Undercurrent

by J. A. Baker

  Sixteen

  Freda leans on the door with her shoulder and rotates the key with as much force as she can muster after a fifteen hour shift. She curses Alan and all his promises to get the bloody thing fixed . It’s been such an exhausting day as well. The key finally grinds into place with a snap, almost taking all the skin off her finger in the process. She rubs her hand vigorously and muttering an inaudible stream of expletives shoves the old brass key in the side pocket of her handbag. She can’t remember the last time anything in this shop worked as it should. What with depleted shelves, a wheezing and groaning chest freezer that sounds as if it is about to spontaneously combust, and a till that by rights should be in a museum, many would be forgiven for thinking the old place should be bulldozed. She has thought it herself on more than one occasion. Wished it actually. Most days if the truth be known. But apparently there’s not enough in the pension pot to allow them to hang up their hats just yet, or so he keeps saying. She wonders how much will ever be enough as she huddles down against the rain and makes her way over the road to their neat 1950’s bungalow, a squat little edifice sat amongst the trees, close enough so Alan can keep an eye on the till and his precious little shop even when the place is locked up for the night. She hurries along thinking how lovely it would be to have a holiday somewhere away from A&F Stores and all its problems. Away from the draughty old window behind the front counter that hurls all kinds of inclement weather their way during the autumn and bitter winter months, away from the complaints of, Why don’t you start stocking up a bit more? There’s nowt in here for me tea, just anywhere away from it all. Freda stops and stares over beyond the trees to the cluster of holiday cabins beyond and thinks even one of those for the weekend would be a welcome break. A lump forms in her throat as she thinks how sad her life is when she considers somewhere just a couple of hundred feet from her own front door an actual holiday. Rummaging in her pocket for a tissue, she thinks about her sister and wonders what time it currently is in her part of Queensland. She never can get to grips with all this time difference carry on. Whatever the hour, Dorothy will probably be having a damn sight more fun than she ever has. If only she’d heeded her sister’s warnings about staying in the area she grew up in.

  ‘It’s a big wide world out there Fre. Life doesn’t begin and end in Durham you know.’

  And now all these years later, Freda can see how right she was. Too late now though isn’t it? And it’s not as if Simon has shown any interest in taking over the business. Not now he’s got his degree and everything. No doubt he’ll be another one to go off globetrotting, leaving her behind with Alan who actually truly believes that the north of England is the epicentre of the universe. They waited so long to have Simon as well, and pretty soon he’ll leave. Just like all the others. The thought of it brings a lump to her throat.

  She shakes her head miserably and heads home, trying to think how many people have stayed in the village they all grew up in besides her. A horrible, murky sensation settles in the pit of her stomach as she realises there’s only her and Alan left. Everyone else has moved out, gone up in the world while she is left running a measly corner shop that hasn’t kept up with the times, relies on local farmers to provide them with fresh produce because the bigger suppliers won’t give them the discount, and doesn’t even take plastic. A sea of faces run through her head as she tries to recall them all - the Harrisons who now live in Peterborough with their grown up daughter, John and Mary Halston who moved to Norfolk after he got a massive promotion in sales, Sally Metward who ended up married to a rich American and now lives in California. And then there was - the idea hits her with a thud. She dismisses it telling herself not to be so ridiculous. It couldn’t possibly be, could it? That face has stuck in her mind for weeks now driving her mad and no matter how hard she has tried to forget it, the features kept coming back; evoking distant memories that danced on the periphery of her thoughts. Now it has come to her with a thump, crashing into her brain making her remember things she would sooner forget.

  She dumps her bag on the bottom step and hangs her jacket over the newel post, suddenly noticing with a certain amount of shame how dirty her coat actually is. Not like her sister’s cashmere and silk ones that exude wealth and a life of leisure.

  “That you Freda?” Alan’s voice bellows through from the kitchen. She sighs and kicks off her shoes. Who else is it going to be for goodness sake? “Your tea’s ready when you are. Did you manage to lock the safe up?”

  She slips her feet into her loafers and heads into the kitchen where a waft of billowing steam and the unmistakable aroma of steak pie and boiled veg meets her. If her husband has any redeeming features, it’s that he is the cook in their house and he does it far better and with a greater vigour than she ever could.

  “Safe’s all sorted. Where’s Simon?” She reaches up into the cupboard, grabs two mugs and stuffs a teabag into one of them before filling the kettle.

  “Upstairs on his laptop doing something or other with some new software apparently. It’s all beyond me that kind of new-fangled computer stuff.” He starts to spoon out a heap of carrots onto the plates.

  Freda opens the fridge and pulls out the milk carton, “Do you remember that family from years back who had the bother with their daughter?”

  “You’ll have to be a bit more specific than that love, I’m afraid. The old grey matter in’t what it used to be.”

  “They had a couple of young lasses. He was a bit of a drinker, used to knock the mother about. Lived in one of the terraced houses opposite the river.” Freda watches Alan as he continues to ladle out the food. His memory isn’t that bad and he has a knack for remembering faces. He would know if it was her for sure.

  He stops for a second and scrunches his eyes up then glances at her, “Oh aye, I remember that lot. Awful carry on it was. By, that was a good while back now. Why do you ask?”

  She stares down at her nails and shrugs, “Not sure really. Thought I saw her last week in the shop.”

  “The mother?” Alan stops and stares at her, “It can’t have been the mother you daft apeth.”

  “No, not the mother obviously,” Freda murmurs, an uncomfortable jolting sensation beginning to niggle at her, “the young lass. Could have sworn it was her. Much older obviously but she had a look of the old man about her. Said she’d just moved into the big barn conversion further down the village.”

  “The Parker’s place that backs onto the walkway?”

  “That’s the one.” Freda sits at the table and fiddles with her knife, turning it over and over, willing the knot in her stomach to loosen a fraction.

  “Well, I can’t see why she would move back ‘ere. Not after all that trouble. Would have thought this place held nowt but bad memories for her.” Steam billows in his face as he opens the oven door and lifts out a hefty ceramic dish with pie crust spilling over its sides.

  “Maybe,” Freda whispers. She watches as his knife cuts into the pastry with sharp crack, releasing another burst of steam.

  “Mother was a lovely woman. Mind, she had her own fair share of problems after all that business didn’t she? Which is hardly surprising when you consider what happened. And anyway the young lassie left this place when she was no more than a bairn.” He steps back to allow the heat to escape before grabbing a spoon and delving into the dark, rich gravy. “I doubt it was her love. You’ll have to tell me if you see her again. We see so many people every day, it’s easy to get faces mixed up.”

  “Perhaps,” she murmurs, hoping he is right. Because if it was her, it makes Freda wonder why she’s back. She never could quite get to grips with that one; very different from the other kids round here - sullen, prone to temper tantrums that just about bordered on the hysterical. And the arguments and fights she had with that sister of hers, well it was bloody embarrassing to witness. That poor mother and the things she had to put up with, and then of course what happened to her was absolutely dreadful. Nobody in the village had ever had to encounte
r anything of the sort before and she’s pretty sure they haven’t since. A terrible state of affairs it was. Terrible. She picks up her cutlery and hopes it wasn’t who she thinks it is. Because loathe though she is to say it about somebody who was just a child at the time, she was a magnet for trouble that one. It followed her around and if she’s back living here for good - well Freda doesn’t like to think about what could happen. This village has been a peaceful, as well as monotonous, place for the past thirty odd years and despite her moaning about how drab her life is, that’s exactly how she’d like it to remain.

  Seventeen

  I had been in the dining room polishing the silver when I heard it. Such a ridiculously antiquated habit really but one I can’t seem to let slide. I quite literally dropped everything to see what was going on out the back of my house. Not in a million years did I expect it to be her. Anna. And she was in such a terrible state too. Covered head to foot in mud, soaking through and so distressed; sobbing and choking. By the time I was able to help her inside she was just about inconsolable.

  I stare down at the heap before me and lean down to help her up. Her body is shaking and I am concerned she may be suffering from hypothermia. Not that I would know. Martyn is the one with medical knowledge round here. I touch her arm. She is freezing. How on earth did she get in such a state? Guilt pricks me. I have made a point of avoiding her lately. And all because of her brother and the fear he might recognise me. Ridiculous really but I didn’t feel I had a choice. Anna whimpers and my first thought is to run over the road and fetch her husband but something stops me. What if she went walking after a family argument? God knows, I can identify with that sentiment, that desperation to be alone, the absolute need to be your own person without the hindrance of family members questioning your every move. So instead, I fetch a large towel and an even bigger blanket which I wrap around her, and then with as much ease as I can, I lift her up and lead her over to the small sofa at the far end of the dining room. It doesn’t matter how dirty she is. Cushions can wash. Anna’s teeth chatter violently as I gently guide her over to the couch and sit her down.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” Her eyes are red rimmed and glassy as she stares up at me, “it seemed like such a good idea at the time, going for a walk on my own, but then the weather turned and it got dark so quickly. I wanted to get a picture of the sunset you see.” Her hair is as soft as I remember, even the bits that are plastered to her face by the rain still manage to free themselves and bounce around as she talks.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just relieved I heard you. I thought at first that it was a fox. They can be so noisy out there sometimes, howling and screaming. Quite an awful and unnatural sound when you’re in here on your own at night.”

  My words don’t seem to register with her as she continues to stare off into the distance. Her voice is croaky, barely more than a hint of a sigh.

  “And although I tried to not think about it, Nancy, that missing lady was in my head all the way back. Some of that river bank is quite steep you know, and really, really unsteady. And it is so dark. No light at all - just pitch black everywhere.”

  She stares down at her foot, which is shoeless and as dark as the mood I feel descending on me at the mention of Nancy. Why does Anna always do this? She witters on incessantly about things that don’t concern her, making me feeling miserable and on edge. It spoils everything and she just doesn’t seem to get it. When I’ve just about managed to eradicate all memories of that bloody awful day from my mind, Anna goes and rakes it all up again.

  “I’ll go and make us some cocoa. It will help to warm you up,” I say through gritted teeth as I shuffle off to the kitchen, my anger clawing to be let out.

  She is sitting in the same position, the same helpless expression on her face when I return.

  “There you go. At least you’re back now and in the warm.” I hand her the cup and she grabs at it gratefully, a definite tremor visible in her hands, “Once you’ve drunk this, I’ll go and fetch your husband and he can help you back home.”

  I wait to see if she has an adverse reaction to my suggestion but she appears to be locked in her own world, oblivious to me or anything I say.

  “I’ve been thinking,” says Anna as she blows on the cup, “do you think we should go out there with your torch and have another look for her?”

  Is she mad? Or am I being tested here? I hope my steely glare is enough to deter her and make her realise she is talking nonsense. Maybe she’s more dehydrated and exhausted than I first thought. Or perhaps she really is the naive type; the mousy housewife I took her to be when we first met. I clear my throat and make sure my voice is loud enough to convey what I actually think of her stupid idea,

  “I think we should clean you up and get you home Anna, and let the police carry out their own investigations.”

  As if she has suddenly been catapulted back into reality, Anna sits up with a start, a light of recognition behind her eyes,

  “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. Silly idea. It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about her. She’s on my mind all the time you see. All the time. . .” Her eyes are clouded with sadness, her mouth downcast.

  “You’re beginning to warm up. Finish your drink and I’ll help you back home,” My voice is sharper than I intend it to be. Good god, why can’t she stop going on about this? She looks up to me, a look of gratitude in her face, “I was chatting to Toby about you last week.”

  I stand stock still, waiting for whatever is coming next. A barrage of accusations? Laughter at my predicament? My legs are jelly as Anna continues on, suddenly renewed with a swell of energy now she is warm and safe inside my house.

  “He still can’t place you and it’s driving him half insane. He said he almost googled you to find out. Imagine that!”

  Yes, imagine that. My head swims as I try to find my voice. I feel a headache coming on and take a long swig of cocoa, its gritty residue coating my teeth. The barren, cream walls of the room begin to close in on me as I swallow the last dregs of my drink.

  “But of course he didn’t know your last name. He asked me and I told him I didn’t know either.”

  The silence is prolonged, crackling with unanswered questions. What is this, some kind of trap?

  “How are you feeling?” I ask dully. My patience is wearing thin now.

  Tears well up in her eyes once more as she speaks, “A bit better I suppose. It was just so awful out there.” I want to sigh out loud at her dramatic behaviour and tell her to get a grip. This woman seems to revel in feelings of marginal misery and exasperation. What does she know about being unhappy anyway? She should try being me.

  “Funny isn’t it? You moving here and then Toby thinking he has met you before. Such a small world don’t you think?”

  Her voice has a sourness to it and I wonder what it is she is really trying to get at. If she has something to say, she had better just come out and say it. I’m not in the mood for silly mind games. I shrug my shoulders to indicate that these things happen but she just will not shut up. Some people don’t seem to know when to give their mouths a rest. Especially her.

  “Toby is in the area again. He’s going to a conference in the city centre. He’ll probably come back to ours afterwards. He might even stay over for the night. You should pop over and put him out of his misery,” She chuckles lightly, “Your face is driving him mad apparently.” She stares up at me with her filthy, tear stained face and smiles.

  I almost choke on my own spittle. I would rather chew my own arm off than see him again but find myself smiling politely. All I want to do is be back near my sister and lead a quiet existence, not be reminded of all the angst and worry that went before. I moved here to leave it all behind me, to have a fresh start, just me and my husband, to be left alone to piece the fragments of our marriage back together. And here she is, this woman, this person in front of me who is virtually a stranger, and she seems absolutely bloody determined to put a stop to it all. I feel a rage be
gin to build and I have to take a few deep breaths to stop it bursting out, a grotesque explosion of pent up anger. How dare she? Who the hell does this Anna woman think she is?

  I stare down at her. She is totally unaware of what is going through my mind, which is just as well really. It’s time to get her home before I say something I will probably regret. It’s been a long and busy day and I am now extraordinarily tired.

  “Or I can arrange another get together? The last one was fun wasn’t it?”

  Before I even have chance to reply, I hear a noise behind me that turns my limbs to stone. I am rooted to the spot as I listen to Martyn scuffle his way towards us. Anna smiles at me, oblivious to his approach. He is right behind her and I realise that I’m more attuned to his presence than she is. He actually moves very quietly and rather than hearing him, I suddenly realise I am able to sense his entry into a room. Time stops as, out of the corner of my eye, I see him pick up the heavy, silver candelabra I had been vigorously buffing up before rushing out to help Anna, and watch in horror as he raises it high up in the air and brings it down onto the top of my neighbours skull with a deep, sickening thud.

  Blood pulses through my head and fear grips me as her body sways for a second before slumping forward and landing at my feet in a deep scarlet puddle. I turn to look at Martyn. He is standing next to me, the candelabra still in his hand, Anna’s blood smeared over it, his knuckles white as he clasps it with force. Dear god, it’s happening again. I want to scream at him. I want to fill the room with the sound of my own wails, to howl at him that his actions repulse me, but instead I stand mute, terror pummelling at my temples. I cover my mouth with my cupped hands and turn to look at Martyn but when I do, he has already walked away leaving me to deal with his mess. The candelabra is at my feet, red and oily with blood, the smear of fingerprints evident over the polished surface.