by Sarah Wray
I spin round and his sallow-skinned face is right up close to mine. ‘It’s not me. I didn’t even want to come in here. It’s your younger friends you need to worry about. In more ways than one.’
‘I’ve already told you to mind your own business, haven’t I?’ There’s a loud crack in my ear as he claps his hands loudly next to it. ‘Ladies, please. If you can’t be civilised I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave.’
‘We’re going, don’t you worry,’ says Jeannie. ‘But it’s these little teeny bops you should be chucking out, not us.’
Paige does a fake sweet smile and waggles her fingers at us in a wave. ‘’Bye, ladies.’
‘Ladies, come,’ says Ashy, ushering me out, his hand on the top of my back. I shrug him off but he grips my shoulder for a few seconds, hard. It will leave a fingerprint.
I hear them laughing, then the smell of vinegar and then the chips fly over. I am sprayed with it and probably grease, but the chips mostly land on Jeannie, sticking in her hair and down her top.
She turns and her face is twisted in anger. Everything happens so fast, but I see Gemma and Angela restraining her from going back into the shop again. ‘It’s not worth it, Jeannie, let’s just go.’
‘Girls, girls, can I get you some more chips? A drink?’ I hear Ashy say to Paige and Kat as we leave.
I watch as he goes back in. The younger one is lifting up the hatch to allow them behind the counter. He and Paige look like they’re having a row.
Outside, we all gather around Jeannie. ‘Little bitches. Can you believe that?’ she says.
Fresh red blood blooms on her lip.
‘Shit, do you think you need it looked at?’ I touch her arm, feeling responsible.
‘It’s fine, it’s just bust, I think.’
‘Are you sure? There’s a lot of blood.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine. I’ve had worse.’ But I can see she’s starting to cry. I brush chips out of the back of her hair and she forces a laugh. ‘Well, it’s been eventful. Happy birthday to me, eh?’ She sniffs back tears.
‘Right, taxis!’ Gemma’s already heading to the rank a few streets away.
‘I’m going to walk,’ I say. I could do with the sea air. I feel queasy from the drinks and I am wired. There’s no way I will sleep.
‘I’m not asking you, I am telling you – you’re coming to get a taxi,’ Jeannie says, stopping in the street and dabbing her lip. I don’t argue. ‘And we will talk tomorrow about what that was all about.’
When we get to the caravan park, she makes the taxi wait, lights turned down, engine running, until she sees me get into the caravan and I’ve put the lights on to let her know they can go.
Finally, I am in bed, enveloped in the darkness. The seagulls overhead sound like babies wailing or women screaming. Often I’ve been so convinced it was a human cry, I’ve looked out of the window of the caravan into the blackness or tentatively opened the door to hear more clearly.
Something is niggling at me – like I’ve forgotten or misplaced something; it’s shifting out of view. ‘It’s on the tip of my brain,’ my dad used to say.
I keep thinking of the house. Is there a bill that I need to pay? A renewal date coming up that I haven’t remembered? One false move there and I could get another card blocked and future applications denied. Is it something Sean said about what happened at Chris’s work?
I drift in and out of sleep, exhausted but restless – my mind is working over something.
Pushing the covers back, sweating, it comes into my mind and I can barely keep a hold of it. It is the house.
I try to concentrate on the sound of the wind and gulls squawking overhead to quell the nausea rolling in my stomach – from the alcohol and the food and the sense of unease about everything: Chris, Kayleigh, the takeaway, the house. The stuff Sean told me. The room spins.
Something wasn’t quite right at the house. The envelope on the stairs was facing backwards. The letter I left for Chris for when he comes back. It has his name on the front – with some hearts doodled around it. We always used to do that in little notes to each other. I left that side facing out, so he would know it’s from me, recognise it straight away and know that I love him; that I am open to hearing what he has to say. But I can see it clearly now.
When I went round earlier, it was facing the other way.
Twenty-Seven
Sunday, 15 November
I dreamt of Chris again. I’m not sure I’d call it a dream, or a nightmare. It’s like seeing Chris, being there with him again. All the details that I often can’t recall these days are there. The light lines across his forehead. The gestures he uses with his hands as he speaks. But I wake covered in cold sweat. Because in the dream I’ll be banging on a window, but he can’t hear me trying to call after him on a packed high street, winding in and out of the crowds of people, and he keeps disappearing out of view.
Maybe it’s because today is Kayleigh’s vigil. She would have been fifteen. I think of myself at fifteen – Jeannie and me, ‘thick as thieves’, full of plans. We weren’t so different. We hung around in the park and on the seafront, we tried to get into the pubs. I think of Ellen. Of how broken Jeannie would be if anything ever happened to her.
I shouldn’t go to the vigil, I know. I could be attacked; I don’t want to upset Janice any more than she already will be. But still, there’s a magnetic pull there, like I might not be able to stop myself drifting towards it this evening.
It’s freezing outside, my breath forming clouds in front of me, the grass glittery with frost. I hurry off the caravan park, anxious to avoid running into anyone or getting held up.
It’s before seven and the streets are mostly empty and still, curtains drawn, only a few lights on. People are sleeping in, huddled up to their loved ones. I walk to the house, barely passing anyone else except a dogwalker or two. When I get there, I sit on the low wall outside for a while, taking deep breaths to try to steady the palpitations. I almost can’t make myself go inside; maybe I’m not ready for anything to change.
I push the heels of my hands into my eyes and watch the colours come – dots of purple, yellow, green and blue beneath my lids.
Fumbling in my bag for my keys, my fingers are too cold to get a proper grip.
The electronic drone from my mobile makes me tense up. Unknown number again. This is the earliest call yet. I’ve started to ignore them sometimes. Straight after the night out too. The confrontation at the pizza place. Ashy’s sweating, snarling face. Paige.
The anxiety, alcohol and lack of sleep are making me nauseous and restless. It feels like all my bones and muscles need to be stretched out, to get some kind of release. Snatching the phone out of my bag, my finger catches on the zip, drawing blood right down the side of my nail. The pain makes me squeeze my eyes together. The phone is still needling at me, a low insistent rumble. I press the screen hard.
‘What do you want from me?’ It sounds more shrill than the no-nonsense approach I had intended. I don’t wait for an answer. ‘I am not scared of you and I will go to the police.’
‘Rebecca? Are you alright?’ the male voice asks, throwing me off. I can’t connect things up quickly enough. ‘Rebecca?’ It’s Simon.
‘Shit, Simon. Sorry, I thought it was someone else. Shit, is Mum alright? It’s early. What’s going on? What’s up with Mum?’
‘Calm down, Rebecca, please. Don’t worry.’ Why is everyone always saying my name? Like a dog that needs to be trained. ‘Now, don’t panic. Your mum just had a little fall last night, that’s all. She’s completely fine, I promise. I just thought you’d want to know and maybe pop in to see her later.’
‘Oh God, what happened? Is she alright?’
‘She’s fine. Minor cuts and bruises, bit shaken up, that’s all. Doctor’s looked her over. Given the all clear. You’ll both feel better if you come and see her, I’m sure.’
‘Right, yeah, ’course. I’ll be in soon.’
‘OK, I’ll be in.
Erm... is everything alright, Rebecca? What’s all the stuff about the police?’
‘Oh, nothing. Trust me, you don’t want to know.’
I kick the new mound of post out of the way. Everything is as still and lifeless as ever. I stop to take it in. It doesn’t have the air of a place completely undisturbed, does it? I can’t put my finger on it. When we cleared things out of Mum’s house, it was obvious she had only been using her room upstairs. The windowsill and blind slats were thick with dust, cobwebs collecting in the corners. When we took the pictures down, darker squares remained, the edges of the shape sun-bleached because the blinds were always left open.
I think I can detect a faint scent of something on the air – a cleaning product or furniture polish. Or is it something else? Paint? Aftershave? Nothing?
The cushions in the living room look plumped, arranged, like someone has been sitting there and then replaced them with care. I thought I’d closed the door the last time too. I always do, I am sure. But today it was open.
I can’t keep the information in my mind; I need something to compare it to. I can’t face the thing I know I must look at just yet, so I survey the rest of the house first. My stomach is churning and clenching.
On automatic, I head to the kitchen for a swig of the chilled vodka to take the edge off. It’s 8 a.m., I think to myself. But just one sharp shot; I need to stay focused. Reaching in and grasping… but there’s nothing there – it’s gone. I give my eyes a second to adjust. I know it was here before, I’m certain, aren’t I? I was swigging from it just two days ago. My eyes dart around the room, panic rising. The red label of the vodka bottle jumps out at me on the draining board of the sink. It’s empty, but I raise it to my nose anyway, the blank smell suggesting it’s been rinsed out. My head swims. Did I finish the bottle the other day? I did sleep for a while… Or did I pour it away in a fit of renewed enthusiasm to stop drinking? The memories wash around my mind. I just remember lying down and falling asleep on the bed. That’s the last thing I can picture. I had a couple of swigs (at most, didn’t I?), found some clothes in the wardrobe and lay down for an hour or two on the bed. Isn’t that what happened? It was just on Friday. I hold on to the kitchen worktop for balance, feeling faint, breathing in slowly through my nose. I feel like I am losing my grip again.
I go upstairs, stepping over the letter, averting my eyes, for now. The bathroom looks tidier, I am sure of it. I remember smelling Chris’s aftershave when I was here last, spraying some on my scarf. I dropped the cap. I couldn’t find it so I left it off, but it has been returned to the bottle. I feel out of body, like I’m watching over myself again. In the bedroom, I look around – there are far fewer clothes on the floor. The top I hugged in bed the other day is gone. I don’t remember putting it away again, in the drawers or wardrobe. I know that I didn’t, but I scrabble through anyway, swiping the hangers quickly each time. I look in the drawers, Chris’s drawers. And the jumper is there, neatly folded. Who else would move Chris’s clothes? Touch his aftershave? Could it be possible? Has he been to the house…? I can’t hold the information, the possibilities, straight in my head. I think of computers, crunching and processing all that data, spitting information back out.
Swallowing hard, my mouth is so dry that my throat constricts and the saliva pools on my tongue. I can’t ignore what I came here for any longer. Slowly, I lower myself down the stairs, holding on to the banister for support, as if I am elderly and frail, until I reach the bottom step and force myself to turn round.
There it is, the letter. I was right; it is facing backwards and the flap is neatly opened but stuck down again gently, not quickly torn like a birthday card or an ominous, official-looking letter. I know that I sealed it down, remember the sickly sweetness when I licked the sugary edge. My breath is uneven and my hands are shaking, but I see that the letter is still there. Still there but read? So if he was here – could he really have been? – he knows I am waiting for him, open to seeing him again. The spark of hope that there’s still a chance for us is rekindled, then snuffed out again, replaced by the gnawing, the terror at getting closer to the truth.
But what if… what if…
What if he is connected to Kayleigh?
Twenty-Eight
Sunday, 15 November
A horn blares in my ear before the screech of tyres. I turn zombie-like, jolted from a trance. A bearded man leans out of his car window. ‘Watch what you’re doing, you daft bitch! You’ll get yourself killed – or some fucker else.’ He shakes his head and beeps the horn again, this time signalling for me to get out of the way.
I am in the middle of the road on the seafront, traffic snaking along around me. My legs are wobbly underneath me, mind foggy, trying to think what I should do next.
When I get to Mum’s room, I knock lightly and push the door.
Simon is putting something into the drawer by Mum’s bed and doesn’t see me at first.
He presses his finger to his lips then beckons me in.
‘You nearly gave me a heart attack,’ he whispers.
Mum is propped up in bed by pillows, but she’s sleeping. There’s a dark black ring under her right eye, purple on the edges. I hear myself sharply intake breath.
‘It looks worse than it is. I promise,’ Simon whispers. ‘Let’s go and get a coffee. Let your mum sleep?’
When Simon passes me the weak instant coffee, it is wobbling in the cup, my wedding ring clanking against the handle.
‘Rebecca.’ Simon clicks his fingers in front of my face. ‘You’re drip white. I’d give you a nip of something stronger if I had it. She’s going to be alright, you know.’
‘Thanks for looking after her. What happened? Really?’
‘She just had a bad night, Rebecca. It happens. She was very confused last night and she just got upset. Ended up falling over. We were looking out for her, honest.’
‘I know. I’m not blaming anyone.’
‘I took a bit of a beating myself. Surprised I don’t have a shiner.’ He smiles.
‘Oh God, really? Shit. Sorry.’
‘Not your fault, remember.’ Simon holds his hand up to stop me apologising.
‘What was she upset about?’
‘Nothing major. She was stressing about her ring again. It was just one of those nights.’
‘And she hit you over the ring?’
‘Yes… well, just in general.’ He looks guarded.
‘Why is she so adamant you have the ring?’
‘Because she’s confused.’ His voice has a warning tone, that I shouldn’t push any further. ‘She was really confused in the evening. Honestly the ring’s got to be about somewhere. It’s a right old head scratcher.’
‘And Chris?’
Simon stares into his cup. ‘She was on about that again, yes. But, as I said before, it’s just stuff that’s going on: she’s jumbling things up. The papers, the news, she probably senses you’re upset.’
‘She’s deteriorating, isn’t she?’
‘I can’t really answer that, you know that. It could be a phase. It isn’t that predictable.’
‘Is she going to have to move to a different home?’
‘We don’t need to think about that just now.’
Simon swirls the tea from side to side in the mug.
‘You trying to read the tea leaves?’ I joke feebly. ‘Look for a sign? Give me one, will you?’
He laughs, but he looks tired.
‘Does it get you down working here? Seeing people suffering, not being able to look after themselves? People dying every week?’
‘Not everyone’s like that. And mostly, no, it doesn’t get me down. The opposite, actually.’
‘The opposite? How?’
‘Dunno,’ he shrugs. ‘I’ll try not to be too Miss World about it and wang on about how I like helping people and making a difference. But, apart from that, I genuinely like the residents here and the people I meet. They make me laugh. They’re interesting. And, I dunno, I just like it.
’ He shrugs again, looking a little embarrassed. He adds, ‘I tell you what – I don’t do it for the money, that’s for sure.’
I start picking up my coat and bag but he looks up then.
‘There is one other thing,’ he says, hesitant. ‘I had a look through the visitor records. For Chris’s name. I couldn’t find anything at first, but it’s there: the fifteenth of July.’
‘You’re sure it was the fifteenth? That’s two days before…’
‘I had a good look through. Don’t see any other references. Not on his own anyway. A couple with you.’
Probably not that many with me. ‘Hmmm. And none since then?’
‘Since? Well… no,’ says Simon, flustered.
‘Well, I suppose he wouldn’t be likely to sign in, would he?’
‘I don’t follow.’
I think of the house, the signs of life. He might have just sneaked in to see Mum, like she said. Why would he come here first, though?
‘And if he was here? If he was back?’ he asks.
I shake my head. Who knows?
‘I’m going to sit with Mum for a while longer before I go. I’m going to look for the ring again.’
I wince afresh, picturing the tender purple skin around Mum’s eye. Standing in the doorway, I turn to look at Simon once more. He’s sitting at the table with his back to me, hunched over his cup. And it strikes me then, an ugly thought. That maybe he decided to tell me about Chris visiting to distract me from Mum’s fall.
‘Simon,’ I say. His shoulders jump and he turns. ‘Can I see the book?’
He looks surprised, then confused.
‘The guestbook with Chris’s visit in?’
A look of recognition and I wonder if he’s forcing it on. ‘Oh, right, yeah, ’course. No bother. I can’t get into the office right now – someone’s in there. But next time, remind me.’
‘I definitely will,’ I say, emphasising the words.