by Kerena Swan
‘Come on, Welly. Let’s go home.’ I walk towards him and place my hand on the bench as I bend down to stroke him. I snatch my hand back in horror. Despite the chill of the evening the seat is warm. Someone was here. Someone was definitely here, and they can’t be far away.
4
She’s so much heavier than she looks. He spreads a sheet of tarpaulin on the grass and lays her on her side. Her blonde hair fans out behind her and he’s tempted to stroke it. He tucks her knees up to her chest and her arms in front then wraps her in the tarpaulin like a Christmas present. He fastens it to her with bungee straps then picks her up. Staggering slightly to get his balance, he carries her to the open boot of his car and dumps her in. He looks up and down the dark road. No one is about. He’s pretty sure no one has seen him but if anyone is watching it will look like he’s carrying a large bag of clothes.
It doesn’t take long to reach Jubilee Villas. The roads are deserted. Pools of orange light shine off the tarmac. A ginger fox slinks into someone’s front garden and hides behind a bin. He parks close to the house on double yellow lines. He’ll need to be quick even though it is the middle of the night; he doesn’t want to attract the attention of a passing police car. God, this is so risky. His head aches with tension making his scalp feel bruised.
All is quiet in the street, and very dark. With an incredible stroke of luck, the nearby street light isn’t working. Why is he surprised? With all the council cuts there are often dysfunctional lampposts. He slips into the front garden and slowly pulls the wheelie bin to the boot of his car. He unwraps her, his hands shaking, then slides her, feet first, into the bin. He shuts the boot, pressing it gently closed so that barely a click can be heard. He guides the bin carefully to the alleyway, grateful for its brick paving. Gravel would have been so much noisier.
Once inside the back garden, with the gate shut, he exhales with relief. He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath. He lifts the slab and props it against the wall then lifts the lid of the bin. She is slumped at the bottom, looking like she’s playing a game of hide-and-seek. He can’t reach her. He manoeuvres the bin onto its side then reaches in, trying not to touch the filthy interior. The smell of decomposing food waste gets down his throat and he gags, making his eyes water. Lazy bastards should use a food waste bin.
He tries to get his hands under her shoulders but doesn’t want to get into the bin himself. He’ll have to pull her out by her hair. He wraps the golden strands around his fists and draws her slowly out onto the patio. He feels a shudder of disgust.
He takes her hands and drags her to the opening of the well. Pushing her buttocks, he inches her forward until first her hands then her torso are hanging into the well. He tips her forward and there is a small splash as she hits the water. He shines his phone light down the hole. Disappointingly the water isn’t very deep. She is now curled on her side, her face half submerged. He swallows.
Conscious of his vehicle being parked on yellow lines and eager to clean his hands on a wet-wipe from the glove box, he slides the slab back quietly then feeds the grass into the crevices. Surely it will be some time before she’s discovered.
5
‘Help me!’ I yell in my head, but only a croak emerges.
Someone … please.
Anyone?
‘I can’t breathe.’ I try again, but it’s barely a whisper. For God’s sake, look at me. I wave my arms frantically in front of me. People rush past avoiding eye contact. They think I’m crazy. I’m going to die here. I can’t breathe.
I sink to my knees on the hard pavement with one hand pressed to my ribs. My head’s buzzing and my chest is tight. I might be having a heart attack. The pain is like a heavy weight crushing me. My heart is trying to escape up through my throat and out of my mouth. I can’t speak at all now. I can’t get air in my lungs.
I try breathing faster but it’s getting worse. I’m definitely going to die this time. An image of my daughters flickers in my mind and tears well in my eyes. My head feels weightless and I’m falling sideways, jarring my elbow on the cold, unyielding street.
All I can see are trouser legs flapping around shiny shoes, dangerously sharp high heels and skinny jeans ending in over-priced trainers. I need to lie down. Maybe it will help me breathe. I lay my cheek on the chilly concrete and focus on a lump of dirty chewing gum inches from my eye. I feel so light I may float away instead. I can’t understand why no one is stopping. Am I invisible? Don’t I exist in the real world? Do they think I’ve taken drugs?
No, wait. Someone is bending down to help me. At last – a kind face. A gentle face. His tawny eyes are full of compassion and concern. His hand is warm on my shoulder and he’s leaning in so closely I can see iron filing dots of stubble on his cheeks.
I watch his mouth carefully and try to focus on what he’s saying. He’s sweeping my hair gently away from my face. He has a beautiful mouth. His soft lips are mesmerising and I’m forgetting myself. I’m doing as he says and my breathing is slowing down. I feel oxygen reach my brain and there’s a loud whooshing sound in my head. The pain in my chest is subsiding and my strength is returning. He smells lovely – a fresh lemon scent that cuts through my fuzzy mind. I’m suddenly embarrassed at being in this state in front of such a man. I try to sit up, but my head spins and he carefully takes my elbow to help me.
‘Don’t get up too quickly,’ he says. ‘Wait until your head clears. We don’t want you falling again.’
He seems to know what to do to help me. I can certainly breathe now. Is he an off-duty paramedic? A tide of people flows around and past us, some occasionally pausing to look and others stopping abruptly when they nearly topple over us. We’re going to cause an accident in a minute. I can’t understand why everyone’s in such a hurry. I know it’s nearly 9.00 a.m. but surely, they could show some consideration on their way to work. I suddenly remember I’m due in the office too and start to mumble that I need to get going. I begin hobbling to my feet, despite feeling weak and wobbly, and look shyly up at his face. His gaze is unwavering.
‘Let me help you,’ he says, holding out his hand.
I slip my hand into his and squeeze gently as I lever myself off the pavement. To my surprise he winces.
‘Sorry!’ I exclaim in alarm, pulling my hand away. ‘Did I hurt you?’ I glance down and notice an engraved gold signet ring on the little finger of his right hand with a small cut and bruise clearly visible above it.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says. ‘Look, before you rush off there’s something I want to show you. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘I really can’t be late for work,’ I tell him, but feel it would be rude to decline.
‘Please,’ he says. ‘It will be worth your while.’
He gently takes me by the elbow and starts leading me along the street. I haven’t a clue where we’re going but at least it’s in the direction of my office and there are plenty of people around, although given that my pleas for help were ignored ten minutes ago it isn’t much reassurance. He guides me across a road, dodging parked cars, and looks at me with a reassuring smile.
We turn away from my office and on towards the market place. The smell of diesel from the generators mingles with the aroma of hot dogs, cabbage leaves, and cigarette smoke. I feel a wave of nausea and wonder if my heart will go funny again. There’s a throng of people laden with shopping pushing past us in both directions and I begin to feel hemmed in. I’m about to pull away and tell him I don’t have time for this when he stops in front of a vegetable stall. He sees the worried expression on my face.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now,’ I explain, stepping away. He takes my elbow again.
‘No, wait! I just need to show you this.’
He leans forward, glancing at the distracted stall holder, and tears a brown paper bag off the bundle strung on the stall then guides me around the corner of the nearest building at the entrance to an alleyway. We stand near the rough wall and he ruches the top of the bag into his fis
t. He pulls the edges out between his thumb and forefinger then blows gently into the bag as though inflating a balloon.
‘Here,’ he says, handing me the bag. ‘Next time you feel you can’t breathe I want you to put your mouth to the bag and inflate and deflate it slowly. Count to three as you breathe in, hold for three, then count another three as you breathe out. Concentrate on bringing down the number of breaths per minute and visualise your heart pumping in a steady, calm rhythm. This should stop you going into full panic mode and enable you to think more clearly.’
I take the bag from him and practice a couple of breaths under his supervision then, when he’s satisfied, he takes the bag from me and folds it into a neat square. Coming closer, he tucks it into the pocket of my jacket.
‘Keep this with you at all times and you’ll be fine.’
Before I can thank him properly he tells me to take care of myself and walks away. I watch his tall, elegant figure weave in and out of the pedestrians with a confident, easy gait then he turns a corner and is out of sight. I feel a pang of regret at his sudden departure. There’s no glance over his shoulder at me before he disappears, and I don’t even know his name. What was the letter on the signet ring? A ‘P’ or an ‘R’ I think. Robert, Richard, Ralph maybe. I wish I’d asked his name and had a chance to thank him. I like this man. He makes me feel safe.
6
Max thrusts his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking. Sophie. Her name is like a gentle breath on his lips. Her skin – so deliciously soft and warm, had taken all his willpower not to stroke like a cat. Even brushing strands of hair away from her face had been a wonderful opportunity to touch her. He’d longed to caress her but not as much as he’d wanted to run his tongue lightly up her cheek to taste her and feel the tiny, downy hairs that dusted her skin.
She’d smelled delicious; sweet, but not overly so. A smell that he hadn’t been able to place at first. Honey. That was it. She’d smelled of honey and he loved honey. He’d wanted to put his nose to her neck and breathe her in. She’d seemed so fragile and vulnerable. If only he could have gathered her up and cradled her slender body in his arms, protecting her from that crowd of uncaring on-lookers. But he couldn’t. He mustn’t frighten her off now he’s got so close.
He’s learned a lot about her these past few months from following her along busy streets, sitting in the café opposite her office, and watching her from the bus shelter. It’s been rewarding but now it isn’t enough. He wants more. No, he needs more. He’s thrilled he’s had the chance to help her today. He knew if he tracked her long enough he’d be around for one of her panic attacks. He’d seen her last week by her front gate, doubled over and trying to breathe after the postman had been. She recovered sufficiently to carry on, so he’d held back for a better opportunity.
He also knew if she had worsening episodes she would appreciate his intervention and not push him away. He needs her to trust him. He’s going to play it cool for a week or so then he’ll arrange to ‘bump into her’ again. He purposely didn’t give her his name. Far better to build the intrigue and suspense. Got to be careful she doesn’t see him outside her home now he’s no longer a total stranger to her. He’ll miss spying on her. He can wait though. Anticipation is part of the pleasure.
He walks swiftly along the street, crosses over at the lights then turns down a side alley to cut through to the main road. Empty lager cans and dog ends litter a doorway and Max grimaces as he sidesteps a half-eaten burger spilling out of its wrapping in the middle of the path. He glances at his watch. She’ll be at work now. He’s going to be late for his own job but as the most successful property negotiator in the firm he can bend the rules a little.
As he strides along he smiles and says ‘hello’ to a dark-haired woman who gives him a brief nod and walks on. He has a lot to thank her for though she doesn’t know it. She kindly dropped some old plans into his office when she sold one of her rental properties. They dated from 1875 and she thought the new owner would like them. They were brown and curled at the edges, reminding him of the greaseproof paper stuck to the side of the Madeira cakes his nan used to make.
On the plans were fine drawings of plots of land and buildings of the old streets near the river. He’d studied them with interest. It was amazing to see how much had changed over the years; which plots had been divided up and new buildings squeezed in. As he’d traced the drawing with his fingers he’d noticed small red circles near some of the houses. At first, he’d puzzled over these then suddenly realised what they were. Wells! Dating back to an era when people didn’t have their own water supply.
Each block of twenty houses had a well in one of the gardens and his heart had skipped a beat when he saw that one of those Victorian houses was on his office’s rental list. Number three Jubilee Villas. A narrow, three-bed semi with a bay window and long garden. It had been perfect.
He might need another hiding place now. Not right away, probably, but it’s always best to be prepared. The well had been excellent, but he can’t use it again as the tenants are about to move in. Something will come up though. He’s in a prime job for spotting places to conceal a body.
7
I push open the office door and warm air wafts across my chilled face. I don’t realise how cold I am until I feel the warmth. I brace myself for a reprimand. This is the second time I’ve been late this week and Karen won’t be pleased. The door swings shut behind me and she shuffles around in her chair, giving me her full attention.
As usual, her expression tells me I’m a disappointment because I don’t bring the same careful control to my life that she brings to hers. Her only weakness seems to be cakes. Karen wears stuff that grows with her; elasticated waistbands, loose tops and baggy cardigans. Tilly would refuse to be seen out with me if I wore stuff like that. Today, Karen’s in a garish red and yellow flowered top that almost hurts the eyes, and oversized red beads and earrings. Karen likes to be noticed. She has my full attention now, anyway.
‘Sophie, where have you been? I’ve called your mobile three times.’
Pushing the mean thoughts out of my head, I mumble an apology and head towards my desk. I can’t tell Karen about the incident in the street. She’s a workaholic and, despite her own risk of heart failure or diabetes, regards illness in others as weakness. I really need her on my side as I can’t survive without this job. I can’t help wondering, though, if my attacks are stress-related. Karen’s bad management is probably adding to it.
I drape my coat over the back of the chair then switch my computer on. Before I’ve even sat down Karen has come over with some paper in her hand.
‘We’ve had this urgent referral from the hospital and need to get out there to complete an assessment. Can you go this afternoon? I know you have a review booked this morning which can’t be cancelled. We can’t face upsetting Mr Giddings again.’
My heart sinks. Hospital referrals are always urgent as there’s huge pressure to unblock a bed for the next patient. I can’t understand why the hospital social workers always leave it so late in the process to contact us. It’s so frustrating. If we had a bit more notice, we could plan properly and get an appropriate package of care organised.
Karen makes no mention of the fact that I’ve requested this afternoon off. She knows I want to take Mia to the river to feed the ducks and, if it isn’t too costly, hire a rowing boat for half an hour before the boating company closes for the winter. Surely it isn’t too much to want to spend quality time with my daughter to compensate for sending her to the childminder every afternoon and being too tired to enjoy her company in the evenings?
‘Could Sarah do the assessment instead?’ I ask. Sarah is a team leader for an adjoining area. ‘I’m supposed to be taking the afternoon off.’
‘Sarah’s off sick with a vomiting bug.’ Predictably, there’s a hint of disdain in Karen’s voice which is ironic as we’re in the caring profession. ‘As soon as she’s back you can take a whole day of leave.’
I
don’t have the strength to argue. My ‘episode’ in the street has sapped my energy and I can’t think straight. I can see why the previous team leader left now. My shoulders droop as I stare at my keyboard. I should put my foot down, but I really need the money and the water rates are overdue. I’ve already had an ‘Attachment of Earnings’ enforced so my council tax is paid directly out of my wages. At least if I work this afternoon I’ll be earning instead of spending which will please Mum. She’s always going on at me to be more careful with my money. I don’t think she realises how hard it is bringing up two children alone.
I take the papers and skim over the first page. The patient is an Ivy Saunders. I’m quickly learning to cut through bureaucratic waffle to key pieces of information.
Now she thinks she has her way Karen’s tone is bright and cheerful.
‘If we can see Ivy Saunders today we can beat Premier Care to this commission. I really want this one as its local so travel costs will be low, and it should be a sizable package of care initially.’
As if this is really about mileage and time. It’s about getting one over on her previous employers, especially the one who said she was ‘biting off more than she could chew’ with this job.
‘We lost two referrals to Premier Care on Monday,’ she adds, and I hide a smile.
‘I’ll have to ask Mum to mind Mia for me as I’ve already cancelled the child minder,’ I tell her. I don’t know what I’d do without Mum and Dad helping me.
Karen gives me a wide smile and pats my shoulder. At least this has given me another brownie point. You certainly can’t have too many of those. I open a blank care plan on my computer and hit print then rummage in the pile of papers on my desk in search of the forms needed for my next meeting. I’d asked Gwen, the office administrator, to prepare a review pack for me yesterday but it isn’t here. I look at the clock and am dismayed to see it’s already nine forty-five. I’m supposed to be at the review meeting at ten and Mr Giddings will be annoyed if I’m late. Thankfully, he only lives around the corner.