by Lesley Kara
I can’t believe I’m doing this. This secret’s been locked away
for so long it’s like I’ve convinced myself it didn’t happen, that
it was just a bad dream I once had. It feels like I’m betraying
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Simon by telling her. And yet he must have told someone too.
He must have betrayed me.
Helen’s right, though. Telling her hasn’t made it any less
shocking or shameful, but the tightness in my chest does
seem to have loosened slightly. There’s a little more space to
breathe.
My eyes swim with tears. ‘She might have been badly injured.’
I gouge my left thumb into the palm of my right hand. ‘And
even if she wasn’t, who knows what psychological harm we
caused, to her and the child?’
I don’t tell her what else goes through my mind in the dead
of night, that she might even have died. There’s a knot in the pit
of my stomach. I’m sure we’d have heard about it on the news
if she had, but it’s still a possibility. I know it is.
Rosie’s voice plays over and over in my mind like a broken
record. ‘ It’s more than just apologizing . . . you have to actually do
something. ’
If Simon really was working the steps before he met up with
me again, could he have got as far as Step 9? Could he have
somehow tracked down that young mother and tried to make
amends? Maybe it backfired and this is some kind of revenge
for what we did to her.
Except that doesn’t make sense. Why would she have his
photo? You don’t take photos like that of someone smiling into
the camera unless you really, really like them. No. It has to be
someone he formed a relationship with, someone connected to
his recovery.
But now that the seed has been planted it won’t go away.
What if his attempts to befriend her didn’t backfire? What if they succeeded only too well? Simon could be very persuasive when he wanted. Even more so when he was sober. Maybe
she even fell for him. And if she did, how much would she hate
me when she found out what led to his suicide?
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What goes around comes around. It’s time to pay for what you’ve
done.
Helen leans forward. Her mouth is moving, but I don’t hear
what she’s saying.
At last, her words filter through. ‘Talk to me, Astrid. Talk to me. What are you thinking?’
I’m thinking of Mum all alone in the cottage, oblivious of
the danger I’m in. Oblivious of the danger she could be in. The danger I might have put her in because of the stupid, thought-less things I’ve done. I should have gone straight home after the
meeting. I could have told Helen all this tomorrow.
‘I’m sorry, Helen, I’ve got to go.’
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31
Mum’s brushing her hair when I peer round her bedroom door,
my chest heaving from having run all the way home. She looks
up in surprise, her face etched with concern, and I know in that
instant what I’ve always known, deep down, that her love for
me is fierce, protective. That she loves me as only a mother can.
And I love her.
Dad’s old cardie is lying on the bed near her pillow. My eyes
stumble over it and back to her face. It’s unbearable to think of
her holding on to it at night, her tears melting into the woollen
fibres.
‘Why are you so out of breath?’ she asks.
I wrack my brain for a suitable response. ‘I fancied a run. I’m
too embarrassed to do it in the day.’
Mum narrows her eyes. ‘Are you all right, Astrid? Has some-
thing upset you? You haven’t been . . .’
She checks herself and walks over to her dressing table,
unscrews a pot of Nivea and starts applying it to her face.
‘I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit out of condition, that’s all. You
have locked the back door, haven’t you?’
She gives me a look that’s a cross between amusement and
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surprise. ‘Yes, I’m sure I have. I don’t know why you’re so jumpy
lately. This is Flinstead, remember? We’ve got one of the lowest
crime rates in the country.’ She puts the lid back on the cream.
‘And since when have you cared whether I lock the back door
or not?’
‘Since you started letting random strangers look round the
house.’
‘Not that again.’
Her cheeks are pale and greasy in the low- energy light and
the circles under her eyes look darker than ever.
‘Night, Mum.’
‘Goodnight, darling,’ she says.
Downstairs, I can’t resist trying the handle of the back door.
When it opens on to the cold, black night a frisson of alarm
goes through me. Anyone could have got in while Mum was
upstairs, all alone. She’s always been relaxed about security. I
have too. It was Dad who used to do the nightly round of lock-
ing up. Dad who looked after us.
I shut it quickly, lifting the handle up and turning the key as
fast as I can. This is ridiculous. It’s a terraced cottage. The only way someone could get into the house is via the garden, and
that would mean climbing over all the other garden bounda-
ries first, and they’re not likely to risk their own safety by doing that. Not when they can harm me in other, more insidious
ways.
Even so, I roam the house like a restless ghost, checking I’ve
pulled the bolts across at the front door and that all the win-
dows are tightly shut. I make myself a cup of coffee. I shouldn’t,
not at this time of night, but the chances of me falling asleep
are slim. What difference will a bit of caffeine make?
Josh sends me a text. Even the beep of my phone makes me
jump. ‘Dad’s driving back tomorrow to sort the hut out, but I’m
staying on here for another day with my cousins and getting
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the train back. Dad says feel free to drop round in the after-
noon and work on the painting if you want. Xxx’
I tap out an upbeat reply. It’s stupid to feel upset that I won’t
see him for another day, but I am. Things seem so much more
bearable when I’m with Josh.
I take my coffee into the living room, not putting the light on
until I’ve drawn the curtains across. That’s another thing Mum
hardly ever does. I’ve told her that you can see right in from the
street, but she never seems to care. Maybe she would if she
knew that someone was stalking her daughter. Possibly stalk-
ing her too .
That girl crossed a line by coming in here under false pre-
tences. Invading our personal space, touching our things. It took
guts, th
ough, I’ll give her that. Which makes me wonder what
else she’s capable of.
The next day dawns cold and grey. I’ve been tossing and turn-
ing all night long, trying to make sense of the riot in my brain.
If I slept at all, it could only have been brief snatches here and
there. One thing that occurred to me as I thrashed about is that
I haven’t yet spoken to the other Oxfam volunteer – the one
Rosie said must have sold the Cranberries T- shirt. He probably
won’t remember who donated it and, even if he does, I doubt
he’ll tell me, but it’s worth a try. He may not even be there, but
I need to do something.
I don’t like leaving Mum on her own, but the thought of
spending the whole day cooped up with her in this cottage fills
me with gloom. Besides, I’ve made her promise she’ll be on her
guard. The story about the burglars doing the rounds seems to
have hit home at last. She’s decided to start locking the porch
door from now on.
It’s the first time I’ve needed my coat in ages, and after the
gorgeous weather we’ve been having it seems like an omen.
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What if it’s that girl who brought the T- shirt in? She had Simon’s photo, after all.
I look both ways before setting off in the direction of the
shops. Who knows how many times she’s been waiting for me
to come out of the house? Waiting and watching. Following my
every movement. I won’t be stalked like prey any longer. I won’t
be drawn into her mind games. If that’s what they are. The pic-
ture with the bloodied hands was one thing. Thinly veiled
death threats and tricking my mother are quite another.
And now that I’ve made the decision to actively look for her,
I feel a bit braver. More in control. I’m the stalker now.
Flinstead Road is quiet. It’s too early and miserable for visitors,
and even the hardy pensioners, who like to get their shopping
done before everyone else, are fewer in number this morning.
The Oxfam shop isn’t open yet, so I wander up and down to kill
time. I haven’t quite worked out what I’ll say when I do go in, but
I’ll wing it when I’m there. That’s if he’s even working today.
I make a point of crossing the road every so often so I can
glance in both directions without looking shifty. But I’m sure
I still do. Who zigzags down a street for no apparent reason
at five to nine on a weekday morning? I should have brought
a shopping bag – that would have stopped me feeling so
self- conscious.
A girl wearing jeans and a hoodie gets out of a car up ahead
and I freeze. She’s not wearing a puffa jacket, but she’s exactly
the right shape and size. Mum said she was small and slight
with dark hair, which certainly fits the description of the girl I
nearly tripped over that time. The girl I keep seeing.
I quicken my pace. I’ve never been close enough to study her
face in any detail. Apart from the time I nearly fell over her, but
then I was so fixated on thinking I’d just seen Simon’s ghost
that I didn’t register it in any detail. I’d be a useless witness.
Still, I might as well check her out, just in case.
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She hesitates outside the newsagent’s and, since I’m gaining
on her, I slow down. Then she picks up speed again and I’m off.
I’m so busy keeping her in my sight that I almost walk straight
into one of those damn mobility scooters. But even though I
only took my eyes off her for the few seconds it took my feet to
disentangle themselves from the front wheel she has somehow
managed to disappear. I hurry towards the spot where I last
saw her, outside the bakery. As I draw level with the window
display of cakes and scones, I move nearer the kerb and glance
swiftly inside as I pass. She’s there, in the queue.
My heart thumps, and for a moment I just stand there, star-
ing at her, unsure of my next move. It could be her. If only I could see her hair. As she approaches the counter, she pulls her
hood down to reveal a short blonde bob. Deflated, I carry on
walking. What the hell am I doing? Following random stran-
gers doing nothing more villainous than buying a loaf of bread.
I retrace my steps towards the Oxfam shop, which is now
open. But when I go inside the only assistant in sight is Rosie,
reaching for a little china plate that a woman is pointing to. I
turn to leave before she sees me, but it’s the woman she’s serv-
ing who calls out.
‘Hello, Astrid. How are you?’
I stare at her, trying to work out who she is and how she
knows my name. Then it dawns on me. It’s Mum’s friend Pam.
The one who couldn’t wait to phone her and tell her she saw me
going into the pub. She’s the last person I want to speak to but,
if I don’t, she’ll probably tell Mum I was acting weird and I’ll
have to face an inquisition all over again.
‘I’m fine.’ No thanks to you, I’d like to add.
‘You wouldn’t do me a favour while you’re here, would you?
I’ve just seen a lovely jacket I think my Christine would love.
You’re almost exactly her size. Will you try it on for me so I can
see what it looks like?’
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She hands me a soft leather jacket that’s been folded over her
arm and holds my coat while I slip it on. Then she takes a step
back to get a better look. Rosie’s eyes are on me too. I sense
them raking me from top to bottom. I turn round so Pam can
see what it looks like from the back and eventually she’s satis-
fied that yes, Christine will love it.
I’d love it too. It’s got that lovely lived- in feel to it and it fits perfectly. But it’s £18 and, though that’s ridiculously cheap for
a leather jacket, even a second- hand one, it’s £18 more than I’ve
got or am likely to have any time soon.
When I step outside again, a sea fret has rolled in and cloaked
the street in a cold, grey haze. What few shoppers there were
have disappeared and the whole place has an eerie, haunted
feel to it. Like a scene from a horror movie.
What goes around comes around. It’s time to pay for what you’ve
done. The words echo in my mind like an ominous voiceover.
Except this isn’t a movie. This is really happening. I pull my
collar up and hurry home.
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32
I’ve done what Josh suggested in his text message and come to
Mistden to get on with the painting, or try to. Mum will only
get suspicious if I start hanging around the cottage keeping
tabs on her. But when Richard Carter opens the door to me I
wish I’d stayed at home. Gone is the relaxed, amiable grin he
/> usually greets me with. It’s ever since that phone call I over-
heard in the garden, I’m sure it is. Something about him has
changed.
He steps aside to let me in.
‘I really appreciate all your efforts yesterday with the beach
hut, Astrid,’ he says. There’s an awkward formality about him.
His words sound all clipped. He follows me to the easel. ‘Char-
lie tells me you minded the shop for him.’
‘Yes, it was fun. I . . . I really enjoyed it.’
He meets my eyes at last. ‘Actually, I think he might be look-
ing for someone part- time. I’ll have a word with him if you
like. Although I expect you’re itching to get back to your life in
London.’
My life in London. It sounds so cool. So glamorous. And yet,
is it my imagination or did he emphasize that phrase in a weird
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way, almost as if he knows it was anything but? I think of my
last squat. The stained mattress on the floor. The pungent smell
of mould and mouse.
‘As soon as your mother’s better, of course,’ he says, giving
me a strange little smile.
I busy myself squeezing more paint on to my palette so that
he can’t see my red face. I don’t have to respond. I can’t, any-
way. What would I say that wouldn’t stick in my throat? If he
knows I’ve been lying to his son – lying to both of them – surely it’s only a matter of time before he says something to Josh.
That’s if he hasn’t already. Why the hell haven’t I been honest
with them? They’re decent people. They’d have understood, I
know they would. But now, after four whole weeks . . . how will
they trust me?
I force myself to look at him. ‘I was between jobs anyway.’
‘Just like Josh,’ Richard says. ‘I’ll miss him when he goes back
to London and starts work again.’
The words ‘so will I’ are on the tip of my tongue. Because if
I’m right and Richard has somehow found out about my past,
who knows if Josh will stay in contact? I unwind the cling-
film from my brushes, aware of Richard still hovering in the
doorway.
‘It’s been very difficult for Josh, losing his mother, as I’m sure
you’ll understand.’
His words seem weighted. Weighted with something he’s not
saying. ‘It’s taken us a while to get used to it being just the two
us. I . . . I wouldn’t want him to be hurt again.’