by Lulu Taylor
Inside, you’ll find all the information you need in order to look after your chosen property and the necessary contact details for reaching us. You’ll already have been through our vetting procedure and we now consider you part of our family. Settle into your new home and enjoy it. We’ll be in touch very soon to make sure that you’re completely happy – but don’t hesitate to call if you need any help.
There’s more but I stop reading, struck by the thought that I am part of this family, the ARK family, whatever that is and whatever they do. Before I left, I looked them up on the internet and found a slick and well-presented site that was full of the right kind of jargon about building for the future and preserving heritage, but that actually told me very little about them and why they have these properties. There were only details for this place, probably because they were looking for a guardian for it.
And they think they know all about me.
I feel a little rush of satisfaction that I’ve managed to deceive them. I applied in a false name, using Caz’s address. I wondered if they’d be able to tell that I hadn’t lived there for long (in fact, not at all) but even though I prepared in case there were queries, they seemed happy with my application form.
After all, here I am.
I was sure there must be lots of applicants to guard a place like this, but they got back to me quickly and arranged an interview over the internet. A pleasant woman called Alison, businesslike in a dark suit, white shirt and black-rimmed glasses and with glossy pulled-back hair, asked me some fairly straightforward questions but on the whole I got the impression that she was trying to sell the place to me, rather than the other way around. I had to remember to reply to my new name, and not to be startled when she called me Rachel. That was me now. My new other self. Rachel Capshaw. I picked the name easily by opening a magazine at random and taking the first fore and surnames I saw. Once put together, they seemed immediately to form a whole other person, someone I could try my hand at being. Rachel Capshaw sounds normal, respectable and dependable. She could be any age, from any background. The Rachel Capshaw I’ve created is a peroxide blonde with a small daughter and a blue car, free and independent, keen to take on a vast and empty property in the middle of nowhere, ‘so I can paint,’ I’d said gravely to Alison, her eyes fixed on me through the computer screen and never flicking up to the smaller image of herself that must be in the corner of her screen.
‘Oh, you’re an artist?’ she’d said smoothly, one well-tended eyebrow raising.
‘That’s right.’
Rachel Capshaw. Artist. I liked the way it sounded. And artists need peace and quiet, and solitude. Don’t they?
‘What sort of painting?’
‘Oh. Well . . .’ I stumbled a little, not expecting the question. ‘Um . . .’
‘I make pottery myself – just a hobby to help me relax.’ Alison’s dark gaze fixed me through the screen. ‘Nothing professional.’
‘Well . . . I paint abstracts.’ I flushed just a little and hoped it didn’t show. ‘Oils and . . . acrylics.’ It was true I’d painted a bit at school, but I’d done nothing since bar helping out on school projects or on rainy afternoons when there was nothing to do. ‘And I’m not professional either . . . yet. Perhaps one day.’
‘I’m sure that your stay at Paradise House will help that.’ Alison smiled. ‘Plenty of room for painting there. And your income doesn’t seem to be a problem.’
‘No.’ I smiled back, open and candid. ‘My divorce settlement.’
Alison looked uncomfortable just for a moment, then said easily, ‘Well, as you’ll be on your own, you’ll have plenty of time to paint.’
‘Yes.’ I hadn’t mentioned Heather. It would only complicate things. I knew they didn’t allow children in their properties, and I wasn’t going to risk losing this opportunity.
Alison tapped some papers on her desk and said, ‘Well, it’s all in order as far we’re concerned. If you’re happy, I’ll be in touch via email with more details and send you the paperwork.’
‘Great, that’s wonderful. Thank you.’
I breathed out when her face vanished from my screen. ‘Rachel Capshaw, you’re on your way.’
When the contract arrived, I had no hesitation in signing it with my new name, writing it out in a scribble as unlike my own as I could manage. And in the back of the car is a portable easel, a pack of paints and brushes, canvas and paper, just in case Alison comes calling.
When I go back through the information pack slowly and carefully, I find what I need to know about the heating and hot water system. There’s a vast old boiler in the basement but I decide not to go down there tonight. Otherwise there are the water heaters and I manage to light the gas flame in the kitchen and in the bathroom nearest our bedroom. Once there is hot water, I clean the room thoroughly, scrubbing out the cast-iron bath until the enamel is almost white again, bar the rust marks and scratches. Even though I work up a sweat cleaning, it’s still freezing cold in there. The chilly tiled floor and walls reflect the cold back at me, and there isn’t even a radiator to warm it up, only an electric bar heater high up on the wall. I switch it on and it soon glows a radiant orange, but the heat remains in a discrete cloud around it, unable to penetrate the cold of the rest of the room.
I don’t like to think of Heather in here, in this dank, cold room with its hard surfaces. She shouldn’t be in a place like this. But what choice do I have?
I’m tired. Today, I’ve moved us into Paradise House, cleaned our bedroom, the kitchen and bathroom, and sorted out the sitting room. As I start to prepare supper on the old cooker in the kitchen, I sigh with fatigue but also with a sense of a job done. We’ve got away. No one knows where we are. They might know that Rachel Capshaw has arrived at this huge old place to find her artistic self, but they don’t know that I’m here and that Heather is with me.
Heather drifts around the kitchen as I cook, singing to herself. She’s been so good. No questions, no complaints. She seems quite happy to be here, apart from her one mention of home. Perhaps she thinks we’re on holiday. She hasn’t asked for Rory. Not yet. But we’ve barely been here a day.
What is she singing?
She wanders by me. Under one arm she’s clutching her favourite stuffed doll, one that Caz gave her when she was only about four. It’s an old-fashioned rag doll, with bright orange wool for hair and floppy pale legs and arms protruding from a colourful pinafore dress. Her face is stitched on: two black buttons for eyes, a red upturned semi-circle for a smile, two pink circles on her cheeks. Heather called her Sparkleknee. I frown as Heather goes by me on another circuit of the room, still singing.
I don’t remember bringing Sparkleknee.
In fact, I don’t remember seeing her for a while. I thought she’d gone, with everything else. But here she is, tucked under Heather’s arm.
I shrug and turn back to the cooking pot, where I’m stirring onions as they fry gently.
Heather sings on, Sparkleknee smiling up from under her arm.
Chapter Four
The next day I go down to the basement and get the boiler going so I can turn on some radiators. As soon as they’re heating up, the sun comes out of course, so we go out to explore the garden. The front, with its gravelled forecourt and drive, isn’t in such bad shape, even if the rhododendron bushes at the edges have grown huge and straggly and the flower beds are bare except for rugged weeds and leggy bushes. But the back, broad and stretching away into the distance, has not been cared for in a very long time. It’s a jungle of bare branches, the skeletons of shrubs, great thatches of evergreens, and long, wet, dead grass, but Heather seems enchanted by it. I keep my eyes open for any dangers – hidden ponds or smashed greenhouses – but I can’t see how she might come to harm. She takes a fancy to a clump of barrel-shaped bay trees, and starts to make a den in the hollow underneath them. We play together for a while, and she arranges things as she wants them, making a little kitchen area, with stones for dishes and a fireplace, and
a sleeping area. She’s collecting bracken to make into a bed when my telephone beeps in my pocket.
I jump violently. The electronic riff I chose as the ringtone is still alien to me, and at first I can’t work out what it is. Then I remember the phone and pull it out. I bought a pay-as-you-go one, but I haven’t yet switched on its internet capacity, even though I’m sure I can’t be traced if I use my fake email account. I stare at the screen. There is no name, just a number; but then, I’ve added only one contact – Alison at ARK – and this isn’t her. The only mobile number I know off by heart is Rory’s, and it’s not his. I stare at it as it chirps away in my hand, not sure what to do. My pulse is racing and my breathing quickens. I crawl out from under the bay trees and stand there. Then on a wild impulse, I answer, my voice breathless.
‘Hello?’
‘Kate?’
‘Who’s this?’ I’m horribly afraid all of a sudden. They’ve found me. I knew they would.
‘It’s me. Caz. Who did you think? Have you given anyone else this number?’
I exhale with relief. Of course. Who else could it be? Caz is the only person I’ve given this number to, other than Alison. ‘No, no, I haven’t. Why are you calling?’
‘I’m worried about you, of course. I want to make sure you’re okay.’
Irritation prickles through me. ‘I told you not to ring unless it was absolutely necessary. An emergency. You’re not to call to pass the time of day, don’t you understand that?’
Caz sounds plaintive. ‘But I have no idea if you’re safe or not! You haven’t let me know anything.’
‘It’s better if you don’t, I explained that.’
‘Yes, but . . .’ Caz’s voice fades away. She knows it’s pointless to argue with me. I’m insistent. Obdurate. More firm now than I’ve ever been in my life. I think she’s still getting used to this new me, the one who orders her about and refuses to negotiate with her.
‘And,’ I say strictly, ‘you forgot to use the code.’
‘Oh yes,’ Caz says. ‘The code.’
She’s supposed to text a message to alert me before she makes any call, using agreed code words so that I know in advance that it’s safe to answer. After all, it might be her number, but is that any guarantee that she’s on the other end? The first time I told her what I wanted her to do, she laughed and said, ‘Isn’t that a bit over the top?’ But one glance at my expression shut her up.
‘Sorry, Kate,’ she says humbly. ‘I’ll remember next time.’
‘But only call if you absolutely have to,’ I remind her. There’s a pause and I soften. She’s helping me. I need to rely on her. I say, ‘Listen, it’s good of you to worry but everything is fine. I’m at a good location, a safe house. It’s all okay, I promise. It’s just what I wanted.’ I glance around at the wet, muted garden and the walls of the great house towering over us. There is a splendid view of its beauty from here. The red and black bricks are laid in patterns, with Gothic windows on the upper floor, and little stone balconies under them. On the attic level are small gabled dormer windows beneath Jacobean-style chimneys in herringbone-patterned bricks. It’s a glorious Victorian pastiche. I already feel as though, somehow, it partly belongs to me.
‘Where are you?’
I pause. ‘I’m not telling you that, Caz. Sorry. It’s better if you don’t know. In case anyone asks you.’
‘Okay . . . It’s very strange not knowing where you might be. I don’t know where to picture you!’ She waits, as though hoping I might give her a clue of some kind, but I say nothing so she ploughs on. ‘How long will you stay?’
‘I don’t know exactly. A few weeks probably.’ I hesitate, then ask, ‘How’s Rory? Have you heard anything?’
‘Not yet. I guess it won’t be until he starts to get anxious. In a day or two, when you don’t make contact with him. He probably thinks you’ve just gone off on a short trip somewhere.’
‘Yes.’ I feel a blanket of safety enfold me. No one is looking for me. Not yet, at least. ‘Okay, then. Is that everything?’
‘Yes.’ There’s a pause and then she says, ‘Kate, it’s not too late to come back. You don’t have to run like this.’
‘Sorry, Caz.’ I hear Heather calling for me from under the bay trees. ‘I’ve got to go now. Bye.’ I flick the call off and get down onto the cold soil so that I can peer under the branches. ‘Coming, darling. What are you doing now?’
‘Who was on the phone?’ Heather asks, turning her big blue eyes on me as I crawl towards her.
‘Aunty Caz. She wanted to say hello.’
Heather looks pleased. ‘Is she coming to visit us?’
‘Not for a while. We’re quite far away from her at the moment. It’s too far to visit right now.’
‘I’d like to see Aunty Caz,’ she says, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. Caz is her godmother and mother of Heather’s best friends. She’s been a presence all of Heather’s life. ‘I’d like to play with Leia and Mika.’
‘Maybe one day. When they come and see us. But it’s a long way.’
Heather nods; she understands that we’re far from home. I wait for her to ask about Daddy. Surely she’s going to mention Rory soon, and wonder when she’s going to see him, or speak on the phone. I’ve got my reply ready. But she turns back to the stones and leaves that she’s been pretending are the food and says, ‘Now, Mummy, it’s time for lunch. I think you should have salad. I’ve got some ready here.’
‘How delicious! Yes, please,’ I say, grateful that she has given me another reprieve.
By the afternoon, we’re back in the sitting room and Heather is watching cartoons at the table while I read on the sofa. Some of the pressure I’ve been under lately seems to have lifted. Last night I slept properly and without nightmares. It occurs to me that my plan has worked: I’ve found the escape I needed. But how long can it last? I know it can’t go on indefinitely; at some point Rory is bound to realise what’s happened. He’ll start searching, and he’ll have the weight of the world behind him. They’ll all be out to get me. But until then, I’m going to enjoy my respite, and the breathing space I’ve craved so badly.
The words I’m reading dance in front of my eyes. My lids grow heavy and my head lolls, and I sink into drowsiness and then sleep.
I wake with a gasp to the sound of banging on the French windows. Shocked and dazed, I spring to my feet, my book tumbling to the ground. I look instantly over at Heather, but she isn’t there. The tablet is propped up on the table, playing a cartoon, but her seat is empty.
I turn to the awful racketing sound of the banging on the window and the dark shape that stands there. I can’t make out more than a silhouette against the low afternoon sun.
‘Who is it? What do you want?’ I shout, the adrenaline of panic surging through me. The figure outside is pressing itself hard against the glass, peering in. Thank God Heather has taken herself off somewhere: not only would it terrify her, but she would easily have been seen.
The banging stops and a muffled voice calls through the glass.
‘I can’t open this door,’ I yell, and point towards the front of the house. ‘Come to the front. The front!’
I hurry out of the sitting room towards the hall, calling for Heather as I go. I hear a faint reply from near our bedroom.
‘Stay in the bedroom, darling, till I come and get you!’ I call. ‘It’s very important. Stay where you are!’
Approaching the front door, I see some of Heather’s toys on the hall floor and quickly gather them up, open the door of the nearest room – a huge, bay-windowed empty space – toss them in and close the door. I scan to see if there’s anything else that might give us away, and spot Heather’s abandoned shoes so I drop my coat over them. Then I go to the big front door and open it, my heart beating wildly. Have we been discovered already?
There’s no one there. I step out onto the stone steps and look about. Apart from my hire car, the driveway is deserted and all is quiet. The air is still and cold with t
he faintest whiff of bonfires. I try to calm my breathing, but I’m shaky with fear. Someone was there; I didn’t imagine it. And they’re close by. The next moment I hear the faint crunching of gravel as someone walks slowly along the side of the house and my pulse goes wild again.
Calm, you’ve got to be calm! Remember, you’re Rachel Capshaw. You’re alone. You’ve every right to be here. Whoever it is is the trespasser, not you . . .
Even so, I’m tense with anticipation as the footsteps come closer. And then, moving very slowly, a wide figure in a dark overcoat appears from around the side of the house. There’s a mess of grey hair, then a face, and I realise it’s an elderly woman. At once I relax just a little. She doesn’t look like someone who’d be in hot pursuit of me and Heather. Under her coat, she’s wearing an old flowery dress, and on her feet, a pair of rough boots are unlaced, showing thick socks beneath.
‘Hello?’ I say, sounding as normal as I can. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Afternoon,’ she replies. ‘Well, that all depends, don’t it.’
She’s got a strange accent I can’t identify. It doesn’t sound like any regional dialect I know, but then again, it’s not colourless, placeless RP either.
She comes to a halt at the bottom of the steps, stuffs her hands into her pockets and looks up at me with an expression that’s almost defiant. Then she smiles suddenly, revealing brownish teeth, and says, ‘You the new owner?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Oh?’ She looks wary but interested. ‘Squatter?’
‘No. I’ve got permission to be here.’
‘Ah.’ She frowns. Her skin is lined with countless soft crisscrosses that deepen or disappear as her face moves. Wiry grey strands poke crazily upwards from her thick steel-coloured hair which is mostly tucked up at the back into a wild bundle. Her eyes are brown, the centres very black and with thin rings of iris around them. She turns her face to look at me sideways, almost like a bird, and I notice she does have a beaky nose, thin and curving. ‘But you’re not anything to do with the owner? No relation?’