‘Can I help you?’ the man behind the counter asked, trying to smile.
‘No,’ I said, and took my basket, which still only had two items in it – tea bags and onions – to the till. ‘Actually,’ I said, and tried to work out how friendly the man was and how ridiculous I’d sound. ‘There’s a man out there. Across the street, sitting on a wall. He’s waiting for me, but I don’t want to see him.’
The man behind the counter nodded, and his look of slight worry changed into slight impatience. I might’ve been paranoid, but at least I wasn’t going to rob him. He put my shopping through the till and dropped them into a plastic bag. ‘Four eighty-five, please,’ he said and held out his hand. I had to rummage in my bag for my purse and then counted out the money in change. I heard him sigh, but he never let his hand drop.
‘Five pence change,’ he said, and dropped the little coin into my hand, holding up the bag for me to take.
I reached for the bag, my hand brushing his. He started to turn away to the little TV tucked beneath the counter, but I smiled, and his eyes drifted back to me.
‘You couldn’t…’ I started, and the man narrowed his eyes. ‘I hate to ask but… You couldn’t take a look, could you?’
‘A look?’ he said.
‘Outside. See if he’s still there.’ He glanced at the door. ‘I’d really appreciate it. It’s just, this man has been harassing me.’
The man squinted again, but I thought I could feel him softening. He looked back to the door, ducked his head as if he thought he was doing me the favour from there. ‘How will I know who to look for?’
‘He’s just across the street, a little bit further that way,’ I said, pointing to the right of the shop. ‘He’s dressed scruffily. Possibly smoking.’
He opened the door and stepped outside. I could see him looking down the street, moving his head to see past passers-by. He turned back to me and shrugged his shoulders before coming back inside.
‘I can’t see anybody. Not across the street, like you say,’ he said.
I let out a breath and thanked the man before grabbing my bag and heading outside. I glanced across the street and saw an empty wall where Jacob had previously been. I looked back into the shop before walking home and mouthed ‘thanks’ to the man. He just nodded and went back to his TV.
I was halfway home when I realised that the man had said he couldn’t see anyone across the street. Did that mean Jacob had gone? Or was he now waiting at my door?
I stopped abruptly, and a few people walked around me, just another obstacle on their way home. I craned my neck to see the house, wondering if he’d be there, ringing the bell, sitting on the step. I started moving again, bracing myself for a run-in, but when I got to my door, he wasn’t there. I let myself in and closed the door behind me, making sure it was locked. I went straight into the living room and pulled the musty curtains closed.
Relieved, I pulled off my shoes and remembered, too late, that I’d forgotten the plasters. ‘Shit,’ I muttered to myself. All that bloody time in the shop and I still forgot them. I threw the shoes across the room and took the carrier bag with the tea bags and onions to the kitchen.
I found the recipe I’d planned on making but suddenly felt tired. Maybe tomorrow, I told myself and tossed the onions onto the vegetable rack. I stood in the kitchen for a while, leaning against the worktop, thinking about Jacob and what I would say if he finally got hold of me. I’d been paranoid that he might show up at work if I kept ignoring him, and wondered which would be worse, a fight here or at work. He’d never been there before, but he knew where it was, it wouldn’t be hard to track me down. But no one at work knew him, so I could easily pretend not to know him, say that he was just some nutter and get him thrown out. But I wondered if the same would work at home. If he showed up and caused a scene, would the neighbours call the police? Would he start saying things that made trouble for me? I’d thought about it a lot when I was ending things with Jacob. I was a normal, responsible person with a job, a real life. What did he have? Besides, the police were already looking for him, and Jacob knew that. I’d thought that would stop him from coming, but it hadn’t. Maybe Jacob wanted to get to me more than he cared what happened to him. Or maybe he was just thicker than I thought.
I tried to tell myself that everything would work out. That if it came to it, and the police were called, it’d be for the best. But what if they dug deeper into what’d happened? Maybe they’d find things out about me that no one could ever know.
10
I spent the rest of the evening feeling on edge, wondering if he was out there somewhere, watching me. Every few minutes, or so it seemed, I’d get up and walk to the window, peeking out from behind the curtain, sure I’d see him standing there. But he wasn’t. Not once.
After a while, I started to think maybe he’d never been there. That he was a figment of my imagination, my subconscious conjuring him up. Maybe everything that’d happened between us was haunting me, making me see things that weren’t there.
I tried to concentrate on the TV – some programme about polar bears – but my mind and eyes drifted to the window constantly. In the end, I decided to do something to take my mind off it and started tearing at the wallpaper again, feeling pleased with myself when I pulled off big strips. By the time I was done, the whole room was stripped with the exception of little bits here and there. I stood back and admired my efforts and made a note to go to B&Q one night after work and find some tools to finish the job along with some new paper or paint to replace it.
It was late when I finally headed to bed. I was feeling better but figured a good night’s sleep would help get rid of this spectre hanging over me. When I’m unconscious, I don’t think about him.
I’d brushed my teeth and was changing into my pyjamas when I first heard it. To start with, I didn’t know what it was, a sound without a source. I stood at the top of the stairs and listened. It sounded like scratching but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and after a few seconds, it stopped. I stood still, foot on the top step, for a minute longer, waiting for it to start again, but there was nothing. Finally, I went into the bedroom and climbed into bed. The sheets were fresh and crisp and felt good against my skin. The awful flowery smell was gone.
Lying in the almost-dark, I thought about Jacob. I didn’t want to, but my brain couldn’t help itself, and I wondered if I’d ever be rid of him, in person or in memory. It seemed unlikely I’d forget him now, not after everything that’d happened. In a lot of ways, I’d never forgotten him, even when he’d disappeared from my, and everyone else’s, life for so many years. It wasn’t like I thought of him all the time. Why would I? But there was always a hint of him somewhere in the back of my mind, a lingering presence that a certain smell or sound would bring to the forefront. He was one of those people; not important, not special, but unforgettable.
I rolled over onto my side and could see the light from the moon sneaking in through the gap in the curtain. I tried to stop thinking about Jacob, but the more I tried, the harder it became. I wondered where he was, if he wasn’t lurking outside my house. Whose bed he was in, if he’d found someone else to take care of him. If he’d told them about me.
I turned again, onto my other side, the light keeping me from sleep. But I still couldn’t drift off, Jacob’s face appearing before me every time I closed my eyes. Go away. I turned the pillow and punched it down, trying to get comfortable. And then, I heard it again. The scratching, louder this time.
Sitting up straight, I turned my head towards the sound. It was downstairs, I was sure of it. I pulled back the covers and walked out to the landing, listening intently. It’d stopped again, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I’d found out what it was.
The bang made me jump, and I ducked back behind the banister. There was someone outside, at the door. I started to move, to go downstairs, but stopped and went back to the spare bedroom. I looked around and found a cricket bat, the twine at the top dirty and f
rayed. I picked it up and carried it downstairs.
As I looked out of the peep hole, I saw a shadow as someone ran away. I could hear my own breath and saw the condensation on the door. I knew it was him. It had to be. But he’d gone now, scared away when he’d heard movement.
I wondered what he was playing at. If he wanted to see me, why had he run away? Was he just trying to scare me? Trying to hurt me? The door was open before I realised what I was doing. I ran down the path and looked around, no longer caring what the neighbours thought. But the street was empty, not a soul about.
I turned to go back inside and saw it. On the doorstep was an envelope with POLLY scrawled across the front in child-like handwriting. Jacob’s handwriting. I was going to ignore it, but curiosity got the better of me, and I bent down to pick it up.
Wide awake now, I took the envelope into the kitchen and turned on the light. I put the kettle on and sat at the little round table while I waited for the water to boil. I stared at the envelope, trying to decide if I really wanted to open it, if I really wanted to find out what he’d left for me.
The kettle clicked off, but I didn’t move, I had hold of the packet, turning it over and over in my hands. Finally, I tore it open, half expecting something nasty to spill out. Instead, I found nothing more than a sheet of paper. I turned it around, and as it dawned on me what I was looking at, I dropped it, watching it float down to the floor.
It landed face up, and I looked down at the drawing he’d left. A picture of me, half undressed, sitting on a bed. His bed. I felt bile come up my throat, stinging the back of my tongue. I couldn’t decide if he was trying to creep me out, or if he thought, in his twisted little mind, that it was a nice gesture. Either way, I didn’t want to look at it, didn’t want it in my house. I picked it up and tore it into little pieces. I opened the bin and then changed my mind, wanting it out completely. I opened the back door and threw it outside, letting the wind carry it away.
‘Polly?’
He came out from the shadows and walked towards me. I slammed the back door, locking it and sliding the latch. How long had he been there? Had he been watching through the window? Did he see me open the envelope, did he get pleasure from it?
‘Polly, it’s me,’ he said, and I could tell he was right at the door. ‘Let me in.’ The handle jiggled up and down, and I ran from the kitchen. He started banging on the door, asking for me to open it, over and over.
‘Go away,’ I screamed and crouched down in the hallway, out of sight.
‘I just want to talk to you,’ he said.
‘Leave me alone!’
He kept knocking, kept calling out to me, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I got up and ran to the door but stopped myself from opening it, unsure what he’d do if I gave him the chance.
‘I’ll call the police,’ I said, but he kept knocking. My mobile was upstairs, but he didn’t know that. ‘Hello, police? There’s someone outside my house, he’s trying to get in. I’m frightened.’
I stopped talking and realised the knocking had stopped. Had he believed it? Did he think the police were coming? I moved to the window, trying to see if he was still there, but I couldn’t make him out from my position. I went back and pressed my ear to the door. I couldn’t hear anything, but it didn’t mean he’d gone.
After a few minutes, having heard no more noise, I walked away from the door and turned off the light, going back upstairs. I went into each room, looking out of each window to see if he was still hanging around. Guessing he’d given up, I climbed back into bed and was just beginning to calm down when I heard it again.
‘Polly. Let me in,’ he shouted, his words slurred. I closed my eyes and wondered how much he’d had to drink. The neighbours were bound to be awake by now. Even if I didn’t call the police, someone would. I sat with my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth, listening to the pathetic cries from beneath the window.
‘Leave me alone,’ I mumbled to myself, too tired to go back downstairs.
I watched the clock tick its way around to three a.m., and still, he continued. At one point, I thought I heard someone else shout, an angry voice telling him to shut up. But he didn’t stop. I lay down and shoved the pillow over my head, trying to drown out the sound. And not for the first time, I wondered if I’d done the right thing getting involved with him again. I could still hear his voice through the pillow, and I knew that it had all been a terrible mistake. One I was going to pay for.
11
I woke late the next day, the alarm turned off subconsciously, if I’d even remembered to set it at all. I scrambled out of bed, the panic of being late for work forcing me up, even if what I really wanted to do was stay in bed where it was safe and where no one could see me.
I picked up my phone to call work, to let them know I was running late, my mind furiously trying to think of an appropriate excuse. I’d missed so much work already because of Jacob. I knew I was risking everything, but I just couldn’t face it. I was surprised no one had said anything to me yet about my absences. And there’d been days when I barely focused at all, my mind drifting, my hand scribbling Jacob’s name over and over again like a schoolgirl hoping to marry her crush.
I noticed several missed calls, and for a second, I thought it was him, that he’d given up on calling out my name from outside and had started calling my phone instead. But I remembered changing my number afterwards, making sure, or at least I thought, that he wouldn’t be able to get hold of me. Of course, that was naive. He knew where I was, and that was much more dangerous than him being able to call. I could ignore calls, block them even, but there was nothing I could do to stop him showing up here. Maybe I’d been foolish to think he’d just walk away. I guess deep down I knew this would happen, but I’d fought the thoughts away, not wanting them to be true.
I looked at the phone in my hand, and the realisation hit me. The calls were from the care home. Something had happened to Mum.
‘Hello?’ The voice on the end of the line sounded impatient, and I realised I’d zoned out again.
‘Hi, this is Polly Cooke. You called me,’ I said.
‘Oh yes,’ the woman said. I tried to decide if there was a hint of pity or fear or something in her voice. ‘I’ll just find Cathy for you, she’s dealing with your mum.’
‘But–’ I wanted whoever this woman was to just tell me what was going on, but she’d put the phone down. I could hear the background noise of the place, the chitter-chatter of the nurses and care assistants. I could hear someone shouting nonsense, presumably a resident. I could hear the clatter and tinkling of the drinks trolley being rolled along the lumpy linoleum floor.
I was getting impatient and paced up and down the bedroom, my mind flitting about from Mum to work to Jacob to the situation I found myself in. I couldn’t help thinking that at least now I did have an excuse for being late for work and then felt bad.
‘Ms Cooke?’
Cathy’s voice brought me back. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Has something happened? Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine, Polly,’ Cathy said, her voice calm. ‘She had a fall last night. She’s a little bruised, but nothing’s broken, and she’s had some breakfast this morning. The doctor will be along shortly to check on her, but I think she’s fine.’
I heard myself let out a deep breath, and I wondered if Cathy would think it was a sigh of relief or a sigh of annoyance that she’d left so many messages about nothing.
‘She might like to see you, though. Will you be visiting today?’ Cathy asked.
I thought for a moment. ‘I’ll be there shortly.’
I dressed quickly and crammed a couple of biscuits into my mouth in lieu of breakfast. As I stood over the sink to catch the crumbs, I looked out of the small kitchen window and thought about the night before. I’d been genuinely scared, and the memory ran through me like ice.
I’d never really been as afraid of Jacob as perhaps I should’ve been. I thought I had him worked out, but how well do we e
ver really know someone? Maybe everything I’d assumed about him was wrong, and I realised that my assumptions could’ve put me in danger.
I washed down the biscuits with some water and rinsed the glass before leaving it on the drainer. I was about to leave but stopped and turned to the back door, wondering if Jacob had left any more gifts. In the light of day, it didn’t feel as frightening to open the door, even if it meant, as I thought as I unlocked it, that he could still be out there. He could’ve worn himself out shouting like that and fallen asleep in the yard.
Pulling open the door, I steeled myself, but there was nothing there. No Jacob, no gift. Just a couple of cigarette butts. I sighed and picked them up, throwing them into the wheelie bin. As I washed my hands, I decided I was being ridiculous. Having someone banging at your door and screaming your name in the middle of the night would freak anyone out. There was nothing to worry about. Jacob wasn’t dangerous. I knew that. I’d known him most of my life.
I picked up my bag and headed out thinking everything seemed worse in the dark. Every problem seems bigger, unsolvable. But I had nothing to worry about. If anything was going to happen, it would’ve happened already. I was safe. I’d done what I thought was right, what was best for me. And that’s all any of us can do.
12
I called work while I was walking to the bus stop. The exertion of walking quickly made me sound out of breath, desperate even. ‘I’m really sorry,’ I said to Janet, my boss. And I was sorry, knowing they’d be struggling without me there.
‘Don’t worry about it, Polly,’ Janet said, her voice oozing patience. ‘Just go and check on your Mum. Don’t worry about us, we’ll cope. And take care of yourself too.’
‘I will. Thanks.’
‘Just call me later, let me know how she is and if you’ll be back tomorrow.’
‘I will,’ I said again. ‘Bye.’
No Place Like Home_a gripping psychological thriller Page 4