Close to You (ARC)

by Kerry Wilkinson

  Things have swapped and now Yasmine folds her arms defensively across herself. ‘Because he’s my brother,’ she says. ‘He’d never had a proper girlfriend before and I wanted a look at you.’

  ‘Why not tell me that at the time, instead of running away?’

  She slumps a little, unfolding her arms and gripping the counter. There’s a moment in which I wonder if she’s about to go into labour. I’ll have to bundle her into the car and get her to hospital.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she says, quieter this time. ‘David’s a complicated person. He’s been hurt by girlfriends before – or at least that’s what he’s said. Sometimes I wondered if he was the problem. I was going to ask if you knew what you were getting yourself into… but then I thought you were playing games in pretending not to know me.’

  ‘I didn’t know you.’

  ‘Well, I know that now…’

  It’s now that I know I should stop – except this is when I twist the knife. It’s one thing to tell lies to cover; another entirely to tell them to cause someone else pain.

  ‘Do you know where he might have gone?’ I ask.

  I picture the lake and the bridge.

  There was no need for that – and yet I feel like she started it by announcing herself after my class and then storming away. What goes around, and all that.

  ‘I did tell the police,’ Yasmine says. Her tone has changed from angry and accusatory to soft acceptance.

  ‘Tell them what?’

  ‘Dad’s old house is out in a place called Greatstone on the Kent coast. We’ve not known what to do with it since Dad died. It’s too run-down for anyone to live in and neither of us have the money to restore it. Developers have been interested – but only to knock it down. David would never agree to that, so it’s still sitting empty.’

  ‘He never told me…’

  Yasmine shrugs and there’s a moment in which it feels as if we could – and maybe should – be closer. It wasn’t only me from whom David kept things.

  ‘Dad was a hoarder,’ she says. ‘He wouldn’t get rid of anything. I can’t even bare to look at the place. David and me have been arguing about it for years.’ She stops and then adds: ‘I guess he didn’t tell you that either…?’

  ‘No.’

  She glances towards the doorway and, I suspect, is starting to wish she hadn’t come. ‘David always was one to keep things to himself.’

  ‘I’ve come to realise that.’ I point towards her belly, while thinking of my own. Yasmine’s child will be a cousin to mine… at least in everyone else’s mind, even if it’s not the truth. ‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Girl. She’s due in ten weeks, but nobody seems to think I’m going to last that long.’

  She turns towards the door and it feels like we’re done – not just now but for good. I suspect that, unless we run into one another in someplace like a supermarket, we’ll never see each other again.

  ‘I should go,’ Yasmine says. ‘I, er… hope I didn’t wake you.’

  I wave it away as if it’s all fine – of course she woke me.

  She starts to head for the door, before spinning somewhat abruptly. She picks up the pen on the counter and scribbles something onto the pad next to the Tigger pot.

  ‘That’s my address,’ she says, ‘just in case you need it.’

  ‘OK.’

  We don’t swap numbers and I wait until I hear the sound of an engine disappearing before checking what she’s written. It’s a place in Kingbridge that I will likely never visit.

  I figure I might as well go back to bed, but, when I turn, it’s as if someone has jabbed knitting needles into my midriff. I double over, struggling for breath and wheezing like an asthmatic. I have to hold onto the back of the sofa to steady myself as I stumble across the room before eventually reaching the toilet. I’ve barely managed to get myself into a sitting position when I realise the true horror of what’s happening.

  There’s blood.

  Lots of it.

  Forty

  THE NOW

  Forty

  There’s not a strong enough word to convey the absolute raw terror I feel as I stare across to the empty buggy. It’s such a shock, it’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. It feels as if the ceiling is falling; that the sky itself is collapsing. I felt like this once before – and I lost a child that day, too.

  I rush to the buggy and check the straps, almost to make sure it’s not some sort of illusion. The straps hang unfastened and limp, with no sign that they were ever being used to secure a child. There’s only one stall with the door closed, although I know there’s no way a sixteen-month-old could release themselves from the straps and open it. I look anyway. The hinges are wonky and noisy, and, when I shove it open, there is no little girl inside. The toilet block is far too small for someone to hide.

  ‘Norah?’

  I’d love to hear her confident voice calling ‘tree’ or ‘duck’, but there’s silence. I don’t know what else to do, so wheel the buggy outside. I half expect someone to be there with Norah – ha ha, look who I found trying to run away – but there’s not much of anything. The sky is grey; the grass is tinted with white – and, aside from the boys playing football at the furthest end of the park, I can’t see anyone.

  There is a separate disabled toilet, the door already partly open. The nappy-changing table is down and the bin is overflowing, though there’s no sign of a person.

  I move to the other side of the block and the men’s toilets. There is a similar zigzag entrance as there is for the women’s and I edge along slowly.

  ‘Hello? Anyone in there?’

  There’s no answer, so I move quicker. It’s darker and smellier than the women’s toilet. The floor is wet – but it still doesn’t take me long to figure that there’s no one here.

  Back outside and the empty space in the buggy is gaping. There’s a rushing sensation in my stomach as if I’m going to be sick – but it’s not a physical thing. I thought that what happened with David was the worst thing I’d ever do – but this is worse.

  ‘Norah…?’

  My voice barely carries, as if the atmosphere is so shamed by what I’ve done that it can’t be bothered to transfer my voice. I keep turning to the buggy as if expecting Norah to materialise with a dramatic ‘ta-da!’ She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

  I wheel the buggy around the entire toilet block with increasing speed. There’s nobody here. I was only on the phone for a minute or two. Where could she have gone? There is a moment of clarity as I stop in front of the ladies’ and look around the grass for footprint trails. I’m so convinced that this will work that it’s a shock when I find myself back at a crossroads where the path meets another stretch of tarmac. There are no trails on the grass.

  Other than the path and the grass, the closest thing to the toilet block is a large, wiry tuft of hedges. In the summer, it will be an enormous green dome, though it is more a collection of weedy sticks at this time of year. I try to peer towards the centre, though there are bits of crisp packets and plastic bags stuck to the branches. The twigs are tightly packed and tougher than I thought – and I can’t believe there are many adults, let alone children, who could batter their way into a hiding place.

  The soil is mushy as I edge my way around the bush, though there are no obvious footprints. On the other side, there’s a steady slope towards the pond.

  I know what’s happened. I can feel it, almost as if I actually watched it happening. Norah’s drowned. I did the unforgiveable and took my eyes off her and she staggered away to the water. She’ll be face-down and that will be that. How could I ever explain this to anyone, let alone my supposed best friend?

  Except the pond is empty, too. The ducks and crows have disappeared to the other side of the bank, close to the bench. There’s barely a ripple to the water; hardly a breath of wind. The world feels still.

  I turn in a full circle, unsure where to go and what to do. I end up heading ba
ck up the bank and around the copse until I’m at the empty buggy. I look to the furthest side of the park, but even the boys have given up their football game and gone home. I feel alone.

  I take out my phone, unsure who to call first. The police or Jane?

  It’s the same feeling I had when David’s body was in the back of my car and was driving him to the lake at Little Bush Woods. That sense of knowing that life can never quite be the same again. Even if she’s found, this is the end of my friendship with Jane. Things can never recover from this. Everyone in the village will know me as the woman who lost someone else’s child.

  I open the phone app and have already dialled two nines when I hear a soft, babble of a sob. It’s such a shock that I almost drop the phone. I start to shake as I spin, trying to figure out if the sound is actually there, or if it’s in my imagination.

  The second cry almost sets me off. It’s a steady wail now and I follow the noise into the disabled toilet. I checked here a few minutes ago – but that was then and this is now. The nappy-changing table is still down, but, this time, Norah is straddled across it, wrapped in a blanket. Her blue eyes are stained by tears and they stare accusingly at me as she quietens to breathy sobs.

  I pick her up and, though she fights against me, I hold her close. I have to tell myself not to grasp her too tightly because I can barely believe she’s actually real.

  ‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I carry Norah out and place her into her buggy. As soon as I put the straps across her, she’s instantly silenced. I kneel, pressing my knee into the hard concrete and lower myself until we’re eye to eye.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  Norah doesn’t reply, though I gently press my fingers to her face, looking for any incriminating marks. She’s still wearing the same outfit; with the only addition being one of the blankets that were underneath the buggy.

  It’s as I’m standing that my phone buzzes. I’m expecting Jane – but it’s a text from the unknown 07 number that messaged me before.

  Tonight. 9 p.m. Just You. You know where.

  Forty-One

  In the end, it is Ben who picks up Norah from my flat. It’s been a long time since his car last pulled up outside. It was that time I’d been arguing with David and said I needed a break. It feels like a different lifetime.

  He straps Norah into the car seat in the front seat and then collapses the buggy into the boot. It’s the type of folding mechanism that looks like it’s amputated a thumb or two in its time, but Ben packs it down with the ease of a person who’s done it many times before. Even this comes easily to him.

  ‘I thought you were at a conference?’ I say.

  He closes the boot and turns: ‘I was on the way. Jane called to say she was running late, so I ended up coming back here. I’m going to drive down to London later. I’ll miss the opening banquet but…’ He tails off and shrugs, as if to say that it doesn’t matter too much.

  ‘Has something gone wrong?’ I ask.

  His brow creases with momentary confusion: ‘With Jane?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She sounded fine when she called.’ He turns to the car and stoops to check on Norah. ‘You all right, sweetheart?’ he asks.

  She turns to him and replies with a clear: ‘Daddy!’

  The grin that spreads onto his face couldn’t be any larger. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile like this. Perhaps not only him, but anyone. It’s joy in its purest form.

  ‘How was she?’ Ben asks, although it takes me a moment to realise he’s talking to me.

  ‘She liked being strapped into her buggy,’ I say, fighting away those feelings of guilt about the empty buggy.

  He nods and the smile trickles its return. ‘It depends on the day of the week. Sometimes she wants to walk everywhere, other times she’ll point to her buggy and cry if we don’t put her in it. We have to wheel her into the living room to watch her shows, or read her a story.’

  The smile fades sadly. It would have disappeared more quickly if I’d told him that I’d lost his daughter for ten minutes.

  ‘I should get off,’ Ben says. ‘Thank you for having her.’

  ‘See you around,’ I reply, not thinking about the words. It’s a reflex of a reply. A thank you/you’re welcome of an exchange. There was something firm and final in his tone.

  He stops and stares: ‘No,’ he says pointedly. ‘You won’t.’

  I don’t bother waiting to see him leave. Instead, I head inside and lock the door. It feels as if the world is imploding.

  I text one of the other trainers from the studio, asking if she can take my evening classes because I have a sore throat. The reply pings back almost immediately that she will. ‘Something going around,’ she adds – which is the explanation for everything. Got a cough? Something’s going around. Flu? Headaches? Herpes? Split ends? Everything’s always going around.

  There is more paperwork to do – there always is – but I can’t even look at my laptop. There’s the baby clothes that turned up out of nowhere – and then Norah’s disappearance almost seems like a dream now. It felt like hours, but I can tell from the time of Mr Patrick’s call through to the text message arriving that it was a little under ten minutes. It was nothing and yet it was an age.

  You know where.

  Of everything from the text message, that’s the bit that really gets me – because I do know where.

  The minutes tick by slower than ever and there are moments in which it feels as if 9 p.m. will never come around. I’m a kid waiting for Christmas morning – except nothing good is going to happen when the time finally arrives.

  It’s ninety minutes after Ben leaves that I text Jane:

  How did the op go?

  A reply comes back almost immediately:

  Good.

  That’s it. She doesn’t mention any specifics, or Norah. I try typing out a couple of replies, but nothing feels right. I wonder if Norah has moved up from single words to full sentences in the last hour-and-a-half and is busy singing like someone’s nephew in a Scorsese movie. I end up leaving it at that. If Jane wants to tell me anything more, then she will.

  It’s a little after eight when I can wait no longer. I’m going to be early – but that will be better than late.

  After a warmer, cloudier day, the night feels like the panicky moments directly before something goes horribly wrong. The hedgerows are painted a speckly white and the car windscreens are already crusted with ice. I can feel the cold in my bones as I sit, waiting for the windows of Andy’s BMW to defrost. Warm air blasts from the vents, though the conditions outside the car are apt for whatever’s about to happen.

  Nobody sensible is braving the roads tonight and, as soon as I get past the boundary of Gradingham, I’m swallowed by the night. The car’s headlights barely make an imprint on the countryside’s cavernous depths of black. The once familiar lanes that lead towards Kingbridge are now like looking down and seeing someone else’s hand.

  It’s such a surprise to see the sign for the rugby club that I almost swerve towards it, instead of around the bend. The hedge rushes towards me and, when I turn the steering wheel, I half expect the wheels to lock and the car to spin. In the split-second, I’m almost certain I close my eyes, but it’s hard to know for sure because, all of a sudden, everything is fine. I’m on the carriageway as I should be.

  By the time I pull into the car park at Little Bush Woods, my heart is still pounding. I’ve not seen a single vehicle since leaving home.

  You know where.

  Where else could it be? Everything leads back to the place where I rolled David’s body into the water.

  It’s almost ten minutes to nine. There are two cars parked at opposite ends of the parking area, neither of which seem to have anyone in them. I doubt anyone has come here for a late-night walk around the park and yet I can’t think of another legitimate reason why they might be here. I suppose the same is true of me.

&
nbsp; I wait a couple of minutes to see if anyone will appear. When nobody does, I get out of the car. The cold instantly leaves me gasping, like vines snaking into my lungs. I’ve forgotten my hat and gloves – and there’s nothing for it other than to jam my hands into my coat pockets as I set off for the bridge. The spindly, bare tree branches rustle steadily around me; a fanfare heralding my arrival. There are no secrets here.

  You know where.

  It is 8.58 when I get to the ramp of the bridge. I almost expect to see the shadow there in the centre, forearms leaning on the rail. David back from the dead. It only now occurs to me that I’m utterly unprepared. I have no idea how he could have survived – but he’s hardly going to be happy about everything that happened. It’s not like I’m here for a cheery reunion.

  The centre of the bridge is deserted, but I set off towards it anyway. The wood underfoot is clammy and sodden, though there’s a hint of frost clinging to the rail.

  The time on my phone reads precisely 9.00 as I stand in the centre. I wait and then turn in a circle, expecting someone to be there. Expecting David to be there. He’s not. Nobody is. There are no animals, no people, no anything. The night is still except for the gentle bristling of the tree branches.

  When 9.01 arrives, the bridge is still deserted. By 9.02, I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingers. They’re at the stage where, if it wasn’t for what I can see, it would be hard to know for certain whether they are hot or cold. The glacial air tickles my throat and I have to cover my nose and mouth with my hands in an instantly failed attempt to try to warm myself.

  Time continues to move. When 9.05 arrives, I am still alone. By 9.10, I’m wondering if I was wrong. The message said I’d know where to go – but, aside from my flat, I can’t think of anywhere other than here.

  At 9.15, I start to pace. There’s the now familiar sense of being watched, even though I’ve not seen a soul in hours. By 9.20, my shoes and socks are no longer effective against the chill. It’s like my toes are being squeezed in a vice as I try to wriggle some life back into them.