‘I’m so sorry,’ Nora says, and rubs my back as I lean forward, head between my knees.
Sometime later, minutes, maybe longer, I sit up and realise Dean has gone. No time to sit around with me, a grieving daughter and recent victim of terrible violence. But Nora is still here, still looking sympathetic.
‘Her things,’ I say, and Nora nods.
‘We’ve packed them up. Collect them whenever you’re ready.’
‘I’ll take them now,’ I say, and ask to use the phone, summoning Kev back to help me take the stuff home.
In the back of the taxi, I rummage through a box and find some sheets of paper, words scrawled on them that look like the work of a small child, and they jump out at me. Polly, fire, mad, Jacob, house, dangerous. I screw them up into a ball and stuff them into my pocket.
Kev pulls up across the street from the house. He turns in his seat, grunting with the effort, and asks if I want him to help me inside. I shake my head and give my best Princess Di smile. ‘No, thank you. You’ve done enough,’ I say.
He looks like he wants to protest but instead nods and gives me his own attempt at a smile. I wonder if he thought there was something between us. But there is nothing, and he needs to know this. If I invite him into the house, he may never leave.
He’s still looking at me, waiting, so I say, ‘The place is a mess,’ and look away as I gather my things.
I stand on the kerb, watching Kev’s car disappear down the street, wondering if he’ll come back, if he’ll keep checking on me. I realise I made a mistake in calling him again, but I try to ignore that problem for now and focus on more immediate concerns.
I stare over to the house. I’ll need to clean up, but I’m so tired I know I’ll just go straight to bed and stay there for a long time, until someone comes and tells me I have to leave.
I take the ball of paper from my pocket, crushing it in my hand before tossing it into a bin, watching it vanish amongst the Greggs bags soaked in pasty grease and the half-drunk cans of Coke. I am making it go away.
I’m desperate for sleep, but as I cross the street, all I can do is think about Mum and how things turned out, and I know sleep is not going to come easily. But this wasn’t what I wanted. This was never what I wanted.
I think about how much I’d started to hate the flat and the girls and how comfortable it was going to Mum’s. I remember thinking that maybe I could go back home, that it wasn’t unusual these days, that it wouldn’t make me a loser. But we drove each other mad, and I knew we couldn’t both stay.
I was only doing what I thought was best for her. She had been forgetting things, misplacing things. All I did was push things a little further. I didn’t want her locked up, I just wanted her somewhere she’d be safe and happy and comfortable. She’d had her turn, and now, it was mine.
But no one would listen. No matter what I said, how many stories I told them, they just wouldn’t listen. So, I had to push a little harder.
I knew she was taking a nap. She always did at that time of day. I went inside and put the sheets in the oven and then went to the shops. I knew she was safe, I’d planned to go back. How was I to know how quickly it would get out of control, that I’d get stuck at the shops? And it wasn’t that bad, anyway, just a bit of smoke. I was hardly going to let the house burn down, was I?
And then, she had the stroke. And that wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do that. But it was me being punished. All I wanted was somewhere to call home, and they took that away from me too. It was all for nothing.
As I step onto the pavement, I realise I’m crying, and I realise that Mum is gone, and now, I have two funerals to organise and that life just isn’t fair.
I rummage for my keys and my eyes go to the window of my house. And that’s when I see him. Time slows down. I think I am mistaken. I’m desperate for sleep. I must be wrong.
But no.
There is someone in my house.
58
I stand there, frozen, unsure what to do. My first thought is Jacob. That, of course, I’d be unlucky enough to get haunted. That even bloody death didn’t get rid of him.
And then, I think maybe it’s the police. Maybe they haven’t finished with the house at all.
And then he turns. He’s standing there in my house like he owns the place. I can see him clearly. I feel the heat inside me burn brighter. Not fear. Anger.
What’s he doing in my house?
Phil stands in the living room, hands in pockets, hood pulled up. I grab for my phone as I meet his eye. He watches me standing there, useless, on the outside. He looks down at the phone in my hand. He looks back at me and wonders. Will I call the police?
But what if they catch him? What if he talks? They might not believe him, but they’ll look more closely. Maybe I should just let him go.
But he’s in my house. He knows he’s taking a risk being there. There can be only one reason why he came back. He wants to hurt me.
I start to step forward, to go inside, to confront him, to get back what’s mine.
But I’ve been here before. I’ve made this mistake before.
He moves forward, right up to the window, looking right at me. He smirks and raises his hand. His eyes never leave mine as he, slowly and quite deliberately, presses three numbers into his phone.
The anger turns to fear.
Phil watches a second more, and then, I turn and run.
59
The bus pulls in at the stop, and I can see people staring at my red eyes and running nose. I’ve cried all the way here, knowing I’ve lost everything, but now, I’m done. Now, I have a plan.
I get off the bus and move my bag onto my shoulder. There’s not much in it, but it rubs against my sore shoulder and ribs nonetheless.
It’s raining again, and I’m soaked through already as I walk up the main road, past the takeaway and the newsagents, around the corner and off to the small road on the left.
I stand outside the house and notice it’s much prettier than I’d thought last time. Perhaps it’s the glow of Christmas lights from across the street that makes it look so nice. Or maybe I’d just misjudged it before.
I realise there are no Christmas lights up in this house, and I wonder if they’ll bother at all this year. I think about the house I’ve just left and how I would have decorated it. How warm and festive I could have made it.
A car turns onto a drive next to me, and a couple get out and eye me up before going inside, carrying bags of groceries. I glance at their house, which also has no lights up and has an unwelcoming aura. There’s a for sale sign outside, and I wonder how much these houses go for. Too much for me, at least.
I turn back to the house in front of me as the rain comes down harder. I can see someone moving inside, and I walk to the door and ring the bell. It takes a moment for the door to be answered and I wonder what I look like. A drowned rat probably.
When the door finally opens, a man stands there, a towel in his hand, and for a moment, I think it’s for me to dry my hair with, but then, I realise it’s a tea towel.
He looks at me with tired, red eyes, and I wonder if he’s been crying just now or if he’s been crying for days nonstop. He looks like he wants to say something, probably ask who I am, but something stops him. I imagine his throat is raw with grief. A little dog stands by his feet, barking and growling, and he tries to get it to stop.
He’s better looking than I remembered. Taller, much slimmer than her. He’d probably be very attractive, if it weren’t for the eyes.
‘Yes?’ he says eventually, and I realise I was right. His words come out gruff, definitely a sore throat.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I say and step closer. ‘My name’s Polly. Polly Cooke. I knew your wife. I…’ He looks like he’s going to collapse, and the towel slips from his hands. I try to help him, but he pulls away.
‘I just…I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Cathy,’ I say, and he lets out a spluttering cry. ‘She was so kind. And the only reason
she came that day was to tell me about my mum. My mum died, and Cathy wanted to tell me in person. I’m so sorry she…’
He leans against the door frame, tears in his eyes, rain pouring down my face.
‘I just wanted to talk to someone,’ I say. ‘Can I come inside?’
He tries to say something but his words get stuck in his throat. But then, he stands up straight and almost smiles. He stands back, making room for me to get inside, the dog still barking from behind him.
‘Polly,’ he says. ‘Of course. Come in.’
I step inside, into the warmth, and look around the place Cathy used to call home. Her husband closes the door behind me and stands there while I take my coat off.
‘What a beautiful home,’ I say.
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Acknowledgments
Thanks to everyone at Bloodhound Books for their work on the book and for believing in it. To Stan for his input on the early drafts. And to Stephen, Mam, Dad, Donna, Jonathan, Maria, Chris and Diane for their continued support.
Any mistakes are down to Cotton and Tina who kept barking when I was trying to concentrate.
No Place Like Home_a gripping psychological thriller Page 22