door, knocking louder than I probably should. Still nothing. I try again an hour later. Resigned, with three may as well be empty flats in the house, I finally take myself off to bed with a heaped bowl of cereal with brimming milk; the minute I delve in with the spoon, over-spilling onto my Kindle, soaking into the duvet. Tomorrow has to be better, doesn’t it?
*
It’s Sunday. I’m supposed to be at the bistro. I wake with the familiar panic of a temporary lapse of what it is I’m supposed to be worrying about but before too long it all comes flooding back. So I lie motionless in bed, in the dark, for a few more minutes. When I finally roll over to check the time, I see the text from Mark. I’d rather not open it but, what with my life being so embroiled in his, I have to. It’s a formal, cold, generic text informing his workforce he’s decided to close everywhere for the day – in fact he’s decided to close everything business-related for the next week. Everyone will be duly paid and should wait for further notice of his intentions. Typical Mark behaviour: sulky and showing his cards for the controlling hand he holds. Still, I feel sad, lost and something else. I wish this year would speed up and end; I’ve run out of adrenaline and head space.
Hurriedly, I shower, then breakfast on beyond-best bread, before scrambling down to Daniel’s flat. Strange, but the natural warmth of the Victorian house has been replaced with an odd, unnerving emptiness. I’m not playing any more; so loudly, I bang on Daniel’s door. Still, nothing. I return to the flat to try his mobile, which is apparently unable to take my call right now. I mooch around the flat doing things half-heartedly to waste another hour until I decide I can wait no longer. Daniel should have been home or up or something, by now. Is he okay? I’m stepping from foot to foot outside Mo’s door; her flat is unusually quiet but she must be up, surely? There’s no response when I knock so I decide the best thing to do is text her. Something feels very wrong: why has everyone disappeared?
I Know You're There Page 27
