Safe at Home

by Lauren North

  ‘We don’t know,’ Harrie says.

  ‘Everything all right, Anna?’ June asks as she reaches her gate. ‘I saw that car pulled up by the girls and thought I should come check they’re OK.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I sigh. ‘Did you see who it was?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, no. What did he say?’ she asks, looking from me to Harrie and Elise.

  ‘He was …’ Elise starts to say, but it’s Harrie who picks up the thread.

  ‘… asking for directions.’

  I shake my head. They’re lying. ‘Why are you both upset?’

  ‘He was rude,’ Harrie says.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Elise adds. ‘He was an idiot.’

  ‘Can we go inside?’ they ask in unison.

  ‘Not until you tell me what’s going on. Harrie?’

  Silence again.

  Frustration rises up, tearing at my insides. A scream catches in my throat. ‘TELL ME!’ I shout the words so loud both girls jump.

  Harrie lifts her face, her eyes meeting mine. ‘Nothing is going on.’ Her voice sounds so little next to mine. ‘Please can we go inside?’

  I hand over my keys and nod towards the house before they see me cry. Hot, embittered tears.

  ‘Are you all right, Anna?’ June reaches an arm around me, pulling me close, and I catch the smell of patchouli oil and aloe vera.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, wiping my eyes. ‘I’m sorry I’m a mess. I don’t normally shout like that.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ she says. ‘I live next door, remember? I would hear you. And my dear, the last thing you are is a mess.’ June’s smile is kind and it makes me want to cry all over again.

  ‘Harrie hasn’t been herself today, but she won’t tell me why. And Elise is upset. I think they’re lying to me.’

  ‘Someone is lying,’ June says. ‘What kind of person asks for directions from two school children on a road like this?’ She tuts. ‘Even from my bedroom window I knew he was scaring them. One of those perverts, I expect, cruising around trying to grab an innocent child.’

  A shiver races over my skin and I shudder. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘You must report it to the police,’ June says.

  ‘But the girls say he was asking for directions. I don’t think the police will do anything.’

  She raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

  ‘I’ll tell the Neighbourhood Watch,’ I say. ‘Jack Briggs is a police officer. He’ll know whether we should report it.’

  ‘Good.’ June nods before catching sight of the bag in my hands. ‘Oh, cooking apples. How lovely. My tree has had a terrible year.’

  I look down at the bag. The handles are stretched and digging into my fingers. I should bake a cake or a crumble, something for pudding for the weekend, but my mind is stuck on Harrie and now Elise. ‘Do you want them?’ I ask. ‘One of the mums just gave them to me. I don’t have time to do anything with them.’

  ‘Only if you don’t mind,’ June beams. ‘Thank you. But expect a crumble in return at some point in the next few days.’

  We say our goodbyes before June turns back to the house and I walk around the hedge to my front door. I’m not sure what it is that makes me look back towards the main road, but I do, and that’s when I see the silver car. It’s passing slowly. I narrow my eyes, desperate to make out the driver or the licence plate, but the car is too far away. For a moment I think there’s something familiar about it, but I shrug the feeling off. I don’t even know the make or model. It could be a completely different car to the one that pulled up beside Harrie and Elise, but still I shudder again as I step inside.

  CHAPTER 14

  The night of the crash, 7.52–8.01 p.m.

  Harrie

  Harrie’s eyes adjust quickly to the dark of her garden. The black wall of night she didn’t want to step through is now a multitude of shadows. The smell of chimney smoke is heavy in the air, reminding Harrie of bonfires and eating sticky toffee apples on Fireworks Night. There’s an almost full moon in the sky and a million stars. On any other night Harrie would try to spot the constellations her dad has shown her. Orion and Scorpius and the saucepan with the proper name that Harrie always forgets. But there is no time to stop and look up, no time to notice the cold of the night.

  Sixteen minutes left.

  Harrie pulls out the little torch from her pocket. It’s the first time she’s used it this year and the battery is weak, the circular light a dull yellow, but it’s enough to guide her around the side of the house and to the gate with the stiff metal bolts that creak in her hand. She pulls the top one first and for a moment it won’t budge. She grits her teeth, trying harder until it moves, sliding open with a clonk that echoes through the stillness.

  She pauses. Just for a second. Just to listen. She holds her breath, straining to hear above the thumping of her heart in her ears, but the only sound is the distant hum of traffic a world away from where she’s standing.

  The bottom bolt is easier and moves silently. Harrie is about to lift the handle and open the gate when a light flicks on, illuminating the garden beyond her house. Panic seizes Harrie’s body. Her first thought is her mum. She can’t be back from collecting Elise already. Harrie fumbles to switch off her torch as lies race through her head. Could she say she saw an injured cat?

  A door opens somewhere. Footsteps outside. The surprise of the light subsides and Harrie can see the source. It isn’t her mum. It’s June.

  Harrie likes June. She makes the best hot chocolates on earth. Better than anything Harrie has ever tasted from a shop. June used to have a dog called Walter. An old black Labrador that would roll over and let Harrie stroke his tummy any time she saw him. June is a dog person, just like Harrie. At least, Harrie would be a dog person, if her mum and dad would let her have a dog.

  But however much Harrie likes June, she wishes she would turn around and go back into the house. Harrie ducks down, crouching in the corner by the gate. She watches the top of June’s head – a hat of grey hair – shining in the light.

  ‘Is someone there?’ June calls out, her voice directed straight at Harrie. ‘Anna, is that you?’

  Footsteps tap on the paving stones. June is going to look over the fence.

  Move, a voice that sounds like Elise’s shouts in Harrie’s head. Now! She pulls her hood up and jumps up, throwing open the gate and running, legs pounding the pavement, arms pumping like she’s chasing after a striker on the football pitch. Behind her, the gate slams against the wall of the house with a shudder of wood, but Harrie is already across the road, keeping close to the hedges and away from the streetlights.

  The village is deadly quiet, like a ghost town from a film. Only the occasional flickering glow of a television through a window makes Harrie feel like she’s not completely alone in the world. She takes the shortcut, ducking down the alley that connects the two sides of the village. She walks this route every day to school and back, but it feels different now. There is no streetlight in the alley, no moon shining through the canopy of trees either, only the pathetic glow of her torch to show her the way. Always check the batteries before you go out, her dad’s voice echoes in her thoughts.

  A sudden longing hits Harrie as she runs. Their dad took Harrie and Elise camping last summer. It was only in the empty horse field a hundred metres from their house, only one night, but it was just the three of them and it was perfect. The field is huge and stretches far back from the road with trees bordering the edges – a woodland so thick with brambles that no one ever walks through it. When their dad chose a spot right at the back, it felt like they weren’t in the village any more. They stayed up until long after midnight, their dad telling them stories about his job and the pranks his co-workers play on each other. Harrie sat in her sleeping bag, staring up at the sky, listening to her dad’s voice boom through her, silent tears falling from her eyes because she was so happy and so sad too. He left again the following week.

  Something rustles in the undergr
owth, dragging Harrie’s thoughts back to the alley. She jumps, almost tripping over her feet as the torch flickers again and dies. Fear chases her through the darkness, nipping at her heels and skipping through her body until she reaches the road and the streetlights.

  A silver car passes through the housing estate as Harrie leaves the alley. She slows to a walk, her chest heaving as she drags in breath after breath. Clarissa’s mum drives a car like that. If she sees Harrie, she’ll pull over to ask why she is out at night alone.

  Harrie keeps to the inside edge of the pavement, her head down, her hood pulled low, and the car passes. She waits another ten seconds, counting them out in her head, before running again. This time she doesn’t stop until she reaches the house.

  There’s a gate at the side with a latch but no bolts. She slips into the garden and around the edge of the house.

  Her heart is still racing from the running, from the realization that she’s here, that she’s doing this. It’s no longer a plan in her head – imagined steps. It’s real.

  The back door is just ahead and Harrie knows if she reaches out her hand that it will be unlocked, that it will open into a kitchen. She hopes it will be empty. She hopes the TV will be on and the living room door shut. The room she has to get to is up the stairs, first door on the right, and she has to do it without being seen.

  Village Girlies’ Group Chat

  Thursday 22 October, 17.28

  Tracy Campbell: Have you heard about Dean?

  Gina Walker: No???

  Kat Morris: What’s happened?

  Bev Pritchett: I just heard too.

  Kat Morris: What?

  Tracy Campbell: He’s missing. Apparently, he didn’t come home last night. Sue phoned Anthony this morning to ask if he’s seen him, but Dean didn’t go into the office today.

  Sandra Briggs: She just phoned Jack too and asked if she should report it to the police. Jack’s gone round there to talk to her.

  Kat Morris: He’s probably got a cheap flight to Spain for a few days. He did that a few years ago, remember? @TracyCampbell didn’t Anthony have a hissy fit about it?

  Tracy Campbell: YES! Anthony’s raging now too.

  Kat Morris: I’m not surprised. I know it’s Dean’s company but it’s so unprofessional and Anthony’s the one running the day-to-day stuff.

  Tracy Campbell: Exactly!

  Bev Pritchett: Has someone called the hospitals?

  Sandra Briggs: Yes, Jack did.

  Gina Walker: OMG! Hope Dean’s OK. Poor Sue. Is anyone thinking of popping round there?

  Sandra Briggs: I don’t think we should. Sue is the one who stepped away from us. She knows where we are if she needs us.

  Gina Walker: True.

  Bev Pritchett: I saw Dean driving into the village last night. I remember because he was doing over thirty!

  Kat Morris: Are you sure it was him? Seems weird that he’d come into the village but not go home.

  Bev Pritchett: I thought it was him, but I didn’t have my glasses on. Could’ve been anyone in a blue BMW I suppose.

  Tracy Campbell: @AnnaJames do you know anything? I saw you and Dean together on Monday.

  Village Girlies’ Secret Group Chat

  Thursday 22 October, 17.52

  Bev Pritchett: OK, spill @TracyCampbell! What did you see?

  Sandra Briggs: I was just wondering that too. Have I missed something?

  Tracy Campbell: Oh, I just happened to be walking the dog on Monday afternoon and saw Dean leaving Anna’s house. Anna looked pretty flustered. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him stopping by. His car is parked outside her house at least once a week.

  Kat Morris: To be fair, Anna is redeveloping Dean’s website for Stockton’s, which you know @TracyCampbell. FYI – the window cleaner popped inside the other day to clean the inside windows. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking there’s something going on because I let a man who isn’t my husband into my house.

  Tracy Campbell: Fair enough @KatMorris, but how long does a website take to build?

  Bev Pritchett: OMG do you think they’re having an affair?

  Sandra Briggs: Rob is away A LOT! And Dean is rather lush.

  Tracy Campbell: #Silverfox

  Kat Morris: #Suchgossips

  Bev Pritchett: Do you think it has anything to do with Dean going AWOL?

  Tracy Campbell: Not unless Sue found out and he’s buried under their patio, LOL.

  Bev Pritchett: BTW it wasn’t the supply teacher who vandalized the school. Mike called the agency to ask about him and it turns out he’s teaching English in St Lucia.

  Sandra Briggs: No surprise it wasn’t the supply teacher. Jack and the Neighbourhood Watch are all over it. They’ll find who did it. Someone will have seen something. Do you all know what your kids were doing last Saturday?

  Tracy Campbell: Freya was at home with us all afternoon. So was Olivia but I don’t think we need to worry about the little ones, ha ha.

  Kat Morris: Ben was home too. The James twins came over. So it can’t have been them either.

  Sandra Briggs: And Tyler was at football camp all day so at least we know it wasn’t any of our lot.

  Bev Pritchett: What’s Jack going to do about the vandalism @SandraBriggs?

  Sandra Briggs: You’ll see.

  CHAPTER 15

  Anna

  I’m in the kitchen cooking dinner when the messages ping ping ping on to my phone. The air is thick with steam from the potatoes bubbling and boiling on the hob and the smell of the roast chicken which will give us the meat for three meals. I glance at the screen, spoon in hand, hoping it’s Dean replying to my earlier message.

  I scan the messages, already turning my focus back to the dinner when I see it’s the village mums, but then I spot Dean’s name in the text.

  Have you heard about Dean?

  He’s missing.

  The spoon drops with a clatter of metal on the worktop. A trail of starchy water spills down the side of the cupboard as I snatch up my phone and call Dean. They’re wrong, I tell myself as I hold my breath and wait for him to answer. He’ll be at home right now with Sue, his wife, and he’ll laugh when I tell him what they’re saying.

  The ringing stops. Voicemail starts. I hang up without leaving a message.

  I know he hasn’t replied to my texts or returned my calls but that doesn’t mean he’s missing. I saw him on Monday. If I close my eyes I can still feel the heat of his body against mine. I can see the deep sadness etched across his face, the dark anxiousness that hovered around him. He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but there was something. I’m sure of it.

  The words I spoke circle my head and I remember the alarm on his face, the sense of something changing between us. But for the first time, I wonder if there is another reason for his silence.

  I press a hand to the counter, steadying myself as I wait for the next message to come through, but it’s silent now. Tracy’s final message sits unanswered. Everyone is waiting for my reply. Annoyance pulses through me. This village, these women, can feel stifling at times. Times like now, when it feels like they are all crammed into my kitchen, breathing down my neck, whispering in my ear. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the landscape is, how picturesque, how safe the village is, I’ll never feel comfortable with the ‘everyone knows everything’ ethos that comes with living in Barton St Martin. We can’t be the only family in this village with a horrid little secret, can we? Two secrets now, I remind myself.

  I scroll through the messages again, my gaze resting on the final one.

  @AnnaJames do you know anything? I saw you and Dean together on Monday.

  Am I imagining the passive-aggressive tone to Tracy’s comment? Yes, I tell myself. Tracy is a friend. Her husband, Anthony, works with Dean. She’s just worried about him, that’s all.

  ‘Mummy.’ Molly’s hand tugs at my sleeve.

  My eyes are dragged from my phone by Molly’s voice. I push away the dread building inside me, the memories of Monday, the t
ruth I will soon have to face.

  ‘How long until dinner?’ Molly asks. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Soon. Two minutes. I’ve just got to make the mash.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Of course. One sec. Let me reply to a message quickly.’

  I tap out a reply, delete and try again. On the fourth attempt I press send.

  Hope Dean is OK! We chatted Monday about Stockton’s website and he seemed fine.

  ‘I’ve got the masher.’ Molly holds up the utensil like a flaming torch and swirls and skips over to the counter as I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans.

  ‘Great.’ I smile as I drain the potatoes, letting everything go except Molly and this moment together.

  The potatoes are overcooked and soggy lumps, half mash already. ‘Be careful, the pan’s hot,’ I say to Molly. ‘I’ll hold it, you mash.’

  Even under Molly’s seven-year-old strength, the potatoes give easily. They’ll taste watery, the texture a slop. Elise will pull her face. She’s always been a fussy eater. There was a period soon after being weaned when all she’d eat was toast. Toast and butter. Toast and jam. Toast and Marmite. Toast and honey. Toast. I’d park the high chairs side by side and watch Harrie scoff back the entire contents of Annabel Karmel’s cookbook, all the food I’d spent hours chopping, grating and cooking, and in one sweep Elise would push it to the floor with the back of her hand and cry and cry until I gave in and made her toast.

  Gravy will help. I’ll do extra.

  My phone buzzes from my pocket as I serve the dinner on to four plates. ‘Go wash your hands,’ I say to Molly. ‘And tell your sisters it’s time for dinner.’

  No one has replied to my message on the village girlies’ chat, but there’s a message from Kat on my lock screen.

  Steve will be round in a bit with the dishwasher. Can I ask a favour? X

  I reply straight away:

  Of course!! Anything x