The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  I rush forward, cutting across the grass, adrenaline masking the pain in my ankle. Moisture seeps into my canvas shoes. Away from the path it’s darker now but I know I’m almost at the gates. And then I hear them. Footsteps. I stop and turn. It’s quiet. My fists are so tightly bunched my nails cut into my palms. A rustling in the bush. An animal, that’s all. I push forward and there it is again. The clump-clump-clump of feet on concrete.

  ‘Hello?’ I swing around in a circle, holding my breath. Over the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears I think I hear the footsteps again, and I run. Pelting towards the gate, my messenger bag bumps against my thigh. My lungs are burning with exertion and from the freezing air I’m gulping. I’m back on the path now and so very nearly there. My shoes are sopping wet and the heels slide on the path but I don’t slow down. Another couple of minutes and I’ll be home. But as I hurtle towards the gates I’m yanked back. Something has snagged my scarf.

  Or someone.

  25

  The sensation of being restrained accelerates my fear, and clawing at my scarf with both hands I scream, muscles tensed, waiting for the feel of hot breath on my neck, hands on my throat but there’s only the sound of cotton ripping. My scarf is caught on the branch of a tree, and I wriggle free and run through the gates, almost crying with relief. I’m nearly home. Turning into my street I unzip my bag and fumble for my keys but I’m shaking so violently they fall from my grasp with a clatter. Behind me there’s a cough. A male cough. And I’m shaking as I scoop up my keys.

  The communal door to the flats is always unlocked, and I push it so hard it bangs against the wall and springs back, hitting me on the cheek. I clamp my teeth, biting my tongue.

  Swallowing my blood, I take the stairs two at a time, and by the time I reach my door I’m trembling so hard I can’t get the key in the lock. The outer door at the bottom of the stairs slams. Has someone else followed me through it? I struggle with the key again. The bottom stair creaks. Is it the floorboards settling or is someone there? I can’t keep still, jigging up and down as I jab the key forward once more, and this time it slides into the lock. I twist it, there’s a click and I fall through my front door, slamming it behind me.

  My legs are no longer willing to support me, and I slump to the hall floor, sitting for the longest time feeling the adrenaline slip away, listening to my own juddering breathing, the strains of rap music from the flat above.

  When I feel calmer I stand but my legs still feel shaky, and I wobble towards the kitchen window as though the floor is made of sponge. Outside, the street lamps are shrouded in mist rendering much of the street invisible. There’s nothing to be seen. But that doesn’t mean no one is out there.

  The light is dim as I switch it on, but as the energy saving bulb shines brighter and brighter, the photos of Callie Blu-tacked to my walls become clearer. I stand in front of one of Callie I’d pulled from Facebook. She’s kneeling in front of a baby pink rose bush, secateurs in hand. What happened to you? Taking a red felt tip, I add the Prince of Wales to the mind map on the fridge and curve a line connecting it to Sophie. Is the pub significant? It’s like staring at a dot-to-dot picture that doesn’t quite make sense if you miss one of the numbers out.

  I plug the mobile phone Sara had given me into the charger I’d bought at the Carphone Warehouse but it still won’t switch on. Sitting at my table I hit the space bar on my laptop to wake up the screen. It’s quiet save the sound of my fingertips clicking on the keyboard. I Google ‘Sophie Valentine’ but I can’t find anything immediately relating to Sophie, and on Facebook there are thousands of people with that name. Instead, I try ‘the Prince of Wales’ pub and its address and dip in and out of articles, the TripAdvisor reviews that would put anyone off visiting and then I find something of interest, an archived news report:

  The severely beaten body of a man in his early thirties was found this morning by joggers in the park near the Prince of Wales public house on Green Street. The man was reported missing by his yet unnamed girlfriend at around 9 a.m. after she was unable to reach him on his mobile, which was found smashed up at the scene. Police were on their way to speak to her when the call came that he had been located. His injuries are critical but are not thought to be life-threatening. Officer Phillip Denby stated that the man was last known to have been drinking in the Prince of Wales, and had called his girlfriend when he set off at around 10.30 p.m. but never arrived home. The police are urging anyone with information to contact them immediately on the number below…

  The words I’d overheard at the pub settle like a weight on my chest: ‘You don’t want to leave your kids without a father, do you? Imagine how they’d feel if you had an accident?’

  The communal door downstairs slams, and I jump. Was that someone going out or coming in? I wait, curling my fingers into fists. There’s no footsteps on the stairs, no movement from the flat above me. A sense of disquiet washes over me and ever so slowly I stand, lifting my chair rather than pushing it back so it doesn’t make a sound. In the brightness of the kitchen all I can see as I look out of the window is my own worried face reflected back at me.

  Uneasy, I return to my laptop and open up another archived newspaper report, dated a few days after the one I’ve just read:

  Police yesterday arrested local man Neil Cartwright (pictured) at the Prince of Wales Pub on Green Street on suspicion of an alleged assault. Cartwright has been previously questioned in relation to intent to supply a class B drug and has served several sentences for burglary.

  Enlarging the grainy image, I study the man in the photograph. His head is turned slightly to the right as though he’s talking to the man standing behind him who is even more out of focus, but it’s definitely him. The same Neil I’d spoken to earlier. Who is he and how did he know Callie and Sophie were sisters?

  There’s a bang, but this time it doesn’t come from downstairs. Somebody has thumped on my front door. My heart leaps into my mouth. I’m not expecting anyone. My world has shrunk so much since my surgery there’s only a handful of people who would call round, and they would all ring first to make sure I’m up to it. The knocking comes again, louder this time. Impatient. I don’t dare move. Can hardly breathe. Holding myself perfectly still I wait but then a horrible thought occurs to me. Did I lock the door? I screw my eyes up, remembering my relief as I burst into my hallway, slumping to the floor clutching my bag and my keys. Shit. I didn’t lock it. I know I didn’t.

  There is nothing stopping whoever is out there getting in.

  26

  Picking up my key ring I creep down the darkened hallway towards the door, wincing as my keys chink together. Stretching out my hand I slip the key into the lock and twist, holding my breath, but it’s already locked. I must have done it automatically. I’m just stepping backwards when the letter box rattles open and eyes shine through the slot.

  ‘Callie? Are you there? It’s me. Chris.’

  It takes a few seconds to register the name. The voice. Callie’s colleague.

  ‘Chris?’ I flick on the light and unlock the front door and crack it open. He’s wrapped up in a black overcoat and still somehow smells faintly of the dental surgery.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I am ready to slam the door shut if I need to. ‘Did you follow me?’ I remember I’d told Sara as I left the dentist that I’d be calling into the pub. Was it Chris who followed me home from the Prince of Wales?

  ‘What? God. No. I took your address from your registration form. Sara found this in reception after you left.’ He holds out the bracelet with hearts that Sam had bought me. ‘She thought it might be yours.’

  ‘It is.’ I stretch out my hand. He drops the bracelet into my cupped palm, and I curl my fingers around it. I was sure it had been zipped in the compartment in my bag but I suppose it could have slipped out when I pulled out my purse.

  ‘It must have fallen off when you paid. I thought as you’re on my way home…’

  ‘How did you get here?’ It sounds
like an accusation rather than a question.

  ‘I drove. Look. Sorry, Callie. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Jenna. It’s Jenna.’ I snap.

  ‘Sorry, sorry it’s just so… It’s the hair.’ He begins to back away. ‘Sorry,’ he says again as he turns and thumps down the stairs

  I slam the front door and pull the chain across before dashing towards the kitchen window and flinging it open, straining my ears for the sound of a car starting, but the street is quiet. Dark. And I can’t hear anything at all.

  The phone is now charged enough to switch on and I find it isn’t as old as Sara had thought. The flurry of texts and calls are dated just before Callie died. As I read the text messages the hairs on my arm stand on end.

  There’s only one contact listed. It’s a number. Not a name. And all the calls and texts are to and from that person, and I scan through them.

  ‘I tried to meet you but he followed me.’ Callie says in one of them.

  ‘Be careful.’ is the reply.

  ‘Can U get away?’

  ‘No. He’s watching everything I do.’

  ‘I need you.’

  ‘I know. I’m trying. Give me some time. It’s not easy.’

  ‘Come now.’

  ‘He’s following me’.

  There’s a flurry of incoming texts dated the night Callie died, but no replies from Callie were sent.

  ‘Thought you’d be here by now?’

  ‘I’ve tried ringing you. PICK UP!’

  ‘Where are you?’

  Who was Callie texting? Was she having an affair? I have to know. Almost without thinking I dial the number in the contact list on Callie’s phone, making sure I withhold my own number. It rings and rings and just when I am about to give up there’s a click. The sound of a breath. I stay still. Silent. Waiting for them to speak first. There’s something in the background. Something familiar but I can’t quite place it. I close my eyes. What is it? That noise?

  I rub my forehead as though I can make an image appear to accompany the sound, like a genie in a bottle. The breathing on the other end of the phone becomes ragged and there’s the soft sound of a throat clearing but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.

  ‘Hello,’ I say at last, unable to wait any longer. There’s a whirring in my ear as the line goes dead, and I try calling again, this time from Callie’s phone but a robotic voice tells me the mobile is currently switched off. What now?

  The kitchen is in darkness except for the green glow of the clock on the hob. It’s 1.00 a.m. and my eyes are burning with the need to sleep, but I can’t tear myself away from the window. I’ve been kneeling for so long on the wooden chair I usually sit on to eat my breakfast, the pins and needles in my feet have faded into numbness. The walk home from the pub has unsettled me, and I can’t stop thinking about Neil. Each time I think I’ll go to bed something outside catches my eye. A shadow lurking behind a parked car, a shape shifting in a doorway. The night is still. Mostly silent, except from the hum of my fridge, but every now and then a sound pierces the air: the yowling of a cat, the thrum of a car in the distance. I’m clinging to Callie’s mobile phone as if it’s driftwood, my mind racing. Who was watching her? Are they watching me? I look up and down the street but I can’t see anyone.

  At last I uncurl my body and stumble as I try to stand, stamping life into my dead feet. Too tired to clean my teeth I dowse my pillow with lavender oil to help relax me, and fall into bed but as I wait for exhaustion to claim me I wonder yet again if the front door is properly locked, if I am really safe. I get up and rattle the handle and check the bolt is across but I don’t feel reassured. Someone followed me. I know they did. In bed, I toss and turn until I click on my bedside lamp and a golden glow fills the room and, at last, reassured by the soft light, I close my eyes.

  Sleep, when it comes, is fitful. Faces looming towards me: Chris; Neil; Nathan. Callie crying for help. When I wake in the early hours I reread the texts on Callie’s phone. Someone was watching her, following her, and panic pinballs in my chest as I think that now they might be following me.

  27

  Sweat trickles in between my shoulder blades. It is early Friday morning but already the police station is overly warm. I’ve been sitting in reception for nearly an hour now. It is harshly lit and oppressive, and I feel the grey walls are sliding towards me, the ceiling crushing down. The hard, plastic chair I am sitting on is bolted to the floor, and I clutch the seat to stop myself from leaving as I breathe in the same stale air.

  Callie’s phone is tucked inside my bag. It’s the only evidence I have that someone was watching her. Following her. If she was having an affair the person following her could be Nathan but I think of how kind he was to me when I fainted and it is hard to believe he could be the cause of Callie’s fear. I don’t know if I am doing the right thing, coming here. The thought of a police car turning up at Tom and Amanda’s, an officer standing solemn in their sweltering lounge informing them Callie’s death is now being classed as suspicious, breaks my heart. Could I be making things worse?

  I can’t think clearly. The constant noise is jarring; phones ring, doors slam and radios crackle with static. The man sitting next to me has barbed wire tattooed around his neck, and his clothes stink of smoke. The way his knee jiggles up and down as he flicks open his Zippo lighter before clicking it shut over and over again grates on me.

  The door to my left buzzes and squeaks open and a policeman who looks too young to be here calls: ‘Jenna McCauley?’

  I stand and nod. ‘I’m Jenna.’

  ‘I’m PC Hodges, if you’d like to follow me?’ He strides down a seemingly endless corridor.

  The soles of my sandals squeak on the dirty white lino as I struggle to keep up. By the time I’m shown into a small room I’m breathless, and I sink gratefully on a chair.

  ‘You said you had some information for us, regarding a suspicious death?’ PC Hodges’s pencil hovers over his pad, and I’m momentarily thrown.

  ‘Doesn’t someone else need to be in here?’ I ask. ‘Another policeman?’

  ‘We’re not formally interviewing you, Miss McCauley.’

  ‘But you record everything?’ I look around. There’s nothing but blank walls and a small rectangle window that’s so high there’s only clouds to be seen.

  ‘You’ve been watching too much TV. This is just an informal chat. Let’s start with your name and address.’

  His pen scratches on his notebook as I recite my details.

  ‘And whose death are you here about?’

  ‘Callie Valentine.’

  ‘Is she a relative of yours?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do her family know you are here?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘She was a friend of yours?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’ He raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, more firmly this time. I tell him about Callie’s accident. ‘But I don’t believe it was an accident.’ PC Hodges’s face remains impassive as I tell him about my visit to the pub, the conversation I’d overheard. ‘And I have this.’ I slide the phone over the table almost triumphantly, and he picks up the handset, making notes as he scrolls through the texts.

  ‘And this was found in her place of work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re not certain it was hers?’

  ‘It was in her drawer. Look can’t you just run the number through a computer? It’s proof?’

  ‘Proof of what? It’s not always that simple, Miss McCauley. If this is a pay-as-you-go phone it will be almost impossible to trace. Even if this phone did belong to Miss Valentine it doesn’t mean her death was suspicious. Wait here.’

  He leaves the room and the door bangs shut behind him, and I get up and pace around, doing circuits of the impossibly small room, feeling like a rat in a cage.

  Much later, I’ve drained the water in the white plastic cup I was given that crumpled under my grip and I
’m sitting again, my head in my hands, when PC Hodges slides back into his seat.

  ‘It seems we investigated Callie Valentine’s death at the time and it was ruled as accidental.’

  ‘I know but…’

  ‘Her family and friends were spoken to. We were very thorough.’

  ‘But the phone—’

  ‘We’ll look into it.’ He holds out the handset to me.

  ‘Shouldn’t you keep it? For evidence?’ I’m insistent now.

  ‘At this stage it isn’t reason to reopen an investigation, but as I said we’ll look into it and be in touch if anything else comes to light. In the meantime, please feel free to pop back in.’

  ‘But I got a really strong feeling that…’ I raise my voice.

  ‘Unfortunately we need more to go on than feelings, Miss McCauley.’ His sarcasm stings. ‘I’ll see you out.’ PC Hodges presses the mobile into my hand and strides towards the door, yanking it open, and just like that I am dismissed.

  Outside the station I sink onto the cold steps, the dampness seeping through my dress. The sun is breaking through the clouds but it’s still chilly, and I wrap my arms around my legs, resting my chin on my knees. The warm bloom of embarrassment I’d felt in the station has dissipated. The expression on PC Hodges’s face was much like the one on Rachel’s the other night. No one believes me, and I don’t know what to do next. I’m due to meet Nathan at the canal at two, and I’m at a loss to know whether I should go or not. At the sound of a car door slamming my head jerks up. On the opposite side of the road is a row of shops, and parked in the lay-by is a bright yellow sports car. I’ve seen that car before, but it takes me a second to remember where from. The dentist’s car park. Is it Chris?

  There’s no one in the car, and my feet tap-tap-tap their anxious rhythm on the pavement but I fight against my natural instinct to run. Fuelled by the scepticism I’ve just encountered I march across the road. I’m going to confront Chris. Ask him what the hell he’s playing at. Leaning against the bonnet of the car I try to act far more casual than I feel, breathing deeply through my nose, trying to unfurl my fists. The door of the chemist swings open, and a lady with long brown hair frowns as she steps outside.