He Will Find You

by Diane Jeffrey

  When we finally go to bed, I don’t feel tired. The bedside light doesn’t seem to disturb Alex and I read a bit as he sleeps soundly next to me. After that, I waste some time on my mobile, looking through my photos and deleting some of my old emails, mainly from university. I check my Calendar and I’m surprised by how few dates have an entry for the weeks to come. That has to change.

  After a while, I tiptoe downstairs to make a cup of tea. I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror as I come back into the bedroom with my mug in my hand. I do a double take. I still haven’t got used to having short hair. I smile at myself and see my grin in the mirror.

  It’s my reflection that gives me the jolt. It suddenly hits me and my amusement turns to shock. I jump and spill some tea, scalding myself. My breathing becomes erratic and I have to concentrate on it to ward off a panic attack.

  You lied to me! I think, sitting down on the bed. How could you?

  I’m overwhelmed by a sense of betrayal. I trusted you!

  Feeling absolutely murderous, I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing in and out. I force myself to sip my tea. I’m no calmer, but my thoughts are lucid as I ask myself what I should do about this.

  I take my time and compose the words in my head until they sound right. Then, careful not to wake Alex, I pick up my mobile again and I tap it out. My finger hovers over the screen, but I don’t hesitate for long before sending the text message. I don’t think I’m wrong. But if I am, I’ll put it down to a slip of the tongue. Or a typo.

  Chapter 19

  ~

  I know I’m going to burst into tears again. I’ve spent most of the night crying. I think I even cried in my sleep as each time I woke up, my eyes were sore. I don’t think I woke up Alex, luckily, and I pretended to be asleep when he got up to get ready for work. I want to get up, too, but I can’t quite find it in me, so I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, hugging myself with my arms and rocking backwards and forwards until I’m strong enough to swing myself to my feet.

  In the shower, I tilt my head back and let the water from the jet mingle with my tears and wash them away. I don’t know how long I stand there, but when I get out, the mirror is steamed up, which, I think, is a good thing. I can imagine how I look. Puffy-faced and red-eyed. I don’t need to see it.

  My mobile is ringing as I step into the bedroom. It’s Julie.

  ‘Hi. How are things with you?’ she asks. She doesn’t sound very happy.

  I don’t answer straight away. I don’t know what to say. ‘Mustn’t grumble,’ I say in the end. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to say when your world is falling apart? ‘I’ve been thinking, I’d like to come home again sometime soon,’ I add. ‘For a weekend. It did Chloe and me a lot of good to stay at Dad’s.’

  Then my heart skips a beat when Julie doesn’t respond.

  ‘Is everything all right? Is everyone OK?’

  ‘Well, Dad could probably do with you coming home for a while, too,’ she says. ‘That’s why I’m ringing really. Jet might have to be put down.’

  ‘Oh, no! Why? Has he had an accident?’

  Dad must be devastated.

  ‘No, he has lymphoma. He—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He has cancer. Of the lymphocytes. Dad was worried because Jet wasn’t eating. So he took him to the vet’s.’

  ‘I should have known something was wrong. Jet didn’t seem to want to go out for walks and didn’t even jump up to greet me in the mornings when I stayed at Dad’s.’

  ‘Yes, Dad said that, too,’ Julie says.

  ‘So, Jet has to be put down?’

  ‘Maybe. The cancer is quite widespread, apparently. He can have chemo, but it will only give him a bit longer. He won’t get better.’

  I’m crying. Again. Julie sounds choked up, too. This is an awful thing to happen to Dad. Mum died of cancer, although Dad always says she died because she lost her will to live the day she lost Louisa.

  ‘Poor Dad. Poor Jet.’

  ‘I know.’ Julie pauses and for a moment I think we’ve lost the connection. Then I hear her voice again. ‘Dad is worried that Jet’s suffering too much despite the painkillers. Jet is ten now. And I don’t think Dad wants to watch him get weaker and weaker until he … you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ I know exactly what Julie is thinking. Dad will relive the loss of his wife through the loss of his dog. ‘I’ll have a word with Alex and see how soon we can come.’

  ‘OK. I need to get going. I’ve got to get to work. Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I do worry about you. You’re my little sister. I’m in a rush right now. I’ll call you again soon.’

  As I put the phone down on the bedside table, lost in my thoughts, I knock something to the floor. It’s the medicine I nearly took when I had a headache. I pick up the packet and put it back next to the phone. I could have asked Julie what it is, although it doesn’t seem at all important right now. Everything is paling into insignificance next to my friend’s treachery and my sister’s bad news.

  I get dressed, see to Chloe and then have breakfast before calling Alex to let him know about Jet. He says he’d like to drive down to Porlock with me, but he has a competition this weekend and as it’s Friday today, it’s too late to scratch from the race.

  ‘At the end of next week, I’m away on business for a few days,’ he continues. ‘How about the weekend after that? The first weekend in September?’

  His voice is fainter and I imagine him holding his smartphone in front of him to examine the events in his Calendar. I already know I have nothing on.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I say, wishing we could go sooner, but grateful for Alex’s support. ‘I’ll tell Julie when she rings back.’

  The weather is good, much brighter than yesterday, although dark clouds loom ominously on the horizon. I decide to get out and go for a walk. As well as his shop, Alex runs a water sports centre at the Derwent Water Marina, near Keswick, so I park there. I lift Chloe out of the car and into the baby carrier, strapped to my chest. Then I text Alex to see if he’s at the centre, thinking we could pop by and say hello, but he texts back to say he’s at the shop today.

  It’s ten miles if you go the whole way round the lake, according to Alex, who sometimes runs around it during his lunch break. He says it’s relatively flat and wonderfully scenic. I slip my mobile into the front pocket of my rucksack, which has a bottle of water and a sandwich in it for me, and everything I need to feed and change Chloe. Then I set off clockwise to do the Derwentwater Walk.

  There are a lot of people out walking, and the happy faces of the people we pass cheer me up a little. About halfway round, I find a nice stretch of stony shore to sit on and eat my lunch. I take a towel out of my rucksack to lay Chloe on and I gaze at the hills on the far side of the lake, their purplish tops standing out against the cloudy sky, the whole colourful scene reflected in the water.

  There are lots of people on the lake, too, in the distance, in rowing boats, on paddleboards, swimming or windsurfing. Sometimes their shrieks of excitement reach my ears, or the splashes they make when they fall into the water, but mostly it’s calm and almost deathly quiet. Until a stick lands in the water just in front of me, and a golden retriever bounds in after it, breaking up the stillness of the water as well as the silence. I turn my head, half-expecting to see Vicky, but instead an elderly man shouts encouragement to his dog from the lakeshore.

  I’m instantly reminded of Dad and Jet, and an immense wave of sadness crashes over me. I remember I’d planned to take Jet out to Hurlstone Point with me when I was down in Porlock. It occurs to me that I may never get to go on a walk with Jet again. I also think how much Shadow, Vicky’s golden retriever, would love it here. But I don’t suppose I’ll be going on a walk with them again, either.

  The goldie comes running out of the water, up to its owner, but refuses to let go of the stick. The man tugs at it, but the dog shakes its
head, turning the stick from side to side, as if to emphasise its refusal. Then it lets go suddenly and the old man stumbles backwards, catching his step and laughing as his dog shakes its whole body and sprays him with drops of water. I should find the scene amusing, but I feel low. I’ve been reminded of the very things I wanted to forget for a while.

  The sky gets more and more menacing as I continue on my walk, and I speed up my pace, hoping to make it back to the car before it starts to rain. But in the end, the rain doesn’t come, although daylight seems to be struggling by early evening as I arrive home.

  As I unpack my rucksack and pull out my mobile, I notice I have two text messages. Both from her. I have no intention of replying, but I read the messages anyway. The first one says, I’m so sorry. I can explain. Can we talk? What catches my eye is her name underneath. It’s the first time she has ever signed her texts. It’s not the same spelling as I used – I only changed the first letter – but she has obviously realised from the text I sent her last night that I know. I know who she is and what she did.

  If the first message makes me sad, the second makes me angry. And a little scared. Please call me, for your sake. You’re in danger. And, again, underneath, her name: Nikki. Is there a subtext that I’m not getting? I can’t tell if it’s a threat or a warning, just as when I read the words she’d written on the card with the dead flowers.

  I don’t want to reply. I don’t want to talk to her. I’m stung by her duplicity. She lied to me. Then I realise, she didn’t actually, not really. Not technically. She must have told me her name was Nikki the day I met her in the swimming pool. I misheard and she didn’t correct me. She probably thought she could use that to her advantage. If I told Alex I’d met someone called Vicky, he wouldn’t cotton on that I’d befriended his ex-girlfriend. Or that she’d befriended me, because I suspect now that she orchestrated our first meeting at the pool.

  I remember her colleague, Ruth, who seemed confused when I asked for Vicky at the estate agency in Ambleside. Her other colleague, Dennis, hadn’t been very forthcoming, either. No wonder. They know her as Nicola. Nicola Todd. I remember, too, she declined my invitation to Alex’s barbecue, saying she quite liked the idea of being kept a secret.

  But far worse than all of that is that she pretended to be my friend. It’s not just what she didn’t say; it’s what she did. She held me while I cried, and she comforted me, and yet she’d caused some of my pain. She listened when I told her about the box of dead flowers with its disturbing message when she’d been behind that all along. And then she offered to help me. Why?

  I wonder if she was taking revenge somehow. I replay some of our conversations in my head and try to read between the lines. If she was telling the truth, it seems more than likely that the fiancé she told me about, who treated her badly and split up with her, was Alex. Did he throw her out so I could move in? That would certainly explain why she’d have it in for me. And yet, I really did think we were becoming friends. And if she’d wanted to make me pay, she’d had ample opportunity to do a better job of it. I sigh.

  Unbidden, the image of Nicola Todd’s face from her Facebook profile picture forces its way into my head. I close my eyes, but I can still see her behind my eyelids. Her long hair in the photo. The serious look on her face. It was when I was surprised at my reflection in the mirror last night that I realised. I’d forgotten Hannah had cut my hair. It made me smile. And then I saw her. The Vicky I know, or thought I knew, with her short hair and wide grin.

  Next, I visualise Alex’s face the day we were walking along The Coffin Trail. He pretended to be scared of the little white dog, but in fact he was reeling with the shock of seeing Vicky. No, Nikki. He must have been terrified she would say something to me – or to him – as we passed her.

  I suddenly realise I’ve dropped Nikki in it. I implied to Alex that the card with the flowers was signed ‘Nicola’. He said he would ‘sort her out’. What did he mean by that? And she thinks I’m in danger. Does she think that Alex might harm me? In that case, Nikki may be in danger herself.

  But then I reason, Alex has been an utter bastard to both of us, but he’s not dangerous. I’ve been giving my imagination free rein and blowing this up out of all proportion. I’ll have to talk to Nikki at some point, I suppose, if only to understand her motives and intentions. I decide to call her after all. But not today. I’m not ready yet. I’ll do it tomorrow.

  Chapter 20

  ~

  I’ve switched the ringer to silent, but I can feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket again as I walk past The Moot Hall. It’s bound to be her. I know I resolved to talk to Nikki today, but I still can’t face it.

  It’s always heaving in town on Saturdays, but today Keswick seems to be even more packed than usual. There are groups of tourists spilling out from the Information Centre or milling around in front of it. And I’d completely forgotten it was market day. I regret coming here now. Everyone seems to be walking in the opposite direction to me and as I weave Chloe’s pram in and out of the multitudes of people making their way down Keswick High Street, it’s as if I’m trying to swim upstream.

  After a while, I feel as though I’m struggling to keep my head above water and I wonder if it’s possible to drown on dry land. It’s hard to breathe; I’m choking. I stop and bend forwards, using the pram to support me and forcing myself to take deep breaths. What am I doing here?

  The plan was to buy a present for Dad to cheer him up a bit. When Julie and Hannah came here just before my wedding, Julie spotted a waterproof wax jacket she said Dad would love in the window of a sports shop.

  It’s a bad idea, I realise. Firstly, Alex will go mental if I buy something in a sports shop that’s not his. And secondly, I expect Dad would have worn it to go out for walks, and as Jet isn’t likely to be around for much longer, it’s a stupid idea for a gift. Moreover, it’s unlikely, six months on, that it’s still in the shop window or even available in the same shop.

  Why on earth did I come here? And I don’t just mean Keswick. I don’t belong here and I never will. I don’t know why it’s taken me so long to realise this, but it’s crystal clear now.

  A woman barges into me and walks on without apologising. I don’t know whether to yell at her or cry. I turn around and head back to the car, feeling both angry with myself and disappointed.

  I should drive back to the Old Vicarage, but I don’t find the thought of going home very appealing right now, either. I pull out of the car park, functioning on automatic pilot. After a while, it dawns on me that I’ve passed the turning I should have taken for Grasmere. I don’t know where I am. I’ve been driving around aimlessly. I start to read the signposts. At a junction, I realise I’m somewhere between Ambleside and Troutbeck.

  And then I recognise the road I’m on. It takes me a while to find it, but finally I pull up outside the right house. Her mum’s silver car is in the driveway, but Vicky’s black company car isn’t there. Vicky – Nikki – works every other Saturday. I stare at the front door for a few minutes, wondering what I would do if it opened or if Nikki did arrive home. Then my eyes fix on the car.

  I don’t know why the thought didn’t cross my mind before. I’d forgotten all about the grey car in front of the Old Vicarage that day. The one that crawled by as I was closing the gate at the bottom of the driveway. It spooked me because I thought I saw the same car a little later when I came back from doing the shopping. Of course, I can’t be sure. I’m hopeless with car makes and models. And grey is such a nondescript colour. But I have a feeling my suspicions are right. I have a feeling Nikki was spying on me that day.

  As I turn the key in the ignition, it occurs to me that I’m now sitting in my car peering at her house, just as I imagine she was driving past that day, in her mum’s car, trying to get a good look at the Old Vicarage. The roles have been reversed. Is this what I’ve stooped to? Spying on my husband’s ex-girlfriend? I type Grasmere into the satnav and see that I’m facing the wrong way. Turning the car
round, I start heading for home.

  ‘Alex,’ I call, as I step over the threshold into the entrance hall. I try not to shout too loudly since Chloe is sleeping. Leaving the pram in the hall, I go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. There’s a Post-it next to the kettle, a yellow one this time, but it still reminds me of the orange Post-it I didn’t get. Sighing, I read it.

  In Bassenthwaite with my teammates.

  Checking out the course for the triathlon tomorrow.

  Back in a bit. I’ll make us spag bol for dinner.

  Alexxx

  Flicking on the kettle, I decide to curl up with my book in the sitting room until Chloe wakes up. It will take my mind off Nikki. I run upstairs to fetch my book from the bedside table. As I pick it up, I catch sight of Alex’s pills. I didn’t put them back in the cupboard with his whisky, but if he noticed, he hasn’t said anything. I grab the box of tablets, too.

  Moments later, I’m sitting on the sofa with my tea steaming on the coffee table in front of me. Taking my mobile out of my handbag, I see that I’ve had two missed calls, but I want to relax right now. I’ll ring Nikki later. Holding the packet out in front of me, I read the name of the drug out aloud, syllable by syllable. Flu - ni - tra - ze - pam and I type it into the search engine of my mobile.

  I glance at the results and a few keywords stand out. At first I think there must be a mistake. As I stare at them, the words seem to come away from the screen towards me. And then they blur. But I saw them. Rohypnol. And date rape drug.

  Why on earth would Alex have kept that drug in his whisky cupboard?

  Just then, the phone vibrates in my hand with an incoming call, making me jump and drop the packet of pills. It’s Julie. I swipe the screen to take the call.

  ‘Hi, Kaitlyn,’ she says. ‘I was beginning to think I’d never get hold of you!’