Two For Joy (Isabel Fielding Book 2)

by Sarah A. Denzil

  “The word,” I reply, trying to smile at my feeble joke. I glance at Tom in the backseat through the rear-view mirror, but he’s engrossed by his smartphone. They provided us each with a new mobile phone when we joined the programme, and luckily for us, they actually gave us an upgrade for a change. But now Tom barely lifts his head from it.

  “That’s good,” Adam says with an approving smile. “I’m glad you’ve decided to get out there and work. I know it means interacting with more people than you’ve been used to for a while, but I think you’re ready for it. Do you feel comfortable with your new identities?”

  “Well, it’s obviously very strange,” I reply. “But I’m getting used to it.”

  “And do you and Scott use your new identities at home?” Adam asks. He likes to test us with this question every now and then.

  “Yes.” Lie.

  I glance at Tom again to share a conspiratorial smile, but he’s still glued to the phone. The smile fades from my lips. But as he’s distracted, I allow my gaze to roam over him. He’s different now, with shorter hair, no longer dyed black, his piercings removed, and his body shape more defined. But I’m not contemplating those changes right now, I’m searching him for the feathers he took. Did he bring them with him? Is he obsessing over what happened in Hutton? I need to know.

  For most of the very long journey, I rest my head against the passenger window and drift into an unsettled sleep, never quite relaxing to the point where I can truly sleep, only ever remaining on the edges. I feel every bump in the road, hear Adam as he clears his throat, hear Tom’s tuts in the backseat as he reads more articles on the dead woman.

  Alison.

  Strangled.

  Does that seem like the way Isabel would kill? Though she is terrifying, she’s also small. Could Isabel wrap her hands around a woman’s throat and strangle her to death? Unless she used rope, or plastic, anything she could fashion into a garrotte. It’s like Isabel to be prepared. But wouldn’t the cause of death then be asphyxiation? Perhaps I’m overthinking this. How do I know that the media have all the facts? They might have reported strangulation when what they meant was asphyxiation. I can’t trust what’s written in the tabloids, not that I read much of them anymore.

  Adam pays for a Little Chef lunch, stretches his legs walking around the service station, and then drives us the rest of the way to our new home: Clifton-on-Sea. The road winds through the small town, following the beach, before snaking up a hill to the cliffs that overlook the North Sea. The rain has finally stopped, but I can see from the bend in the grass along the verge, and the lonely crisp packet making its way up the hill, that it’s very gusty outside.

  Five minutes’ drive away from the sea, Adam parks the car outside a small bungalow with a sloped drive, pulls up the handbrake and nods towards the house.

  “You should have a bit more room here. It’s a lovely little spot. A much better place to start a new life. Or at least a temporary new life until we catch Isabel, anyway.”

  There’s a snort from the backseat. Both Adam and I ignore it.

  “Thanks for this. We appreciate everything the programme has given us. I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe while she’s out there, but this helps.”

  When I climb out of the vehicle, the wind slaps me in the face, taking my breath away. I have to battle through it to walk up the small hill to get to the house, and once I’m there, I carry on until I’m around the side of the building, moving towards the back garden. It’s there that I can see the unsettled sea churning below the cliffs. France isn’t far away from where we are now, though I can’t see it.

  Adam was right about this being a change from what we’re used to. I’ve never lived by the sea, and I didn’t grow up with seaside holidays, sticky ice-cream fingers and pockets full of seashells. We were never that family. But the change in scenery is a welcome one. At last, this place seems a million miles away from Isabel.

  But is it enough?

  *

  Adam leaves us with a small amount of spending money for extra furniture, money and clothes. A hundred is set aside for me to buy a smart outfit for an interview at the care home he told me about. He also leaves me the name and contact details of my new therapist. Everyone in the witness protection programme gets their own therapist.

  That leaves us with the afternoon to unpack the small number of boxes we brought with us. Tom connects his phone to the wireless speaker, and we listen to Funeral for a Friend as we put away cutlery and shelve books. Seb’s copy of Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep is mixed in with mine, and I think about finally sitting down and reading it. I can’t send it back to him, anyway. I don’t want to send it back to him. I want to keep a small part of him here with me.

  The bungalow is old-fashioned, and I suspect from the faux stone around the fireplace and the wood panel cladding on the living room walls that it hasn’t been updated for a few decades. But it isn’t dirty, and even the kitchen has been cared for. I’m already thinking of ways to transform the place. My interview outfit won’t cost a hundred pounds; I can use half to buy paint and coat the kitchen cupboards in sunshine yellow to brighten the place up. We can buy a coffee table, perhaps a comfy reading chair, and new cushions for the faded floral sofa.

  Tom chooses the bedroom at the front of the house because it has more room for his guitar, and we can fit a small desk in there too. My room faces the sea, with the land dropping sharply away to reveal the choppy waters below. That sudden drop reminds me of a time when my heel caught the edge of a cliff, almost throwing me down to the rocks below. It reminds me of the cold hand I released from my grip and the pale face falling through the dark.

  You always wanted to fly.

  I’ll paint this room sky blue, I think. Bright sky blue.

  Both of us restless with worry despite the tiring journey, Tom and I make our way out of the house and into Clifton. It’s not a quaint English town, more of a city suburb placed by the sea, with takeaway restaurants, Spar shops, and pubs with grubby signs. We could be somewhere in London, where people overflow out of the apartments above those small shops, and ten different languages are spoken on the streets. But once we’ve left the long strip of takeaways, we decline down a steep hill to the point where a cold sandy beach meets the sea. Here, the wind assaults me with its damp, salty scent, and the dirty shops are replaced with empty arcades. It’s out of season, early-February, chilly, grey with gusty winds that penetrate my jeans and chill my thighs.

  “What do you fancy for tea?” I ask.

  Tom shrugs his shoulders.

  “Well, we’re at the seaside. Fish and chips?”

  “All right.”

  I spot a place farther along the promenade, crossing the road to come closer to the beach. A lone man is walking his dog along the sand, his large, waterproof coat flapping in the wind.

  “Do you think we’ll move again?” Tom’s voice is thin against the wind, but for once it’s as though I’m in tune with him, like I could hear him even if he whispered through a hurricane.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “We’re a long way away from her, though. I can feel it.”

  “Are you psychically connected to her now?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “That’s not what I mean. Maybe it’s this place. I dunno. For the first time in a while, I’m more relaxed. Are you?”

  “No,” he says.

  He didn’t have to think about it. And, really, do I need to think about it to know? My words aren’t a lie to Tom; I am more relaxed, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped thinking about Isabel for even a single second, wondering where she is, wondering what she’s doing, wondering if she’s still coming for me.

  “When she had us trapped in that house,” Tom continues. “She said she didn’t care about being arrested. She just wanted to hurt you. After all those years in the hospital, she was free, and the one thing she wanted to do was hurt you. She never wanted to escape and live her life. She wanted to escape and find a way to kill you
slowly.”

  His words make me uncomfortable. Never at any point have I wanted to hear Tom talk about such dark events. The worst part is that I know he’s right. Isabel could have taken her freedom and got away from me, from Hutton, the hospital and the police. Instead, she risked it all to try to murder me.

  “She can’t find us,” I say, my own voice thin against the wind. I sound tinny, weak, unconvincing. “We’ve been careful. The programme is careful. They’re professionals; they know what they’re doing. They hide people from criminals all the time.” But I’m not convincing myself. They haven’t worked against a person like Isabel before, someone so conniving that she lost weight and made herself resemble me in order to escape from a high-security hospital. “We’re going to continue to be careful. That part is our responsibility. We’ve been given a chance to make a new start, and I think we should embrace it.” I stop walking and place my hand on Tom’s elbow. Before we met Isabel, I would have pulled him into a hug, but since that night, neither of us has enjoyed much human contact. “We’re going to be okay, you know. Do you believe me?”

  I see from the sadness in his eyes that he doesn’t. He doesn’t even believe that I believe it, and I think he’s probably right.

  But he knows he needs to appease me. “What are you having? Cod and chips?”

  I loop my arm through his. “Battered sausage.”

  “Classic choice.”

  “They’re hiring,” I note. “They need extra hands for when the season starts.”

  Tom leans towards the window, reading the sign. “Maybe I should apply.”

  I’m surprised. Pleased, but surprised. “Yeah, why not? See, things are getting better already.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A feather brushes against my cheek, and my eyes snap open. Within my tightened chest, my heart pounds, causing my pulse to thud in my ears. Every one of my muscles is cold and stiff, and my toes are numb. I place a palm down to ground myself and push myself into a lounging position. I’m on the lawn behind the house, lying on my side, facing the sea.

  A scream builds in my throat, dying to be released into the wind coming off the sea. Not again, not again, not again. My mind refuses to cease racing. I lean over and push my hands against my knees, bracing myself against the cold gust of wind.

  I’m in my pyjamas, which I pat down to discover that my phone is still in my pocket. 5:02am. At least I woke early enough to hide this from Tom, because he’d worry. In a heartbeat, I’m on my feet and running back to the house. What did I do yesterday evening after I went to bed? Did I steal out of the house, walk ten minutes to the 24-hour Spar shop and walk back with bottles of wine? Did I drink them and pass out? Did I break my promise to Tom? I need to know.

  The back door is unlocked, but at least I didn’t leave it wide open. I step into the kitchen and begin opening the cupboards, searching for empty bottles. I try the fridge and the bin, but there’s nothing there. I take each mug left on the side and smell them, inhaling deeply. There’s only the lingering scent of coffee and a trace of mint from my herbal tea. I check the living room. I even check my bedroom. Nothing.

  I’m not sure whether to be relieved or more afraid. I’m not drinking again, but I am sleepwalking, just like I did during my psychotic episode in Hutton. But I haven’t missed a single dosage of my medication. Why is it happening again?

  Finally calmer since waking on the grass, I think through what I need to do. First, I need to check that all the doors are locked. Then I need to make an appointment with my therapist. My new therapist: a Dr Jennifer Qamber. Then I need a shower and breakfast, and finally I need to go out and buy new clothes for my interview. Today is going to be tough, but at least I know I’m not hungover. I’m not hungover, but I’m also not right. How do I know I’m even in control?

  *

  If Tom knows about my sleepwalking, he doesn’t mention it for the rest of the day. But he does agree to get the bus to Canterbury for a clothes-shopping trip. The programme hasn’t left us with enough money to buy a car on top of our furniture, but I’m glad not to have one. It would just be one more thing to worry about, and the bus service seems fine.

  It’s clear that we’re not in London anymore, but I like the quiet now, and Canterbury is smaller, less hectic, but still has Whitefriars—a decent shopping centre near the High Street. I find a cheap but smart pencil skirt from Primark. Tom chooses a new shirt from Next. Later that day, we decide to buy paint online rather than try to find a DIY shop within walking distance of our bungalow, and then I do some research into the nursing home I’ll be interviewing for.

  Geriatric nursing is not my speciality, and I’m not even sure I want to go back to nursing, which means the receptionist job is a bit of a relief. Though the environment will be similar to the hospitals I’ve worked at in the past, the job is completely different, and there’s a small nagging doubt that I won’t be able to do it. I made mistakes at Crowmont Hospital. Big mistakes. The kind that put people in danger and maybe even got poor Alison Finlay murdered. At least as a receptionist I won’t have the opportunity to make those mistakes again. I’ll never meet anyone as dangerous as Isabel in a nursing home. I find it hard to believe that I’ll ever meet anyone as dangerous ever again. I’m not sure there is anyone as dangerous as her.

  According to Google, Ivy Lodge is a fifteen-minute bus ride from the small bus station in Clifton. I decide that on Monday I’ll leave an hour before the time of my interview just to be sure. From the photographs on the website, the place appears pleasant enough, but you can rarely tell from the pictures. Most focus on the well-tended gardens outside. What is inside like? As a nurse, you hear horror stories about nursing homes, where patients are treated badly by overworked, stressed, or just plain cruel members of staff. I don’t want to be in that environment. I want to join a well-organised establishment with a good manager.

  Perhaps I’ll get lucky.

  After spending a little time researching Ivy Lodge and brushing up on the basics of geriatric nursing, I find myself searching the internet for more information on Alison Finlay, the woman found strangled and mutilated. When was she killed? Where was she found? Since leaving Scotland, I’ve become foggy on the details, focussing more on the here and now. But after waking up on the lawn, I need to know. I need as much information as possible, because since the night I was attacked by Isabel, my thoughts have been… troubling. Violent. And my dreams…

  I don’t even want to think about my dreams.

  “Less than a thirty-minute walk from our house in Newcastleton.”

  The sound of Tom’s voice causes me to yelp in surprise. “Christ on a cracker, you’re as quiet as ever. Do you walk around on your tiptoes, kid?”

  The old Tom would have flicked my earlobe, or rolled his eyes, or smothered a grin, but this new Tom merely leans over my shoulder to continue reading the news article.

  “Why doesn’t it say what kind of mutilations were found on the body?” he asks. “There’s no detail whatsoever.”

  “It helps with the investigation to hold things back from the media.”

  “You should ring that detective and find out,” Tom suggests. “What was his name? Murphy. We need to know if it was Isabel. Don’t we deserve to know? I mean, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Tom! Language!”

  “Don’t you mean Scott?” He grips the back of the chair and pushes me. The motion is too forceful to be playful. “That’s who I am now. I’m Scott James. What a stupid fucking name.”

  “Do you think I like Lizzie James? I sound like a Victorian prostitute.”

  Still no flicker of a laugh.

  “Come on, Tom. We need to make the best of this.”

  He backs away from me. “No, we need to be preparing ourselves for Isabel to find us. We need to be ready. I think I’m going to go for a walk. Get some fresh air.”

  “Do you want company?”

  He shakes his head.

  *

  Ivy Lodge is as small and neat as th
e photographs suggested. I’m relieved that the place is small, which means fewer patients. The carpark is almost full, despite my arriving before nine, which makes me feel relieved that I’ll be travelling by bus if I get the job. And then it’s a short walk up a drive towards the actual house. It’s the kind of manor house I’d imagine a wealthy family living in a hundred years ago, with large windows, a wide front door, and ivy creeping its way up the bricks. There’s a stillness that I rarely acquaint with nursing, as though things move at a slower pace here. But it’s wise to reserve judgment until after you’ve entered a care home. There might be more bustle once I’m inside.

  I press the buzzer and am beeped in. When I close the door behind me, the entire frame rattles, and my cheeks flush warm from making such a loud noise in a quiet place. I’m early for my interview, so I sit and wait, smoothing my Primark skirt and hoping that no one will notice how cheap the material is. Mum used to say that a good iron transformed an outfit. We wore second-hand clothes most of the time, but Mum washed and ironed them as though they were expensive designer outfits. We were always clean and tidy, even if our clothes were never trendy.

  The reception area shields the rest of the care home from view, but as I wait, I can’t help but crane my neck to try to catch a glimpse through the doors at the end of the corridor. Is it clean? Tidy? Static white? Are the patients happy? I take a deep breath to try to calm myself. The last time I saw doors like these, I met Isabel.

  That can’t happen this time.

  There are no murderers here, just older people who need help. This isn’t a place for the criminally insane. This isn’t Crowmont Hospital. But why does it feel like that? I tap my fingers on my knees and try not to stare at the woman sat at the reception desk. Would I be replacing her? Is she temporary? Perhaps they’ll tell me in the interview. When I glance back at the entrance, I can’t help but think about how I could get up, turn around, walk out and never come back. But then how would I provide for Tom? What would I do with my life?