Willow Walk

by SJI Holliday

  ‘Shit . . . shit . . .’ he mutters. He tries to scoop up the envelopes while trying to avoid standing on the fragments of broken mug. He makes a mess of both: letters slipping through his hands, pieces of ceramic crunching under his feet.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  Marie is standing behind him. He turns, looks into her eyes. Her face is blotchy. Her eyes are red with tiredness and anger.

  ‘Sorry, I . . . I’m cleaning it up. Have you got a little dustpan and brush?’

  ‘Have you been reading my letters?’ Her voice is monotone. Hard.

  ‘What? No. Of course not.’ He glances down at the scattered pile on the worktop. He notes that the handwriting is identical on each. A franked postmark on the top right, with a crest that looks frighteningly familiar. He’s seen it recently. On the website for the hospital. He picks one up, flips it over. There is no sender’s name on the back.

  Marie snatches the letter from his hand. Pushes him out of the way, grabs at the pile. Envelopes fall from her hands and spill to the floor. She scrabbles around, flailing. Gaining nothing.

  ‘Marie, your feet!’ Davie says.

  Marie looks down. Her feet are bare. She has already stood on pieces of broken mug. Small pools of blood are peppered between her toes. She stares down at her feet until eventually her shoulders droop. She lets the remaining letters fall from her hands. He watches as her shoulders rise and fall with the weight of her silent sobbing.

  He scoops her up into his arms, carries her through to the living room. Lays her down gently on the couch. He picks ceramic splinters from the soles of her feet. He sits, holds her hand. Waits for her to speak. Marie says nothing, but he can feel her hand shaking and he squeezes it tight.

  ‘Marie . . . I know something’s bothering you. I can’t help if you don’t tell me. Is it me? Is it us? If you’re having second thoughts, I understand.’

  She sniffs, pulls her hand away. ‘It’s not you.’

  Davie laughs, he can’t help it. ‘It’s not you, it’s me? Is that what this is about?’ He’s trying to lighten it, inject a bit of humour. He’s almost certain that Marie’s spiralling behaviour has nothing to do with him, but he doesn’t want to push her too far. She might retreat completely then. That isn’t going to help anyone.

  She turns to face him and gives him a small smile. ‘That’s not what I was going to say.’ She sighs. ‘Christ, Davie. There’s so much I need to tell you. About me. About . . . lots of things. But I’m scared.’

  He pulls her close and she leans in against him. ‘You should never be scared to tell me anything, you know. I might not be able to help. But I can always listen. Always.’ He strokes her arm. She gazes up at him, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. Davie takes his cue. He touches her cheek, lifts a stray strand of hair and gently tucks it behind her ear. Then he bends to kiss her, takes his hand away from her arm, starts to stroke the back of her neck. The kiss is soft. Tender. And he feels her start to respond. He runs his hand down her back, kisses her harder.

  She stiffens. Pulls away.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  Davie suppresses a sigh. ‘What? I didn’t hear anything.’

  She slides over to the far end of the couch, her hand rubbing at the back of her neck, as if she’s been burned by his touch. ‘That . . . there it is again.’ She stares up at the ceiling.

  ‘Probably just someone moving their living room around,’ he says. ‘Christ, you’re jumpy. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’

  Marie crosses her arms and looks away. ‘Sorry. It’s not you . . . It’s nothing. Just some stuff I need to deal with. You should go. Please!’

  Davie sighs. The silence is suffocating.

  Fuck it. He sits up straight. ‘Who sent you those letters, Marie? What’s in them? Is someone harassing you?’ He stops, realises he is getting carried away, firing questions at her.

  There is only the briefest hesitation. ‘No,’ she whispers, her voice muffled behind her hands. ‘I told you. It’s nothing. Please, can you go now? I just want to be on my own.’

  This is a nightmare. He wants her to talk, but he can’t force her. He’d thought she’d have no choice but to respond to his direct approach. He’s trying to let her know that he knows. Trying to give her the chance to open up. But she’s keeping it locked up. Whatever it is, she’s not ready to share it. But he can’t just do nothing. He can’t just leave it like this. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘Be careful, Marie. There’s something you should know. There’ll be a statement on the news soon, but while I’m here . . . A woman was attacked. Badly. An inmate from a local hospital has gone missing. We don’t know for sure if the events are connected yet, but we’re going to urge people to be careful. Keep a look out for him, but don’t approach him—’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Marie’s voice is flat. Emotionless.

  ‘Woodley,’ he says. ‘Graeme Woodley.’

  She stares at him, but she doesn’t react. He leaves her lying curled on the couch. The cat pads into the room as he leaves. Looks at him with disgust, in a way that only cats can.

  21st July 2015

  Dear Marie,

  I’m going to try something else. Forget about everything else I’ve sent. Pretend you’ve never read it. Take it all and throw it in the kitchen sink and burn it.

  Let’s start again.

  Never mind me. I’ve got nothing to say. Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children? I hope you’ve told them about me. About the games we used to play. About the fun we used to have. Do you still watch horror films? I used to love snuggling up with you, feeling you shudder when you were scared. Feeling your warm body pressed up against mine. I know you didn’t mean it when you told me you didn’t want me to hug you like that any more.

  What happened to that boy, by the way? Did you marry him?

  He wasn’t good enough for you.

  I tried to tell you that.

  If only you’d listened.

  Your loving brother,

  Graeme

  26

  Marie is glad that Davie has gone. When he’d turned up like that, she’d almost cracked. Almost told him everything. She’d stopped herself just in time. She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. She wanted to. It was on the tip of her tongue. But she just couldn’t. Telling Davie would drag him into the whole mess, and she wants more than anything to keep him out of it. She wants to keep him safe. He doesn’t need this in his life. Doesn’t need her. Marie is scared. Not just for Davie. For herself. Christ, she’s spent so long lying about Graeme, pretending that he doesn’t exist, it’s become second nature.

  But what Davie said just before he left had thrown her. He’d confirmed her suspicions: Graeme has escaped. He’s hurt someone. He’s coming for her . . . Has Davie already made the connection? Does he know who she is?

  No. He can’t know. Not for sure. She’s been so careful to hide her past. But he was definitely digging. He suspects something and he was trying to get her to tell him. It can’t have been a coincidence, him mentioning Graeme like that. He is a policeman, after all. It’s his job to find out things like this. But he’s her friend too – her boyfriend, for God’s sake – and she could see it in his eyes . . . He’s scared of uncovering the truth because, when he does, nothing is ever going to be the same between them. It can’t be. Not if she tells him what Graeme did to her.

  Despite her fear, Marie’s primary instinct is to protect her brother. To tell herself that she’s not in danger at all, that she’s built it up into something it isn’t. Graeme just wants to see her. He’s trying to get her attention, but he doesn’t want to scare her off. It’s been twenty-five years. He doesn’t know how to act around her any more. Maybe she just has to give him a chance. It might not have been him who attacked that woman. Why would he? There was only ever one person that Graeme wanted to hurt.

  Her thoughts are all over the place, scattered. Torn. She can’t think straight. Her head is fuzzy. She knows she
’s drinking too much. Not her style. Never has been. She’s not sure why it seems to have kicked in now.

  She sweeps up the broken mug. Stacks the letters up into a pile and pushes them into the cupboard. There’s something at the back, though. Something stopping her from pushing them all the way in. She feels blindly around, pulls out a plastic bag.

  She’d forgotten about it.

  The plastic bag from the party at Jack Henderson’s – the one she was meant to look after to avoid the kid who’d had the seizure from getting in trouble. What was in it, anyway? She opens the bag, sniffs. There are four tablets in there. Capsules. Even through the coating she can smell something strong and herbal. She’d had things like this before, stuff made of plant extracts, bought on a whim from the health food shop and never taken due to them being the size of horse pills, and the horrible aftertaste when they came back on her five times a day.

  She has no idea what these are. No idea what they do – but they hadn’t done much good for that kid at the party. She stuffs the bag back into the cupboard.

  It’s time to sort herself out. She needs a shower. She needs to tidy up. She starts by taking the empty wine bottle out of the sink and putting it in the bin. As she ties the bag, she glances up at the kitchen ceiling. Thinks she hears a faint noise. Hopes she’s imagining it.

  You’ve got it all wrong, Marie, she thinks.

  But there’s only one way to find out.

  She walks out into the hallway. She knows it’s him. She can sense him. She always could. They say that twins have a special bond, an almost psychic ability to know what each other is doing. Doubters think it’s nothing but coincidence – that it happens in all close relationships, like when you find yourself finishing someone’s sentence or picking up the phone just as they ring you, seemingly out of the blue.

  Their mother used to joke that they were like Siamese twins, joined at the hip – literally. When they were little, they were so small that the two of them could squeeze into one baby walker, even though they had one each – hers pink, Graeme’s blue. Both of them would climb into one, each sticking a leg down the opposite leg holes, and crossing the other over their laps. How did they work out how to do this? Instinct. The same instinct that’s telling her that her brother is in the flat upstairs. Moving furniture.

  Trying to get her attention.

  Thinking about the baby walker makes her think of the scar. Of what happened that day. She wonders how Graeme’s scar is now, the same as hers – a mirror image on the opposite of his body, from where the two of them had been squeezed together in the baby walker when it had happened. That scar was an accident. Their mother hadn’t realised that Graeme could stand up tall enough to reach the cord on the kettle. How could she know that he could grab it, tip the kettle on top of them both, fusing them together like that. It was part of their bond. Marie has other scars too, ones that no one can see. She knows them in detail. So does Graeme.

  She climbs the stairs, one slow step at a time. Knows that she has to do this. He won’t come down. He’s waiting for her to come and get him.

  ‘Graeme? Are you up there?’ She whispers it. Scared that he might actually answer her.

  There’s no light in the stairwell. Hasn’t been for months. It doesn’t really affect her, so she hasn’t done anything about it. There’s supposed to be a factor who does these sorts of things, but despite the monthly service charge they pay no one ever comes out to do any maintenance. The ceiling is too high for anyone to reach to change the bulb, unless they had a long ladder. It’s too dangerous. People would rather walk up the stairs in the dark.

  She holds her breath as she climbs further. She ascends slowly, trying to keep calm. Breathes out. What will he look like, up close? She’s only seen him from a distance, and even then she can’t be 100 per cent sure. She might have this wrong. Maybe it’s not him.

  She is scared to see him now.

  Has spending years in an institution turned him grey-skinned and withered? Did he ever go outside? What did he do all day? Marie realises that she doesn’t know her brother at all. He was taken away during their formative years. She wonders if he still likes to read. The two of them were always avid readers, sitting up late under a makeshift tent in one or other of their beds, shining a torch on the pages of the Secret Seven or the Famous Five, each taking a turn to read to the other. As they’d got older, they’d experimented with different kinds of books . . . Graeme had started to scour second-hand bookshops, bringing back pulpy noir with sexy women on the covers.

  She can’t read anything like that now. And she can never listen to a book being read. Just the thought of it brings back too many memories of them both, under those covers, shining the torch . . . learning about each other.

  She shivers, although it isn’t cold.

  On the top landing, the hallway is even darker. There is less natural light up here: on the lower floor, the glass panels on the main door let some light in but upstairs there is nothing, just a grey carpeted hallway and nine closed doors. The tenth, Flat 9, is open – just a fraction. A spear of light cuts across the carpet, dissecting the hall outside.

  Bubbles of panic shoot up through her chest. Her hands shake. What happens once she’s seen him? Then what? Can she really have him back in her life? She presses her hands on the low, flat part of her belly, just above her pelvis. She pushes hard, until it starts to hurt. Remembering . . .

  A figure steps out into the hallway.

  ‘Graeme,’ she says. A statement. Her voice sounds flat. There is nothing left in her now. Seeing him there, a dark shadow lit by the sliver of light from the flat where he has been shuffling around, tormenting her. Letting her know who’s in charge.

  They stare at each other and time seems to stop. She balls her hands into fists, feels her nails cutting into her palms. Squeezes hard to stop herself from shaking. A rush of emotion floods through her. The last time she saw him. What he did. How he left her. Why is he here now? Why has he come back? She closes her eyes.

  Ten . . . nine . . .

  When she gets to one, she opens her eyes again and he is still there. She’d hoped, for one crazy moment, that she was imagining all this. But no, he’s real. It’s all real. The nightmare from her past has come back to haunt her. Because if he’s come to find her, it can only mean one thing, can’t it? He wants to hurt her.

  He wants to finish what he started.

  Eventually, he speaks. ‘I was staying down at the old lodge. But then I saw you.’ He stops, clears his throat. ‘I followed you. I wanted to just come up to you, talk to you. But I was worried you’d turn me away. The postman let me in. He didn’t seem to be bothered about who I was. I was just looking around. Trying to see if any of the flats were empty. It was luck, I think. Or maybe it’s fate. You used to believe in fate, Marie. Me and you, two halves of a whole . . . You know, there’s an old Japanese myth that says if two star-crossed lovers die in a suicide pact, they are reincarnated as twins.’

  She shivers, and the fear she felt on seeing him seems to flutter in her chest before gradually fading away. His voice is slower than she remembers. Higher pitched. Softer. He doesn’t sound like her brother. He doesn’t look like her brother any more.

  When she meets people, she tells them she is an only child.

  He keeps talking. ‘Can I come down to your flat? It’s horrible in here. I haven’t got much. I had to nick some clothes off washing lines. I’m not proud of myself.’

  The initial threat has gone. She feels as if she is on autopilot. She hasn’t had time to read all the letters yet. Her flat is a tip; stuff she’s pulled out of the drawers is all over the place. He won’t care – she remembers his room as a teenager. It stank of boy sweat, was full of dirty mugs and plates, rubbish overflowing from his bin. Clothes strewn around. Piles of crap on top of his dressing table – things he’d dismantled and tried to put back together. He had this fascination for pulling things apart: radios, watches, clocks – even the toaster, more than once �
� but when it came to putting them back together, he lost interest. It used to drive their mum up the wall. But then dad would come along and quietly fix things. Say nothing about it. That was how their parents had dealt with Graeme all along. Keep quiet. Sort it out. Don’t make a fuss.

  She feels her body tense, thinking about it. Thinking about what he did to her. She shouldn’t be doing this. He is dangerous. He is unpredictable.

  No. He’s nothing, Marie. Not any more.

  She doesn’t speak to him. Walks down the stairs, slowly. Trying not to panic. There is silence, just the faint buzz of the flickering strip light in the bottom hall. She’s almost at her front door when she hears the thump-thump of Graeme’s heavy footsteps as he follows behind. Her mind goes into overdrive.

  What now, Marie?

  He tried to kill you, Marie.

  He loves you, Marie.

  He took your innocence, Marie.

  He’s the only one who knows you, Marie.

  He’s going to hurt you, Marie.

  ‘He’s still my brother.’ She mouths the words. Over and over again, like a chant. ‘He is still my brother.’

  27

  Laura is rinsing rice from the inside of a saucepan when she hears a tap at the window. She turns, expecting it to be a delivery. Quinn is through in the bar discussing menus with Bill. They’re sampling some new desserts after that, which means Laura will be having a random selection of them for lunch. Neither Quinn nor Bill has much of a sweet tooth.

  There’s no one there.

  She drops the saucepan into the sink, dries her hand on a cloth. Goes out the back door into the yard, expecting to see a delivery van and someone in the back of it pulling out boxes. But there are no vans, and no boxes.

  There’s only Mark, leaning against the wall next to the kitchen window. He’s smiling at her. His arms are crossed. But the way he moves, fidgets as he tries to get comfortable, sets alarm bells ringing in Laura’s head.