by Sarah Wray
The car is behind me now, its headlights switched low. I stop and wait for it to pass, the engine gently growling at me. My plan is to make a run for it back up the lane. I know it’s probably nothing, but my anxiety levels are high. I just need to get out of the situation. It’ll take the car a while to turn round on a lane this narrow.
But it’s getting closer and closer, pushing me into the wall. It’s deliberate. I press myself back against the wall, feeling the cold, slimy green moss under my hands. The front wheel of the car mounts the slope, it’s close to my knee, spinning in the dirt. I fumble to light up my phone again, finding the main button, but the icons are swimming in front of me, my thumb refusing to carry out the actions my brain is already visualising. The car’s engine revs. I momentarily consider jumping onto the bonnet. But then the beam comes on, shocking my eyes at first. I have found the phone torch and quickly turn it round and shine it into the car. Before my eyes have time to recover, the engine revs harder and the lights blare on again. The front wheel spins close to my leg and I’m on tiptoes. My eyes are starting to adjust to the shape of a person driving the car, maybe two people in the front, but it’s reversing up now, preparing to pull away. I push out my left hand and feel the key drag along the paintwork of the car as it speeds up. When I pull it away, a fine curl of metallic paint falls into my hand.
I run straight to the caravan and sit inside, wrapped in the duvet for warmth. But I don’t dare to turn the lights on.
After a while, when I feel sure no one has followed me, I pore over the stories online again. I can’t stop myself. I search Kayleigh’s and Chris’s names under news, like I have done so many times before. After the early barrage, when they first disappeared, the updates thinned out; only the odd mention since mid-September. Now there is a fresh flurry, regurgitating the new allegations about Chris, recycling and rewording all the previous stories again. It feels like an endless pattern, repeating as far as the eye can see.
And it’s obviously getting people stirred up again, reheating all that hate. It’s not even 7 p.m. yet but I try to sleep anyway, just to escape, but it won’t come, my mind like a cooking pot on the stove, bubbles and blisters puncturing the surface.
Twenty-Four
Saturday, 14 November
I told myself I was going for a walk, to get some morning air. Maybe I’d walk on the beach. But I knew where I would really end up. I am standing at the top of the alley again, where Star Pizza is. But there’s nothing happening. No one coming and going at all. I walk down the street and look into the shop. The door is open, radio playing, but I can’t see anyone. No girls, no men, no one working. Nothing at all. They’re probably just setting up for the day.
But parked a little up the street from the takeaway, a red car is there. The red car from last night? My stomach contracts, an image of the narrow road to the caravan park, being pressed against the wall. Mixing in with the video of The Watchers, the characters all jumbling up.
Did I imagine it? Maybe just a car passing, me overreacting… but I put my hand in my pocket and the red curl of paint from the car is still wedged down in the corner, retaining a certain stiffness. I roll it between my fingers.
It’s a compulsion to have one quick look. At first I don’t think it’s there, I don’t see the scratch on the side of the car. Maybe I was wrong. I look inside the car. Rubbish is strewn on the back seat – coke bottles, polystyrene takeaway boxes.
There’s an old duvet crumpled in the back seat, the cover looks stained with brown liquid, the grubby foam poking out at one end. Walking slowly around, I look at the other door and I see it’s there. The scratch I made with my key. Shallow, but fresh, unmistakable. I run my middle finger over the groove.
‘We must stop meeting like this, love.’
It takes me a second to make sense of everything. His crotch is pressed hard against my backside and I spin round, but he doesn’t move. Ashy is right in my face, a leer across his mouth.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asks, not moving backwards. ‘I don’t know why you are suddenly so interested in me. Sorry, love, I’m seeing someone, and to be honest you’re not really my type. You know what I’m saying, Rebecca?’
He pushes his crotch into me harder and I shove him back. He holds up his hands, palms open then rubs them down on his jeans.
I hadn’t told him my name.
‘Why are you looking in my car and sniffing around my business?’
‘What happened to your car then? Nasty scratch there.’
He screws up his face and inspects the car, then shrugs. ‘Must have scraped it.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Out – what’s it got to do with you?’
I reach into my pocket, looking for the curl of paint, but it’s gone. I search both pockets and my jeans too, casting around on the floor.
‘Lost something?’
My mind is spinning now. I am still rooting in my pockets, digging right in the corners. I feel woozy and sick.
Ashy smirks at me.
‘Why have you got a duvet in your car?’
He lets out an exaggerated laugh and looks up at the sky. ‘Because I’ve got a dog and I don’t want hair and shit all over the back of my car. I don’t know why I am answering all these questions or what this is all about. I am just trying to run a restaurant.’
‘Restaurant! That’s stretching it a bit.’
‘And I don’t want any trouble round here, Rebecca. It isn’t good for business. I feel like you’re trying to bring me trouble, Rebecca Pendle. I thought I warned you, but maybe you didn’t get the message.’
‘Warned me?’
‘The last time you paid us a visit here, remember? Not that long ago. You can’t seem to stay away.’
‘You tried to run me over.’
His expression looks like true shock, confusion, then it breaks into a smile. He shakes his head.
‘You came to where I live last night.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Where’s that then?’
‘You know where.’
‘My car has been sitting there since yesterday morning, babe.’
‘No.’
‘Look, what are you doing here? What do you want?’ He looks at his watch and gestures towards the shop. ‘I’ve got stuff to do, you know?’
Daz appears at the door. ‘You alright, mate?’
‘Daz, mate. Where was I last night?’
‘Here. Where else?’
‘Exactly. Where else? And where has my car been?’
Daz points to where it’s parked.
‘Thank you – now fuck off back inside, will you?’
Daz shoots me a dirty look, then his head is down and he shuffles away.
Ashy turns his attention back to me. I dig in my pocket for the metal scraping again but it isn’t there. Nothing fits together right. I’m watching him closely, alert for sudden movements.
‘If you’re here about Kayleigh Jackson again you need to look a bit closer to home, love. Chris Harding’s your man, is what I hear, in more ways than one.’ He spits to one side. ‘It is what it is, babe. You’ll have to face it and stop acting like some crazy woman.’ He throws his hands up. ‘Sorry, but it ain’t my problem.’
Something surges up in me. What Ashy has said has struck a raw nerve. It feels like salt in a wound, hearing it from his mouth. I’m angry at myself for finding myself here. I feel myself lunging forward towards him, and he grabs me by the wrists, hard.
‘Don’t you say my husband’s name; you don’t know anything about us, about any of it.’
He lets go, white finger marks with a red outline on my skin. ‘You don’t like it, do you? Get your own house in order.’ He jabs at the air in front of my face. ‘Get away from here and keep away from me and my business.’
He’s already walking towards the takeaway, jangling the keys in his hand. He bats the other hand back at me – not listening anymore. His hair is kind of the same colour as Chris’s, I notice
now, has that dark brown wave in the back. I try to drive out the association, but Chris is everywhere again now, and nowhere too.
There’s a large, smooth pebble on the floor at the curb. I picture myself throwing it at Ashy, cracking the back of his head, or launching it at the window, the glass breaking out like a spider’s web.
My neck pulses. Here, now, in the bright winter daylight, everything looks different to when I was here the other night. It looks normal. The sun bounces off the car, showing up a few small scratches on the paintwork, old ones and new ones. The kind you get on any car when you’ve had it a while. Ashy and Daz busy themselves in the shop, wiping things down and fiddling with the fryers. I start to walk away and Ashy waves at me sarcastically, whistling along to the radio.
Twenty-Five
Saturday, 14 November
I am churned up after the run-in with Ashy so I am glad that when I arrive at the restaurant the girls are already seated. They’re Jeannie’s friends, really. Angela and Shelley went to school with me and Jeannie, but we stopped being in touch directly a while after I moved away. The novelty of writing long emails at work wore off; we got busy. ‘What have you been up to?’ became too much of an open-ended question. It’s still nice to see them, though. Gemma is one of Jeannie’s ‘mum friends’, as she calls them, a circle I can’t be part of. We’ve been on a few nights out since I’ve been back and when I used to visit from London. I like Gemma. She’s quick-witted, with a dry sense of humour.
Jeannie’s been texting me since this morning to make sure I wouldn’t drop out. She would have sulked a bit if I had, but, deep down, she wouldn’t have been surprised. She would have forgiven me; she always does. That’s why I am here.
She’s booked a cheap Italian place on the seafront. Rosa’s. Chris and I used to come here sometimes for a mid-week tea or for lunch on the weekends. He’d always get the calzone, chips on the side. I am a little hurt that Jeannie doesn’t remember this. Why would she? But I thought I noted a flicker of recognition between us when she told me the name of the restaurant. I think she remembered then, but it was too late. Most places around here have memories for me. So what difference does it make?
In the end, I couldn’t say why exactly, I did feel like going out after all, getting out of that tiny caravan, seeing the girls for a bit. I wanted a night off from it all, from my life. To go to the restaurant and smell the warm, savoury scent of garlic, like we’ve done so many Saturday nights before. Let the wine take the edge off, listen to them talk.
I am purposely a bit late, as I don’t like the idea of sitting there on my own waiting for them. Once I wouldn’t have minded, but not now. I sat in the caravan for a while after I got dressed, coat on, working myself up to coming out. Jeannie puts on a show of being pleased to see me when I get there, standing up and giving me a hug. We are not huggy friends and never have been, but I know she is trying to be nice and reassure me, so I go along with it.
‘You look lush!’ she says, looking me up and down, although I haven’t even removed my Puffa coat yet.
I see the other girls smiling politely, that early point in the night before everyone has thawed out.
‘I’ve not seen you for ages. You look really well,’ Angela says timidly.
I have straightened my hair, put on a little make-up and some earrings, so to be fair maybe they do genuinely mean it.
Angela fills my glass of wine straight away and I notice Jeannie staring directly at her, purposefully. They must have talked in advance about how they all need to keep an eye on how much I drink tonight. Angela notices and stops at half a glass. I drink most of it down in one mouthful, partly to be defiant and partly to take the edge off. Everyone else takes a silent sip too. We get through the awkwardness by chattering about the menu and what everyone is having.
‘Sod the diet,’ says Gemma, ‘I’m having a big fat pizza.’
‘You do right,’ says Shelley.
I say I’ll have a carbonara and shut the menu without looking at it.
‘What about your starter? You’ve got to have a starter,’ Jeannie says
‘No, I’m fine, honestly.’
‘I’ll order some for the table, for us all to share, eh?’
The girls nod obediently, letting Jeannie lead them, since she dragged us all here and nobody else has any idea how to handle things.
The restaurant is how it always was, why we liked it, Chris and I. Old-fashioned, red-checked tablecloths and warm, white fairy lights strung from the ceiling. The candles on the table in wine bottles with fountains of melted wax.
I nibble on garlic bread, when it arrives, to look busy, and listen to the girls chat, mainly about children. Jeannie says that Ellen is doing well at judo and is going for her orange belt. She looks at me uncertainly as she mentions her. I don’t react.
Shelley starts on about her husband’s new job, but eventually tails off as she senses the freeze-over from the rest of the table. Of course I don’t really mind if she talks about her husband. It’s not as if he bears any significance to Chris, other than being married and being a man. My temper is starting to fray, so I glug back my drink and fill the glass up again.
Jeannie eyes me up while I knock back another glass of the dense, yellowy wine, shuddering as it hits the back of my throat.
The waiter comes over. ‘Another bottle, ladies?’
Jeannie and I say, ‘No, we’re fine, thanks,’ and, ‘Yes, please,’ on top of each other.
‘We’ll have another – it is a special occasion after all.’ I force a lighthearted tone.
Jeannie is too embarrassed to argue in front of the waiter and I know it. She does a sharp intake of breath and presses her lips together so they’re white at the edges.
‘So, what have you been up to today?’ Gemma asks Jeannie, and for a second I think Jeannie looks panicked.
‘Oh, just getting ready, you know.’ Something about her tone is off. She probably doesn’t want to brag about how Dan did something thoughtful for her birthday because she thinks it will set me off.
‘Ooh, I love your nails, Jeannie,’ Angela pipes up.
Jeannie looks relieved and wiggles them out in front of everyone, sickly pink and glittery. ‘Did them myself,’ she says, admiring them.
She isn’t usually so girly-girl like this. She is obviously trying to make the best of the situation, but it’s getting on my nerves. My jaw feels tight. It isn’t Jeannie’s fault, it’s just me.
‘I’m just a magpie for anything twinkly, but Dan reckons I look like a twelve-year-old girl with these nails.’ She’s already trailing off before she finishes the sentence. The atmosphere stiffens. Everyone looks at their wine; Gemma fingers her knife, polishing away imaginary scuffs.
‘Pah! What does he know, eh?’ Jeannie looks for back-up around the table and the other girls oblige, nodding – a theatrical eye-roll for good measure.
I stare away from the table out of the window at nothing, pressure and anger trying to break out of me for no good reason. Sometimes, even more so lately, I just want to needle people, push their buttons, see how far it will go. That’s why I rang Mrs Grange, and why I went to Star Pizza again. I needed some reaction.
In the window reflection, I notice Jeannie shoot me a look, but I can’t read it. Probably just her usual concern. Eventually, I drift back into the conversation to hear Angela talking about her new bathroom and how stressful it’s going to be when they start installing it. ‘Evie’s going to have to stay at Tom’s mum’s,’ she says. Jeannie looks glazed, bored. This makes me smile to myself. I love Jeannie, really.
I don’t feel like it’s anyone’s real loss if I chip in now. I glug back more wine and Jeannie tenses. ‘Well, there’s no news on Chris. Thanks everyone for asking.’ It comes out even worse than I intended it to.
Everyone looks at Jeannie for guidance. She shakes her head, which incenses me even more.
‘And it’s not getting better, if you must know, as inconvenient as that is for everybody!’
I can feel the tears start to prickle. The waiter is looking over, intrigued, a little worried too. He was bringing over a jug of water, at Jeannie’s request, but hangs back when he sees the tension.
‘You’re not being fair,’ says Jeannie.
I know she’s right. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. This is all a bit much for me. I shouldn’t have come.’ And I mean it. ‘I don’t want to spoil your night. I should go.’ I get up to leave, the chair making an abrasive scraping noise that I feel in my teeth. The other diners I hadn’t noticed arrive look around now.
Jeannie puts her hand over her eyes and sighs. I feel worse.
Shelley looks up at me, pleading. ‘Don’t say that. Don’t go, Becs, please. Sit down a sec, will you?’
I don’t know why, but I do.
She puts her hand on mine. ‘Please stay. We want you to stay. Really. I don’t know about everyone else but I only didn’t ask because I don’t know if you want to talk about it. I didn’t know if it’s the right time and I didn’t want to upset you.’ It’s a sweet gesture – I can tell that she’s sincere.
Angela and Gemma nod in agreement, pulling ‘there, there’ faces. Jeannie doesn’t say anything.
‘Come on, stay. Please. I don’t want to stay out if you don’t,’ Shelley says.
I don’t really want to go home and I appreciate Shelley’s honesty. I sit down and mumble. ‘I’m really sorry, everyone.’
Gemma says not to worry about it and Jeannie is shooting me a small but reassuring smile. I relent, but I feel awkward and in the spotlight so I’m relieved when Angela pipes up, ‘So, who is watching First Dates?’ The table erupts into squeals and ohmygods and we are thankfully moving on.
Chris and I always used to say how great the food was here but my pasta is pale and tasteless, the sauce creamy and claggy, drying out. I move it round the bowl, not eating much. Mainly I’m knocking back the yellow, vinegary wine, keeping a careful eye on everyone else’s glasses, trying to keep a pace I can get away with. Luckily for me, and despite the pep talk Jeannie obviously gave everyone earlier, it looks like they’re all out to get hammered, as they are downing the drinks pretty quickly, too, Jeannie included.