by Wendy Clarke
Breathing in deeply, I press my shoulder to the door. It swings open and, to my relief, the lights come on immediately, illuminating the red brick vaulted archways with their heavy columns. In front of me where I left it is my car, the space next to it where Mark’s had been now standing empty. Today, there are no other cars, just the red Mazda convertible I saw on the first day, parked further down the row. It doesn’t look as though it’s been moved since I arrived on Saturday and, as I look at it, I wonder if it might be Joanna’s? Why didn’t I think to ask Mark?
I walk over to it and peer through the darkened back windows, scared that there will be some trace of her. Something to confirm this car is hers. I want to think she’s taken her car, driven somewhere to be on her own or maybe to stay with friends that Mark doesn’t know. She doesn’t know where I’ve been living, so she wouldn’t have gone there.
But then I realise my stupidity. Even if it is Joanna’s car, what would it prove? She could have taken a taxi somewhere. Or been picked up in someone else’s car. It doesn’t mean she walked to the river. It doesn’t mean she never left. That she took her own life at those slippery steps.
Or slipped.
Or fell.
Or was pushed.
It doesn’t mean she’s dead.
The hot lump that’s been in my throat since the police visited rises. Mustering all my willpower, I swallow it down, knowing I must stay calm. I have to, for Joanna’s sake. For Mark’s. For mine. I mustn’t give up hope.
The car is empty – just the black leather seats and a dashboard and trim that look showroom-new. No empty crisp wrappers stuffed into the cup holders or crumbs on the passenger seat. Nothing to give away anything of the owner.
I stand for a moment, my hand caressing the shiny red bonnet. I don’t want to believe it’s Joanna they dragged off the silted river beach. Can’t contemplate that she might be gone.
Slowly, I walk back to my own car, get in and turn on the engine, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged space. Not letting myself cry, I drive between the empty parking spaces towards the solid metal roller door that will take me back out into the world. When I reach it, I rummage in my bag for the door remote and press the button.
I wait, but nothing happens.
Winding down my window, I reach my arm out and point the remote at the door, pressing the button again. Still there’s nothing.
I look ahead of me, scanning the door surround for something that will manually raise it. A button. A lever. There’s nothing though, just the smooth metal panel that’s between me and the daylight. What’s wrong with it? Why won’t it open?
Unease builds inside me. I could leave the car and walk, but if I did, how long would it take me to get from Black Dock to civilisation? It didn’t seem that far in the car, but on foot, I’ve no idea. It’s not just the distance that’s putting me off, it’s the labyrinth of derelict buildings I’d have to walk through, their bricked-up entrances covered in graffiti. I’d have to navigate my way between the empty metal units and the abandoned cranes. And when I’d left them all behind, there would still be the wasteland to cross. Maybe it’s better to wait until Mark comes home.
Reversing into a bay, I turn the car round and drive back to the space I came out of only a few minutes ago. Getting out, I walk to the door that leads to the stairs and push it with my hand.
It doesn’t move.
At first, I think it’s just stiff like it was on the day I arrived, but when I use more pressure and it still doesn’t budge, a ball of fear forms in my stomach. Instead of pushing, this time I pull at the handle, my hand slick with sweat. Still it won’t open. I shake the door once then again harder, knowing, even as I’m doing it, that it’s futile. It’s locked.
As I stand in the vaulted tomb, I force myself to think. There must be some kind of electrical fault that would explain why the metal garage door wouldn’t raise. Why the door to the stairs have locked too. I grip the handle of the door tighter and look around me. If that’s the case, then I’m trapped… the only way out is the lift.
I mustn’t let my panic take control. Derek might be back by now. He will have seen there’s a problem and will probably at this very moment be sorting it out. All I have to do is be patient. Wait until someone comes or force myself to take the lift. I look at the shiny silver door, trying to imagine what it would be like to step inside. It’s years since I’ve done it, but just thinking about it makes my hands clammy. My heart rate increase. Could I even bring myself to step inside?
Taking a step back, I look at the camera in the corner of the car park and a terrible thought occurs to me. What if it’s not a fault? What if it’s Derek who’s done this?
The only thing I’m certain of is that I can’t stay down here, in this echoey brick space under the warehouse, with no windows. No light except for the artificial whiteness of the fluorescent tubes that run along the rows of empty spaces.
Knowing I have to face my fear, I step up to the lift, trying not to think of what it will be like to step inside. How I’ll manage when the metal doors slide shut and it’s just me and the four walls. I’m just about to press the button to summon it, when I see that the lights above the lift are already moving. I don’t know what number it started at, but it’s already at 2 and soon it will be here.
It must be Derek. As quickly as it arrived, my relief fades. I don’t want to be alone in here with him, and the lift is the only way up to the warehouse. Backing away, I wonder if I can hide in my car. Pretend I’m not here. Only, he will know. He’ll have seen me. There’s nothing for it but to lock myself inside it. The lift is at 1. I spin round ready to run but, in my haste, I forget my weak ankle. It twists under me and the next thing I know, the hard, stone ground is coming up to meet me.
I drag myself backwards towards the nearest stone pillar, my eyes never leaving the lift door. My ankle is throbbing, but it’s nothing compared to the pounding of my heart in my chest. Pressing my back against the pillar, I sit motionless, praying that when he comes out, he won’t see me. Counting the seconds. Finally, the 1 changes to 0.
I hold my breath.
And that’s when the lights go out.
Twenty-Eight
At first, I think I’m in my bed at home, and then I realise that it’s not a duvet that covers me but a cashmere pashmina in a pale dove grey. Under my hand I can feel something velvety. I run my finger over it. It’s Mark’s settee I’m lying on.
‘Feeling better? I’ve put ice on your ankle.’ Mark is standing over me. He lifts the shawl, and I feel now the coldness that’s penetrating my foot. Bending down, he carefully moves the bag of peas that’s pressed against it. ‘It’s still looking pretty swollen.’
I run my mind back, remembering the underground car park, the press of the cold stone pillar behind my back, my paralysing fear. Nothing more.
‘What happened, Mark? How did I get back up here?’
‘I carried you. You fainted.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. I came home to find the car park door wouldn’t open and was coming down to see if I could work out what the problem was. I could hear your screams as the lift door was opening, but by the time I got to you, you were out cold. You frightened the life out of me. I didn’t know what had happened and thought at first you’d been attacked.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I feel foolish now. ‘The lights went out. The easiest way to describe it is claustrophobia… but it’s more complex than that. What I’m really petrified of is being trapped in the dark. It makes me feel I’m going to die.’
Mark sits on the settee opposite me. ‘That explains the other night then… when the shutters closed.’
‘Yes, and it’s why I won’t go in the lift. The thought of the lights going out while I’m in there is terrifying.’
He nods. ‘I wish you’d said.’
‘I didn’t want you to think me stupid.’
He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He looks t
ired, ill, but he’s looking at me intently. ‘And you care that much what I think?’
I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but his words seem weighted with expectation. I’m confused. Unsure of what I think. Instead of answering, I let the question go and sit up, gingerly feeling my ankle. Hoping he won’t see the telltale flush at my throat. As my fingers make contact with the swollen flesh, I give a yelp.
‘Sore?’
‘Yes, it’s pretty tender.’ I put my hands in my lap and tap a rhythm on my legs with my fingertips. Something’s bothering me. ‘When I was in the car park, Mark, I noticed there was another car there. A red Mazda. I just wondered… I was just thinking… is it Joanna’s? Because if it is, why didn’t you say anything to the police? Surely the fact that it’s still in the car park tells us something.’ I feel the colour leach from my skin. ‘It means something happened to her here.’
Mark’s voice is cool. ‘You think Joanna’s car in the car park is suspicious?’
I nod. ‘Very, don’t you?’
‘And you think the fact that I didn’t tell the police is suspicious too?’
I draw in a breath. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Oh, yes, Alice. I think you did. The implication was clear. I’m covering something up… is that what you’re saying? Because if it is, I want to know.’
It’s as if the temperature in the room has dropped a degree or two and I shiver. ‘No. That’s not what I meant.’
But I know it is. It’s what I was thinking when I looked into the dark interior of the car. Saw how clean it was. Mark remains where he is, but beneath his eye a nerve ticks rhythmically. I’m suddenly nervous.
‘Maybe I should leave.’
The vertical lines between Mark’s eyes deepen. ‘When I’ve said what I have to say, you can make that decision. I’m sorry you think so little of me, but you don’t need to worry. The Mazda isn’t Joanna’s. She sold her Merc a fortnight ago and hasn’t managed to find another that she’s happy with. Since she’s been without a car, either I’ve been driving her, or she’s called a taxi.’
I let out my breath. ‘I see.’
‘Yet you let your imagination run wild, didn’t you? Do you have reason to doubt the people who are good to you? Is it that ex-fiancé of yours who’s made you this way?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I’m rigid with embarrassment. ‘It’s just that I’m so worried about her, I can’t think straight.’
Mark’s face softens. ‘I forgive you then.’
‘Thank you. But if the Mazda isn’t Joanna’s, who does it belong to?’
He points to the floorboards. ‘It belongs to Eloise. In any case, I told the police about the car situation when they came round the first time.’
Did he? I don’t remember. But I can’t worry about it now for the mention of the police has caused my chest to still. It’s as though I’ve forgotten how to breathe. ‘Oh God, Mark. How could I forget? Something awful has happened.’ Mark doesn’t say anything, and I think he hasn’t heard. ‘Mark. This is important. The police were here earlier.’
His head snaps up. ‘The police? Again? What did they want?’
‘They’ve found a body. It was washed up further along the river.’ My stomach twists at the thought of what I’m going to say next. ‘They want you to make an identification.’
Mark stiffens, the colour draining from his face. ‘Why me?’
‘Because they think it could be Joanna. I’m so sorry, Mark. You should ring them now and let them know you’re back. That you’ll go straight away.’
He doesn’t move. Just sits, staring at the coffee table.
‘Mark?’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course. I’m just shocked, that’s all. Why do they think it’s Joanna?’
I try to remember what they said. ‘She fits the description. Is it possible it could be her?’
He doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘God, I hope not.’
He sounds helpless and my heart goes out to him, but then I remember his stepson. The things he said. Should I tell Mark about his visit? Before I can, his hand slams down on the table, making me jump.
‘Why couldn’t she have just been satisfied?’
What does that mean? I don’t like him like this. He looks different. Edgy. As though someone has rubbed the polish off him. I want to ask what he means, but I’m afraid. Turning to face him, I try to put my foot on the floor, but the pain makes me raise it again.
‘Here let me.’
Coming round to where I’m sitting, he takes one of the cushions and positions it on the coffee table. As he gently places my foot onto it, I’m aware of the warmth of his hands. I look at his long slim fingers and, for one ridiculous moment, I imagine the feel of them moving to my ankle. To my calf. My thigh. Hot guilt rises, and I pull my foot away.
‘Sorry, did I hurt you?’ He sits next to me, frowning, his nearness throwing my thoughts into confusion. ‘Looks like you won’t be going anywhere for a while.’
‘I’m fine. Please go to the police, Mark. It’s better we know the worst. The not knowing is just as bad.’
He stares at me. ‘How can it be just as bad? My wife might be lying on a mortuary slab dead?’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.’
Mark gets out his phone and the card that he was given the day the police first visited. He looks up at me, then back down at my swollen ankle. ‘Will you be all right here on your own after what happened earlier?’
As I remember the darkness and the utter certainty I was going to die, the fear hits me again. ‘Why didn’t the doors open, Mark? What went wrong?’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but I’ll find out when I get back. It was probably just an electrical fault. Derek says everything’s working again and will probably have a good idea of what happened by now. I can send him up to talk to you about it if you’re worried.’
‘No.’
It’s said too quickly, and Mark frowns. ‘Later then, when I’m back. You really don’t have any reason to dislike him, Alice. He came to us with a very good reference.’
I don’t say anything. All I know is I don’t want Derek in this room with me.
Mark makes the call to the police and as he puts the mobile back into his pocket, I consider asking him to leave it with me before deciding not to. It wouldn’t be fair to leave him without a phone while he’s driving.
‘Here, you’ll want something to do.’ Mark holds out the TV controller to me. ‘I’m not one for watching TV myself, but you might like to. Historical dramas were Joanna’s favourite… She used to watch them with Nathan when he was—’
He stops, and his face hardens.
The mention of his stepson was accidental, I’m sure. I take my chance. ‘Nathan?’
Mark looks away, and I can tell he’s wrestling with himself. Deciding whether or not to tell me.
‘Mark? Who are you talking about?’
He keeps his back to me. ‘Nathan is my late wife’s son. We… I… had a lot of problems with him.’
I keep my face neutral. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.’
‘He was only a teenager when his mum died. It affected him badly. Problems with drugs. Hanging out with the wrong people – you know the sort of thing. He had a breakdown and was hospitalised for a while. When he came out, he chose to live with his grandmother rather than me. We would have liked him to come and live with us here, but he made it impossible.’
I shift my position on the settee to make my leg more comfortable. ‘In what way?’
‘He became obsessed with Joanna. I thought it was because she was a mother substitute but…’ He shakes his head. ‘It was more than that. I found photos… of her. Ones he must have taken when she wasn’t aware. Lots of them. When I confronted him about them, he became upset. Angry. He packed his things and left. I haven’t seen him since.’
I stare at him. The story is different to the one Nathan told me.
‘Mark, I—’
He cuts me off. ‘Look I don’t want sympathy. I need to get to the police station.’ Getting up, he takes his coat and puts it on. ‘Call me if you need me.’
I start to tell him that I can hardly do that without a phone, but he’s already out the door, raising a hand to me in a gesture of farewell before slamming it closed behind him. For a few seconds, I watch the door, hoping he might come back again, that he’ll have forgotten something, but he doesn’t, and I’m left alone with no option but to sit with my foot up as I did after I got back from Corfu.
I look around me, frustrated. With all that’s happened, I don’t feel like watching television. I’d never be able to concentrate. What did Mark mean when he said that Joanna should have been satisfied? Had he been talking about the apartment? Their life? The place is like a home from a magazine, but there’s not a lot to do here, and I can imagine Joanna getting restless.
Joanna.
My stomach clenches. What is Mark going to find when he reaches the police station? I lie back on the cushions and close my eyes, overcome by a great weariness as the stress of the last few hours catches up with me. It’s not long before I fall asleep.
I wake to the sound of car keys being thrown onto the kitchen island. Mark’s back. Pushing myself up, I twist round on the settee and try to guess from his body language what’s happened. As soon as I see his face, I know it’s not good.
‘You’ve got to tell me, Mark. Was it Joanna?’
He comes towards me, his face drawn, his eyes dead-looking. He doesn’t answer but goes to the wooden doors between the windows and opens them, letting in the cool night. Leaning his arms on the railing, he stares into the distance.
‘No. It wasn’t Joanna.’
‘Thank God.’ I close my eyes, releasing the breath I’ve been holding.
But Mark doesn’t look glad. Instead, he looks out at the dark river, his chin cupped in his hand, his fingers pressing the hollows of his cheeks. He looks wretched. ‘They showed me items of the woman’s clothing. Her coat. Her blouse. At first, I thought it could be her, but then they showed me something else and I knew that it wasn’t.’