by Wendy Clarke
I don’t use the phone the police gave me, instead, I run to the main road, which, despite the hour, is still busy. I think about hitching a lift, but then a taxi drives by and I hail it. With luck, I’ll be back here at the Travelodge before dawn.
I’m glad the taxi driver isn’t one for making idle talk, and I lean my head back against the headrest, barely noticing the empty shops we drive past, grills covering their entrances, or the rows of terraced housing either side of the road, their blank windows staring blindly at each other across the road.
It’s only when we turn off the main road and head south in the direction of the river that I pay more attention. The taxi takes us past the Tesco Metro, now closed for the night, past the disused bus shelter covered in graffiti, past the electricity substation inside its spiked metal prison. Then it swings around a corner, and we’re heading towards the disused pumping station.
Suddenly, the taxi slows to a stop, jolting my head against the headrest. The driver unfastens his belt, leans forward in his seat, cupping his hand to the windscreen to see better.
‘What the fuck’s happened here?’
I lower my window, knowing, even before I see it, what’s picked out in the headlights. It’s Alice’s Mini embedded in the brick wall. The white and blue police tape rippling in the wind. I’d thought they would have removed it by now.
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘That’s some accident.’
The driver rubs his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Can’t believe anyone survived that. Only if God was looking down on them.’
He pulls a crucifix from his T-shirt and kisses it before tucking it back inside.
I look back at the car. Mark is in hospital, but he’s alive. Maybe the taxi driver’s right. Maybe God was looking down on him.
My heart aches with all that I nearly lost. Oh Mark. If only you had proven your love for me on your own. Not just the ransom note. It all went wrong before that – maybe I should never have persuaded you to marry me so quickly. You hadn’t wanted to, I know… didn’t want to upset my parents. But I was scared that if we waited any longer, you’d get cold feet and pull out of the big wedding they were planning. Can’t you see, I needed that ring on my finger? I needed to know you wouldn’t leave me.
The taxi driver crosses himself, then pulls away. What he’s seen has clearly rattled him, and we travel a few hundred yards in silence until I tell him to stop. I’ve already taken some notes from the money belt hidden under my blouse and I hand them to him, telling him to keep the change. He doesn’t seem to think it’s odd that I’ve asked him to drop me in the middle of nowhere; he’s probably keen to get home to his warm bed.
He reverses into a layby, then drives back the way we came, past the accident site, leaving me in the place I stood only a few hours ago. I watch his tail lights disappear around the corner and wait for grief to wrap me in its arms, but it doesn’t. I feel empty. It’s a moonlit night and the words Welcome to Black Water Dock stand out clearly against their white background. I stare at the sign, the blue paint obscuring some of the words. Is it any wonder it’s been defaced? There’s nothing welcoming about this barren place. Never has been – despite what my father and Mark thought in the early days of the scheme.
Mark wasn’t happy. I could see it. It was only a matter of time before he bailed out. But what if it wasn’t just the failing business that he wanted to move on from? What if he had wanted to move on from me too? No one can blame me for wanting to know.
My phone vibrates against my leg. Taking it from my pocket, I see I have a message and a missed call. From Alice.
Joanna! Is that really you? Where are you? Please answer. I’m at New Tobacco Wharf and I need you.
I look out across the black wasteland. In the distance, too far away for me to see, Alice is sitting in my apartment. In my bed, maybe. The police were wrong. She’s still there.
Quickly I type my reply.
Sorry. The police say I’m not allowed to go back there. They need to search the place.
When I’ve pressed send, I turn my phone off and put it back in my pocket.
I hold the breath tight inside my lungs. What the hell is Alice still doing in my apartment? I think of her eating my food, kissing my husband, visiting him in hospital when I’ve not been able to. My fingernails dig into my palms.
I hate her.
It should never have ended like this. When I stepped out in front of the Mini, consumed by the red-hot flames of my jealousy, and watched it lose control. When I heard the skid of tyres, the crunch of metal on brick and the shatter of glass, I wasn’t to know that it would be my husband driving the car.
It was never meant to be him.
It was meant to be Alice.
Forty-Four
Alice
Through the square-paned windows, the sky is lightening. The tall buildings across the river, that when I’d got home had been lit up as if with fairy lights, now just blank grey faces.
I’m in limbo, not knowing what to do for the best. The important thing is that Joanna’s alive, and it’s making me look at the apartment with new eyes. Eyes from which the scales have fallen. Her phone message has brought me back to reality. What have I been doing this last week? Sleeping in a bed that Joanna once slept in. Sharing meals and a table with her husband. Acting as though the place is mine. In what stupid fairy tale have I cast myself in the leading role? There must be one where the poor village girl covets the rich one in her palace?
Suddenly, my phone pings, and I grab at it. It might be Joanna telling me what’s going on. I look at the message and see that it is indeed from her, but there’s nothing about where she is or where she’s been, just that the police are coming here to search the apartment. That she can’t be here.
I shouldn’t be here either. And I don’t want to be.
It’s over. Joanna is no longer missing, and Mark isn’t my responsibility; he never was. I don’t know what’s going on, but I wish I’d never come. That she’d never sent me that message.
I’ve got myself embroiled in something I don’t understand, and I’m sickened by the lies I’ve told. The things I should have said but didn’t. Mark’s accident has put things into perspective, and it’s time to stop playing foolish games. I’ll stop at the police station and tell them everything. Explain why we never said anything. How scared we were. I’ll answer their questions truthfully, then I’ll go home and wait for whatever happens next.
Maybe once this is all over, I can look for another job and start my life again.
Going into the bedroom, I push my clothes into my bag. It’s only been a week and yet the time I’ve been here has seemed so much longer. Being here has made me weak. Made me do what Mark wanted even though I knew it wasn’t right. Just like I used to with Joanna.
It’s like New Tobacco Wharf has infected me. That Joanna’s absence, even more than her presence, has turned me back into the person I once was. But I’m not that person any more. I haven’t been for ten years.
At the bedroom door, I stop and look behind me. The photograph I found in Eloise’s apartment is in my mind, and I can’t resist having one last look before I leave. Crossing to the wardrobe, I open the door and stare at the drawer where I found all the photographs of me and Joanna. Even though I know it should be locked, I reach out a hand and give a tentative pull.
To my surprise, the drawer slides easily. It’s still full of photographs, which I never looked closely at. Too shocked to find them there at all. The top one is face down. Putting my hand in, I pull it out and turn it over, my blood freezing when I see what’s happened. It’s another photo of the two of us, and from the shiny paper, Joanna’s smile is wide… but my own face has been blacked out. The next one is the same, only this time the black marker has been scrawled so thickly that it’s worn a hole right through my face. The ruined picture created by a hand made heavy with hatred.
More and more. All the same.
Forty-Five
Joanna
> I tip my head to look at the iron-railed balconies, the tall mullioned windows with their arched tops and the heavy wooden doors. Despite the development being such a failure, the building’s still impressive as it stands in front of me.
I touch the fingers of my right hand to the money belt beneath my blouse, feeling the shape of my key. In there too is one for Eloise’s apartment, copied from the one she gave me so that Mark wouldn’t notice it was missing from the hook. I also have one for the apartment where Nathan is squatting.
As I walk to the large double sliding doors, I see that Derek is in his office. He’s at his monitors, his back to me. What is he still doing up? My father thinks the sun shines out of his arse just because he’s ex-army. Diligent is the word he uses. Too bloody diligent. That’s why he’s the only creep I haven’t managed to persuade my father or Mark to dispense with.
I think of Derek’s thin ginger hair, his freckled fingers that I know would like to touch my skin and shiver. In his dreams.
Stepping up to the glass entrance door, the area around me is immediately lit up by the security lights. There’s no way I’m going to get in without Derek seeing me, so I need to do this right. Reaching out a hand, I press the buzzer and wait. Slowly, he swivels his chair around, his pale freckled face drawn into a frown. Clearly, he’s not expecting anyone so late at night. After all, it’s not as though the area is bursting at the seams with residents.
Slowly, he stands. Beside his desk is a white plastic pot containing a large green yucca plant. Bending to it, he stubs out the cigarette he shouldn’t be smoking, then straightens and zips up his black bomber jacket. He’s in no hurry to get to the door, but as he passes the reception desk and sees me through the glass, his pace quickens.
‘Joanna!’ Although I can’t hear him, I recognise the shape of my name on his lips.
I wait as Derek presses the large button at the side of the glass doors. There are blotches of red on each of his cheeks, a tide of pink creeping up his neck. The doors slide open, and he steps forward. For one dreadful moment I think he’s going to embrace me, but then he checks himself, chewing at his bottom lip to keep it under control.
‘Jesus, Joanna. Where have you been?’ His small eyes sweep my face, taking in the dark circles under my eyes, the skin he’s never seen without make-up.
I bite my tongue hard until tears form in my eyes. ‘It’s been horrible, Derek. Just horrible. I can’t believe what he did.’
‘What who did? Tell me.’
He puts a hand on my upper arm, and I resist the urge to pull away. I need to keep Derek on my side.
‘Mark. He’s evil. I think he wanted to kill me.’
Derek’s eyes widen. ‘The bastard. He’ll be the one who’s dead if I get my hands on him. What did he do?’
I let my face crumple. ‘I don’t want to talk about it now, Derek. I just need to collect some clothes from the apartment. The police will be here tomorrow. They’ll be asking questions, but I’d rather you didn’t tell them I was here.’ I raise my hand to his face, tracing a finger down his cheek. ‘I can trust you, can’t I?’
‘Of course, you can. I’d never do anything to hurt you… not like that girl who’s been staying here.’
‘Who, Alice?’
‘Yes, her.’ Derek’s lips twist into a sneer. ‘She wormed her way in here good and proper.’
I try not to react. ‘She’s my friend, Derek. Please don’t talk about her that way. Anyway, she’s gone now.’
It’s like Derek hasn’t heard, though.
‘From what I can see, she treated the place as her own personal boutique hotel. Getting your lapdog husband to wait on her hand and foot. Jesus, you should have seen the food delivery. You’d think it was the Ivy. Who eats asparagus anyway?’
I don’t answer. What would I say? That asparagus has always been my favourite food? That the thought of Alice dipping it into the hollandaise sauce and putting it to her lips while my husband watches makes me feel sick. Why was he buying it for her?
‘What’s going on, Joanna?’
‘I’ll explain everything tomorrow. They won’t let me stay here. I’ll just get my stuff and go.’ I point to the camera on the wall, then put my finger to his lips. ‘Just our little secret.’
Derek looks unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll switch off the CCTV.’ He jerks his thumb at the dark night outside, his face unreadable. ‘Is Mr Belmont okay?’
His question unsettles me. I think of the white Mini embedded in the side of the pumping station, the blue and white police cordon. And, as I do, different emotions flow through me: disappointment at Mark’s weakness, despair that I might never see him again, anger that Alice was the one to ruin it all. ‘I don’t know. They won’t let me see him.’
I walk over to the lift, feeling Derek’s eyes on my back, and press the button. The doors slide open straight away, and pulling the concertina inner door aside, I step in, thankful when the doors slide closed again against Derek’s prying eyes. A worry is nagging at me. What if Mark recognised me when I stepped into the road? What if he picked me out in his headlights? If he regains consciousness and tells the police, everything will be ruined.
The lift stops. It’s only travelled one floor, but that’s the one whose shiny silver button I pressed. There’s something I need to do before I go home.
Before I see Alice.
Forty-Six
Alice
I drop the photographs onto the floor, standing immobile as shock courses through me. Someone has been in here since I last looked at them and done this.
I count off on my fingers the few people who might have had access to them. Mark’s stepson was here this week. Derek too, when he came to fix the air conditioning unit. Eloise also had a key… Mark told me so. Can it be that one of these people dislikes me so much they’d do such a thing?
More worryingly, why?
Cold fingers of fear work their way up my spine as I remember that one of these people is no longer alive. What if someone is preying on the women who live here? First Joanna, then Eloise. How long before the police find my friend’s body washed up on some muddy river beach, her black hair full of silt.
How long before they find mine?
Adrenaline kicks in. I must leave this place. Immediately. Leaving the photographs on the floor, I throw my bag over my shoulder and hobble from the room. I pull open the front door and step into the corridor, checking for my car keys in my bag before realising my stupidity. My car is no longer in the garage. It’s either still embedded in the wall of the pumping station or the police will have towed it away.
It might take all night, but I need to get out of this place. I haven’t got very far down the corridor though before I see something that makes my breathing become shorter.
The numbers above the lift are moving. Steadily rising. 3… 4… 5…
It can’t be Mark; he’s in hospital attached to a machine that’s helping him breathe. Who else would be riding the lift to floor six? Might Mark’s stepson be paying me another visit?
No. There’s only one person who knows everything. Would have seen on his monitors the police arrive, watched them escort me to the apartment, bided his time until they left again. What does he want with me? I picture Derek in the small, confined space of the lift. His feet astride, his eyes fixed on the door, waiting for it to open. The word security on his jacket giving him all the permission he needs to do what he wants.
The doors to the stairs are at the end of the corridor. Can I make it before the lift arrives or should I go back and shut myself into the apartment? Put the chain on the door and pray that he’ll leave me alone?
I’ve taken too much time thinking. The number has already reached 6, and I have no choice. Turning around, I limp back the way I came and force the key into the lock, nearly crying with relief when it turns, and the door opens. Behind me, I hear the lift ping, then the grate of the concertina door as it’s pulled open. Throwing myself into the room
, I slam the door closed behind me and pull the chain across.
I wait, my ear to the door. There are footsteps on the wooden floor, then silence. He’s outside. I know it. With my back against the door, I sink to the ground, not wanting to hear the shrill buzz that lets me know he’s here. Knowing it’s going to come. But it doesn’t. There’s nothing except the sound of my laboured breathing.
Forty-Seven
Joanna
I stand in front of my own front door. It’s been just over a week since I was last here. Since I ate at my table, sat on my purple settee or slept in my bed with my husband. I lean my shoulder against the door. Has Alice been sleeping in that bed too?
I think of Eloise’s bed two floors below, its expensive memory foam mattress covered in a bright patchwork quilt. She’d told me once that she’d made it herself. She had nothing better to do than stitch bed linen.
That huge reproduction four-poster bed under its floating canopy of red muslin, had been more comfortable than my own though and certainly more comfortable than the bed in the cheap hotel or the mattress in the unit. One night between those four metal walls had been enough. I don’t think I could have stood another, for even with the duvet I’d dragged out of one of the boxes, the place had been freezing.