by K. L. Slater
‘Oh, yes… sorry, I just have to have a word with…’ she pointed to Nick and fortunately, he turned off the mower and came over.
A few long strides and he was next to her and the man drifted back up the garden.
‘How are you finding it then, life on Baker Crescent?’ Nick said.
‘I… well, everyone seems very nice,’ she stammered, willing the heat in her face to do one. ‘Cora has been very good to me.’
‘Hmm. She can be an eccentric old bat at times. Goes on a bit with her stories, but I’m very fond of her.’ He nodded. ‘Have you had the misfortune of meeting your other neighbours yet?’
He nodded to the house next door.
‘You mean David? Yes, we’ve met.’
He watched her steadily but didn’t comment. She felt he somehow wanted more from her, and so she began babbling to allay her embarrassment.
‘I met his mum, Pat, briefly too. They seem very nice. In fact, I’m working at Kellington’s in town, where David is a parking attendant.’
‘Watch him,’ Nick hissed.
‘Sorry?’ She swallowed.
‘David.’ He kept his voice low. ‘Watch him. That’s all I’m saying.’
She felt a flush rise from her neck. ‘I… I’m not sure what…’
‘Some people pretend to be one thing when really they’re something else altogether… if you get my drift.’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ she said slowly. ‘Do I need to be worried?’
Nick opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. His eyes slid sideways, focusing on the small window behind her.
Holly twisted round to see Cora standing in the doorway with her arms folded.
Wordlessly Nick turned and scurried back down the garden.
Nick had kept his voice low, so she doubted Cora had overheard what he had said.
Holly knew that the older woman thought a lot of David. She might not like to hear Nick’s strange warning.
Holly waited for her to say something but Cora simply turned away and began chopping salad.
Holly stepped back inside the kitchen just as someone knocked frantically at the door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
David
I sit at my bedroom window for what seems like hours, going over everything Holly said at work earlier. Mother calls it fretting.
‘It does you no good at all, David,’ she always says when she senses I’m in the grip of it. ‘Just let go of whatever’s worrying you. It’s no use churning it over and over in your mind.’
But setting aside troubling thoughts is far easier said than done. Nobody knows that better than me. Mother might call it fretting, but this time it feels a bit more than that.
For the last two years I have embraced my eventless life, my boring routine. That’s not to say I’ve sometimes wished for a little more variety in my days, but Mother and I, we were managing just fine.
Now, with Holly appearing next door – a good thing – and Brian moving in with us – most definitely a bad thing – it feels like the ground beneath me is suddenly not as rock solid.
Holly kindly invited me to join her for coffee in the terrace café at work. My anxiety was rooted in the fact that I might have inadvertently snubbed her.
Join me if you like. That was what she said, and now I can’t remember for the life of me what my response was.
As usual, I started ranting on about nothing, with the nerves and all. I think I said I couldn’t spare the time away from my desk.
That wasn’t really the reason. I was too worried to sit down and start a conversation with her. I felt nervous of long silences; afraid we’d have nothing to talk about.
Yet now I’m home and can look back in a calmer frame of mind, I realise it wouldn’t have done any harm just to sit down and chat for a few minutes.
We might have talked about the book she was reading, or the weather… or a hundred and one other things, come to that.
I wonder how I appeared to her. Nervous and unfriendly? Or perhaps just a bit off.
That’s the thing about being different. It’s so hard to know how to act in order to appear… well… normal, I suppose.
Growing up, I was told so many times by adults – teachers, Mrs Barrett, and Mother herself – to just be yourself. They meant well, but I knew even back then that myself was the last thing I needed to be. At least if I wanted to try and fit in at school.
Being myself meant never joining in with popular activities, always sitting on my own on school trips, not laughing at the jokes everyone else found hilarious, choosing the library instead of playing footie on the field. That was me, after all.
Things got more complicated as I grew older and entered the world of work. After A levels, I managed to get an apprenticeship at a small textiles factory.
Here there were no teachers to supervise, no responsible adults to watch out for the kids who were perceived as different. The worst bullies on the shop floor were the management. It was the same story at the printing firm, too.
I soon learned that being myself was the worst possible way to endear myself to colleagues. Yet I just couldn’t pull off how to behave normally, how to fit in like the others.
Just like the kids at school, colleagues grasped within minutes that I wasn’t like them.
No matter how often I sniggered at jokes I didn’t get, or put myself through the agony and discomfort of drinks after work, they still weren’t fooled.
There was a seamless continuation from my school days. The sly grins, the subtle nudges and the same clandestine whispered conversations that broke up the instant I entered the room.
I’ve learned the hard way that people who don’t fit the social norm, for whatever reason, are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Simple as.
And that’s why, earlier today, I didn’t try to be the person Holly might have expected in the café. That’s why I just acted normally… normal for me.
She probably thought me a bit stand-offish, and that’s what bothers me now. Because I didn’t mean to be. I really, really didn’t want to come over like that.
She couldn’t have been left with a positive impression, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
Or is there?
I decide, on the spur of the moment, to pop round to Mrs Barrett’s on the pretence of checking the water pressure, which we sometimes have problems with around here.
I change into my jeans and trainers and a rather nice blue sweater that Mother says brings out my eyes, which I always think sounds a bit of a sinister thing to say.
The dragging sense of dread has given way to a lighter step, a sense that things might yet be salvaged.
As I reach forward to turn off my computer monitor, I happen to glance down into next door’s yard.
My hand freezes on the monitor button and I wince at the sharp pain as I unwittingly bite down on my tongue.
Once I realise what’s happening, I race downstairs and rush past Mother, ignoring her astonished expression.
Once outside, I instinctively know not to go anywhere near him, but I must warn Holly. I wonder if Mrs Barrett knows what’s happening out in her garden.
Even though I know she doesn’t use it much, I bang on the front door, and when there is no answer, I ring the doorbell. Still no answer. With the heel of my hand, I thump again.
Finally I hear Mrs Barrett’s muffled voice calling out and stiff bolts being drawn back. She opens the door, and when she sees it’s me, her annoyed expression dissolves.
‘David! I was in the kitchen making tea, with the radio on. Why on earth didn’t you just come around the back?’
‘Can I come in?’ I ask.
She stands aside and I step into the hallway.
‘What is it?’ She closes the door behind me. ‘Are you upset?’
I press my finger to my lips, but I can’t hear any voices from the garden. The back door must be closed.
Mrs Barrett puts her hand on my arm.
‘David, are you feeling quite well? Have you taken your tablets today, or—’
‘She’s out there,’ I hiss. ‘Talking to him.’
‘Talking to who, dear?’ She shakes her head at me, frowning with concern. ‘Come on now, you’re not making much sense.’
‘Mr Brown is with Holly in the garden. What are they talking about?’
‘How should I know? I’m not the girl’s keeper.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Yes but nothing. You’ve got to get past this thing with Mr Brown, David, or it’s going to ruin your life.’
‘He already has ruined my life.’ I spit out the words like bitter pips. ‘I don’t care what you, or Mother, or anyone else around here says… it was all his fault. He can deny it all he likes, but I know it.’
Mrs Barrett sighs and looks up at the ceiling as if she’s searching for inspiration. Then she speaks slowly, precisely.
‘David. We’ve talked about this before. You can’t go around making these unfounded accusations, you just can’t say—’
We both freeze as dishes clatter in the kitchen.
Mrs Barrett bustles down the hallway and stops at the kitchen door. Her voice is bright and thin.
‘Holly, dear. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ Holly replies. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit… Oh, hello, David.’
‘Hello,’ I say, peering over Mrs Barrett’s shoulder.
I hear the mower start up outside, and through the kitchen window I catch sight of Mr Brown at the bottom of the garden.
‘Holly, were you talking to Mr Brown?’ I ask.
Mrs Barrett throws me a warning look.
‘Yes,’ Holly says. ‘He was just… he was telling me about the improvements he’ll be making in the garden.’
She stares at me and presses her lips together.
I don’t know why I call him Mr Brown. I ought to call him the Monster or the Liar. But somehow, referring to him as plain old Mr Brown helps me maintain a distance from him, helps me remove his threat and keep my mind calm.
‘Right!’ Mrs Barrett claps her hands. ‘Holly, you go and get changed upstairs, and David, you can help me with tea if you’re at a loose end.’
‘I’m not at a loose end.’ I clench my hands. ‘I only came over to see… if everything was all right. With the water pressure.’
Mrs Barrett turns on both kitchen taps and the water gushes out at full pelt.
‘There. Nothing at all wrong with it today.’
Before they can say anything else, I turn round and head back up the hallway to the door. I imagine their eyes burning into my back like laser beams.
They’ll be talking about me when I leave, I just know it.
Mrs Barrett will explain to Holly that I have a problem with Mr Brown, and then Holly will ask why and the whole sorry state of affairs will be revealed.
I don’t have Holly down as a gossip, but what if she is?
What if she blabs at work – maybe just by mistake, through simply not thinking – and Mr Kellington gets to hear about it and calls me into his office?
He might not believe my account of events. He might wonder if he’s made a mistake in appointing me to such a responsible position in the company.
When I get back home, Mother is preparing a pasta sauce.
‘Is everything all right, David?’ The words sound muffled, as if she’s saying them from behind a thick wall of glass.
I watch as she breaks up plum tomatoes with a fork, mashing and slicing the smooth elongated spheres of fibrous red flesh.
I often dream of doing the same thing to Mr Brown’s face.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Holly
Up in her bedroom, Holly stood back from the window and unbuttoned her blouse.
It had been an odd exchange downstairs. David had seemed very upset but she couldn’t quite grasp why.
It felt like there were some pretty major things that were being left unsaid by the people around her.
She looked down towards the bottom of the garden.
Nick had ear defenders on and was pushing and pulling the mower from one side of the lawn to the other. As she watched, Cora appeared and walked down the garden. Nick shut off the mower and stood listening to her, his head bowed.
Cora’s hands were animated, as if she wanted to add weight to whatever point she was making. After a minute or so, Nick nodded, and Cora walked back up toward the house, her lips pressed together in a grim line.
Holly took another step further back into the room, in case Cora looked up and caught her watching, although she certainly hadn’t said or done anything wrong. She sat down on the edge of the bed and thought about Nick’s words.
Watch him, he’d said. That’s all I’m saying. Watch him.
Just a few words that had now planted a seed of doubt and discomfort in her mind. David did seem a bit weird in some respects, she’d already gathered that.
But he was harmless enough… wasn’t he?
On the other side of the fence, she spotted Brian again. Smoking now, amongst the bushes and looking back up at the houses. She stepped back, keen to avoid drawing his eye.
She pulled on a pair of black leggings, the inner thigh seams rubbed and threadbare. As she slipped a long, baggy T-shirt over her head, she made yet another mental note about items to buy once she got paid. She was now beginning to regret throwing away some of her clothing when she’d first arrived.
As she hung up her clothes for the next day, she caught sight of the laptop. Cora had only just started to make tea, so she probably had another ten minutes or so before she was called down.
She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the computer, reaching under her pillow to pull out her small notebook and pencil.
She’d done so much work over the last eighteen months, trying to track down Geraldine and Evan in any way she could think of, but she had met an immovable brick wall in every direction.
It was the fault of what she called the bad time. That wasn’t the official term; the doctors had termed it repressed memory, which sounded altogether more serious. She didn’t feel like she was repressing anything; she just chose not to think about it.
Who’d want to keep revisiting those cruel, vile events? She had to think about herself, about preserving her sanity.
She’d told them this, but they’d said repressing memory was something that happened in the subconscious. She wouldn’t have been aware that she was doing it.
The fact was, Holly had done too much over-thinking. She’d racked her brains about ways to trace the two of them and had simply lost track of everything.
So she had decided to start again. She would methodically and systematically work through each and every avenue or idea, no matter how trivial.
She’d started with the obvious biggies: social media and online clues.
She opened her fake Facebook account and inspected the list of names. She’d already crossed off ten possibles – she’d been focusing on Geraldine, trying different combinations of her middle name, maiden name, that sort of thing.
It wasn’t an easy thing to do, to trace someone while trying to remain hidden yourself, but it wasn’t impossible, and the private investigator she’d worked with briefly – until his ludicrous charges had eaten up her credit card limit in record time – had given her a few tips and tricks.
She added a few more names now, squinting at the thumbnail-sized photographs on the list of matching profiles, to no avail.
‘Holly? Tea’s ready, dear,’ Cora called from downstairs.
She glanced at the clock display on the bottom right of her screen and was shocked to find that nearly twenty minutes had elapsed while she’d been absorbed in her thankless task.
‘Coming!’
She crossed off the names she’d checked and set the laptop aside with a heavy heart.
Sometimes, like tonight, it really did feel like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. She closed the laptop
and set it charging on the floor again.
Just before she went downstairs, she felt an irresistible pull to see Evan’s face again. She rummaged in the drawer and gently peeled back the tissue paper, allowing herself to get lost in those beautiful eyes.
Were they happy together, Evan and Geraldine? She was such a conniving, believable bitch, Holly couldn’t blame him if he’d fallen for her lies. Hadn’t she herself been sucked into her world, believing that Geraldine truly cared about her?
What a fool she’d been.
She knew deep down that Evan loved her just as much as she loved him. He was probably searching online himself, hoping to track her down. It was torture having to remain hidden when she knew the love of her life was desperately trying to find her too.
One day they’d be together again, she knew it.
She had to believe that, because the alternative meant life would no longer be worth living.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Holly
She’d felt so full of dread, waking up after that first night in the Manchester drug den.
Despite her initial determination not to sleep, she’d ended up drifting off.
She’d snapped awake and found the room was now light, with Markus still sleeping soundly beside her. She had immediately looked around, heart pounding, but thankfully their luggage was still safe; in fact, Markus was using his holdall as a makeshift pillow.
The vile smell had seemed more pungent than ever upon waking, and she’d clamped the handkerchief to her face once more.
Her eyes had soon become accustomed to the daylight, and the urge to just run as far from the place as she could manage filled her again.
The darkness of the previous evening had been preferable, she’d realised. Then, she had seen only vague shapes. Now those shapes were revealed to be wretched, skeletal people surrounded by used syringes and bits of ash and foil.
She’d reached over and shaken Markus.
‘Wake up!’
He’d stirred, still in the clutches of sleep, and she had pulled the holdall aside so that his head clonked to the floor.