Flowers for the Dead

by Barbara Copperthwaite

  Laura has never noticed before how loud her alarm clock is. It is an old-fashioned mechanical one, with round bells on top, which Marcus had bought her when she started college to study nursery nursing. As she listens to the loud tick tock her thoughts drift on to how different life had been then.

  Her parents had been so proud of her. Her plan had been to train up, get some work experience under her belt, then eventually open up her own nursery. She was a natural with children, and good with figures, so the business side of things would have come easily. How could she be anything else with her teacher parents’ genes?

  She blinks slowly, eyes as gritty as sandpits as she thinks. Life would have been so good… Blink. Lids scraping over eyes. Blink. Pausing. Blink. Heavy. Blink. Dark…

  With a jerk she wakes. Widens her eyes several times, trying to fight the sleep, the blurring of her vision, the sluggish desire taking over her body. She must not let it win. She must not sleep.

  But of course she does, eventually.

  Two hours later she wakes, grabs the knife and mobile, and pads around her flat. Now she is looking closely, studying the place for minute changes, she can see that the cushions on the sofa have been plumped, the rug straightened.

  But the biggest change is not even remotely subtle. In the middle of the table is a bunch of bright flowers.

  Okay, then. She was right, she has a stalker. There is no triumph to the thought, strangely there isn’t even fear, there is only a leaden acceptance. The new locks have made no difference: someone has been inside her flat while she slept.

  A very tidy stalker, with a love of flowers. It is too insane to even contemplate.

  Now Laura knows what she is up against though. She is not mad, this is not her imagination. She sets her mouth and makes the only logical decision available to her: she will go to the police now that she has proof.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ~ Mistletoe ~

  I Surmount All Difficulties

  “Look! In that picture the rug is a bit skewed, but there it’s straight,” Laura urges, flipping from one snap to the other.

  “Right…” the desk sergeant says uncertainly.

  “And the cushions. See?”

  “Very nice. My wife bought some similar the other day.”

  Laura glares at him. She called in sick to come here, because she wants things sorted as quickly as possible.

  “I’m not showing off my décor,” she snaps. “Take this seriously! Someone is breaking into my flat when I’m out, even when I’m asleep.”

  “And tidying up?”

  “Yes! And leaving flowers. See, the flowers weren’t there last night when I took the photos. But by morning, voila!”

  Sergeant Biggs has the air of someone who was born to be behind a desk. Affable, but not necessarily the sharpest knife in the drawer, he wears a bemused expression across his slightly ruddy face. He sports an impossible comb-over of wisps of hair that float gently every time he moves, giving the impression that he is under water. It is Laura who is feeling out of her depth right now though.

  “Please, someone is breaking in. I’m scared,” she tries again.

  “Was it a door or window they forced to gain entry?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” she replies slowly, suddenly realising how this is going to sound. “They seem to be letting themselves in. They come and go as they please, without trace.”

  “Has anything been taken?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Have any threats been made?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry then, but there doesn’t seem to be any evidence of an offence. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t plump the cushions yourself? You know, have a bit of a clean up on automatic pilot and it slips your mind.”

  Oh for goodness sake. “Are you going to make a note of my complaint or not?” Laura barks.

  Sergeant Biggs shakes his head, sending a halo of hair floating skyward momentarily, before settling magically back into place. “As I say, there doesn’t seem to be any offence to report. But if anything more serious happens, do let us know.”

  Laura stalks out, furious and embarrassed. The police are professional enough not to guffaw loudly until she is well out of earshot, but even so, their laughter rings in her imagination.

  Idiot, idiot, idiot! How is she going to get anyone to take her seriously?

  ***

  SIX YEARS AGO

  Adam had lived for eight years alone in his ivory tower. It had been wonderful, and at the grand old age of twenty-five he was finally starting to feel at ease with himself. Just lately he had even begun to think it would be nice to have someone to share his life with. His house was huge, after all, far too big for one person. Sometimes, lately, he felt that he was rattling round it rather than luxuriating in the space, as he had previously.

  His house, his money, even his garden: what was the point without someone to share it all with? Things come and go, but love lasts forever.

  It was a strange sensation to realise after so much time alone that perhaps he needed someone. No, not just needed, actively wanted. Adam decided that he should find a good woman and settle down with her. He knew that theoretically he was a good catch. He was not only relatively well off, but intelligent, enjoyed the finer things in life, and had a good body thanks to his constant works outs.

  The only problem was that he knew nothing about love, except what his gran had taught him. It gave him a good grounding, but given that she had been dead for ten years he felt he needed a bit of a refresher.

  He threw himself into his research with the vigour he applied to everything in life, from clock repairs to gardening. He was meticulous in his preparation, watching romantic classics such as A Night To Remember, From Here To Eternity, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and more modern films from The Bridges of Madison County and Stardust to the less obvious Gladiator – Adam sobbed when Russell Crowe’s character died. Maximus had spent his life getting revenge for his wife and son’s murders and making the ultimate sacrifice by dying to be with them; was there any greater love than that?

  Reading kept him busy too: Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Bridget Jones’ Diary, Twilight, Anna Karenina. As well as fiction, he got practical advice from a number of self-help books. Love songs provided some wonderful instruction too.

  But at the end of it all, he was left rather confused. It seemed that the stories that were considered most romantic were where people died, or were awful to one another.

  Eventually though, Adam created what he was certain was a formula that would make a relationship work. He must always put his wife first, must do thoughtful things for her, and must do whatever it took to make her happy even if sometimes that meant compromising his own happiness.

  He thought he could manage that.

  It was not without some nerves, though, that he decided to go speed dating. He had done his research and decided it was the best option for him, because then he would not be stuck making drawn out conversation with people he had nothing in common with. That way, he could move on quickly, and the chances of finding his dream girl in one night were greatly increased.

  He only tried it once. It was a disaster. The pressure of having just a few minutes to connect with someone had brought his stutter back with a vengeance, which had massively undermined his confidence. He felt sick every time he thought of that night, of the pity in people’s eyes as his stammer had grown worse, of the way he had run out halfway through.

  Internet dating was sure to be a success, though, he decided. He spent quite some time browsing women’s profiles, and then getting to know them via messages. It was not proving a huge success though, as most wanted to meet him quite quickly, and he was wary. They often bored of his conversations and stopped replying to his messages.

  Cheryl did not give up on him, though. She had not been Adam’s first choice, by any stretch of the imagination, and her replies always seemed so vague, having little to do with what he
had written. But at least she was willing to meet up with him, so it was with reasonably high hopes that he set off for the restaurant in Birmingham city centre. All the reviews of the Michelin-starred Indian cuisine were positive, and Cheryl had seemed impressed when he suggested they meet there.

  As they sat at their table making polite small talk, Adam began to sense that the restaurant was the only thing that was impressing his date.

  Cheryl was unconventionally pretty: sleepy, down-turned eyes, a slightly hooked nose, but the most perfect, rosebud mouth lit up with fuchsia lipstick. The sort of slim that comes from diet not exercise, her thins arms, on show in the sparkly lilac dress she wore, looked soft, as if he could sink his fingers into the flesh. The image made him think of Lisa, of how petal-soft her skin had been as he had strangled her.

  He shook his head, momentarily confused about where he was. The restaurant’s bright décor took a moment to come back into focus. Cheryl was giving him a funny look. For the umpteenth time, Adam moved his cutlery as a nervous distraction, lining the knife and fork up exactly with the edge of the table. Realising, he forced his hands to still.

  “So, um, so that’s a lovely watch,” he offered. Always compliment, he remembered; although actually he felt the timepiece was a little showy with its mother of pearl face and glittering crystals surrounding it.

  “Oh! Thanks!” Cheryl sat up a bit straighter and looked at her left wrist as if she had never noticed the two-tone gold and stainless steel strap before. “Sekonda,” she added.

  “Ah, S-Sekonda, they, umm, d-d-did you know they started out exclusively marketing Soviet watches. That ended with the break up of the USSR…which seems a little odd, as I-I would have thought it would have been easier from then on to get hold of the pieces.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” she said slowly. Then she smiled. “You weren’t joking when you said you loved all things clockwork… I’ll have to take the time to get to know you, eh? Watch this space!”

  She chortled. Adam joined in after a beat. Jokes were not really his thing. When the laughter petered out, Cheryl complimented Adam’s real gold watch. He was particularly pleased.

  “It’s an old Smith’s watch, The Imperial, from the late 1950s,” he said proudly. He did not like to boast, but he had bought it for next to nothing in a charity shop and fixed it himself. The English-made piece was very rare. Putting something together again and solving a problem was far more satisfying than the knowledge that his £10 investment was now worth about £600.

  They chatted some more. Adam was not sure how well it was going, and sometimes it did feel forced, but he told himself it must be going better than it felt.

  After an hour, Cheryl announced that she must leave.

  “I have to be up very early for work,” she apologised. “It’s a 5am shift start tomorrow.”

  “Oh, um… yes, well, it’s been lovely meeting you…”

  “You too! Definitely. Must dash.”

  “I-I’ll be in touch then…”

  “I’ll contact you, eh? See you.”

  With a swift peck on the cheek and swirl of her coat she was gone.

  A few minutes later Adam walked slowly down Newhall Street, having paid the bill. He spotted a glitter of lilac, just a corner of material catching the light from a recessed stone shop doorway. Frowning, he cautiously approached. When he almost reached it, he pressed himself against the shop window, listening to a conversation.

  “Go on,” Cheryl’s voice cajoled. “If you don’t join me the night will have been a complete waste of space.”

  She paused, listening to a reply that Adam could not hear. Clearly she was on her phone. “You would not believe it, bab. I’m not listening to you next time – told you he’d be a dud, but you kept nagging me to message him. Uh-huh, well, you go out with him, then. Yeah, he wasn’t bad looking but it was like dating Wikipedia, he just kept spouting all these boring facts about watches and classical music and gardening. I know! He should date a ninety-year-old!”

  She cackled viciously. He could still hear her as he hurried away in the opposite direction, tears stinging his eyes.

  It was like his date with Lisa: a total disaster. Where the hell had he gone wrong? He kept trying and trying and trying. How many times was he expected to put himself out there only for people to reject him? Why was he so unlucky in love?

  ***

  PRESENT

  The jockey shorts are very tight and very white. Laura keeps her eyes clamped firmly on the man’s baby blues, and tries not to let them drift down. Not that the man seems bothered. He adjusts himself vaguely, continuing to look at her with an air of polite interest as she stands on his step while he leans against his open front door. She can feel the tropical heat of his home rushing out.

  “So, yes, sorry to have, erm, disturbed you,” she struggles on, her breath clouding in front of her face in the cold. She licks her lips and tries again to gather her thoughts away from her neighbour’s generous package. It is gone one o’clock, but for whatever reason, he feels no desire to get dressed – not even though he has answered her knock on the door and it is cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.

  “It’s that, well, I wondered if you’d seen any suspicious behaviour in the area recently? Cos my flat was broken into last night.”

  After her disastrous time at the police station, Laura had allowed herself only a few moments to feel crest-fallen before deciding that if no one would help her then she must help herself. So she has been going up and down the street knocking on neighbours’ doors.

  The man thinks for a moment, giving the leg of his underwear a surreptitious twang as he shakes his head. “Didn’t see or hear anything, love, sorry.”

  “Okay. Well, if you could keep your eye out, that would be great. Only the police warned me that the thief might come back – you know, might be targeting the area.”

  That perks the sleepy man up. He stops his adjustments and promises he will be on high alert from now on.

  It has been the same story up and down the street. Laura’s nose is bright red and she can barely feel her toes because she has been knocking on doors in the icy weather for over an hour. All with no luck. Her stalker is a ghost, coming and going without anyone noticing.

  After the reaction of the police she has not been going into details of what is happening to her, merely telling neighbours that her home has been broken into, and lying that police have issued a warning that the thief might target the area. Sadly though, most people are out at work during the day, and sleeping in the wee small hours; no one has seen anything.

  Still she continues to canvas the area. At the end of the day she is exhausted. She knows there is little chance of anyone catching this person. There has to be something she can do, though. She wracks her brain. Some weirdo who wants to make her cower down in terror will not beat her.

  She knows she ought to call her aunt, but bloody-mindedness prevents her. After everything that has happened to Laura in the last few years she needs to prove she can stand on her own two feet and cope with life alone. No matter what anyone else thinks, Laura is strong.

  Before she goes to bed she goes around all the windows and doors making sure they are locked. Then she carries one of her dining chairs into the hallway to wedge against the front door, as she has seen in films, but realises that it will not work because there is no door handle, just a lock. With a harrumph she carries it back to its usual place, then returns with armfuls of books, which she piles against the front door. If they aren’t heavy enough to stop her intruder pushing the door open, they will make a noise toppling over and alert her so that she can dial 999.

  Despite her fear, she actually sleeps soundly that night. One hand beneath her pillow, clutching the carving knife, and the other holding her phone ready to call for help. Nothing wakes her.

  In the morning the books are still in place. Laura smiles in relief, and wanders into the lounge, throws herself onto the sofa and turns on the telly. A mus
ic channel comes on, scantily clad, gorgeous dancers shaking their things in time to the music.

  “You know you want it…” sings a very ordinary-looking man.

  “What a load of crap,” Laura sighs. Rousing herself, she wanders into the kitchen to grab breakfast.

  That’s when she sees the croissant and fresh orange juice that Adam delivered during the night for her. She picks up the glass and hurls it across the kitchen in rage. It hits the wall and explodes, showering juice and glittering shards all over the floor.

  ***

  Adam is driving at the time and has no idea the reception his gift has received. He had seen Laura’s DIY security measures and been impressed with her ingenuity. It made him feel better knowing she was taking her security more seriously than her relatives had. As a reward he had arranged her special breakfast, being careful to avoid the front door and instead use the large window at the side of the lounge to gain entry. Those window locks are really poor. He will be glad when Laura is out of the pokey flat and living safely with him instead, where he can protect her properly.

  For the next couple of nights he contents himself with simply watching her on his tablet, even though he is staying nearby. He has noticed she is not sleeping properly, and does not want to risk disturbing her with his comings and goings.

  ***

  Laura is exhausted from lack of sleep, has hardly slept a wink the last three days. Heavy limbs, heavy lids, heavy thoughts. Her nerves are constantly on edge, she jumps at the least thing, and finds herself eyeing everyone at work and in the street suspiciously. She cannot eat either, is living on adrenaline.

  At the end of her shift at work, she tries to drag out the time before finally having to go home. She keeps thinking that she ought to give in, tell her aunt everything and ask if she can crash in the spare room for a while, until this person tires of shadowing her. Stubbornness stops her. Why should she be driven from her own home? Why, at the point where she was feeling stronger, should she be weakened again by someone? No, now is the time to dig deep; she has got over far worse than this.