A man who looks no younger than one hundred and four passes with a small terrier-looking dog pulling him down the steep bank, nodding, ‘Aft’noon, my lovely.’ Afternoon, already? No, this isn’t right. I have to do something. Stuff Tommy. I end up being in the station for an hour and somehow the sergeant tolerates incoherent me, listening to my hugely reduced summary of events, makes notes, asks all manner of questions and has promised to send someone to Daniel’s flat to take a look. I hand over the spare keys. Mark’s keys. Then wish I hadn’t, recalling Tommy’s words, for your sake, Natalie, don’t call the police. Could I somehow be implicating myself in whatever this is all about? Do I hold the master key to the whole debacle? What did Tommy mean by Othello?
Not able to return to the flat, unsure what to do or where to go, I head for the café on the front, where I have, along with Mo and Daniel, sat and deliberated, contemplated and worked through so many a problem before. I left the flat in such a hurry, without a jacket but luckily with my chunkiest of hooded jumpers. I wrap my arms around me, turning onto the seafront as the easterly wind squalls, rocking the boats and stirring the circling gulls. Closing the café door to, I order extra-strong coffee, wishing I’d stopped by The Crab instead for something stronger. I still don’t get it – where is everyone? All three of them unaccounted for. Missing? Taken? Nigel – with my cardigan, how could he? – has he taken them? Daniel? Did he trash his flat? Those words written in lipstick on his wall. Or maybe whoever has done this left the cardigan there, another red herring, so I would suspect Nigel? What am I missing? My father? Could this be something to do with him? He’s taken Daniel, jealous of his closeness to me, Mo too? Because he was unable to break me down. Nigel – maybe he’s taken him because of his intervention yesterday? But still, the cardigan? The cardigan business has creeped me out as much as the words on Daniel’s wall. Even Benedict Cumberbatch would struggle to work out how these two disparate events may be connected.
I’m completely lost in thought when Mark almost slips by unnoticed, speed-walking his way down the pavement past the café, presumably on his way to the gallery. Without thinking, I leap from my seat and run out into the cold. ‘Mark?’ I call after him. He stops in his tracks, turns his head, waves his hand as if he’s about to dismiss me, then walks on. ‘Mark, please, give me a second.’ I scamper the few feet to catch him up.
He turns. ‘Is this important, Natalie? I’m late for a meeting at the Tate.’ He purposefully pulls back his sleeve to look at his watch. ‘Actually, I’m more than late. Should have been there twenty minutes ago. If you don’t mind.’
Mark attempts to scuttle off; I reach for his arm. ‘Don’t be like this. I haven’t stopped you to talk about us. Anyway, how come you’ve a meeting? It’s Sunday, a bit odd, isn’t it?’
‘Not everything stops on a Sunday. Can we get to the point, please, Natalie?’
‘So, you’re at work on a Sunday, having told the rest of us not to come in all week?’
‘Yes. Christ, what is this? The point of calling me back was?’
Last night Mark was all apologetic and submissive, today he’s Mr Prickly – he seems to think he’s the only one who hurts. I’m standing here remembering all the times I’ve psychoanalysed this man, thinking I understood him better than anyone and now – I don’t know him at all. I’m beginning to think this is also true of the rest of them. I don’t know any of them, not really, not as I once thought. All those lies and secrets from the past. But which one of them is still lying? Which one of them can I trust? Or is this all me? Me and my friend, paranoia?
‘Natalie. What is it? I really ought to get on.’
‘Daniel,’ I blurt out. ‘He’s missing and—’
‘Oh, God,’ Marks sighs out. ‘Daniel’s always missing. Always has been. What’s new?’
‘Mark. That’s horrible.’
He waves his hand. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean it as harsh as it sounded. But you know what I’m saying. Look, wherever he is, he’s somewhere. I mean, he’ll turn up. Probably reading a book to whoever, right now.’
It then occurs to me I should have told the police about this. The guy Daniel visits, the one he regularly reads to. I’m about to inform Mark about the state of Daniel’s flat and my talking to the police, when something stops me, as it involves advising him I’ve also given the police his spare set of keys and that they are probably, as we speak, in his property, all over the private rooms, on my say-so. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, completely forgotten about him, yes, maybe he’s with him,’ I mutter. What else do I know but have forgotten about?
‘See. Stop fretting. He’ll turn up, all oblivious, later on, no doubt.’
‘But Mo’s missing too.’
Mark shakes his head. ‘No, she’s not, she texted me late last night, before I’d even decided to close the gallery. Seems her son has managed to find some time for his mother whilst he’s in the area. Of course, she’s dropping everything to see him. Left on the train to meet him in Plymouth this morning, said she’d most probably stay overnight, be back tomorrow morning.’
I’m a little hurt. How come she didn’t share this with me? Maybe she wanted to give me some thought space following our chat yesterday but even so. ‘Oh, she must have been elated,’ I say. ‘I’m so pleased for her, at last.’ Mark doesn’t react either way. Maybe he’s cross with her for telling me his business? Maybe he’s just always cross. ‘Mark, you should also know…’
Mark glances at his watch, switching from one foot to the other, sighing. ‘This important? Only…’
‘Go,’ I say. ‘Another time.’
He nods. ‘By the way, if you’re looking for your other “mate”, Nigel, saw him going into the pub, late this morning – maybe you could chat to him instead.’ With this he paces off without quite breaking into a run. At the top of the street, I watch as he turns left, which puzzles me because the Tate is straight on, not left.
Back in the café, sipping lukewarm coffee, I begin to try and decipher the matted fragments of disconnected information. Daniel assured me he called on the guy he reads to at the residential home, but yesterday Tommy corrected me, adamantly, it wasn’t the residential home. From where I’m sitting, in the distance, I’m able to see the cottage perched on top of the cliff. Lonely and abandoned, only visited, or so I’d thought, by the local kids and some of the braver artists for the spectacular views. Mo has already mentioned no one lives there any more, other than the unrested spirits of the family before, she also joked. Tommy definitely said this is where Daniel disappears to, to read, to be alone. Why would Daniel have lied to me, though? For the same reason as everyone else? Because the truth hurts? Because they wanted me to believe in something other than what the truth represented?
Because there was something he needed to keep from me.
62
Natalie
‘BUT I WILL WEAR MY HEART UPON MY SLEEVE. FOR DAWS TO PECK AT: I AM NOT WHAT I AM.’
At first this sounded so incredibly alien and nonsensical, now I can’t help but think it’s vaguely familiar. I mean, no one actually speaks like this, do they? No one normal anyway. It takes me back to my A level days, times of Shakespeare. I’m thinking now as I did then: why not just say what you mean rather than the metaphorical claptrap? I repeat it over and over on my slow climb up the rough shingle path. It must have meaning. I take out my mobile and type it into the address bar. ‘In this speech, Iago explains to Roderigo the time he decides to show outwardly what he feels inwardly will be the day he exposes his vulnerability,’ I whisper. ‘Iago, Roderigo? Othello, that’s why it’s familiar, Othello.’ I torturously read Othello at school. That’s what Tommy must have been referring to, he knows something?
As I turn the next corner the chimney pot of the cottage comes into sight. All these years of looking up at this cottage and never have I considered visiting. And now, as I come closer to the top, winding my way up, I remember why, because it’s as spooky as hell. It’s life but not as we know it. I look up to t
he sky. The sun of earlier has been submerged by dense hoary clouds; with them a coastal wind whips at my face as it rustles through the prickly bracken lining the pathway. I’m aware of how unaccompanied I am and also, more poignantly, no one else knows I’m here. I must be some kind of idiot. I’ll send a text off to someone, let them know, just in case. But who? Anyone who’s close enough to care and to not think I’ve lost my mind is behaving even more oddly than I am, or they’re missing. I decide on Mo before I notice there is now zero, zilch, zippo signal up here. Emergency calls only and I can’t help but wonder, oh, God, is this a bad omen.
Finally, slightly breathless, I reach the top. And for a second, the reason for me being here is lost as I take in the splendour and appreciation of why artists have spent many mindful days here. The sulkiness of dense clouds adding to the vision. Feeling the first spattering of rain, I wrap my arms tightly around me, pulling up the hood as the wind gusts, flogging the exposed elements, me not excluded. As I look around, first impressions are there is no one here and no single sign of life. Aside from the cottage, there are numerous ramshackle outbuildings. I should check these first. My heart is thumping at my chest, but this is why I came; I need to do this. As I approach the largest of the dwellings, a sharp gust catches the edge of the makeshift roof, lifting and dropping it simultaneously, causing me to physically jump. What was I thinking? What am I doing here? I’ve seriously lost the plot.
‘Come on, Natalie, it’s only wind. Get yourself together,’ I murmur. The door is swinging from eroded hinges as I half step in. The structure reaches further back than I anticipated and it’s unsurprisingly pitch black, shadows lazing everywhere. I turn on my mobile’s torch, shining the beam towards the back. Not noticing the random brick on the floor, I step onto it; before I have time to right myself, an obscure flapping entity flies at my face, spinning me around. I’m stretching out my arms to steady myself but something tangles itself around my ankle and I plunge into a putrid heap of something. For the second time today, I desperately want to cry. Scream. Sob. What have I got myself into?
Ignoring the pain in my ankle, I push myself up. Whatever it is I’ve landed on stinks to high heaven of fishy, rotting flesh or something equally revolting. The rat’s head springs to mind and I begin to heave. Get up, Natalie, get up. You’re vulnerable on the floor, get up and out of here. ‘Get up!’ Standing, I see the barbed wire I entwined myself in. It’s cut through my trousers; blood is crawling over my ankle towards my black pumps. Squinting towards the light coming from the right wall, I see my mobile, which has whirled across the floor to settle in what I believe to be the largest cobweb I have ever seen in my life. The torch is shining upwards, announcing each intricately spun thread, each convolutedly spaced victim trap. But no sign of the monster-size spider that it must be, capable of building such a residence. Closing my eyes, feeling my body sweat in response, I slide my hand through the threads, the web forming a perfectly tailored glove over trembling skin, then I grab my phone.
Back outside, the splatter has turned to rain, the light quickly fading, the sea louder than it sounded before, my leg disproportionately stinging for what appears to be only a nick of the skin. I’m both freezing and sweating and I want badly to go home. But to what? And what about Daniel? But what if Tommy has already called me to say Daniel is home, safe – how would I know? I’ve no signal. Natalie, what have you done? Why do you always have to be such a complete buffoon? But Daniel, I’m here for Daniel and he isn’t at home. I know it. I feel it. The same way I know – he’s here somewhere. I shine the torch around me. There are plenty more of the smaller outbuildings – should I try them or head straight for the cottage? I’m deliberately putting the cottage off, aware of a deep feeling of foreboding building inside me, a melancholic, sinister mood. If I’m to check the cottage I need to do it now; the longer and later I wait, the worse I shall feel. My legs are refusing to move forward, urging me to run in the opposite direction back down the path. The only sensible thing to do, but when have I ever done the sensible thing?
I lift my right leg to take a step forward, and as I do – I hear it, them, something. Voices. Unmistakable voices. Coming from the direction of the cottage. Not one but two voices. One submissive, scared and cautious, one more – overbearing, domineering and aggressive in tone. One of those voices, I am not wrong, one of them belongs to Daniel. Daniel. He’s frightened, as I’d thought; someone has him, someone is threatening him. I knew all along in my heart he was here. With this heart now beating in my throat, I turn my mobile over, still no signal and, even worse, it is now in full battery-saving mode. The bloody torch has flattened my battery.
‘I can’t do it.’ I hear Daniel whimper as I put away my mobile, staring at the cottage. ‘I can’t. Won’t do it,’ he continues. I begin to walk, trance state, towards the front of the cottage that faces out over the ominous edge. ‘Please, no, anything else, please,’ I hear.
A shiver cuts through me with the deep, guttural laugh I hear next; still I keep creeping forward, the front door now in sight. ‘Stop fighting this, Daniel. You always knew it would come to this. Stop fighting me. You’ll feel better when you give yourself to me.’
‘But not Natalie,’ Daniel says. I freeze. Not Natalie? Not Natalie, what?
‘Yes, Daniel, Natalie. Or should I say – because of Natalie. If it hadn’t been for Natalie, maybe you wouldn’t have needed to do this.’ Do what? I can hardly hear my thoughts for the thumping in my ears. ‘BUT I WILL WEAR MY HEART UPON MY SLEEVE. FOR DAWS TO PECK AT: I AM NOT WHAT I AM,’ someone roars. ‘I warned you, the day you showed outwardly what you felt inwardly would be the end. The notes? I warned you about your jealousy. Think about the notes, Daniel. The green-eyed monster, because of Natalie’s interests of others, and how this would make you feel inside. I warned you it would end badly: HE COMES TO BAD INTENT.’ A gasp slips past my lips; these are all references to the notes.
‘You believed you kept it from me, you attempted to steal my awareness, but inside, Daniel, I smiled. I could read you like a book. Did you not decipher the meaning? THE ROBBED THAT SMILES STEALS SOMETHING FROM THE THIEF,’ he yells. ‘No. You lied to me, to them. I even sent you a test, to tell them who killed Rebecca – you couldn’t even manage that. You failed, you lied. Because you wanted them to like you.’
The rain trickles down my neck, lashing against my back, as I face the open cottage door. Petrified. More scared than I’ve ever been before, even as a child. My head urging me to run while I still can.
‘I didn’t kill Rebecca. You did,’ Daniel cries. ‘And you’re wrong assuming I’ve been unaware. I know you’ve been watching me, following me. I saw you in the garden. It was you I saw hiding in the shadows.’
The other one chuckles. ‘Indeed. Natalie saw me too. I smiled at her. Filled me with utter warmth to see the fear in those vulnerable eyes. Poor sweet Natalie, wouldn’t you say she’s suffered enough?’
‘You’ve been following Natalie, scaring her.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she took you from me. She stole your perspective. Made you care. Weakened you. Stole the loyalty you owed me. Despite her not wanting you, despite her intentions towards the others, she blinded you. Out of interest, tell me, how much did you hate Mark?’
‘I didn’t, it was you who hated him. I never hated Mark. You hate everyone. Including Rebecca, that’s why you killed her. You can’t deny it, my mother told me, you killed Rebecca.’
‘Did I?’
‘You’ve turned everyone against each other, made everyone question each other.’
‘If you’ve finished?
I inch my trembling legs forward at the sound of the desperation in Daniel’s voice. I need to see who has him. The voice is oddly familiar but, please, God – I must be wrong. It can’t be him.
‘Daniel, remember – you killed Rebecca. As your mother told you. And now – you must kill Natalie.’ I hear Daniel whimper. ‘Too pathetically weak,
aren’t you? So, fall it must on my head, to do your dirty work.’
I want to run. Scream. Cry. Collapse in a heap. My head giddy, my throat dry. I have to be wrong. It takes all my strength to shunt myself into the shadows of the doorway, hoping I’m still out of sight but close enough to see. And when I do, nothing in my wildest of imaginations could ever have prepared me for this moment. As I stare in disbelief into what looks like a kitchen area, an old-fashioned oil lamp flickering on a sideboard, I feel myself begin to sway with the huge volume of adrenaline flooding my veins. There is a second door leading to this area, sufficiently open for me to take in most of the room. Where I see Daniel, upright, looming over a battered wooden table, dressed in clothes I have never seen before. A kind of formal, old-fashioned costume. As he bellows towards an empty chair, ‘I will kill Natalie.’ I gulp back air, my voice box disconnected.
Daniel sits down in a shabby chair. ‘No, please, not Natalie. Anyone but Natalie,’ he now says, slumping his shoulders, lowering his head to the table, rubbing a hand through his hair, a face distorted with pain. ‘Please, Jacob.’
Daniel stands once more, contorting his expression into one of pure malice. ‘Please, Jacob. Please, Iago. Jacob. Iago. Daniel. One of the same,’ Daniel bawls. ‘No.’
I can’t stop myself from impulsively jumping backwards. I trip, falling hard to the flagstone floor. For a moment nothing happens other than the high-pitched droning in the atmosphere. Then, I glance through my fringe to see Daniel, staring at me, slowly gliding towards me. Not my Daniel. An evil, menacing, sneering Daniel.
I Know You're There Page 29
