Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I turn and take in the street. The box has been hand-delivered in the half-hour I was out, so it’s either a coincidence, or someone was watching and waiting for the moment. I walk to the pavement and look both ways, then follow the street until it gets to the turn that leads to the alley that runs around the back of my flat. There is no one hanging around; no mysterious out-of-place cars. It’s the type of street where an unknown vehicle outside someone’s house will get a series of angry curtain-twitches at least and a letter on the windscreen if someone’s really annoyed.

  A sniper’s dot is prickling the back of my neck. I’d swear I’m being watched, except there is no one in sight. I hurry back to my flat and open the door, before waiting in the frame; one foot in, one out.

  ‘Hello?’

  There’s no answer and, when I poke my head inside, no obvious sign of anyone being there. I tell myself that I had the locks changed.

  After a final check towards the empty street, I move fully into my flat and lock the door behind me. There’s warmth and safety here. The worst thing I ever did happened steps from where I am – but I’m still here.

  I put the box on the counter and then get the scissors from the kitchen drawer. The corners of the brown paper have all been meticulously taped down, so I’m left snipping away at the package until there is enough room to slip my fingers inside. I pull the paper apart to reveal a plain brown box. It gives me a vision of boxes within boxes all the way down to some sort of thimble in the centre.

  It’s not that. As soon as I unfold the flaps at the top, the contents of the box are clear.

  Baby clothes.

  Thirty-Eight

  There is a pale blue onesie with ‘Daddy’s little boy’ printed on the front, plus a pink one that reads ‘Daddy’s little girl’. As well as those, the box contains matching hats for the outfits, plus small white socks and tiny booties that look like they would be too big for a doll.

  Everything smells fresh and new. The labels read Marks & Spencer and I can imagine this being the type of thing a grandmother-to-be might buy in anticipation of a birth.

  Other than me, only two people knew about my pregnancy: David and Jane. It was literally the last thing David and I talked about, or, I suppose argued about. It’s impossible to resist the pull to look down at the spot in the kitchen where he hit his head. Sometimes I think I can still see the pool of blood, even though it was cleared years ago.

  It’s not as if the package was left by accident, or that it could be someone else’s. My name was on the front. It was meant for me. It’s not exactly upsetting, more of a jolt to times gone by.

  Daddy’s little boy.

  Daddy’s little girl.

  I find myself rubbing the scar at the base of my neck again. In the days after David slashed me with the kitchen knife, I feared the mark would end up being far darker than it ever became. The narrow line is only a little muddier than my actual skintone and, unless a person is standing close to me – and actually looking – I doubt anyone would notice.

  I spend much of the morning doing little other than pacing my flat, looking for answers where there are none. I find the clothes online. They’re part of Marks & Spencer’s current season, so would be available at any of their stores. Whoever bought the clothes did so recently.

  It has always felt like a cliché that someone can jump when they’re surprised. It’s a figure of speech – and yet, when my doorbell sounds, I yelp like a dog whose tail has been stepped on. I leap high enough that I have to cling onto the counter to stop myself from tumbling. I quickly sweep the baby clothes into the drawer in which I usually keep tea towels and then crush the empty box into the bin under the sink.

  The doorbell sounds a second time, though I’m ready for it now. When I answer, I’m not sure why I was surprised at all. It’s two minutes to one and Jane is there with Norah strapped into a buggy.

  She blusters into my flat buggy-first and then places a couple of bags onto the counter.

  ‘Norah’s slept on and off all morning,’ Jane says, by way of a greeting. ‘She’ll probably be awake most of the afternoon.’

  ‘No worries,’ I reply, while thinking, thanks for that.

  Jane seems flustered as she checks her coat pockets and then reaches under the pram to check on something.

  She speaks quickly: ‘If you do take her to the park, then she likes being strapped into the buggy most of the time. But it might tire her out enough for her to sleep if you take her out, so that could be the best idea.’

  There is little subtlety there – and I guess this means I’m definitely taking Norah to the park.

  Jane indicates to the space under the buggy: ‘There are two changes of clothes just in case, plus blankets, her monkey and a bottle of milk for the fridge.’

  Presumably because she’s about to have it removed and it’s on her mind, Jane starts to scratch the mole next to her bra strap. There are a rapid couple of scritches, but she stops when she realises what she’s doing.

  ‘Are you worried about it?’ I ask, nodding to her shoulder.

  ‘They say it doesn’t hurt, but who knows?’

  The mole is the type of thing I wouldn’t have noticed until Jane pointed it out a year or so ago. The doctors said it wasn’t tumorous, but she wanted it removed anyway.

  ‘You look terrified,’ Jane says, looking from me to the buggy.

  Norah is awake, though happily sitting and staring. I’m not sure if all infants do the same, but she will sometimes stare at something seemingly innocuous like a lamp as if it’s a wonder of the world. I suppose there’s a part of everyone that wishes the world could still be viewed in such a way. Norah seems to be interested in the skirt I have drying over the radiator.

  ‘I think I can handle a sixteen-month-old,’ I reply, although not particularly confidently.

  ‘I have to get going,’ Jane says, checking her phone. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.’

  She crouches and says goodbye to Norah and then heads out to her car.

  I stare at Norah, who stares back at me. I undo the straps to release her from the buggy, but she doesn’t move.

  ‘Do you want to come out?’ I ask.

  She points at the radiator: ‘Tree.’

  ‘It’s not a tree,’ I say.

  ‘Tree.’

  I actually look, though the radiator is still a radiator.

  ‘Tree,’ she insists.

  I’ve looked after Norah before – but only in small doses. There was once for an hour at Jane’s house because she had some sort of meeting, then a few times where it’s been minutes at a time because Jane’s had to go to the toilet or something like that. An entire afternoon is a new one.

  When Norah was first born, Jane would say things like, ‘It’ll be you again soon’, seemingly oblivious that my husband was gone. She was thinking of herself while trying to be comforting – but I suppose we’re both guilty of that. Either way, it quickly tailed off. We never talk about me having children now. I suppose I wondered myself if seeing someone else with a young daughter would somehow get me broody, but, if anything, the opposite is true. Parenting always seems like so much work.

  ‘Tree,’ Norah says again.

  I crouch so that we’re at the same level. I’ve never told Jane this, but she and her daughter look nothing alike. Norah has the same big, blue eyes of her father, along with Ben’s light hair. Jane has been dyeing hers for so long that I forget she isn’t a natural blonde.

  ‘Do you want to go and see the trees in the park?’ I ask.

  She puts her fingers into her mouth and starts to chew on them. ‘Tree,’ she says.

  ‘I’m going to take that as a “yes”.’

  It’s still cold, but there’s none of the biting fury from previous days. It’s back to feeling more like a winter’s day in Britain, as opposed to somewhere in the Arctic Circle. Norah is already wrapped up in a coat, scarf and gloves – and I find a folded blanket on top of the other things Jane has left
below the buggy.

  ‘Do you want to walk?’ I ask her.

  Norah stares at me and gurgles something that I’m almost certain is not a word. I finger walk across my palm, wondering if this might be a better way of communicating. When she doesn’t respond, or make any attempt to get out from the buggy, I strap her in, grab my phone and keys and then set off.

  Walking with a child in a buggy is something close to having an internal monologue that is no longer internal. I find myself asking Norah if she can see the cars, the trees, the clouds – and more or less everything else directly in front of us. She makes almost no indication that she can hear me, let alone understand what I’m waffling about. It is a little bit like having a conversation with a wall.

  Elizabeth Park is a short distance from the centre of Gradingham. Whoever named it had such a level of inventiveness that he or she must have looked at the monarch and said, ‘That’ll do.’

  There’s a path that loops around the park, so I start to push Norah along. She is happily pointing at various things and saying ‘tree’. I’d give her a fifty per cent hit rate of actually identifying a tree. The sky, the grass, the toilet block and a bloke with a bottle of cider are all accused of being trees. I stop a couple of times, wondering if Norah might want to hold my hand and walk for a little bit. Each time I attempt to undo the straps holding her in, she starts to scowl, seemingly moments from tears, so I secure her back into the buggy and she smiles once more. I don’t blame her – I wouldn’t object to someone wheeling me around a park all day.

  We get to the pond and Norah shouts something that I hope is ‘duck’. If not, she’s been overhearing some words that are definitely not child-friendly. After the third such declaration, a woman on her way past with a pair of shopping bags stops to turn and look.

  ‘She likes the ducks,’ I call across to clarify, although I’m not sure the woman hears.

  It’s a mild day, although there are the usual park weirdoes with their hoods up, who have congregated in the bushes to drink cider. A little away from them, some lads who should probably be in school have created a goal with their bags and are playing football.

  I try again to see if Norah wants to get out of the buggy, though she’s happily identifying crows as ducks. Occasionally, she’ll point at an actual duck – although her hit rate for this is a lot lower than when she was identifying trees.

  I look across to the other side of the pond and the empty bench, wondering if it really was David who Jane saw here. It’s a smaller distance than I thought, definitely close enough that someone should be identifiable. Jane knew David for long enough that she should be able to distinguish between him and someone else… except that she won’t have seen him in two years. My memory of his face has faded in that time – and hers will have done as well.

  Norah seems happy enough, so I crouch by her and we watch the birds for a while. She points a lot, along with opening and closing her mouth vicariously. She’s one of those children who constantly seem on the brink of letting out full, eloquent sentences, though she isn’t quite there yet. I’ve known grown adults who are much the same.

  I find myself drifting back to the package of clothes, wondering who sent it and what it means. Someone is playing with me. Someone who knows me.

  As we set off for a second lap of the park, I’m beginning to think that this parenting lark isn’t that tough, after all. A grandmothery type stops us partway round and starts making goo-goo noises towards Norah, while saying how she’s got my eyes. I don’t correct her, although, when Norah points at the woman and shouts ‘cow’, the moment is somewhat soured.

  Clouds are starting to mass and it’s the time of year in which it never quite gets light anyway. Aside from the footballing boys, there are only a handful of people in the park, almost all of whom are wearing heavy, thick coats. It’s only as I pass the toilet block that I realise I really need to go. In some parks, it would be a strict no – but these were renovated a couple of years ago and, as public toilets go, they’re more or less acceptable for human use.

  I wheel Norah around the zigzag doorway and then leave her next to the sinks. I’m not sure whether to face her towards the graffiti that accuses someone named ‘Claire’ of a rather graphic act or the open stalls.

  I’m also not certain of the etiquette for going to the toilet while looking after a young child. It doesn’t feel right to leave her, while, at the same time, I don’t think I can take her into the stall with me. Do mothers walk around all day holding their bladders? It’s not the sort of question I can believe anyone has ever asked out loud.

  In the end, I wheel Norah into a spot close to the hand dryers, where she’s facing the opposite wall.

  ‘I’ll be one minute,’ I tell her, without a response.

  I head into the cubicle and lock the door, trying to will my body to get on with it. I’ve only been sitting for a few seconds when my phone rings. It’s a scramble to get it from my bag and, though I think about ignoring it, the word ‘solicitor’ appears on the screen.

  Mr Patrick announces my name as if he’s summoning me: ‘Morgan…?’ he says.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘I’m calling to let you know that the police are not pushing further charges over the collision involving your car.’

  I’m staring at the scratched markings on the back of the door, where someone has taken to it with a knife. It takes me a couple of seconds to take in what he’s said.

  ‘That’s it?’ I reply.

  ‘That’s it. Someone should be in contact to sort out what’s happening with your car and I’m sure you’ll need a conversation with your insurance company. Other than that, your bail conditions have been lifted.’

  ‘Why?’

  It’s so out of the blue that I’m sure I sound guilty. ‘Usually,’ he says, ‘this sort of speed would indicate that new evidence has come to light.’

  ‘New evidence…’

  I’ve become a parrot.

  ‘I can’t say for certain,’ he replies, humouring me. ‘I wasn’t able to get a proper answer from anyone at the station and, frankly, I’m not sure it matters at the moment. The upshot is that you no longer have anything to worry about.’

  ‘Thank you…’

  ‘Not a worry. I’ll be in touch if there’s anything more.’

  He hangs up and I’m left staring at the scratches in the door, wondering what’s happened. Has someone else been arrested? Is there a new witness?

  Everything has taken me by such a surprise that I only now realise I’ve forgotten to do the one thing I came in here for.

  ‘Hang on a moment, Norah,’ I call, although there is no reply.

  A minute or so later and I’m out of the cubicle. I head for the sinks and set the water flowing. It’s only then that I glance across to the buggy, which still sits next to the hand dryers.

  The empty buggy.

  Thirty-Nine

  THE WHY

  Two years, one month ago

  The doorbell and loud knocking combine to create a tsunami of noise through which no normal person could ever sleep. I roll one way in the bed, then the other, squinting through the gloom to the clock that reads 06:53.

  Ugh.

  I’m trying to get the sleep out of my eyes as I realise that I’ve slept on David’s side of the bed. I’m almost certain I started where I would usually sleep, but, in the absence of my husband, I’ve unknowingly spread myself across onto his.

  The doorbell continues to ring over and over as thumps also bounce through the flat. I pull myself out of bed and stumble into the main area, before peeping through the window to see who’s at the door.

  I suppose I should have expected this.

  When I open the door, Yasmine shoves her way in with such force that she almost stumbles into the counter. It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t for the fact that she is one of the most pregnant people I’ve ever seen. Some women can disguise a pregnancy almost up to birth, whether through flattering clothes or som
e sort of wizardry. Yasmine is definitely not one of those women. She is so huge, it’s as if she’s smuggling a small hippo under her top.

  ‘You can’t just come in here,’ I say.

  ‘What happened?’ she fires back.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I had the police around. They say David’s missing.’

  ‘I know. Who do you think reported it?’

  ‘So, where is he?’

  I have to fight away a yawn, which only seems to make her angrier. It’s only now that I realise I’ve never given her my address. She must have got it from David.

  ‘If I knew where he was,’ I say, ‘I wouldn’t have reported him missing.’

  Yasmine stands up a little straighter and smooths her top across her stomach. Her belly button has popped and looks like the cherry on top of a bakewell. Her eyes scan my roll-neck neck top and it’s as if she knows.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ she asks.

  Until now, I thought I’d have no problem dealing with her, but it’s as if the force of the accusation is too much as I find myself taking half a step backwards.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘He wouldn’t just disappear.’

  I’m not sure why I react in the way I do. I should sympathise and perhaps try to force out a tear. We could be sisters in arms. Instead – and I suspect because I simply don’t like her – I fire right back.

  ‘He disappeared all the time,’ I say. ‘He’d claim to be off in one place – and then I’d find him sitting in a service station by himself.’

  Yasmine’s arm remains half raised. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean? It’s not a metaphor, it’s a fact. There’s plenty he didn’t tell me – including who you were, until you showed up in my class.’ A pause. ‘And why did you turn up?’