by R. A. Casey
It isn’t with ill intent; I’m sure of that. He’s a good guy.
But it’s something that always irritates me.
“Look,” I say, deciding honesty is probably the best policy at this point. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m finding it hard to believe you didn’t notice the article when you laid the papers down.”
“I didn’t notice anything. Like, it’s just old paper.”
“Where did you get it?”
“What?”
“The paper? Where did you get it?”
Freddie scratches the back of his head. “Gary, I think.” Gary is his friend from work. “Or maybe it was Russ. One of the boys I work with had a load in the back of the van. Might’ve even been a customer who gave it us. I don’t know. Anyway, what does it matter? You think somebody gave me it to get at you or something?”
“I didn’t say that. You said that.”
“Oh, Sarah, don’t start this again.”
“Don’t start what?”
He lifts his red wine and sips back a little too much. “This is our second night in here. And already you’re…”
He stops. I can tell he’s regretting the path he’s walking down right away.
“Go on,” I say.
“Look, do we have to do this?”
“It’s our second night, and I’m ruining it. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want to say it,” he says. “But… But yeah. Yeah. You’re putting a real fucking dampener on things if I have to be completely honest. There you go. All cards on the table, like you usually say.”
I’m hurt. And yet, I understand it. When I look at the facts, I really have put a dampener on our move so far.
This is supposed to be our big step. Our new life.
And here I am, acting like a bitch, having night terrors, and kicking off at Freddie all for an innocent mistake.
I open my mouth to bite back at him when I think better of it and close it.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
It takes Freddie by surprise, I can see. He’s bracing himself for an argument. Readying himself for conflict. My apology startles him.
“It’s… Look, it doesn’t matter, Sarah. I’m sorry too.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”
“No. I was careless. I was an idiot. But I just… Well. I didn’t see the paper. I didn’t look. There wasn’t anything in it. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry.”
He reaches over the table. Takes my hand in his. And when I look up into his eyes, I see that diamond in the rough. I see that caring gaze. I see the man I love. And I am so, so grateful for him.
“It’s okay,” I say.
And this time, he doesn’t question it.
This time, he knows I mean it.
“The pasta’s lovely,” I say, returning to my food.
He smiles. Rolls a big spiral of it around his fork. “Chef’s special. Know it’s your favourite.”
I smile at that. He’s not exactly the best cook in the world. But what he cooks, he cooks well. The first thing he ever cooked for me was this curry he hyped up for weeks on end. Turned out being nothing more than a jar sauce, a few vegetables, and some Quorn chicken. Taken the piss out of him for it ever since.
But he tries, and he cares. And that care is worth more than anything.
I tuck further into my pasta as he talks to me about his plans for the house. But I drift in thought. Lose myself in that flashback, that dream.
The figure.
The figure by the stage where the band was playing.
Has my memory inserted that to taunt me?
Or have I missed a vital clue?
“When’re you getting back to work anyway?” he asks.
“What?”
“I asked when you’re getting back to tutoring. I know you’re doing your plans, but like… Well. It’ll be good for you. Sure there’s plenty of little Frenchies looking forward to saying bonjour to their favourite Mrs Evatt again.”
I smile.
I’ve always liked working with children. But as much as I hate to admit it, Charlie’s disappearance made returning to any kind of school in a professional capacity difficult for me.
But that suits me. I prefer it this way anyway.
“I figure it’ll be good for me to take a week or two off and keep working on plans,” I say. Hoping he believes me. Because I don’t want to have to go into the full truth.
He smiles back at me. “Good for you.”
He raises his wine glass, then. And I think of mentioning the figure in my dream. The figure that has inserted itself into the memory.
But in the end, I think better of it.
I raise my wine glass.
“To our new future,” Freddie says.
“To our new future,” I say.
We chink the glasses against one another.
Red wine spills out over the white tablecloth.
Like blood.
Chapter Six
The last two weeks have been blissful.
I’m happy. I never thought I’d say those words again, but I really am. Ever since we moved to our new home on Fairworth Avenue, things have been a delight.
Of course, we had our hitches at first. The reluctance I had about turning my back on my past, moving away from Broughton. And the squabble we had that second day about the newspaper with Charlie’s face staring up at me.
But since then, we’ve got on like a house on fire.
The sex has been fantastic. I hold on tight to Freddie’s big, rounded shoulders as he slides deep inside me. I smell the wine on his breath. Hear his little moans. And I moan with him, too. Not because I’m climaxing. I find it hard to lose myself in the moment enough to climax, especially these days. But because I know it will make him feel better about himself. I know it will reassure him that I am okay.
And I am okay. Really, I am. I love our new home, the nights in front of the television, feet up, lying in his arms. I love the newly decorated living room and the grassy garden, such a sun trap. I love every bit of our new lives.
But today is different. Today, Freddie’s gone back to work. He has a job decorating over in Fulwood. A big job, apparently. Some idiot kid had a house party, and the place got trashed. Posh Fucker Parents, as Freddie calls them, footing the bill for their spoilt brat of a son’s mistakes, as always.
I felt sad when he left. When he stood there at the door in his work gear, smile on that perfect face of his.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
I smiled back at him. Nodded. “Course I will.”
He opened his mouth. Like he wanted to ask me something. “Are you sure?”
“Honestly, Freddie. I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry. I might grab a coffee with Cindy, anyway. And I’ve got a book to finish. Seriously. Don’t worry. I do actually have a life that doesn’t include you, you know.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Oh really? Well, in that case…”
He opened the door, paused, walked over to me. Held me tight and kissed me, right on the lips.
“I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too.”
“Can’t wait for later.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
He looked right at me and smiled. And I felt my body melt. Felt my knees go all weak. And I wanted him, right then and there.
But then, just before I could act on these impulses, these desires, he pecked me on the cheek and walked out the door.
He stepped back in not long after. Fumbled around for his Stanley knife—his favourite one, which I find bizarrely adorable. He seemed really miffed to have lost it. I kept on telling him it would show up in time, but he didn’t seem happy. Eventually, he went out the door and left, being sure to give me all the affection before he did.
That was three hours ago. It’s midday now. I text Freddie to tell him I met Cindy for a quick coffee in the Costa around the corner. She was going to bob around, but she had
a call from a client—she works in social media marketing or something similar. All I know is that it keeps her really busy all the time. Or something like that. The details don’t matter, as long as they’re close enough. Whatever.
So I’m standing here now in front of my front door. Heart racing. Because I’m bracing myself to step outside. Out into the outside world, all on my own.
Yeah. It might seem like I’m making a bigger deal of this than I should. But the truth is, I’m a nervous wreck. And I know what you’re thinking. You went for a coffee with a friend earlier, right?
Yeah. Sure. But you can’t account for when anxiety is going to take hold or not. Any anxiety sufferer knows that too well.
I never find leaving the house easy. Especially back in Broughton because everyone knew who I was there. Everyone looked at me in that judgemental way.
And, I know. Best thing I could’ve done was get out of there a lot faster than I did. But you know what attachment is like. When you’ve loved and lost someone, your mind plays tricks on you. It convinces you you’d be better off staying put. That you’re betraying that someone for turning your back and walking away.
That’s what I’ve always felt with Charlie.
A feeling he might just walk right in through my front door again.
A sense that if I just stay put, at least he’ll know exactly where to go, exactly where to find me.
The feeling deep down that he’s still out there and that he’ll show up again.
One day.
That’s one of the many things I was so thankful to Gregg for when we split up. He let me keep the house. I had a lot in savings, and even when my teaching gig ended, I made more from the tutoring than I expected.
So I could get by on my own.
People told me I was insane for staying there. Mum and Dad offered to take me back. Cindy asked me to move in with her. Even my estranged sister, Elana, who lived over in Sweden, offered to fly me over there to spend some time with them.
But that alone time was my healing time. That’s what I told them.
Deep down, it was my punishment time.
Exactly what I deserved for losing Charlie.
This is the story I tell myself.
The concerned family.
The worried friends.
Their caring advice.
All of it.
But here I am now, standing at my door. Sweaty hand gripping the cool, golden metal handle. I’m going for a walk. A walk around the neighbourhood. Freddie said it’d be a good idea to meet the neighbours. He’d bumped into a couple of them over the last couple of weeks, said they were nice. But he said I should probably show my face, too. I don’t get it, really. Why do neighbourhood friendships have to be a thing? Why can’t people just get on with their own lives? Mind their own business?
Because neighbours bring problems.
They only ever bring problems.
I remember what it was like in Broughton after Charlie went missing. The visits from Karen and Andy next door. The constant stream of kids’ parents coming around, passing on their sympathies, saying the usual “I’m sure he’ll turn up” crap, again and again and again until I couldn’t take any more of it, and I just hid away every time the doorbell went.
But it’s different here. I have a chance here. A chance for a new start. For a fresh beginning.
I turn the handle, and I’m surprised to see somebody standing there.
It’s a man. He’s older than me. Probably in his sixties at a glance. He has dark brown eyes, bushy eyebrows, and furry ears. And he’s smiling at me with these yellow teeth. I can smell his onion breath from here.
“Oh,” I say. A little startled.
“Didn’t mean to bother ye, lovey. Name’s Calvin. Your fella, Freddie. Met him the other day. Top bloke. Champion.”
Calvin. Did Freddie mention meeting a Calvin? I’ve no idea. But it adds up.
I move my hair out of my eyes, fully aware of how greasy it is. “Calvin. Hi. I think he did mention meeting you.”
“I live over the other side of Cottam. Fairhawk Avenue. Number 19, just like you two. Problem is, postie always gets us two mixed up.” He holds out a small, rectangular parcel. “Think we might be seein’ a lot of each other.”
He laughs. And I laugh, too. Or at least I attempt my best impression of a laugh. Truth is, I’m shaken up. I need time to prepare myself for any human interaction these days. Calvin here took me by surprise. And I’m all sweaty, all flushed, all… disgusting.
“How you two findin’ it ’ere anyway?”
“Oh,” I say, fiddling with my fringe again. “It’s nice. Really nice. Thank you.”
“Good. Beautiful spot you got ’ere, with the pond in front of you and all that. Cracking on a sunny day like today.”
“It is,” I say. “It really is.” I want him to go away. I want him to leave. I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend I’m a normal functioning person here, that I can pretend I can sustain ordinary small talk for longer than a few seconds.
“Anyway,” he says, and a weight lifts off my shoulders. “Like I say. Parcels droppin’ at ours all the time. You’ll get a few for us, too, if Stacey and Mike’s record have owt to say about it. 19 Fairhawk. Other side of Cottam. Right by the fountain. You’ll know it.”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Calvin. Calvin Hooper. Only me lives there, so you’ve only got one set of post to worry about.”
He laughs again, and I smell that onion breath. His laugh a little too loud, almost inappropriately so.
But he’s leaving. And that makes me feel relieved. So I laugh along with him, humour him.
“Anyway,” he says.
“Yeah. Nice—nice meeting you, Calvin.”
“See you around, Sarah. Hopefully not too soon, anyway. ’Cause that means the postman’s cocked up again.”
I nod. Smile, watch him turn his back, and walk away.
I close the door, close my eyes, and I sink to the floor.
I’m dripping sweat. My heart is racing. My throat is tight.
I take deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths.
It’s over.
He’s gone.
Everything is okay now.
I open my eyes, inhale deeply, and then I look at the parcel.
Two things strike me at that moment.
Two things that seem a little… well, off.
First, the parcel is unaddressed. Completely unaddressed.
Not a name in sight.
I frown. Turn the parcel over in my hands. It’s small. About an inch thick, six inches wide.
No name.
So how did he…
And then that second thing hits me like a punch to the gut.
If there’s no address on the parcel, how did he know it was for us?
And if there’s no name on the parcel…
How did he know I’m called Sarah?
I stand up. Shaking. Look out through the little window at the top of the door.
Calvin is nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Seven
I stare at the parcel on the kitchen table, and I’m not sure whether I want to see what’s inside.
I haven’t stopped shaking since Calvin dropped the parcel off. Sweat streams down my face. I can taste its saltiness across my lips, and it reminds me of that day.
The fete.
Holding Charlie’s sweaty hand, then letting him free into the crowd.
Watching him disappear.
The crowd dispersing, and no sign of him.
The grass on my knees.
The tenderness between my thighs…
And the weird feeling in my stomach I sometimes get, like Charlie’s hand was totally dry, and it was mine that was sweaty.
Or sometimes I wonder if I was even holding his hand at all. Maybe he let go sooner. Maybe he didn’t hold my hand that day at all. Maybe he was embarrassed holding my hand in front of his friends.
Memory is a fickl
e demon.
I stand in the kitchen. It’s darker in here. Cooler in here. I know that logically, but it doesn’t feel it. It feels roasting hot. Like it’s getting hotter and hotter like someone’s ramping the heating up in here. I keep on staring at that parcel. The little cardboard box, six inches by an inch. And I know I should just open it. I know I should just look inside it.
But something bothers me.
Two things bother me.
Calvin. The man who dropped the parcel off. He said my name; I’m sure of it.
But there’s no name on the parcel. And there’s no address on the box.
And when I turned around to see if he was still outside, Calvin was already nowhere in sight.
I take long, deep breaths. I need to pull myself together. I’m being irrational, and I know it. Chances are, the parcel came in some kind of external packaging, and Calvin removed it before realising it wasn’t for him. And the whole him knowing my name thing. He said he’d met Freddie already, right? So there’s every chance he got my name from him.
There’re all kinds of reasons. Loads of potential explanations.
And yet I can’t help feeling like something is wrong.
I walk over to the table. Lift the parcel, shake it. Something moves around inside. Doesn’t feel heavy. Doesn’t sound like there’s much in there at all.
I’m being ridiculous. I’m shaken up because I wasn’t expecting Calvin, that’s all. He took me by surprise, and that’s why I feel so anxious now. So paranoid. So fucking insane.
I want Freddie here with me. I want to call him and tell him to come home because I need him. I think he’s coming home for lunch, but I want him here earlier.
But I know how ridiculous that sounds.
I know, even though he will come home, even though he’ll do anything for me, he’ll look at me like I’m some special precious flower who needs protecting.
No.
I need to pull myself together.
I need to step the fuck up.
I’m strong. I’ve always been strong, all my fucking life.
It’s just a parcel, a parcel with a totally logical explanation, nothing more.
I open the tab at the side of the box. It’s one of those red tabs where you pull it off, and it tears some of the box away. Which reassures me a little because at least it means it’s been sent from some online store or something. Certainly looks pretty official, anyway.