Gone Without a Trace

by Mary Torjussen

  On my iPad I found a site that showed all the hotels local to Birmingham. There were tons of them. Then I looked up the trains leaving Chester that afternoon. I sighed. He could have been going anywhere! I was going to be here all day.

  I pulled the mail towards me. There was a gas bill, which I ignored, and a bank statement for my savings account, which I ripped open. Losing Matt’s money had certainly made a difference there. I logged on to my online banking and reduced the amount I was saving each month. I’d been overpaying my mortgage with some of the money Matt gave me for bills, and I changed that, too. I had a sudden panic as the reality of having less money set in. A better-paid job was out of the question; I was barely hanging on to the one I had.

  Another envelope was at the bottom of the pile, with my name and address typed on to a label. It had a stamp, but no postmark. I ripped it open, thinking it would be junk mail, some local company advertising their wares. There was a single sheet of paper inside, folded in half.

  On it was typed just one word:

  Satisfied?

  I stared down at the paper in my hands.

  What?

  I started to shake. Who had sent this? What did it mean? Why would anyone send something like that?

  I went back to the front door, but there was nothing else, no other post. I didn’t know what time the postman arrived in the week; I was never at home to see him. He came at about 11 a.m. on Saturdays, but that didn’t mean a thing. I went outside, and for the first time ever, I was glad to see Ray there.

  ‘Ray, do you know what time the postman comes?’ I called across the front garden.

  He came bustling over, pleased to be able to help. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘He’s normally here by ten o’clock . . .’

  I felt like saying ‘Thanks!’ and slamming the front door, but I had to listen to him tell me what time the guy delivered mail all around the neighbourhood, including the shops, and how he was sometimes late, and how they – he and Sheila – thought he stopped off somewhere for a coffee in the middle of his round. He said this as though the postman was going up an alleyway to sniff an illegal substance.

  When I eventually got rid of him, I came back into the kitchen and sat down with the note on the island in front of me.

  This was my proof I wasn’t going mad. All the other things – the texts from unknown numbers, the odd phone call at work, the flowers that came back to life, even the CD in the car – could call into question my state of mind. I knew that as far as my nerves and my memory were concerned, I wasn’t the same as I normally was. I was quite aware that I was obsessing and probably making things worse for myself. But this . . . this piece of paper proved that it wasn’t me. Someone was out to get me!

  I was almost relieved to receive that message.

  My first thought was to call Katie. I was still smarting from her laughing at me when I told her about the tulips. I know it did sound ridiculous – God knows I stared at them for long enough, unable to believe my eyes – but she could at least have come home with me to look at them. I stuck the note and the envelope to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a question mark and picked up my phone.

  ‘What, like an anonymous letter?’ she said when she heard about the note. ‘Was it posted, or just pushed through the door?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It was there with the rest of the mail, so I can’t tell. It had a stamp on the envelope, but it didn’t have a postmark, so who knows?’

  ‘And that’s all it said?’ she asked, as though if she were there she would have seen more. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ I snapped. ‘I’m looking at it now. Just one word.’

  She was quiet for a minute, then said, ‘I don’t know what it means. It’s like it’s saying, “Are you happy with what you’ve done?” ’

  ‘I know! All these things keep happening and suddenly I’m to blame!’

  ‘What sort of things? What else has happened?’

  For a moment I couldn’t remember how much I’d told her. ‘Oh, just things,’ I muttered. I knew I’d have to sit down and make a note of what she knew and what I mustn’t mention.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, clearly not believing me. ‘You don’t still think the flowers came back to life, do you?’ She made a sceptical noise then that was so familiar to me I was transported right back to school. It was as though I was inside my younger self, looking out from those eyes at her trying not to laugh at something we’d seen. Her lips would tremble and I’d feel mine start to move upwards and I’d have to put my hand to my mouth to force them back down. I’d avoid her eyes but then I’d hear that little noise that heralded a fit of giggles and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself and I’d look at her and just explode with laughter. We got into so much trouble for laughing at inappropriate things.

  Today, though, that laughter was aimed at me. A sudden fury swept through me. I was at my lowest ebb and doing everything I could just to survive, and she was laughing at me.

  Without trusting myself to say another word, I clicked the button to end the call. I didn’t know what to do with myself, I was so angry.

  Then I saw the flowers in the glass vase – the tulips, the new tulips, which were now halfway between life and death. I knew exactly how they felt.

  I pulled them from the vase. They dripped water on to a note I’d made about a café he used to frequent at lunchtime – I’d planned to go there to ask whether they’d seen him – and in a flash I saw how pathetic I was.

  I snapped the tulips in half and threw them into the bin, but that wasn’t enough to quench the fury inside me. I picked up the vase, still full of water, and threw it as hard as I could against the kitchen wall.

  28

  Despite coming downstairs in the middle of the night to sweep up the glass and mop the kitchen floor, I woke early the next morning, far too early to go into work. I’d been counting in my dream, counting and listing the things that had happened to me. I’d thought the first text saying I’m home was from Matt; I thought the flowers were too. The CD was definitely from him, though I couldn’t think how he’d got into the car or how he’d known it would be there outside the restaurant. The second text – I know where you are – didn’t sound like it was from Matt. It just didn’t seem the sort of thing he’d send. He would have known that would frighten me and, whatever his faults, he never did that. But then when I’d had that phone call at work, I could have sworn those were Matt’s footsteps I’d heard. The note, though. It just didn’t seem like him. He had his own laptop, of course, but he would have had to print out the note and the envelope. Why would he do that? Why wouldn’t he just write it by hand? And why send it anyway? It didn’t make sense.

  As the numbers on the digital clock changed to 5.30 a.m., I could see the first hint of sunrise through the cream cotton curtains. I lay in bed thinking of the hour ahead. I could either lie there and think about Matt; go back to sleep – very unlikely – and wake up feeling awful at seven; or get up and do something.

  In the days when Matt still lived in London and we just met at the weekends, Katie and James started to go running down by the river every evening and Katie would always ask me to go with them, though I guessed she only asked because she thought she’d be faster than me. That summer, without telling her, I spent every morning running alone along the river as the sun rose, when I knew she’d be safely in bed. What kept me going was the thought of entering a 10K race on the same day as Katie and beating her, without telling her I’d been practising.

  That day did come to pass, and it was one of the best of my life; just the thought of it could bring me out of a deep depression. After that I used to ask her to come running with me, but she was always too busy.

  Then Matt moved in with me and any spare time in the early morning was spent on other things.

  Now I forced myself to get out of bed and into my running gear. I put my house key and phone in my pocket and set off down the road towards the river. There was no sign of life fo
r the first mile or so, then a police car drove slowly past and I spotted a woman with a dog that was so huge she must have had to walk him for miles.

  I put some music on so that I didn’t have to think about the day ahead or anything that had happened in the last few weeks. After a while I got into a rhythm and found I could switch off and think about nothing: my favourite state of mind.

  Back home after an hour’s run, I was tired from the exercise but refreshed, too. Invigorated. I had a quick shower and washed my hair, then took my time straightening it. I wore freshly washed and ironed clothes, too, shutting my mind to the fact that I hadn’t always done that over the last few weeks. I sat on the side of the bed and painted a happy look on to my face so that I could convince everyone at work that I was OK, that everything was under control.

  I was just finishing off my lipstick when a text came through on my phone. I picked it up, thinking it was Sam, glad to be able to reassure him I was fit for work, that the disciplinary the day before had taught me a lesson, making me determined to focus on my job and not let anyone down. On the screen was a message from yet another unknown number:

  Enjoy your run?

  I froze.

  Then a video appeared on the screen. My mouth was dry as I clicked on it. I could see myself on the path down by the river. My ponytail was bouncing, my face was determined. I played it right through, then again, trying to work out exactly where I’d been when I was filmed.

  I knew it.

  There had been a moment when I was running in a place where the sand dunes bordered the walkway when I’d felt distinctly uncomfortable. I hadn’t been able to work out why. I’d stopped and looked around, but couldn’t see anything suspicious. Nobody else was running. An older man was walking his dog further on and a cyclist came past at full speed, startling me. I looked over to the dunes and caught a flicker of something, just a tiny flash of light. I’d thought it was the sun’s rays shining on some metal that someone had dropped. A can or something.

  The anger from the previous night had gone; or rather I needed Katie at that point more than I hated her. I called to tell her about the video.

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ And I didn’t. I couldn’t see who else it could be but Matt, but what would he be doing down at the river so early in the morning?

  ‘No,’ she interrupted my thoughts, ‘it’s not going to be Matt. Don’t start going down that road, Hannah. Why would he do that? I doubt he’s even living around here now.’

  ‘But why would anyone else be interested?’

  ‘Phone them back,’ she said. ‘Get angry. Ask them what the hell they’re doing.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, fired up now. ‘I will.’

  I cut her off and called the number. It rang several times, then, just like last time, it was cut off mid-ring. There was no answerphone message available.

  Furious, I sent a text:

  Who the hell are you and why are you sending me messages?

  I waited half an hour for an answer, almost making myself late for work, then sent a final message:

  Matt? Is that you?

  There was no reply.

  29

  I spent the day at the office with my head down, working hard. All around me I could see mistakes I’d made over the past few weeks that had had to be corrected for me, and emails I hadn’t read properly so I hadn’t done what was asked for. I was scarlet with shame. I’d always been so proud of my work, so ambitious for my future. It was the one place I’d felt in control.

  I’d never seen myself as someone who needed a man to make their life complete. In fact, that was what bugged me about myself now: when Matt was around, we would often go days without saying much to each other, particularly if he was working late. Now that he was gone, though, I could feel the physical pull of loneliness. As I closed the door to my house at night, something inside me burned at the thought that I’d be alone until the morning. Of course I could call people, but apart from Katie and Sam, there wasn’t anyone I could talk to about what really mattered. And what mattered to me more than my job, more than anything else now, was finding Matt.

  Sam was neither use nor ornament when I told him about the messages. I had to be so careful what I said to him. I didn’t dare mention the flowers. If he had the same reaction as Katie, I’d think I was going mad. I didn’t tell him about the almost-silent phone call I’d had the morning of the disciplinary either, though I’d thought about it myself time and again, wondering who was on the other end of the line and why they didn’t speak. We sat in the canteen at work and I showed him the texts and told him about the CD in the car and the note through the door. He was shocked, and worried about me too.

  ‘Who do you think sent them to you?’ he asked. ‘And a video of you running?’ He watched it through from start to end. ‘You’re sure you don’t know the number?’

  ‘I’ve not used it on my phone before,’ I said. ‘I’ve checked. And I don’t recognise it. Or any of the others, for that matter.’

  ‘Search for it on your laptop and your iPad tonight. And we’ll search your work computer, too. You never know, it might show up as a number someone’s given you, even if it was a while ago.’

  ‘It’s giving me the creeps.’

  ‘I bet. Do you want me to start running with you?’

  I groaned inwardly. That was the last thing I wanted. ‘It’s OK, thanks. I’ll vary the times when I go. I can’t imagine anyone’s going to be hanging around all day and night waiting for me to go for a run.’

  There was a long pause, and then he said, ‘You think it’s Matt, don’t you?’ I suppose he could tell from my face that he was right. ‘But why would he do that, Hannah? Think about it. He’s gone off and left you’ – I winced – ‘so why would he be following you around?’

  I shook my head. ‘Who knows? Maybe he wants to talk to me.’

  Sam’s eyes were on me, and I could feel my face, tight and proud.

  ‘But Hannah,’ he said, ‘if he wanted to speak to you, he could. He could just come to the house and see you any time. Or call you at work.’ I could see he was struggling to be tactful. ‘Or he could even call you on your mobile. To chat.’

  Then I remembered the fright I’d had when I’d found the warm kettle. ‘Sam, this might sound like a really random question, but how long do you reckon it takes a kettle to cool down?’

  He looked startled, as well he might, and I explained what had happened.

  ‘I can see why you’re worried,’ he said, ‘but it’s pretty obvious that if you put a metal object in the sun, it’ll get warm!’

  ‘Yes, but what about the condensation? I know the kettle would be warm, but it shouldn’t produce condensation unless it’s switched on, should it?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think you saw that because you were expecting it. What, you really think someone broke into your house and boiled the kettle?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not someone. I think Matt came home from work and put the kettle on. That’s what he always did. It was his routine. Kettle on, quick shower, cup of tea, then he’d go to the gym.’

  He stared at me. ‘You honestly think it was Matt?’

  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘And these messages. You think they’re Matt too?’

  ‘Who else would want to send me a message?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re going to drive yourself mad.’

  We walked back to the office, and I could tell from his sidelong glances that he was thinking I’d drive him mad too.

  That afternoon, I sat at my desk and made a list of everything that had happened. The flowers and the kitchen roll. The text saying I’m home. The CD in my car. The warm kettle, the text saying I know where you are and the letter through the post asking whether I was satisfied. Oh yes, and the phone call at work . . . I’d turned up at the meeting sweating and shaking after that. Were those Matt’s footsteps? Was that call even meant for me? And then the vi
deo of me running and its accompanying text – was he really down by the river?

  My head started to ache. Why hadn’t he said something if he was that close to me? And why didn’t he leave fresh flowers before he disappeared, if that’s what he wanted to do? Why would he say he knew where I was, when it was obvious I’d be at home?

  I felt like screaming with frustration. I looked up and saw Lucy in the doorway and I quickly turned my notepad over.

  ‘I was just about to make some tea,’ she said. ’Would you like some?’

  ‘No, thanks. Not at the moment.’

  She hesitated. ‘Can I do anything for you, Hannah?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ I knew I sounded dismissive but she was interrupting my train of thought. She flushed and immediately I felt guilty. ‘Sorry, Lucy, I’m just in the middle of something.’

  She smiled and went back to her desk and I turned over the notepad and went back to work.

  ‘Stand by Me.’ That had to be from Matt. He must have been thinking about those nights we’d spent on the sofa together, close enough to feel each other’s hearts beating. What a romantic message to send! And he’d set it to play as soon as the car started, to be sure I’d hear it. He must have known I’d guess it was from him.

  But then why would he send the note asking whether I was satisfied? With what? That really bugged me. Where the CD had been a loving gesture, that was hostile.

  Unless that note had arrived after I’d seen him. My head thumped. Was he asking whether I was satisfied now that I’d seen he was alive and well? But how could he have known I’d be in Chester that day? I hadn’t even known myself that I’d be going there. No, that wasn’t what he’d meant, was it?

  I rubbed my eyes, exhausted. The texts and the video bothered me more than anything. They seemed designed to upset me. Nobody wants to think they’re being spied on, especially by their own partner. I just couldn’t believe Matt would do that, even though I knew no relationship was perfect. He and I had had the odd problem over the years, like any other couple, but he’d never been cruel to me.