Last Seen Alive

by Claire Douglas

  I have to put it in perspective. Instead of wasting energy focussing on negative thoughts, I can use this time constructively. With Jamie in the hospital I have free rein to have a nose about without worrying that he’s judging me. I look around, suddenly panicked by the idea that there might be a hidden camera somewhere. Why would Philip have all that surveillance equipment in the basement otherwise?

  I scan the room, trying to pick out objects that might contain a camera, but there is nothing apart from that sad-looking stuffed puffin, a few photographs of Tara and an empty vase. Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m down on my hands and knees going through the sleek sideboard underneath the TV. There is a key in the lock and the door opens when I try it. The insides are disappointingly sparse but I find one of those photo books you can make yourself online. I grab it eagerly, flicking through the pages, taking in the photos of Tara and Philip on various holidays and days out. I’m surprised not to see any of their daughter.

  Jim’s words echo in my mind. They don’t have a daughter. But that makes no sense. I shove the photo album back and take the next one. It’s less interesting; numerous snaps of this house in various states of disrepair. Wow, I think, my eyes flickering over each one. This house was a wreck when they bought it.

  I’m just about to go upstairs to check out the spare bedrooms when I hear a loud crash from above. I freeze, the album slipping from my lap. What was that?

  Ziggy’s ears prick up and he jumps from the floor.

  There’s someone upstairs.

  My mouth is dry and my heart knocks against my chest as I stand up slowly. I feel panicked, uncertain. What do I do? I frantically search around for something, anything, that I can use as a weapon and my eyes fall on the poker by the fireplace. It’s shiny, not that heavy, more for show than anything else, but I reach for it anyway, feeling more protected just having it in my hand. I creep up the stairs, Ziggy at my heels, all the while terrified of what I’ll find when I get to the top.

  There is a shrieking sound coming from inside the smallest bedroom.

  I stand at the door and push it open tentatively. ‘Ziggy,’ I hiss. He turns to me and whines. My chest hurts where my heart is pounding so much. I incline my head and Ziggy wanders in first. I peer around the door frame tentatively. In the middle of the room, next to the sofa, is an old-fashioned toy clown rolling around on the wooden floor, cackling as though it’s alive. It’s one of the ugliest things I’ve ever seen, eyes mad and staring, mouth grotesquely large, nose hooked like a witch. It must have fallen from the shelf and set itself off. The noise travels right through me. I find clowns repulsive and always refused to watch Punch and Judy shows as a child.

  I drop the poker and, suppressing my revulsion, pick up the toy, trying not to panic at its continuous cackling. I frantically try to find the off switch and manage to locate it at the back of its neck, relief coursing through me as the noise stops, like a baby who has fallen asleep after a bout of screaming. I notice that one of its pointed ears has cracked in the fall and I feel bad for their little girl that her hideous toy is damaged. I prop it back up on the shelf and turn to leave the room when something in my peripheral vision makes me start. Curled up next to a fluffy pink unicorn is a chocolate-brown Persian cat, its eyes firmly closed despite the commotion.

  I tip-toe over to it, my hand held out in front of me. ‘Hello, puss,’ I say gently. What is it doing here? Philip never mentioned a cat. We’ve been here for nearly five days and we haven’t noticed it before.

  The cat doesn’t flinch. I perch next to it to stroke it. I recoil. It feels cold and hard under my fingers. Of course, the thing is stuffed. But it looks so real. Had it been their old cat? Why haven’t I noticed it before?

  I carry the poker to bed, Jamie’s absence pressing down on me like a physical weight. I feel so lonely, so vulnerable staying here by myself. Finding the clown and then the cat was a shock, and afterwards I had to run to the toilet to be sick. Now, as I lie in bed I feel miserable and worried that I’ve also got food poisoning, even though I didn’t touch the sausages. I toss and turn, my heart racing every time the security light comes on outside, worrying that there might be someone skulking around the garden, waiting for the opportunity to break in and murder me in my bed. I can hear something banging in the wind and I’m reminded of Jamie’s sinister story of the lighthouse, the coffin knocking against the glass. I pull the duvet further over my head like I’m a child hiding from the monster under the bed.

  I shiver every time I think about the clown and all the other ugly toys in the smallest bedroom. What a strange choice for a child.

  But surely it means that they do have a daughter, doesn’t it?

  12

  I eventually fall asleep sometime in the early hours of the morning. I don’t wake up until 10.30 a.m., tired and muddy-headed.

  Even without a broken arm I wouldn’t want to drive the Mini, so I book a taxi for 11.15 and then jump into the shower, hoping it will revive me. As I’m drying myself I remember the cupboard under the sink and the wash bag that I’d been interrupted from nosing through by Jamie. Gathering the towel under my armpits I bend down and open the cupboard, feeling a twinge of guilt for snooping. It’s what anyone would do, I tell myself. I’m just trying to find out more about the Heywoods. After all, they’ve been staying in our flat too. It’s perfectly reasonable, isn’t it, to want to know more about the people who have been living in your home?

  I pull the wash bag from the back of the cupboard and it falls to the tiled floor, spilling its contents everywhere. I’m disappointed to see nothing more interesting than old Chanel lipsticks, tissues and a broken make-up brush. Damn it. I begin picking through the detritus and I’m just about to stuff everything back into the bag when I notice a strip of little white pills nestled between an eye-shadow case and a make-up sponge. I peer at it more closely, squinting as I read the back. Anti-depressants. They must be Tara’s. I replace them, a mixture of guilt and sadness tugging away at me as I push the bag to the back of the cupboard. Tara’s depressed. The realisation hits me hard. Her life, from my view, seems so wonderful, so privileged. I should know by now that nothing is perfect, despite how it might appear from the outside.

  I’m struggling into my jeans and a baggy cardigan when the taxi arrives. I gather up some clean clothes for Jamie and then dart through the pelting rain to the waiting taxi, my feet wet inside my ballet pumps. Just as I’m about to get in, I see Jim standing by our gate, his arms folded on top of his walking stick, an obstinate look on his weathered face. Fury curdles inside me. I hold my hand up to the taxi driver, indicating for him to wait, and then storm over to Jim. ‘What are you doing here?’ I hiss. ‘What did I tell you yesterday?’

  He holds his nerve, replying defensively, ‘I don’t take instructions from you.’

  ‘Philip has let this place out to me and I’m telling you to get lost. If you’re here when I get back, then I’m calling the police.’

  He straightens up, pushing his shoulders back and jutting his chin out. ‘I’m not scared of you. You shouldn’t be ’ere.’

  I don’t know what makes me do it – lack of sleep or fluctuating hormones, maybe it’s the stress of spending last night in a state of high alert – but, propelled by a surge of adrenaline, I prod him hard in the chest, throwing him off balance so that he falls back into the gate. ‘Don’t fucking mess with me,’ I spit. ‘I’ve had enough of this shit. All right?’ And then I turn and flounce off to the waiting taxi.

  My shoes squelch as I walk down endless corridors to find Jamie. He’s sitting up in bed, chatting to a pretty nurse when I walk in. He’s still wearing the ugly hospital gown and his face brightens when he sees not just me but the plastic carrier bag full of clothes. I’m relieved to see that he’s no longer wired up to a drip.

  The nurse smiles at me from across the bed. She’s young, with one of those timeless faces that remind me of actresses in the old Hollywood films, maybe Ingrid Bergman. ‘I’ll just get the
papers so that you can be discharged,’ she says bustling off. Jamie watches her leave and then turns to me, his bright expression vanishing. ‘God, Libs, are you OK? You look like you haven’t slept all night.’

  ‘That Jim was standing by the gate when I left the house this morning. I told him to piss off. I’m so angry, Jay. What is his problem?’

  His eyebrows almost disappear into his hair and he grins. ‘That’s the Libby I know and love,’ he laughs. ‘I’m glad you told him.’

  I laugh too. ‘You should have seen his face.’

  ‘Maybe we should call the police?’

  I shake my head vigorously. ‘No, no, I don’t think we need to do that. We just need to let him know he’s not going to win. He’s obviously not all there.’ I tap the side of my head. ‘He told me the Heywoods don’t have a daughter.’

  ‘Really? What a strange thing to say.’

  ‘I thought that. The little bedroom. It has a few toys and things in it. But … there are no photographs of a child or a young girl. Unless they come away without their daughter? Maybe they use it as a bolt-hole or something. An adults-only space?’

  Jamie shrugs as though he couldn’t care less and I sink onto the chair next to his bed, exhaustion washing over me.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asks. ‘You look a bit pale.’

  ‘I’ve been throwing up,’ I say miserably, suddenly feeling dowdy and unattractive after standing next to the beautiful nurse. A spot swells on my chin and I press it self-consciously.

  ‘Aw, sweetheart.’ He climbs out of bed and I stand up so that we can hug. He knows how much I hate being sick. It’s one of the hardest things that I find about being a teacher, trying not to panic when a stomach bug sweeps around the school like the plague.

  I pull away from him. ‘I’ve probably caught it from you …’

  His mouth twitches. ‘Can you catch E. coli?’

  I pull a face. ‘Of course you can. And I need to blame someone.’

  He laughs and holds me closer to him. The nylon gown is warm against my cheek and I can feel the cushion of his hairy chest underneath it. I sag against him, relieved that I don’t have to spend another night in that house alone.

  ‘Let me get my clothes on and then we can get out of here,’ says Jamie, turning to wiggle his bare bottom at me through the slit in his hospital gown. I can’t help but giggle.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ I laugh. But he’s my idiot. And he’s coming home.

  As we’re heading back to the Hideaway I tell Jamie about the sheep’s skull in a low voice so the taxi driver can’t hear us.

  ‘It freaked me out a bit,’ I admit. ‘Finding it when I did. It was odd, really. As though I was meant to see it then.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ There’s an edge to his voice.

  I hesitate. It’s been playing on my mind, but to say it aloud will make me sound neurotic. ‘Well, I never noticed it before, only last night when I was about to spend the night alone.’

  ‘It’s just a coincidence,’ he says with finality, resting his head on the back of the seat. He still looks a bit peaky.

  I don’t like to say any more so I fall silent for the rest of the journey. The rain is coming down in sheets, and the sky is charcoal. Even the trees look threatening with their gnarled branches stretching out towards the car like bony fingers.

  The lane is deserted as the taxi pulls into the driveway. There is no sign of Jim. Maybe my words have frightened him away or, more likely, he doesn’t want to hang around in the pouring rain. As we rush to the front door, coats pulled over our heads, we can hear the sea roaring in the distance as it angrily thrashes against the shore.

  The dash from the car is enough to soak us so I immediately run upstairs and change into my pyjamas, even though it’s only early afternoon, and wrap my dressing gown around me as we huddle on the sofa.

  ‘It’s nice to be back,’ says Jamie, turning on the TV. ‘Not fun having to spend part of your holiday in hospital.’ The room is dark with no sunlight flooding through the windows, and I snuggle up next to him, thankful that he’s here with me. ‘I’m quite looking forward to going home though, Libs, aren’t you? It’s been nice living someone else’s life for a while but I’m looking forward to getting back to reality.’

  I smile non-committally and pull the cashmere throw over us. It’s cold in here. Jamie, as though reading my mind, gets up to light the wood-burner. I feel the same about returning home. I’ve been feeling uneasy since Lizard Point. Tara’s life has morphed in front of my very eyes now that I know about the anti-depressants. Of course I realised that not everything was hunky-dory, what with them having a seriously ill daughter. It normalises her somehow; makes me realise she’s not immune to the things that plague us mere mortals, despite her wealth and beauty. She’s just like the rest of us.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got your phone,’ I say, suddenly remembering as Jamie sits back down. I reach into the pocket of my dressing gown and hand it to him. I notice how his eyes eagerly slide over Hannah’s message and how his thumb quickly swipes the screen so that he can read her remaining words. His fine eyebrows knot together and then his eyes find mine. I can see something registered there, something dark. Anger, maybe. Or fear.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

  He nods, smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘All fine.’

  I’m intrigued to know what the message says and why he seems troubled by it, so much so that I’m unable to concentrate on the TV. To Catch a Thief is on, a film we’ve seen numerous times before, and usually it’s as familiar and comforting as a cup of tea. Not today. The words I know you won’t tell anyone roll around inside my head. Is Hannah’s text some kind of threat? That would explain the fear I’m certain I saw in Jamie’s eyes. But how can I bring it up without making it obvious I’ve seen the text?

  Jamie pulls me further into him, his legs resting on the coffee table, crossed at the ankle. His thick socks are baggy at the toes and look too big for his feet. The fire flickers, warming the room, and soon my eyelids feel heavy, my body relaxing knowing that Jamie is home, safe and well.

  When I open my eyes Jamie’s no longer next to me. The film’s still playing, Grace Kelly’s beautiful face lighting up the screen. I sit up, fear spreading over my body like a rash. Where is he? I kick the throw off my legs and wander into the kitchen. Jamie’s leaning against the bifold doors, surveying the weather as Ziggy prances about on the lawn.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I shiver. The doors are open slightly, enough for Ziggy to get back in, and I pull my dressing gown further around my body.

  ‘Ziggy needed a pee. We should take him for a walk really but I’m still a bit weak.’ He looks cagey and I notice the phone lit up in his hand. Had he been calling Hannah?

  ‘Oh, right …’ I say, thrown. ‘Well, we need to get some food too, I no longer trust what’s in the fridge after you were poisoned.’

  Jamie shoves the phone into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I wasn’t poisoned on purpose. Unless you poisoned me. You cooked the sausages, after all.’

  I thump his arm. ‘You could have cooked them yourself.’

  ‘You always do it for me. You probably think I’m not capable.’ He doesn’t smile as he says it and the barb hovers between us so that the atmosphere in the kitchen feels laden.

  ‘Of course I do. You’re a good cook.’ There was a time, so Florrie informed me once, when Jamie had ambitions of being a chef, until his mum talked him out of it. Sylvia wanted him to be a doctor like his father. Computer studies was a compromise. ‘Maybe they were out of date. We should have checked.’ I wrestle the fridge doors open. ‘All this food,’ I say in dismay. ‘Pâté, Stilton, milk … we can’t trust any of it.’

  Jamie sighs. ‘You’re being paranoid, Libs.’

  ‘I wish you’d stop saying that – it’s really condescending,’ I snap. ‘Look, this pâté is well out of date,’ I say, picking it up and examining the packaging. It’s partially opened. ‘Didn’t you sa
y you had some on toast the other evening?’

  He doesn’t answer so I slam the fridge door and whirl around to face him. His attention is no longer on me, but on Ziggy, who’s walking towards him, his coat sleek with rain, his paws and legs splashed brown with mud, leaving prints on the wooden floor. In his mouth he’s carrying what looks like an old rag, or a piece of clothing that he’s dug up from the garden. He drops it at Jamie’s feet and we stare down at it. Shock renders me speechless because I recognise it straight away. It’s one of Tara’s expensive basques, torn and covered in blood.

  13

  Jamie insists on calling the police, despite my pleas.

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ I protest, but even as I say it I know I’m lying. Of course it must mean something. The basque is torn in such a way that it looks as though it’s been violently ripped from a body. And the blood … is it Tara’s?

  I feel sick as we wait for the police. Jamie paces the room. ‘This just feels so wrong, Libs,’ he mutters over and over. Ziggy stares up at him, unaware of the drama unfolding thanks to his find.

  ‘I know,’ I say in a small voice. ‘But I don’t want to get involved.’

  He spins around, his eyes blazing. ‘So what do you suggest we do? Go back to Bath and pretend we haven’t found it? And what the fuck are we going to find when we get back to our flat? Philip Heywood could be some kind of psycho who’s killed his wife, for all we know.’

  A loud knock on the door makes us both jump. Jamie goes to answer it and I sit on the sofa, my knees jiggling, wishing I’d got dressed before the police arrived. Grace Kelly’s face is frozen on the screen in a smile. I get up and turn the TV off.

  Two uniformed officers walk into the room bringing with them the smell of rain. One officer looks like he should still be in school. They tell us their names but I forget them straight away. I can barely concentrate.