‘I need a dress for Christmas.’ Daring a glance at her husband who didn’t look back, she was bravely determined. She wore no make-up, hair neat, thin. In a daze Bridget found her four dresses, and shut her in the changing room, managing an encouraging glance as she pulled the curtain to.
He sat on the sofa with the newspaper open on his lap, looking up only to criticise. Ignoring Bridget who turned her back, or she might crown him.
‘Is this—’ The woman was peering round the curtain. The dress sat on her as though she was a child dressing up.
‘It’s a bit too big,’ said Bridget, ‘I’ve got the smaller one.’ And was hurrying into the stockroom for it, clumsy. To get to the back rail she had to push the garments at the front aside and step over the box. She could smell it. She could. Sweetish, rank, combining with the mint to make her feel sick, sick. She grabbed the dress she needed and stepped back so hurriedly she almost fell, groping blindly; something fell, a stack of brochures slithered to the ground with a slap.
There was air freshener in the cupboard under the little kitchen sink: from the sofa the man was watching her now, alerted by the sound. She walked slowly, she smiled: she ignored the man, as he had ignored her. She stripped the polythene from the dress and handed it to the woman, unzipped before walking on to the kitchen, coming back with the air freshener. The man was looking around, wondering: alone in here, she’s alone. What kind of operation is this?
Inside the stockroom Bridget closed the door and sprayed all around the box, into the room’s corners. She could hear the mumble of voices beyond the closed door. She leaned against it. Her back was bathed in sweat.
Almost every day now there would be a new revelation about child abuse, young women. Bridget had to avert her eyes, turn off the radio, each time it stuck a pin into her. Watching the news with Matt only, what, a couple of weeks before, a woman had sat on a sofa with her hands obedient in her lap, recounting what had happened to her, he put his hands … a woman who had waived her anonymity: a middle-aged woman like her. Bridget remembered consciously breathing, telling herself this had nothing to do with her. This didn’t happen to her. The angry faces of women demonstrating.
But it did happen to her. The evidence was in here, with her, he had polythene around his head, his pale, bristly cheek inside the plastic, boxed inside the cardboard.
‘Hello?’ The woman’s voice piped up from behind the door. Bridget straightened herself and walked out.
The small, mousy woman stood, turning, frowning a little, excited. The dress fitted her, it was the right length: beyond that Bridget’s judgement failed her completely. The woman standing there might have been a tree or a chair, but then Bridget saw her face, pleading, complicit. She wanted the dress. Let her have it. Get them out of here.
‘Lovely,’ Bridget said, forcing herself. ‘Isn’t it?’ Turning to the husband on the sofa, smiling, encouraging. She felt as if her face was made of wood. For a long moment the man looked at her, expressionless, then let out a sigh. Got to his feet.
‘All right then, let’s get on with it.’ Fishing out his wallet.
She kept the smile on as she processed the transaction for the couple over the till, a couple not happy, resigned, years ahead together. Would that be her and Matt?
And they were gone, too.
She was patient: she made herself go through the motions, doing her paperwork, placing an order for next year by email. Not in the stockroom, though, where she would usually do it, but at the front desk, her head raised every time someone paused in front of the window, expecting him.
The hours passed, slowly, slowly. Bridget monitored the street: she saw Justine opposite come up to her glazed door and look out, bored, blank. Business wasn’t good. She didn’t look across at Bridget though, her gaze was indifferent, not even grateful for the parcel. Bridget had sent Laura over with it to be on the safe side. It looked like nothing had roused her suspicions.
And then it was five, five fifteen, five twenty. Bridget went outside and brought in the little box bushes in tubs, she turned out the lights. The lights in the jeweller’s were still on, but the music from the gallery had been turned off. A Wednesday evening, in November, and quiet. At last, she walked slowly back into the stockroom. She knelt and pulled the long box out from under the rails.
One of the men they had interviewed on the news had said, it was normal back then. Charges dropped.
It wasn’t normal. Had never been. Not normal. It was just a kind of – trap, like an animal in a trap that can’t go forwards or backwards without tearing itself. Alone in the music room with him, him nodding and moving, putting his hand there and you froze. Your mouth wouldn’t open, it wouldn’t say, No.
On her knees Bridget slid the box around and shoved it ahead of her, out into the shop. It was heavy.
So if you didn’t say no? If you only said no in your head.
Bridget knelt back up, resting on her heels. Paused. Examining what it was that she was feeling, the muscles in her arms and shoulders aching; her back, her neck, her forehead, all warm with the activity. She was alive.
He’d known she was saying no, whether she opened her mouth or not; when he had stood there in the shop’s tiny kitchen, looked into her eyes and talked about her as though she belonged to him, her half-grown body, the parts of it she had hardly known herself, he had known exactly what he was doing. With a great rush that came to her: of course he had known. And hadn’t cared.
So get it done. Before they catch you.
The box was heavy, though. And rigid, which made it easier, unbending as experimentally she lifted one end. Rigor mortis: what did she know about that? Nothing. She didn’t know anything about DNA traces, or – any of this. His computer record? His address book, his message history. All the things she didn’t know about buzzed, like flies on the edge of her vision.
Traces, witnesses – if they begin to look at his last movements. He had not contacted Bridget, except in person, walking through the door. He came in once with Isabel, but she had not been aware of any connection between them, he’d said nothing. At least, not while they were in the shop. Laura – well. Laura had picked something up, that much was certain, but she could handle Laura. Laura had enough on her plate, soon she’d be staying home with a baby, soon any vibration of something not quite right between Isabel and Carmichael would have faded. So they were the only witnesses.
His small shiny car parked on the corner of the close? The memory jumped. The other residents of the quiet little cul-de-sac all worked, the place was empty in the day. And Matt had missed him, hadn’t he? It hadn’t been Matt, after all, that she’d imagined turning in as Carmichael left. Not that Matt – she had to stop thinking about Matt. The lad she took a cigarette off in the street. Long gone. Repeat after me: no one knows. Just get on with it.
The van was two blocks away, where there was free parking. She walked to get it, past dark shop fronts, trying to look normal, trying not to look too hard for CCTV cameras. She saw none and was pretty sure, anyway, that there weren’t any in the little lanes this end of town: the other end round the multi-storey, maybe, at the big junction of roads. The pavements were wet and empty, though the pubs were filling up. There was a big old Victorian one on the corner, its windows frosted and engraved and golden with light. The door opened as she came past and a gust of warm beery air came out, a glimpse of oak panelling: a man getting out his packet of cigarettes and his lighter, but not the same man. Older, heavier. As the door closed behind him a face turned from the bar to look out, the glimpse of familiar features that gave her a jolt and she kept going, no. Your imagination, seeing things.
Driving carefully, the wet hissing under her tyres, lights reflected in puddles, she gripped the steering wheel. Her phone rang in her pocket, but she held on tight, didn’t look and it stopped. Nothing can happen. Go slow. Careful. She turned into the narrow lane.
Leaving the hazards flashing in the empty cobbled lane Bridget climbed out, and unlocked the
shop. Knowing she would be straight back she hadn’t set the alarm: for a second the thought of what might have happened, if she had crashed the car, if someone had broken in, ballooned in her chest and she had to stop, just for a second, to catch her breath.
The box sat there, waiting for her in the middle of the shop. The yellow streetlight shone through on the long, narrow, dark shape, a solemn shape. Kneeling, she began to tug at it: she couldn’t do this on her own: it would tear on the threshold. As far as the back threshold, it stuck on the step and she had to get behind it and shove. The cardboard could soften in the wet, it could rip open on the lip of the doorstep, on a hinge: she had to go slow.
There was someone coming up the lane.
A car: it revved angrily. She stopped still, crouched over the box. A horn blared, loud, again. A man’s voice, shouting.
‘Oi! Oi! The fuck—’ A car door slammed. ‘Oi!’
Hurriedly, awkwardly, she came around the box, half hunched over still, as though caught in searchlights and trying to hide. She came out into the lane and he was right there, a big man in a jacket too small for his shoulders, his arms forced out by muscle, a bald head shining.
‘This you?’ Thrusting his face into hers. ‘Get that heap of shit out my way.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m just—’ she stammered, trying to sound reasonable, calm, when in her head it screamed at her, quick. Quick. Before he looks. Before he sees. His jaw set, threatening, small eyes darting.
‘Just fucking do it,’ he said, ‘Now.’
Was he trying to look over her shoulder? ‘Sure,’ she said. The box behind her was inescapably like a coffin. ‘Let me just – I was – let me get my keys.’ She ran back inside, grabbed her keys. The alarm? Hesitated a fraction of a second: careful. That’s what this is about now: taking care. She set the alarm, ran for the door before it went off.
When she got back out he hadn’t moved, arms crossed, shoulders bulging.
And as he fell back, just a fraction, Bridget sidestepped him. Climbing hurriedly into the van she saw him shamble back, dangerous still, a gorilla in a too-tight suit, and wrench open his own car door. She set off, bumping slowly over the cobbles, feeling his aggression. Round the back: that was what it would have to be.
Squinting against the glare of the man’s headlights in her rearview mirror Bridget told herself she’d never seen him before, would never see him again. She was pretty sure he had no idea who she was. The car behind her barely waited for her to emerge at the end of the lane before squealing angrily past in the wet street – and he was gone.
There was an alley behind the shop where there was a line of lock-ups and rear entry to some of the shops. They’d been lived in, once upon a time: not much more than cottages, with back yards and outdoor privies. Bridget hardly used the back access: it involved going through the yard next door was damp and slimy, and she wasn’t sure if the door would even open. Creeping along, she squeezed the van along the narrow space, stopped and sat there, hands on the steering wheel, waiting for her heart to slow.
All right. It’s all right. He was just an angry man: the world was full of them. She locked the van, and hurried back down the alley, into the road, heading for the lane again. Quiet still, but not dead, not empty, the sound of footsteps echoing: up ahead a couple were walking, arms round each other. Across the street a skinny little lad leaning against a lamp post for support: a bit early for that, was the first automatic thought she had, then, Finn – does Finn? – stop it. She’d never seen Finn drunk and the boy leaning against the lamp post had the wrong hair, a buzz cut; anyway, he was too small to be Finn. She turned into the silent lane, looking both sides now as she hurried – this way, then that way, listening for footsteps, soft sounds just out of earshot – until a thought brought her to a halt.
The jeweller’s opposite had CCTV inside – she had it too, though it had broken months ago and she hadn’t got it fixed, the monitors were enough of a deterrent, though Laura was always grumbling. Would their CCTV have picked her up, loading a long box into the van at night? She put her hand to her chest, felt the running hurry of her heart. Just as well, then – she set off again, not wanting to think, not wanting to dwell. Narrow escape.
Just get him out of there.
* * *
She couldn’t seem to get the key in the lock, her fingers like sausages, transfixed too by the shape beyond the glass, monumental at the centre of the shop: the long box, not quite regular, bulging in the thin, flat light and a shadow at one corner. Was it leaking? Was he— The key turned.
In the same moment as Bridget stepped across the threshold she knew she wasn’t alone, shit – the word, not usual for her, sounding the alarm in her head – shit, shit, shit – you should have looked. There was someone behind her, beside her in the doorway, jostling her. A smell of spirits.
White-faced, cropped hair, skinny, cheerful: it was the boy she’d seen leaning against the lamp post, except it wasn’t. The world skewed, righted itself, anger coming up behind fear.
It was Carrie. Pissed. Bridget staggered as her little sister pushed past her into the shop.
‘Jesus, Carrie,’ she said flinching as Carrie elaborately sidestepped the box to collapse on the sofa, aiming a kick at the corner that missed as she went down. Then her sister’s little chalk-white face upturned in defiant mock-apology, eyes almost closed.
‘Sis,’ she said, drunkenly deliberate. ‘Shish. Not like you to take the Lord’s name in vain.’ Reaching up a hand, small and blunt-nailed like a kid’s, swaying on the sofa. ‘Pleased to see me?’
And then the alarm went off.
For a second Bridget held out a hand to meet Carrie’s, hearing the awful, deafening iron clatter of the alarm and all its consequences spilling out in her head – and doing nothing. The alarm was connected to the alarm company and the police station. She needed to call them immediately or they would send a police car. But she only held out her hand, her fingers barely met Carrie’s. Then she turned away, smooth and quick and calm although inside she was dissolving, she was jelly and water.
She punched in the code, pressed the switch and the sound stopped as abruptly as it had begun, only the echo hanging in the air, and Carrie’s dark eyes looking up at her, accepting both the panic and the resolution equally: Bridget would sort it out. Bridget dialled the police first, then the alarm company and she explained it to them. Rueful and apologetic and self-deprecating, stupid, sorry. The policewoman brisk, a couple of words and no more, the password and identification given, time noted, done. The alarm company only bored, making her get the account number, jobsworth. She went through it, quelling the tic of frustration. When Bridget turned back into the shop Carrie was leaning back on the sofa with her eyes closed, arms out, a little beatific saintly smile on her face.
‘Coffee,’ Bridget said distinctly and on the sofa Carrie murmured something up at her, eyelids flickering.
Black, strong, instant, no fuss, a dash of cold in it or she’d slurp and burn herself but this needed to be done quickly. All the time – as she crossed the floor, stepped into the kitchenette – checking, for anything. A stain or a shred of fabric or a smell. Carrie had sharp eyes even when drunk, Carrie saw things, asked questions, Carrie didn’t care who she wound up. Bridget had to be tough, not frightened, she had to be big sister: if Carrie smelled fear, she’d know. And there was the box to deal with.
‘Here.’ She held out the mug and Carrie swung upright, reached for it. Looked around the room.
‘What’s going on?’ she said, staring at the box.
‘How much have you had?’ said Bridget in answer. Tough. ‘You been in the pub all day?’ Exasperated.
‘Just a couple of beers on the train.’ But she was looking down into the coffee now, not meeting Bridget’s eye.
‘Well, you can make yourself useful now you’re here,’ said Bridget. ‘Drink up. I need some help getting this into the van.’
Carrie wriggled to the edge of the sofa, elbows on her knees in
heavy trousers that were like an old man’s, chin in her hands. And looked at the box again, harder, frowning.
Skinny white forearms emerged from her jacket but she was strong in the shoulder: Carrie had always worked out: weights, gym, boxing training was her favourite. Carrie squinting over a boxing glove, in a singlet, thinking she was Marlon Brando. Bridget had picked her up at a boxing gym once, a long time ago, and seen the old guys tousling her short hair, it was obvious what the appeal was. She was too smart ever to actually go into the ring, though, which was just as well because Bridget would have had to plead with her then and they’d fall out for the hundredth time.
‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘Old stock,’ said Bridget now, improvising, ‘I was going to load it up through the backyard but it’s too heavy.’ Eyeing her, strategic. ‘Maybe it can wait.’
Carrie hunched, bristling for a second, then she bounced up on to the balls of her feet to sway right in front of Bridget. Still a couple of inches shorter and always would be, now. ‘No good to you, am I?’ she said, defiant. ‘Get out of it.’ Insisting. Bridget stepped back, almost smiling. Her kid sister.
It’s just a box, she told herself, squatting, Carrie at the other end. It still felt rigid, she tried not to think about it sagging, bending, the cardboard giving in their arms. Just a box.
They edged backward out of the shop, Carrie frowning with the effort at the other end. Across the yard of the shop next door, staggering briefly as Bridget paused to unlatch the back gate. The neighbour was a little newsagent, old guy who’d been there donkey’s years. He grumbled about how much his stock cost him: with that thought Bridget did look up, thinking she caught the flash of something high on the back of the house, a security camera. But it was a circular ventilation pane set in a bathroom window up there, turning like a windmill – and she kept moving without a break in her step. The van was where she’d left it.
It wasn’t until they were unloading at the other end that Carrie seemed to notice how heavy the box was.
What We Did_A gripping, compelling psychological thriller with a nail-biting twist Page 9