Things We Have in Common

by Tasha Kavanagh

  Of course that didn’t happen because I’d forgotten about Bea and she started barking and came running into the kitchen before I’d even stepped inside. ‘Sssh!’ I said, holding my finger to my lips and laughing because it’s impossible to do anything secretly with her there and then I walked her through into the hall, bending over and rubbing her sides.

  You were in the front room, halfway up the stepladder with a paintbrush in your hand, twisted round to see who it was. ‘Did you come in the back?’ you said. You looked like you couldn’t believe I had.

  I stood up. ‘I knocked,’ I said, going in. You’d taken the net curtains down, the sofa and record-player were pushed forward and under the ladder and all round it were sheets of newspaper. A picture of Alice was there on one of them, staring up at you.

  ‘You can’t just wander in,’ you said.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean—’ but you cut me off.

  ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

  ‘I’ve come to help,’ I said, and I smiled and held my arms out to show you I’d come dressed for it, but you didn’t smile back. You turned away and dipped your brush in the paint pot that was standing on the platform bit of the ladder. Then you reached up and started painting a line along the top of the wall.

  I chewed my cheek and looked round the room. You’d taken some stuff out – the round side table and the lamp and the plant that stands on the floor. You hadn’t painted any of the walls yet, though, only the bit where you were. ‘And to tell you you were right,’ I said.

  You didn’t say What about? You just carried on painting, so I said, ‘About the police. About what you said about them arresting the wrong people all the time.’ I realised then it hadn’t been on the news that Gary’d been released, but it didn’t matter. I still could’ve heard. I said, ‘They released that man.’

  I bent down to give Bea another fuss, but she made a noise deep in her throat. I’d never heard her make a noise like that before and it didn’t sound very friendly, so I stood up again. ‘So, how’s it going?’ I said, trying to be cheerful, even though it was obvious you were in a mood – you and Bea. When you didn’t answer, I thought you might snap if I kept on, so I said, ‘Can I go and see upstairs?’

  You’d painted everywhere up there – both bedrooms and the upstairs hall, but even though I was walking round and whispering words like ‘Nice’ and ‘Smart’, I wasn’t really even looking. I was trying to figure out why you were being like you were – whether I’d done anything to make you that way. The only thing I could think of, though, was coming in your back door and that wasn’t that bad, was it? Then I remembered you saying ‘You’re an angel’ and I told myself your mood probably wasn’t anything to do with me – though it was a pretty stupid thing to tell you about the police releasing Gary, because that wouldn’t exactly cheer you up, would it, knowing that the police were out there looking again? Then I remembered the funny mood you’d been in when I came to look after Bea, and how that hadn’t been because of me either. And you hadn’t even seen me since you’d said, ‘You’re an angel’, so I told myself to calm down, took two really deep breaths, tightened my pony tail and went back downstairs going, ‘Wow, it looks amazing.’

  When I went into the front room, I said it again. I was going to say I’d make a tea too, but you weren’t up the ladder anymore. You’d finished painting the alcove and were moving the china dogs onto the hearth, and because I thought that was something I could be doing, I rushed over going, ‘I can do this,’ and taking some of the dogs off the mantelpiece, and then I don’t know how but I dropped one and it broke on the tiles, its head rolling away from its body. ‘Oh God,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to drop it . . .’ and I went to pick it up but you put your hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Leave it,’ you said.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘Please . . .’ and I went to reach for it again, but you kept your hand there so I couldn’t. Then suddenly you stepped back, away from me. You ran your fingers through your hair. ‘Look, Gemma,’ you said, ‘I meant what I said.’

  I stared at you. I didn’t understand. I thought maybe I’d heard you wrong. Because you knew my name. I’d told you my name. ‘I’m not Gemma,’ I said. ‘I’m Yasmin.’

  ‘Yasmin,’ you said, glancing up at me, ‘sorry. Look, go home. I don’t want you coming round.’

  ‘But . . . we’re friends,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ you said. You rubbed your forehead. ‘We’re not friends.’

  I knew you didn’t mean it – that you were still just trying to protect me – but tears stung my eyes and the corners of my mouth went down like they were being pulled on strings. ‘But I made you lunch,’ I said. ‘We had a nice day.’

  And then you laughed – a weird laugh like you didn’t think it’d been that nice – and turned and picked a rag up off the floor, the same one you’d had when you were painting upstairs. I stood there, blinking the tears back as you wiped your hands, thinking, don’t cry because I knew you wouldn’t like it if I cried. I said, ‘Is it because I’m so fat?’

  You threw the rag onto one of the ladder steps. Then you said, ‘I’m not even going to be here much longer.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ I said.

  ‘I’m leaving.’

  I watched the rag slip off the step and fall on top of the picture of Alice. I tried to take in what you were saying. ‘But . . . the house?’ I said.

  ‘I’m selling it.’

  And then, before I could think about what I was doing, I was going, ‘No! You can’t!’ too fast and too loud. ‘It’ll look too suspicious!’

  I realised the second it was out what I’d done, and even though it was too late, I clamped my hands over my mouth.

  You were staring at me, your eyes black beneath your frown. ‘What did you say?’ you said.

  I stared back at you, my hands still over my mouth. I shook my head. Then I started backing off. ‘Nothing,’ I said, and ‘I’ve got to go,’ and I went out quick, stepping over Bea who was still in the doorway.

  ‘Hold on,’ you said, coming after me but still unsure – still figuring it out. ‘What do you mean, suspicious?’

  I opened the front door. ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘see you later,’ but you were coming up the hall, going ‘Wait,’ and then, as I pulled the door behind me, you yanked it back, reached out and caught me by the wrist.

  ‘No!’ I said, spinning to face you. my voice high and panicky because I couldn’t help it, and then your grip on me locked and I think I must’ve screamed because suddenly your face was right up in mine, the vein in your temple throbbing as you said, ‘What you playing at?’ And then Bea was there, barking, and you were pulling me like you wanted to get me back in your house and I was going, ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ and ‘Let go! Please let go!’

  Then your neighbour’s front door opened and that woman was there. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, ignoring Bea’s barking and coming towards the fence. Her eyes went down to your hand on my wrist. ‘Is there a problem here?’ she said. She was looking at me. ‘Is this man . . .’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s OK, it’s OK,’ and then your grip loosened. You let go. I looked at her, rubbing where you’d held me because it hurt. I shook my head. ‘It’s my fault,’ I said, ‘really,’ and I smiled to try to convince her, even though she didn’t look very convinced at all. She kept looking at my wrist, and because I thought she was going to say What was your fault? or worse, something about calling the police, like last time, I held it out to show her and said, ‘Look – see, it’s nothing,’ and then I turned to you, thinking you’d say something to back me up, but you weren’t even looking at me. You were staring down at the path, clutching your cheeks in your hand.

  I didn’t know what else to say, so I just smiled at her again. I said, ‘I’d better go,’ and then I said, ‘Bye, Sam,’ and I walked away and didn’t turn back.

  I started running as soon as I got round the bend in your road, whispering and looking be
hind me and wishing I could actually run, because I knew you’d come after me as soon as you could – as soon as you could get away from your neighbour, because you’d definitely figured out that I knew about Alice. You wouldn’t have grabbed me like that if you hadn’t. I thought about how if your neighbour kept you there long enough for me to get away, I’d be able to tell Dr Bhatt I had a new motivator for my list. I was sure he’d think Running Away from Murderers was a good one and I could see him in my head, smiling as he said it in his Indian accent, rolling the R.

  By the end of your road my lungs were like two burning lumps of coal and my throat was so tight it was like you’d grabbed me there instead of my wrist. I had to stop running and walk. You still weren’t coming, though. And you still weren’t when I got to the park.

  I leant on the back of a bench – the one I’d sat on the night you took Alice – gasping for air and sucking on my inhaler till I calmed down a bit. Then I sat down, thinking, where are you? Because now that I was somewhere public, I wanted you to come. Out here, with people around, you wouldn’t be able to be mad at me – you’d have to listen. And once you’d sat down and heard about how I’d known all along, before you’d even taken Alice – right from when I saw you watching her – you’d realise how it was lucky that it was me that saw you and no one else. You’d realise that if it wasn’t for me, you’d probably have been caught and you wouldn’t be angry with me anymore.

  But you didn’t come – even after ages.

  I started to think about the things you’d said, like ‘We’re not friends’ and ‘You can’t just wander in’, and that laugh you’d done when I said we’d had a nice day, and the more I thought about them all, the worse I started to feel – the more unlikely it seemed that you’d ever liked me. Because nobody likes me. Nobody ever likes me, and then I thought, why would you come after me? No one ever does – not even when it’s to kill me.

  I told myself it didn’t matter, that once you’d sold the house you’d be gone anyway, one way or the other. You’d either get away with it and move up north or wherever it was you were going, or you’d be arrested and sent to prison where you’d sit in a cell, hating me for wrecking your life. Either way, we’d never be friends. And you wouldn’t not sell the house, would you? You wouldn’t listen to what I’d said about it looking suspicious. You wouldn’t even think about that, because you didn’t think about me at all. You didn’t even know my name.

  I picked a stick off the grass and broke it in half, then broke those bits in half and then just sat there breaking more twigs into smaller and smaller pieces. I thought about going to the police and telling them about you after all. But I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t face it. I never want to speak to another officer as long as I live. And anyway, there was no point in telling them then because, like you’d said, Alice was dead.

  Then I thought about going to the graveyard. It was far away, though, and I didn’t have any money to get a bus or buy flowers like I’d promised. So I stayed where I was, breaking up sticks and thinking how maybe I didn’t need to go there to see Dad because maybe he was here with me – in the trees and the grass and the low blanket of cloud. Maybe he was watching me. I wondered what he’d say if he was. Go home, love, that’s what – and I would’ve done if I had one, but Gary’s wasn’t home. Our old house was home – the one I’d lived in with Mum and Dad. And then I saw us there – Mum in the kitchen and Dad in the front garden, clipping the roses. I thought about how I used to help him look after them. I wore his big leather gloves and picked up the bits he cut off, putting them all in a bucket, then taking it round the house to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. There was a rusty gate there and a narrow, overgrown path full of spiders’ webs that led to the little green. I wasn’t allowed down it on my own, but I went with Dad. We used to take the snails there because I liked to pretend they were baby dragons and that if we set them free their shells would grow into wings and they’d fly away. ‘Don’t tell Mum, will you?’ he used to say. ‘She’ll think we’re nutters,’ so I never did, even though I knew he was just saying it to make it more exciting and that Mum knew in any case because she always got the plastic tub out of the top cupboard for me to collect them in.

  Then without really knowing I’d been walking at all, let alone where I’d been going, I was there. I was home.

  I hadn’t been there for years – not since Mum and me moved into the flat after Dad died – but it looked the same. There was a basket hanging next to the front door with a long trailing plant in it and a tricycle on the porch, but apart from that, it was just like it always was. I could remember it inside, too: Mum and Dad’s big bed with the plum-coloured duvet and matching chair that went with her dressing table, the stairs that came down into the lounge which meant I always fell asleep listening to them watching the telly and saying things to each other. Then I remembered the bowl of marzipan fruits Mum always had on the sideboard in the kitchen – small and perfect, just like the real thing in miniature. I hadn’t thought about them in years. They were her favourites, but she never had them anymore. I don’t know why. I don’t know what happened to their duvet or her matching chair and dressing table either.

  Dad’s roses were still there, growing along the front wall. Mostly they were just leaves and buds, but there were three yellow ones out. Three, I thought, for Mum, Dad and me. They only had a very faint rosy smell. I wanted to pick one, so I could take it home and put it in a glass of water and look at it and try and remember more of the things me and Dad did together. I thought I could take it to the graveyard the next day and put it on his grave as an Easter present. He’d love that, to see how his roses were still there after all this time, blooming away, spring after spring.

  Then I heard knocking and looked up. It was old Mrs Manners from next door, looking at me through her window. She was smaller than I remembered, like she’d shrivelled up, but I could still see it was her. She’d been nice to me when we lived there. She’d taught me how to make a pom-pom – wrapping wool around two cardboard circles, then, after ages and ages, when no more wool could fit round, cutting through it all with her big old-fashioned scissors with black handles. She disappeared and came out of her front door in fluffy slippers.

  ‘Yasmin?’ she said, leaning out and squinting at me. ‘Is that you, Yasmin?’

  I could’ve waved back and said, Yes, it’s me, Mrs Manners. Maybe if I had, she’d have asked me in and made me a sandwich and a hot chocolate and I’d have told her everything. It would’ve been easy to tell her, to sit quietly in her front room, and I think she’d have listened without interrupting right to the end. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. I just turned and walked away.

  ‘Hi,’ Mum said, coming into the kitchen a few days later, like she hadn’t been practically ignoring me ever since Gary’d been released. I knew already this wasn’t just her being nice to make friends again, because her voice was light and high, like it is when she wants to tell me something but doesn’t want me getting upset about it (i.e. making things difficult). Like when she told me that we were going to move in with Gary.

  I carried on eating my Crunchy Nut Clusters.

  She put the kettle on, then opened the dishwasher and started taking stuff out, putting it away in cupboards.

  ‘Want a tea?’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  Then she looked out of the window and took a deep breath in through her nose and sighed like she was out enjoying the wilds of the countryside somewhere. ‘God, it’s good that’s all over with.’

  I tipped my spoon and watched the milk dribble off it back into the bowl. ‘It’s not over with,’ I said. ‘Alice is still missing.’

  ‘Oh, I know, love, but after all we’ve been through.’

  ‘What?’ I said flatly.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘You know what I mean.’ She took a mug out of the dishwasher and put a teabag in it. ‘It’s just got me thinking, you know, about the future. Now that we’ve got one again.’
/>   I didn’t say anything.

  ‘I was thinking about how you said you wanted to do nursing,’ she said. ‘You still want to do that, Yaz? After your GCSEs?’

  What do you care? I thought, but I didn’t say it. I kept eating.

  She poured hot water into her tea and stirred it. She said, ‘Only I saw the NHS has got a new work experience scheme. It’s in St Albans, but you can live in while you’re doing it. I thought you’d like that.’ She glanced at me. Then, pretending that it wasn’t blindingly obvious what she was doing, she went on. ‘You know, spread your wings a bit, have a bit more independence.’ She raised her eyebrows at me when I looked up, like Exciting, hey? ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even shrug, even though I’d rather live anywhere than there with them. But I wasn’t going to make it that easy for her to get rid of me – to turf me out of her brilliant new life with Gary – so I dropped my spoon in the bowl and went back upstairs.

  She didn’t follow me because she felt guilty. At least I hoped she did. I hoped she felt guilty as hell.

  When Gary got back from a job, I went down again. I pushed past them both in the kitchen doorway, saying, ‘Scuse me,’ and went out into the back garden and started picking all the daffodils in the flowerbed, tramping on Gary’s plants to reach the ones at the back by the fence. I knew they were both watching, and I knew they wouldn’t have the guts stop me because they’d figure the flowers were for Dad and feel too bad about how horrid they’d been. There were more people at the graveyard than the last time. I thought it was probably because it was Easter weekend which, because of Jesus on the Cross, made everyone think about death and how their loved ones weren’t with them anymore. I said hello to Annie Stott. I put a daffodil on the graves either side of her because I thought Sidney Atkins and Rosalind Jones were probably pretty pissed about the amount of flowers Annie always got. I thought they probably wished she was still alive so they could climb out of their coffins and throttle her themselves.