by Phoebe Locke
He smiles, lifts his glass to her. ‘To getting away,’ he says, and they both carry on looking at each other.
Her phone vibrates against the chipped varnish of the table. Federica.
Her voice is hoarse and traffic roars through her open car window so it’s hard for Greta to hear (the wine doesn’t help) what she’s saying at first.
And then she does hear. She does understand.
‘Sadie,’ Federica is saying. ‘Sadie’s agreed to talk to us.’
From the diary of Leanna Evans [Extract D]
I collected the girls from their party at 9 p.m. as we’d agreed. They were waiting for me on the kerb outside, just where I’d dropped them, though it was obvious the party was still going on – music thumping out, people calling from the windows as a couple kissed on the front lawn. I wondered what kind of parents would let something like that go on in their house, and I was glad that our girls were different. They were quiet in the car, Billie asking if we could listen to music while Amber studied her hands in the back seat, and I thought that they had not had a good time. I was glad I had made the effort for them back at home.
They dressed in Billie’s pyjamas when we got in and then we all sat in the lounge and discussed which film to watch. I took blankets from the cupboard – the night had turned cool despite the sun that day, and it felt nice to be inside all together. In the kitchen I served up the lasagne I had made, sliced some crusty bread to go with it. We ate in front of the film, the blankets across our laps, and afterwards, I prepared hot chocolates the way I did when Billie was small; whipped cream weeping down the sides, marshmallows heaped on top.
I enjoyed the evening very much, as I have every other when Amber has been to stay. I like the sound of their laughter filling the house, like having another person to cook for again. I don’t suppose Billie remembers what it was like before Ralph left, but for me, having a third person at the table feels good, it feels right. I get the sense that you have never really thought that; that a part of you – perhaps you don’t realise it – even now pines for the days when it was just you and Miles.
You. My mind won’t stop worrying at you; analysing the way you looked the last time we met, the way you spoke. I know that something has changed. I can’t stand not knowing. Even as the film’s credits were rolling, I was wondering about you. Wondering if you were sitting in front of your own television with your husband or if you were alone somewhere with the shadows.
I tried to remind myself of all the careful planning that had got me this far. I reminded myself that it was me who was truly special; who had found you, found Amber. I had proven myself when you have done nothing but run from what belongs to you. As I kissed our girls goodnight, I told myself that I did not need to worry. I thought of you, alone, and I knew that the time would come soon. I was not afraid as I turned out the light.
28
2016
There was a man (the tall man the tall man) outside the house. Sadie knew she was not imagining it. She’d looked and checked and considered and she knew it with a cold finality: he was there. Standing watching the house, his face in shadow.
She stood at the bedroom window, half-hidden by the curtain, and checked again. She told herself it was her imagination playing tricks, the same way it had done in Miles’s lecture theatre, her fear conjuring his voice, his touch.
Still there. She drew in her breath and wrapped her cardigan tighter around her.
The thing that scared her most was the need (the hope) that lay under her fear. She thought of the feeling of icy fingers across her arm, breath travelling over her skin. Would it be so wrong to slip back into the comfort of the shadows?
She’d first noticed him when she was on her way down the stairs, a basket of laundry under her arm. Amber’s clothes, all sweet smoke smelling, the collars stained with make-up. She had stopped because a streak on the window had caught her eye; a shimmery smear of moisturiser, the gradual tan Amber used that had dried and turned brown on the glass. She’d paused to wipe it with her sleeve (smudging it further) and through the window she’d seen the figure standing there.
It hadn’t always been like this. He was not normally so coy. She had invited him in, all those years ago, and her world had been his after that, her rooms his to walk through, her ear his to press his cool, calm words into. He had left her before, taking with him his shadows, and though he had always come back, he had never taunted her, not like this.
Of course now there was Amber.
He wasn’t waiting for her any more.
She drew back from the window, pressed her forehead against the wall. She tried as she always did not to remember what it had been like, slipping from that tiny family housing flat in the milky grey dawn, her baby left behind. Moving quickly, the small bag she’d grabbed thumping at her thigh. Breasts aching, full. And always, always, that feeling of someone behind her. That breath upon her neck.
She’d known as soon as the girl had reappeared, with her dank, metallic smell, that she could not stay. It had only been later, after hours of walking and a sweaty coach journey, that she’d thought more carefully about that moment.
The little girl had warned her. The little girl had spoken without the Tall Man being present.
That hadn’t happened before.
The girl, the taken daughter, had more power than she’d thought.
She thought of that again now, feeling her breath bounce back from the wall, her heart thudding in her chest. Could all daughters be taken? Or was there really hope?
That first night – third, if you counted the hours spent with eyes closed and face pressed to a rolled-up jacket against the coach window – she’d been in a friend’s spare bedroom up in Aberdeen. She’d trusted them, she’d known she could. They’d never met Miles and they wouldn’t tell him where she was, even if he had somehow tracked them down to ask. They had their reasons for not wanting questions. She remembered the mildewy smell of the pillow, the midnight cry of their newborn. She had felt guilty, leading the Tall Man from one infant daughter to another. But her options had been limited. She was learning that in these situations she was the mother she’d always hoped to be. The lioness.
She spent years reading articles she hadn’t had when it was her own life at stake, reading forum posts and anonymous questions on sites about the Tall Man and all of the lives he had stepped into. Message board after message board, fan art, news stories, theses. Hours spent reading conflicting theories, the different ways in which people thought the Tall Man had made them special. The posts that said only children were truly pure enough, truly had the potential to become special. There weren’t any stories of someone meeting the Tall Man for the first time as an adult. The Tall Man’s fans believed that by then it was too late – the gate had closed, or the Tall Man lost interest in letting you through. And she had been relieved; had believed that she truly had protected Amber by leaving. The shadows – though they were slow and twitching, never venturing close – moved with her wherever she went, letting her daughter live in the light, until finally they left her too.
Now she’d returned and so had he. Be careful what you wish for. She went to the window, looked out again. In the darkness, he looked back at her. And then he stepped backwards and was swallowed by the night.
When they woke in the morning, Leanna was already up as usual. Standing at the stove, pancake batter made and waiting. And Amber wasn’t hungover at all, the alcohol erased by the lasagne Leanna had fed them and sleep, so that the smell of the first pancake crisping in the pan made her mouth water. She took her usual place at the table and idly ate some of the halved and hulled strawberries Leanna had put in the centre. Her hand was swollen, split between two of the knuckles. She thought of Jenna standing there, blood flooding down her face. How she had turned and run back through the party, no one moving to follow her. Amber smoothing down her dress, slipping her arm through Billie’s.
Leanna hummed as she cooked until, spatula in hand, she turned to b
eam at them. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a wonderful idea. Sit down, Billie, come on.’
Billie was rubbing her eyes like a sleepy toddler, her hair all mussed up on one side. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I feel like going on an adventure. Shall we go to Scotland? To the cottage?’ She flipped the first pancake and turned round to look at them again. ‘You too, Amber, if you’d like to.’
‘Oh—’ Amber blinked at her, taken aback. She was surprised to find that – despite the fact it was obviously a totally lame offer – she actually wanted to say yes.
‘Yes! Yay!’ Billie definitely didn’t think it was lame. ‘Today? Oh, Ammie, you’ll love it.’
‘I was thinking tomorrow,’ Leanna said, pouring more batter. ‘I thought seeing as it’s half term next week we could spend a couple of days up there. I mean, we’d have to check with your parents, Amber.’
As if they’d care. Amber ate another strawberry, stalling for time. There were surely better things to do with her week. She just couldn’t, at that particular second, think what they might be.
‘Call them, Am!’ Billie stared expectantly at her from across the table, all sleepiness forgotten, and Leanna laughed.
‘Give her a chance, darling. She might not want to trek all the way up there with us.’
Amber found herself shrugging. ‘Yeah. Sounds great. Thanks, Leanna.’ Because yes, Scotland would probably be cold and boring but at least these two people seemed to really, genuinely want her to be there.
So she’d go. She ate another strawberry, feeling pleased with herself.
And as Leanna slid her plate of pancakes in front of her, she squeezed Amber’s shoulder, almost as if she was saying Thanks.
29
2018
Greta wakes at 4:13, the hotel coverlet scratchy on her bare skin. There is a pulsing pain behind her eyebrow and her mouth is gummy and foul. She tries to turn over, tries to pull the blanket with her. But she’s on top of the covers, in a bra and nothing else. She scrabbles into a sitting position. The lights are on. She blinks against the pain, a hand pressed against her eye. Reaching for the nightstand (hoping for water), she takes in the two plastic tumblers, the half-empty bottle of whisky.
It floods back – admittedly blurry – Tom’s lips against hers, back thudding against door and then wall and then bed, clothes fumbled off, breathless sips of whisky spilling on the shiny quilt. Panic flutters up in her because she remembers now. She remembers asking for ice, throat whisky-burned, and him obediently trotting off, T-shirt and jeans pulled back on. How long ago was that? She finds her phone – twenty-two missed calls, all from him – and knows it was hours ago, that he has given up knocking and gone back to his room. Heat rises to her cheeks and she scrambles for the tangled underwear on the floor, for her T-shirt. She goes to the bathroom and rinses out one of the tumblers, fills it with water and drinks it down. She has to grip the sink to stop herself throwing it back up, and when she is sure she’s managed it, she fills it again, her hand shaking, and goes back to the bedroom. She climbs under the sheets and tries (failing) to shut out the jagged snatches of memory, his hands on her, her moan damp against his chest, her teeth sinking into skin.
She manages to drift into a half-sleep, those broken images spliced into a stuttering reel of dream, and so the knocking at the door, at first, doesn’t seem real. She dreams she answers it; dreams it’s Tom; dreams he kisses her and presses her back into the room. But the knocking persists and she jerks awake, realising.
Tom? She sits up, a plunging feeling in her stomach. She slides out of bed, pulling her T-shirt further down over her thighs. Her breath feels thick and rotten in her mouth, her hands still shaking, and each movement makes the pain in her head beat harder. The knocking goes on and on.
It’s not Tom. It’s Amber, hair half falling out of a ratty ponytail that’s sliding to one side of her head. Make-up smudges under her eyes, a ketchup blob on her vest top.
‘This can’t happen, Greta,’ she hisses, pushing her way into the room, and Greta, confused, follows her, hot with shame, conscious of her sweaty stink.
‘Amber, I—’
Amber whirls round, stabs a finger at her. ‘I said no. You know I did. I said not her. Not my mother.’
Understanding, Greta fumbles for the robe hanging in the wardrobe. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘I said that from the beginning. I did! I said I’d only do it if she wasn’t involved.’
Greta nods. ‘I know. I know. I tried to tell Federica—’
‘Did she think I wouldn’t find out? Did she think I wouldn’t hear about it?’ She glances at Greta, who has no answer for her. ‘She wasn’t supposed to talk to her!’
Greta moves cautiously closer and touches Amber gently on the shoulder, sitting them both on the bed. ‘Amber, Federica’s under a lot of pressure from the network. She has to make sure we have enough material, and also that we present as many sides of the story as possible. I know that’s not what you wanted.’
‘I won’t do it,’ Amber says sullenly. ‘If she wants her, she loses me. I’ll leave in the morning. I’ll go and stay with friends, somewhere she can’t find me.’
I’ll go with you, Greta thinks, but instead she says ‘You signed a contract. They paid you. If you leave now, you’ll have to give it back. Can you do that?’
Amber lets out a growl of frustration, kicking the heels of her bare feet against the bed’s base with a hollow thud. ‘Of course not.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It’s true. It always is.
Amber’s eyes have narrowed, her teeth working over her lower lip. ‘Fine,’ she says, looking up at Greta. ‘Fine. I’ll do what she wants. If she leaves my mother out of this, I’ll do it. I’ll go back there.’
‘But you said—’
‘I don’t care. I don’t care any more. Call her right now, Greta, and tell her we can go to Scotland. She can film me in that fucking house and I’ll tell her everything.’
30
2016
The calls started on Saturday morning; early, while Sadie was sleeping. Miles didn’t pick up the first, or the second – sat watching his phone vibrating on the kitchen table, its screen flashing on and off. A silent alarm.
It was an unknown number – it could have been some recorded PPI message, or a cold caller – but he knew. He knew it was the person who had sent the emails. The person who called themselves SomeoneSpecial.
So he turned the phone off. And that worked, for a while. He washed up the previous evening’s dishes; scrubbed at the baked-on burn on the casserole dish. Sadie got up and when he heard her footsteps above him, he put the coffee on. Keep things ticking on, that had always been his way. It had been the only way. Act normal; make normal a wall.
But walls could be scaled.
Sadie came downstairs, drawn and pale, and he handed her a mug of coffee. The smile felt lopsided on his face. He was glad to let go of it when she turned away to sit down. ‘I’m so tired,’ she said, more to herself than to him, and he looked at her hunched frame at the table and he knew. He had let this go on – he had let her go for goodness’ sake – when he could have taken the burden from her, could have explained. And there would be no running now. The time for running had passed long ago. Their ghosts could not be silenced.
And so he made his wife breakfast. He mowed the lawn, tidied his shed, weeded the flowerbeds. His hands felt shaky and unreliable as he washed off the soil in the kitchen sink, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at his reflection in the window. When Sadie came up behind him, a cautious hand placed on his back, he couldn’t stop himself from flinching.
With nothing left to tidy or fix, he found himself in his office, his back pressed to the door. He breathed in the soft, woody smell of the room and tried to draw strength from it. When he couldn’t resist any longer, he turned his phone back on. It was blissfully silent for a minute, and then it vibrated once, twice in his hand. A text from Amber, asking him to pick her up from Billie’s. An
d a voicemail message.
He thought about deleting it, but what would be the point? They’d only leave another.
He pressed the icon, put the phone to his ear. His pulse thudded like a drum as he waited for it to connect. ‘You have one new message,’ the automated voice said, and he swiped away more sweat from the back of his neck.
‘Miles, it’s me.’ Her voice was smooth and cool, melodic, like a stream over rocks. It wrong-footed him with its gentleness. He wasn’t expecting her to sound gentle. ‘I’d really like for us to talk. I—’ She lowered her voice; there was the sound of a door closing, a girl talking or a television in the background. ‘I know everything.’ His stomach lurched, the sandwich he’d half-eaten threatening to reappear. He almost missed the last part, which was low, a whisper. ‘I want to give you a chance to explain.’
He deleted it with shaking fingers, tried to draft a reply to Amber. But her voice echoed in his ear. I want to give you a chance to explain. As if it could be that simple.
He sank into his chair and looked hopelessly at the computer. If only that first email had never arrived. If only he could go back to those weeks when Sadie was home and work was going well and nothing, nothing (for once) was threatening to breach the wall.
A knock at the door behind him kicked his heart into an even higher gear. He pushed his hands through his hair, trying to straighten out the expression on his face, smooth it away. Sadie turned the handle; rattling it when it refused to open. ‘Miles? What are you doing in there?’
He took a deep breath and opened the door. ‘Sorry. It sticks. I’ve been meaning to take the handle off and have a look.’
She looked at him and he thought again about grabbing her, grabbing a bag and stuffing in a few clothes, driving away. Just driving on and on. As far away as they could go.
It was hopeless of course, because there was Amber.