Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  Staggering over to the cabinet I locate a couple of painkillers and swallow them down, then lean in and turn the shower off. With any luck the person at the door will have given up and moved on, decided I’m not worth pursuing. I have been given a reprieve. Or at least my husband has. I hear the familiar thump of Martyn’s bare feet as they hit the floor in the bedroom next door and am unable to stop the tears as they begin to roll. He is up and out of bed. Time to face him once again and get on with the day.

  Ten

  “When did it happen?”

  Callum and Mason are sitting on the sofa, eyes agog at their mother who is twiddling with a strand of hair while she crosses and uncrosses her legs in rapid, continuous, jerky movements. Her nerves are still jangling. Hardly surprising really. It’s not every day things like this happen. Most people go through their entire lives and never be involved in anything like this.

  “Some time yesterday apparently,” Anna whispers, all too aware the whole scenario will fuel her sons’ excitement and curiosity. Teenage boys think events like this are a game, an occurrence played out to entertain them.

  “So she just, like disappeared?” Mason stretches the word out, highlighting its significance in the stillness of the room.

  “So the man said,” Anna stares out of the window at the countryside beyond as if her gaze will suddenly conjure up the missing person, like pulling a rabbit from a hat.

  “So, where do they think she’s gone to then?” Callum murmurs and follows his mother’s gaze to the rolling hills outside, curved and smooth, layer after layer, like an animal unfurling itself from a deep sleep.

  “If they knew that d’ya think they’d be interviewing all the people in the village you big thicko?” Mason is staring at his brother, a slight sneer to his contorted upper lip. Callum rolls over and plants a slap on Mason’s forehead who then dodges under his brother’s arm and hurls himself off the couch, landing on the floor in a sharp angled heap. Within seconds, they are rolling about, limbs locked together like a pair of fighting crabs.

  “Oh for god’s sake, cut it out you two!”

  Anna jumps up and stalks off into the kitchen. She can’t be bothered to intervene. She would usually drag them apart and have them hanging, one from each fist, but today she has no energy to manage her two warring sons. It’s high time they snapped out of their childlike ways and grew up. The conversation outside has left her drained, wishing it was later in the day so she could justify having a drink to calm her nerves. Sensing her agitation, the boys stop and stare at each other, a slight smirk starting to spread over their faces. This is new to them. The expected slap to the back of their heads hasn’t happened. They look at each other and shrug wondering what’s gotten into her,

  “Should we go out and help the search team?” Callum suggests as he scrambles up and tucks his shirt back into his skinny fit jeans, their closeness to his skin accentuating his wiry frame.

  “That’s probably the last thing you should do,” barks Anna over the bubbling and whirring of the coffee machine. She needs something to calm her down, something that doesn’t involve alcohol because the way she is feeling, once she starts drinking, she won’t be able to stop. Incidents like this make her feel on edge, out of sorts. They make her acutely aware of how quickly life can change from a near blissful existence to an unbearable nightmare in the blink of an eye. That poor lady. Her poor family.

  “Who was she then?”

  Callum rummages through the cupboards looking for snacks. Anna glares at him and instinctively hands over the cake tin which he plunges his fist into, grabbing at a scone and gobbling it down, spitting crumbs as he speaks, “Sorry, I mean who is she then? ‘Cos we don’t know if she’s dead yet do we? Although she probably is, even though that’s not what you want to hear. Sorry.”

  He wipes his mouth and sits down, his long legs splayed out in front of him. Anna pours a coffee and drinks it straight down before pouring herself another.

  “You can get throat cancer drinking hot drinks like that. I read about it online.”

  “Oh well, it must be true then. Who needs school when you have Google?” Anna blows into the cup and sips at it, watching Callum intently as she does it.

  “So go on then. What’s the story?” His face morphs into an expression that is close to maturity. This happens sometimes, as if he is trapped in some kind of indefinable region between being a stroppy, often thoughtless teenager, and something marginally resembling adulthood. Anna enjoys these times, snatches at them covetously before they dissipate into the ether, swallowed up by a mass of seething hormones as they rampage through his system, running riot and wreaking havoc with his emotional capabilities and social graces. Mason slopes into the kitchen to join them, grabs a bag of crisps and slumps into a chair next to her, the sound of his crunching even louder than the coffee machine.

  “Apparently she left home yesterday morning telling her family she was taking a walk down by the river. Her vehicle is still parked up next to the green and somebody saw her sitting on the bench next to her car but after that there is no sighting of her. She seems to have disappeared into thin air.”

  “Into the river more like,” Mason adds as he slugs back a tumbler of lemonade. “What?” He cries as Anna’s eyes widen and she shakes her head at him, her lips pursed into a thin disapproving line.

  “Gotta admit it mum. For once he’s probably right. That’s what the police and mountain rescue’ll be thinking. They won’t tell her family that, but that’s definitely what they’ll be thinking. They’ll have divers here soon looking for a body.” Callum gets up and helps himself to another scone, leaving a trail of caramel-coloured crumbs over the grey tiles as he breaks it open and bites into it.

  Anna feels a blackness descend. She doesn’t know this lady, and despite her children’s misgivings, for all they know she could still be alive and well. People go missing all the time. It doesn’t mean they’re dead. Sometimes they just don’t want to be found. Life can get to be too much for them and they simply disappear. But of course Callum and Mason are probably right; here it’s slightly different. Here they have the river. Fast flowing and high after a particularly wet winter, it poses a real threat to anyone unfortunate enough to get caught up in it. That’s what it is that’s making her feel so unsettled and depressed. Anna thinks of how it would feel to be dragged away by the current, the freezing water lapping over your head as you desperately try to clamber to safety; not knowing which way is up in the impenetrable darkness. Any cries for help would be drowned out by the rush of the frothing current as it bubbles up round your neck and washes over your head, slowly filling your lungs until you can no longer speak or yell out and then eventually not be able to breathe at all. Just a prolonged, terrifying shroud of nothingness until your heart gives out. And all of that possibly happened just yards from where they are now sitting. A woman out there, struggling, screaming for help, freezing and totally helpless while they were all in here, eating cake and drinking coffee, complaining about how little there is on the TV these days, whining about the internet being too slow. While she was out there dying.

  She stands up and wishes Mike was here. His presence in the house is perversely comforting, annoying at times but a strange source of comfort nonetheless. Anna stares out of the window, struggling to see beyond the worst case scenario. She shakes her head. She has to stop it. For heaven’s sake, this missing woman might still be out there. She tells herself that she has really got to stop thinking the worst all the time. It’s one of her less admirable traits, being a constant worrier. Take this Phoebe lady for example, who she hardly even knows. She actually loses sleep over the fact that the woman who lives in the big house over the road, who is virtually a stranger, may not be coping too well with her lot in life. Anna lets out a long breath and closes her eyes as she takes another sip of coffee. It is true though. Looking after a disabled person must be hell on earth. Anna would much rather have her small house and rusty old car than have to have that to d
eal with every day. And as silly as it sounds, the only way she will ever be able to stop thinking about her is if she calls round again - which she is going to do - not to interfere or pry, just to be a presence, someone for Phoebe to chat to. But not right now. Right now she needs this strong coffee to clear her head and calm her nerves. God, she hopes this woman turns up, but no matter how hard she tries, a small, still voice deep within her brain, is telling her that something is horribly amiss.

  Eleven

  The tablets have worked. The headache has lifted. And I do know that although I feel better physically, mentally I am struggling to cope. If I were to depict an image of how I feel right now it would be a huge thick cloak draped over a black canvas. I feel utterly despondent and cannot see any way out of this horrible situation. Martyn is downstairs and I am upstairs, and at the moment that is exactly how I like it. Everything is still too fresh in my mind, too raw for me to be able to face him, to make pleasantries with him so I am keeping my distance, keeping myself occupied.

  The deep pile of the landing carpet is soft underfoot as I pad along to the top of the stairs. I peer over the banister and look down. Martyn’s study door is closed. I can hear the faint crackle of his radio from behind it. I hope he stays put. Dear lord I really hope he stops there for the entire day. I watched him take a plate of toast and a huge pot of tea in there earlier, along with a stack of newspapers, so with any luck I may just get my wish. I can but hope. Not having to face him will make the rest of the day so much easier to bear. I head downstairs, the vice around my skull slowly beginning to release itself notch by notch. And that’s when I hear it. More knocking. It slices through the still air and freezes my blood. I knew they would come back. Of course they will. A woman has gone missing and they won’t give up until they find her. Icicles prickle my scalp and tears mist my vision. Just when I thought I could keep my head up and make it through the day. The stairs blur and move as I take them slowly, one at a time, my eyes downcast, desperate to keep a purchase on the handrail. A voice roars in my ears, Stay calm and keep breathing. A thousand words flutter around in my brain as I desperately try to form a coherent sentence that I can spill out to this person at the door, to help Martyn out, to cover Martyn’s tracks. Martyn, Martyn, Martyn. Everything is always about bloody Martyn.

  With one hand I unlock the door and slowly open it. The oak jamb sticks slightly before finally giving to with a dull squeak, allowing it to swing open wide. My knees buckle and I almost want to laugh out loud when I see her standing there before me, smiling inanely, her hair bouncing around her face giving her the look of a small child. Suzie. Relieved beyond belief, I smile at her and step aside to let her in. She reciprocates the smile and marches through to the kitchen where she sits down at my table as if we’re good friends and have known each other for years. I fill the kettle and busy myself with finding tea bags. It helps to plug the awkward silence that has settled in the room. It doesn’t last for long though. I knew it wouldn’t. When it comes to making conversation, I am more than a touch reserved, cautious and careful, unlike Anna who appears to want to fill every moment of quiet with her relentless chatter.

  “Dear god Phoebe, isn’t it just awful? What must you think of our village? Nothing like this has ever happened before. It’s usually such a lovely place to live. Don’t let this incident put you off. I’m sure she will turn up safe and sound.” She shakes her head and drags a small, pale hand through her feather light hair. It bounces around her tiny face, golden threads bobbing and dancing.

  I feel my face burn and move away from her. Turning my back, I busy myself with washing and drying cups and spoons while I wait for the kettle to boil. It’s infinitely preferable to having to lie and put on a show of innocence while she goes on and on about how terrible it is and how she hopes the poor woman will be found sooner rather than later. I just need a few more minutes to compose myself before I can face her and speak without it coming out like a stream of incoherent gobbledegook. Because this is one conversation that I really don’t want to be having with a woman I barely know. I have no idea where it will lead and I am not a fan of surprises.

  “I mean I don’t mind telling you I am absolutely horrified. I spoke to one of them out there and told him I hadn’t seen or heard anything. I felt really guilty that I couldn’t be of more help really but you can’t just make things up can you? Have they spoken to you yet?” she gabbles the words out, barely stopping for breath, “because I think they’re trying to ask everybody in the vicinity if they saw her or spoke to her.”

  I am rigid, the tea towel scrunched up into a tight ball in my fist as her words ring out in the air between us. I turn abruptly, ready to grasp the nettle. I have to speak. There’s no alternative, even if every bone in my body is screaming for it to be otherwise,

  “Sorry, I don’t quite follow you. Has who spoken to me?” I listen to my own voice. It sounds eerily distant with a definite echo that whirls around my head, “Has something happened?” I smile and hand Anna a cup of tea. “Nothing too serious I hope.”

  Her expression changes and she brings a hand up to cover her gaping mouth, “Oh god how clumsy of me! I presumed you knew. Bloody hell, it’s so awful.”

  I shake my head and sit down opposite, my face the picture of innocence, “Know what? My sleeping pattern’s been really erratic since moving in. I walked Tillie early then had a mid-morning nap so I’ve obviously missed it all. What’s going on out there?”

  I can tell by her face that I’ve pulled it off. Her expression never waivers. She sips at her tea, eyes as wide as saucers. The picture of girlish simplicity. So innocent.

  “A woman has gone missing. Can you believe it? Round here of all places!”

  I shake my head and agree that it is terrible news. Shocking. She swallows more tea and stares at me, then opens her mouth as if a thought has just occurred to her,

  “What about your husband? He doesn’t leave the house does he? Did he not hear or see anything?”

  I smile sadly and shake my head despondently, hoping it looks genuine.

  “He’s not been at all well the last few days and has spent most of it sleeping I’m afraid. He’s been in quite a lot of pain and on heavy medication which has completely zonked him out.”

  She nods knowingly and pushes a strand of her golden hair back behind her ear with a practised curl of her finger.

  “Of course, of course. It’s probably just as well really, that he isn’t aware of what’s going on out there,” she mumbles, suddenly flushed. “ This kind of thing can be really upsetting for people like - well what I mean is, if your husband is feeling a bit, well - you know, and of course it’s really worrying and difficult for you and...”

  I let her carry on and watch a mesh of scarlet creep over her chest and up her throat. She stops speaking and meekly sips at her tea, the obvious unspoken inference about my frosty disposition and Martyn’s physical and mental incapacity hanging heavily between us. It doesn’t bother or concern me in the slightest. I’m actually rather used to it. So many friends have dropped off my radar in the past few years, I’ve had to get used to being alone. I’m pretty well adjusted to a quiet and staid life. Except for Martyn of course. He’s a real drain on me. A full time job. And anything but staid.

  “Do they know anything about her?” I ask, not that I want or need to hear the answer.

  “Only that she told her family she was going walking and would be taking the route through the village. Awful isn’t it? I mean the river’s really high at the moment and that only increases the strength of the current. . .”

  Her voice tails off, neither of us sure of what to say next. I actually have lots of things I could say to answer her questions and solve the mystery of the missing walker. I could tell her that the woman was called Nancy, that she was a mother to two grown up children, that she enjoyed gardening, walking and cycling and was meant to be spending the day rambling with her friend who cancelled last minute, due to illness, leaving Nancy to undertake
the walk on her own. I know all of this because this is what she told me before my husband crept up behind her, put his large hands around her throat and throttled her to death. He had been on edge, restless and jittery since the incident with the two teenage boys weeks before and had spent each and every day watching for any signs of strangers in the garden. I had attempted to explain that we would see plenty and he had best get used to it but nothing seemed to sway him. He was neurotic; convinced people were trying to spy on him. People like Nancy.

  “Cake?” I ask, my voice breaking. I stand up and bring back a small plate of Victoria sponge, a slight tremor visible in my hand. Anna doesn’t see it. She is staring out of the window, a faraway look in her eyes. Suzie used to do that sometimes, disappear into her own little world, oblivious to everyone and everything including dad’s continual struggle with the drink and the hard time mother had dealing with him. Suzie was impervious to all the goings on around her. Even when he came home one night, so blind drunk he soiled himself and mother had to clean him up despite being slightly built and only half his size. I remember that evening all too well. I helped mother get him to bed, hauling him upstairs, dodging his fists as he lashed out, trying to push us away from him, and all the while Suzie had sat on the bed styling her hair and painting her nails.