See Me Not

by Janelle Harris

  I want nothing more right now than to suggest Kim puts the kettle on again for another cup of coffee. I want to sit beside my best friend and tell her everything I’ve figured out about Jane Burke. I want to hear my theory out loud, and I want to make Kim see I’m not crazy. I’m right. But I know all of that would be for my benefit. Not Kim’s. If I shared the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind right now with Kim, she’d be more convinced than ever that I’m losing it. I can’t do that to her.

  ‘Okay, I’d better get going,’ I insist.

  Kim spins around and leans her back against the wet sink edge as if she needs the support to prop her up. ‘I’ll see you later, Emma. Won’t I?’

  I swallow. ‘Absolutely. See you later.’

  Kim jolts forward and wraps two soapy hands around my neck. ‘Okay. Later then.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  DAVID

  I sleepily roll over and stretch my arm out to wrap around my wife, but it falls against the empty, cold mattress where I expect Emma to be. I open my eyes, and my heart sinks to find the duvet thrown back on Emma’s side. I desperately wanted to wake first. I wanted to make us breakfast in bed and spend a lazy morning tucked up together.

  I made the decision not to go to work today at some stage during the night. I was ridiculously restless all night and woke often. I’ve a blistering headache now as a consequence. I sent an email to HR to say I wasn’t feeling well, and I don’t care if they believe me or not. I know Emma is more upset than she’s letting on about Richard insisting she take a leave of absence from work. But secretly, I’m relieved. Maybe we can use her time off to get an appointment with Dr. Brady. He always has greater availability mid-week, and I’d like Emma to see him as soon as possible before she changes her mind. She’s playing it way too cool about Jane’s baby announcement. She scares me when she’s like that, when she hides her real emotions. It’s a recipe for disaster.

  Dragging myself into the bathroom, I grab a quick shower and don’t bother to shave. I throw on yesterday’s clothes and make my way downstairs, calling Emma’s name. Silence answers me back, and I’m instantly unnerved.

  The house is like a living thing. It watches me and sympathetically shakes its head. I run my hand along the wall on my right side as I descend the stairs. The wallpaper is cold to the touch, and I swear I can feel the rise and fall of the bricks beneath my palm as it breaths nervously. The banisters on the other side seem to wrap around me like arms cradling my rounded shoulders as I struggle to propel myself forward, soothing me as I prepare to face whatever is waiting for me after the last step. I stop just before I reach the bottom and stand statue-like, swaying back and forth, afraid to take the next step. Maybe I could stay here forever, suspended in time on the second to last step of the stairs. Maybe if I don’t take the next step, the future will never come. Everything is okay on this step. My world is still intact. But I know better than to believe that. Emma has already written her fate. And all I can do is discover if she’s written our future with or without her in it.

  My mind races, forcing me to blink too often, and my eyes are dry and stinging by the time I make it into the kitchen. It’s empty. There isn’t as much as a cup out of place. It’s eerily still, and I clutch my chest as I scurry back into the hall. The frosted glass panels on each side of the front door offer me a blurry view of Emma’s car parked in the front drive. Maybe she’s still here. I begin to run; my bare feet are hot and stick to the floor tiles, torturing me. I can’t move fast enough. I fiddle with the key in the back door, fling it open, and race to the garden. My heart is beating so fast I can hear the pound of my blood coursing behind my ears. The icy grass pinches the soles of my feet, but the cold is a welcome relief. I hurry towards the shed at the end of our walled garden. The door swings back and forth, thumping every so often against the wall. It’s messy inside. The lawnmower and garden tools are strewn arbitrarily around the floor. Emma’s not here. Thank God.

  I step outside and secure the shed door behind me. The sudden wind chill rips through my shirt, slapping my chest. It’s only then I realise I’ve been holding my breath. I breathe out and expel a loud, savage roar.

  I don’t know how long I spend in the garden. Long enough for my feet to go numb, my fingertips to ache, and my mind to clear somewhat. Back inside, the heat of the house takes a long time to work its way into my icy bones. I try calling Emma’s mobile countless times, as I pace the whole house, but she doesn’t pick up. I call her mother, but she quickly tells me she’s on a cruise somewhere exotic, and unsurprisingly, she confesses she hasn’t spoken to Emma in a while. Reluctantly, I bring Kim’s name up onscreen, and I’m just about to hit the call button when the landline rings loudly, startling me.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  ‘Hello,’ a deep male voices replies. ‘May I speak to Emma Lyons, please?’

  ‘Emma’s not here at the moment,’ I explain, struggling to keep my voice steady. ‘May I take a message?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. My name is Bradly Mullins. I’m calling from Mullins and Company solicitors. Would you ask Emma to call me at her earliest convenience, please?’

  ‘Oh. Bradly. Hi, I’m David, Emma’s husband. Emma told me she met with you yesterday. Is this about Daniel Connolly’s will?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is. Apologies, David. I didn’t know Emma is married.’

  ‘Yeah. Just recently. We’re married a few months now.’

  ‘Oh. Newlyweds. Lovely.’ Bradly’s deep tone softens. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I smile. ‘Um, I don’t know when Emma will be home. Is there anything I can help you with in the meantime?’

  ‘Eh …’ Bradly pauses, most likely to decide if it’s appropriate or legal to discuss this with Emma’s spouse. ‘Yes, actually. Would you let Emma know that we’ve had an offer on the house already?’

  ‘Already?’ I gasp.

  ‘Yes. It’s much sooner than we anticipated, but the buyer is beyond keen, making an offer without even viewing the premises. The auctioneer assures me it’s a very generous offer. Based on other recently sold houses in the area, I agree. If Emma is happy, we’d like to close as soon as possible.’

  ‘That’s good news. I’m sure Emma will be pleased,’ I say; my chest is tight as I worry if I’ll get the chance to tell her.

  ‘Oh,’ Bradly blurts suddenly. ‘Would you also let Emma know she’s exempt from any death duties, so the full fifty percent, after the auctioneer’s fees, is hers.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupt, certain I’ve misunderstood something. ‘Why exactly is Emma exempt?’

  ‘Children don’t pay tax when inheriting from a deceased parent.’

  ‘Oh. Okay,’ I stumble, shaking my head and almost dropping the receiver. ‘I’ll let Emma know as soon as she comes home. Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, David. A pleasure speaking with you. Goodbye.’ Bradly Mullins rattles off the generic response and hangs up.

  I stand with the receiver still in my hand staring into space. I wonder if there’s been some huge mistake. Emma believes her dad died when she was a little girl. She’s grieved for the absence of a father figure all her life. I sometimes wonder if that huge, missing part of her childhood affects her more deeply than she realises. I even suspect missing a male role model growing up contributed to her self-harming on some subconscious level. I shake my head. Bradly Mullins must be mistaken. Danny would have told Emma. He couldn’t have spent years getting to know her and never confessed that he was her father. What man could not acknowledge their own child? I snort and catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall across from me. I can’t be a man who abandons a baby. I can’t be a bad father. But accepting responsibility for the life I’ve created will destroy my wife. If it hasn’t already.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  EMMA

  I’ve never been over to this side of the city before. Its unsavoury reputation precedes it. I’ve heard all the rumours about drug lords and murderers livi
ng in every second house. But looking out the bus window, I find the streets quiet and inconspicuous. Neat, well-kept shops line the road, and the houses are small and tidy. It’s a dull, grey morning, and the world outside the window is depressing but not scary.

  Not many passengers are on the bus at this time. The scattered few look as unimpressed to be here as I am. It’s almost ten a.m., but I suspect the man sitting across from me is still drunk from the night before. His warm breath reaches across the aisle and hits me like a tequila shot spilling in my face. His tattoos creep from his neck onto the lower parts of his jaw, and every time I catch his eye, he growls at me.

  ‘Poor sod,’ an elderly lady beside me says. ‘Used to be a businessman, but he lost it all to drink and gambling. The wife left him after that. Can’t say I blame her, really.’

  ‘Oh, um.’ I clear my throat, and my face glows.

  The tattooed man lifts his head to stare in our direction, and I’m certain he heard her.

  ‘That’s very sad,’ I say. Dropping my eyes to the ground, I hope she’ll take the hint and not share any more gossip about the locals.

  ‘Where are you headed?’ she asks. ‘You don’t look like you’re from around here.’

  ‘I … I … I’m not,’ I admit. ‘I’m visiting a friend.’

  ‘You’re visiting a friend around these parts.’ She snorts as if it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever head.

  ‘Yes. I am.’ I smile with my eyes narrow.

  ‘What’s the address? I’ll help you find it.’

  ‘I know where she lives,’ I puff out. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘You’ve been here before?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ I lie.

  ‘Really? Then why have I never seen you on this bus before?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I groan, my patience tested.

  ‘I get this bus every day. Twice a day. Sometimes four if I forget my bits and pieces and have to take a second trip to the shops. I’ve never seen you before, ever. That’s for sure.’

  I shake my head. ‘I usually drive.’

  ‘But not today?’

  I look out the window. It’s started to snow again. Not as heavy as last night but enough to give the appearance that tiny pieces of the thick overhead clouds are breaking free and falling to the ground.

  ‘The weather is too bad to drive today.’ I smirk, satisfied with my believable argument.

  ‘Too bad to drive.’ She nods, following my gaze out the window to the cars whipping past. ‘Too bad to drive.’ She laughs with a throaty gargle.

  ‘I’m not a good driver,’ I explain. ‘I haven’t passed my test yet.’

  ‘You’re not a good liar either.’ She laughs more.

  I swallow a huge lump of frustrated air and will the bus to drive faster. I can’t wait to get off.

  ‘Don’t get upset, love,’ she softens. ‘I’m only teasing. You must be wondering why I’m asking all these silly questions?’

  I’m not wondering. I’ve already assumed she lives alone, and her daily bus ride is her lifeline. It’s most likely her only opportunity to be around other people and to engage in a little light banter. I hope most people entertain her. She’s condescending and irritating, but I doubt she means to be.

  My mind is tired, and my palms are wet with nervous sweat. I don’t want to talk to anyone about anything right now, but I find myself offering her the generic response I know she’s hoping for. ‘Yes, I suppose I am wondering.’

  I expect to get her life story. Perhaps, her husband has recently passed. Or she has grown children who don’t visit as often as they should.

  ‘You remind me of someone,’ she says gently.

  ‘Really?’ I smile, surprised.

  ‘A girl.’ Her eyes dance, and I see the blissful spark of a memory. ‘She had eyes just like yours, and your smile curves up at the edges in the same way. She was my neighbour. A lovely young woman; pretty as a picture, she was. She visited me often, and we had tea sometimes. But she moved away a long time ago. One day, out of the blue, she just upped and left. She never came to say goodbye. I still wonder what happened to her. I miss her terribly.’

  The bus turns down a narrow road with apartment blocks towering on both sides, blocking most of the natural light. I wonder how the bus will fit between the sea of cars parked ludicrously at leisure alongside and, sometimes, even on top of the footpath.

  The elderly lady pulls on the back of the seat in front of us and uses it to propel herself out of her seat.

  ‘This is my stop,’ she explains. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ I say genuinely.

  I bend down and gather her bags from the floor. She smiles brightly and reaches for them, clasping my hand in hers on the exchange. Her warm, wrinkled fingers wrap around my palm, and she gives my hand a gentle shake.

  ‘I really hope you find your friend,’ she whispers with tears glistening in her eyes.

  ‘Me too,’ I reply poignantly, taking until now to realise we’re talking about the same person. ‘Me too.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  JANE

  The apartment smells of piss. I walk around with my nostrils flared as I sniff deeply. It’s not coming from the replacement couch or the laminate flooring that’s been scrubbed so vigorously with antibacterial cleaner it’s a shade lighter than I remember. It seems to be seeping from the walls, as if they have a memory of a time gone by, and they dare to spit a reminder at me now. It’s rancid and makes my stomach heave. I take a large scented candle out of my bag and place it on the windowsill in the kitchen. It’s never been used, and the stubborn wicks take a few seconds to accept the flame of the match I hold to it. But within minutes, the scent of pear and vanilla masks the urine. The scent is even stronger than I hoped, and I smile with deep satisfaction, suspecting it will hide the stench of a rotting body for a few days.

  The smell of the candle doesn’t reach the bedroom, and the whiff of damp hits my face like a wet cloth as soon as I step inside. I sit on the bed and stare out the window. The street below is coming to life. Delivery vans block the footpaths as they finish their morning run. Buses sweep past, their double-decker roofs reaching just below the bedroom window. I remember Will asking me once if I thought he could jump out the window and land on top of one of the buses as they pass. I laughed. He was high and giddy. I didn’t take him seriously. Three days later, he was dead.

  It’s snowing. Just a light smattering, really. But enough to make the ground slippery. Parents take extra care as they hold their children’s hands. One woman, in particular, catches my attention. Her long red coat is a vibrant contrast against the falling snow. It’s not much more than a raincoat. It swings open at the front where it’s missing buttons, and there’s a noticeable hole in one of the underarm areas. She must be cold out there. She has a tight grip on a little boy’s hand. He drags reluctantly behind her, purposely trying to step in as many slushy puddles as he can find. He’s dressed for the weather. A bright blue, woolly hat with a bauble sits on top of his head; accessorised cosily with a matching scarf and gloves. His coat looks brand new. It’s puffy and a little too big, making him appear broader than I’d say he really is. His schoolbag dangling off his back is almost as big as he is, and I can’t stop smiling as I watch him. He’s a happy child, I can tell. His mother’s flimsy coat is a statement of their tight finances, and clearly, she spends every penny she does have on her beautiful little boy. But despite her own appearance, she’s smiling, and I can see in her eyes just how much she adores her son. They must live locally. She’s about my age, maybe a year or two younger, and her son is Marley’s age. They could have been in school together. My son and hers. They could have been friends in another life. I would have liked that. I would have been happy.

  I watched them until they turned the corner and disappeared out of view. I could stay sitting on the edge of the bed and stare out the window all day. It’s like fine dining for the soul, and I’m enjoying a slice of
my past.

  My head is full of thoughts of Marley. How he smelt. His angelic face. How light and fragile his newborn body felt cradled in my arms. Marley was born on a beautiful summer’s afternoon, three weeks and two days after his father died. And I loved him from the second I laid eyes on him. Marley was born six days early, but his weight was more like a six-week premature baby. He was a tiny three pounds five ounces, and his whole body wasn’t much bigger than the palm of my hand. They barely gave me time to hold him. A midwife hovered beside me the whole time my son was in my arms. She was so close to me I could smell the garlic from her lunch off her hot breath.

  I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, two doctors were in the room. One sat at the end of my bed with his head between my legs as he stitched up my gaping skin. The other spoke only to the midwife. Doing as she was told, the midwife slid her arms between my chest and my son, and she took him from me.

  Marley wasn’t just my newborn son—he was a statistic. An addict’s baby. He had a label. The doctor said it as if the words tasted of vomit. No one told me how long it would take him to detox; all they said was it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  It was half a day later when two women in poor-fitting black suits came to see me. My throat was raw and dry from screaming for my taken child. They didn’t have to tell me they were from the Department for Children because I knew. They said they were there to protect Marley. Them. Two middle-aged bitches with bad hair and condescending faces. They decided Marley needed protection from me. His own mother. His own flesh and blood. Junkies don’t make good parents, they decided. They were placing him in foster care, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  The dark black circles that hung under my eyes, my scrawny limbs with not enough fat to protect my bones, and the puncture wounds sprinkled across my skin like chocolate chips painted the picture of a shitty parent. Addict was tattooed into my soul. But where were those Child Services bitches when I was a kid? Who protected me? No one. My parents didn’t wear their failings on their faces. There was nothing to see; well, not on the outside anyway. My tall, slim mother with her golden blond hair and ruby red nails was the elucidation of wholesome. No one saw the countless bottles of wine she hid in her wardrobe. No one saw the specks of glass I picked out of my hair when an empty bottle came crashing down over the back of my skull. My handsome father with broad shoulders and dark eyes was every inch the dapper gentleman. No one saw his disrespect for his wife and his inability to keep his dick away from stupid teenage girls happy to blow him off. No one ever saved me. I was alone. No one saw as I fell to my demise.