by C. L. Taylor
Something flashes white on the screen then row upon row off of black and white cells appear. He presses play and watches himself leaving the house at 8 a.m. The resolution is terrible – he looks like a faded, grainy image of himself, his goatee a grey smudge on his chin, but he’s identifiable. If anyone he knows arrives or leaves the house he’ll be able to recognise them. He presses play again, then fast-forward. For what seems like an age there’s nothing but a doorstep, a patch of pathway and a small triangle of grass on the screen, then a figure darts into the house and disappears. He rewinds the footage, then sighs as he recognises the short, round shape of Sally, his mother’s carer. He checks the time stamp in the corner – 8.30 a.m., the exact time he’d expect her to arrive. He speeds up the footage again. One minute passes, two, five and it’s still just a shot of the step, the path and the garden with the occasional tiny black blur as an insect zooms in and out of the frame. He hits pause as a figure appears on the step and speeds down the path, but it’s just Sally leaving. Then Yvonne arrives and, later, leaves too. He blinks several times; his eyeballs are drying from staring so intently at the screen, but he keeps watching, silently praying that someone, anyone, will appear. But the only person who does interrupt the monotony of the black-and-white footage is him, arriving home from work.
Sighing, he sits back in his seat and folds his arms over his chest. The TV’s still blaring but his mum’s fallen asleep in her chair, her temple against the headrest, mouth slightly open and a small piece of cheese sandwich crust hanging loosely from her fingers. There’s no sign of a postcard anywhere. He searched his mum’s room after he gave her the sandwich, then combed the ground floor of the house, even turning out the kitchen bin.
Think, Gareth. Think. If you wanted to get a message to someone how would you do it?
He looks around the room, his gaze flicking from his mother to the windows, sideboard and … phone! He carefully moves the laptop onto the floor and gets up. Did Ruth ring his mum on the landline? They might not have been in touch for years but his mum’s lived in this house since he was born and she’s registered on the electoral roll. It wouldn’t take a genius to get in touch. But why ring after so long?
Gareth keys 1471 into the phone and waits as the call connects.
‘You were called today at 16:41,’ says the recorded voice, ‘by 0161 …’
Manchester? Who do they know in Manchester? He takes his mobile out of his pocket, then listens to the message again, keying the digits into Google. He sighs as the search engine returns its results. It’s a bloody PPI company and there’s no way of finding out who might have rung before them. Taking another look at his mum to check she’s still asleep, he walks into the kitchen with his mobile phone. Ruth’s not the only one with detective skills. If she could find his mum then he can find her.
Chapter 26
Alice
‘Alice!’ Simon half-walks, half-jogs towards Alice as she steps through the doors of Showcase Cinema feeling self-conscious in the blue pencil skirt that hugs her hips.
He pulls her into a tight hug. She returns the embrace, then moves her hands from his back to his chest and gently pushes him away.
He looks down at her, concern wrinkling his brow. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’ He rests a hand on her arm.
‘I’ve been stressed out all day and … Simon, why didn’t you reply to my WhatsApp messages?’
‘What?’
‘I sent you a few, including one that was quite important, and you didn’t reply.’
He takes his phone out of his back pocket and looks through it. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I meant to and then … I guess I got distracted and forgot. I’m sorry. Are you really pissed off?’
‘I … I …’ She doesn’t know what to say. She wants to be honest with him but she doesn’t want to come across as needy either. ‘I thought you’d understand,’ she says, ‘about how much the car thing freaked me out. If Michael didn’t do it, I don’t know who did.’
‘Can we talk about it later?’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve had a lot on my mind recently and … it’s no excuse, I know. But I do care, honestly.’
‘Forget it, it’s fine.’
But it’s not fine, not in Alice’s mind anyway, and as they walk to the concession stand, side by side rather than hand in hand, she can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right.
They settle into their seats, the box of popcorn propped up on the armrest between them, and Alice tries to relax as the trailers begin. It’s a film she’s wanted to see for a while and, unlike Peter who always decided what they’d watch, Simon was more than happy to go along with her choice. The rest of the audience are obviously keen to see it too because the screening’s packed: there can’t be more than twenty empty seats. She glances across at Simon as she takes a handful of popcorn, but he’s too fascinated by the fight scene playing out on the screen to return her smile.
As the trailer ends and a new one starts she angles her body towards him. ‘Who do you think did it then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Who do you think scratched my car if it wasn’t Michael? Could it have been Flora?’
‘I don’t know. No, I wouldn’t have thought so.’ His eyes flick back towards the screen.
‘So who was it? I can’t think of anyone who’d—’
The man in front turns around. ‘Excuse me, but the film’s about to start.’
When he turns back Simon whispers in Alice’s ear, ‘I feel like a kid told off in assembly.’ He tips the popcorn box towards her so she can take another handful.
Alice settles back in her seat. She needs to chill out and try and enjoy the film. They can finish their conversation about her stalker afterwards. They’ll both be more relaxed once they’re in the pub and they’ve had a glass of wine or two. As the curtains roll back and the name of the film appears on screen, a latecomer makes their way across the front row, striding confidently through the gloom with a mobile phone torch app lighting their way. Alice frowns as the statuesque figure reaches the bottom of the stairs to her right. There’s something about the broadness of the shoulders and the width of the hips that’s familiar.
Oh my God, it’s her!
As the film starts, flooding the first few rows with light, she catches a glimpse of the woman’s face as she takes the steps two at a time – the square set jaw, the broad nose and the fine, wispy fringe. It’s the shoplifter Lynne pointed out a few days ago, the one she called Godzilla. Alice sinks into her seat, but it’s too late, the other woman must have felt her gaze. Their eyes meet for a split second and Alice glances hurriedly away. It’s irritating, being in the same room as someone who’s been stealing her stock and pushing down her targets. She probably flogged the skirt she stole on Monday and used the cash to buy a cinema ticket. That’s if she didn’t steal that too.
As the thundering soundtrack fills the screening room, Alice glances back at Simon, her gaze travelling from his face to his chest to his hands, gripping his thighs just above his knees. She barely knows the man but she’s never seen him look so tense. Her instinct is to reach over and take his hand but the armrest and popcorn are in the way and she’s worried about rejection. What if he doesn’t weave his fingers through hers and instead lets his hand lie limply under the weight of her palm? Or worse, gives her hand a quick squeeze, then returns it to her own lap? No, she decides, pulling her handbag a little closer so she can wrap her arms around it, if Simon’s stressed it’s not her job to make him feel better. They’re dating. She’s not his girlfriend.
As the main character appears on screen and sprints through a dark street as bullets bounce off walls, skips and cars, Alice senses movement out of the corner of her eye. The shoplifter, three rows in front and half a dozen seats to the right, has twisted round in her seat. Alice averts her eyes, her body stiffening under the weight of the other woman’s gaze. She tries to block her out, to lose herself in the action on s
creen, but she can feel that she’s still being watched. She turns sharply, prepared to stare the other woman out until she’s so uncomfortable she has to look away, but the shoplifter has turned back around. Sighing, Alice settles back and focuses again on the film. Twenty minutes later and she’s completely absorbed. Forty minutes later she feels Simon shift in his seat. He’s got his mobile in his hand, angled away from her, the screen casting a grey-blue light onto his skin. What could be so urgent that he needs to use his phone in the middle of a film? Before she can ask him what’s wrong he twists round sharply, knocking the tub of popcorn to the floor.
Alice sits forward to pick it up, but Simon grabs her hand and hisses something in her ear.
‘What?’ She looks at him, his face all hollows and shadows in the darkened room.
‘We need to leave.’
‘Now?’
The man in front turns at the sound of her raised voice and tuts.
‘Now,’ Simon says.
‘But the …’ She gestures at the screen.
‘Please, Alice. We have to go.’
She snatches up her bag and coat and, apologising repeatedly, makes her way past the knees of the other cinemagoers until she reaches the end of the row. She’s vaguely aware of the shoplifter staring as Simon gestures towards the exit but she’s too anxious to give her a second thought.
‘What’s the matter?’ Alice asks as they step into the brightly lit foyer. ‘Is it bad news?’
Simon pushes his hands into his jacket pockets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze fixed on the double doors that lead out into the heart of Cabot Circus shopping centre. ‘I, um … I can’t really explain right now. Let’s just get to the taxi rank.’
‘I thought we were going to the pub.’
‘I can’t now, sorry.’
‘What is it?’ She puts a hand on his arm. ‘Has something bad happened?’
‘I … I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry.’
A myriad of explanations flood Alice’s mind: there’s been a death in the family, a fire, a terrible accident. It has to be serious to explain how pale he’s become.
‘So where are we going?’ she asks.
‘Home.’
‘Okay but I might need to pop back to mine to get a few things first. I’m at work tomorrow and I haven’t got my—’
‘Sorry, Alice. I’ve confused you. I’m getting a cab back to mine and you’re going …’ He tails off but the implication is clear.
Alice stares out of the cab window, her mind so muddled she can’t separate one thought from the next as the taxi ferries her out of the heart of Bristol towards Kingswood. Why was Simon so keen to bundle her into a cab? Why not suggest she watch the rest of the film alone? On the walk from the cinema to the taxi rank he’d looped an arm around her shoulders and they’d walked side by side. He didn’t speak the whole way, but she felt comforted by his fingers on the top of her arm and his body bumping against hers; it was the most intimate they’d been all evening. There was a protectiveness to the embrace that made her feel safe.
Safe. She hugs her handbag tighter to her body as one thought rises out of the maelstrom. What if the text that Simon received hadn’t been bad news at all?
Simon, her thumbs fly over her phone’s keypad as she taps out a message. If the text was from my stalker we need to tell the police. Please, ring me. We need to talk about this.
She hits send then rests her hand on her lap, the phone still clutched between her fingers.
She forces herself to look out of the window as graffitied walls and buildings flash past. Simon’s not going to reply, she tells herself. I’m going to have to ring him but not here, not with the taxi driver listening in. I’ll get home, pour a glass of wine and then—
Her phone vibrates in her hand and she nearly drops it in her haste to check it.
I’m really sorry, Alice, Simon has written, but I can’t do this any more. We can’t see each other again.
Chapter 27
Gareth
‘Damn it.’ Gareth hangs up, cutting off the automated voicemail message mid-sentence, and runs a hand over the back of his neck.
It would have been a rare stroke of luck to get through to his uncle on the first try. Tony, his mum and Ruth’s brother, is an alcoholic who spends his retirement splitting his time between the bookies and the pub. He’s younger than his sisters, early seventies, and a nice enough bloke, jovial with a strong line in dirty jokes that had Gareth in fits of laughter as a teen. But he’s as unreliable as they come and goes underground for long periods of time, only resurfacing when he wants something or he’s run out of money. Not that Gareth’s mum minds. On the rare occasions he pops round to say hello he’s so witty and attentive that her mood is lifted for hours after he leaves.
Getting hold of him is going to be tricky though. He’s rarely at home to answer his landline, never checks his answerphone and doesn’t own a mobile. If Gareth’s got any hope of finding out where Ruth is he’s going to have to pop into the Dog and Duck and talk to Tony in person. He checks his watch. 8.20 p.m. Too late to ask Kath if she’d sit with his mum for an hour? She did say she’d be happy to help out.
Kath, dressed in navy jogging bottoms and a grey T-shirt with ‘Mama’ picked out in black sequins, shoos Gareth out of his house, still dressed in his security trousers but with a jumper pulled over his shirt.
‘Go on, have fun with your uncle. Your mum will be fine.’
He glances back towards the living room, the blare of the television filling the house. ‘It’s not her I’m worried about.’
‘I’ll be fine too. Besides, I like watching Great British Menu at full volume. Clears my ears out.’
He laughs. ‘And Georgia’s okay on her own next door?’
‘She’s thirteen. She’s probably relieved to have the house to herself.’
‘Okay, well, I won’t be more than an hour, hour and a half tops.’
Kath touches a hand to his arm. ‘You take as long as you want.’
Gareth pushes open the door to the Dog and Duck, the first pub he had a drink in (illegally, with fake ID), and a flood of memories hit him as he inhales the musty tobacco tang still clinging to the walls, the sour scent of the beer/lager mix in the slop trays and the whiff of warm bodies. The pub’s so busy it takes him a while to spot Tony sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, partly hidden by two men and a woman, all laughing raucously. He winds his way towards his uncle then clamps a hand to his shoulder, making him jump. The indignation on his uncle’s face swiftly morphs into pleasure.
‘Well if it isn’t my favourite nephew!’ He reaches out an arm and squeezes Gareth firmly on the shoulder. ‘What are you drinking? Lager, isn’t it?’
Before Gareth can object, Tony fishes into his back pocket for his wallet and flicks through a wodge of tenners. Someone’s done well at the bookies today.
‘Cheers.’ They clink glasses, then Gareth settles himself on a stool.
‘Mum all right?’ Tony asks.
‘Pretty much the same.’
‘Still remember who you are?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Still remember who I am?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Well that’s the important thing.’ Tony grins, exposing crooked yellow teeth. Back in the day he’d been a bit of a ladies’ man, ‘a right looker’ Gareth heard someone describe him once, but the years have taken their toll and now he’s got the spider veins, pockmarks and swollen nose of a heavy drinker. Gareth’s wondered more than once how he’s managed to live to such a ripe old age. ‘He’s pickled his inner organs,’ his mum told him once. ‘He’ll probably outlive us all.’
‘It’s been a while …’ Gareth ventures.
His uncle raises a wiry eyebrow. ‘You tellin’ me off, lad?’
‘Just wondered how you’ve been.’
‘You know, bit of this, bit of that.’
‘Send any postcards recently?’ It’s a bit of long
shot but he can’t resist.
‘Eh?’ Tony gives him a look.
As Gareth opens his mouth to explain, he’s distracted by a vibration in his trouser pocket. His first thought is that it’s Mark Whiting, telling him there’s no need to come in for a meeting with Liam tomorrow because he’s done some investigating and Gareth’s off the hook. His second, less optimistic thought is that Liam’s got in there first and Mark’s texting to tell him not to come in for the meeting because he’s got the sack. But the text isn’t either of those things. It’s from his mobile phone provider telling him that his next bill is available to view online. He reaches into his other pocket for his antacids and pops one in his mouth as his chest begins to burn. He’s not going to be able to buy food if he gets the sack tomorrow, never mind cover a phone bill.
‘What’s up?’ Tony asks. ‘Girlfriend dumped you, has she?’
The comment smarts almost as much as the heartburn. Gareth’s last relationship ended nearly two years ago when Susannah, his girlfriend at the time, told him that she was going to have to end things because she was thirty-eight and wanted to have children. She couldn’t do that, she said, with a man who lived with his mother and was never going to move out. Gareth pleaded with her, telling her they could find a way to make it work, but she was resolute. Either he put his mum in a home or they were over. He had no choice but to end things.
‘No, Tony,’ he says now. ‘Something weird’s happened.’
‘Weird how?’ His uncle shifts on his stool, his curiosity piqued.
‘Mum received a postcard the other day …’ He pauses. ‘From Dad.’
The last word takes a couple of seconds to register, then Tony’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘You what?’
‘Two postcards, actually, in his handwriting; the first saying he loved her, the second saying he was going to see her very soon. That one was hand-delivered but the first one was posted. I don’t know where it was sent from because the postmark was smudged.’
‘Can I see?’ Tony holds out a dry, red palm.