by Lauren North
The only part of my body moving is my eyes, straining to one side to get a better look, to verify what my pounding heart already knows—there is someone in my garden, someone watching us.
The thought spurs me into action and I race through the hall with my slippers slapping on the floor. The house is as dark as the night outside and my hip knocks painfully against the side of the table but I don’t stop. My sole focus is on the side door that I’m sure at any moment is going to burst open and the man in the black baseball cap will be in our house.
I reach for the lock with shaking hands. It’s locked. I locked it. Relief floods my body. I gasp for air and will my heart to stop beating so quickly so I can figure out what to do now.
How secure is the house? How strong is the new lock on the side door? Should I grab Jamie and make a run for the car? Who is out there? Watching and waiting. And why? It has to be him, doesn’t it?
“I have no intention of hurting anyone,” he said. But he’ll scare me half to death though.
I wish I was braver. I wish I could throw open the side door and march out there with a torch and a hammer and swear at the night and the man in my garden watching us. There is something a little familiar about that thought, and I realize it’s because I did that once, not long after we moved. There was a God-awful noise in the garden, like two people fighting. You were still at work, Jamie was asleep, so I strode out into the night, swinging the beam of the torch this way and that until I saw the glowing eyes of two foxes, startled from their fight by my presence. I threw back my head and laughed and told them to keep the noise down as they darted away.
Where did that person go? And if I’m not that person anymore, then who am I?
I move quickly back through the house to the living room.
The credits of the show are moving across the screen and Jamie is grinning up at me.
“Time for bed.” I force a singsong voice and switch off the TV.
He nods and disappears upstairs.
“Love you,” I call up to him, swallowing back the tears.
“Love you too,” he calls back.
Only when I’m sure Jamie is in bed do I turn off the living room light and grab the phone from the dining room and call the only person I can think of.
“Shelley,” I say, whispering her name before she has a chance to say hello.
“Tess? What is it? Are you OK?”
“There’s a man in my garden.” I feel the fear, the adrenaline, in my stomach. I take a step into the darkness of the living room, keeping the phone and its white light pressed to my face as I inch sideways to the window. “He’s by the trees, underneath the tree house.”
The light is gone but there’s a pale crescent moon in the sky and with the lights off I can just see the shadow of a figure moving behind the tree.
“Oh my God,” Shelley gasps, her voice mimicking my own and dropping to a whisper. “Call the police!”
“Oh . . . OK. I didn’t think,” I reply, feeling stupid.
“Tess, hang up and call the police. Don’t answer the door to anyone but them. I’m not far away. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
I hang up, my fingers shaking so the buttons take longer to press than they should. Shelley is right. I need to call the police. I have to tell them everything. I have to keep us safe, Mark. Whatever happens, I have to protect Jamie.
Suddenly it’s real. There is a man in our garden, leaning against one of our trees casual as anything, watching the house, watching Jamie and me. Hearing Shelley’s panic rams reality down my throat and I’m stumbling over myself to get out of the living room.
I sit on the bottom step of the stairs and call the police. It’s never as quick as they make it out in the movies. It takes ages just to give my name and address and tell the operator what service I want. The minutes tick by and all the while I wonder if he’s still out there watching. The man who called me last week and chased me in Manningtree—it has to be.
The operator is cool, no-nonsense. “And you’re sure it’s a person?”
“Yes. I saw a torch or a phone light.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes . . . I mean no, my son Jamie is here, but he’s only seven.”
“Is the house secure?”
“I think so. I checked the doors and they’re locked.”
“OK, we’re sending a unit to your address now. It’s a busy night, so it may take some time.”
A banging echoes through the house and then Shelley’s voice shouts, “Tess, it’s Shelley.”
“What was that noise?” the operator asks.
“It’s just my friend Shelley.”
“Was she the person outside?” There’s a note of doubt in the operator’s voice now. An “are you wasting police time?” tone.
“No, no. I phoned her when I saw someone and she offered to come over.”
“Right. Lock the door behind her and a unit will be on its way soon.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up and dash through the house, desperate to make sure Shelley gets in before the man can get to her.
When I yank open the door Shelley’s eyes are wide as if she’s as spooked as I am. Her nose is running and she looks frozen.
“Are you OK?” she asks without moving from the doorstep. “You took so long to get to the door I started to think something had happened, and I forgot to bring the spare key you gave me.”
“Sorry. I had the police operator giving me twenty questions.” I motion her in but she doesn’t move.
“Good. You called them.” She draws in a breath and shoves the sleeves of her black jacket up to her elbows as I try to pull her in and shut the door and bolt it tight. But Shelley isn’t budging from the doorway. “Have you got a torch?” she asks.
“What for?” I dig behind the rack of boots for the clunky orange one I know is lurking there from trick-or-treating in the dark last Halloween.
“I’m going to look.”
“What? No. The police said we should stay inside and lock the doors.”
“There’s some Peeping Tom leering away in your garden, Tess. Scaring you half to death. I’m not just going to sit here and let him get away with it.”
Then before I can protest, before I can make her see sense, she’s snatching the torch out of my hands and flying into the darkness. A shudder races through my body, and I slam the side door shut and lock it again.
I dash through the house, back to the dark living room. The circular torch beam is bouncing along the ground and swinging up, scanning the tree line ahead as Shelley approaches. I follow the beam of light to the trees. My heart is pounding in my ears and I hold my breath waiting to see the figure emerge, but there’s nothing there now.
A minute passes before Shelley turns to the window and shrugs. I’m at the side door by the time she’s trudged across the lawn. “I didn’t see anything,” she calls out, flicking off the torch as she nears the door.
My heart is still hammering away and I bite my lip to stop myself calling for her to hurry up and get inside.
“The wind is really blowing out there now though. Maybe it was a branch swaying in the wind,” she says, stepping inside and pulling off her ankle boots, which are covered in a rim of mud. She must have really poked around in the trees to get them so muddy, and now I feel bad, bad and grateful.
“Maybe. Sorry, I didn’t mean for you to drive all the way here. I just needed to hear a friendly voice.”
“I was glad to get out. Tim and I had another row. I went for a swim to clear my head and got your call as I was leaving the pool.” Her voice cracks.
I flick the switch on the kettle and motion for Shelley to take a seat.
“It’s nothing new,” she says, dabbing a finger under her eyes. “After our chat the other night, it got me thinking about adoption again. I want a chi
ld so badly, Tess. I don’t mean a baby, but a child. I want to be a mother again. So I asked Tim to consider fostering a little boy or girl. That way, if it doesn’t feel right then we can back out, but Tim wouldn’t even talk about it. He basically said I was being selfish for not wanting to have another baby of our own.” Shelley touches the locket around her neck, running it back and forth on its chain.
I can see Dylan’s photo clearly in my mind. That blond hair sticking up. Those bright blue eyes.
“That’s horrible,” I mutter. I forget the kettle and slide into the seat beside her. Thoughts of the man by the tree have been swept aside, along with my fears.
I can’t shake the image of Dylan from my mind. He would be nearly eight now, just like Jamie.
“Ha! It gets worse.” Shelley pulls a face—an upside-down smile. “Then he said, if I wasn’t going to give him another child, then he’d go out and find someone who will. And . . . and I know he means it, because I found out last week that he’s had an affair with the receptionist at the golf club.”
“Oh my God, why didn’t you say anything? What a bastard,” I say. “Sorry, I know he’s your husband and everything—”
Shelley waves her hand at me. “Don’t be sorry. He is a bastard, which is what I called him as he slammed the front door.”
“What are you going to do? Will you . . . will you try adopting on your own?”
“I think I have to, Tess. I want to be a mother again, with or without Tim. We’ve been clinging on to our marriage as a way to remember Dylan. Maybe starting again would be healthier for both of us. I’m never going to forget Dylan.” She touches her locket, the smile gone, and for a moment I see a woman half destroyed by grief. For a moment I see myself in Shelley’s face. “But I think I want to find a way to move on a little bit.”
“You’re welcome to stay here anytime,” I say. “I will unearth the spare bed from the boxes one of these days.”
“Thank you.” She smiles then. “But Tim and I have been avoiding each other long enough. We need to sit down and talk properly. We won’t be able to iron things out one way or another if I—”
“Oh shit, the iron.” I leap up and dash into the living room.
I flick the switch off at the wall and yank the plug from the socket. The iron hisses a puff of steam. “Sorry,” I say, forcing a small laugh as Shelley follows me to the living room. “I forgot to turn it off earlier.”
Shelley flicks on the main light. I feel suddenly exposed, thinking of the man outside, but he’s gone now, I remind myself. Shelley’s eyes fall to the ironing board.
“You don’t need to be doing that now, Tess,” Shelley says, her voice slow and soft as if she’s speaking to a child.
I follow her eyes to one of your shirts resting on the pile, along with a few of my tops and the last of Jamie’s school shirts.
“Oh . . . no.” I shake my head. “This is the first time I’ve touched the ironing since Mark died. I wasn’t going to iron Mark’s shirts . . . I wasn’t going to . . .” My voice trails off.
“OK.” Shelley nods but I can tell she’s not sure.
“I haven’t ironed anything for weeks. I haven’t felt up to it. But I did tonight. It was nice.” I think of Jamie’s laughter filling the living room.
“Yes, but Tess, are you sure you’re OK?” Shelley touches my arm.
“Apart from seeing a man in the garden, I’m absolutely fine.” I try to smile.
“I’ll make the hot chocolates then,” she says.
I realize then that I haven’t told Shelley about the plate Jamie threw at me. I could tell her now, but something stops me. Hearing about Shelley’s argument with her husband has distanced my own fight with Jamie, and I don’t want to dredge it up again. I feel the same about the phone call last night. I’ll wait for the police to arrive. They need to know too. I can’t carry on like this for much longer, Mark.
* * *
—
The hot chocolate Shelley made warms my stomach and coats my thoughts in a sickly treacle. It’s hard to think straight. Exhaustion is weighing down my limbs. I’m so tired. There was someone in my garden, I tell myself over and over, but the memory of it seems more like an obscure notion than reality.
When the police arrive I try to concentrate on what I’m saying, but my thoughts are muddled and my words don’t come out right. The two policemen ask question after question and I struggle to understand, let alone answer. “Where were you standing when you saw someone in your garden? Did you notice what the person was wearing? Has anything like this happened before?”
I want to tell them about the phone call last night—the man and his threats—but my tongue is suddenly too big in my mouth and my thoughts are jumbled, like one of Jamie’s plastic puzzles with the sliding tiles all in the wrong place. I know what the picture should be, the words I want to use, but I can’t figure out how to move the pieces in the right way.
“You mentioned your son is in the house, Mrs. Clarke?”
My eyelids are heavy and the fog is pulling me away from the living room.
Shelley is saying something about Jamie, but her voice is muffled. We traipse upstairs—the two policemen, Shelley and I—and poke our heads into Jamie’s room. The nightlight is on and Jamie is twisted in a ball in his covers, his head halfway down the bed.
One of the policemen asks a question about Mark but I’m too busy trying to shut Jamie’s door and shush them to listen properly.
My memory is hazy after that. The police leave and then Shelley guides me to bed, promising to check on Jamie one last time before she goes. At least, I think that’s what happened. I can’t remember. I can’t be sure.
CHAPTER 41
Sunday, March 25
14 DAYS TO JAMIE’S BIRTHDAY
It’s only the next afternoon, when I shake off the pillow smothering my thoughts, that I think about Shelley’s visit and how quickly she arrived last night.
The phone call to the police operator seemed to take a long time, but it can’t have been more than ten minutes. Ten minutes from when I hung up the phone with Shelley and dialed 999. It would take me longer than that to find my car keys and put my boots on.
She said she was just leaving the swimming pool, but even if the A12 was empty, which it never is, it would’ve taken longer than ten minutes.
It doesn’t add up. I slide my feet into my wellies and head to the garden. I walk the same route around the house as Shelley took the previous night. The grass is wet and the earth feels sodden with the week’s rain. I can still see the boot prints of the officers from when they searched the garden, trampling through the daffodils.
At the tree house I stop and stand exactly where I saw the person last night. I can see straight into the living room. Even from this distance I can see Jamie hunched forward over the PlayStation controller and the TV screen displaying the dark world of his Minecraft game. From here I can see the study, and Jamie’s bedroom too.
I give a sudden shiver and I’m about to step away when something bright on the ground catches my eye. I drop down to my haunches and run my fingers over the leaves until I find it—a button. A shiny silver button.
I recognize it straightaway. It’s from Shelley’s jacket, the one she was wearing last night.
The logical part of my brain knows the button could easily have fallen off when Shelley was checking the garden last night, or the other day when we were gardening, and yet, I think again to how quickly she arrived, how cold she looked on the doorstep, and how strange I felt after drinking the hot chocolate. Just like the last time Shelley made me hot chocolate.
Suddenly the lullaby—Shelley’s soft voice—is turning in my head. “Your mumma loves you, oh yes I do.”
The last time I drank the hot chocolate Shelley made I could barely walk to Jamie’s room in the middle of the night. I could barely stay awake. The day after, my mou
th was dry, my thoughts clunky, just like today. I thought it was a side effect from antidepressants, but what if I’m wrong?
I turn on my heel and run back to the house, kicking off my wellies at the door before racing upstairs to our bedroom and my notebook. I scramble through the pages. There are more than I remember writing, but I find the page with Shelley and add a question: Is Shelley drugging me?
The thought is obscene. Shelley is my friend. And yet I run the nib of the pen around and around the question in a dark circle.
It wouldn’t be difficult. A few over-the-counter sleeping pills mixed into my drink when I’m already so tired.
I try to remember the argument I overheard after our shopping trip last week and Shelley’s cutting words that were so unlike the friend I know. “Are you purposefully trying to mess this up? Stay away from her,” I thought she said.
We spent so long in Tesco that day. I thought Shelley did it to help me, but I can’t shake the convenience of it all. The one time I leave the house that week for any longer than the school run and someone goes into the house. I’m sure that someone was Ian, which means Shelley and Ian are connected somehow.
It feels too far-fetched to even consider, but then I think of the disbelieving looks that passed between the officers, and how keen Shelley was for me to call them, as if she wanted them to doubt me.
What is going on, Mark?
CHAPTER 42
IAN
I didn’t see Tess in the weeks leading up to Jamie’s birthday. We may have spoken on the phone a few times. I can’t remember where I was on Saturday, the twenty-fourth of March, but I was probably in The Tavern in Ipswich. I normally meet friends there on a Saturday night. I’ll give you their names. I’m sure one of them can confirm I was there that night.
It’s ridiculous to suggest I was trying to scare Tess. Why would I want to stand in her garden in the freezing cold? I know she thinks I wanted the house back, but I genuinely didn’t care that they bought it. I’m quite happy in my waterfront apartment, thanks very much.