Bolder now that the sound is further away, I tiptoe out of my room and go to the top of the stairs. I hear the back door closing and I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
The landing is lit by moonlight, which spills through the small window. Alice’s door is slightly ajar, and in a repeat of the other night I gently slide it open. The clothes she was wearing earlier, a black cashmere jumper and grey trousers, are folded on a chair. Black Dr. Martens boots stand beside the bed as if she’s about to step into them. The duvet is cast aside once more. My heart rate steadies. It’s Alice; she must have heard the noise before me and gone downstairs. But why didn’t she call me? I’m sure I’ve told her what a light sleeper I am.
At the window I watch the torchlight drawing patterns. With the glow of the moonlight I’m able to see a figure down by the shed, crouching over something. It doesn’t look like Alice. Is she in danger? Cold blood circulates around my veins and a scream lodges in my throat. I recall last night, the terror that drove me to Alice’s room. Now she needs me. Shame at the memory of my behaviour fires me up. I hurry down the stairs, but this time I grab the tall umbrella. I turn the knob on the back door, but it doesn’t open: the wood sticks. My hand shakes and I need both hands to finally get it to turn. Why won’t it open? Freezing air rushes in and my cotton nightdress billows around me as I open the back door. It’s no longer raining. I hear a tapping sound: tap, tap, tap.
‘Alice?’ my voice rings out through the darkness. The tapping stops. Silence. I clutch the umbrella so hard my knuckles tingle.
‘Who’s there?’ My voice is louder now, filled with a confidence I don’t feel.
The person turns towards me and lifts their arm. Nancy? It’s her coat. Confused, I step backwards. Should I run? Torchlight hits my eyes and I move my head away from the glare. A hooded figure stands in front of me and I squint at the bright light, raise the umbrella with shaking hands.
‘Ella, stop.’
It’s Alice.
Twenty-Nine
ALICE
The last thing I expected was Ella to wake up and cause a scene. I’ve been making mistakes. Too many, lately. Letting myself be caught out by things. Two nights ago it was the first aid box that made me catch my breath: I had to hold myself still so that she wouldn’t notice. She’d already given me a fright, surprising me like that in the middle of the night. I thought I’d been so quiet. Then there was blood all over the floor: that horrified me. I thought she’d really hurt herself and I hated the idea of that. Feelings are creeping up inside me, spreading out their tentacles and catching me unawares. But it was only a splinter; it made me want to laugh out loud with relief, but Ella was hurt and scared and I didn’t want to add any more worries to the dung heap that her husband has already created. What is it with these men? She told me Chris had sent an estate agent round to put the house on the market. What was he playing at? Of course I told her to think about it. But it did mean one thing – time is running out.
* * *
Ella looked knackered this morning. Dark bags had formed under her eyes and I had to force some breakfast down her. She’s so frazzled I thought she’d be knocked out at night. I told her I was looking for someone in the garden too, and it’s the truth; I just twisted it a little so that it fits my story.
I don’t scare easily, as I’ve told Ella before, but when I shone the torch in her direction and saw her looking like a ghost, wearing a huge white nightdress and holding an umbrella, I almost yelled out loud. My heart pogoed up and down and in the end I just had to tell her.
It wasn’t ideal. I found it embarrassing. Being out of control is the ultimate failing as far as I’m concerned. It’s bad enough me knowing, but having to tell someone else about it is embarrassing.
Olivia couldn’t handle it. For a while she developed insomnia herself because she was convinced I’d fall out of the window onto the unforgiving concrete below. It’s not as if we were in one of those hotels on a Spanish party island that you read about, where a drunken British tourist out for a good time takes one step too far over the balcony and ends up having no kind of time left at all. Our balcony was a small drop. So she’d prevent herself from sleeping just in case I had ‘an episode’, as she called it. Eventually she got used to the idea and it only happened once when I was with her. That was bad enough. She wouldn’t believe I wasn’t awake; she said my eyes weren’t glassy like she’d imagined they would be; my arms weren’t rigid in front of me. You shouldn’t believe everything you see in the movies, I tried to tell her. She did love her films so. That’s where I get my passion from. And now I’m passing it on to Ella. Like a daisy chain. But that’s a pretty image, and I’m talking about something ugly. I have no control of my faculties; worst of all, I couldn’t tell you what I get up to when I’m under the spell, as I like to think of it. It’s a bit like being under the influence, which is more fun, but that’s not a state I allow myself to get into.
Up until now, I think I was justified in not wanting to share my secret with Ella. Olivia was healthy and well adjusted, but it’s fair to say that Ella’s not exactly in tip-top condition. Telling her about my sleepwalking won’t have helped her state of mind one iota.
There, I’ve said it: I sleepwalk. I have done for as long as I can remember. Ever since, well… That’s another story.
I was wearing a raincoat that hangs by the back door, one of hers, presumably. My arms and legs were covered in mud, which looked worse because it had started to rain.
Ella’s face went white when I told her, making her grey eyes stand out. She drank a glass of water and said she’d had such a shock because I was wearing Nancy’s old raincoat. She couldn’t bear to throw it out. I took it off straight away, wanting to run upstairs and get under a hot shower, trying with all my might not to scratch at my prickly skin or to think about that.
I really, really wanted to sleep, but Ella kept me up talking, wanting to know more about my condition and what she could do to help me. I emphasised that it normally only happened a couple of times a year, but that didn’t convince her because, as she pointed out, it’s happened three times this week. I let her think that was the case because I didn’t know how to explain otherwise. I was too tired for clever arguments. Ella said she was going to google it first thing tomorrow.
Just as I was going into my room she called my name and I turned and she pulled me into her arms and held me tight. Her body moulded into mine and I had to draw away. I drew back a little more roughly than I intended and she looked hurt, then closed her door in what was almost a slam. I stood staring at the door for ages; the last thing I wanted to do was hurt Ella, but the truth was too complicated and it was four in the morning. So I tried to sleep, and I imagine she probably did the same in the next room. I was thinking about her a lot, you see, and that disturbed me.
Thirty
ELLA
The next morning I wander out into the back garden, clutching my mug of tea. In the fresh morning air it’s hard to imagine the chill and terror I’d felt the night before, peering through the black gloom. But there was nothing to be afraid of. I’d discovered Alice sleepwalking, covered in mud, her shirt torn. It must have been terrifying for her. If I hadn’t caught her in the act I don’t think she would have admitted to it; it was like she was wrenching the confession out of herself, while I waited like a fisherman reeling in his catch, desperate for the tiniest slither of information. I feel closer to her now. And relieved, if I’m honest. It explains her slightly odd behaviour. Covering up for it must be exhausting.
The mug warms my fingers as I look around the garden. Alice is making progress; there are fewer weeds, and a vegetable patch is taking shape. Or is it? On closer inspection there are piles of earth behind it and a deep hole has been dug. I look up to my window and picture me looking down at night, terrified at the strange happenings in this garden, where torches dance and sleepwalkers roam. Was someone else here?
* * *
Mr Mortimer is in his f
ront garden watering his hanging baskets when I get home from work. His front porch pops with colour. I feel a little tug of affection. Since our conversation the other day I’ve warmed to him. His movements are slow and he puts his green watering can on the ground when he sees me. Rubbing his back and taking his cap off, he walks to his side of the path that separates our tiny front gardens.
‘Shouldn’t be bending at my age. Gives me aches and pains in all sorts of funny places. I like to keep the garden looking nice, though. It’s only what Doris would expect from me.’
‘Doris has nothing to worry about. You can always ask me to help if it gets too much trouble. Or Alice, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’
‘Not sure I’d trust her. I’ve been watching what she’s getting up to out the back.’
‘What do you mean?’ I can’t help remembering the other night: the muddy shoes, the trail she’d left.
‘I’ve been watching her progress. Not being nosy, just interested, like. She looks strong, capable, like she knows what she’s doing. Works fast, too. But what’s she’s been doing is digging holes, then filling them back in.’
‘Planting seeds, you mean?’
He shakes his head, silver strands quivering with the motion.
‘No, she just chucks the earth back in. Real quick, like, as if she’s in a hurry. People are these days, mind, aren’t they? Rushing around yelling private conversations into phones, holding office conversations on the bus. Crazy.’ His hair bounces about some more. ‘Not that I’m against these mobile phones – I’ve got one, you know. Don’t carry out my business on it though, especially not on the bus.’ He chuckles and I fake a smile, my mind still on Alice.
‘You’re probably mistaken,’ I say. ‘Alice knows what she’s doing. She’s been planting vegetable seeds, she showed me. She’ll be adding flowers later.’ He’s already told me his eyesight isn’t great and he must have been looking out from an upstairs window. ‘I’m sorry the garden has been such a jungle for so long, but she is working on it.’
‘Aye, I expect you’re right. Wouldn’t make sense now, would it, digging a load of holes and filling them back in. Unless she’s looking for treasure.’ He chuckles again.
An image crosses my mind. I’ve stood at the window watching Alice, admiring the fluid way she moves and her strong, tanned limbs. Have we both been in our windows at the same time, our gaze on her? Can she feel our eyes watching her? I won’t do it again, I tell myself. Why do my thoughts always return to her?
Then I remember the embroidery.
‘Mr Mortimer—’
‘Fred.’
A memory stirs whenever he says his name. I remember why. ‘Fred. You won’t believe this, but there’s a sign in the garden that says “Fred’s bakery”.’
‘Is there really? Well I never! I used to own a bakery in the village. I wonder what it’s doing in your garden. I sold the business years ago.’
‘I wanted to ask you about something else I found in the house. It’s a piece of embroidery, with a date on: 30 July 1997. Does that date mean anything to you?’
‘Ninety-seven, that takes me back a bit.’ He scratches his head. ‘Let me have a think about it. I’ll do some baking, that always helps me concentrate. I’ll make some cakes and you can come over for tea. How about that?’
‘That would be lovely.’
The knot of anxiety inside me loosens after our conversation, making me feel emotional. Mr Mortimer – Fred – goes inside and I go through the house into the back garden and walk over to the shed. I haven’t looked in here since Alice cleared it out. It’s tidy now and the shelves are lined with packets of seeds and small plants that she’s been bringing home from the garden centre. I almost trip over a cardboard box and it opens. I frown as I recognise Chris’s handwriting. The box contains a load of files and I grow increasingly puzzled as I realise it’s Chris’s old paperwork. His tendency to keep everything drives me mad, but at least he agreed to keep it out of sight in the cellar. The cellar. So what is this box doing in the shed? Surely she would have told me if she’d been in the cellar? Why would she want to go down there?
I take the box down to my craft room. It’s sealed with thick tape and it takes a while to hack through it with my large scissors. Inside are bank statements, bank letters, MOT certificates. A valentine card. The first one I’d sent him. A house on the front with hearts as windows. A lump forms in my throat. I’d made it in the shop. He’d have known it was from me but I’d drawn a question mark inside all the same. I was trying to tell him I loved him and his home. I sit for ages looking at the card, remembering how in love we were – how different things are now. I put it to one side and finish going through the box. A few more cards, a postcard. It looks old; the photograph is of Notre-Dame in Paris. I turn it over and read the simple message:
Arrived safely, spending a few days in the sun.
I squint at the little red stamp, try and decipher the postmark: July 1997. I jump to my feet, pacing about: 1997 again. But why has he kept it? I take the last few cards out of the box; they’re old Christmas cards. The doorbell rings and I stuff the card in my pocket and hurry downstairs. It’s Sadie from number 42. When I see she’s holding a baby in her arms I want to slam the door in her face. I smile instead, cooing at the baby, who makes my insides cramp.
‘Hi Ella.’
‘Hello Sadie. I haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘I know.’ She’s jigging the baby up and down. It hurts to watch. ‘Ted told me about Chris moving out and, well, I—’
‘It’s fine, Sadie, really. It’s awkward, I know, and you were Chris’s friends first.’
‘Gosh, thanks for being so sweet about it. Anyway, I’m here to make it up to you.’ She hands me an invitation. ‘We’re having a party on Friday. Do say you’ll come. And please bring a guest. I hope you can make it.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
My phone rings as I watch her go. It’s the estate agent, so I let it go to voicemail. I mull over Sadie’s words as I take the box upstairs and stash it in my room.
At first I dismiss the idea of the party, but it could be just what I need. I display the invitation on the mantelpiece. Something is missing. Chris’s photo as a boy. Odd. Alice must have moved it, tidying up probably. I straighten the party invitation. It was nice to be asked along. I’ll take Alice. Have a drink, forget babies and mortgages and unknown temptresses just for one night. And if Chris is there, I’ll show him I don’t care. Besides, I’ll be with Alice.
Diary
7 FEBRUARY 1997
It was so difficult to get out of bed today. My ribs were still aching, the pattern of dark green clouds on my skin a constant reminder. As if I could forget. This time yesterday morning Kit was still here and I hadn’t been punished for his departure.
I’d woken to the sounds of the front door closing, Kit leaving for work, or so I presumed. I’d gone downstairs for breakfast, a boiled egg with a slice of toast, but I didn’t manage a single mouthful. My daughter was upstairs in bed, off sick from school. Food poisoning, I told Edward. But my gut told me otherwise. I went upstairs to see if she wanted anything, but she was asleep, or perhaps she was pretending but I let her be.
Kit had left his door ajar and I stuck my head into his room to see if he had any clothes that needed washing. He has a tendency to leave his clothes on the floor and Edward gets mad at me for not cleaning up after him, not doing the housework properly, not being a good enough wife. The boy needs his privacy but Edward gives me no choice.
But Kit’s bed was made and the air felt curiously still. There were no clothes abandoned on the floor and a white envelope sat on top of the green quilt. My stomach lurched as if I was on a boat, out at sea. I stood for a while, not wanting to know yet knowing already.
I could hear the clock ticking in the hall downstairs and I counted five hundred ticks before I opened the note. It used to be one hundred that I counted up to, to put things off, but that doesn’t satisfy me now. This
is what he wrote.
* * *
I’m sorry Mum, I can’t do this any more. Dad wants to keep me here working with him. It’s not what I want, but saying no to him isn’t an option, you know that. If I stay I won’t be able to protect you, so I’m leaving home and I promise one day I’ll let you know where I am but I’m too scared of Dad finding out so it won’t be for a while. Destroy this note as soon as you’ve read it. You should get out too, Mum, take Melissa and run. Love you.
* * *
My vision blackened at the edges and I had to grip the back of the chair to stop myself from fainting. The dizzy spell appeared to go on for ages, my heart thudding in my chest. I can’t bear to think that my boy has left me.
Much later when I’d composed myself I went to see Melissa. She was asleep and I didn’t have the heart to wake her; she adores her brother. Or used to. Before this family fell apart. I didn’t know what to do about Edward, but I couldn’t keep still so I took everything out of the kitchen cupboards and scrubbed until the air smelt of lemons and my hands were sticking to the rubber gloves from sweat. After that I cleaned the fridge and polished the table. My face looked back at me from the shiny surface: an old woman with tired, sagging skin and jagged lines around her eyes. I didn’t recognise her; I wished she wasn’t me. For a second I remembered how I looked when I first met Edward, my slim figure, my excitement at life. He used to take me dancing and treat me like porcelain – precious. That was before he made me his wife.
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 16