The Tall Man

by Phoebe Locke

  ‘I don’t think she does, though.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But the more we talk about Sadie, about where she went, about all these people who reckon they saw or heard weird stuff around her, maybe she’ll start to.’

  Greta picks up another beer from the floor, even though her stomach is churning. She takes a long sip and looks away.

  Federica doesn’t mind her silence. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Get your laptop out. I want to run through some of the LA footage.’

  From the diary of Leanna Evans [Extract B]

  We met for lunch at an Italian place near the river. It was early and when I arrived it was empty save for the two members of staff polishing glasses, removing the clingfilm from the plates of cakes they kept on the counter.

  Despite the lack of other patrons, I chose a table without a view; one tucked away at the back of the restaurant, with a bit of privacy. I thought you’d appreciate that. I ordered a sparkling water from the waiter, with ice and lemon, and when you arrived, flustered and five minutes late, I told you it was a gin and tonic. You couldn’t be tempted, though; when the waiter arrived by your side, you asked for a Diet Coke.

  I asked how your week was going. You looked unwell; big dark shadows under your eyes and a faint sweaty sheen on your skin. Your eyes kept darting around the room, occasionally dipping to check your phone. Your face looked gaunt in the daylight, far more so than in the more flattering light of my kitchen. You looked much older than the thirty-six – seven? – that you must be.

  You were a little stiff as we exchanged the usual sort of small talk, your smile tight and your answers vague and noncommittal. I found myself toying with the single sheet set menu as I spoke. My hands felt clumsy, as if I wasn’t quite sure how to manoeuvre them. I found myself waffling on about my week; how I had deep-cleaned the bathroom and started to clear out the previous tenant’s things from the loft.

  You looked up at that; as though something had struck a chord. ‘Yes, I’ve been doing that too,’ you said. You let out a strange sort of laugh; I can remember it exactly. Discordant, the way a broken glass in a silent room sounds, or a flat note in a cantata. And then you said, ‘We’ve got bats in ours,’ and it took me a moment to realise you were talking about your attic.

  I took a sip of my drink and, truthfully, I wished it actually were a gin and tonic. It was an odd thing for you to say, perhaps, or maybe it was the careless way you were letting words fly from your mouth, as if you hadn’t thought about them or even engaged as they formed sentences between us. You were different, this time, and I wondered if I had made a mistake. You returned to studying the menu and so I did too. There were only nine items on it: three starters, three mains, three desserts. This made me happier about your choice; it implied honesty, simplicity, that everything was upfront. Things weren’t being hidden behind frozen favourites and hedged bets. I respected you a little more for having suggested the place.

  We hadn’t spoken for a minute or two, and so I asked you what you were planning to order. It’s funny; I never used to mind silence. Now, often, I can’t bear it. I was surprised to hear my own answer emerging before you even had a chance to express yours, me dithering aloud over the arrabbiata or the pizzetta. Despite my best efforts, I was nervous, and you seemed to understand that – you smiled at me and I felt calm again.

  When the waiter returned, I ordered the mozzarella and tomato salad and the arrabbiata. It was extremely decisive for me and I felt pleased; you might have noticed this. I felt in control and full of energy – if I’m absolutely honest, as I have told myself I will be, it felt almost as if I was drawing it from you, that energy, while you continued to wilt. It took you a long time to order; eventually you selected a prawn cocktail and the puttanesca. They did not go together, really, and I felt almost maternal towards you, as if I should guide you.

  Instead, I tried to divert your attention from the floor, which was where your gaze kept falling, as if your eyes were very heavy and it took more strength than you had to lift them. I asked about your weekend, what the three of you had been up to. I was curious about your relationship with Amber; fascinated, I suppose. When you were together it felt as though you were unsure how to look at each other – whether you should be excited or casual or careful. And so all of those feelings and more sort of flitted across both your faces, none of them settling. And then always you looked away from each other, as if you’d been strangers on the street, passing. The things that were happening in your house were strange and wrong and I could not turn my eyes from them.

  Your attention fell to your phone then, as if my question had reminded you of its existence. ‘Oh, not much,’ you said. ‘Miles’s parents visited.’

  I remember that I reached out a hand and gently touched yours. That I asked you if everything was all right.

  You shook your head a little too hard, your hair flying side to side with a certain violence. ‘Fine, fine,’ you said. ‘How are you?’

  I think I told you that I was fine. I was distracted; I had applied lip balm before we met and I had noticed the imprint of my coated lips on my glass. I was running my thumb around the rim, trying to erase that trace, and you lost interest almost immediately. Our food arrived and you stared blankly at it as I began to eat.

  ‘This looks good,’ you said, without a hint of enthusiasm. You picked up a fork and toyed with the edge of a flaccid lettuce leaf.

  I took a moment to swallow my mouthful, perhaps you noticed me pause. The way you were ignoring me was infuriating; it made me want to snatch the fork from your hand, to swipe the bowl from the table. I had to collect myself. ‘Mine’s very good,’ I said, eventually, and finally you brought your fork to your mouth.

  We ate in silence then, for at least a minute or two, and I found I could tolerate it. In fact, it was you who felt the need to break it.

  ‘How’s Billie?’ you asked me. ‘Is she enjoying school?’

  I was pleased. I paused to neatly fork up another mouthful of my salad; ensuring a balance of each element. I wanted to enjoy this moment; to savour it. ‘She seems to be doing well there,’ I told you. ‘It feels as though it’s a good school for her.’

  ‘She seems like a good girl,’ you said, which surprised me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, caught off-guard, ‘Amber is too, of course.’

  You laughed, and I felt a prickle of fear travel down my spine. You had gone to a different place even as you sat in front of me. You had let them back in.

  ‘She lies,’ you said, simply. You were not looking at me, instead flipping your knife back and forth on the table and watching a small line of reflected light flicker across the wall.

  ‘I know,’ I whispered, but when you looked up sharply I realised you were still with me after all. They had not claimed you yet.

  ‘Billie mentioned that Amber had a new friend,’ I said, regaining my confidence and feigning a sheepish expression, as if I were unsure whether I should be telling you. I saw the fear cross your face and it sent a thrill through me. ‘A man. Billie seemed . . . a bit nervous of him.’

  Our eyes met then, and I wondered what you saw there. If you saw someone as haunted as you are; someone desperate enough to do the thing you could not. I wondered if you saw what I saw in you. It was like a second shadow, one you’d only glimpse every so often – a certain way you moved your head, there again when you faltered over words. Perhaps I could only see it because I was looking, because I knew what to look for. I know where it hides.

  And then you rubbed at your forehead, letting your hand trail down over your eye, dragging at your cheek, and then – as if there were nothing else for you to do – you finally took another mouthful of your food. You looked up at me and I felt something powerful surge through me as I smiled kindly at you. ‘Thank you,’ you said. ‘I appreciate you telling me.’

  This I batted away, the good friend. ‘It’s not easy, having daughters. What’s that Lear quote?’

  ‘“Tigers, not daughters”,’ you repli
ed, without trace of a smile. You surprised me again; I hadn’t expected you to know it.

  ‘That’s right.’ I laughed to cover my surprise, my pleasure, and took a sip of my water. ‘Feels very true, now they’re getting older, doesn’t it?’

  You nodded, and wilted again, your fork placed down in defeat. ‘I was the same,’ you said, and I felt it was the right moment to push you on this.

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Yes. A nightmare to my parents. Always staying out late, coming home blind drunk. I suppose I’m getting what I deserve.’

  I sipped my water, and I ate my salad, and I thought to myself: Not just yet.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:31 GMT

  From: Federica Sosa

  To: Greta Mueller

  Don’t take this the wrong way but I didn’t get a great vibe from you just then. I’m worried you’re not completely on board with what we’re doing here.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:35 GMT

  From: Greta Mueller

  To: Federica Sosa

  I’m sorry if it came across that way. I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a long week.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:36 GMT

  From: Federica Sosa

  To: Greta Mueller

  I appreciate that and I appreciate you stepping in, but you have to also understand that I am giving you a big opportunity here. It’d be nice to see a bit more enthusiasm.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:38 GMT

  From: Greta Mueller

  To: Federica Sosa

  Federica, I am enthusiastic about the project, and I’m truly grateful to you for letting me be part of it. But it’s difficult to get excited about going behind an eighteen-year-old’s back, no matter who she is. Some of the things you were saying earlier made me a bit uncomfortable.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:39 GMT

  From: Federica Sosa

  To: Greta Mueller

  Oh not this again, FFS! You know what she did, right? I don’t exactly think she needs a new mother figure in her life, and I certainly don’t think you could handle the job if she did. I’m sorry if this opportunity is making you ‘uncomfortable’!!!

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:41 GMT

  From: Greta Mueller

  To: Federica Sosa

  I’m not trying to mother her. I’m only trying to be ethical and fair in the way we treat her. We have a contract and she trusts us.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:43 GMT

  From: Greta Mueller

  To: Federica Sosa

  It’s late, and this is coming out all wrong. I need to get some sleep. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in any way this evening – believe me, it wasn’t my intention and I really am grateful for the chance you’ve given me.

  Tuesday, 22 May 2018, 23:47 GMT

  From: Greta Mueller

  To: Federica Sosa

  Did you just knock on my door? I’m awake, I must not have answered fast enough.

  Wednesday, 23 May 2018, 01:59 GMT

  From: Federica Sosa

  To: Greta Mueller

  Sorry, hon. Dozed off, am totally wiped out.

  And sorry if I sounded harsh before. I just know that you’ve got so much talent, G, and I want this to be huge for you.

  See you at breakfast x

  PS No not me, you must have a midnight admirer ;)

  21

  2016

  After lunch, Leanna and Sadie walked through town together. Leanna kept pace with Sadie, who had never been able to walk slowly, making small talk about the weather and their girls. Sadie just wanted to get away. All she could think of was the email she had found in Miles’s inbox. And I won’t tell.

  They came to the end of the high street, where their paths would naturally separate. Leanna hugged Sadie goodbye, with her citrus-sharp smell and her dark hair silky against Sadie’s cheek.

  ‘Thanks for lunch,’ Sadie said, because Leanna had insisted on paying. Sadie’s pasta had been too salty and now sat in an oily slick in her belly.

  ‘Anytime.’ Leanna took a step back, frowning against the weak afternoon sun. ‘Take care now.’ And then she turned and walked away, glancing back once with a small wave, the two slender silver bangles jangling on her wrist.

  Sadie’s mind was already worrying at the email again, cat-pawing at it from every angle. He could have been having an affair – who would blame him, after everything? – ‘SomeoneSpecial’ could have been a colleague, or (no) a student. She could only assume that Miles had had sex with someone else at some point over the previous sixteen years, though he was pathologically faithful and she found it difficult to imagine. She remembered arriving on his doorstep and seeing there on his face, beneath the surprise, a sense of relief – an I knew it. He had had faith and it had been rewarded.

  Even so, she didn’t think it entirely impossible that there had been someone. A fling or a friendship or something in between or beyond. That would be understandable. Normal – if anything that had happened between him and Sadie could be described as normal. And he had needs like anyone else, she supposed, though it had taken him months to touch her properly when she returned – even now, he was hesitant and frustratingly gentle, as if she’d been away because of a consumptive illness or serious injury. But perhaps that was because he had been with someone else in the intervening years, had forgotten how to be with her, how she liked to be touched. Though the image made her hot with envy, she thought she could bear it.

  But then there was the last part of the email: and I won’t tell. A threat. That could point to a student, she thought (for the fiftieth or sixtieth time) as she reached the station and climbed the steps to the platform. The pasta threatened to make a reappearance.

  And all the while there was that murmur from somewhere deeper and darker. He has a secret, it told her. And someone knows. ‘SomeoneSpecial’, whoever they were, knew. Special. How the sight of that word had frightened her when she first saw it in his inbox. This person declaring it so proudly, though Miles would have no idea of its significance, of what it could mean. Or would he? asked that same part of her that she tried so often to tamp down. It was Miles who had the secret now, after all.

  (Her thoughts were looping dangerously, she knew that.)

  She found a seat on the train, facing backwards, and watched the town slide away from her. She turned her attention to Leanna’s warning. Amber and a new friend. She pictured a man appearing out of the shadows one night, taking her daughter’s hand. She could imagine him whispering in her ear, running a finger over her cheek. She could imagine him telling her she could be special.

  It didn’t have to have happened that way. It didn’t have to have happened at all, she reminded herself. She had led him away, kept her daughter from danger.

  There were other dangers of course. Not everything that could hurt you lived in the shadows – Sadie knew that. But would it really be so bad for Amber to be hurt; to have her heart broken by an irresponsible older man, if that was in fact what was happening? Perhaps it was a rite of passage of sorts – Sadie had no idea. By the time she’d met Miles she’d had no female friends to compare notes with. The only other girl in her life had been small and prone to whispering in the dark, jewels of blood on her dress and a smell of rotting meat coming from the terrible dark crater at the back of her head. And meeting Miles had meant the shadows abandoned her – perhaps falling in love, or lust, or whatever these things were, would in fact protect Amber, once and for all; would mean that she would no longer be able to hear those whispers even if the Tall Man chose to speak to her.

  She reminded herself that Amber was different to her. Not fragile, Sadie thought, and with a better sense of self-preservation. Who was to say any man could hurt her? Perhaps this man, whoever he was, was pursuing her and she was letting him – perhaps she and Billie giggled together about the poor, feckless guy throwing gifts and his heart at her feet. That could be true, couldn’t it? Sadie would have to tell Miles, obviously, because he knew Amber best. He would kn
ow what to do. He always did.

  She rested her forehead against the cool glass of the train window and pictured him on that same journey every day. It was easy to imagine him sitting there, worrying about Amber and such simple everyday things as an inappropriate boyfriend.

  Now she had an everyday worry of her own: she was imagining him exchanging messages with this unknown someone. Special. She mouthed the word, trying out the syllables for size. Its familiar shape in her mouth sent a fresh stab of fear through her heart.

  She couldn’t help it. Every time she thought of that email – And I won’t tell – it was there. The same image each time (before she stopped the thought, patiently (resignedly) like a border official) – the baby in the basket beside her bed. The Tall Man takes daughters. But sometimes he needs help.

  No. She closed her eyes, pushed it all away. Amber is my daughter and she is safe. I can trust Miles.

  But trust was a funny thing, wasn’t it? It required forgetting, rewriting. She knew that all too well.

  And all the time, the dreams pursued her. A small, warm palm enclosed in hers. A flutter inside a slowly swelling belly. Walking into woods, the birds singing. She woke every night, sweating, purging the thoughts through every pore.

  She was sweating now.

  She opened her eyes again, watching the fields flash past. Someone a couple of seats in front of her stood up and opened a window, air rushing in. She studied the ghost of her face in the glass. It was strange, sometimes, to see it and remember that she was an adult woman. She had spent so long recently thinking of Amber, thinking of herself at Amber’s age. In her head, the gap between them had closed and it was disconcerting to realise that Amber’s image was not hers.

  The train went into a tunnel, the other windows in the carriage blown open. The glass turned black.