As Sara walked, lost in memories, she trailed her hand through some long ornamental grasses, scaring up two resting ringlet butterflies. Their wings were such a rich, dark brown that they looked almost black. They were the exact colour of Adam’s hair. She looked at him from the corner of her eye and remembered how, fourteen years earlier, she had genuinely looked forward to being a mother.
Carrying a life inside her had foolishly reignited her dreams of being part of a loving family, just as she had imagined all those twilight times.
When she had given birth though she had been bitterly disappointed. There had been none of that fabled rush of love as she looked down at her son. He was a carbon copy of his father and Ada: same hair, same eyes. There was nothing of her to see.
The stupid brat had rejected her DNA, like her mum and dad had rejected her. He was not her son. He was nothing but a crying, whining annoyance.
Anger had grown in direct proportion to Adam’s passing years. He did not even have Sara’s strength of character. He was pathetic, a weakling, and slightly feminine - not something she would ever have applied to Graeme, but he certainly didn’t get it from her either. Sara was strong, determined, out-going. If she saw something, she made sure she got it. The only time he had shown any kind of gumption was when he had thrown the coffee maker from her bedroom window, and chucked a load of nettles on her bed. He had been punished for that, of course, and she was confident he would never do anything like it again.
The circuit of the garden had been completed. Adam slipped from Sara’s grasp to sit once more beside his father and grandmother, but Sara continued inside.
She poured herself a vodka and was about to swig it down in one when Graeme walked into the room.
“A little early, honey,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he ostentatiously checked his watch.
In his own way Graeme was as much about control as Sara. He never loosened up. When they had first met she had to admit for a while she had entertained hope that they might be happy together. But Graeme was too remote to give her the passion she longed for. He was never around either, thanks to his job; he was married more to that than to her, and had risen rapidly through the ranks as a result.
Sara was not the type to allow herself time to wallow and stagnate; instead she had adapted. Pushed her silly ideas of romance to one side and instead concentrated on the infinite possibilities a man like Graeme presented. He was ambitious, successful, hard-working. The fact he was never at home was a good thing, she told herself, as she took a genteel sip of her vodka and tonic. It meant she was free. She had the stability and home she had always craved, did not have to worry about money, and when Ada finally died, Sara, via Graeme, would become positively well off.
Not bad for a kid who had started with nothing but some drive and guile.
Sara took another large swig of her vodka, defiantly gazing at her husband. Then gave a slow, easy smile of seduction.
“Baby, I’m feeling dangerous,” she purred sweetly. “How about you tame me?”
She pressed her body against his and kissed him deeply. For a second he did not respond, but not for long.
“Ah, too early for booze but not too early for this,” she observed. Taking him by the hand, she led him upstairs, promising: “We’ll be quick, your mother won’t even notice…”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
~ Honeysuckle ~
Bonds Of Love
PRESENT DAY
Adam is excited. He knows he should play it cool but he cannot help himself. In the space of a few short days he has become addicted to watching Laura. Already, he knows where she works, at a bakery come café in town, and has a pretty good idea of her shift hours.
It isn’t enough though, he wants more, he wants to know everything about her – now. So he has broken into her flat.
His socked feet don’t make a sound on the laminate floor. Thanks to his online reconnoitre he had known he would have to take his shoes off - laminate flooring is a pain in the neck: trainers often squeak on it, and other shoes sound so noisy as they click across. So he had worn slip-ons today, and now he silently turns in a shoeless circle, taking in the lounge.
It seems smaller than the measurements implied, despite there being very little furnishing inside, because it is dominated by a vast brown leather and material couch. Pale green shot-silk cushions are arranged on it to brighten up the brown, making him think of mint choc chip. In front of it is a coffee table sitting on a pale green fluffy rug. There is a small flat-screen television on a modern-style unit in a corner; and a small oval table with four chairs with pale green seats shoved to one side of the wall – he is touched to see his bouquet is in a vase in the middle of it.
Still, he cannot help feeling a little disappointed; it looks like Laura marched into Ikea and bought the first things she saw. At least the green shows some taste. It is the green of new shoots, he realises and decides he likes it.
There is hope on the bookshelf too. It is only a little waist-height thing, but it is crammed full. It is the books on Audrey Hepburn that particularly catch his eye: he is a big fan of her himself.
Suddenly he spots something that makes him pause. He reaches out slowly, fearing that it will disappear, but it doesn’t. It is an old, well-thumbed book of fairy tales.
It is another sign.
Adam wanders over to Laura’s tablet and flicks through it. Luckily there is no security password to be input to unlock it; she has disabled that feature, like so many people do. He is pleased to see the odd piece of classical music, and some Louis Armstrong. Hmm, he likes the occasional song by Armstrong but would never have considered a whole album.
He gets the other information he needs off the tablet, and does the same with her laptop. Now he has everything he requires to hack into them remotely to keep tabs on what she is up to, and will even be able to look at her through her own webcams, and listen in via their microphones.
Time is ticking on, so he moves into the kitchen. Cheap fake wood cabinets match the fake wood floor, but at least everything is clean. The washing up has been left in the sink though, and Adam pulls a face at it. He has to distract himself by peering into the fridge. There is not a lot of food in, but what there is is healthy. Lots of vegetables, some cheese, milk, and fresh pasta. There is an unfortunate stain in one corner though, which is not very sanitary.
Last but by no means least is the bedroom. Adam holds his breath before he enters, feeling a thrill of excitement that others might feel before opening a present from a loved one. That is what he is doing, unwrapping Laura; the bedroom is always the most private and personal room in a home, and the most revealing too. He closes his eyes, lets out his breath slowly, then opens his eyes again and pushes the door…
It is another homage to green. One wall is painted the colour of fresh foliage, while the others are cream, as are the curtains. Before the green wall stands an ornate metal bed. Over the bed is a large framed poster of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Adam approves: it is about two flawed people finding love, after all.
On the opposite wall is a chest of drawers on which stands another television. A notebook lies beside it, and when Adam flicks through it he realises it is a journal relating Laura’s memories and feelings over her family’s death. He longs to read it properly, but there is no time as he would want to really immerse himself in it. Right now, he is busy getting an overview of her flat.
There is a built-in double wardrobe to one side. Adam notes there is no bedside cabinet or lamp, but as the light switch is close by, he imagines Laura simply leans over to turn the light off and on. He runs his fingers over the switch and feels as if he is connecting with his love.
Before he can stop himself, he has picked up a pillow and hugs it to himself, taking in the faint aroma of roses that clings to it. What perfume is it, he wonders. Still holding the pillow, he goes through her drawers to find the answer, and discovers a beautiful pink, frosted glass bottle. It is spherical, with a delicate
pink butterfly on the top, and to Adam it epitomises femininity. He makes a note of the name: Rose Absolue, by Annick Goutal.
Settling the pillow back in its place, he takes one more look at the bed. What captures his interest is that it does not fit with the rest of the furniture. It is pretty and retro, as well as functional. It has personality, while everything else Laura owns is a little bland.
Perhaps some more flowers would cheer the place up. Adam brightens at the thought. Next time he pops over he will leave Laura some roses. Pale pink to match her perfume bottle - that would be perfect, as they symbolise gentleness and admiration.
It will be easy enough for Adam to come and go without trace, thanks to the years he has spent building up everything he would need to set up his own locksmith business if he so chose. Lock pick sets, lock pick guns, cylinder picks, professional bump keys. No domestic, industrial or car lock is barred to him – and because he can lock up behind him, no one is ever any the wiser after a visit from him.
When he first had the idea of buying lock picks, four years earlier, he had assumed it would be difficult to get hold of the equipment he wanted, imagining he would have to be a member of some guild or other to prove he was a locksmith and not a ne’er-do-well. A quick internet search was all it had taken to prove him wrong. Within minutes he had placed an order for a straightforward twenty-piece lock pick set, which came with a free ‘how to use’ guide. It had set him back just £20, though he had blown much more on the practice locks.
It had been a whole new world to him at the time, and it had been tempting to buy everything at once. But he had managed to hold himself back, ordering a piece here, a piece there. Spreading purchases over different suppliers too, so that there was less chance of raising suspicion and them being traced back to him. Each time something new arrived, he still felt a thrill of glee; he loved mechanical things, and his old hobby of repairing clocks had stood him in good stead. He was a natural with mechanisms and, teamed with his flair for computers, it meant he could now pretty much get into any building or vehicle and bypass its security system.
This expertise also meant he was able to successfully use Laura’s own technology against her now, in order to spy on her. In addition, he has brought in his rucksack an array of miniature surveillance equipment – one can never be too careful, he has found. Tiny wireless cameras and microphones are easy and cheap to buy on the internet these days; he’s got a lovely little infrared one for the bedroom for just £60.
He hides them from sight in air vents, although in the hall he is forced to drill a small hole in the wall, beneath the shadow of a picture frame, and recess a camera there. Now he will be able to see and hear what is happening in the kitchen, lounge, hallway, and bedroom. Every room, in fact, except the bathroom – it would be plain wrong to pop something in there, he is not a pervert.
Stepping back, Adam gives a sigh and takes one last look around the flat. Job well done, he can’t see a thing out of place or a speck of plaster dust from his drilling. A glance at his watch tells him it will be hours before Laura gets home from her shift at the bakery on the High Street. What he longs to do is sink into her bed and sleep, surrounded by the smell of her, but he knows that would be too much too soon.
Still, he does have time for something…
He wanders back into the kitchen. It is a funny room, more of a long, thin galley kitchen, and reminds him of a corridor, particularly because it has two doors. One leads to the lounge/dining room, the other, at the opposite end of the room, exits into the hall. Still, he doesn’t have to live with the odd set up, and neither will Laura for much longer.
He gets to work on the washing up. Laura is untidier than he likes, but that is okay, he doesn’t mind sharing the load and looking after her. That’s what couples do, after all.
***
Today is a good day. Laura had woken up in a funk but given herself a mental slap around the face and remembered her aunt’s words of encouragement from a fortnight before. Instead of moping around the flat in her pyjamas, as she had wanted to do, she had gone to work and made herself join in conversations. What’s more, she felt better for it.
Feeling pleased with herself, Laura looks into the fridge and does a double take. The milk she had spilled the other week and not got around to clearing up is no longer there. Odd. She does not remember cleaning. But there is no one else, so it has to have been her.
She shrugs to herself. Ah well, she had noticed the other day that the dried up patch had started to peel at the edges, so perhaps it had curled up completely and rolled away. She peers around in case she can spot the remains, imagining it like a piece of tumbleweed blowing around the fridge. There is no sign though.
Who cares? It has disappeared, and now she doesn’t have to bother cleaning it. That is all that matters.
Come to think of it, Laura does not remember doing the washing up either. Wow, she really is losing the plot – making the effort must be more mentally challenging than she would have credited. To be honest, it is tiring, as she constantly has to push herself. She has lived trapped by grief for four long years, and she knows she still has a long way to go before she is back on an even keel again. She wants to feel alive again though, knows she must stop herself from sliding back into impotent, immobilising rage.
She thinks about her mum, about what she would say if she could see her precious little girl wandering around like a zombie, unable to remember what she has done that day. That is the push she needs to know she must keep on making the effort.
She sticks her chin out stubbornly, determined. Inspiration suddenly strikes, and she puts on some music, dancing round the room to Rhianna, Beyoncé, and Calvin Harris, hair whipping round her face as she jumps, spins, kicks during song after song. She and Marcus used to do this all the time to cheer each other after a bad day, whooping at the tops of their voices.
“Whoo-hoo!” she yells now at the top of her voice, punching the air.
Her mum always used to shout up the stairs at them. “Have you two gone caveman again?” that was what she always said, but nine times out of ten it was with a smile in her voice. The memory brings tears, but they are tears of happiness and instead of wiping them away, or collapsing into them, Laura dances through, remembering that wonderful feeling of being loved, of being part of a unit, of being a family.
“Whooo!” she lets rip again.
Thumps on her ceiling tell her the flat above is unimpressed. She is amazed they are in, as they seem to always either be at work or on holiday. She collapses on the sofa, laughing, but turns the music down, and while she is doing that she remembers her mum’s favourite album – Louis Armstrong. A quick scroll and she finds it.
That night she drifts away to Louis’ distinctive voice serenading her, and she sleeps like the dead.
***
When Adam gets home he listens to the Louis Armstrong album he has downloaded. He is in his favourite room, his office, and is pinning up photographs of Laura he has snapped. It is good to have something to look at to cheer the place up once again, that space has been blank for too long now. It seems a long time since Julie Clayton smiled down at him.
There is one of Laura that is a particular favourite of his. She is spinning, head thrown back, arms wide, hair fanned out; she looks so alive. His plan is working, he is making her happy; she is so much better than when he first met her. She never used to dance with glee then.
As he steps back to admire his wall of pictures When You’re Smiling starts up and Adam finds himself swaying in time. A giggle escapes his lips as he does a lazy little twirl that makes him feel dizzy. Laura is changing him too; she is making him happy.
Arms around himself as if being embraced by a dance partner, he continues to sway as he watches Laura on the home surveillance on his computer. The shiny surfaces of his sterile office reflect his movements in mockery of a dance studio: the steel table where he has so far created five Boxes of Smile, the cabinets that contain the scalpels and chemicals
to preserve the lips.
He cannot wait for the day he and Laura dance together, throwing their heads back and laughing, just like in her picture. The women inside him, his loves, applaud their approval at the thought, swirling and swaying too. He is Prince Charming, Laura is Cinderella, and the women are his adoring subjects at the ball, their gowns swishing and rustling as they waltz in time. For now he must be patient though: the key to courting is to take things one step at a time.
Already giddy with anticipation, he hugs his arms tighter around himself and spins. Like a child in a playground, when he stops he tries to walk in a straight line and chuckles at the impossibility of it. He is still laughing softly when he finally tires of dancing and sits at his desk, staring at Laura’s smile in adoration. Full of inspiration he opens a drawer, pulls out the clay and tools he keeps in there, and starts to sculpt Laura’s lips.
Adam wakes bright and early the next day, as always. His routine is bed at 1am, up at 5am. There is always so much to squeeze into his day: exhaustively researching someone’s life then keeping a close eye on them to look after their every whim is time-consuming. He goes down to the gym he has created downstairs, in one of the rooms his gran did not use, and starts his vigorous daily programme of running, skipping, sit ups, push-up burpees and kick-boxing. Sweat drips down his wiry body and the muscles glisten as they move and start to burn, but he relishes the feeling of being master of his physique.
The push-up burpees are his favourite , as even when he is away from home they are easy to fit into his routine and keep him strong. Last year, whilst bored because he had no one to love, he had read about a burpee world record set by a man named Cameron Dorn, who had performed ten thousand one hundred and five burpees in twenty-four hours. Out of curiosity, Adam had broken it, achieving ten more. He had not bothered telling anyone, of course, it had been enough for him to know that he had the mental and physical strength to do it. His father would have been so proud.
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