by Tom Bale
Another twenty minutes slipped by before she was ready to leave the house. Her final preparation was to check the street from each of the bedroom windows. Mid-morning, there wasn’t a lot of activity. A van trundled past, but it bore the livery of a local plumbing firm.
‘It’s safe,’ Alice murmured to herself. ‘Perfectly safe.’
Manoeuvring the flashy iCandy buggy through the narrow front door was a pain. Sometimes the bumps and jolts made Evie cry, but this morning she endured them with what seemed like an air of benevolent curiosity, as if the discomfort was a price worth paying to experience the rich sensory bombardment that was ‘outside’.
Alice pushed the buggy along the street until she found a gap between the parked cars. There was no traffic but still she paused before crossing, her gaze drifting to the houses opposite as she tried to place which one was likeliest.
No. Too dangerous.
She decided on a walk first. Once round the block: Port Hall Road, right into Exeter Street, then Buxton Road and back to Lavinia Street. It wasn’t a bad day for a stroll, milder than she expected, with the sort of blank white sky that brought to mind a dust sheet – as if behind it the real sky was getting a fresh coat of paint.
Today’s dogshit count was disappointing: two fresh piles since yesterday morning’s walk. Alice thought last night’s torment might have given her a new perspective on such misdemeanours, but no: in AliceWorld there would be snipers on rooftops to counteract such disgusting anti-social behaviour. Clean it up right now, buster, or we open fire …
At the corner of Port Hall Road, Alice glanced back and noticed a man at the far end of her street. He had something in his hand – must be a phone. He lifted it, turning away from her as if uninterested, but it seemed a slightly calculated move. He was about the right size to be one of the men from last night. The one with the knife.
The one who’d threatened to slit my baby’s throat.
Alice froze. She’d never make it back home before he intercepted her. She could run in the other direction, but to where?
Her legs felt weak. To stay upright she had to lean on the buggy, which threatened to tip backwards. She took a step towards the house on the corner and rested against the wall while she fought to rein in her panic.
A car drew up at the corner of Buxton Road. The man walked towards it and climbed in, never giving her a second glance.
You’re a fool, Alice French.
There was an impatient cry from Evie. Alice set off again, peering into every parked car, every doorway. By the time she’d completed the circuit she was convinced it had been nothing more than her overcharged imagination.
Halfway along the street she stopped. Home was just across the road. She moved to the front of the buggy and knelt down, pretending to adjust Evie’s blanket while casting her mind back to Tuesday morning.
41? 43? 45? What did she think?
43, she decided, was the most likely address.
Her heart was thumping madly. She took hold of the buggy and began pushing it towards the house, a couple of doors along. It felt unreal, as though she was floating. Was she really going to do this?
Number 43 had little to distinguish itself from any other home in the street. A narrow three-bedroom Victorian terraced house with the front door on the right-hand side and bay windows top and bottom on the left. White stucco on the wall, overdue a fresh coat of paint. Net curtains in the lower bay, and thick curtains drawn upstairs. No lights on, as far as she could tell.
The short path was paved rather than tiled. A single step led up to the front door, which sat in a shallow recess. The door was solid timber, painted dark grey and in better condition than the rest of the property. A tiny letterbox sat neatly in the centre.
After scanning the street again, she stepped on to the path, pulling the buggy behind her. She rang the doorbell and waited, her breath coming in quick gasps.
There was no hint of movement within the house, so she knocked on the door. The sound echoed along the street and seemed to broadcast her presence to the world. But still no one answered. The net curtains didn’t twitch.
She checked the street, then rang the bell and knocked again. With every second the urge to flee was growing stronger.
Maybe this wasn’t the house. Although Alice knew most of the local residents on a nodding acquaintance at least, she couldn’t say with any certainty who lived where.
She wasn’t sure what made her do it, but some reckless impulse sent her next door to number 45. She knocked and almost immediately heard footsteps. Now it came to her, who might live here. The ageing hippy.
Sure enough, the man who opened the door was in his early sixties, tall and thin, with long wispy grey hair and white stubble on his chin. Moist brown eyes, bisected by a pair of half-moon glasses. He wore yellow chinos and a pale blue collarless shirt. He was barefoot.
‘Hi!’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘It’s, er, Maurice, isn’t it?’
‘Lawrence,’ he corrected her. ‘Lawrence Wright.’
‘Yes, er, sorry to bother you. I just wondered if you know anything about the people next door?’
‘Next door?’ His voice was crisp and considered. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. Is it empty, do you know?’
‘I believe so. Occasionally there’s a noise, but that could be attributed to vibrations from the next house along.’ He tutted. ‘The perils of terraced accommodation.’
‘Yes, exactly.’ She was grinning like an imbecile. ‘Well, it was just me being nosy. Sorry to have bothered you.’
She retreated, cringing at the way he was appraising her. His cheek bulged as he worked his tongue thoughtfully in the corner of his mouth.
‘Do you like wine?’
‘I – yes, well, I drink enough of it!’ She heard herself laugh and thought: oh, good grief! Thankfully Evie chose that moment to issue a little yelp. ‘Must get going, sorry.’
‘I make my own, you see. Why not pop over one afternoon for a glass or two? Tuesdays or Fridays are best for me.’
‘I’ll, um, have to check my diary. But thanks.’ She moved away, leaning over the buggy as if Evie was demanding her attention. She’d gone a few paces before she realised she was heading in the wrong direction. And now there was a van turning into the street. It accelerated towards her, flashing its lights a couple of times.
Alice froze. Should she run back to Lawrence Wright and plead for help?
The van was slowing as it closed in. A plump hand emerged from the driver’s window to gesture at her. Alice looked carefully and experienced a relief so profound, it rivalled the moment when the midwife confirmed that her newborn baby was intact and in perfect health.
It was Uncle Steve, riding to the rescue.
Eight
The offices of LiveFire were comprised of four rooms, one of which housed a studio for stop-motion animation that also doubled as a screening room. As the business expanded, Harry and Sam had ended up squeezed into a single office, with the other kept for meetings. The remaining area formed an open-plan workspace. At any one time there were several people out with clients or working elsewhere, so they just about managed to cope with the space available.
Harry was extremely glad that Sam was starting the day at an advertising agency in London, pitching for some work on a series of phone commercials. Had they been together in such close proximity, Harry would have found it impossible to conceal his anxiety.
He knew he looked pale and wrung-out, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling. Then again, since returning to work as a new father it had become a running joke that he was now a crumbling ruin of a man, so his current state didn’t arouse any undue curiosity. Another saving grace was that deadlines were approaching on a couple of major projects, so no one had time for long conversations. After a quick tour of the desks Harry was able to retreat to his office for some much-needed solitude.
He’d feared that last night’s ordeal would prove too much of a distraction, bu
t once he’d got the Maya software running he was soon immersed in another world. He’d been sent a basic storyboard for a big sci-fi movie and asked to create a digital animation to accompany the key set-piece scenes. As Harry understood it, the picture was assured of a green light, but not at the budget the producers wanted. Harry’s task was to wow the studio executives into pledging more cash.
He had intended to call Alice around ten o’clock, but became so engrossed that when he finally broke away from the screen he discovered it was gone eleven.
‘Sorry,’ he said when she answered. ‘Really didn’t think I’d get caught up in work.’
‘That’s a good thing. Anyway, Steve’s here, so I’ll talk to you later.’
She’d ended the call before he could say goodbye. Harry stared at the phone for a moment, trying not to read too much into her abruptness. It was a standing joke among their friends that he and Alice had a relationship that was, if anything, too harmonious. Harry didn’t think that was true – friends didn’t always get to see the little everyday squabbles and disputes – but he would happily concede that the bedrock of their marriage was their friendship: something that he believed would endure even if they were not together as partners. But now he was left with a disturbing sense that this event could turn them into strangers, forced to rebuild their relationship from the ground up, one brick at a time.
And who was to say they’d fit together so perfectly the second time around?
Alice had crossed the road without looking back at either number 43 or 45. Once Steve had parked, she greeted him warmly and led him indoors, all the while making light of the attempted break-in.
‘Harry heard them, thank God. He switched the lights on and went downstairs, and by then they’d gone. Probably just kids.’
Steve took Evie and wandered into the living room. Alice was filling the kettle when he returned, frowning.
‘I was expecting to find some yobbo had kicked the door in, but this is pretty clean. They forced the lock without damaging the surround.’
‘That’s good, then. Easier to repair?’
‘It is. But I don’t think kids would have done that. Looks more like a professional job.’
Alice forced a laugh. ‘Are you trying to scare me?’
‘Sorry, love. I just thought you’d have called the cops.’
‘What’s the point? It’s not like we can tell them anything.’
‘I suppose not.’ Still troubled, he scratched his head. ‘I’ll have a cuppa, then pop out and get you a new lock. Wickes all right for you?’
‘Yes, I assume so.’
With a sly grin, he said, ‘I mean, round here you’re probably no one unless you’ve got the latest designer fittings …’
‘Very funny. For that you’re only getting one sugar.’
They were chatting over tea and biscuits when Harry rang. Alice kept the conversation brief, not wanting Steve to pick up on any tension. Afterwards she announced that Evie was due her lunch. Steve looked blank for a second, then went slightly red.
‘Got you. I’ll make myself scarce.’
He was gone for about twenty minutes, returning while she was in the middle of a feed. Breaking off to let him in, she carried Evie into the kitchen so that Steve could work undisturbed. It was as she transferred the baby to her other arm that Alice made sense of her vague reluctance to continue.
So far today she’d only fed Evie from her right breast. She didn’t want to use her left: the one that had been mauled last night. Just the memory of that man’s filthy mouth caused waves of nausea.
But she couldn’t let it haunt her. The build-up of milk would quickly become uncomfortable – and Evie certainly wasn’t going to differentiate. To her, food was food.
She steeled herself to get on with it, staring fixedly out of the window until her mind went blank. When it was done, she carried the baby into the living room and set her down on the change mat. Steve had needed to make a few minor alterations to the door frame, enlarging the cavity to accommodate a sturdier lock, so the room was filled with the sweet aroma of wood shavings.
‘I love that smell,’ Alice said. ‘But I’m about to ruin it. Evie’s got a full nappy.’
‘Aw.’ Steve pinched his nose in mock disgust. ‘I’m almost glad mine have grown up.’
‘If it doesn’t put you off too much, you’re welcome to stay for lunch. Pasta salad …’
‘Sounds a bit too healthy for me.’
‘I can do garlic bread with it?’
‘Deal.’
In a clean nappy, Evie sat in Alice’s arms, watching Steve with the same look of wonderment that greeted almost every sight that was placed before her.
‘Can’t imagine what it’s like, can you?’ Steve said ruefully. ‘Seeing the world through her eyes, everything so new and exciting.’
Alice nodded but had to suppress a shudder, thinking of what Evie had witnessed last night. She hesitated, then said, ‘After lunch, would you watch Evie for me while I pop along to see a neighbour?’
She thought she’d sounded perfectly casual, but Steve was studying her carefully.
‘Sure. But I hope nothing’s wrong, it is?’
Alice considered laughing off his concern, but wasn’t sure if she could make it sound convincing. Instead she went for the sombre approach, slowly shaking her head.
‘Everything’s fine, honestly. You don’t need to worry about us.’
Harry lost track of time again, until he registered movement in the main office and realised that people were heading out to lunch. He wasn’t intending to take a break himself, but by half twelve his stomach was rumbling. He decided that a sandwich and a short walk would do him good.
He hurried out, offering a quick nod to a couple of colleagues on their way back in. Crossing the road, he set off towards Duke Street, the air ringing with the joyous clamour of children at Middle Street Primary. He was hardly able to credit that in just a few years Evie would be running around a similar playground, already living her own life, away from her parents’ protection—
At the corner of Dukes Lane he stopped abruptly. Something had spooked him: he could feel the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.
A lot of people were streaming past, paying him no attention. The slow-moving traffic included a couple of vans, but none that resembled the vehicle he’d seen last night. He was about to dismiss his reaction when he noticed a woman in a beige raincoat wandering towards him, a mobile phone at her ear.
He heard her say, quietly but clearly: ‘Stay there a second.’ Although she wasn’t looking in his direction, Harry had the bizarre feeling that the words were intended for him.
She was in her forties, he guessed, slim and well-groomed, wearing jeans and leather boots. Long dark hair spilled over the collar of her coat, but something about it didn’t look quite right. She drifted closer, still apparently focused on her phone conversation, and said, ‘Two men broke into your house last night.’
As Harry’s mouth dropped open, she hissed: ‘Ignore me. Look away.’ Her accent was difficult to place – northern, possibly, but it also had a vaguely mid-Atlantic tone.
She continued past him, then paused as if distracted by the call. Harry realised he had to do something, so he wandered towards a clothes store in Dukes Lane and pretended to gaze at the window display. With so many pedestrians passing by, the woman made it look like a natural choice to move clear of the stream, easing into a space close to the shop. Turning side on to him, she spoke rapidly.
‘Before we talk I’ve gotta be sure it’s safe. Take a walk through the Lanes towards the Old Steine, then double back through the bus station and cross the coast road.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Uh uh, don’t argue. You need to vary your pace, okay? Dawdle, then speed up. I’ll meet you by the aquarium, on the boardwalk outside the Harvester pub. Now go.’ Then she laughed, and in a much lighter tone she said: ‘Good idea, Bob! But I don’t see it happening this year …’
Then her message hit home. He strode off in the opposite direction. He had no idea who she was or whether he could trust her, and yet he’d already decided to follow her instructions.
She knew about last night. That was enough to capture his attention.
She knew.
Nine
The questions began to mount up as Harry threaded through the narrow pedestrian streets and twittens, which despite the profusion of high-end boutiques still retained a medieval feel. Although visitor numbers tended to dwindle during the autumn, the Lanes were always busy in the middle of the day, making it impossible for Harry to move quickly or smoothly. Where he saw a gap he dashed forward; at other times he let himself get snarled up in the crowds.
When he reached East Street he was able to accelerate, although once or twice he ducked into shop doorways, glancing back to see if anyone had changed direction or tried to dodge out of sight. It made him want to laugh, almost. How had his life turned into a corny spy movie?
He wondered if he should let Alice know where he was going, but got stuck on his motive for doing so. If he truly feared being lured into a trap, he shouldn’t be meeting this woman at all. Phoning Alice now would only alarm her for no good purpose.
Besides, the suggested rendezvous point was every bit as public as Middle Street, and the vibe he’d got from the woman hadn’t been threatening. He concluded that the risk was worth taking, if there was a chance she could shed some light on what had happened.
A few doubts surfaced as he entered the canyon-like space of the bus station at Pool Valley. Apart from a couple of long-distance coaches parked in their bays, there was hardly any sign of life. The area had a desolate, slightly threatening feel. Litter swirled around his feet as he quickened his pace, suddenly fearful of an ambush. Two men in chef’s whites were smoking outside the back door of a restaurant; staring at Harry as if they knew something he didn’t.