by Anita Waller
And still the phone remained silent. She checked that she hadn’t accidentally switched it to that mode, and replaced it by her side. It was just after two, and at half past three the silent aspect would have to be activated, and the phone re-zipped into her bag, away from prying eyes.
Her work completed, she opened a special file, one entitled quite simply book. This was a file that gave her a great deal of pleasure, although not opened on any sort of regular basis. She loved history, and one day, while on the tram going to work, had come up with an idea for a book set in France, in the days of the revolution. She was writing it for herself; she loved the research aspect, possibly even more than the writing, and knew it would never leave her computer. It was a project to fill her time, when she had any spare.
She took the notebook out of her drawer, went through the notes she had made, and typed, one eye on Jake as he renewed his acquaintance with Peppa in yet another episode, while chewing on a stuffed dog, and one eye on the computer as she typed in her handwritten notes. There were no eyes spare for the front window, and she missed seeing Daniel walk past it.
She heard his key go into the front door, and she threw her notebook over the phone. A glance at the bottom of her screen showed her it was 15.42; how stupid was she not to have set an alarm?
Dan came through to the lounge and kissed her. ‘Good day, Mum?’ He bent down and picked up Jake, who giggled at his big brother and waved Peppa in his direction. ‘And you, Jakey boy? Good day?’
‘We’ve walked,’ said Liz. ‘Walked it to Crystal Peaks, bought some stationery I needed, and came back on the tram. It was damn cold though.’
‘You’re working?’
‘I’ve done a couple of things for work, but I’m adding a bit to the book.’
‘The book…’ He dramatized the way that he spoke, and Liz laughed.
‘Cheeky monkey. Yes, the book. You wait until I’m a famous author and Spielberg wants it for a movie.’
‘I thought you said it was being written for you?’
‘Okay, I’ll have to become a personal friend of Spielberg then, cut out the middleman, the publisher.’
Dan ruffled her hair. ‘Good for you. Will it make us rich?’
‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘Very rich.’
Dan replaced Jake in the middle of his toys, and walked out of the room. ‘Boeuf bourgignon for tonight,’ he called from the hall. ‘That okay? It’s already in the freezer.’
She lifted her head and smiled. What had she done in her previous life that was so spectacular, fate had given her the gift of a chef in the making for a son?
She quickly retrieved the buried phone, switched it to silent and zipped it into her bag. With her hopes dashed, she closed the laptop, and attended to her youngest son’s nappy. She took him to bed for a half hour nap, and went back down to the kitchen.
She sat at the table and watched what Dan was doing. A coffee appeared in front of her.
‘You okay?’
She nodded. ‘Of course. I was lost in the French revolution.’
‘So, going back to work isn’t an issue, then?’
‘Not at all. You know I love my job…’
‘But you love Jake more.’
‘Stop being grown up, and get back to your cheffing.’
‘Just keeping an eye. And I’m only defrosting…’
‘Do you really think I’d give everything up for Peppa Pig overdoses?’ She sipped at her drink and tilted her head.
‘If you’re looking at it like that, no. You’re good, Mum, I won’t check up on you again.’
She picked up her coffee and returned to the lounge. ‘Get on with the meal, slave, and stop worrying!’ she called. She tidied away the toys, plumped up the cushions, and pulled her bag towards her. She quickly took out the Nokia and looked for messages. Missed call.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Damn. He’d managed to ring again. She allowed herself the luxury of scrolling back through the many messages they had exchanged from the start of the relationship, and went through them a second time as enlightenment dawned.
When Phil had bought them the phones he had made her promise to always delete every text, every bit of evidence of calls between them, in case Rosie or Gareth came across the phones. We can always say they are phones kept for work calls, he had said.
But she hadn’t been able to delete them. She wanted to keep them. His love had enfolded her through the texts, she couldn’t delete them. The texts were the untold story of their love.
The last three or four were different. He had always ended his texts with love you, sweets; there wasn’t one text from their relationship that didn’t have those words. It wasn’t on the newer ones.
He wasn’t sending them, somebody else was.
7
Gloomy, always gloomy. The small light that was never turned off gave a tiny glow, enough to see the opposite wall. Phil knew he was in a cellar, chained and attached to a wall. The chain extended long enough to allow him to use an old toilet in the corner, wash in the tiny hand basin next to it, and not an inch further. He hadn’t seen or spoken to anyone for a long time – how long, he had no idea. There were steps leading up to a door, but his chain only allowed him as far as the foot of the stairs.
Phil had never seen his captor. In his head, he called him Captor, but he was only guessing it was a man; it could easily be a woman.
The only clue he had about the length of time of his captivity was when he first came around, the weather was still warm. It had changed and Captor had provided two old blankets. Phil shivered through most nights.
There had been no verbal communication, no written messages, nothing other than a dumb waiter that clattered down to the cellar, holding food for the day.
It annoyed him intensely that he couldn’t remember getting here. He could only assume that he had been drugged in some way, because he had no injuries, other than a small bruise on his arm. He had tried asking questions, but to no avail. The person at the top of the dumb waiter never spoke, and there was never any activity, until what he presumed was the following morning.
Phil had given up with the questions. The thoughts in his head were slowly driving him mad. Why? Why was he here? Did his kidnapper think he was someone else? Almost all the time his thoughts drifted towards his family; to Rosie, to Melissa – and to Liz.
Rosie had been truly vitriolic when he had confessed to loving Liz, much to his surprise. There had been nothing between them for years, and he had been shocked by her reaction. You’re my husband, not hers. She’s got her own husband. And does the bitch love you?
At first, he had wondered if Rosie could be Captor, but he ruled it out. She was a gentle soul, under normal circumstances, and he couldn’t see her as an evil cow capable of doing this to him. They had simply drifted apart following Melissa’s accident, lived together more as friends than anything, so, no, he couldn’t see her being this cruel.
His thoughts drifted towards Liz when he heard the rattle as the dumb waiter descended. He stood patiently until the noise stopped, before moving across to it. It wasn’t how he imagined a dumb waiter to be, so guessed this had been constructed specifically with his incarceration in mind. It had a small door to keep the contents of the box structure from falling out as it descended from above.
He took out the carrier bag; it contained two sandwiches, two bottles of water and two bags of crisps. It hadn’t been any different for the whole of the time he had been there. He heard the dumb waiter rattle its way back to the top, and he opened a bottle of water, and took a long drink.
He was shocked to hear the rattle begin again. He watched it with apprehension, and when it stopped, he moved across to open the door once more. Inside was a second plastic bag, this time a much larger black bin bag. He lifted it out and carried it across to his camp bed.
He had been wearing shorts when he had been taken. This bag contained jeans, a jumper, a couple of T-shirts, boxers, thicker socks – and he groaned. How long did th
ey intend keeping him?
He had washed his existing clothes as best he could in cold water in the tiny hand basin, but they took so long to dry he had almost given up on that idea. Maybe Captor had a conscience after all.
There was an extra blanket and he felt grateful to the unknown person who had supplied him with it. He sat down on his camp bed and gathered the contents of the large bag to him.
And cried.
8
The boeuf bourgignon was beautiful, warming, tasty and eaten. Liz raised her glass of wine. ‘To the chef. That was delicious, Dan.’
Gareth nodded. ‘So much so, I don’t think I could face a dessert.’
‘I’ll put the apple and blackberry crumble in the freezer then,’ Daniel said, smirking.
‘Ah… maybe a small amount,’ Gareth joked. ‘Is it with custard?’
‘Would I offer anything else?’
‘Not in this house, probably not,’ his father said with a laugh.
Liz tried to join in with the banter, but worry had settled over her like a nimbus cloud, and she wanted to be on her own, to think.
She was convinced the texts hadn’t been sent by Phil. He wouldn’t have sent I love you without following it up with sweets and some kisses. He wouldn’t. So, who had sent them?
Her money was on Rosie. Somehow, she had found Phil’s phone. But this raised the issue of where he was – he would not have voluntarily let anyone take it. She had to go and see Rosie again, use some pretext of needing a signature to close the file now the cheque had been paid in – if indeed it had been paid in.
Maybe Phil would be there this time. And if not, she would insist on seeing him to get his signature to sign off the case. She would have to hope Tom and Oliver didn’t get to know about it.
One way or another she would see Phil, she needed to get rid of this anxiety, needed to know he was okay.
She stood, leaving the table clearing to Gareth. ‘I’m going to bed. I’ve got a thumping headache, so I’m taking some paracetamol and going to sleep it away.’
‘You okay apart from that?’ Gareth asked. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’
‘It’s the headache.’ She gave a small smile. ‘Don’t wake me when you come up, will you?’
‘Of course not. I might play the lad here, at that new game he’s got.’
‘You’re not good enough, Dad,’ Dan said. ‘Go and have a pint instead. I’ll look after Mum.’
Liz left them to their chatter and walked up the stairs, holding on to her handbag. She needed to check the Nokia again.
* * *
She had a quick shower, slipped into her nightie, and huddled down in bed. She did have a headache, but it was nowhere near as bad as she had said downstairs. She closed her eyes for a minute, and then took out the phone. Nothing. No texts, no missed calls. She double checked she hadn’t caught the silent button, and slipped it back into her bag, zipping up the pocket.
And then she had a light bulb moment. Whoever had the phone that had been Phil’s, hadn’t learned of their affair through that. Phil must have stuck to their agreement to delete everything, because if he hadn’t, they would have seen how he ended every text, and copied that. So how did the person, or persons, know about her and Phil? As far as she was aware, nobody knew.
Or had Phil confessed to Rosie? She knew they had a strange relationship, and Phil considered it to be a platonic one, but what if Rosie still wanted him? Could she be sending the texts? And if she was, what had happened to Phil?
Liz tossed and turned, unable to sleep. She tried reading, tried listening to some smoochy Sarah Vaughan, and then gave up. She heard Gareth return, although she knew he hadn’t had a lot to drink; he was a loud man when there was too much alcohol inside him, but he merely closed the front door, switched off all the lights and headed upstairs.
Dan was in his room, and she heard Gareth whisper good night to him. By the time he reached their bedroom, her eyes were closed, and she pretended to be asleep. He slid in beside her, and within five minutes was snoring softly.
All was peaceful in the Chambers’ household. Liz reached for her kindle and once again tried to read. This time it worked, and fifteen minutes later her eyes closed.
The little Nokia had already received another missed call, and a text that said Hope our son is okay. Sleep well.
9
Liz didn’t check the Nokia until late Saturday. When she did, she gave a small cry. Dan popped his head around the lounge door.
‘You okay, Mum?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, a brightness in her voice that was false. ‘I read something on Facebook that made me laugh aloud. Sorry.’
‘No problem. I’m going up to my room. I won’t disturb Jake.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. Where’s your dad?’
‘Nipped to the shop. Said something about wine.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks, Dan. How’s the game coming on?’
‘Good. I’m sending it to a couple of mates from school for them to give it a go, and give me some feedback.’
‘So, what are you doing at the moment?’
‘Don’t ask me, Mum, and I won’t have to lie to you,’ he laughed.
‘What?’
‘Just joking, just joking. I’ve an essay to do before Monday, so I’m working on that. Mum… are you and Dad okay?’
‘Of course.’
‘It’s just… you’re a bit miserable, seem fed up.’
‘If I am, it’s not your dad’s fault. I miss Jake, and it’s not been as easy leaving him, as I thought it might be. That’s all it is, honestly. Me and your dad are absolutely good.’
‘That’s a relief. I’m too old to start having uncles.’ He flashed his blue eyes at her, and headed for the stairs.
She shook her head, and laughed aloud. Dan could always cheer her up. She put the Nokia back into its pocket, and thought about the strange text. Jake’s parentage was something only she and Phil knew about. So, did this mean it really was Phil sending the messages?
She knew it wasn’t. Therefore, was the text a stab in the dark by someone playing silly guessing games?
She was stuck until Tuesday; she could do nothing with Jake to look after, she would have to wait until she returned to work. It was so frustrating. Most of what she was thinking was guesswork based on what she knew for facts, but it really didn’t help solve anything.
---
There were no more texts or missed calls, and she tried to push it firmly to the back of her mind, but at odd moments it crept through. If she could only speak to Phil once, it would settle her down.
On Sunday, there was a significant snowfall, and Dan built a snowman for Jake in the back garden. He said it was for Jake, but it was a work of art, and she did have to ask the question who it was really for.
She had a long chat with Julia, who filled her in on all of Oliver’s faults as a husband, whilst negating any issues she might have brought to the marriage. By the end of the conversation, Liz realised the balance of the marriage wasn’t wholly down to Oliver’s controlling nature, Julia Hardwick was a truly selfish woman. On reflection, Liz decided, they probably deserved each other.
The sun came out Monday morning, and by the evening most of the snow had gone. The snowman was still standing, but looking a sorry spectacle indeed.
Liz had done some preparatory work for a case that needed sorting on the Tuesday, and she closed her laptop with a sigh. Tuesday meant giving a lot of thought to the Latimer problems; she had to speak to Rosie somehow.
She briefly considered talking to Tom Banton about the whole situation, but she didn’t think she could take the condemnation that would inevitably emanate from him. It was against every rule in the book, fraternising with clients, especially married ones. He would have to dismiss her, and she didn’t think she could take that. No, she was on her own.
* * *
She dropped Jake off at Sadie’s somewhat reluctantly on the Tuesday morning; the tram journey was travelled in silen
ce, and she didn’t even bother taking her Kindle out of her bag. She was troubled, but hadn’t a clue what to do about it. She was in town for shortly after nine, and decided to go for a coffee before heading into work. She sat at the table in Costa, and took out the Nokia. No messages.
She worded a text carefully and pressed send. I urgently need to talk to you. Please call 9-5. If can’t talk at that time will disconnect and call you back later. Please, Phil.
Now all she had to do was hope and wait.
Liz finished her coffee and walked down the hill to the office, listening for the ringtone. Nothing happened, and when she was sitting at her desk, she dropped the little phone into the top drawer. She knew she would hear it in there.
* * *
She surprised herself by becoming immersed in two separate cases, one of which was her own nursing home case, and it was lunchtime by the time she realised there had been no sounds from the drawer. She took out the phone and checked it. Nothing.
It was a spur of the minute thing to email Rosie. She hadn’t thought about doing it, hadn’t wanted to do it, but did it anyway.
She told Rosie that she needed confirmation that the cheque had been paid in, the company accountants needed proof as the payment had been delayed for such a long time, and she would be bringing the form out to the house on the Wednesday. She would appreciate it if both parties could be there to sign it.
She signed it Best wishes, Liz, and waited for a response.
Rosie’s reply came shortly before Liz left to go home. It simply said Okay, Liz. See you tomorrow.
She collected Jake from Sadie, and headed back down the hill to home.
The sound of Metallica came from the kitchen, and she called a loud hello, trusting that her voice would rise above the crescendo of the music.
Jake was tired, and had almost been asleep as she had lifted him from the pushchair. She quickly changed his clothes for his sleepwear, and sat on the floor with him to play for a few minutes.