Safe at Home

by Lauren North

  But PC Ross is right. I must keep it together.

  ‘Why don’t you try and get some sleep too?’ I say to Elise. ‘The time will pass a lot quicker that way.’

  ‘Will you wake me when we start to move?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Elise snuggles into my scarf, shimmying her body down the seat and leaning against the edge of the door where the window starts.

  Kat’s number is right at the top of my favourites list and I press it quickly and hold the phone to my ear. It rings and rings but she doesn’t pick up.

  Damn it! What now?

  I hang up and fire off a text explaining what’s happened, asking her to call, to help.

  The minutes pass slowly. Two. Then three, then five. Only when another ten minutes have passed and there’s no little white tick in the bottom corner of the message telling me Kat has seen it, do I turn to Elise. ‘I’m just going to get some air.’

  She gives me a puzzled look but snuggles deeper into my scarf as I open the car door and stand in the chill of the autumn night. My hands shake as I find Dean’s name in my contacts. Please answer. Please, please, please. I need to hear your voice. I need you to tell me everything will be OK.

  The ringing hum gives way to a recorded message and I feel the tears build in my eyes as I hang up.

  Only when I’m back in the car do I open up the village girlies’ message group. There are already a dozen unread messages talking about some vandalism in the village I know nothing about. I ignore them and scroll to the end.

  My stomach tightens another notch. I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to post a message on this group for all the mums to see, to judge. Despite the years we’ve lived in this village, I’ve only really made friends with Kat, and that’s because Elise and Harrie have always got on so well with Ben. I talk to the other mums in the playground and when we pass on the street, and I share a table with them at the summer fete, drinking sticky white wine from a plastic cup, but I’ve never clicked with any of them like I have with Kat.

  They’re nice people. Everyone in Barton St Martin is nice. But it’s hard to drop my guard, the barrier I put up to keep our secret – our humiliation – safe.

  I click on the comment box of the messenger group and swallow down my reservations. I may not be bosom buddies with these women, but I know that one of them will go to my house and knock on the door and check on Harrie, and that’s all that matters right now. Harrie is all that matters.

  Me: Hey, there’s been a crash and I’m stuck on the A12. I’ve left Harrie by herself and she’s not answering the phone. I’m sorry to ask this, but would anyone mind going to my house and knocking on the door to check on her please? Thanks!

  Gina Walker: OMG poor you! I heard the sirens. Sorry, Martin is out and it’s just me at home with the kids.

  Sandra Briggs: Just spoken to Jack and he says it’s bad. You’re going to be there for hours. I’ve got my dinner on the table. Give me ten minutes and I’ll go.

  Tracy Campbell: I’m out walking the dog. I’ll do it now. Hang on.

  Me: Thanks Tracy!!!

  No more messages appear. Everyone is waiting for Tracy’s reply and I wonder if I should’ve phoned Tracy after Kat instead of asking for help in the group. In the last few months Tracy has started to join Kat and me for cups of tea and stands with us at the school gates for a chat long after the kids have gone in. Tracy’s daughter, Olivia, is in Molly’s class and the pair have become good friends. But my friendship with Tracy feels tentative somehow. Like it only exists if Kat is with us.

  The message from Tracy comes five minutes later.

  Tracy Campbell: I knocked on the door, but Harrie didn’t answer. There’s a light on in the living room and I tried calling through the letterbox, but she didn’t appear. Is the back door open? I could pop in and check.

  Tears spill on to my face and I try to breathe through the lump digging into my throat. Everyone I know in the village leaves their back doors unlocked. Gina tells everyone who’ll listen that she’s not carried a door key around with her for a decade because there’s no need. I understand the logic. Barton St Martin is a peaceful place. Nothing bad ever happens, and yet I’ve never been able to shake my London thinking. Our doors are always locked, whether we’re there or not.

  My phone buzzes in my hand.

  Tracy Campbell: ???

  Me: Thanks so much for trying, Tracy! I’m sure she’s asleep. Kat has a spare key. I’ll call her again now. Thanks xx

  Tracy Campbell: No worries.

  Gina Walker: Hope you get home soon!! X

  I close the app and place my phone in my lap, staring at the blank screen, trying not to feel judged.

  It could’ve happened to any of us, but it didn’t. It happened to me. The only mum in the village with kids Harrie and Elise’s age who won’t let them walk to and from school on their own, even on the afternoons that Molly stays for an after-school club and it’s just Elise and Harrie I’m waiting for in the playground.

  Time drags. The driver is pulled from the car and placed on a stretcher. Both ambulances leave. The fire engine too, and then a breakdown truck arrives, yellow lights flashing. It’s got a long flatbed and a thick metal winch cable. I sit up straighter and wipe the condensation from the windscreen as hope balloons inside me. We’ll be moving soon.

  Except we’re not.

  It takes another hour for the road to be cleared. By the time we arrive home, it’s nearly midnight. I shake Elise awake and lift Molly from the car, laying her on the sofa before dashing through the house.

  ‘Harrie?’

  No answer.

  The house feels cold and empty. Goosebumps travel down the length of my body as I run upstairs and into the darkness.

  ‘Harriet?’ Her name is a hoarse whisper. It’s all I can manage over the fear strangling me.

  I flick on the hall light and open her bedroom door so fast I almost fall through it.

  The room is empty.

  No. Oh my God. No.

  Tears blur my vision and when I blink them away, my gaze lands on Harrie’s bed and the lump of what I first thought was just a duvet. I step closer, trying to hear over the thundering of my heart in my ears.

  I reach out a trembling hand and feel the firm warmth of Harrie’s sleeping body. A gasp escapes my throat. Then a sob. She’s here. She’s safe. My head spins, airy and light. More tears roll down my cheeks. Relief this time.

  ‘I’ll never leave you again,’ I whisper, kissing the top of her head.

  I carry Molly to bed and tuck her in.

  ‘Is Harrie OK?’ Elise asks in a voice groggy with sleep as she follows me up the stairs.

  ‘She’s fine, darling. She’s asleep just like you said she would be.’

  Elise nods before wriggling out of her leotard and pulling on one of Rob’s old T-shirts she wears as a nightdress. I don’t have the heart or the energy to tell her to brush her teeth as she snuggles under her covers.

  When I’m back downstairs, I reach once more for my phone and feel the sharp tug of disappointment at yet another blank screen. I know Monday was weird, I know it’s changed everything between us, but Dean’s silence still hurts.

  That night I fold all the clothes. I pair the socks. I creep into bedrooms and slide open drawers, putting everything away. I tidy the Barbie dolls and locate Elise’s missing wireless headphone under the sofa. Finding comfort in the order I create. Then I wash up, lifting each plate, each cup, each bowl one at time from the dishwasher so as not to make a sound.

  It’s two a.m. and I’m about to switch off the kitchen light when my eyes fall on the phone on the sideboard and the solid red light that tells me the messages I’ve left have been listened to. But if Harrie heard them, why didn’t she call me back?

  Out of habit I check the back door is locked. My hand jiggles the handle, expecting resistance, but instead the door flies open and I’m hit by the cold of the night. I slam the door shut as though a monster is about to leap over
the threshold. I turn fast, back to the kitchen, and that’s when I see the mud by the door. A trail of dark-brown clumps and a partial outline of a footprint, as though someone has walked in the back door with muddy shoes. As though someone has been in this house tonight.

  CHAPTER 5

  Harrie

  Harrie blinks in the darkness of her bedroom, her eyelids heavy with the sleep she so desperately wants. If only she could catch her breath and calm the thundering beat of her heart. It’s deafening her. But every time her mind drifts and her breathing slows, the events of the night punch into her thoughts and she’s right back there, the terror pinning her down.

  She rubs her hands against the duvet cover. They’re clean now, and dry, but she can still feel the slick wetness of the blood they were coated in only a short while ago. She presses her lips together, a hard pinch, trapping in the scream threatening to escape.

  Her bladder aches, but she’s too scared to move. From across the room, Elise sighs in her sleep. The noise should be comforting, but it’s not. Everything has changed.

  Minutes pass. The silence feels like it’s humming all around her.

  Everyone is asleep now. Everyone is OK. Everyone except her.

  Fresh tears burn her eyes before rolling down the side of her face and on to her pillow.

  It had taken everything in Harrie to pretend to sleep when her mum had rushed into the room at midnight, panicked and gasping for breath just as Harrie had been moments earlier. How she’d wanted to throw off the covers and leap into her mum’s arms, allowing the words, the horrors of the evening, to spill out.

  But she couldn’t do it.

  She’ll never tell. Never, never, never.

  What is she going to do?

  The question churns in her stomach until she’s sure she’s going to be sick. Did her mum notice the unlocked back door? Harrie only remembered it when she was in the bathroom. She should have gone back to lock it, but her hands were shaking so violently that it took ages to wash away the blood. Her skin feels raw in places where she had to scrape at the dried bits.

  Harrie thinks of her ruined clothes, stuffed in the bottom of an unused toy box beneath the bed. How is she going to explain them to her mum? She’ll have to throw them away tomorrow. Today. Her head spins with exhaustion. Sleep is coming at last. Harrie draws in a ragged breath and that’s when she feels it – the hand grabbing her in the darkness, the night looming over her again – but this time she can’t stay awake. The claws of a nightmare dig into her and there’s nothing she can do. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  Interview with Mike Pritchett, head teacher of Barton St Martin Primary School

  Interview conducted by Melissa Hart, The Daily Gazette, 2 November

  Mike: Is that thing on? Is it recording?

  MH: Yes. Is that a problem?

  Mike: No, not at all. Just checking. So you want to talk about what happened?

  MH: Yes I do, but first of all can I get some details from you for my notes? You live in the village, I take it?

  Mike: Yes, my wife and I moved from Berkshire in 1992 when the kids were still little. They’re all grown up now. Flown the nest as they say. So it’s just me and Bev at home.

  MH: And you’re the head teacher at the school here?

  Mike: That’s right. I’ve been at the helm, so to speak, for … crikey, about fifteen years. Although I’m retiring now.

  MH: And how did you feel when you heard about what happened?

  Mike: We felt sick, as you can imagine. Bev and I both did. We couldn’t believe it. Barton St Martin really is a safe place to raise a family. I can testify to that. It makes it more shocking, doesn’t it? This kind of thing – well, you expect it in the bigger towns, the cities, but not here.

  MH: Why not here?

  Mike: Because Barton St Martin has an award-winning Neighbourhood Watch. We look out for each other.

  MH: But not this time.

  Mike: No. Evidently not.

  MH: Why do you think that is?

  Mike: I don’t know. It’s the question I’ve been asking myself.

  MH: But it’s not the first time something has slipped past the Neighbourhood Watch recently, is it?

  Mike: I assume you’re referring to the recent vandalism. Who told you about that? It was nothing. I honestly don’t know why the women got themselves so worked up about it and I definitely don’t see how there is a connection between some silly vandalism and murder. Do you?

  Interview with Bev Pritchett, member of Barton St Martin Parish Council

  Interview conducted by Melissa Hart, The Daily Gazette, 2 November

  MH: Are you OK, Mrs Pritchett?

  Bev: [Silence]

  MH: Can I get you a glass of water or a cup of tea? Something for the shock?

  Bev: I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do this today. It’s just too upsetting. You have to understand how close we all are. We’re a tight community and now … two of our own are dead. Two precious souls gone, and practically on my doorstep. Such a waste of life, isn’t it?

  MH: Would it be better if I came back tomorrow, Mrs Pritchett?

  Bev: Yes. Yes please. I think that would be for the best.

  MH: You’ve got my card. If you change your mind and want to talk to me before then, please give me a call.

  Bev: I just wish I knew how Harrie and Anna got involved in all this. Have you spoken to Kat and Steve Morris yet? Kat was best friends with Anna James. Did you know that?

  CHAPTER 6

  Thursday, nine days until Halloween

  Anna

  Even before I open my eyes the exhaustion crowds me like children around a birthday cake. There is no escape from it. My eyelids are sticky, hard to open. I long for sleep but the alarm is beeping, drilling into my head.

  I fumble for my phone and silence the alarm before dragging myself out of bed and throwing on my tattered grey dressing gown. It used to have a colour. White, I think. Or pale pink. I’ve had it forever, since before the kids anyway, which feels like a different lifetime. One of the things I remembered to shove into a suitcase on that sticky August night. The towelling material is rough in places and worn to nothing in others, but I only wear it for this one task and it does its job – keeps the worst of the cold at bay while I fix myself a coffee and gather myself for the day.

  On the stairs I move left, then right, skip a step, then left, avoiding the creaking floorboards, a dance I’ve done a thousand times before. I doubt a trained assassin could scale these stairs with the same silence as I can. Molly is the one most likely to wake and hear me moving around. She’s always been an early bird, galloping into our bedroom at four a.m. the moment she could climb out of her cot. Wide awake. Ready for the day. In desperation, I bought her one of the clocks with the stars that count down until it’s time to wake up. It helped, but not as much as the routine and exhaustion of school.

  My reason for the silence is simple. I need this hour. It is mine and it is more precious to me than the extra sleep, even after last night when I climbed into bed and lay there for hours reliving the anxiety, the raw horror I felt sitting helpless in the car while Harrie was alone. I tossed and turned and kept telling myself that it was OK, I was home and Harrie was safe, but the fear stuck – chewing gum in my mind.

  The kitchen is dark. The waking sun has yet to reach the windows and I close the door and turn on the light. My eyes draw to a smear of mud by the back door that I missed last night when I cleaned up. I bite the inside of my lip as yesterday’s anxiety presses down on me, flooding my mind with the same what-if questions.

  I reach for the kettle and push the questions aside, reminding myself again that Harrie is fast asleep in her bed.

  I spot a smudge of pasta sauce on one of the blue and white wall tiles and scrape it away with my finger. The Tangier pattern looks too busy, too squashed, in our cramped little kitchen with the table and chairs that someone had stacked outside their house five years ago, just after we moved to the village for our
fresh start – the one I’m still waiting for. The table had a note stuck on the top – Free to a good home. So we took it and Rob sanded it down and painted it a glossy white. One of the legs is a fraction shorter than the rest and it wobbles if we don’t keep a piece of cardboard pushed underneath it, but we told ourselves it was temporary.

  ‘Just until I’ve got a few months of pay under my belt and your website design company is up and running. Then we’ll buy a new one,’ Rob said, planting a kiss on my neck.

  I grit my teeth as I stare at the faded paint, the pen marks from the kids, and wonder if we’ll ever buy that new table. I know we won’t repaint it. That would be admitting defeat and Rob would never do that. Far easier to run away to Nigeria, eh Rob? Leave me and the kids to live day after day after day in our squashed little house with our shitty second-, third-, fourth-hand furniture.

  It has felt endless at times – the scrimping and the payments. We’ve not climbed out of debt, we’ve crawled on our hands and knees through a sewer of shit, slipping sideways and backwards as much as forwards. It got easier when Rob took the job in Nigeria, but that has come with its own price, and there’s still nothing spare at the end of the month. Not with the debts and three sets of school uniform, three sets of school shoes, three sets of trainers and clothes and birthdays and Christmases, and a new washing machine when the old one broke down.

  I swallow down my resentment as a long yawn coils around my body. I fill the kettle and listen to it rattle and bubble before moving to the fridge in the corner. It’s a white monstrosity. Fridge on the top. Freezer on the bottom. Both are covered with Molly’s drawings, and the latest certificates from the school. Molly’s star reader, Harrie’s handwriting improvements, Elise’s maths. One for each. Always fair.