‘Rachel said you’re trying to find out more about the night Callie died? I don’t think…’
‘Rachel’s said a bloody lot, hasn’t she?’
‘You’re lucky to have her, Jenna.’
Before my surgery I’d probably have been described as ‘honest,’ ‘loyal’, ‘kind.’ Now I’m ‘lucky,’ ‘inspirational’ or ‘courageous’ and hearing this from Sam causes me to bristle.
‘Don’t tell me what I am,’ I snap.
‘You seem to feel you owe these people.’ He’s shouting now as well, and I’m not sure if it’s the pent-up emotions of the day spilling out but I can’t seem to calm down either.
‘And you think I don’t? They saved my life.’
‘It was their choice. You don’t owe anyone, Jen.’
‘Not even you?’
He screeches to a halt on the double yellows outside the flat and we glare at each other.
‘Yes actually, I do think you bloody owe me now you come to mention it.’
‘And what? What do I owe you, Sam? The rest of my life?’
‘A proper conversation at least. You seem to care more about a bunch of strangers than you do about me.’ The vein on his forehead pulses. ‘You pushed me away because of…’
‘What if I didn’t? What if I just didn’t want to be with you any more? You can’t handle the thought of that can you, Sam?’
‘Maybe I don’t want to be with you either, did you think of that? But there are things we should talk about.’
‘You probably want to be with Rachel so you can continue your cosy conversations.’ I can’t seem to control my words, and a look of disgust flashes across his face.
‘At least Rachel’s happy to be alive. You’re not dying, Jen, not today. Stop acting like every breath could be your last, because right now, I think you’re wasting Callie’s heart.’
His words slam into my chest and I almost fall out of the car, banging the door closed after me. I march towards my flat, not turning as the wheels on Sam’s car squeal as he accelerates away.
My anger doesn’t recede as I clump up the stairs to my flat. If I wasn’t so lost in thought I might have heard it. A sound. The opening of the communal door. A creaking of the stair. Footsteps quietly creeping up behind me. But as it is, I am completely unaware that I’m not alone as I rummage through my bag for my keys until I inhale sharply in frustration, ready to huff out air and I smell it. Oil. Stale smoke. And then it only takes a split second to feel the presence behind me. Breath hot and sour against my cheek. A scream builds inside my throat but there’s already a hand clamped over my mouth, fingers knotted in my hair.
38
The person who attacked me is speaking. His voice is low, his words controlled but I can’t hear anything beyond the blood hissing and pounding in my ear as I struggle to break free.
Terror gallops through my body and as I struggle I lose my footing and my body folds like a rag doll. I’m yanked upright by my hair and it feels like thousands of red hot needles are pricking at my scalp. My mouth springs open, despite the hand covering my lips, and I bite down as hard as a can, my teeth a vice around his fingers.
‘Fucking bitch.’
I am pushed forward, falling heavily onto my knees, and banging my head against the floor. Dizzy, I scramble into the corner and shuffle around until my spine is pressed hard against the wall. My eyes dart around, looking for something, anything, I can use as a weapon. Neil from the Prince of Wales pub scowls at me through slitted eyes as he sucks his fingers.
‘What do you want?’ I force myself to stand up, clutching my bag against my chest like a shield, my fingers looped around the handle, ready to swing it at him if he steps closer.
‘Where’s Owen?’ he growls, and I am momentarily thrown.
Why is he looking for Harry’s dad? Why would he come to me? I rub the lump that’s forming on the side of my head as though I can dislodge the fuzziness.
‘Did you follow me home from the pub the other night? Why are you asking about Owen? Do you know Kathy and Harry?’
I’m babbling I know. Asking too many questions, but I’m scared that if I stop I’ll be the one expected to give answers, and I don’t know anything about Owen. What will he do then?
From outside there’s the sound of a car engine, and we wouldn’t normally hear it here, if it wasn’t for the hole in its exhaust.
‘That’s my boyfriend, Sam!’ The words spill out in a rush of relief.
Neil hesitates before he peers out of the small, cracked window that overlooks the street.
‘What sort of car does he have?’
‘It’s a Fiat. Red.’ I take long, juddering breaths as Neil spins and hurtles down the stairs, two at a time, and as the outer door bangs open I make my way over to the window. Sam is slotting his car into a space outside the florists. I look up and down the street but I can’t see Neil.
Sam has parked now but he doesn’t cut the engine. Instead, I see him lower his forehead onto the steering wheel as if trying to decide what to do, and as I watch him I rest my forehead against the dirty glass willing him to come upstairs. Time seems elastic. It stretches and stretches. Neither of us move. My breath fogs the glass and I pull my sleeve over the heel of my hand to wipe the window, and when I can see out onto the street again Sam’s reverse lights are on. His car shifts and engine roars, and as he pulls away I whisper: ‘Don’t go, please,’ but he can’t hear me, of course, and I am alone.
Or am I?
There’s a sound. It could be a floorboard shifting. It could be the wind against the letter box. It could be something. It could be nothing. But I yank my keys from my bag and run into my flat, locking the front door behind me and dragging the telephone table in front of it. Just in case.
I’m so tired. My mind map is a tangle of sweeping lines and as I struggle to focus my sleep-heavy eyes the colours seem to swarm on the page. But my exhaustion is tiny in comparison to the fear that has wrapped itself around me like ivy clinging to a tree ever since I visited Owen’s house. I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I check my phone for the umpteenth time. I’ve set a Google Alert for Burton Aerodrome. There haven’t been any updates and I can’t stop thinking about the body they found there. Why had Callie been there? A sudden sound slices through the early morning stillness making me jump and for a split second I worry Neil has come back, and I wonder again whether I should have called the police but it’s only a dog barking. Neil. Owen. Callie. Their faces zing round my mind and just as I feel my head might explode it comes to me. The grainy photo of Neil I’d found with the article online, accusing him of assault. The blurred image standing behind him. It was Owen. I’m sure it was, and it only takes a quick check to confirm I am right. Did Callie know Owen? Was she having an affair with him? Although I didn’t know her it seems almost impossible to think of her with Neil. I’m so tired. I dig my hands in my hair and pull as though I can release some of the pressure inside my skull. My eyes are drooping now, and I drain my cup but this time my eyes don’t snap open and I cross my arms on the table in front of me and rest my head down. Just for a second. I’m so tired. But I won’t go to sleep. It’s not safe to sleep, but darkness folds itself around me anyway, burrowing into my subconscious, sparking a memory.
39
I strip off my dress and knickers and stuff them deep into the wicker laundry basket in the corner of the room. Tomorrow I’ll throw them away. I can’t bear to wear them again. My legs are shaking so much it’s an effort to climb into the bath. I twist the dial on the shower to hot and sink to my knees. I don’t feel I will ever be warm again. What have I done? I am motionless for so long goose flesh crawls along my arms. The plughole sucks away the cascading water and my tears. I reach up for the shower gel and wash mitt and I scrub at my skin until it’s pink and raw but I still feel dirty on the outside. Dirty on the inside. An image springs to mind of the last bath we took together. Me leaning back against your chest as you gently shampooed my hair. Candles flickering. La
vender bubbles soothing. How can things have changed so much?
There’s a tapping on the bathroom door. ‘I didn’t hear you come home. Did you have a good night?’ you ask, even though I know you’re hurt whenever I go out without you.
Nausea swells and my whole body violently shakes. I try to reach the toilet in time but I can’t and I heave and retch, splattering the contents of my stomach all over the bathroom floor in-between my choking sobs.
‘Are you sick, baby? Let me in,’ you say, but I can’t.
I can’t let you in. I’ve never been able to keep anything hidden from you. You’ve always said the only thing we need is each other. But that isn’t true. Not any more. And I don’t know how to tell you, but I know that I must.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ you ask, and I shake my head.
‘Then say it. You need to promise me you won’t tell anyone how you got this?’ You lightly run your finger over my bruised cheek, and trace the swelling under my eye, and I shrink back into my chair.
‘Of course. I promised, didn’t I?’
‘I think I should take you,’ you say, and I stand and take our breakfast things over to the sink, not quite meeting your eye.
‘I’m on a late today. It will look odd if I arrive this early. You get to your meeting.’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘Look. You wanted things to be normal again?’ I touch my cheek and wonder how you possibly think I could forget.
‘OK.’
You kiss me on the head and tell me you’ll see me later. Your footsteps echo down the hallway and when the front door slams shut I scuttle into the lounge and peep out of the window, staying half-hidden behind the curtains. You disappear around the corner, beige mac looped over your arm, tan briefcase swinging in the opposite hand. I don’t know how you can act so normal this morning, as if the screaming rage of last night never happened. I hardly dare breathe as I wait to see if you’ll come back – surprise – but as seconds turn to minutes I feel myself beginning to relax. You’re really gone.
It doesn’t much matter what I wear and even though I’ve only just pulled myself away from the window I couldn’t tell you what the weather is. Rain. Sunshine. I’ve no idea. I pull off my work uniform and wriggle into jeans and a T-shirt. My overnight bag is on the top of the huge oak wardrobe and I have to stand on tiptoes to yank it down. Dust motes fall onto my upturned face and I cough and cough.
There’s no thought to what I’m stuffing into the bag. Clothes, underwear, toiletries. The essentials really. And when it’s almost bursting I struggle to zip it closed.
I slip into my jacket and loop my handbag over my shoulder, flipping open my purse to check how much cash I have, but it is empty. I was sure I had two twenty pound notes. I’ll need to stop at a bank, and I open up the Lloyds app on my iPhone to check how much money we have. I used to have my own account but now my wages are paid into a joint savings account each month. I wasn’t keen at first but, as you said, if I’m left in charge of my own finances I overspend on clothes. I’m pleased now you’re so meticulous with your spreadsheets and box for receipts. We have quite a nest egg. Punching in the passcode I tap my foot as I wait for the page to load and when it does my breath catches. There’s nothing in the account.
Fear and frustration collaborate and tears bite at the back of my throat. I throw myself onto our bed and sob. How can I leave you now? I have nothing left.
40
In my dream I was crying, and as I wake my cheeks are wet. At first I’m disorientated because I’m not in bed. My arms are pins-and-needles numb lying heavy on the kitchen table. I sit up and sharp pains shoot through my neck. The mind map is stuck to my cheek and I peel it from my skin and rub at the drool that has crusted around the corner of my mouth. Outside the sky is streaked with apricot and the glowing numbers on the hob tell me it is 6 a.m. I check my phone. There are no updates for Burton Aerodrome, but later, I’m picking at the scrambled eggs my tumbling stomach doesn’t want, when my mobile beeps. I seize it from the table hoping for news. Instead it’s a text from Nathan confirming he will pick me up from work at midday, and a flash of annoyance streaks through me. I can’t go to work. I can’t see Nathan. I’ve stuff to figure out here, but Owen’s name leaps out at me from the mind map and I think if Callie knew him then Nathan must too. ‘Looking forward to seeing you’ I reply but there’s a dullness in my chest and my teeth are clamped together so hard my temples throb.
I look up as someone enters the practice and all I see is a pair of denim clad legs, and a lady’s head; her body obscured by a huge wicker basket full of roses and lilies.
‘Delivery for Jenna McCauley?’
‘That’s me!’ I take the flowers, turning my head away from their overpowering fragrance. Setting them on reception I slice open the envelope and read the card –
‘Thanks so much for joining us for Callie’s birthday.
Tom and Amanda x’
– and at their names the familiar clamp tightens around my chest.
At twelve I am pushing the door to leave when Kelly calls: ‘Don’t forget your flowers, Jenna.’
‘I’ll leave them here until tomorrow.’
‘Do you mind if you don’t?’ She pulls a face. ‘I have hay fever.’ She sniffs hard, and I swallow my irritation.
Petals fall on the floor as I snatch the flowers, and I don’t pick them up.
Nathan is sitting waiting in his car. ‘They look expensive,’ he says, twisting around in his seat as I place the bouquet in the back. ‘Secret admirer?’
‘They’re from a grateful patient.’ The lie trips easily from my tongue.
‘That’s nice. Isn’t there a card?’ He peers among the flowers.
‘No. They brought them in personally.’
‘They’re a florist are they, this patient?’
I am momentarily confused.
‘It’s just I saw the lady bring them in from her van.’ There’s a beat before he continues: ‘anyway, do you like art? There’s an amateur exhibition in the church hall on Chiltern Road’ But he doesn’t wait for an answer, indicating left as he pulls out of the car park. His eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.
There is a three pound entrance fee to get into the exhibition, which includes a piping hot drink in a thin Styrofoam cup that burns my fingers, and a custard cream. It’s gloomy and chilly inside. A faint whiff of TCP hangs in the air. Goosebumps blanket my skin as we wander around the hall. The art ranges from startlingly good to what-on earth-is-that?
‘You’re very quiet. Are you OK?’ Nathan asks, and I feel the heat of his palm on the small of my back and there’s a fluttering deep in my belly. I can’t work out whether it’s excitement or revulsion. The closeness we’d felt on Friday night has vanished and now I feel awkward in his company.
‘I’m fine, just a little tired.’ I step closer to the painting of an orange cat shaped like a rectangle, so his hand falls away.
‘We can go back to yours if you want to?’
‘No!’ The word rockets from my mouth louder than I intended, and I ignore the hurt that flashes across his face and walk over to the next display screen. A small beach scene catches my eye. Pastel beach huts strewn with bunting line up as though they’re preparing to race towards the apple green sea. A lone pink bucket and spade sits on honeycomb-coloured sand. It reminds me of the paintings Amanda used to do, the ones I’d seen on the wall in their house. It reminds me why I’m here with Nathan.
‘Sorry.’ I reach out and touch his arm as he joins me. ‘I’m shattered. I didn’t get much sleep last night after Harry going missing.’
‘That’s understandable. I thought you were annoyed with me for turning up unannounced on Saturday. I could tell you were uncomfortable having me in your flat.’
‘It wasn’t that, it’s just I wasn’t expecting visitors. I hadn’t washed up.’
‘And you didn’t want me to wander into the kitchen to see it?’
‘It?’ My stomach contracts into
a tiny ball as I think of the mind map, but then I realise he’s referring to the washing up and I keep talking. ‘Saturday must have been hard, being Callie’s birthday.’
‘Every day is hard. Birthday or not.’ There’s a sadness in his eyes.
‘You must think about her all the time? About the night of the accident? If you want to talk… ’
‘Shall we move on?’
At first I think he means the conversation but he gestures to the next display board. I find I can’t tear myself away from the beach painting and, on a whim, I find myself buying it for Amanda. It’s the last day of the exhibition so the artist is happy to let me take it away, and while he wraps it in tissue paper Nathan asks me to hold his jacket so he can go to the loo. I pay for the painting and slip it into my bag and move towards the toilet door. Nathan’s jacket is heavy in my hand; it swings against my leg and something hard and solid bumps into my thigh. His phone. I glance up at the toilet door. It’s shut and I know I don’t have long if I want to check Nathan’s contacts. See if Owen is listed. Surely if Callie did know him, Nathan might too? My hand is trembling as I reach into the jacket pocket and pull out the phone. I touch the home button and the screen illuminates. A photo of Callie sitting cross-legged by a lake, gazing out into the distance, unaware she was being watched. There’s no passcode and I navigate the menu, scrolling down the contacts. There’s a listing for a ‘Owen’ but before I can open the contact to see if there’s an address the handset slips from my grasp, hitting the floor with a clatter. I crouch and wrap my fingers around it, but before I can stand Nathan’s shoes come to rest before me and I look up, aware that my face is flaming.
‘What are you doing?’ Nathan asks stretching out his hand.
‘Sorry. It fell out of your pocket.’
I give him the phone and he glances at the screen before stuffing it into his trouser pocket, and he grasps both my wrists, pulling me to my feet. His grip is tight. Almost too tight and I can’t quell the feeling of panic in my stomach. The smell of the air freshener wafting from the toilet as the door swings open again is sickening. My phone rings and Nathan releases me but as I delve into my bag for my handset I can still feel hands tight around my wrists, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh, crushing my bones. I feel hot. Dizzy. Faint. My screen is flashing ‘unknown number’, and I step away from Nathan as I accept the call.
The Gift Page 17