by R. A. Casey
I can’t think if I’ve ordered anything. My mind’s a bit of a blur lately. I might’ve ordered something off Amazon. A new book, perhaps?
But no. I haven’t ordered any books, I’m sure of it.
And besides, this doesn’t feel like a book. It’s too light. It’s too…
And then it hits me, and I smile.
A bookmark. A bloody bookmark, that’s what it’ll be.
I went on Etsy and ordered a cute artisanal bookmark a few days ago. I’m a bit of a traditionalist in that way. Never been a fan of Kindle, digital books. And I can’t just make do with a piece of old card to keep my page. And God forbid anyone folds over a page in my presence.
It’s a bookmark. That’s all it is.
It makes total sense now.
And as I turn the box, I notice something else. A little plastic wrapping, where a delivery note looks like it’s been stuffed, but fallen away. My smile widens. I’m so relieved. Such a bloody idiot. There must’ve been a delivery note, and it must’ve fallen away while Calvin was bringing the parcel round or something. Loads of potential explanations. No need to lose my shit.
I tear the cardboard box open, and I lift the flap.
I feel my stomach sink.
I feel the walls closing in.
I feel my face heating up like it’s burning in an oven.
I feel my heart racing at a thousand beats per minute.
I feel all these things, but I see nothing.
Nothing but the contents of the cardboard box.
I drop it to the kitchen floor, and I scream.
Chapter Eight
I think about my life in two very distinct segments.
The days before Charlie went missing, and the days after he went missing.
I am back there again. The hot sun beating down. The sound of screaming, laughing children all around me. And the sound of a band playing up ahead. It feels fantastical. It feels… blurry. It feels dreamlike.
But it is real.
So, so real.
I can hear a microphone screeching as one of the band members holds it too close to the speaker. I can smell burgers in the air. Taste ketchup on my lips. I feel full. Not bloated, just nice.
And at this moment, I am happy.
Not a care in the world about my boy.
Because we’re at a school fete. He’s surrounded by other kids. He’s safe. Everyone is safe. That’s what I keep telling myself.
Things are safer these days.
Not like when I was younger.
Not like…
No.
Not now.
Not in this happy moment.
I stand there on the grass, and I feel a cool breeze against my face. And that’s when I sense someone beside me. I don’t usually remember this part. I remember things in fragments, see. I always remember the key parts. Charlie running off to the front of the crowd. The crowd dispersing, and no sign of Charlie. Asking Alan if he’s seen him, with no luck.
I remember the panic. I remember searching everywhere for him. Asking parents if they’ve seen him, if they’ve seen any sign.
And then I remember ringing the police.
I remember their confidence that he would show up again. That he’d probably just gone home with a friend.
But that wasn’t like Charlie.
He didn’t do anything without telling me.
He’d never run away. Not without telling me.
But the police reassured me all would be fine. They sent out a search party but were confident he’d show up. That most kids showed up within a few hours. Especially around here, in this perfect little community.
But he didn’t show up within a few hours.
And that’s when they started to worry.
That’s when everyone started to worry.
That’s when…
“Beautiful day for it, int it?”
I hear that voice and a shiver creeps down my spine.
Because I don’t remember this part.
I never remember this part.
I never told anyone about this part because it seemed so irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.
It seemed like it didn’t matter.
Or maybe I didn’t tell anyone because this is the first time I’ve remembered it…
But that voice. That northern accent. That jolly manner of speech.
It takes on a new relevance now because I recognise it.
I turn around and see him smiling at me.
Beaming smile.
Yellow teeth.
Onion breath.
And I want to scream at him because I recognise him.
Because this man, it’s Calvin.
This is the man who came to my door.
This is the man who delivered the parcel.
Oh God, the parcel, the contents of the parcel.
Oh God oh God oh God don’t think about it don’t go there don’t do it no no no—
But I smile back at him because all I can do in this memory is go along with how it went.
“Beautiful.”
And I remember then; he turns around. Looks ahead at the band.
Or is he looking somewhere else?
Is he looking at the children?
The children at the front of the stage?
Or is this just my memory playing tricks on me?
I want to scream at him. I want to ask him who he is. I want to beg him to tell me where my son is. Where my Charlie is.
But I can only turn to the crowd.
Turn to the stage.
And then suddenly the crowd has dispersed again, and I’m back there searching for him.
And I have stains on my knees.
I feel week.
Sore.
I feel…
And now I see the figure.
I can’t see him properly. I’d be lying if I pretended I could.
But seeing Calvin here, at the fete.
And then seeing that figure by the stage…
It all comes together.
Crashes together.
Calvin.
Is Calvin the man involved in Charlie’s disappearance?
Is he the figure I saw by the stage?
And then I think of the parcel, and I’m right there in the present again, only I can smell smoke and hear ringing and—
“Sarah? Sarah!”
Someone is shaking me. I am on my back, lying on the floor. My head hurts. I feel stiff all over. Nothing quite feels right.
Freddie stands over me. I can hear bleeping and realise it’s the smoke alarm. There’s a smell of burning in the air, and I realise I must’ve left the hob on.
But I don’t remember cooking anything.
I don’t remember turning the hob on at all.
“Sarah,” Freddie says. His eyes are wide. He is sweating and covered in paint. He looks worried. “Are you okay? Jesus. You must’ve… you must’ve passed out. You left the stove on. You know how iffy it is at the moment. Bloody hell. Good job I came back for lunch, or the place might’ve… anyway, that doesn’t matter. You’re okay. I’m here. Come on. Let’s get you on a chair.”
I let Freddie help me to my wobbly feet when a bolt of fear shoots through me.
The parcel.
What’s inside the parcel.
“The—the parcel,” I say.
Freddie frowns. “What parcel?”
I can barely speak. I can barely bring myself to say what’s in it.
“Sarah? What parcel?”
“It—it was here.”
“Where?”
“I was… I was holding it. And then I must’ve…”
I look down at the checkered tiles of the hard kitchen floor. See a speck of blood where I banged my head.
But I see nothing else.
No cardboard box.
No parcel.
No nothing.
“Sarah?” Freddie says.
I look up at him. Frown. “But…”
“Sarah, there
’s no parcel. There was nothing in your hands when I found you here.”
I sit in the kitchen chair, and I shake.
Because as much as I know what I saw, as much as I know it’s real… I see no parcel in sight.
Chapter Nine
“I know what I saw, Freddie. I know what I saw.”
I’m sitting in the living room, on our new two-piece leather sofa. There’s a throw over it, but I’ve pulled that back so I can feel the cool leather against my skin. I need something to cool me down. Anything. I’m hot. So hot.
And I can’t stop thinking about the parcel.
Freddie is by my side. He’s taken the rest of the day off work. I sense he’s probably a bit annoyed about that. At the end of the day, he’s self-employed. But he has two other decorators working for him in the firm. He thinks he can get one of his workmates to step in, but it’s going to slow the whole job down, and that won’t exactly impress his clients. Especially when he’s only just gone back.
But he doesn’t say anything. Because he is sensitive, and he is attentive, and I love him so much.
He sits with his hand on my back. That big warm hand, stroking my spine. He gives the best back strokes in the world. Even when I’m feeling ill at ease, those back strokes have a way of settling me. Of filling me with confidence again.
But that parcel.
I don’t understand what happened. I went to the door. I took the parcel from Calvin. I felt awfully weird about it—how he knew my name, how he knew where we lived when there was nothing addressed to us.
And then what was inside the parcel.
My head spins. I taste vomit collecting in the back of my throat.
And then I remember the memory.
Calvin.
Calvin standing beside me at the school fete.
Or was he?
Was he actually there? Or was that all in my head?
Is this something I remember?
Or am I just confused and sleep-deprived and…
But then there’s the other kicker.
Waking up.
Freddie standing over me.
The parcel being gone.
“I think we need to get you down to the doctors,” Freddie says. “For a blood test or something.”
“I don’t need a blood test.”
“I found you passed out on the kitchen floor, Sarah. You’re bleeding out the back of your head. You’d left the fucking hob on. I already warned you about how iffy it is at the moment. You could’ve burned the house down. You could’ve died.”
He’s pissed. I know he is. But he’s concerned more than anything. Concerned about me. He looks at me in that fearful way. Like he worries about me. Like he is afraid of me, somehow.
“And you keep going on about this parcel. A parcel you didn’t have. What the hell’s this parcel business all about?”
I close my burning eyes and take a deep breath. I haven’t told him what was in there yet. I can barely bring myself to acknowledge what was in there myself. How can I? Where do I even begin?
I can barely explain it to myself. So how the hell am I supposed to explain it to Freddie?
Especially when I’m pretty sure, deep down, I didn’t leave the hob on.
After all, why would I?
I was leaving the house.
Although… shit. I did scramble a couple of eggs earlier. Maybe it’s from then.
I contemplate another option, just for a brief moment.
Maybe someone is trying to hurt me.
I shake my head at that thought. No. That can’t be it. It can’t be true.
“A man dropped by,” I say.
“A man? What man?”
“I… I nipped out. Nipped out to see Cindy for a coffee. Didn’t stay long. I came back here. I was going to take a walk. Maybe chat to a few neighbours while it’s nice. But before I could get out…”
I remember his dark brown eyes.
His onion breath, so pungent it makes me want to vomit.
That yellow-toothed smile.
“Beautiful day for it, isn’t it?”
“Sarah?”
“Huh?”
“You were telling me about this bloke. He’s not done something, has he? ’Cause if he has, I’ll rip his fucking head off.”
I shake my head. “It’s… It’s not like that.”
“Then what the hell is it like?”
“He… he came to drop a parcel off. He said—he said he was from number 19 Fairhawk or something. That he was always getting mail from the old neighbours.”
Freddie nods. And I see he is trying to believe me. Trying to get on board with me.
“He… he gave me this parcel. Small parcel. I can see it like it’s in my hand right now. An inch thick. Six inches wide. And then… Freddie, the weirdest thing is, he said my name as he left.”
“Why’s that weird?”
“My name wasn’t on the parcel. Neither was the address.”
Freddie stares at me with narrowed eyes, waits for me to continue.
“So I… I took it into the kitchen. I opened it. Figured there must’ve just been a delivery note with it or something. And then…”
It clicks.
Hard.
“Wait,” I say. “The man. Calvin. He said—he said he’d run into you. Chatted to you the other day.”
Freddie frowns. “What?”
“A man called Calvin. Slicked back hair. Real smelly breath, like—like onions. Broad Lancashire accent. Always smiling with these yellow teeth. Do you remember him?”
Freddie shakes his head. “I… I mean, I’ve chatted to a few people. But I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe?”
It hits me again that maybe that’s how he knew my name. Maybe Freddie introduced himself and mentioned I was called Sarah. He’s always doing that, Freddie. Introducing himself to people, forgetting he’s even met them. Absolute social butterfly, if ever I’ve met one.
“But what does it matter, anyway?” he asks.
“It matters because of what was in the parcel.”
“And what was in the parcel?”
I open my mouth. And the silence hangs there, like a rotten smell.
Freddie stares at me with these big, wide eyes.
“Sarah? What was in the parcel?”
“This… this man,” I say. “This Calvin. He… he was at the fete.”
“The fete? What’re you talking about?”
“He was at the school fete. The day—the day Charlie went missing. He was there, Freddie. I’m sure of it.”
His look changes, then. I can see it, even though it’s only momentary.
A look of sympathy and fear changing to one of pity.
He lowers his head. Sighs. “Sarah. We’ve been through this.”
“You think I’m making this up? I know what I saw.”
“You haven’t been right ever since we moved in,” he says.
“That’s not true. That’s not true at all. I’ve—I’ve had my issues settling, sure. But I’ve been okay. Don’t you believe me?”
He looks at me with pity, and he half-smiles. “I trust you’re telling me the truth, Sarah. But… but the truth is… there is no parcel, Sarah. And it’s like I said. I don’t remember anyone called Calvin with any onion breath.”
“Then go on bloody Google Maps then,” I say, dragging my phone out of my pocket. “I barely fucking know the street names around here. Go on Google Maps and tell me how some bloke from 19 Fairhawk just so happens to come round here with a parcel for us. How I’d possibly know the name of that street.”
“You’re telling me there’s absolutely no chance you’ve come across a street with that name round here in all the time we’ve been here? Come on, Sarah. Come on.”
I open my mouth to argue. But I’m determined. Determined to prove to Freddie that this isn’t all in my head. That I am not insane.
“Let’s see,” I say, typing in Fairhawk Avenue. “Fairhawk Avenue. Right by the bloody fountain, which I’ve never seen
in my bloody life. Then you’ll believe me. Then you’ll see.”
I hit search. Wait. Wait as the WiFi lags, the time stretching on, far longer than it usually does. Fibre broadband, my arse.
I glance up at Freddie. See him looking at me with those same pitiful eyes.
“You can stop looking at me like that, too,” I say.
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“Yes, you are. And I…”
A bleep emits from my phone.
I look down.
And I see the words staring up at me.
Words I don’t expect to see.
Did you mean Fairworth Avenue, Cottam, Preston?
I dismiss the suggestion. Search for Fairhawk again.
Wait.
And again, the error message.
Did you mean Fairworth Avenue, Cottam, Preston?
I frown. My heartbeat picking up again.
I cancel the message.
I zoom out from Fairworth Avenue.
I scan the area all around us.
The streets wrapping around us in this suburbia.
I don’t know how long I search, but when I finish, I feel cold inside.
I look up at Freddie and tell him what I don’t want to admit.
What I don’t want to face.
“Sarah?” he says.
I look into his eyes. “Fairhawk Avenue,” I say. “It… it doesn’t exist. The road Calvin said he lives on. It doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Ten
I feel the needle pierce the vein in my forearm and watch the dark red blood splutter out into the vial.
It’s a day after the incident with the parcel, and I’m sitting in the doctor’s surgery. It’s boiling in here because there’s been some problem with the air conditioning. Apparently, this doll of a doctor—Doctor Murray— doesn’t want to open the window because she’s scared of wasps getting in. Big nest behind the surgery, apparently. I don’t want to remind her that just months ago, her lot was advising us to stay as ventilated as possible because of the coronavirus. But of course, a rogue wasp is a much more tangible threat in this instance.
She smiles at me as she holds the needle to my arm. She’s a new doctor. She’s in her twenties, and she already looks like she’s had more work done than I’ve had in my entire life. Big lips. Hair extensions. Even her eyes look too blue to be legit. Must be contacts. Nobody’s eyes are that blue.