Safe With Me

by K. L. Slater

  There is still one thing I can do that will make a big difference.

  I fish out the business card from the police and tap the number into my new phone. When the automatic answering service begins, I wait for the relevant bit and then tap in the extension number of a PC Brixham who wrote his details on to the business card.

  He answers the phone, stating his name.

  ‘I’m Ivy Bradbury,’ I say slowly, injecting a little quiver into my voice. ‘My grandson was involved in an accident on Green Road recently, and I wonder if you can tell me what’s happening with the investigation.’

  ‘Ahh yes, I’m involved in this case personally, Mrs Bradbury. We’re waiting to speak to the other driver and someone will be popping round to speak to your grandson soon,’ PC Brixham says. ‘I believe letters regarding this matter have gone out to both addresses recently.’

  ‘Why has it taken so long?’ I add in just a touch of distress. ‘I don’t want the other driver to get away with nearly killing my grandson.’

  ‘I can assure you that all procedures will be followed, Mrs Bradbury. Unfortunately, there has been a spate of road traffic accidents in the area and we’re trying our best to pull everything in with the limited staff we have.’

  They need shaking up. Somebody has to get things moving.

  ‘She’s bothering us, you see,’ I say softly. ‘She came to the hospital and bluffed her way in to see my grandson without permission.’

  ‘Miss Danson did?’

  No, the fucking tooth fairy.

  ‘Yes, she tried to get him to sign a statement saying he doesn’t want to press charges.’ I’m warming nicely to the role but I take care to sound a little unsure of myself, a little vulnerable. ‘My grandson is very distressed about it all. She keeps calling at the house, insisting we talk to her. I’m sure you understand it is very unnerving for us, officer.’

  ‘Absolutely. You did the right thing letting us know.’ PC Brixham sounds far more interested now. ‘We’ll get someone out to you as soon as possible, Mrs Bradbury. Hopefully tomorrow.’

  That suits me just fine. I have plans for the rest of the afternoon.

  * * *

  Later, feeling quite bold, I decide to send Liam a text before I go up to bed.

  It’s only eight thirty but getting up at four a.m. takes its toll, especially when I’m not sleeping very well.

  ‘Just off to bed. Enjoy your evening’, I type. ‘I’ll pop over tomorrow’

  His reply comes straight back.

  ‘Thanks. Amanda cancelled so a quiet night for us, too X’

  This is no surprise at all to me, of course, after my dealings this afternoon but it still feels good to read his words and realise that the early stages of my plan are having an effect. . . and to receive a kiss, which I decide to ignore in the end.

  Focus.

  All things taken into consideration, it has been quite a satisfying day.

  Chapter 37

  Thirteen years earlier

  Carla had finally finished her last meeting and was making slow progress walking across the car park, weighed down by a large box full of pupil files.

  A scrawny-looking girl of about fourteen or fifteen appeared as if from nowhere and stood directly in front of her. Carla almost dropped the box in surprise.

  She was about to scold her when she saw her eyes, flashing and wild. The girl was wearing the uniform of the comprehensive. Her school blouse was smeared with suspicious-looking reddish-brown stains and her hair looked unkempt, as if she’d taken flight.

  ‘Please, miss,’ she gasped breathlessly. ‘It’s my brother. You’ve got to help him.’

  Carla put the box down on the ground.

  ‘OK, calm down.’ She took a step back so she could properly assess the girl. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  She nodded vigorously.

  ‘Well then, let’s go back inside and you can tell me exactly what’s wrong.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I mean you need to get help now, before it’s too late. They’re hurting him.’

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ Carla said gently, her heart beginning to thud. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Anna Clarke.’

  Carla took a breath. It was a name she recognised from the school file. ‘Are you Daniel Clarke’s sister?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘He’s in real trouble, miss. They’ll kill him if you don’t. . . oh God, please help him.’

  The school office staff had left the building now. Carla would have to call the police herself if necessary.

  ‘Who are they? Boys at school?’

  ‘No. I have to get back, he’s on his own, but I promised you’d help him. Will you help him? Tonight, miss?’

  Carla shook her head and willed her thudding heart to slow down so she could think logically.

  ‘There’s a procedure to follow, Anna. Ask Daniel to come and see me in the morn—’

  She stopped mid-sentence when the girl turned on her heel and ran away.

  ‘Anna! Come back,’ Carla called.

  But Daniel’s sister had already disappeared around the corner.

  * * *

  When she finally arrived home, Carla poured herself a large glass of white wine then sat at the breakfast bar and looked at it.

  She gripped the stem of the glass between her thumb and index finger and twisted the glass round and round, watching, as the pale yellow fluid sloshed elegantly inside, its surface remaining smooth and unbroken.

  The house was quiet and there was no sign of her neighbours coming in from work yet, which was unusual.

  Carla was convinced that if her heart thumped any harder she’d hear it as well as feel it banging on the wall of her chest. She wasn’t quite sure what to do about the girl in the car park. Should she take action now or wait until the morning? She knew the pupils could be unpredictable and dramatic over quite trivial matters, but there was something very desperate about Anna Clarke’s panic that rang true.

  Carla knew that the correct procedure would be to write up a full report and initiate the relevant agencies’ involvement via the school’s child protection officer. She could do all that in the morning.

  Of course, if a child’s life was deemed to be in danger, then the thing to do would be to call the police immediately. But she didn’t feel as if she had enough information and somehow that course of action seemed inappropriate to her at this stage.

  It occurred to Carla that she only had Anna’s word for the fact Daniel was in trouble at all. Of course, she knew he had problems and that it was probably bullying but, although very unpleasant for the boy, it was highly unlikely to be life-threatening.

  She would look really stupid if she got the police involved over something that turned out to be superficial. Plus, the governors would be furious if the school name became embroiled in something that could have been easily resolved with a little discretion.

  On top of all that, after her earlier meeting today with the leadership team and her lack of results with the Daniel Clarke case, she was keen to show her involvement had come good after all.

  If Anna Clarke’s panic was justified, Carla’s skills could be integral to sorting out a high-profile case. It would do wonders for progressing her application to the high school.

  She pushed her untouched wine away and some of the pale golden liquid spilled on to her fingers. It would save until she got back.

  Chapter 38

  Present day

  Anna

  Recently, it has felt as if my routines are slipping away like a landslide but a little voice in my head reminds me that it is not unstoppable.

  If I focus, I think I could still pull it back.

  For once I sleep well and wake up with a new and welcome feeling of determination. Mercifully, this morning I feel calmer and more settled. This could be my chance to seize the moment and get as much sorted out as I can.

  The first place to start is undoubtedly the mail mountain in the spare room.

&n
bsp; It sounds a strange thing to say but it seems to cast a real shadow over the house and everything in it, leaving a silent threat that lurks behind.

  Maybe, in the beginning, it would have been easier to admit defeat to the management at work. Told Jim, when he asked, that I was finding it difficult to cope. Swallowed down my pride and accepted reduced hours and a round on the roughest side of town.

  Things have gone too far for that now. Too far to turn back.

  Up until today I have felt powerless to tackle things upstairs but, today, I finally have the resolve I have been waiting for.

  Ultimately, it is just a pile of paper, I remind myself. I am in control of it, not the other way round.

  I climb the stairs. Paper and envelopes, this is just another problem that needs sorting.

  Just paper and envelopes.

  I place my hand on the cold, brass door handle and give it a push.

  I’ve left the curtains closed in here so the room is in semi-darkness. The enormous mound in the middle of the room holds its own shadows, and I try to ignore the fluttering in my guts.

  Before I can falter, I snap on the light and clamber over to the other side of the room to sit down.

  Allowing myself to get so close to the terrible truth feels very strange. Ignoring it is always preferable, but now I am in here, I am facing first-hand the results of what that approach has done for me.

  I nudge off my slippers and plunge my bare toes into the cool mass of envelopes, all shapes and sizes that are scattered around my feet.

  My eyes take in all the different handwriting, inks, names and addresses. Each letter a secret little package, its contents meant for someone else’s eyes.

  Now they are mine.

  There is a smell to all this paper, and I didn’t expect that. A mixture of cardboard and a sort of outdoorsy, ripe kind of odour. Not altogether unpleasant but certainly another unwanted odour in the house.

  The fluttering inside begins to ease at last. It is a big heap of paper, and paper never hurt anybody.

  I can open every letter if I want to. Nobody will know, and no one can stop me.

  I reach for an official-looking brown envelope nestling close to my knee. Before I can change my mind, I tear it open and unfold the letter within. A summons to appear in court for an unpaid parking fine.

  ‘Oh dear, Stephen Trimble, you’ll be in trouble for ignoring that,’ I giggle, feeling a bit light-headed.

  A small, white envelope with lovely bright blue, almost violet, ink is a note from a child to her gran, sending thanks for a recent birthday gift.

  Doesn’t feel as good opening that one.

  I tear open a few more. Most are unimportant communications that won’t be missed, nothing interesting or significant.

  I’m beginning to wonder why I have attached such gravity and dread to it all.

  It just goes to show what a waste most mail actually is. People generally are sending a load of crap and unnecessary words to each other that barely get missed at all.

  Albert slinks in through the open door and sniffs doubtfully at the edges of the mail mountain. I watch as he skirts around it all and makes his way over to me, cautious and disapproving.

  ‘We’ll get rid of it all, Albert, don’t worry,’ I whisper. ‘I’ll make it all go away, and we can make a fresh start.’

  Albert purrs and rubs his furry side against my outstretched legs. Where possible, his feet nimbly avoid the letters.

  Albert obviously approves of this new plan, and it feels right to me, too. I need to get some normality back so I am able to think straight again.

  I’m looking at the problem in a stark new light. It’s too late to own up, and there is too much to deliver now. There is way too much to sift through and select earlier dates for retrospective delivery as I had originally planned. Besides, all of this mail is old.

  The most sensible thing to do now is obvious: I must clear this room. A clean slate is required, so I have no choice but to dispose of it all and start afresh.

  Before doubt creeps in, I reach for a handful of letters and begin tearing them into small pieces. I will fill bin bags with the torn bits and take them to the council dump for disposal. Quick, simple and anonymous.

  Too soon, I discover the letters are often too thick to tear more than a couple at a time, plus the ache in my hand worsens almost immediately. The pieces have to be torn very small to ensure the addresses are unreadable. Nothing can be traced.

  I have to use both hands, and after ten minutes my injured hand and wrist are throbbing, and I’ve barely made an inch of inroad into the paper mountain.

  I shuffle backwards and lean against the cool wall, legs outstretched.

  Years ago, this was Danny’s bedroom.

  His bed was over in the far corner. He kept his train tracks permanently set up in the middle of the room, right where the mail sits now.

  We used to hide in the walk-in cupboard just behind me when Mother was looking for someone to take out her disillusionment with God on. That person was always Danny.

  Sometimes I’d stand in front of him so she’d choose me. But it was always him she wanted.

  He was the one who disgusted her, and he was the one who held all her hopes, too. I was no use to her.

  My heart flutters like it keeps missing the odd beat.

  Now the cupboard is full of Danny’s old clothes, photos and toys, all packed neatly into boxes and bags and sealed with tape.

  There is no space left in there. I’ve squeezed out all the badness so it belongs to Danny once more – a place where nobody can ever hurt him again.

  I promise myself that, one day, I will sort through it all. But thirteen years after that terrible day I still don’t feel ready.

  It’s vital I keep focused on the here and now, so I fast-forward through the painful memories and thoughts. My eyes snap open before the black cloud has a chance to descend.

  I must stay strong and determined for Liam’s sake. He needs someone sane and balanced who can look after his interests.

  My tearing-up disposal plan clearly isn’t going to cut it. It will take far too long with an injured hand, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to carry it out. There are far more pressing priorities.

  At last, a perfect and simple solution presents itself to me. In fact, I marvel as to why it hasn’t occurred to me before now.

  The best way to completely eradicate paper is obviously to burn it.

  Chapter 39

  There’s nothing quite like the feeling of control for making you feel good.

  Even better when a certain someone has no clue what you’re up to. No clue that behind the kind words and considerate actions you are carefully setting them up.

  Once everything is in place, once they trust you, it’s too late to go back.

  Best of all, they start to blame themselves for making the wrong decisions, for not recognising when things started to go wrong.

  Sometimes, they even come to you for help, for advice.

  It all comes back to trust. You have to have it and the way to get it is to keep plugging away without being overbearing.

  Gently does it. Just a little more pressure each time until you start to feel them give way.

  And then you’re in and the real fun begins.

  Chapter 40

  Anna

  The next day it turns out to be not such a bad morning at work, after all.

  The weather is fine and, encouraged by my new plan to tackle the mail mountain, I make good progress on my round. I manage to deliver most of it with just one bag left over, which I lock in a postbox to pick up later in the car.

  I drop the empty mailbags back at the office and, just as I’m heading back to the car, Roisin appears, brandishing a carrier bag towards me.

  ‘The top I was telling you about.’ She smiles. ‘Try it and let me know what you think.’

  ‘Oh, thanks. Yes, I will.’ I smile back. ‘Thanks, Roisin.’

  ‘We’re all g
oing out for a drink on Friday night, if you fancy coming?’

  ‘Friday? Can’t, sorry. I’ve got something on,’ I mumble.

  ‘No worries,’ she says and begins to walk away. Then she remembers something and turns around again. ‘By the way, it is your neighbour. How’s that for a coincidence?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘My sister, Linda. I asked her, and she’s the care assistant for your neighbour, Joan.’

  * * *

  On my way back home from the delivery office, I stop to pick up the surplus mail and throw it in my boot with the garden incinerator, lighter fuel and matches I purchased from B&Q earlier.

  I’m going to have to reinforce my privacy message to Mrs Peat. The thought of all my personal business going back to Roisin via Linda makes me feel faint.

  After grabbing a sandwich and feeding Albert, I gather a bag full of randomly selected mail from the spare room and take it out into the yard. I prop the incinerator up on top of a couple of broken bricks I find in the outhouse and dump the first lot of mail inside.

  It is quite windy but the incinerator has air holes all around the base so stuff should still burn efficiently with the lid intact. I sprinkle some lighter fluid on top for good measure and strike a match. When the mail ignites, I fix the lid tight and stand back, watching the base holes fill with a bright, flickering light.

  For the first time in ages I feel illuminated, like something is sparking inside of me, telling me everything will be okay.

  In a short time, the spare room is going to be empty of mail. I can stop worrying about my job and focus on sorting out Amanda Danson and looking out for Liam.

  When the light behind the holes dies down, I move back over to the incinerator and take off the lid.

  Most of the mail has reduced to ash. I poke at it with a long twig and see that only a few stubborn pieces of paper remain right down at the bottom.