by NC Marshall
I listen as the person starts to move around the room. Drawers open and close, I hear rustling as Ali’s belongings are moved around. They are looking for something. I begin to get more nervous when they don’t leave the room as quickly as I had hoped. What if they decide to search the wardrobe? But as a mobile phone rings and the person speaks to answer the call, I feel a small sense of relief. It’s Chrissy.
“Hi. What is it,” she asks. She sounds slightly irritated. “Yes, no problem I’m on my way now,” she adds, in a thicker-than-usual Mancunian accent. I see a shadow cross the small opening at the bottom of the wardrobe door as she passes, then I listen as she makes her way back down the stairs. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and scramble out from under the heavy coat. I leave it five minutes after I hear the front door click shut before I make my way down the stairs too.
Back outside, I thank my lucky stars that I managed to hide long enough for Chrissy to be called away. If she had found me there’s no doubt about it that I would have been in deep shit. I quickly walk away from Ali’s house. The small memory stick still in my pocket is burning a hole. I don’t waste any time in heading straight to the nearest Internet café on the corner of Cranley’s high street, I had spotted while on the bus on the way here earlier.
I am greeted by a well-built young guy dressed in long Hawaiian print board shorts and flip flops. His piercing green eyes are striking against his deeply tanned skin and his long blonde hair is spun into loose dreadlocks. I feel like I know his face but from where I’m not sure. He smiles at me as I enter the small shop and make my way towards him at the counter. Cranley has always been popular with surfers, thanks to its perfect sea conditions here. I have no doubt that this man’s spare time is vastly taken up by the sport.
“Hi there,” he says, blatantly looking me up and down when I reach him. He gives a small nod followed by a cheeky wink as if to tell me I’ve achieved some sort pass mark on his shag-o-meter.
“I just need to use one of your computers,” I say coldly, nodding to the line of half a dozen empty computers at the back of the café. I’m grateful that the place is empty apart from me. I have no idea what is on the memory stick, and can do without any nosey strangers seeing its contents when I have no idea myself.
“No problem. Take your pick. How long do you want?” he asks moving to a till.
“I’m not sure yet, maybe just half an hour, for now.”
I hand the man some money and he logs onto one of the computers for me. I notice the tail of what appears to be a snake tattoo poking out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt as he moves away.
“Just give me a call if you want anything,” he says politely. His manner seems to have warmed. Maybe he’s realised when he has seen me up close that I’m almost old enough to be his mother.
The guy leaves me. I swiftly remove the memory stick from my pocket and plug it into a free USB port. I’m not very computer savvy, but lucky for me, I have a fifteen-year-old daughter at home who is and have picked up a few tips from watching her over the years. I look around me to check where the guy is and see he is standing at the door talking to a blonde-haired girl dressed in a wet suit, a bright pink surf board tucked under her arm. I struggle to appreciate the lure of the sea on such a horrible day. I suppose it’s a form of addiction.
After the computer runs a security scan I promptly click on the memory stick’s icon as soon as it loads onto the screen, wondering what could be so important that Ali would feel the need to hide it. Maybe it's something to do with her finances, bank details, tax information, or account spreadsheets. Owning a house like the one she has must warrant a lot of money and a lot of upkeep, I would presume.
There is only one file when the memory sticks contents open, a Microsoft Word document. I click on it and it immediately blinks onto the screen. It is obvious by reading the first couple of lines that this isn’t financial. In fact, it's nothing to do with money whatsoever. It’s a diary. It’s Ali’s diary. I smile, remembering back to how Ali had always kept a diary when she was a teenager. Back then, it was in the more favorable paper book and pen format. She hid that one, too, under a loose floorboard in her bedroom and only Jenna and I knew anything about it. By the looks of it, she only started writing this one six months ago. I can see already that it only goes back to January this year, not long after the date she returned to the area. I glance around to check the coast is still clear and click to print the document hoping that the printer I am connected to is nearby. I’m relieved when I hear a clicking in the corner furthest from where the guy stands and the diary is printed quickly for me to collect.
I grab the memory stick and bury the loose sheets of paper in my handbag before I rush back out of the door.
“You finished already?” asks the guy as the blonde girl he is with eyes me curiously.
“Yes, thanks for your help.” I say, as I dash past them.
“Anytime,” he replies.
*
I make my way to the marina not far from where Ali lives. I know there isn’t another bus to Sandbroke for almost an hour now and I can't wait that long to read what she has written, but I need to get further away from her house in case anyone sees me.
The sky is beginning to clear as I approach the once small marina. The strength of the sun now starting to come back to its full force, burning away what is left of the heavy clouds from earlier this morning. The marina was here when I was younger and I remember it pretty well from when Jenna, Ali, and I came here to visit the beach club on a Friday night. Back then it housed nothing more than a few old fishing boats that were no longer in use and the odd rundown wreck that was in the process of being restored to its former glory. Now, it seems to have doubled in size and houses glamourous looking boats and private yachts. The whole place is coated with a thick layer of wealth.
I walk around the marina until I find a seat that is situated in a corner away from the boarded jetty and the relatively busy area. Settling down, I reach inside my bag and pull out Ali’s diary. I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes, take a deep breath and begin to read.
Part Four
Ali
Chapter 19
Winter in Cranley can be a peculiar time. Tourists that had graced us with their presence over the summer and into early autumn are now long gone, and with very little to now do, the locals take to part-time hibernation for the next few months.
I look out of the office window to the almost deserted streets below. The branches on the trees that line the pavements are stripped bare and I can’t help but feel they look menacing under the low red sun that is setting far off in the west over the ocean, currently just out of view from where I sit. Dr Langley—or Monica, as she insists I call her—shifts her chair closer to me, and thoughtfully twiddles with an expensive-looking silver parker pen.
“I’ll say it once and I’ll say it again, Ali, your mother's death wasn’t your fault,” she says, in that mildly patronizing tone of voice she sometimes uses.
I manage a smile but really don’t understand how she could possibly know what she is really talking about. Years of expensive education, a printed certificate—which she no doubt has framed somewhere in her Pemblington based home where she resides with her perfect husband and three beautiful children and a few additional letters at the end of her name—doesn’t make her a mind reader, nor does it enable her to glimpse into the past. If she could then she would see that she is wrong. I choose, as usual to ignore her.
“Did you know that the sun’s rising and setting point changes slightly every day?” I hear myself ask. At least, I think it's me, it’s hard to tell these days. Dr Langley doesn’t respond, so I continue. “It moves south gradually, until it finally hits the winter solstice.” I trace an arched circle in the air with my finger, invisibly mapping out the route that it takes.
Dr Langley sighs, and moves to pull down the blind at the window, blocking my view. She clearly is not impressed by my knowledge of the celestial body. I have no cho
ice but to set my focus back on her.
“Your mother was very ill, Ali. How do you think it would make her feel to know that you are blaming yourself for something that was totally out of your control? God is the only one who has a say in who lives and dies on this earth.”
Oh, here she goes again. Dr Langley cannot get through a full session without bringing God into the equation, she’s simply incapable.
“Yeah, I know Monica.” I’m telling her what she wants to hear. As I always do in our weekly sessions in hope that they will conclude more quickly, but somehow she sees through my lies. Maybe she does have mystical powers, maybe she is just damn good at her job. She starts to talk again, I lean back and look at the closed blind to the window, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. I shut my eyes.
*
A while before I discovered my mum had become sick, my life was pretty near perfect. I didn’t have a husband or kids, but that’s the way I wanted it. That’s what I chose. I settled down in London. I loved it there; the hustle and bustle, the traffic, the noise, even the smog and its ridiculously busy roads and the overcrowded tubes found a place in my heart.
My career as an actress really took off in London. After acting in small television roles, I landed myself a fantastic job in a television crime drama series and although it wasn’t a leading role it was still a good one. Some places I went people would even shout my screen name and ask me for photos and autographs. I’m not saying it was anywhere near the level of attention a Hollywood actress would get, but it was enough for me. The expensive drama school that my mum had scrimped and saved so hard for over the years to send me to had finally paid off and I had achieved what I had always wanted. My life was a whirlwind of social events, glamorous parties, and photo shoots. I travelled the world or pretty damn close, and lived a life of pure content. I bought an apartment with a partial view of the Thames and got carried away with my glamorous lifestyle.
I had lived in London for almost five years, before the show was suddenly cancelled and I was unexpectedly unemployed. After that, I managed to get work, but competition was fierce and my age was against me by then. It seemed that reality shows and scantily clad twenty-somethings willing to show their boobs at any given opportunity were the ‘in’ thing. Although I have never been the shy and retiring type, that wasn’t for me. Work from then on mainly consisted of small supporting roles gained through contacts and old colleagues pulling strings within the industry, but it was nowhere near the level of work I had been used to. It didn’t keep me busy enough. I became bored and soon started to miss home. My life itself became a lot less fast-paced and my social life basically nonexistent. It’s amazing how many so-called friends, even those I thought I were close to slowly start to drop one by one when the fame begins to dry up.
When I received the news that my mum was in bad health, I came straight back home. I had managed to get back to Sandbroke to see her occasionally while I had been living in London, which admittedly wasn’t enough. I was selfish and far too self-absorbed to find the time. Mum had never let on how sick she really was until near the end, but I was lucky enough to spend a short time with her before she passed. A little while later, she was gone and that’s when I found myself totally alone and a new and very different life began for me.
“Ali, are you even listening to me?” my eyes snap open.
“Yes, yes, sorry Monica of course I am.” I sit upright in my seat and try to show more interest.
“Have you been getting out and about more often like we discussed last time?” she asks me, the silver pen is poised ready to write down my every word when I answer. She clicks the top of it a few times and I fight the urge to rip it from her perfectly manicured fingers and throw it across the room.
“A little,” I answer quietly.
“That’s good, at least you are starting to leave the house now. It’ll be good for you to get out and about more.”
I raise my eyebrows and cock my head as if I’m interested. In fact, I'm trying my damnedest not to scowl at her. I was scolded like a child for not showing enough awareness last week, and I don’t want these stupid therapy sessions to go on any longer than humanly possible.
“And what about the new house, have you settled in now?” she asks.
“Yes, just about.” I smile as I think about my beautiful home by the sea. The one thing that keeps me close to sane these days.
“It's all furnished and decorated now. You will have to pop around for a coffee some time. I’ll give you the grand tour.” Wow, that sounded pretty sincere. My acting skills certainly come in handy in these sessions. In reality, I've done very little with the house since I moved in almost two months ago, and with the exception of my own bedroom haven’t really touched any of the other rooms yet; they are still the same as the previous owners left them. Although I’d like to change them because they aren’t at all to my taste, I haven’t really had the willpower, desire, or even the energy to start redecorating just yet. Some days I find it a struggle to even get out of bed in the morning.
Monica sits forward and looks genuinely honored by the invitation to my house.
“Well, yes, Ali, I would love that.”
Monica has wanted to befriend me since we met in my first session. She constantly compliments me on my clothes and my hair and makeup. At first, I thought the compliments were just to try and boost my now almost non-existent self-confidence. Now I see that it may be more of a small infatuation towards me, a bit of a girl crush on her part.
I smile agreeably and casually glance at the clock on the wall behind her. Five more minutes and I can get out of here. The only reason I come is because my GP pretty much told me I have to. After my mum died, I had a breakdown, and along with the antidepressants, this is meant to be a huge help when dealing with bereavement. I prefer the medicinal route by far. “Have you made any friends in the area yet?” asks Monica. “Are you back in touch with any of your old friends?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t really know anyone in the area. Anyway, I’m originally from Sandbroke and I don’t have a reason to go there anymore, now Mum has died.”
Monica nods and glances down at the designer handbag I have on my lap. She has already commented that she likes it. She can have it for all I care. I wonder at what point in time I became so materialistic. The saying really is true; money can't buy you happiness. What it can do, however, is buy you lots of expensive and meaningless crap to help disguise how unhappy you actually are.
I plaster on the sickly sweet fake smile again and try to keep the conversation flowing.
“I’ve made a new friend in Cranley recently,” I announce, enthusiastically.
“Oh, Ali that’s wonderful news!”
“Yes, I know. Her name is Missie. We’ve spent quite a lot of time together recently.”
“Really, and what is this Missie like?” she asks, her voice is monotone. I detect a slight look of jealously cross her face, which is soon replaced with a warm smile.
“Oh, she’s lovely. We get on very well. We go walking most days,” I reply.
Monica clearly doesn’t even realise I’m totally taking the piss out of her. Not that smart Dr lady, are you?
Monica smiles again, then glances down at her watch and finally puts down her annoying pen.
“Okay, well, I think that’s us for this week, Ali. But you know where I am if you need to give me a call, even if it’s just for a chat.” She rises to her feet and follows me to her office door to see me out.
“It seems you are making very good progress, Ali.”
“Yes, I know. I think I’m getting there,” I lie.
Chapter 20
I first saw him on a bitterly cold, clear January day. I was on the Pier in Cranley completing my daily walk with my neighbour—Mrs. Robertson’s Springer Spaniel, Missie. She was running full pelt ahead of me, ears flapping in the breeze, her tail wagging in the delight at the thought of being free for the next couple of hours. She was soaked from an impromptu
dip in the ocean and was overly eager to get back into the freezing cold water.
“You’ve got no chance, young lady,” I shouted at her, as she neared the railings of the pier and began to whimper down at the sea.
“Wait till we get back to the beach, where the water is more shallow, girl.” Missie seemed to understand what I had said and continued to bound on her quest towards the pier end. When she got there, she stopped abruptly at a random man, who bent down and began to stroke her.
I knew who he was as soon as I got closer to him and we made eye contact, how could I not? I’d had a bit of a crush on him when I was younger, but he was well and truly taken back then.
“Cute dog,” he said, as Missie curled up at his feet and settled there like she had known him forever. They say that dogs are a good judge of character and I found myself wondering in that instant if that was really true.
“Yeah, she’s not mine. I just walk her for a neighbour,” I responded. I felt his eyes on me and instantly regretted not putting on any makeup before leaving the house. I picked up my pace, closing the small gap between us.