by Tom Bale
‘I don’t want to speculate. Look, Evie’s zonked out. We ought to try and sleep.’
‘Okay. But are you sure about not calling the police?’
‘Not really.’ She shivered. ‘I feel like I’m being a coward. But I just don’t see what it would achieve. Do you?’
He half sat up, leaning over Evie to plant a kiss on Alice’s forehead. She gave him a brief, taut smile in return. Harry switched off the bedside light and winced at how menacing the darkness now seemed.
Got to get used to it, he thought. But his hand slipped beneath his pillow, seeking the reassuring weight of the hammer.
He lay as still as possible, trying to clear his mind and focus on breathing slowly. It didn’t work, of course. At best he was able to avoid fixating on the ordeal itself, but he couldn’t drag himself away from other questions. Why us? Why our address? Why tonight?
He thought about the parcel, and the man they were hunting. How long had Renshaw eluded them, and where was he now? Harry found himself wondering if the man did, in some way, deserve what was coming, should his pursuers catch up with him.
Alice, in the quietest of whispers: ‘You asleep?’
‘Sparko. You?’
A well-worn joke; normally it prompted a smile, at least. Tonight all he got was a tired exhalation.
‘You know,’ she whispered, ‘when Evie was born I felt almost overwhelmed by all the new terrors that seemed to accompany her into the world. That she’ll catch an infection, some horrible disease that won’t respond to treatment. That we’ll drop her in the bath, or she’ll poke her fingers into a plug socket. That somewhere out there is the person who one day is going to run her down as she’s walking home from school on a winter’s afternoon …’
A pause to catch herself left an unearthly silence in the room; the only thing that moved was a tear, rolling down Harry’s cheek.
‘I worry that she’ll have spots, like I did for a while, and be convinced that she’s ugly. That she’ll be bullied or excluded by the in-crowd, the bitchy girls. That she’ll grow up to be too fat, or too thin, too tall or too short. Too clever by half or not clever enough. That boys won’t fancy her – or that they will …’
Another pause. Harry knew what was coming now, and he had to let her say it, no matter how much it hurt them both.
‘But I never would have dreamt that at eight weeks old a man with a knife would hold her in his fist and threaten to cut—’
‘It’s okay. It’s okay now.’ He managed to reach over and hold her as she wept. Conscious of Evie between them, she barely made a sound.
When she’d recovered, she faced him and said, ‘What if we look back on this one day and wish we’d done something differently? Rung the police, or gone after the van, or … or sold the house.’
‘You want to sell the house?’
‘No … I don’t know. That’s just it. I haven’t got a clue.’
‘There’s no real answer, other than what you said earlier. Try to put it behind us. We go on with our lives and hope that, in time, the memories of it will fade.’
She knew Harry was right. Probably. Possibly. So Alice assured him that she was fine now, and it really was worth trying to get some rest.
Then she lay very still, and waited, and only when Harry was sound asleep did she ease Evie into her arms, kissing her cheek and delighting in the little squirm she got in response. She set her daughter down in the Moses basket and tucked her in, making slow shushing noises until she was satisfied that Evie was going to stay asleep.
Then she climbed back into bed and stared up at the ceiling and knew she would be counting the minutes till dawn. Plenty of time to re-live the terrors of the night, over and over again.
Plenty of time to wonder why she hadn’t been entirely honest with her husband.
Plenty of time to wonder if she’d just made the worst mistake of her life.
Six
Daylight. Too much of it for six thirty, even in mid-November.
Harry struggled awake as the memories came crashing back. He might have dismissed it as a morbid nightmare if his hand hadn’t shifted on the mattress and struck solid metal. The claw hammer.
But they were all right. They were safe. Thank God.
He rolled over. Alice was sitting up in bed, feeding Evie. Her eyes were shut, and she was frowning so intently it was almost a snarl; far from her usual expression when breastfeeding.
He always found it a humbling experience to watch mother and baby locked together like this, though right now it just emphasised how superfluous he was. For nine months Alice had nurtured this baby inside her; now she was nourishing her child with a diet that only nature could provide, while Harry’s own contribution to this miracle had begun and ended, nearly a year ago, with a tiny spurt of fluid.
He groaned quietly. ‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly half-seven.’
‘What?’ He’d overslept by an hour, which meant he would miss out on the best part of the day. It was after her morning feed that Evie was at her most receptive to the faces he pulled, and had lately begun to reward him with a smile or a phlegmy giggle.
Then again, shouldn’t he be counting his blessings that they were here at all?
‘She slept later than normal. And you were out cold.’
‘Was I? Sorry.’ He sat up and put his arm round Alice. When he kissed her cheek he thought she flinched slightly. ‘Did you manage to sleep?’
‘Not really, though I can’t say I feel any more exhausted than usual.’
‘Do you want me to stay home today?’
‘You, throw a sickie?’ She snorted. ‘It’s tempting. But it won’t really help.’
‘I can have Evie while you sleep. And there’s the patio doors to sort out.’
‘I’ve already texted Steve.’ This was Alice’s uncle, a self-employed joiner. ‘He’s coming round this morning.’
Talk about superfluous, Harry thought. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Just that someone tried to break in, and because nothing was stolen we didn’t bother to report it.’ Her voice had taken on a chilly tone, as if she stood by the decision but disliked herself for doing so.
‘Once we’ve had the doors repaired, we can’t change our minds about the police,’ he pointed out.
Alice nodded. If anything, she looked heartened by the thought. As if a new lock might be all they needed to make the whole thing go away.
Harry showered, then dressed in jeans and a thick winter shirt. It had been a day or two since he’d shaved, but his was an industry where the dress code wasn’t so much smart casual as casual casual; facial hair had been almost de rigueur even before the dreaded rise of the hipster.
He trudged downstairs and made sure everything was as he’d left it. After opening the living room curtains he stared out at the street for a minute. There were no vans in sight. No pedestrians other than a couple of dog walkers, a few teenagers dawdling to school. What little sky he could see looked dull and heavy with cloud.
The cold light of day. Not that it helped him make sense of what had happened last night.
He made coffee for them both. Evie had finished feeding, so he coaxed the wind from her while Alice had a shower and washed her hair.
‘This is going to make you late,’ she said as she returned, wrapped in a towel. The hot water had restored some colour and vitality to her skin, but she was still far from her normal self.
‘Doesn’t matter. I still feel I should stay here.’
‘Better that we stick to our routine, if we’re serious about putting this behind us. Anyway, you’re snowed under at the moment.’
Harry couldn’t deny that. He was still dealing with the backlog that had built up during his paternity leave.
‘You’re sure you’ll be okay here on your own?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve got to be, haven’t I?’
‘So we’re not going to the police? That’s definite?’
‘Definite.’
&nb
sp; He asked her again, just before he left the house. Evie was sleeping in the Moses basket, which he’d carried down to the living room. Alice was eating toast and watching breakfast TV, gently scolding the pompous presenter.
‘“I am willing to interview you,”’ she said, in an eerily accurate impression of the man, ‘“so long as we’re both clear that nothing you’ve achieved in your life compares with my ability to get up early and read from an autocue.”’
Harry laughed. This was an encouraging sign, he thought: the return of her sarcastic humour.
He kissed Evie one more time, then stepped into the embrace that Alice offered him. Only when she’d nestled her face against his chest did he speak.
‘You’re absolutely certain about this?’
‘Harry, I spent all night going through our options. Imagine if we report it, and then the police catch them? I’m in the witness box, being cross-examined by some smartarse lawyer who says, “Can you be sure that this is the man who sucked milk from your breast, Mrs French?”’
He felt her shudder and said, ‘No. Okay.’
‘Even if they were convicted, how long would they be in prison? A couple of years at most. And they’d come out far more determined to get revenge on us than if we just … let it go.’
Harry nodded. It sounded like a pretty solid argument.
Alice said, ‘So promise you won’t change your mind and call the police without telling me.’
‘I promise.’
‘And you won’t say a word to anyone at work?’
‘No, of course not.’
She backed out of the embrace, one hand lingering against his cheek while she kissed him, then pushed him towards the front door.
‘Off you go, then, breadwinner.’
Harry went, but it felt wrong. Before he reached the end of the street he’d looked round four or five times, studying the traffic, checking the house in case Alice had come to the door to call him back.
But if he stayed home today, he knew that going to work tomorrow would be just as difficult. Maybe Alice was right, and they had to put this behind them. It was certainly understandable that she would want to blot out the memory of such a hideous assault. Even so, a disquieting voice in his head went on muttering that silence wasn’t necessarily the best option, and that they shouldn’t be dealing with this alone.
It was a grey, oppressive November morning, not particularly cold, the air like a damp sponge. A stiff breeze carried the scent of the sea and a few spent fireworks, as well as an unseasonal but welcome aroma of freshly cut grass.
In Dyke Road the traffic was nose to tail in both directions. Harry could just make out the upper deck of a bus, up by the Booth Museum. He turned the other way, walking past the sixth-form college, BHASVIC, that he’d attended himself some fourteen or fifteen years ago. It was here that his talent for art and design had blossomed and been skilfully directed towards a future career.
At the age of thirty-two Harry was the co-owner of LiveFire, a design company that specialised in animation and visual effects for the film, TV and advertising industries. After six years of gathering experience in a range of roles – including a brief but invaluable spell at the legendary Industrial Light & Magic – Harry and a friend from university had set up their own business. They had quickly gained a reputation for stunningly innovative work, winning a BAFTA and two Visual Effects Society awards within the first three years.
Harry and his partner, Sam, now employed almost a dozen people, working out of offices on the second floor of a building in Middle Street, in the heart of what had once been the fishing village of Brighthelmstone.
Most days Harry either walked or cycled into town, but today there wasn’t time. He liked to set an example by being in at eight, if not earlier, and until Evie’s arrival he’d often worked till six or seven in the evening. Finding a way to compress his duties into a shorter working week was a challenge he hadn’t yet been able to meet.
The simple fact was that Harry loved what he did. As a child he’d been addicted to drawing, spending whole days immersed in the world of his imagination. He’d dreamed of turning his hobby into a living, but had hardly dared believe it would come true on this scale.
Maybe that was the problem? He’d had far more than his fair share of good fortune, and last night was the payback.
At the bus stop he paid close attention to the people around him, and to the traffic crawling past. If the threat about watching them was real, wouldn’t someone be following him now, to make sure he didn’t go to the police?
Several people joined him at the stop. One or two sensed his scrutiny and met it with a frown or a glare. Harry was a tall, slender man with light brown hair, green eyes and an easy-going manner. Attracting any kind of hostility from strangers was completely alien, and made him see just how easily his suspicion could spill over into paranoia, even aggression.
When the bus arrived it was standing room only. Harry shuffled to the back, wondering if he’d recognise the men from last night. Probably not, unless he heard their voices. The well-spoken one had pronounced the street name, Lavinia, with a slight flourish on the L.
34 Lavinia Street.
And that was when the idea struck him. But there was nothing he could do until the bus reached the Clock Tower. This wasn’t a conversation he could have in public.
He found a quiet spot on the steps up to the top floor of the Boots building. Alice answered on the first ring: ‘What is it?’
‘I was just mulling over our address, and whether, after they left us, they went in search of Lavinia Drive and Lavinia Crescent. And then it got me thinking: we’re hoping it was a mistake, but what if it wasn’t?’
‘Harry, I can’t see … I mean, it has to be a mistake.’
‘From our point of view, yes. But what if that really was the address they were given?’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Renshaw was trying to throw them off the scent. Send them looking for him in the wrong place.’
There was a heavy silence. Harry felt a pang of self-disgust. Alice couldn’t explain their predicament any better than he could. Why was he scaring her with this futile speculation?
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That was silly. Forget it.’
‘All right, but don’t spend all day worrying about me. I’ll be fine.’
Harry could hear the effort she was making to sound upbeat, so he agreed that he wouldn’t. Then he told Alice that he loved her, said goodbye, and set his mind to the day’s next test. Because now he had to stride into the office with a smile on his face and pretend that his world hadn’t very nearly been torn apart.
Seven
The phone call was a terrible setback. Just when she’d convinced herself that sending Harry to work had been the right thing to do.
You can cope here on your own, Alice.
You are not afraid.
And then he’d broken the spell with that one suggestion: Maybe Renshaw was trying to throw them off the scent.
Alice had felt her throat closing up; for a few seconds she couldn’t speak. Luckily Harry hadn’t picked up on it. But after the call she collapsed on the sofa, dizzy with fury and shame.
How could she have been so stupid, not to have seen that possibility herself?
Evie slept until ten, a gift of freedom that Alice foolishly squandered; her mind was occupied by a fleeting encounter from two days previously: one she had thought nothing of at the time and now struggled to recall in any detail.
When her daughter woke, it came as a welcome distraction. They chatted together: a lot of meaningless burble that seemed to give them both great pleasure. Then a feed, a nappy change and burping – accompanied by a singalong to some cringeworthy kids’ TV show with graphics that would make Harry weep. All the normal routines, but today they felt hollow.
Until a couple of months ago Alice had regarded herself as a career woman. She was a dental hygienist, self-employed and attached to three different practices in
and around Brighton. Although she had dearly wanted children, she’d been certain that this career would remain of equal importance, and she would simply have to find a way to juggle both, the way most mums did.
Then Evie arrived, and Alice was almost scared by the extent to which she adapted to motherhood; how natural, how gratifying it felt. What that meant for the future, she had no idea. And it was still far too early to feel she knew what she was doing, of course – her own mother had virtually said as much, in the gloriously tactless tradition of a new grandparent. But that would come with practice, not to mention generous dollops of advice from the older generation (both of Evie’s grannies had been an enormous help over the past few weeks, but at times they’d also driven Alice and Harry to distraction).
So what would Granny Barbara think now, Alice wondered, if she could see how her daughter jumped every time she heard footsteps on the pavement? A chair wedged under the patio doors like there was a siege in progress.
Face it head on, her mum would probably say. There aren’t any monsters lurking out there, but you won’t accept that until you prove it to yourself.
You have to go out.
She was all but decided when Evie intervened with a bowel movement that had somehow leaked from a brand new nappy. She had to be stripped, then dressed in a new outfit: bodysuit, tunic and leggings, plus a thick hooded pramsuit for venturing outside.
While changing her, Alice examined Evie’s stomach. There was a very faint discolouration of the skin, but she detected no tenderness resulting from last night’s mistreatment. A miracle escape, perhaps, though it did nothing to reduce Alice’s burning hatred of the men who had threatened them. She’d spent much of the night crafting dreams of bloodthirsty vengeance – gouging out their eyes, tearing off their balls – and she meant it, too. Becoming a mother had changed her in many fundamental ways: a willingness to maim or kill for the sake of her child being only one of them.