If He Wakes

by If He Wakes (retail) (epub)

  There was no cash, only the money counter, empty plastic coin bags and some tape for wrapping up the notes.

  She put a hand to her forehead that was now prickled with cold sweat.

  No money.

  She was thirty thousand in debt, about to lose her flat and Adam wasn’t returning her calls.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ she shouted, as she fell to her knees.

  10

  Rachel

  I was only twenty when I met Phil. Jessica was just a year old and I was living with my mother having returned there, tail between my legs, when she was seven months. I'd tried to make a go of it with Jessica’s father but two teenagers and a surprise pregnancy was hard going.

  I see now that it was the worst decision I could've made. Not the separation from Jessica's father (who got another girl pregnant within the year), but going back to my mother. She was single at the time and going on blind dates with a frenzy.

  My mother isn't the type of woman who does well on her own. She's only bearable when she's got male company, and it's only a new lover that she'll listen to. Her mind overthinks and if she doesn't have someone to tell her to ‘cut that crap out’ her neurosis goes on overdrive. So life at home was tense.

  I'd been working at the chemist two months when I met Phil. Even now I can remember him: wearing a suit, dark brown with a pale blue tie. I was watching him before he even came into the pharmacy. I liked the way he moved; he was very self-assured. He swung his arm a little as he walked, in time with the swing of his hips.

  ‘You’re new,’ he’d said, walking right up to me and I’d blushed. He’d laughed at my embarrassment and I’d joined in, amused by the reaction he’d caused in me.

  ‘When did you start?’ he asked and listened with real interest when I told him. He was a medical sales rep back then, often visiting the surgery and presenting to the staff but he’d always stop by to see me.

  I was a single mother; no real money, no qualifications, a distrust of men and a bullying, controlling mother. Phil changed everything. He managed to charm not only me and my daughter, but also my mother. And when I moved out, ready to start my life with Phil, my mother said the only nice thing I can ever remember, ‘Keep tight hold,’ she'd said, ‘you two have something good there.'

  If I’d been told the future then, I’d have laughed. If I’d been shown images of myself with trembling hands as I got myself dressed that morning, the sweat on my forehead as I hobbled to the sink to wash, the anxiety over my husband's actions and fidelity clear on my face, I’d have laughed back then and said it was impossible. Unbelievable, unthinkable. Phil was my saviour, my knight, the happy ending to my fairy-tale.

  But the knight in shining armour routine was done fourteen years ago. People change. Look at my mother. She remarried, moved to Devon and became a Buddhist. We’ve a strained relationship now. I tend to keep her at arm’s length, avoiding her calls and emails, but when I do talk to her, she tells me about mindfulness and freedom from material possessions. She tells me I’m self-obsessed and greedy, and perhaps I am greedy, wanting a safe, predictable life for me and my family, but so what? Doesn't everyone?

  We have a large kitchen diner, open plan, wooden floors and plenty of space. It's the room I love most in the house. We had kept to minimalist decor, white walls, the Scandinavian look. The simplicity of it was soothing as I made it to the kitchen table with the laptop lying there, and collapsed on the chair panting. I'd had to come downstairs on my bottom and my whole body ached with the effort. My cast was painful, a dull ache that the medication hadn't completely soothed.

  Rain was hitting the window, it was coming down heavy and I shivered slightly; I was wearing a cotton wrap dress, more suited to August than November, but it was the best I could do and it provided no comfort from the chill in the air.

  The phone rang just as I was pulling the laptop toward me and I froze. The nearest one was in the hall by the front door and I couldn’t make it there in time. I waited, listening to see if they’d ring off or leave a message. I heard the answer machine kick in. My cheerful voice apologise to whoever was on the other end of the line and invite them to leave a message. There was a pause, an intake of breath, and then a familiar voice that made my heart gallop.

  ‘Mr Farrell? It’s Detective Sergeant Bailey here, just following up on last night’s call.’ He took a moment. ‘I’d really like to speak to you, and Mrs Farrell, about the run of events that took place yesterday. If you could call the station, as soon as possible, the number is…’ I couldn’t listen to any more of the message, the pounding of the blood in my ears was roaring. The police had called again. Did they know something? Worked something out that I hadn’t?

  I pulled the laptop toward me and opened it up, Della hadn’t yet arrived and for that I was grateful. I’d no idea what time Phil had told her to come and I had a vague notion that she was taking the piss, but I couldn’t speculate on that now. I needed to see the Twitter messages. I needed to know if it was Phil who sent them.

  The dial on the screen slowly turned as I waited for the Wi-Fi to connect, for the page to upload. And then, when it did, I let out a groan of frustration. Instead of taking me straight to an account, as it had before, a page uploaded asking me to log in. I thought how I got to the messages yesterday and went back to Google, typed in the Santa holidays I'd been looking at, desperately searching for the Twitter icon I'd clicked. I found it and again, was presented with the home page asking for log in details. I banged my fist on the table, desperately trying to remember the username from the messages I'd read.

  BigSmilers I typed in, hoping that the username would be stored and recognised but nothing came up. BigSmiles, BigSmiling, BigSmiler.

  I clicked on ‘forgot password’ and it prompted for an email or phone number. I froze, if I put Phil's mobile number in, the message would go directly to him. I was at a loss. I thought a moment and then went into the calendar function. It was something I used heavily to organise my work and it was also where I put in Phil’s movements. I went back over the previous weeks, his trips to London. How long he’d been there, when he’d returned. Were they all lies? Was he seeing another woman in Chester on all these dates instead?

  I looked over yesterday’s entry, Phil in London, I’d typed for the Tuesday morning, but he wasn’t in London. He’d taken the morning off. He’d lied.

  ‘Where were you?’ I hissed at the screen. ‘Were you in Crewe or on that bloody retail park?’

  I needed his phone, his diary. I needed to read his emails but I had no idea how. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. Immediately the hit and run played out in my mind: Phil’s BMW charging forward, the screech of tyres against the ground.

  ‘Shit,’ I said as saliva filled my mouth. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  I took a few deep breaths that had no impact on my thudding heart, and went back to Google.

  Hit and Run. Chester.

  It was the first result.

  Officers appeal for information.

  Police were called to Grosvenor Retail Park yesterday afternoon following reports that a pedestrian had been hit by a moving vehicle outside the Mexican fast food outlet. Officers were informed that a man had been involved in a serious collision with a black BMW, which failed to stop after the collision at around 2.30pm. The pedestrian, who suffered serious injuries and is believed to be in a coma, was taken to hospital where he is now receiving treatment. His condition is currently described as stable. Police are now appealing to the public. Anyone with information in relation to the incident should call…

  A cold sweat had built on my shoulder blades, on my upper lip, between my breasts. None of it made sense. None of it.

  It couldn't have been Phil, not my Phil. I could extend my imagination to him having an affair, I could stretch to that, but I would not accept that he had anything to do with the hit and run. He was a good man. He wouldn’t drive off after doing something like that. I couldn’t understand it, it just didn’t make
any sense. I’d seen that car, his car, travel at speed. As if they intended to hit whoever they were charging at. It wasn’t an accident, not what I’d seen, so it made no sense that Phil, my Phil of all people, would do something like that.

  The front door slammed and I jumped.

  I grabbed the map and screwed-up parking ticket and thrust them in my pocket as footsteps made their way toward me. I had no idea what I’d say to him, how I’d ask him, tell him. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared. I snapped the laptop shut and went for the earring but it escaped my fingers, it slid out of my grasp, moving further down the table. I stretched as far as I could, but my cast pinned me to the chair.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was Della and I looked up in shock, relieved it was her but horrified to be caught out. I stretched as far as I could to the earring but to no avail.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. Did you get my message? I called your mobile a few times but you didn’t pick up. Has everything been okay? Did the girls get to school? Phil said last night he'd take them, did he? How’s your ankle?’

  She appeared in the French doors, soaked from the rain, her hair hanging down in long tendrils making her look much younger than she was.

  ‘I thought you'd be in bed!’ she said when she saw me. ‘Are you feeling alright? Is it okay if I put this in the dryer?’ She held up her coat. ‘I'm not sure it'll dry on the rack. It'll only need ten minutes or so. I'll do that and then get on with cleaning the kitchen, unless you need me for anything else? Do you want me to help you back upstairs? Back to bed?’

  She came toward me, her face wet, and smiled. Then her expression froze when she saw my face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked stopping at the side of me. ‘What’s happened?’

  She looked down and saw the earring, the hoop that lay just out of my reach and picked it up. A small murmur escaped me, but it was too late. She was holding it in the light.

  I went to say how it was mine, how it was Katie’s or Jessica's. The story of some made-up tale on the edge of my lips, but then her face broke out into a large grin that stopped me from talking.

  ‘My earring!’ she said. ‘You found it.’

  I watched as she put it quickly into her earlobe with the practised moves of someone who does it daily. It was Della's earring.

  ‘I lost this yesterday when I was cleaning your room,’ she said. ‘Looked all over but couldn’t find it.’

  I stared at her. It was Della’s earring, fallen from her ear when she was cleaning my bedroom, as I paid her to. Not fallen from Phil's pocket but fallen from my bed. I slumped in my chair, exhausted.

  ‘Your earring.’ I nodded. ‘Of course it's your earring,’ I said and closed my eyes, suddenly drained of all energy.

  I thought of Phil, the idea of him having an affair with the wearer of the earring that was now back in Della’s ear. The logical explanation for how it had come to be in my bedroom.

  ‘I think I’m going insane,’ I told her and found myself starting to laugh.

  11

  Suzie

  Suzie took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The safe was empty. Left open. No money.

  ‘Okay.’ She concentrated on filling her lungs and then letting the air slowly out. ‘Okay.’

  She tried to think of a logical explanation but all she could recall was the memory of Carl confessing his love for Tina. Carl speaking quickly over a cheap meal of tagliatelle carbonara, stressing that he hadn't done anything. He hadn't so much as kissed Tina, but he wanted to, he very much wanted to and that was enough.

  It hadn't been a surprise. Suzie had known her relationship with Carl was in trouble because there’d been ‘the signs’. Little clues that Carl was straying and, at the time, she’d ignored them all. They’d stopped having sex, that was the first sign. Not so much as a fumble in over three months and then Carl started going to the gym obsessively. He’d started talking about his new personal trainer called Tina non-stop, and was sprucing himself up to meet her. New sports gear, new haircut and stinking of aftershave. And the selfies! It was the reason she came off Facebook, so many self-congratulating photographs of Carl, taken by Carl. Carl tensing his biceps, Carl drinking a protein shake, Carl bare-chested in the garden, Carl with a drink in his hand and the words, ‘Beer-o-clock!’ written underneath. So many little clues that he was trying to impress someone that wasn't her. They became obvious as soon as he said it was over. She’d known then that Carl was cheating, so surely if Adam was having an affair she’d have spotted the signs?

  She thought back over the past few days. They’d had sex. Just three days ago, half drunk in her flat and he’d been very passionate. Very loving. He’d insisted they took a bath together afterward, washing her hair, gently massaging her back with a sponge. And he’d been talking about the wedding, helping her plan. Only last week they'd chosen the track for their first dance. They’d settled on ‘Better Together’ by Jack Johnson; Adam had suggested it and Suzie had been delighted. It was perfect. He’d downloaded it there and then. Played it in her flat whilst she’d been preparing their evening meal, him pouring her a glass of wine and singing along. They'd even had a little dance in the kitchen whilst the chicken browned.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  ‘Impossible,’ she said and took another deep breath. ‘Impossible.’

  There was absolutely no way Adam had left her, she was sure of it. He had not done a runner. They were in love, proper love. He wouldn’t leave her like this, if he knew how much she wanted to speak with him he’d be home in a flash. Besides, wasn’t that his laptop on the desk? Weren’t his clothes still in his wardrobe? His shoes still littering the floor? No, Adam had not left her for another Tina.

  She stood up and walked back out into the lounge and stood for a moment in the silence playing different scenarios out in her mind. Perhaps he'd been mugged. He was on his way to the bank, money in his pockets when he was attacked and beaten, the cash stolen. Perhaps he'd got caught up in his job, followed the light and got out of range on his phone unaware of how much he needed to be back. That was much more plausible. Or perhaps, Suzie thought with a lurch in her stomach, something had happened to him.

  She marched back into the office and looked around for his diary for any clue as to where he was. Wales. She was sure he’d said he was going to Wales. She picked up the test sheets, the notepad, the bits of receipts ready for him to file, but there was nothing about his appointments. She thought about going to the diary in the studio but she knew he kept his location work on the calendar in his phone. He didn’t make any hard copies of his appointments just in case he should be investigated.

  ‘Bloody hell, Adam!’ she hissed. This avoiding tax was all very well and good until something like this happened. When she needed to know where he was and where he’d put the cash.

  Biting her thumbnail she went into his bedroom, hoping to find something there. Stepping over his clothes on the floor, she went over to his unmade bed and picked up his pillow. She held it close to her face and took a long breath in of his scent whilst looking over at his bedside table. There was nothing other than a half empty glass of water. She threw his pillow back on his bed, then after a moment, lay down. She couldn’t think what to do and for a moment, she was lost.

  Her phone bleeped in her bag and she scrambled up for it. She had a message. Going into the lounge, she grabbed it and felt the plunging drop of disappointment as she saw it wasn’t from Adam, but Rachel. Della hadn’t yet arrived, but as soon as she did, Rachel would ask her to take her to the Gatsby house and they’d meet Suzie there. She ended with, Don’t be too long! and Suzie felt her stomach clench.

  ‘Well, at least she’s got Della,’ she said as she put her phone away, but she wasn’t entirely confident that it was for the best.

  Suzie imagined Della trying to measure up in the garden accurately, help them pin up the fabric backdrops and move about props with her inane questions and inability to listen and shook her head. She’d be a lia
bility. From what she’d seen of Della, Suzie was sure she’d break everything, not take instructions and generally get in the way. She was okay to mop a kitchen floor but not qualified to take exact measurements and arrange catering for three hundred, and there was something about her that Suzie didn’t quite trust.

  After speaking with Rachel she’d had the idea that they'd use someone from the catering college instead. Rachel often hired students for her own gigs from Jennifer, a teacher she knew who worked there, and they'd agreed on employing them with this one, so why not hire one of them full time for the week? But she needed to sort out the money situation with Adam and that conversation with Rachel hadn’t happened and now Della was the hired help. She shook her head. So be it. She had to get this sorted out first.

  She couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate on the party with Adam missing and the safe empty. She quickly typed back a response, telling Rachel that she’d got waylaid. That she might be late, but would get there when she could. She didn’t want to alarm Rachel. Not yet. There was no point in telling her the full story. Besides, Suzie didn’t know it. Once she had the logical explanation, she’d explain then. For now, she asked if Rachel would sort out the marquee, clarify the boundaries of the party area and she’d get on with organising the props.

  ‘Adam!’ she hissed, and checked her messages again. Just in case.

  There was only one thing she could do, so after a quick search, she made a call to a hospital in Wales. This is what she'd seen them do on the television, in the dramas and films. When someone went missing you checked with the hospitals. Perhaps Adam was in there now, he'd had appendicitis or something on the job.

  After a short while, she was put through to admissions and after giving his name and address was told quite clearly that no one with those details had been admitted.

  ‘But he’s missing,’ Suzie had said, her voice shaking. ‘I've not heard from him in over a day and this is an emergency. I'm sure he said he was going to Wales, can you check again? How many hospitals are there in Wales?’