Sarah is not sure how she feels about going home. She is still reeling from how quickly her emotions shift from hour to hour. How she has so swiftly moved on from fear of death to impatience with the hospital and her mother.
And the other big bogey is back – worrying what will have come out of the television appeal.
The friends troop into the room looking cowed. Sarah is now in a side room just off the general children’s ward. At seventeen, she does not qualify for an adult ward, so this provision is to make her feel less awkward. Away from the babies. The nurses have told her she is ‘lucky’ that this side room was free.
Lucky?
‘We didn’t know what to bring so we decided on sugar. Your mum won’t approve, but hey.’ Tim is holding a little carton of biscuits and a box of fudge.
Sarah decides she will punish them all for as long as possible, and refuses to look anyone in the eye.
Just last night she dreamed about them all at the farm, a birthday party Mrs Ballard threw for Tim. He must have been ten, maybe eleven. Anna’s mum had been horrified when she discovered Tim’s mother didn’t bother with parties, and made this huge fuss – a big tea and a star-shaped chocolate cake with fresh cream. Tim and Paul brought a balloon-modelling kit and learned how to make sausage dogs, swords and hats. Walking along the narrow road from the farm to get her lift home after the party, she’d had a bright yellow sausage dog tucked under her arm. She had been so happy that day and so sad it was over. She had felt her expression changing; the two boys looking at her sideways. Always hard to go home, isn’t it? She can’t remember who said it, Tim or Paul, but she remembers exactly how she felt as she nodded – sad, but sort of guilty, too. She knew it was wrong to prefer Anna’s family to her own, but she just couldn’t help it.
And now? Sarah finally looks up and glances from face to face. She wonders what on earth happened to them all. When exactly did they stop being who they were to each other back then?
Jenny looks pale, and Sarah finds herself hoping she is remembering the horrible things she said during their row. It wasn’t just the two boys who were cruel. But then a picture of Anna in the club flashes into Sarah’s mind, and she closes her eyes and leans back on her many pillows.
‘Sorry. Are you feeling all right? Do we need to get a nurse?’ Jenny’s voice.
‘I’m fine. Just tired.’
‘Right, yes. Of course. Look, we promised your mum we wouldn’t stay long but we just wanted . . .’ Jenny’s voice trails off and she suddenly sucks in air.
‘Look, we came because we wanted to say sorry. For what we said.’ It is Tim who has stepped forward.
Sarah opens her eyes and looks again from one to the other. Tim. Paul. Jenny.
‘We just felt so guilty. For swanning off to do other stuff. That’s the truth.’ Paul is fidgeting with his belt buckle. ‘We shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
‘You’re sorry you said it . . . but you still think it’s my fault?’
Sarah keeps her gaze on the boys. They had been the most outspoken when they had the row.
‘It’s those men. If they could just find those men.’ Jenny again.
Finally, Sarah takes a deep breath. ‘So – how did the TV appeal go? Many calls? I’ve got my phone back but not enough data to see it.’
The ice broken, they babble about how much the appeal helped. Loads of calls, apparently. Sarah lies again and says the pills really were an accident and they’re not to worry.
‘So you won’t do it again?’ Jenny’s tone is urgent.
‘No. I won’t. I promised my mum I would be more careful, and I couldn’t put her through that again. It was completely stupid. So tell me then. This TV appeal. What exactly did they show?’
Jenny says that she’s really pleased they used the lovely video of Anna, and also one of the photographs that she emailed the producer of the programme, but her mother was upset that her interview had been cut back so dramatically.
‘They edited out all the bits of her talking about other missing girls who have turned up and her saying that no one should give up hope – that any piece of information might be key to finding Anna alive.’
Everyone is silent for a moment.
Sarah closes her eyes again.
And then her mother is suddenly back in the room, ushering everyone out and saying that the staff have bent the rules and they don’t want to push their luck.
They each say goodbye and sorry, yet again.
After they have gone, Sarah’s mother sits on the chair next to the bed and fidgets. She smooths her skirt over and over.
‘What’s the matter, Mum?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is.’
Her mother pours some cordial into Sarah’s empty glass and tops it up with water from the plastic jug. She examines the box of fudge as if reading the description on the back.
‘OK. So the police have been in touch again, Sarah. And of course the doctors say you are too poorly to see them. I wanted to keep this from you. You’ve been through quite enough but apparently they do want another little chat with you once you’re home, so I thought you should know. Prepare yourself. So it doesn’t set you back.’
‘What about? What do they want to talk to me about?’
‘Apparently there have been some more witnesses from the club. After the TV appeal. That’s all I know.’
‘But I’ve told them everything. Everything I know.’
‘I know, love.’
‘No. I don’t want to talk to them again.’
‘OK, love. I understand. No need to upset yourself. I’ll try to explain to them that you need to rest.’
And now Sarah is leaning back on her pillows, closing her eyes and trying once again to block out the echo of Anna’s voice. The desperation on her face that night in the club.
Please, Sarah. I don’t feel safe. I’m begging you. Please . . .
CHAPTER 19
THE WITNESS
About that promise I made to Tony not to do any more early stints at the shop on my own until the new alarms are installed . . . Well. You try getting a depressed teenage boy out of bed at the crack of dawn.
It’s hard to be too cross. Luke promised he’d keep up the job until we find a replacement, but he wanders round like a zombie now. Always looks so tired. We’re letting him stay off school for a few more days while everyone adjusts to what’s going on with Emily. But it’s hard to know how to play it.
This morning I banged on his door early, but no answer. I checked later and he just looked terrible. Bad headache, too – so I gave him some tablets and asked him to join me when he can. Tony is in Bristol so I have a dilemma. Duty to my customers versus safety and my promise to Tony. The only upside is the police have been pretty good. It’s probably guilt for letting my name get out. They’ve been sending a patrol car past the house and shop every so often just to bump up ‘presence’. They seem pretty sure it’s just a saddo, but we’re getting new alarms for the shop anyway, and I’m trying to tell myself it is all covered now.
The bottom line is that I decide to pop in early on my own – just this once – and will keep pestering Luke. He passed his test recently and Tony got him a Mini, so he can zip down in that once he’s up to it.
By the time I arrive at the shop, I’ve messaged Luke twice more but had no reply yet. To be honest, I’m sad he wants to give up the job. Luke has been helping out at weekends since he was about fourteen; he used to be so keen and he’s good with the customers. It made sense all round – it’s extra money for him and I feel it instils a bit of discipline. Plus understanding what it actually feels like to be paid by the hour – both the slog of it and also the satisfaction when the day is done.
Tony’s trip to Bristol is important vis-à-vis this promotion – they’re deciding if they should rebrand their cereals – and I’ve decided I won’t let him know about this. He’ll get upset and worry about me being on my tod here in the dark.
So. Concen
trate, Ella. I’m up against it. Six table decorations for a lunch at the town hall. It’s a good gig and quite a regular booking through a catering contact, so I don’t like to let them down. That’s the problem with repeat business: on the one hand, you’re grateful for it and flattered, but on the other, you’re always dreading that you might become dependent on it. Terrified to put a foot wrong in case the client goes somewhere else.
I normally draw up sketches and a mood board and agree those via email with the catering manager Kate. She’s got a good eye herself and often posts pictures of my stuff on social media, which all helps these days. I’ve earned quite a reasonable reputation with her for doing something a bit different. So I don’t like to slip up or get complacent.
Part of the whole drive to keep what I do looking fresh has been building up a good range of vases and props, so that I can really ring the changes. I just wish I had more storage space, though if I’m brutally honest, I probably spend too much on presentation. It’s a fine line with a business as small as mine, but I think investing in kit helps win repeat business, and it’s important to constantly surprise clients. It certainly leads to more photo shares on social media.
For this job, I’m using small galvanised-steel buckets; we’ve agreed an ultra-modern but vibrant look. I’m going with red anthuriums, white roses and Eustoma, against really glossy green foliage. It will look very striking with the white tablecloths and neutral room.
I’m always telling Tony that what you hope for with every order is that guests will ask, Who did the flowers? Kate is very loyal and always keeps my cards available. The only frustration for me is when conference delegates get in touch from far afield offering new work, as I can only cater within a certain radius.
Goodness. Time’s going on and no word from Luke.
It’s still quite dark and I’m thinking about another cup of coffee when I hear a car engine. I wonder if it’s Luke, but I’m not sure it sounds like his Mini. The car pulls up outside. It stops. I stop.
Ridiculous. It’s just a car, Ella. Calm yourself.
I stand very still, waiting for the car to move off, but it doesn’t. The headlights go out. I tell myself it is probably someone for one of the flats.
I wait a minute or two and text Luke again. No answer. All is quiet now and so I turn back to the anthuriums. I tell myself to concentrate on the flowers. And then . . . Oh my goodness.
Someone is trying the door handle of the shop. It’s locked, of course. Christ.
Luke has a key. It can’t be Luke.
I pick up my mobile, ready to dial for help. I am thinking that if whoever’s there forces their way in, I will run through the back and dial the police as I do so. Even as this plan takes shape in my head, I feel both ridiculous and simultaneously afraid.
There is more rattling of the door handle. I can’t see who’s there because of the blind drawn down over the glass section.
I keep very still. The only lights on in the shop are in the rear workbench area. I’m not going to the door. No way. There is a part of me that wants to believe it is Luke – that he has forgotten his key. But he would call out to me, surely?
Footsteps. Yes. Finally, I can hear someone walking away outside. Good. Good. Thank God. The car lights back on now. Driving off.
I wonder if I should phone Tony but then remember I’m not meant to be here on my own.
It is so odd that you can stand in a space – a place in which you normally feel so happy and safe – and then suddenly you can stand in precisely the same spot and feel like this completely different person.
I don’t want to be this person.
I hate this new person.
I can actually feel tears coming now. And what I am thinking is, You stupid, stupid woman. Why didn’t you just do the right thing a year back? Give the parents a call when you were on that train and make this all their responsibility – their call – and not yours?
Why, why, why? Why didn’t you do that one, simple thing, Ella?
I don’t know how long I have been standing here, but a glance at the big clock on the wall tells me it’s too long. I am seriously up against it now.
Then my mobile rings and I jump right out of my skin. Luke’s name.
‘Were you just at the door?’
‘No. What do you mean? I’m ringing to say I’m just setting off. But why so spooked, Mum?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. Look, will you just get down here as soon as you can. You promised your dad . . .’
I hang up. And instantly regret my tone. Damn. I send a text to apologise.
Sorry. Just tired. Coffee machine is on.
And then I finally get back to the flowers and try to let myself soak up the brilliant colours and the scent. Concentrate on the work.
For a moment, I wonder if I have made the wrong choice with the buckets. Should I have gone for the mirrored square containers instead? No – it’s too late anyway. I don’t have time to start again. This will be fine.
It is light outside now, which is a huge relief as I can see the cars passing and parking more clearly without the blinding headlights. I no longer feel that ridiculous sense of being watched, as though I’m in a goldfish bowl.
Nearly 7 a.m. and the door rattles again. This time a text from Luke to confirm it’s him. He really has forgotten his keys.
‘Why do you lock the door, Mum? I thought you liked it when you got some impromptu trade.’
‘Dad said it was a good idea. With these stupid postcards someone’s sending.’
‘I thought the police said it was probably some random saddo.’
‘They did. And it probably is. But we just want to be a bit careful. You know, just to be on the safe side. How’s your headache?’
‘Gone. So – will you have to see them again? The police?’ He looks worried, and I wish I had not said so much.
‘Don’t know. Probably not. It will all settle down again, I’m sure.’
‘Well, if I find out who sent those postcards, I’ll sort them out.’
‘Don’t say that, Luke. That’s no help – to say things like that. We need to let the police handle it now. Not us.’
‘That’s not what Dad said.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ He looks sheepish. ‘So you want another coffee, Mum? I’m starving, by the way. Got any food?’
CHAPTER 20
THE FATHER
Henry first held a gun in his hand when he was nine.
His father made him promise not to tell his mother. His uncle George was also there that day. They took him down to one of the lower fields, down by the river, to shoot rabbits.
Vermin, his father explained. Seven rabbits could apparently eat as much as a sheep. Hence they were a nightmare for the crops – also the vegetable garden. And their digging caused terrible problems for the livestock, too. Henry’s father said that as a child himself he had once seen a calf with a terrible twisted leg after it lost its footing in a rabbit hole. It had to be shot, of course, but it had suffered horribly, crying out in pain, until the gun could be fetched from the locked cabinet. Wretched rabbits . . .
Much was made, that first shooting lesson, about the rules and about safety. The licence and the law. Henry was told that he would be allowed to have a shotgun himself when he was a lot bigger, but only when he had proved that he could take responsibility and follow every single rule to the letter. It was both within the law and essential to keep the rabbits under control, but they were not allowed to shoot badgers so it was terribly important to be careful.
His dad and his uncle explained the safety sequence. No livestock. No public access. Only in daylight. Always check that there are no other shooters ahead of you. Make absolutely sure you know where everyone in the party is before you fire.
Lying in the grass, his father set up the gun for him and taught him how it should be fired. He was warned that it would kick back a bit into his shoulder and he should brace himself for that. But he would soon get used t
o it. They would take him to a shooting range and to clay pigeon shooting, too, to help improve his aim.
First shot and Henry was absolutely horrified. Complete fluke. Instant hit. The shock of seeing the rabbit sort of leap, then fall. His father’s amazement and immediate cock-a-hoop celebration were at complete odds with the feeling in Henry’s own stomach. He didn’t like to say, but a little bit of sick was suddenly in his mouth and he thought he might have to retch.
Well done, son. Seriously well done. A natural. My God, George. You see that? He has a natural eye.
These days the gun cabinet is in the small office alongside the boot room. It meets all the regulations, though Henry wishes he had opted for the model with a combination lock. His basic steel version has a key that he has to store separately. Technically he is not supposed to tell anyone where this is and he is supposed to change its location regularly. In practice, he has more than once forgotten its ‘new’ secret location, storming around the house and cursing at Barbara and the girls. So his current routine is to keep it in his sock drawer, inside an old pair of red rugby socks he never wears. Henry finds this easy to remember and tells himself a thief is unlikely to rummage through his socks.
Just occasionally there is some drama on the news about a child getting hold of a gun and Henry gets himself in a panic, checking the red socks.
Today, Henry rises early in the sparse sadness of the spare bedroom. Barbara insisted he moved out of their shared room the moment he got back from the police station. There was no formal arrest and the police are still checking out his new story, but with Barbara urging him to move out completely, Henry realises that he has made things worse, not better.
So what did they say, the police? Why was your car near the railway station? I thought you said you were drunk. Slept in the pub car park? Why the hell won’t you tell me what’s going on, Henry . . .
I Am Watching You Page 10