Behind The Pretty Pink Door: Have you met the new neighbours yet?

by M J Hardy

  The nightmare never goes away. It’s behind my eyes when I sleep at night and sits beside me during the day. When my father told me what had happened, I was frightened for him. He told me I would be safe and he had arranged a deal with the authorities for my protection. I was to go with the officers to a safe house where I would wait for this to be over.

  I’m still waiting.

  The days have dragged into weeks and still now word. Mr Evans visits in the evenings but says nothing.

  I’m scared of Mr Evans.

  He delivers me enough food to see me through to the next visit and says very little. He is gruff and non-communicative and something about the way he looks at me tells me something isn’t right. He makes me feel uncomfortable, and yet I’m safe here. It’s the deal we made, they are the people sworn to protect us and I will leave soon.

  These thoughts are the only ones keeping me going because they’ve all I’ve got. Those and my visits from Mr Evans.

  A flash of movement draws my attention and I see the curtains open at the house next door to the one opposite. The nice woman is there and my heart beats a little faster as I watch greedily for anything to distract me from the boredom of my life. I like that house - those people. I see them in their garden, laughing and joking. The woman likes to garden. She’s there a lot and I’ve seen her transform it over the weeks with hours spent planting flowers and tidying it up. She has a nice family; I’ve watched them all. Her husband, at least I think he is, mows the grass and reads his paper in a deck chair facing the sun.

  Normal life, I always knew it existed. I watched it on the television and heard tales of it from my friends at school. I never had a normal life. It was always just dad and me. My mum was never around, I can’t remember her, anyway. Just me and dad living in a two-bedroom flat in Leicester until the day it all changed and we moved to Brighton. I wish we never had; it’s changed everything.

  Sighing, I head to the bathroom and prepare to spend an hour relaxing in a bath and getting ready for another day at the window. It’s all I have to do, and I have never been so clean. I lie back and sing little songs under my breath in a whisper because I must make no noise. I make up stories in my head where I am happy and in charge of my life. I recite poetry and conjure up happy memories. I do anything and everything to keep myself sane because I will not let what is happening now break me. I will be strong and brave for my dad because I’m the lucky one. I’m guessing he’s not finding things so easy because he has a job to do and it’s not a pleasant one. No, I must do as I’m told and wait for this to be over.

  Another day passes and it feels as if it’s been two. Time drags when you have so much of it and each hour seems like three as I wait for my freedom.

  As the sun sets on another day spent waiting, I hear the garage door opening and the hum of an engine and my heart sinks. Mr Evans’ here.

  Quickly, I scoot away from the window and sit on the side of the bed nervously. Will I be lucky tonight? He promised me a book to read, a magazine, anything to stifle the boredom of living inside four walls with no exercise. I pray to God that he’s remembered because I am going slightly mad in here.

  The dull sound of his tread on the staircase causes my heart to thump. I should be happy to see another human being—I’m not. It’s Mr Evans, and I’m never happy to see him. Why couldn’t it be the other officer who comes? He was nice, kind and concerned. He was considerate and made me feel comfortable. Not Mr Evans. He never speaks, just issues instructions and leaves. Deposits my food and drink and is gone before I can ask the one question I need an answer to more than the food he brings. When am I going home?

  I hear the key in the lock turn and my heart beats a little faster. I watch the handle turn with a morbid fascination and as the door inches open just a little, I hold my breath.

  “Lola.”

  His voice is deep and husky and holds just a hint of menace. Is he the bad cop? In my mind he is, and I just stare at him with a frozen expression and clasp my hands to stop them shaking.

  He is carrying a tray of food and something else. My eager eyes zone in on the carrier bag he balances on one arm and I try to make out the outline. Is it a book, something to do? I hope so, and I almost can’t contain my curiosity as I wait for him to set the tray on the table against the far wall. The door closes softly behind him and I wonder when I may make it through the other side. It may only be a few more days, maybe he has news I very much want to hear, but I bide my time and wait patiently for him to speak.

  He turns and his look causes me to shiver inside. What does that look mean? Something I’m not going to like I suspect, and as he tosses me the bag, I reach for it with an eagerness that doesn’t surprise me.

  “I brought you a few books to read.”

  The tears burn as I silently offer a prayer to God, thanking him for mercy. Books - the plural. On the one hand it means I have some escape from this strange world I find myself in, but on the other hand, it tells me my time here is not over yet.

  I look up as he runs his fingers through his jet-black hair and notice a sovereign ring glint as the light catches it from the window.

  “Come with me.”

  I look up in surprise and whisper, “What?”

  “You heard me; we have an important job to do.”

  I stand, but my legs are shaking so hard I wonder if I can walk. He turns and opens the door, expecting me to follow and why wouldn’t I? Finally, I get to leave the small room and feast my eyes on a different view.

  I follow him along the hallway and to the top of the stairs. I fully expect him to head down them, but he moves past them to another room set off at an angle. My heart thumps as I follow him, wondering what this is? I feel nervous because the look in his eye told me I have every right to be.

  For a brief second his hand hovers over the door handle as if he is in two minds whether to open it and then he sighs and says tersely, “Follow me.”

  Chapter 7

  Lola

  This room is bigger than mine. The window is cloaked in shade and there is no view. It’s dark in here and just a little colder. I shiver from that cold as much as the fear that strikes my heart when I see the huge bed dominating the room. There are no covers, just a mattress covered in a black sheet. The walls are bare, with no pictures or decoration of any kind, and I see a wooden chair set in the corner facing the bed. Beside the chair is a wooden table on top of which appears to be some kind of recording equipment and I feel the fear for real for the very first time. Something’s wrong.

  Mr Evans flicks a switch and I hear the equipment waking up and filling the room with evil.

  He nods towards the bed and says abruptly, “Sit on the edge, we need to make a video for your father.”

  “My father?” At the mere mention of him, my heart lifts. “Is he ok, is it over?”

  “No.”

  The terror strikes me as I stutter, “He’s not ok?”

  “Yes - no, what I meant was, he needs to see you’re ok before he finishes the job.”

  “Oh.”

  I sit for a moment, a thousand questions battling to be heard, and I seize my chance and say quickly, “He is safe though—isn’t he?”

  “Of course, he’s just waiting to leave and wanted to see your face before he goes.”

  “Why can’t I call him, Facetime, wouldn’t that be better?”

  “No.”

  His voice is rough and brutal and not quite right. Why can’t I see my father? He wants to see me, but why like this? There’s something he’s not telling me and I need answers.

  “Then why the video?”

  I surprise myself with my question because Mr Evans scares me and just the sight of him frown in my direction causes my heart to race and the panic to set in. He’s holding back, I can feel it.

  Sighing, he sits on the chair opposite the bed and says in a bored voice, “This is for your own protection, you know that. A phone signal would alert your father’s enemies to your location, and tha
t is why we placed you here. If they knew where you were, you wouldn’t be safe. It’s why you must stay hidden because the moment they find you, we can’t protect you anymore.”

  “Why not, you’re the police, you can lock them up?”

  Rolling his eyes, he shuts me down in a second. “Do as I say and you may get through this. Now, I want you to look happy, content and above all, safe. Pretend you are talking to him face to face and assure him that everything is ok. He’s finding things tough and needs this to see him through the task ahead. Don’t fuck it up because if you do, you’ll probably never see him again.”

  He turns to the camera and I sit shaking with fear. Never see him again. How is that even an option? I never knew this thing he had to do was that dangerous. I mean, I know it’s risky but never see him again. What does that mean?

  As I face the camera with my ankles crossed and my hands in my lap, I appear calm and collected. Inside is a raging torrent of emotions that’s hard to navigate. Can I pull this off, it’s becoming increasingly obvious I need to because my father’s life depends on him seeing that I’m ok? So, as Mr Evans gives me the thumbs up, I do what is necessary to keep my father safe.

  Smiling into the camera, I say lightly,

  “I miss you dad. A tear tries to find an escape route, but I blink it hastily away and try to smile when inside my heart is breaking.

  “I just want you to know I’m fine, they are looking after me well and I’m just counting down the days until we’re back together. I have a warm bed and food and some books to occupy my time. I hope you have everything you want too and are thinking of me as much as I’m thinking about you. The place I’m staying in is nice and the people friendly.”

  I pray that the guilt doesn’t betray me because I feel hot under the collar as I blatantly lie to my father. Whatever happens, I have it easier than him and he needs to think everything is ok.

  It’s strange sitting in a bedroom with Mr Evans watching, talking to a camera, but I imagine my father on the other side of it desperately looking to see if I’m ok. I fix a smile on my face and make my voice light and care free. I want him to feel good about this call because I’m guessing he’s struggling just as much as I am and needs his mind put to rest. So, I babble on about how amazing this place is and talk about the people I’ve seen through the window as if they are actually friends of mine. I suppose I get so carried away in my descriptions, I forget that my every move is being watched by a pair of unfriendly eyes. It’s only as the conversation falters that I see Mr Evans throwing me a look that makes me feel uncomfortable.

  As I say goodbye to my father, assuring him we will soon be reunited, I realise something is definitely wrong.

  With another flick of the wrist, the equipment stops and there is just silence laced with an uneasy sense of foreboding. My heart pounds as Mr Evans looks at me a little differently and I shiver inside.

  Then he says roughly, “I told you to stay hidden. From your conversation it’s obvious you’ve been spending rather a long time at that window and it’s only a matter of time before someone sees you, if they haven’t already.”

  I’m not sure why, call it self-preservation, but I shake my head and blurt, “I made them up.”

  His eyes narrow and he leans forward as if looking into the deep recesses of my mind. “You. Made. Them. Up.”

  He savours every word as if it starts a new sentence, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

  Don’t ask me why, but what happens next is very important to me and I remain impassive and shrug. “There’s nothing else to do.”

  He stares at me a little harder as if willing me to break and confess everything, but somehow, I feel as if I’ve dodged a bullet when he growls, “Back to your room.”

  I shift off the bed and almost run to the door because this room unnerves me. There’s a sense of something not right here, and yet I don’t know what.

  I head back and as I pass the staircase, look down them longingly at the front door, welcoming me through it like a beacon of safety. Why do I feel unsafe in what should surely be a safe house? Because of him. The way he looks at me and the promise of something out of my control lurking behind the corner.

  As he follows me out of the room, I say impulsively, “I want to go downstairs.”

  I’m surprised when he grabs my arm and forces me towards the door of my room, growling, “I don’t give a fuck what you want. This is for your own protection and you don’t have options. Just be grateful your cell is so luxurious because we can arrange a different holding tank for you if you don’t cooperate.”

  He almost throws me inside the room and says harshly, “Stay away from the window, or else.”

  He slams the door leaving me reeling. Or else what?

  I hear the key turn in the lock and stand in the middle of the room wondering what the hell just happened. This isn’t right, surely.

  I wander over to the table and note the food laid out for me. A bottle of water, a pack of sandwiches, a salad and some fruit. A packet of biscuits and a flask of tea. Hardly enough to keep me going through a few hours, let alone twelve. I know he’ll be back tomorrow, early in the morning before the neighbour’s wake. That meal will see me through to the evening and once again I will anticipate his visit with excitement because it’s the only thing that happens during my day.

  However, this time it’s different because I see the innocent looking carrier bag holding some welcome entertainment. Books.

  Quickly, I hurry over and empty the contents onto the bed and see two books gleaming up at me.

  Reaching for the first one, I see a classic, Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice. Not my usual choice, but beggars can’t be choosers. Then I turn my attention to the other one and see a pretty cottage on the front, set by the sea. A light romance, something to lighten the darkness and make me believe in happy endings.

  Seizing the book like a lifeline, I savour the moment. I turn the pages and see the words dancing like light before my eyes, and I sink down onto the bed and set about escaping my situation for as long as possible.

  Chapter 8

  Esme

  Jasmine’s house is bigger than ours and her furniture more modern. I can’t stop staring as I walk through her hallway into her brightly lit kitchen and compare her house to mine.

  “You have a lovely home, Jasmine, how long have you been here now?”

  “Six months.”

  “You’d never know it, it’s very stylish, almost a show home.”

  Jasmine laughs softly and flicks the kettle on. “It should resemble one because we used the same company who did the show home on the development. It was just easier to get them to do it for us, and then all we had to do was unpack our suitcases.”

  “Didn’t you have any furniture then?” I stare at her in shock because who has no furniture, but she just shrugs and turns away, mumbling, “We just thought we’d start afresh.”

  I can tell she doesn’t want to elaborate, so I just shrug and take a seat at the counter on a bar stool, feeling jealous of the calm interior, free from clutter and crap, as Lucas calls our stuff.

  I try to beat down my jealousy as she whips up a coffee from an impressive-looking machine and bite down the envy as she shakes some expensive cookies onto a plate, before reaching across and pulling a cake stand towards us containing a mouth-watering walnut and coffee cake under a sparkling glass dome.

  “Did you make this?”

  I stare at the impressive creation in awe as she nods. “Yes, I found the recipe online. I can give it to you if you like.”

  “Great, I’d love that, thanks.”

  Feeling very inadequate, I take the plate she pushes my way and spear the small pastry fork into the mouth-watering cake and savour the taste of something I could never recreate given all the cookery lessons in the world.

  As she joins me, I note how tired she looks and wonder if she’s been working until the early hours again. I often see a light on in her study when
I head to bed at midnight and see her crouched over the computer with the desk lamp illuminating her concentration.

  She runs her fingers through her hair and smiles wearily. “Sorry, I’ve been working on a case all night and should really have got some sleep.”

  Immediately I feel guilty and say quickly, “You should have cancelled, I would understand.”

  “No, of course I wouldn’t.” She waves my comment away and raises her black coffee to her painted red lips and sighs. “It goes like this sometimes. It’s all or nothing with my job, and there are never enough hours in the day. Other times I can relax and enjoy my days without feeling the pressure of a deadline.”

  “What are you working on, can I ask, or is it top secret?”

  I am fascinated by this woman, her life, her job - her husband.

  That thought shocks me as I glance at the framed silver photo on the wall by the dining table and see them staring out at me. His arm is slung around her shoulder and their heads are together as they smile for the camera. They look so happy and carefree, and I wonder what their story is?

  Jasmine sighs and runs her fingers through her long shiny black hair. “It’s a hard case involving child porn. I hate these more than anything because it’s impossible to remain impartial. I want to castrate the bastard with a rusty knife but I have to defend him and make excuses for him; try to find a loop hole to set the monster free and it hurts my soul to do it.”