You Let Me In

by Lucy Clarke

  As I’m rubbing my arms to keep warm, somewhere below there is a noise. A single clunk, like a book being dropped or a picture frame falling to its back. Something with weight.

  Panic shoots through me. I’m aware of my own breath, shallow and rapid.

  I wait, listening. There is the push of wind against glass, and far, far below, another sound – like the strain of wood beneath a footstep.

  I hold myself very still, listening.

  Nothing more.

  After a minute or so, I am about to move when I catch the light creak of metal, like the hinge of a cupboard or door opening.

  Someone is downstairs.

  My head whirls.

  Who?

  Flynn still has a key … He’s let himself in before.

  Or, has Mark been watching the house. Found a way inside?

  What about Bill? He could’ve taken the spare key from my bureau on his way out.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, thoughts spinning dangerously. I’m thinking of him. Luke Linden. I tell myself it isn’t possible. It can’t be.

  I picture that faint, insidious message written on my window: I’m in your house.

  Then it comes to me, a dark thought swooping down. Whoever rented this house had a key. What if they’ve had it copied? Let themselves back in.

  I grab the thick arms of my reading chair, pulling and dragging it towards the writing room door. The solid legs scrape across the floorboards, scratch marks clawing across the wood. I heave it firmly against the door, the chair back slotting beneath the handle, barricading the entrance.

  I stand there, hands on hips, breath ragged. Now what?

  Shivering hard, I rush to the glass wall. Shoving aside my laptop, I scramble onto my desk, then open the window as wide as it’ll go. Wind-lashed rain rips into the room, the pages of my books flapping wildly on the shelves.

  Standing on tiptoes, I push my head out, rain biting against my scalp, the rush of wind filling my ears. It would be useless to shout for help: there will be no one out in the bay at this time of night, and my voice is no match for the weather. I squeeze my shoulders through the window, rain sliding down the neckline of my jumper. I could just about fit through this window if I had to.

  Below on the second storey, a balcony wraps around my bedroom. The lights in my room are on, spilling onto the balcony and illuminating the sheer height of the drop. Is it twelve feet? Less perhaps? If I don’t land correctly, it could mean a broken leg – or worse. I’m not certain that I’d even land on the balcony area. If I misjudge the drop, or am buffeted by a gust of wind, I could miss the balcony altogether.

  I would hit the rocks.

  Rivers of rain slide from my forehead, my chin. I’m shivering hard, the window frame digging uncomfortably into my back. I grip on harder, my fingers numb with the cold, angling myself so I can assess my options, look for any struts or points of purchase that I could use to climb down – but there are none. There is absolutely no way out.

  My attention is snatched by a movement below. Rain blurs my vision, but I am almost certain I see the swing of material – perhaps the hem of a coat – as a figure crosses my bedroom, then disappears.

  Previously

  It’s my second-to-last day in the house. I’m ready to leave.

  I’ll miss certain things. The view will be the hardest thing to give up. I’ve kept the windows ajar most of the week – the novelty of fresh, sea air blowing through the house has not dimmed. I’ll also miss the coffee machine. An expensive little habit those coffee capsules, though.

  Do you know what I won’t miss? All the space. The rooms feel empty enough to echo. Your own voice, your own footsteps, following wherever you walk. I don’t know how you bear it.

  I look down at my hands, studying the three carefully selected items they hold.

  I go to the lounge first, edging the toy giraffe beneath your sofa, so just a hoof protrudes. Next, I take the stairs to your bedroom and place a small pot of men’s hair wax at the back of your bedside drawer. Finally, I make my way into the smallest room – the would-be-nursery – and leave the nappy rash cream on the shelf below the porthole window.

  There. Done.

  Satisfied with my thoroughness, I climb the stairs to the writing room. I press down the handle, considering whether I’ll need to attempt to relock this door before I leave.

  I decide that no, I won’t. People see what they want to see. When you slot the writing room key into this door, you’ll assume it was always locked, just as you left it.

  I cross the room and position myself before the oak trunk. The lid is open from my visit earlier this morning. Finding myself in a strangely reflective mood today, I decide to take a final look at the photos.

  I leaf through the albums, thinking I’ve probably examined all of them, when I find another tucked right at the bottom of the trunk. Not hidden, but not easily accessible. I imagine you can’t have looked at it in a long time.

  I pull it out. The cover is sturdy, bound in tan leather that is soft and timeworn. As I open it, I immediately see my mistake. This is not a photo album, after all.

  Dusk gathers around me, the floorboards turn to ice, yet still I don’t move. I stay there in the muted darkness, with this new knowledge surrounding me.

  I cannot believe it.

  Except – it all makes complete sense.

  My knees are stiff as I stand, pins and needles fuzzing through my feet.

  This changes everything. I feel winded, foolish.

  I should have known!

  I move to your desk, anger spreading through my chest, twitching down my arms, causing my fingers to curl into themselves.

  Right in front of me there is a paperweight – solid, glistening, a glittering jewel in your office. I reach for it.

  LIAR. LIAR. LIAR.

  I launch it at the floor, the dull thud of solid glass against wood. There is no pleasing smash or ringing glass. Instead, it lies cracked, a chipped fragment splintered from the whole.

  22

  Elle

  The window frame scrapes my hip bone, as I pull myself back through it. I yank the window shut and clamber from my desk.

  I fumble through my desk drawer until my fingers meet the hard metal blades of my scissors. I grip them close to my body, then cross the room, searching for anything else I can use to defend myself.

  Blood pumps hard through my veins. I’m firing with energy.

  I crouch by the vintage case where I store electrical items and, opening it, I find an old power cable. It is a metre-long, thick, kinked in places. I pull it out and wrap one end around my hand. Yes, I could use this. I picture it tight against a throat, veins bulging.

  I will do whatever it takes.

  Then I notice it: an old router, dusty and tired. It’s been relegated here because of a loose connection in the wiring. I wasted hours of my life having to wiggle and adjust the cable every time the connection dropped out. There’s a chance I can get it to work. I heave my desk away from the wall to access the phone point behind it. My hands are shaking so hard, it takes three attempts to plug in the cable. I set the router on the desk and watch for the green light to flash, indicating that there is internet access.

  Nothing happens.

  This router came with me from Bristol and must be six or seven years old. I lightly jiggle the cable in a bid to realign the loose connection. I used to have a technique that involved wrapping the cable around the router itself. I try it now, my hands unsteady, breath laboured.

  A single green light begins to flicker and wink.

  ‘Yes!’ I hiss.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I check the door is still secure, then I open my laptop. My hands are clammy, and I wipe them against my thighs before navigating to the Wi-Fi settings. I have to position my desk lamp near to the router to read the minuscule code. Breathless, I stab the code into my laptop, then hit Return.

  I sit very still.

  There is not a beat of noise from downstairs.


  Please, please.

  The Wi-Fi icon appears on my toolbar. I am connected!

  I work quickly now, fingers racing over the keyboard as I open Skype and dial 999.

  A message pops up on my screen informing me that this service isn’t permitted to make emergency calls.

  No!

  I rarely use Skype and have no contacts listed. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to think.

  Fiona. I know Fiona’s mobile number. I tap it into the computer, then listen to Skype dial.

  Answer, will you? Answer!

  ‘Elle?’ Her voice is muffled.

  ‘I’m locked in my writing room. Someone’s in the house. Please. Call the police.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Call the police, Fiona. I’m in my house. Locked in my writing room. I can hear someone downstairs.’

  ‘I’ll call them now! Then I’m coming over.’

  ‘Is Bill there?’

  ‘Bill? Of course. He’s asleep right here. He’ll stay with Drake.’

  The call ends. I sit very still at my desk picturing Fiona ringing the police, imagining them getting into their cars, blue lights flashing.

  What if something happens to me before they arrive?

  Fear is circling me, gaining ground.

  I remember the advice I gave in my Facebook Live video a few days earlier. When you’re a writer, there are no bad situations – only material.

  I eye myself in the dark glass wall. I am a character. This is a setting. The plot is unfurling around me. That is all. I am here, and I am not here.

  My gaze lowers to my open laptop. I flick the cursor to the next line, set my fingers above the keyboard and begin to write.

  I catch the faint wail of a police siren in the distance. The sound blows in and out of earshot, buffeted by the wind.

  Thank God, they’re almost here.

  The sirens grow louder – then cut out. The lane, I think. They must be on the lane. They don’t need sirens on the lane.

  There. The sound of tyres on gravel as a car enters the drive. There is the slam of car doors, the tread of feet. Muffled voices. I suck in air with relief.

  Then there is a sudden, violent bang, and I feel the house shake. Then a second one.

  The door, I realise. They are breaking down my door.

  On the third crash, the door must swing open, as I hear it whack into the oak settle.

  ‘Mrs Fielding?’ A police officer is calling from downstairs.

  Then Fiona’s voice. ‘Elle?’

  ‘Up here!’ I cry. I drag the wingback chair away from the door, as the tread of footsteps rises through the house.

  ‘I’m locked in!’ I shout. ‘The key is in the bureau down—’

  The door opens wide.

  A male officer with a thatch of auburn hair steps into my writing room, eyes sweeping across the space. ‘Are you okay, Mrs Fielding?’

  I stare at the open door, my gaze fixed to the lock. There is no key in it. ‘How did you do that?’

  The officer is looking at me. ‘It wasn’t locked.’

  I rush towards the door. ‘Of course it was! I’ve been in here for hours! I tried to get out … I did everything … It was completely locked.’

  Fiona is stepping forwards, asking, ‘Are you okay?’

  I don’t answer. I step out of the writing room and pull the door closed. I need to test it, to show the police that it was locked. But when I press down on the handle, it opens easily.

  Everyone’s eyes are fixed on me.

  ‘It was locked,’ I whisper.

  The male officer introduces himself as PC Steven Cart. ‘Is it possible you made a mistake?’

  ‘No. Someone locked me in!’ I hold his eye, my jaw clenched. ‘The key for my writing room, did you check in the bureau? Someone used it, I know they did.’

  Pushing past everyone, I race downstairs. I open the bureau, reaching into the clay pot – but the key for the writing room is there, exactly as I’d left it.

  I rake my fingers through my hair. They don’t believe me – but it was real. I was locked in. I’d seen the bolt across the door, felt the resistance of the handle.

  I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror. My eyes look sunken in the shadows of their sockets. I press my palms to my cheeks. My face feels hollow, as if lack of sleep has carved flesh from bone.

  I smooth my hair, tucking it behind my ears, and straighten my jumper. I will go back upstairs, make the police understand.

  On the staircase, I pause, hearing my sister’s voice, low, confiding.

  ‘Listen, Steven, she’s been under a lot of pressure recently. Elle doesn’t sleep well. She’s going through a divorce. There’s work stress, too.’

  There is something else said, which I can’t quite make out. I climb the stairway to get closer, fingers trailing the cool wall.

  ‘Has anything like this happened before?’

  There’s a pause. Then I can hear Fiona’s voice, low, urgent – but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

  I keep very still, my breath held, straining to listen.

  The moment is broken as the female officer descends the stairs, passing me and saying, ‘I’m going to check the house for signs of forced entry.’

  When I reach the top, I arrange my expression into one of composure. Fiona smiles at me, gives my hand a quick squeeze.

  PC Steven Cart says, ‘I’d like to get an account of what happened.’ He removes an electronic notebook from his pocket. ‘How long were you in this room for?’

  I note the absence of the word locked.

  ‘I don’t know … I came up here in the late afternoon. It was still light. Maybe four o’clock. But then I went downstairs again to answer the door. My neighbour visited briefly, Mark. Then my brother-in-law, Bill. It was probably about eight o’clock when I returned to the writing room.’

  ‘What alerted you to the idea there was an intruder?’

  ‘I work with my headphones on. It was only much later, when I’d finished – when I went to leave the writing room and couldn’t – that I heard something.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘It sounded like something was dropped – a book, maybe. And I’m sure I heard a door being closed.’

  His expression remains impassive, but I can tell he’s unconvinced.

  ‘I caught sight of someone, too. I saw a movement through the window. Someone was in my bedroom.’

  ‘Through this window?’ PC Steven Cart says, walking towards the glass wall.

  ‘Yes.’

  He examines it, as if this will offer the clue as to the intruder’s identity. ‘You saw into your bedroom through here?’

  ‘I was leaning out.’

  He climbs onto my desk, knees creaking as he pulls himself up, the full weight of him on my writing desk. He opens the window, rain and wind rushing back into the room.

  ‘Mind my laptop,’ I say, but he is pushing his head out of the window, peering into the night.

  After a few moments, he withdraws his head and closes the window.

  ‘My bedroom is the one directly below, where the balcony is. I saw someone move across the room. I could see their silhouette in the light.’

  He looks at me. ‘The light is off.’

  I hesitate. ‘It was on. The light in my bedroom was definitely on. Maybe … maybe the other officer turned it off? Or maybe the intruder did. I don’t know.’

  PC Steven Cart climbs carefully from the desk. He pauses there, gaze on my open laptop.

  When he turns back to me, his expression has changed. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Oh … just … I’m a writer,’ I say, as if that is explanation enough.

  His eyes narrow minutely as he considers me.

  The female officer returns, saying, ‘There’s something you should see.’

  I feel a stab of satisfaction. There will be evidence – something to make everyone take me seriously.

  The female officer leads the way downstairs, the fug of
damp carpet surrounding us as we move past the first-floor landing, then receding again as we continue down to the ground floor. Turning left at the bottom of the stairs, the female officer pushes open the door onto the lounge.

  Under the beam of the downlighting, the floor glints with fragments of broken glass. The wooden frame of the table looks exposed, as if poised to take a weight. The rest of the room is otherwise immaculate.

  PC Steven Cart asks, ‘What happened here?’

  I hesitate, thoughts tripping to Bill. I glance at my sister. Her expression gives nothing away. Has Bill told her what happened?

  I turn back to PC Steven Cart, looking at his pale, puffy skin, the red veins at the edge of his nose. The last time I’d talked to a police officer was more than a decade ago. Under fluorescent strip-lights, I’d sat on a plastic chair in an interview room, the smell of other people’s sweat stale in the air.

  Just like then, this man will be analysing me, wondering whether I am reliable, whether my word holds weight. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me?

  If I stick to the truth, will I be believed?

  I look at the shattered table. ‘I’ve no idea what happened.’

  PC Steven Cart moves carefully around the room, examining it.

  His colleague says, ‘There’s no sign of forced entry. Everything’s secure.’

  ‘Does anyone other than you have a key?’

  ‘No one,’ I say, clearly.

  ‘You’ve not given anyone a key recently? A neighbour? A friend? Or left a spare under a plant pot or anything like that?’

  ‘Last month I rented the house on Airbnb. It’s the first time I’ve done it. It’s possible that the tenant got the key copied, let themselves back in.’

  PC Steven Cart asks, ‘Who rented the property?’

  ‘A woman named Joanna Elmer. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her actually, but her Airbnb account has been deactivated.’

  He nods. ‘Do you have any reason to think she would want to return to the property?’

  ‘Not that I can think of.’

  From behind me, Fiona says, ‘What about Flynn? He still has a key, doesn’t he?’