by C. L. Taylor
instead. Emily took Alice’s side of course. She told Peter that she didn’t want to meet his girlfriend and never would (she
finally relented after six months).
Alice meanwhile turned to wine to ease her through the pain
and spent night after night searching the internet for clues as to her rival’s identity, torturing herself with comparisons that 196
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she had no way of knowing were true. Peter’s new love would
be tall, blonde, slim and unlined. She’d be funny and witty and the best sex he’d ever had. When she did eventually work out
who she was through surreptitious searches on LinkedIn and
Facebook, she stared in shock at the photo of the middle-aged
woman staring out from the screen. She was slimmer than Alice, that much was true, but there was nothing smooth about her
face, and her hair rather than being the long, wavy blonde tresses of Alice’s imagination was a short, wiry elfin cut. She’d stared at that face for a very long time, then she’d closed the laptop and knocked back the last of her wine. She didn’t bother to
look again.
As Emily sobs on her shoulder, she wishes she could take her
daughter’s pain away. She wants to tell her that it won’t hurt as much as it does right now and that, one day, she’ll think about Adam and not feel a thing. But not now, not today. Today all
she can do is listen as her daughter asks why, over and over
again, and hold her close and let her cry.
As they continue to walk down the street, drawing closer and
closer to their flat, she glances across at Lynne. While the drama was playing out on the pub patio she remained at their table,
guarding their things, wondering where the hell they’d both
gone. She took one look at Emily’s tear-stained face as they
crossed the pub, scooped up the bags and coats and headed
straight for the door. And she’s been full of sympathetic noises and reassuring platitudes ever since. As Alice smiles at her friend there’s a clattering sound behind them, like a can being kicked down the street. She turns sharply as someone, or something,
darts behind a car.
‘Did you hear that?’
Lynne nods, unconcerned. ‘Probably a cat.’
‘Someone’s following us.’
They all stop walking. Even Emily stops crying and turns to
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look. Alice stares at the car, heart pounding, willing a cat to slink out from behind.
‘Do you—’ Lynne begins but Alice silences her with a ‘Sssh.’
‘Mum?’ Emily whispers. ‘What is it? What did you see?’
Alice takes a step off the pavement and into the road. She’s
not going to walk directly up to the car. She’s going to try and catch a glimpse of whoever’s hiding behind it from the other
side of the street.
‘Alice!’ Lynne hisses. ‘What are you doing?’
Alice holds up a hand, telling her to stay where she is.
There’s no one there, she tells herself as she nears the centre of the road, her gaze still fixed on the car. No one’s going to hurt you. There’s no one—
The vibration of her phone in her handbag makes her heart
leap into her throat but before she can steady herself she spots a car travelling down the road towards her, its headlights on
full beam.
‘Mum!’ Emily shouts. ‘Get out of the road.’
But Alice is already sprinting towards her. She makes it to the pavement a good three or four seconds before—
‘Stupid bitch!’ Laila shouts from the passenger window as the
car zooms past.
It isn’t until Emily is safely tucked up in bed and Lynne’s in a taxi home that Alice thinks to look at her phone. She puts down the glass of wine she’s been drinking and pulls her handbag onto her lap. A new Facebook message from Ann Friend appears as
she taps at the screen.
Flora can’t help you, Alice. Leave Simon alone.
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Chapter 34
@onthecliffedge:
I hear the Harbourside Murderer has struck again.
@MotobkeBob:
You mean someone else has got pissed and fallen into
the Avon.
@onthecliffedge:
Apparently this time the victim was a security guard
from the Meads shopping centre.
@DiddleyBopDee:
Maybe a shoplifter pushed him in. lol.
@lisaharte101:
That’s someone’s child/dad/brother you’re talking about.
Imagine if someone you loved went missing?
@DiddleyBopDee:
Jeez. Can’t you make a joke on Twitter any more
without someone jumping down your throat?
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@realmadwife:
If my kid doesn’t stop asking me to buy Robux EVERY
SINGLE TIME he logs onto the Xbox I might disappear
too. Can you swim to France from Bristol?
@refrigeratorcar:
Actually, that’s an interesting thought. What if none of
these men are dead and they just decided to vanish?
You know, made it look like they drowned and secretly
started another life somewhere else?
@MotobkeBob:
Come to think of it there’s a phone box on that corner. I
think it’s got TARDIS written on the side.
@refrigeratorcar:
Everyone’s a comedian.
@onthecliffedge:
Apart from Bob. He’s just a knob.
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Chapter 35
Ursula
Saturday
As usual there’s no sign of Edward when Ursula gets up but
there’s evidence that he returned home after she went to bed:
his toothbrush is damp to the touch, as is the nail brush (some days earlier she figured out that’s how he knew she’d used it).
And when she walks downstairs to make breakfast she can see
that his wax jacket has been added to the coat rack in the hall.
Stomach rumbling, she wanders into the kitchen and makes her
breakfast. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a black-and-
white cat slinking across the garden.
‘Ha!’ she says. ‘No baby bird for you.’
She wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing, taking the fledgling to the animal rescue centre. She’d read all sorts on her
phone about returning it to the nest or putting it somewhere
out of harm’s way. But Jessie, a member of staff in a green
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sweatshirt, took one look at the bird’s manky bloodied eye and declared that Ursula had done the right thing and it would
probably pull through. She’d driven back home feeling really
quite happy. But as the sky outside her bedroom window began
to darken, so did her mood. She couldn’t get the image of Paul Wilson’s face out of her mind, or the frightened look in his
wife’s eyes. What if he’d hurt her once he entered the house?
The thought worried Ursula so much s
he felt sick. But what
could she do? She’d rung the police and she’d given the woman
her contact details.
You can’t save everyone. Nath’s voice was in her head when she pulled the duvet up around her chin, closed her eyes and
tried to sleep.
No, but I could have saved you.
Now, toast finished, coffee drunk and everything washed up
and put away, Ursula glances at her watch. It’s 6.42 a.m. and
there’s been no knock at the door. Her parcels are normally
delivered bang on time – 6.30 a.m., or near enough. They’ve
never taken this long before. She walks to the front door, opens it and looks up and down the street. No sign of Bob’s van. She remains in the doorway for another few minutes, hands crossed
over her chest and rubbing her arms, shivering in the cool
morning air, then steps back inside. She looks longingly at Ed’s tweed jacket. She hasn’t got a spare coat and the temperature’s not going to creep above five degrees according to the radio.
She touches the thick material, then shakes her head. It’s not worth it for the amount of grief he’d give her. She’ll put another sweatshirt on instead.
Five minutes later she jogs back down the stairs and takes
another look outside. Still no sign of Bob and it’s 6.49 a.m.
She’d normally be shutting up her van and setting off by now.
She takes her phone out of the pouch, considers whether or not to ring the depot, then tucks it away again. Bob’s probably been 202
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caught in traffic and she doesn’t want to get him into trouble.
He’s a nice bloke, if a bit slow.
At 7.07 a.m. she hears Ed leave his room and the sound of
the shower running and reluctantly takes out her phone.
Something’s obviously gone wrong.
‘Hello,’ she says after the call connects and her boss announces her name. ‘It’s Ursula Andrews. Bob hasn’t showed up and I’m
not sure what to do. Should I come into the depot to collect
today’s parcels?’
There’s a pause then a long, slow exhale. ‘Oh,’ Jackie Clowes
says. ‘I’m so sorry, Ursula. I meant to ring you yesterday but it completely went out of my head. Could you come in?’
‘To the depot? Sure. I’ll just—’
‘To my office, please. We need to have a little chat.’
Now it’s Ursula’s turn to pause. ‘We need to have a little
chat’ sounds ominous. Whatever Jackie needs to tell her it’s not going to be good news.
‘What’s it about?’ she asks, her heart fluttering uncomfortably in her chest.
‘I’ll tell you when you get here. I’ll see you in half an hour or so, that sound okay?’
As offices go, Jackie Clowes’s is about as bland as they get.
There’s a company calendar on one wall with an image of a
man hiking on a mountain, a spider plant bursting out of a tiny pot and a desk with a chair on either side.
Jackie looks up at Ursula and smiles tightly.
‘Thanks for coming in so quickly.’ She gestures at the free
chair. ‘Have a seat.’
Ursula sits down, resting her feet on the floor and clasping
her hands in her lap. As Jackie glances back at her computer
screen Ursula shifts position, pulling her feet behind her and 203
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crossing them at the ankles, then she changes position again and crosses her legs.
‘Right, so.’ Jackie looks across at her. ‘We haven’t had a
catch-up for a while. How’s everything going?’
Ursula clears her throat. There’s so much she could say but
she doesn’t think her boss would be interested in the fact that her ex-best friend threw her out for stealing, her new landlord’s a weirdo and she’s worried about a customer’s wife who may
or may not be the victim of domestic abuse. Instead she says,
‘Not bad, still enjoying the job.’
‘Good, good.’ Jackie nods but, if she’s pleased, her pleasure
doesn’t register on her face. ‘No . . . um . . . difficult experiences or . . . customers?’
Ursula frowns. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘We’ve had . . . I’ve had . . . a complaint.’
‘About me?’
‘Afraid so. And it’s quite serious. They say you’ve been
harassing them.’
‘What?’ Ursula’s mouth falls open.
‘Obviously I’m not at liberty to disclose who the complaint
came from but they mentioned that you refused to hand over
a parcel and you also attempted illegal entry into their property.’
Ursula sits up straighter in her seat as the penny drops. It’s come from Paul Wilson.
‘It was a man, wasn’t it?’ she says.
‘Actually it was a woman. She was quite distressed.’
‘That’s because her husband forced her to make the phone
call. Jackie, I’m pretty sure she’s a victim of domestic abuse. I even rang the police. I know I probably should have told you
about it but—’
Jackie Clowes holds up a hand. ‘I know about the police
allegation. I also know that it didn’t come to anything. It was all part of your campaign of harassment, the woman said. She
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also said she’s been receiving unwanted phone calls from you
and you’ve been sending taxis to her address at all times of the day and night which has caused her a great deal of distress.’
‘That’s not true! Check my phone. He’s made her say that,
the husband. Honestly, Jackie, you need to believe me. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Jackie presses her lips together and gives her a look that says,
‘I really don’t want to do this but . . .’
‘Please, Jackie,’ Ursula begs. ‘Give me a different round or . . .
or . . . I’ll do Bath or Keynsham. I can get up earlier. I need this job. Please.’
‘I’m sorry, Ursula. If this were the only complaint then I’d let it go, or at least give you a different route. But there was a second complaint, a different customer who said his parcels
arrived damaged or thrown behind his wheelie bin.’
‘That’s not true! I’ve never done that. It must be Paul Wilson.
He must have asked a friend to ring and—’
Jackie holds up a hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Ursula. It’s out of my hands.’
‘It’s not, though. You’re the boss. You can—’
‘It’s in the regs.’ Jackie touches a bound booklet to her left.
‘Obviously your van is your own but I’m going to need your
lanyard and pass.’
Ursula stares at her boss’s open palm. This can’t be happening.
Almost every penny she had she spent on the deposit and first
month’s rent, and she’s only got three weeks left until Edward asks for more. There’s no way she can get another delivery job.
Even if she got through the interview it would only take one
phone call to Jackie to make them change their minds. She’s
going to have to join an agency and hope to God there’s a job
she can start straight away.
She removes the lanyard from her neck and places it into
Jackie’s outstretched palm without making eye contact.
*
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Ursula is halfway to the Meads shopping centre when she remem-
bers that she’s been banned. With a heavy heart she takes a right rather than a left at the roundabout and heads back to South
Bristol. She can’t risk a trip to Mirage Fashions, not with staff and the security guard on the alert. If she’s caught and they call the police, she’ll end up with a fine that she won’t be able to pay. Although, she thinks ruefully, if she was given a prison
sentence instead at least she’d be fed three times a day and have a roof over her head.
Ten minutes later, and back in the kitchen of number fifteen
William Street, she miserably surveys the contents of her food cupboard as the DJ on the radio warbles on about the latest
Bristol City match and asks fans to phone in. She went food
shopping the other day but there’s not much to choose from:
half a loaf of bread, some Heinz tomato soup, most of a packet of pasta, a KitKat, a few dry crackers and a can of corned beef.
She picks up the corned beef, umming and ahhing as she turns
it over in her hand. At two pounds it wasn’t cheap and she had planned to buy some potatoes and onions to make a hash but
sod it, she’s had a shit day and if she can’t go shopping to relieve her stress then a corned beef sandwich, a bowl of soup and a
KitKat will have to do.
As she stands up she sniffs at the air. There’s been an odd
smell in the kitchen ever since she moved in. At the time she
put it down to damp – Charlotte’s house was riddled with it
– but this is different. It’s a musty, uriney smell. She opens the door to the garden to let some air in, then fits the key onto the tab of metal on the side of the can. She turns it until the lid opens to reveal the slab of processed meat, then grabs a chopping board and squeezes the tin. The corned beef doesn’t budge.
Sighing, she reaches for a knife from the wooden block but her favourite, the one with a long, thin blade, isn’t there. She looks for it on the draining board and then in the sink but the kitchen 206
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is as pristine as normal. Other than the missing knife there isn’t a single thing out of place. The knife isn’t in any of the drawers or the cupboards. It can’t have broken; Edward once told her
