It’s only when I throw myself onto the sofa that I notice Mark’s jacket from the other night. Mark has a set of spare keys to all the flats in the house. In fact, he has two sets: one he keeps locked away at his flat, then the master, for some reason, he keeps the hefty bunch in his inside jacket pocket. So he’s able to always feel the weight of his success, I used to tease him. Affronted, he said it was so he could ‘at all times gain quick access if there was a technical emergency’. Was running out of loo roll when on the loo classed as a technical emergency? I laughed.
Crawling across the sofa, I pull the jacket to me. It’s heavy, hopefully because of the keys. As I search the inside pockets, I’m momentarily side-tracked by a sweet, woody aroma, then I’m sniffing at the lapel. Is this the same sweet, woody smell I caught in my flat a few evenings ago? The same one worn by whoever knocked me down in the street? The one I smelt on Mark’s jumper when he flung it off in the car? For goodness’ sake, I tell myself, there are only so many aromatic perfumes, they all smell much alike. I can’t say it’s Mark’s usual scent, but maybe I didn’t used to be so hyper-attentive?
Ten minutes later, I’m gently closing the door behind me. It may be wrong to let myself into Daniel’s flat, but not impossible. Inside, it’s deathly quiet, the kind of quiet like when you pop by someone’s house when they’re on holiday. It’s all wrong – I feel it in my bones. My feet are reluctant to move. ‘Daniel?’ I whisper. ‘Daniel, you here?’ I feel in my pocket. I’ve left my mobile behind – why would I do that? ‘Daniel?’ I call out again despite my instincts screaming he’s not here, he’s not been here all night. Where could he be? Decided to visit his parents?
I look around for the closest light switch. The curtains must be closed as the flat is pretty much in darkness. Surely, Daniel would have told me if he was planning on being away for any time? Daniel’s a creature of habit, he wouldn’t just up and leave. Gingerly, I push open the door to his bedroom, poking my head into the dim room. My eyes find the bed. He always, always makes his bed, no matter what; he’s told me this – he couldn’t possibly leave the flat without making the bed. His bed is unmade. It’s more than unmade. Treading slowly towards the large window, aware of my heart pumping, I pull back one of the curtains. And turn.
As light seeps through the room, I take in what I feared. The room has been trashed. The bed is not only unmade; the covers lie in dishevelled heaps on the floor. The bottom sheet hanging on for dear life, skewed across one half of the mattress. The lamp that would normally sit on the bedside table is smashed into jagged pieces on the floor and the shade lies alone at the foot of the bookshelf. With my heart now in my mouth, I take a sharp breath in, as my eyes meet the words dancing in an eloquent script across the wall. Lipstick, they’ve been penned in lipstick. Winter-berry-lipstick words. My lipstick – I’d recognise the shade anywhere.
BUT I WILL WEAR MY HEART UPON MY SLEEVE. FOR DAWS TO PECK AT: I AM NOT WHAT I AM.
Somewhere inside I am screaming, wanting to run but simultaneously nailed to the spot. What the actual hell? ‘But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at. I am not what I am.’ My mouth fills with sour saliva; I can’t swallow. ‘I am not what I am? Oh. My. God. Who the shit talks like this? What does it mean? Jesus, Daniel, what has happened to you? One stunted step at a time I move closer to the wall, stooping down to pick up the remains of the blunted lipstick. A shiver rolls down my spine and I drop it to the floor, watching it bounce then roll back towards me over what look like dirty man-size footprints. What has happened in this room? Dirty footprints? My eyes follow them but there’s no single path, more a frenzied covering of them until they disappear from the room. There’s a buzzing in my ears; someone took my lipstick, from my flat? I wrap my arms around me, feeling so exceptionally unsafe here, alone but also… upstairs locked behind my own door… This proves it beyond doubt: someone has been in my flat, whoever has done this to Daniel. I reread the words on the wall. What the hell does this mean? Someone has taken Daniel?
Trembling, I escape from the room back into the hall, towards the front door. Just as my hand reaches the lock, I am suddenly deafened by the dulcet tones of a male opera singer. Sufficiently loud to pierce my eardrums. I should leave, run, but I don’t; stupidly, with hands covering my ears, I make my way towards the sitting room. In the doorway, I steady myself against the frame. The once cosy sitting room is now a disaster area. It takes me a few moments to contemplate before I begin searching for the remote for the blaring Alexa device on the other side of the room. An alarm must have been set for this ridiculous volume to attract attention, to make me come here. Is this a trap? I stamp over the mess on the floor for the switch on the wall. There’s little point in shouting commands at Alexa; I’ll never be heard over the racket. I’ve never seen anything like it. The floor is invisible for ripped-out pages. Discarded hardback books, slung across the floor, pages torn, crumpled and destroyed. Daniel. Oh, my God, Daniel. Everything you ever loved.
I find the switch and in silence, other than the ringing in my ears, slowly, I begin to step back over the sea of off-white pages until I tread on something soft. I’m almost afraid to look down but when I do, I see a pile of strewn clothes. Stepping aside, I lift up a pale blue cotton, collared formal shirt; underneath this is a jacket, one that I’m as sure as I can be I’ve never seen Daniel wearing. Like an old-fashioned smoking jacket, a deep ruby colour, but what’s more alarming is – it has an unmistakable sweet, woody scent. I’m thinking of a time when I first visited Mark’s flat, laughing and teasing him for owning such a garment, but this can’t be the same one, it’s not possible – why would Daniel have it? I begin to search through the pockets for clues of ownership, with the jacket suspended mid-air. Until I hear something, slow-moving subdued footsteps, the sound of the front door being pushed to. The feeling of no longer being alone in the flat. Dropping the jacket to the floor, I fumble for my mobile in the back of my jeans, remembering I don’t have it, and someone is making their way towards the sitting room. I hold my breath. If I wanted to scream I couldn’t. Looking around, I spot, then reach for, a large piece of rock, thankful for the day Daniel and I found it on Porthmeor beach and that he wasn’t dissuaded by me from carrying such a cumbersome object home. It takes both of my hands to lift it before I quickly squeeze myself behind the door to wait. As a body steps into the room, I lift the rock up and above my head and I think I may well be sick. Stepping forwards.
‘Tommy, Jesus, shit. Tommy.’ I begin to lower my arms.
‘Bloody hell, Natalie. What? What’s going on? Where’s Daniel?’
Dropping the rock to the floor, only narrowly missing my toes, I slink to the ground. Leaning up against the wall, I pull my legs into me.
‘Natalie,’ Tommy persists, ‘what are you doing? What’s happened in here?’ His eyes search the room before returning to me. ‘Talk to me, Natalie.’
‘You scared the shit out of me. That’s what’s going on.’ I take in a deep breath and Tommy offers me a hand to help me stand. ‘Daniel’s not here. I let myself in because I was worried. I’d not seen him, not heard from him, so unlike him, and the last time I saw him, he wasn’t at his best, and… I found this. Come with me.’ Pushing past Tommy, I leave the room. Tommy ignores me, surveying the utter chaos round him. ‘Tommy,’ I say. ‘Now! Come and see this.’
I take him to Daniel’s bedroom.
‘Bloody hell,’ he says again, fetching his mobile from his pocket. ‘Othello.’
‘What? What d’you mean, Othello?’
‘Shhh. Give me a moment.’
‘What you doing? Calling the police?’ He shakes his head, flicking through the mobile.
‘No? Why not? We have to. What’s wrong with you? We need to call the police.’
‘No,’ Tommy snaps. ‘At least not yet.’ He softens his voice. ‘Trust me, Natalie. Not yet.’
Trust him? I know nothing of this man. I’m pretty sure, from reading between the lines, even Daniel doesn�
��t trust him. Standing here right now, to be honest, I don’t think I could trust anyone; all rationale has dived out of the building. ‘But Daniel could be at risk. This smacks of a kidnapping to me. Jesus, listen to me, why would anyone kidnap Daniel? But look at the bloody words on the wall. You have to call the police, Tommy, or I will.’
He holds up his hand to me. ‘Stop it. Just stop it. You’re being overdramatic.’
‘Overdramatic? Are you for real? This isn’t sodding normal. I don’t know what kind of world you live in. But it doesn’t take Sherlock to work out – something’s very wrong about this particular picture.’
‘Natalie. Stop. Hysteria will not help,’ he says, scowling at his mobile. ‘No answer from his father.’
‘Okay, so what do you suggest we do? Nothing? Carry on with our day, maybe catch up later to discuss it?’
Tommy takes me by the arm, escorting me to the door. ‘Leave this to me. Okay. You don’t understand Daniel as I do. Leave this to me. If you care about him at all, Natalie, don’t call the police. I mean it – if you involve the police you’ll be putting Daniel in danger. I’ll call you as soon as I find anything out.’ His hand hovering over his mobile, ‘let me have your number.’
‘Oh, okay, then, sure.’ I shrug his hand from my arm. ‘I don’t bloody think so. Have you been dropped on your head a lot?’
I turn to make for the front door but Tommy pulls me back, his grip on my arm pinching. ‘I’m warning you, Natalie.’ I squirm for him to release his grip. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. But you must trust me, for Daniel’s sake. For your sake, please, leave this to me. If we’ve not resolved anything by later this afternoon, then – the police. Okay?’
The last part of his comment, it was intended to be a warning. I’m abler than most to feel the wrath of threatening words. There’s not a chance I’ll be frightened off by him. Stepping towards the front door, I nod. ‘Okay.’ I give him my number. ‘Promise to keep me informed?’
‘Of course,’ Tommy says, closing the door behind him, and we go our separate ways.
61
Natalie
I wait for Tommy to shut the front door behind him, watching his silhouette disappear down the steps before scurrying back upstairs. This time I bang on Mo’s door, forcefully. Still, no answer, no sound at all. With a shaky hand, I scramble to get the key inside the lock of my door. There has to be something I can do. I can’t do nothing. Daniel is in danger, I feel it. I make my way through to the sitting room, grab my mobile, but there are no messages, then flump down into the sofa before realising I’ve not done my checks of the flat. But no one dare jump on me right now with my adrenaline soaring through my body like a steam train. I glance at the mobile, in hope I was mistaken. Where are you, Mo? I dial her number three times before accepting there is no ring tone in response. Either she’s forgotten to charge her mobile again, she’s deliberately turned it off or she’s in an out-of-service area. None of which help me.
Think, Natalie. Think. Where can she be? Why would she have switched her mobile off? Is this a special day, an anniversary, a birthday or something or other? Is she on her way to Truro? I know she visits the cathedral on certain occasions. She’s not religious but says there’s something about being there, helps her feel closer to John. But wouldn’t she have mentioned this yesterday? Maybe not, given the nature of our conversations. What if she’s been taken too? What if she’s somewhere scared with Daniel and that idiot is holding me back from calling the police for some unknown reason?
Nigel? He’s in no fit state for this but better than I do nothing. I jump up from the sofa, throwing my bag over my shoulders. Just as I’m closing the front door, I remember the spare keys, and run back for them. I knock on Nigel’s door, several times, each time, each knock becoming more urgent. There’s no response, so I put my ear to the door: nothing. There is no sound. I look down to the set of keys in my hand. And I know, I know I shouldn’t even be contemplating this, but I flick through the keys until I find Flat 23A, it strikes me that even Mark shouldn’t have Nigel’s key, this flat doesn’t belong to Mark. This is so wrong, Natalie, so wrong, but my intentions are good, even if it means breaking into someone’s home. Nigel would understand. Gently I turn the key, then begin to push open the door. ‘Nigel, Nigel? You there? It’s me – Nat?’ I wait halfway over the threshold. ‘Nigel?’
This is bloody typical. Nigel hasn’t been out of his flat in weeks and today’s the day for him to finally take me up on my advice and bugger off somewhere. Oh, God, Nigel, why did you have to listen to me? I’m about to leave when I think, I should check, check he’s okay and that his flat isn’t in the same state as Daniel’s. Warily, I creep towards the sitting room, still calling his name, praying he’ll answer. A tight fist squeezing my intestines. Taking a deep breath in, I open the closed door to enter the room. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see: Nigel on the floor? His books ripped to shreds? The curtains billowing in the wind escaping a smashed window? Another encrypted message on the wall?
The sitting room is empty. The sitting room is spotless. Ordered. In a Nigel way I’ve not seen recently. Turning from the room, I head for the kitchen, for some reason still calling his name but, unless he’s lying in wait behind the door with a freshly sharpened knife, he’s not likely to answer now. I shove at the door, allowing it to swing on the hinges, before pushing it flat against the wall, just in case. The kitchen smells strongly of cleaning products. There isn’t a mug out of place and the stainless-steel sink is positively blinding in the sunlight. Next, I find the bathroom in the same condition, clean enough to make an operating theatre appear dirty. The last room to try is the bedroom. Do I really want to do this? No, but I have to. I knock on the door and wait for a few seconds before entering. My eyes skitter from the perfectly made bed, to drawn-back curtains, hanging symmetrically, each pleat in beat with the other. A chest of drawers with expensive men’s grooming products synchronised on top. A pair of mule slippers, pushed neatly against the wardrobe door, are the only rogue items without a place.
I’m about to leave when something catches my eye. Over the other side of the bed there is a carrier bag on an antique, wooden chair. The carrier bag is folded over but the pale cashmere fabric inside, slightly poking from where the integral handle is situated, is screaming at me. Not quite believing what my eyes are suggesting, I tread towards it. From the white bag I pull a beautifully soft cashmere cardigan. My cardigan. Something falls when I pick up the bag, hits my feet, then rolls onto the floor. And I know before I even look, I know what it is. My lip balm. Instinctively, I drop the cardigan to the floor and run. To the bedroom door, half expecting it to be forced shut before I reach it, then for the key in the lock to be turned. Out in the hall, I keep moving for the front door, holding my breath until I’m out of the flat, where I pull the door shut tightly behind me.
I can’t decide which way to run. Should I return to my flat, lock the door and call the police? Yes, I should, but I can’t. I don’t feel safe there any more. I don’t feel safe in this house any more. I’m the only one here but it doesn’t feel like it. That sensation of being watched, hunted, surrounded is what I feel. I clutch the front door latch, pulling the door wide open, all the time waiting to be pulled back. Panicking, I lose my footing and tumble down the few steps onto the pavement. I can breathe again but I need to get away from here, to be somewhere with people, anywhere. I need to call the police. Tommy, what is it you’re not telling me? Can I trust you? Will I really put Daniel at risk if I speak to them? Scrambling to my feet, looking over my shoulder, I half run, half walk my way down the serpent path into town. Listening all the time, waiting for an ominous hand on my shoulder.
Passing the closed bakery, I take the mobile welded to my damp hand, press the call icon and enter 999. ‘Hello, emergency service operator. Which service do you require: ambulance, fire, police or coastguard?’
‘Police,’ I hear myself say. But what do I say next? My neighbour’s flat has
been trashed, there is lipstick on the wall and someone has ripped all his books up, I’ve no idea where he is and he’s unbelievably scared of you because he thinks he killed his sister. My other neighbour and close friend has also disappeared, I’ve no idea where she is and, to be honest, I’ve no idea what else she is keeping from me. Oh, and one final matter, my other neighbour, who’s also missing, well… it appears, he has broken into my flat at some point, maybe he’s been wearing my cardigan, my lip balm, and it turns out he’s not the person I thought him to be either, and while I’m here I may as well mention Mark, but, as it happens, you’re already well acquainted with him apparently. Shit, I almost forgot, there’s also my father, and he wants to kill me. And in telling you all this, I’m probably putting one of my dearest friends’ life in danger. For Daniel’s sake. Natalie, don’t call the police. Trust me. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight. I don’t need the emergency services. I only need to speak to someone for some advice or something. My sincere apologies for wasting your time,’ I say with an incongruently calm voice.
Since I don’t want to return to the house, I do as the operator suggests and wander through the town, backing up on myself up the hill, past the uniform terraces, the smell of Sunday roasts floating in the air, to the local station to speak with the sergeant on duty. Outside, I loiter – now what? What exactly do I say? Do I wait for Tommy’s call? If I repeat the happenings of my life in the last few weeks, will I sound like a complete fantasist and end up being locked up, carted off in a straitjacket? I should walk away now while I still can, but my legs refuse to move.
I Know You're There Page 28
