I Am Watching You

by Teresa Driscoll

  And now, uncomfortable already on her back, she moves onto her side to examine the robe on the back of the door. It is so long that it trails on the floor, and Sarah finds herself thinking that they should move the hook higher up on the door. Yes. Just a few inches and the robe won’t get stuck under the door when it’s opened.

  Then it is suddenly all confusion. Sunlight. The swish of curtains. A tinkling of glasses or crockery. Distant voices. By some miracle she has slept. Sarah can’t believe it. There is a rattling of china right alongside her, and Lily has a wooden tray with two pretty cups of coffee and a plate of something triangular and ominously green.

  ‘Avocado on toast. No excuses. You really must eat something today, Sarah.’

  Sarah yawns and stretches. ‘OK. Goodness. I can’t believe I finally fell off.’ She looks at the tray and reaches for a slice of the toast. ‘I will if you will.’ She dips her head to signal that Lily should have the other slice.

  Her sister narrows her eyes, then takes the piece of toast and sits on the floor, pushing the mattress out of the way.

  ‘I honestly didn’t think I would sleep. Last thing I remember it was about three a.m.’ Still Sarah’s voice is distorted by yawning. ‘So do you think Caroline will let me stay a bit? I can look for a job in a café or something.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ll ask. Only for the summer, mind. You need to get cracking with your A levels.’

  ‘Not sure I’ll bother now.’

  ‘Please don’t say that, Sarah. I’m only asking if you can stay if you promise you’ll finish your exams.’

  Sarah shrugs. The toast is nice. The surprise of lots of pepper on the avocado. Lemon, too. Popping the final piece into her mouth, she reaches down to the floor to pick up her phone. A string of messages. Sarah sits up, leaning back against the wooden headboard and skims through them.

  Oh God . . .

  She can’t take this in. Not Anna? How the hell can it not be Anna? What kind of new madness is this? There are messages from Jenny, from Tim, from Paul and other friends, too . . .

  She swipes to a news app and asks Lily to put up the news feed on her laptop again.

  ‘They’re saying it’s not Anna. The girl in the flat in Spain.’

  ‘What?’

  It takes a few minutes before the sound is up on the laptop. Lily and Sarah squeeze together on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching, to hear the reporter outside the flat in Spain confirm that the drama is finally over. Karl is now in custody, being questioned by police.

  It’s been confirmed that the young woman allegedly being held hostage by Karl is not the missing English girl Anna Ballard. Both Karl and the blonde woman in the flat are unharmed. Police are saying nothing further at the moment.

  ‘Not Anna?’ Lily is pale. ‘This doesn’t make any sense at all.’

  Sarah feels her hands come up to her mouth – her index fingers pressing into her lips. She can feel her sister trembling through the touching of their shoulders.

  ‘You know what this means, Lily?’

  Her sister leans forward, head in her hands, and Sarah gently rubs her back as Lily begins to cry.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling. I know it’s awful, Lily. I know it’s not what you want, but we have no choice now.’

  Lily carries on crying, and Sarah has no idea how to comfort her. They both know what they have to do.

  They have to go to the police about their father now. They have no choice. Sarah has to tell them everything.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE FATHER

  The next week sees a heatwave. A great sweeping ‘high’ on every forecast. Henry watches it with a quiet fury. The only time the weather people get it spot on – when you can look out the window and call it yourself. His daughter, meantime, is completely forgotten. No longer the headline. The local news is full instead of temperature charts, with chuffed tourist officers babbling about records being broken and how the staycation is back in fashion. The best season in years. All around Devon and Cornwall, faces turn a golden brown to match the grass.

  Today there is a news report about dolphins being seen more regularly and in bigger numbers off the coast, and some marine biologist is saying there could be more sharks soon. Global warming.

  ‘Global warming – yeah, right.’ Henry is packing some more of his clothes into another suitcase, the TV on quietly in the corner of the bedroom. Every time he returns to the house for more belongings, he drags things out as long as possible, hoping that Barbara’s resolve will weaken. That she will make tea. Talk to him. Let him stay. But no. Her voice is now shouting up the stairs. She would like him to hurry up, please. To get his things before Jenny gets home. Their older daughter is out with Tim and Paul, apparently. Barbara says the boys have been her rock since things spiralled so terribly.

  And now we are all back in the most appalling limbo, Henry thinks as he zips his case. Anna is still gone. The news obsessed with the wretched weather. And I am in exile.

  Back downstairs, he tries one more time.

  ‘Can’t we at least talk, Barbara? Try again? For Jenny?’

  ‘Try? You have the nerve to ask me to try? After you practically blow your head off in the barn, and then I find out you have been putting it about on our very doorstep. Off with some local whore while our daughter . . .’

  Henry still has no idea how Barbara has found out about his fling. She doesn’t know who yet, thank God, but she’s put the pieces together somehow. He suspects Cathy has deliberately let it slip, though she firmly denies this. Since the Spain debacle, their family liaison officer is no longer with them as much. Just checks in daily for a coffee and a chat. Probably embarrassed about the complete pig’s ear the police have made of the whole inquiry.

  The Spain ‘siege’ turned out to be no such thing. They learned that the blonde in the flat with Karl was his new girlfriend. The two of them staged the whole hostage thing to try to negotiate for a getaway car. Made it up as they went along when the police first turned up to arrest Karl after the tip-off.

  All the Ballards have been told since is that Karl seems to have an alibi for the night Anna went missing. Antony has turned up on the same building site in Spain, too. Both now in custody. Both denying any involvement whatsoever in Anna’s disappearance. Their story is that they lost interest in the two girls within the first hour at the club, and have no idea what happened to them. The lads say they went to a party with friends after the club in Vauxhall, which was always their plan. This new information has been cross-checked with witnesses and CCTV, and so far all the images and statements seem to confirm this story. To date, the Met team have not been able to find any gaps in the timeline that would suggest any involvement in Anna’s disappearance.

  The two men say they only did a runner early the next morning for fear of being blamed or framed. They believed they would go straight back inside. So mates provided false passports and a boat crossing to France. Forensic teams have checked the flat where the party was held. New alibis are still being grilled. But so far – zilch. Karl’s girlfriend, the so-called hostage, is an English waitress he met in a bar six months back.

  The Ballards have been assured Karl and Antony will almost certainly be heading back to jail for jumping parole and for Karl’s fake siege. But as far as Anna is concerned? The police seem slowly to be dismissing the two men as suspects. And they have no other leads. The DI is back in London, apparently distracted yet again by his serial killer case.

  So, what the hell now? Henry keeps asking.

  We are continuing enquiries. The case is very much still live . . .

  In this heat, Henry is slowly facing his greatest fear. That they will never find their daughter; never find out what happened. To imagine this as his future – all their futures – is unbearable. He sees it in Jenny’s eyes, too. And his wife’s.

  In this terrible limbo, Barbara has finally given in to antidepressants but seems to be suffering severe mood swings as a result. According to Jenny, the pr
oblem is that she refuses to take them every day, and the inconsistency in the dose is playing havoc with her system. Henry never knows how he will find her: dull and quiet, with all the light gone out of her eyes; or manic, cleaning the house over and over and shouting at him whenever he tries to reason with her.

  ‘You should see the doctor again, Barbara.’

  ‘It’s no longer any of your business what I do, Henry.’

  He feels this punch inside. Not just guilt, he finds, but a deep and all-pervading sadness.

  ‘I still love you, Barbara.’ As he says this, he realises much too late that it is true, and he wishes he could turn back the clock to dilute his irritation, his dissatisfaction with this life – farmer turned campsite manager.

  ‘Well, lucky old me, eh?’

  ‘I’m not giving up on this family, Barbara. We have to think about Jenny.’

  ‘What family, Henry?’ She spits this out at him. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t have a family anymore. Anna is gone, and I don’t know that we are ever going to get her back. And Tim and Paul are thinking more about Jenny’s needs than you ever did.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Fair? I’ll tell you what’s not fair – that you don’t even have the guts or the decency to tell me who you were with when our daughter went missing.’

  Sammy is standing by Henry’s side, and he can feel the tension in the dog’s posture. Tail down. Eyes down.

  ‘Oh, just get lost, will you, Henry. And take your dog with you.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  Henry wheels the suitcase behind him out to the Land Rover, and pretends it is heavy as he lifts it into the back. The truth is he is taking only a few items of clothing at a time, for the excuse to return, still hoping that Barbara will reconsider. He is finding it hard to believe that this is it.

  All gone.

  He glances one more time at the front lawn, closes his eyes to that picture of Anna turning cartwheels then sitting and smiling. Waving at him.

  He feels his fingers flicker, wanting to wave back at her. Finally he pushes his lips together very, very tightly, opens his eyes and drives along the narrow approach road out to the holiday lets – one of the larger, original barns converted into a row of four units. For now, Henry is using one of the two-beds. It feels like playing at life rather than actually living it, not least because the neighbouring three units are full of holidaymakers, and the yard full of bodyboards, wetsuits, laughter and an awful lot of sand.

  Henry takes the suitcase into the sad little bedroom with its neutral walls, neutral bedding and fake oak floor. Barbara spent a lot of time explaining to him during the conversion that ‘practicality’ was the watchword. Also ROI, which he learned stands for ‘return on investment’. The fittings and fixtures needed to be neutral, hard-wearing and easily maintained, she explained. It was not about personal taste or personal choice but about ROI. He stares down at the ‘easily maintained’ floor and thinks of the richer, original oak floors in the upstairs of the farmhouse. The twists and the knots. The lumps and the bumps.

  Henry lies on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He thinks of his preferred world. The real world he still clings to. The hay sorted, thanks to the weather. The lambs weaned and turned out onto the grass. What next? He must decide whether to begin ploughing the upper fields for next year’s cereals. Should he even bother? Is all this playing at farming going to continue, even? He looks around the room. The tiny pine wardrobe. The matching chest of drawers and bedside table. All too new. Too orange in tone.

  He thinks of Sammy next door in his bed in the ‘easily maintained’ kitchen, the poor dog as utterly miserable and confused as he is. What are we doing here, master? those amber eyes ask every day. He closes his own and wills sleep to come, but there is the screech of the doorbell. Another horribly modern touch. High and shrill, unlike the older bell system at the farmhouse.

  Who the hell . . . ?

  Henry pauses, hoping they will go away, but the shrill noise is repeated. Then a third time. A fourth. Eventually he gets up to see his visitor peering through the central glass pane in the front door.

  ‘Oh goodness. Jenny. Jenny, come in. Sorry. I didn’t realise it would be you.’

  His daughter glances around the mess that is his open-plan living. A pile of dirty crockery in the sink because Henry keeps forgetting to buy tablets for the dishwasher. His overalls thrown over the kitchen table and his muddy boot prints across the floor.

  She marches across to the fridge and looks inside. She sniffs the out-of-date milk and shakes her head. The only other contents are some pre-packed sandwiches and two multipacks, one of sausage rolls and one of pork pies, bought from the local garage.

  ‘Right. That’s it. I can’t bear to see you like this. We’re going shopping together and then I’m cooking supper. Come on.’

  ‘No, love. You don’t need to do this. I said I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re not fine. Come on.’ She is jangling the keys to her car – a battered Fiesta. Henry bought it for the girls to share. Jenny passed her test first time, and Anna was due to start her driving lessons soon. Henry tries very hard not to think of this. He was actually planning to stretch to a second car down the line, so they could have one each.

  An hour later and back from the local supermarket, Henry watches his daughter checking all the cupboards for pots and pans to make a bolognaise.

  ‘I’m being lazy using a jar of sauce but it’ll taste all right. Not as good as Mum’s, but better than pork pies.’

  She is sizzling onion and garlic in a pan, and he watches her brown the meat and add the sauce, ashamed of his own inadequacy and wondering when she learned to cook. He hadn’t noticed.

  ‘I expect you think I’m a right old dinosaur. Not being able to cook.’

  ‘Wasn’t any need, up until now. Was there?’ Jenny looks pale and Henry is wondering what it is she has really come to say. He can sense it. The holding back. They tiptoe around each other while the food cooks, and he doesn’t push.

  The meal is good and Henry is grateful and guilty all at once.

  ‘I forgot Parmesan, Dad.’

  ‘Never mind. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Doesn’t feel right at all – you looking after me.’

  ‘So, is it true? You had an affair? Mum won’t say much. She just lies in bed a lot of the day now. She’s been sleeping in Anna’s room. Curled up with her old jumpers.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m so, so sorry you’re having to deal with this on your own, on top of everything.’ Henry takes a deep breath. He cannot look at her. ‘OK, I admit it. I was a stupid idiot and I really regret it but it didn’t mean anything. I promise you. I love your mum. And you mustn’t blame her for being so upset. She has every right.’

  ‘Do you think she will forgive you? Let you home?’ There is a wobble to her voice and Henry can hardly bear it. ‘It just feels as if everything is gone.’

  Henry puts his hand out to take his daughter’s. The gesture makes her start to cry, and next she is saying something he cannot understand.

  ‘I’ve just had this awful message from Sarah, too. She’s still with her sister in Devon. And she says . . .’ Jenny looks into her father’s face, tears dripping unchecked down her own.

  ‘Look – Sarah won’t say why. She won’t give me any details. But she says we have a right to know that the police in London might be questioning her father. Over Anna.’

  ‘Bob? Sarah’s dad – Bob?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I don’t know either. I mean – they questioned you. Is it that they question all the dads? Is that all it is?’

  ‘I don’t know. Bob? But why now? Bob’s been gone for years. I got the impression he wasn’t even in touch with his family.’

  Henry feels the confusion shaping his new expression. The muscles straining with puzzlement. He glances across the floor fro
m spot to spot. His wellingtons. The dog back in his basket. The empty shopping bags. A memory of Sarah and her parents when she was little at the village fair. Sarah and Anna on a ride together, new friends, with the four parents making small talk. Bob – tall and aloof. Handsome. A bit cocky. From the off Henry didn’t like him.

  And then he remembers something else: how Bob was always taking photographs. Endless photographs of all the children. The family didn’t seem to have a lot of money but Bob had this expensive camera with lots of lenses. Proper camera bag. Barbara said it was nice that he wanted the memories but Henry thought it was a bit odd. Was rather glad when Bob left the village.

  No. Surely not?

  There is a strange new sensation in Henry’s stomach.

  ‘I need to phone Melanie Sanders. That nice DS. She’s back at work now. She’ll tell me what’s going on.’ Henry is standing to take out his mobile with one hand and raking his fingers through his hair with the other.

  ‘And you need to phone Sarah again. Go on, Jenny. Please. Push her to tell you what’s going on. Ring her now.’

  But Jenny doesn’t move. Just staring at him, tears still dripping from her chin. ‘There’s something else, Dad.’

  WATCHING . . .

  Thursday

  This is not good. Not good at all.

  I don’t like this heat. And she doesn’t like it, either . . .

  I have to think very, very carefully now. Must not let myself get muddled. I’m not good when I get muddled.

  Most important of all, I need to stop all these wretched people, thinking that this has something to do with them when it has absolutely nothing to do with them . . .