Never Look Back

by Clare Donoghue

  She turned and looked over at her alarm clock. It was almost midnight. He hadn’t called tonight, not yet. For what felt like the hundredth time Sarah thought about calling Toni, but what would that achieve? She already knew what Toni would say. ‘Call the police. I’ll come over. You shouldn’t be by yourself.’ No. She wouldn’t do that. If he called, he called. There was nothing Toni could do about it and there was nothing the police would do about it. Sarah was on her own. Her socks crackled against the sheet as she climbed into bed. She covered her bedside lamp with a pashmina. It made the room just dark enough. She picked up her notebook from the nightstand and opened it, unable to focus on the scribbled dates and times that swam on the pages. Tonight’s entry was barely legible. It looked more like a scream on a page than actual words. Her arm brushed against the video camera where it nestled next to her. She shouldn’t watch it again. It would only make things worse.

  The calls had started six months ago, although the ache in her bones made it feel much longer. At first she had answered her phone without fear: ‘Hello . . . hellooooo.’ Why wouldn’t she? Two months had gone by, dozens of the phantom calls and still the penny hadn’t dropped. Even as fear started to take hold, she had convinced herself that it was a wrong number, a cold call from Abu Dhabi about Internet providers, or a friend on holiday, drunk and oblivious to the time difference. But then it changed. It was a Tuesday night in October. She had flopped into bed after a heavy vino session with Toni. When her phone rang she had answered it. She was too tired, too drunk to talk, so she just listened. That was when he had said her name: ‘Sarah.’ A man’s voice. Not loud, not questioning. Just her name carried on an outward breath and then nothing. Nothing but his breathing. That was the night she had realized it wasn’t a wrong number and it never had been. The presence she had sensed, the weird incidents she’d shrugged off, for months, had been him. She had called Peckham Police Station the next day and had recounted her story to four different officers before being put through to a sergeant who was either very old, very jaded or both. She told him everything: the phone calls, the phantom knocks on her door, the stuff with her car and, most importantly, the presence she had felt but not believed until that one call had brought everything into focus. What had the sergeant done? Nothing. He had patronized her, saying, ‘My advice at this stage, Miss Grainger, would be to alter your routine. Small changes often result in an end to this kind of nuisance.’ He had used words like ‘nuisance’, ‘harassment’ and ‘harmless’ as if he were reading them from a cheat sheet. He never said ‘stalker’. Sarah had, she kept on saying it, but he had swerved and returned to his safe words. ‘Ninety per cent of these nuisance cases turn out to be nothing. An old boyfriend, perhaps, or someone who would like to be a boyfriend. You are doing the right thing, Miss Grainger. As long as you show him no further encouragement, he will get bored.’

  She sat up and threw her duvet off, unable to stand the weight pressing down on her. How had she encouraged him, exactly? By answering her phone? Was that seen as a come-on these days? She shook her head and stared at the bedroom door. The sergeant had even told her not to change her number. How would they prove anything if there wasn’t a clear log of all the calls she had received? ‘Keep a journal of further events, if there are any, but do call us at any time if you are concerned. I assure you, Miss Grainger, we take these cases very seriously.’

  ‘What a load of crap,’ she said to the empty room. The police didn’t care. Whenever she called to speak to them, to tell them things were getting worse, to tell them she couldn’t take any more, the answer was always the same. ‘Officer Rayner will call you right back, Miss Grainger,’ but he never did.

  Her eyes were again drawn to the video camera lying next to her. She picked it up as if it was coated in acid and opened the screen, her hands already beginning to shake. As she pressed play, she shrank back into her pillows. She watched as her street flickered to life on the display in front of her. Parked cars lined the pavements. Lights shone out from her neighbours’ houses. The picture zoomed in. A dark car. A dark figure sitting, motionless. She wasn’t even sure what kind of car it was. Maybe a Honda, like her brother’s? She couldn’t see the registration. The man inside didn’t move; his shape could almost be a mannequin. The screen went black. That was it.

  When the man in the car had actually moved Sarah had dropped the camera and run through to the kitchen, gasping for air. She had crawled on her hands and knees to retrieve it an hour later when she was calm enough. He had made her crawl in her own home and cower under her own windowsill.

  She pulled her duvet up around her chin and turned onto her side, staring at her white wall. She reached out a cold hand and let it hover over the switch on the bedside lamp. If he was outside, watching, he would know that she was in her bedroom. Her hand retreated under the covers. She was so thirsty but knew she couldn’t make it to the kitchen. Now she had closed herself in, her bedroom door was both a comfort and a terror.

  Unable to sleep, Sarah tossed and turned, watching the red numbers projected by her alarm clock onto the ceiling, counting the hours. Her mind drifted, sleep sucking her under for just a moment until her stomach lurched, forcing her eyes open, dragging her back to consciousness.

  A ringing sound floated along her senses. As her mind moved in slow motion towards understanding, the ringing became louder, deafening. She sat up, staring. On the bedside table her mobile vibrated, the blue light from her phone illuminating the room. She edged towards the noise, keeping the covers tight around her. For a fleeting second she imagined seeing Toni’s name or even her mother’s. The face of her phone came into view. ‘Call’ was all the screen told her. She could answer. She wouldn’t, but she could. It was 1 a.m. The phone stopped and after ten seconds the display went black. She tunnelled back into the centre of her bed, the duvet covering her completely. Her breathing slowed. The diary. ‘Damn it,’ she said as she stuck her head and one arm out of the warmth and grabbed the notebook and pen. She had made more notes in this last week than she had in the past four months. She looked at the time and scribbled: ‘1 a.m. call. Not answered. No message.’ She closed the book, pushed it back onto the table, and once again retreated under her duvet, groggy with restless sleep. She tucked herself into a ball and wrapped her arms around her legs. She could feel her body giving in, exhaustion dragging her under.

  Then she was dreaming about a series of doors. She was trying to find her room in a vast hotel. She recognized the concierge but she couldn’t ask him where room 1497 was. None of the doors would open. Each time she turned a brass handle it buzzed. They must be locked. Sarah desperately looked at the white corridor in front of her, hoping for a sign, an arrow she could follow. She tried another door. This time a buzzing and ringing sounded with each twist of the doorknob. She opened her eyes. A blue light danced over her ceiling. Without moving she reached over and picked up her phone, bringing it close to her face. ‘Call’ the screen said. She looked up at the time projected in red on her ceiling. It was 2 a.m. She pushed the phone beneath her pillow and waited for the ringing to stop. With automatic movements she picked up the notebook and pen and wrote down the entry. She lay back on the bed, her brain telling her she was dreaming. She was still in the hotel. Sarah closed her eyes and continued her search for room 1497.

  At 3 a.m. she was awake, staring at the ceiling. She had been considering turning her phone off for the past thirty-four minutes, but then how would she log the calls? And what would be the point anyway? He would still be calling but without the ringing she wouldn’t know. He would be sneaking into her bedroom without her knowledge and she couldn’t bear the thought of that. When the phone jumped into life next to her she didn’t even flinch. Her fear had been replaced with a kind of numb acceptance. The red numbers on her ceiling and the blue lights danced together now.

  At 4 a.m. she started laughing. Deep in her stomach she felt tremors that ran haphazardly through her body as though she was having a fit. ‘Come on,’ she
said to the gloom. ‘Come on, then.’ Almost immediately he answered her. The ringing, the buzzing, the lights. It was a party in her room at 4 a.m.

  An hour later she lay looking at a hairline crack that ran the length of her bedroom wall. She counted the calls off in her head again, just to check she hadn’t imagined them. Four calls, on the hour, every hour since 1 a.m.. 5 a.m. flickered red on the ceiling. Had he finally given up? She tensed her aching muscles and said a silent prayer that he had, but before she could finish the thought her mobile started to ring, buzzing next to her. She couldn’t bring herself even to touch the phone any more. She rested on one elbow and looked at the screen. Her hands itched as she wrestled for the fifth time with whether to answer. He wanted her to answer. More than anything he wanted her to give in to him. The ringing stopped.

  She had coped with a fortnightly call but every night this week and then five times last night – it was too much. The mobile beeped to let her know the caller had left a voicemail. She picked up her phone and threw it at the wall. It bounced and landed at the foot of her bed. Unharmed, indestructible. She looked over at her bedroom door, at the pale light surrounding it. She couldn’t wait any longer. She threw back the duvet and dragged herself out of bed.

  In the bathroom she splashed cold water on her face and blinked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyelids were swollen. She tipped the contents of her make-up bag into the sink. The mirror had a crack running across the bottom left-hand corner where she had screwed it on too tight. The ‘one coat’ azure paint she had chosen looked tatty, with bits of the previous pink showing through where her brush strokes had been too quick. A film of dust and condensation clung to the cistern of the toilet. The tiles beneath her feet were coming loose, leaving tiny sharp corners that snagged her feet. She put her hands on either side of the basin, closing her fingers around the porcelain. Her reflection blurred at the edges but her eyes were on fire. Hers were the eyes of a hunted animal. She had nothing left to hold on to but her fear.

  6

  24 January – Friday

  Lockyer reversed his Audi into a space opposite Cliffview Residential Home. The double-fronted Victorian terrace was only two miles from the centre of Lewisham, so there were no cliffs for twenty miles at least, and no view unless the identical row of houses sitting opposite could be deemed picturesque.

  The warm leather of the Audi’s curved headrest soothed his nerves as he attempted to clear his mind. He had dealt with cold-blooded murderers more times than he wanted to think about, but this guy was different, more organized, methodical. He took a deep breath and leaned forward against the steering wheel. His mind was still racing, Debbie’s face so vivid it was making his chest ache. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as images of the crime scene crowded in on him. He took the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the car. The smog, even this close to town, had vanished. The air was crisp but the clouds looked heavy with snow.

  The red brick of the house was damp, a shimmer of steam rising from the masonry as the sun burnt off the previous night’s downpour. He had never and would never take his work into this place. The staff didn’t even know he was a copper. The idea of the macabre side of his profession somehow infecting the vulnerable minds within was too much to bear. He walked up the small driveway to the covered front door, a small keypad off to the side. The code changed once every three months. He punched in the new number.

  As he entered the hallway he noticed Amber, one of the carers. She was on the phone, absently picking at a frayed edge of flowered wallpaper. He had been coming here for almost five years now, so he knew better than to disturb her. Amber was patient and kind to the four men and two women who called Cliffview their home but she had a quick temper for anyone else, particularly him, it seemed. She turned and gave him a curt nod. He had the feeling that she thought he didn’t spend enough time here, wasn’t as involved with his brother as he should be. He waited for her to finish the call.

  ‘Morning, Amber. You look very nice today. How’s it going?’ he asked, giving her his best smile. He was hoping a bit of flattery would save him from her wrath. He had brushed his dark curls until they no longer resembled a Brillo pad, he was clean shaven and all of his clothes were clean, though the iron had eluded him. There wasn’t a grey hair on his head, as yet, and Clara had always said that when he smiled his fleshy pink lips and Bushbaby eyes were his most disarming features. However, judging by Amber’s withering expression, his efforts had fallen short of the mark.

  ‘Mike. Bobby isn’t expecting you. I assume you didn’t call,’ she said, turning and heading away from him towards the kitchen.

  He raised his eyes and walked into the large communal lounge to his left. The four permanent staff kept the place immaculate but no amount of cleaning products could get rid of the smell that permeated the carpets, chairs and curtains. It was stale urine, antibacterial soap and something that he could almost taste; dry, sticking to the back of his throat. There was a disturbing similarity to the acrid, lingering smell of the mortuary suite. As he walked towards the double doors at the end of the lounge he looked out at the garden. It was too damp to sit outside. They would have to play cards in Bobby’s room.

  Lockyer had moved his brother here five years ago when he discovered he had a brother, and when he saw the shithole Bobby had been living in on the outskirts of Manchester. He thought back to the day he had found out about him; he’d been sifting through his father’s effects and discovered numerous letters and bank statements, all relating to Robert Lockyer. He walked back through to the hall and up the stairs. The door leading to the rooms of Bobby and the other male resident, Ian, was wedged open with an ancient-looking fire extinguisher. He glanced into Ian’s room as he passed.

  ‘Hey, Ian,’ he said, slowing his pace just enough for Ian to get his hand up and wave back at him. There was no such thing as a quick chat with Ian, so he knew better than to stop. Lockyer had attempted a couple of the house outings in the past but he hadn’t coped very well. The excitement of a trip meant the staff spent most of their time keeping everyone calm: that had included him.

  He stopped outside his brother’s room and waited, staring at the pine door. It had been the right decision to move Bobby down here but every time he visited a pang of guilt tugged at his conscience. Bobby wasn’t physically disabled – far from it – but he needed care, he needed the kind of help that Lockyer simply couldn’t provide. Their own parents had washed their hands of Bobby and packed him off to Aunt Nancy’s when he was seven. Lockyer had been four, but despite hours looking through family albums he couldn’t stir even the slightest memory of his older brother from when they were children. Bobby’s autism was too severe for his parents to handle. That was what his father’s letters had said and, of course, that’s what Aunt Nancy had eventually said, too. Other people had made Bobby’s decisions for him his entire life. Anger and resentment for the life he and Bobby had been denied never failed to surface when he thought about what their parents had done.

  ‘Hey, there.’

  He turned to see Alice, another carer and possibly the happiest woman he had ever met, walking towards him. ‘You here to see the Bobster? He’ll be chuffed. And I see you’ve even shaved for the occasion,’ she said, giving him a friendly punch on the arm.

  ‘Hey, Alice. How are you?’ he asked, doffing an invisible hat.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Good to hear. Any changes in the last few days I should know about? I saw Amber downstairs but she wasn’t in the mood to chat.’

  ‘Nah, Bobby never changes and you should ignore Amber. We all do.’ Alice gave him a wink and walked away.

  Grateful for the mood lift, he turned and knocked three times before opening the door to his brother’s room. Bobby stood by the window, staring out at the garden below. He was tall, like Lockyer, but thinner: a reed, swaying gently. His hair was greying at the temples but his skin was pale and smooth, not a line in sight.
More than Lockyer could say for his own weather-worn face.

  This was Bobby’s world; a world in a vacuum. The cream walls were covered with pictures of animals, birds mainly. Bobby loved birds. The bed was pushed up against the wall. It had blue cushions arranged neatly on top of the blue-and- grey striped duvet cover, a Christmas gift from Alice. Lockyer had bought an extra set not long afterwards because Bobby had apparently freaked out when they tried to change his bedding. Bobby’s autism meant his ability to deal with change or the fast pace of the outside world was limited. As far as he was concerned his life was, and had always been, Cliffview. He remembered little else and little else interested him. He was content with his books, games and, most importantly, his routine. Five years Lockyer had been coming here, and Bobby still treated him like a new addition in his life.

  As he watched Bobby at the window, oblivious to his presence, he wondered how Jane dealt with it, the emotional separation. Her son, Peter, was autistic. Lockyer wasn’t sure of the severity of his condition and, if he was honest, was reluctant to ask. If he did, it would lead, no doubt, to talking about Bobby and he didn’t want to talk about Bobby to Jane, or anyone else. It was his private family business. He was sure Jane must feel the same about her son.

  ‘Hey, Bobby, how goes it?’ He walked over to the window and into his brother’s field of vision. Bobby turned his whole body to face him but didn’t meet his eyes. He never did.

  ‘It’s your favourite card shark.’

  ‘Cards,’ Bobby repeated. His voice was quiet and gentle. He rocked from one foot to the other.

  ‘That’s right, buddy, cards. You up for a game?’ He slowly reached his hand out and touched his brother’s sleeve. Sudden movements disturbed Bobby. Lockyer had witnessed a few of Bobby’s ‘episodes’ – that’s what Amber had called them – and he never wanted to see another one. Bobby, eyes rolling, arms lashing out at anyone and anything, and the noise, the noise was unbearable, grinding teeth and a wail that seemed stuck in his throat. He turned and walked away, Bobby following him, as if compelled by a force field. He sat his brother down in one of the two leather wing-back chairs, already positioned facing each other. A pine table had been set up between the two chairs, a blue deck of cards resting in the centre.