by Emmy Ellis
The idea had Robert going cold. Being caught wasn’t the issue—if they were, it would mean he could have Sarah and her children in his life permanently, maybe move them up to Scotland, who knew—but he worried about the repercussions for Sarah. She’d said her husband was a mild-mannered man, and from the things she’d told him he didn’t doubt it. Calm, reserved, anything for a quiet life. But you read it in the papers, didn’t you, about how these so-called types went ballistic when their happiness was threatened. When their wife was fucking a neighbour.
He couldn’t have Sarah put at risk.
I’ll talk to her. Tell her to be careful.
He itched to use his phone, to text her with a coded message, just so he could see if she was okay. His name wouldn’t come up on the alert. She’d put him down as the neighbour at the end, Carly Thomas, making out to Michael that although she didn’t speak to the woman in the street, they’d struck up a phone connection. He wouldn’t have bought that line of bollocks had he been Michael, but there you go. It took all sorts to make a world.
And the news about Ted. And Mo, Gerry. What the bloody hell was going on around here? He’d read many a Stephen King book where all manner of things happened to people who knew each other, all around the same time, but in real life?
He shrugged off a shiver, closing the window a bit so it was open a crack. Out in the hallway, he turned up the thermostat and listened while the radiator pipes sang out their usual creaky, out-of-tune strings of pops, a smile forming as it sank in that he was really home. Near Sarah. Even if they didn’t get to be together while he was here, it didn’t matter. That she was only up the road, looking out of the window at the same sun, the same moon, that was enough for him.
He moved into the living room, conscious that he was doing what he always did, craning his head so he could check down her end of the street. This time his actions were justified, though. He had to watch in case Michael came storming out, haring up the road to have it out with him. That wasn’t an issue, either, but Sarah witnessing it was. He didn’t give a hoot about the other neighbours, except that if they saw and heard a row it would reflect badly on the woman he loved—and her girls.
The street was quiet. The police were still inside Whiskey’s, the low rumble of their voices filtering through the thin walls. A thump or two came from Ted’s on the other side. Putting two and two together, what with the second police car out the front, he realised constables were in there too.
He sighed, wondering where they’d been when his dog had gone missing. Taken, he was convinced of it, while he was away last time. There were complaints of Coda barking, especially when he’d been in Scotland, and at the time he’d sympathised with the neighbours. He wouldn’t have enjoyed listening to a dog making a racket either, but he wasn’t able to bring himself to part with the old gal. If he could, he’d have taken her to work with him, but leaving his big bundle of white German Shepherd in a hotel room wasn’t permitted. He should have put her in doggy day care, he knew that now, but there was no use rambling on about hindsight and how things became clear after the fact.
He’d been selfish, and that was the end of that, holding on to a pet from his young adult years who was the only friend he’d had. Something his parents had owned before they were killed on a hiking trip while visiting him in Scotland once.
Robert let a plethora of memories saunter through his mind: his later teenage years, Coda as a puppy; his twenties, Coda living with him. Yes, she’d been old when she’d gone missing, older than any pedigree Shepherd had a right to be, but she’d been his friend, for fuck’s sake, his everything until Sarah had come along.
Fuck, life took some funny turns, didn’t it? You thought you knew where you were going, where the roads were on the map, and some wanker of a turn sprang up, changing the landscape and throwing you into foreign territory.
Another thud from Ted’s stopped Robert’s philosophising. There he was, thinking about himself and his life when some old man was possibly holed up somewhere with his abductors, being bullied and threatened for God knew what reason. And Mo, her house a burned-out shell. Julia, poor lovely Julia, finding out Gerry was the bastard everyone else knew him to be. He thought about going round to see her then decided against it. She’d been one of the people to complain about Coda—the Environmental Health had slipped up, putting her house number in a reference at the top of the letter. But he couldn’t blame her. A yowling dog and a yowling child?
He paused then, cocking an ear. Her baby must be sleeping for once. Usually it squawked all the time, surprising the hell out of Robert that the little blighter didn’t burst his lungs or Julia’s eardrums.
Jesus, they were a fucked-up bunch, weren’t they? A cluster of neighbours, all cobbled together by fate, all trying to live as best they could and making a bit of a hash of it. Ted had enjoyed filling Robert in over the garden fence, ensuring he got a seemingly throwaway remark in about Coda while he was at it. Eastenders, that’s what this street was like, everyone knowing everyone else, and their business.
Did he really want to live here?
If it weren’t for Sarah, the answer would be no.
Many a time, before they’d started their affair, he’d contemplated moving, always deciding against it, seeing as he was rarely here. Being home meant time to regroup, regain the energy he’d used while working, so what went on outside his four walls wasn’t anything that concerned him much. Until Sarah. Until he’d come to care for her and be concerned when someone or other had upset her. Part of him admitted that him leaving Coda to bark and annoy them was their comeuppance, yet at the same time his dog must have kept Sarah’s girls awake—Sarah too.
He sucked his lips in to stop himself ranting out loud. No good would come of it. Things would be the same no matter what he did or said. He’d be here, wanting to see the woman he loved, worrying about what was going on in her house, and not being able to get to her. Sarah would be there, possibly having a huge row with Michael—or, the horrific alternative, having sex with him because he’d finally come to his senses and had seen what a wonderful, damn sexy, kind-hearted wife he had.
And she was a nice woman, although Ted would dispute that from time to time. He’d drape his arms over the fence and go on about how she said things a little too close for comfort, making Robert want to tell the old man that it took one to know one. Yes, Sarah was blunt, yes she was having an affair, but by God, yes, she was one of the nicest people he knew. Love could have blinded him, but he’d thought the same before he’d fucked her. That’s what had attracted him. Her compassion that she sprinkled in with her no-nonsense way of seeing things.
He couldn’t think of a single person down here who didn’t like her.
Thinking of her was doing him no good, yet he remained at the window, his face so close to the voile and pane his breath misted the glass. He wiped it, the curtain making a squeaking noise, and held his breath as movement down the road caught his attention.
Vicky Staff left her house, walking up the street, her unkempt, greasy blonde hair hanging lank on her shoulders. They reminded him of a squid’s legs, glossy in the worst way, nothing he’d want to slip his fingers through. Past his window she went, face red and blotchy from too much booze—years of it if he judged right—or was she crying? She held a letter and rounded the corner, probably on her way to the post box.
More movement down the road. This time Michael leaving their house, getting into his car and zooming from the street—but not fast enough that Robert didn’t catch a glimpse of the man’s angry expression. Michael was livid about something, which set off a gnawing set of teeth in Robert’s belly, chewing and chewing until he couldn’t stand it any longer and reached for his phone. He composed a text message, and even though Michael wasn’t there to read it over Sarah’s shoulder, he was careful to keep it innocent enough that if she forgot to delete it, she wouldn’t be in the shit.
HEY, UP TO ANYTHING MUCH?
NO. JUST TRYING TO GET BACK INTO
WORK.
HOW HAS YOUR DAY BEEN SO FAR?
CRAP. M CAME HOME, FORGOT HIS BRIEFCASE.
OH DEAR.
BOSS ANGRY. M NOT BEEN PAYING ATTENTION AT WORK, APPARENTLY.
OH DEAR AGAIN. WANT ME TO COME ROUND?
NO, BEST NOT.
I UNDERSTAND.
I KNOW YOU DO. REALLY HAVE TO WORK NOW.
OK. CATCH YOU SOON.
Robert sighed, gritting his teeth, a second short of thumping the window. He stepped back from it in case he changed his mind. He felt so goddamn helpless when home, unable to see Sarah when he wanted to. Yes, he’d gone into this knowing it would be this way, but he hadn’t expected to fall in love with her. Dally with her, have a good time, but actual love?
“Jesus Christ!”
He grabbed his case from the hallway and took it into the kitchen, hauling it onto the table and tossing the dirty clothing in front of the washing machine. With his toiletry bag on the table, his ties hanging over the back of a dining chair like a row of multi-coloured lizard tongues, he stared at his life. Right there, it was, next to him. An open suitcase, no permanent fixed abode, him a drifter, messing about with a married woman he didn’t think would ever be properly his.
Yet if he’d moved into the street years ago… If he’d met her sooner, before Michael had got his grubby, boring mitts on her. If the man wasn’t so fucking nice, someone he’d have gone out for a drink with under different circumstances, someone he’d probably have found good company…
Hissing through his teeth at the tangle he’d got himself into, he pushed the laundry into the machine, tossed in a liquid-tab, then set it on to wash. He dragged the case off the table, taking it upstairs and throwing it on the bed. It bounced, one corner smacking into the headboard, the loose headboard then walloping the wall.
For a moment he stood still, pondering on whether the police would think something of the racket he’d made. Would they come round? That Dalter hadn’t liked him, Sarah had been right about that, but would the sound warrant him knocking on the door to question Robert further?
Uneasy—because, let’s face it, it wasn’t usual to come home from work to find the whole street and the one behind had gone tits up—he sat on the end of the bed and put his face in his hands. Something had to give. Things felt off, as though the air was filled with menace, and that sense hadn’t been apparent until he’d driven into the street. Sarah had walked up the road, and he knew, just knew she shouldn’t have. She’d never done that before, so her actions, had they been watched, might have been noted as unusual. What if someone was keeping an eye out for Michael? What if they’d given him a call when they’d spotted Robert and Sarah talking out the front? What if he hadn’t forgotten his briefcase at all?
Driving himself mad with each imaginary situation, Robert undressed then put on some jogging clothes. He’d go for some exercise, run the fucking angst out of him, then maybe the rest of the day wouldn’t send him up shit creek without a paddle.
Keys in his jogger bottoms, he left the house, warming up on the step, stretching his muscles, making it clear to the police, should they be staring through windows, what he was doing. If they wanted to follow him, fine, he was only going through the woods, running as far as town, then returning via the main road. The rough terrain would keep his mind occupied as he focused on where he stepped, and the pounding his feet would get on the tarmac would hopefully give him an ache to eclipse the one that was strangling his insides.
Chapter Fifteen
The run had done him good earlier. The police had left by the time he’d got back, and there was no sign of Sarah. He’d showered, slung on a pair of comfortable jeans, flopped on the bed, and slept, the long drive from Glasgow catching up with him. Not to mention the strangeness he’d encountered. Sarah acting so out of character. Dalter being a prick. No Ted to tell him what he’d missed.
He woke to a semi-dark room, the glow of the streetlight right at the bottom of his front garden lifting complete blackness to something more like shade. Grey shade, where shadows gathered and figures appeared, shapes that vanished with the brightness of illumination. What he saw wasn’t reality but a figment of his imagination, a steadily weeping ooze of his emotions and the sense of dread that just wouldn’t leave him the hell alone.
He glanced at the clock, neon green numbers partially hidden by an empty can of Coke on his bedside cabinet. It was seven something. He wondered if Michael was working late. He decided to drop Sarah a text anyway.
WAS WORK OK?
I GOT MY QUOTA DONE IN THE END, THANK GOD.
GOOD. HOW ARE YOU FEELING?
ALL RIGHT. M HASN’T COME HOME YET.
OH. DUE WHEN?
NO IDEA. IF HE’S BEEN FUCKING UP, MAYBE HE HAS TO STAY BEHIND.
MAYBE.
BEEN UP TO MUCH?
WENT FOR A LONG RUN. CAME BACK, FELL ASLEEP LOL.
THAT DRIVE KILLS YOU.
IT DOES, BUT WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER, RIGHT?
SO THEY SAY. I’D SAY I SHOULD BE STRONG AS FUCK THEN, BUT I’D BE LYING.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN?
I HAVEN’T REALLY HAD ANYTHING THAT HAS KILLED ME.
I RATHER THOUGHT YOU HAD.
WHAT, DAYS ALONE YOU MEAN?
YES.
WELL THEN, YES, I’M STRONGER THAN EVER BECAUSE OF THAT.
ME TOO. I’LL ALWAYS BE HERE FOR YOU.
I KNOW.
Lights from outside cut an arc through the darkness, lighting up those figures and shadows, showing them up for what they really were. Nothing but a corner and the door. He texted her again.
THINGS WILL WORK OUT.
THEY WILL. I HAVE TO GO.
I SEE THAT YOU DO. BYE FOR NOW.
BYE X
So those lights had belonged to Michael’s car. Intense irritation swept through Robert, stifling the happiness he’d felt when texting Sarah. He shouldn’t feel jealous of the man. If Sarah were to be believed, she didn’t have sex with her husband. And he believed her—he had to or go mad.
His phone bleeped again.
IT WASN’T HIM.
OH GOOD. WE CAN TALK SOME MORE. GIRLS OK?
IN BED. WOULDN’T SURPRISE ME IF THEY THOUGHT THEY DIDN’T HAVE A FATHER.
POOR THINGS.
Another arc of light.
SHIT she texted. I THOUGHT IT WAS HIM AGAIN. I’D BETTER GO. I’M UNUSUALLY ANTSY TONIGHT.
ME TOO. ANTSY, I MEAN. SOMETHING IN THE AIR?
GOD KNOWS, BUT IT HAD BETTER FUCK OFF SOON.
AGREED. TAKE CARE.
AND YOU.
He got up, slipping his phone into his jeans pocket, and padded to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth to rid his mouth of bed breath and the residue of the Coke he’d had. Someone whistled outside, the sound a piercing chirrup that froze his marrow. It was the same whistle he’d always used with Coda. He entered the spare room and stared out of the window, his gaze drawn to the lane.
What the fuck?
Heart going mad, beating to what he’d swear was twice its usual speed, he blinked in case he’d been seeing things. It couldn’t be, could it? He opened the window, whistled himself and waited for some kind of sign that Coda, who appeared to be sprawled out by the post box, was going to get up.
She didn’t.
Legging it downstairs, part elated that his beloved dog was out there, part dreading what he’d find because she hadn’t been moving, Robert grabbed his keys and ran from the house, the slam of his door resounding behind him. The birches looked weird, like rigid white, scarred legs, and he told himself to stop being so sodding fanciful and get round to the lane. His feet were cold—they were bare—and he wished he’d had the sense to put his trainers on. A T-shirt or jacket. Too late now, he skidded at the first right turn and stared down to the start of the lane, at where Coda had been.
She wasn’t there.
Praying she’d got up and was trying to get into his back garden by pawing at the gate, he sped down the lane, entering the a
lley and stopping pretty damn quick upon seeing she wasn’t there either. His gate was ajar. Hope soaring, he pushed the gate, just in case she had got inside, and glanced around the garden, seeing nothing but the suspicion of grass and the hulking shape of his patio furniture, umbrella still up from the summer. It cast a shadow on the rear of his house, a bat’s wing stretched in flight.
“Coda,” he called.
No answering woof.
No snuffle of her nose as she smelled the grass.
No bloody nothing.
“Fuck it!”
He turned and went back into the lane, standing there a moment wondering what to do. Go home to see if she’d walked to the front door? Or check the woods? If she’d gone in there, she couldn’t have walked far. Considering she’d been flaked out in the lane, he doubted she’d have run.
The woods it was.
Damp ground squelched up between his toes, but he didn’t give a shit. They’d wash. Finding Coda was more important. She’d been missing for quite a while so that lately he’d had to get her photograph out in order to remember what she looked like. But now he could see her in his mind as clear as day, all creamy white fluff and shiny black nose. And her eyes, beads of coal that sparkled when he threw her ball.
Shit, he missed her.
He rambled on, choosing the route he’d taken Coda on in the past, a lesser-used path through trees that skirted the summer picnic clearing then brought him back to the entrance to the woods. It was cold, a biting wind picking up and snatching unkindly at his bare chest and back. Gooseflesh tightened his skin, and the bristles of hair at the nape of his neck seemed to knit together, drawing taut. What he imagined was freshly dug mud flattened underfoot, having spilled out from beneath the bushes, and he wished he’d brought a torch so he could check for paw prints. He almost walked the whole course then stopped, gazing across the clearing at a white mound a few metres back from the large log. He sped towards it, shouting Coda’s name, the wind robbing it of any volume, carrying it away and stashing it amongst the trees.