by Alison Keane
I shake my head. I don’t have the brainpower to deal with where this conversation is going. Plus there’s the fact that if this call goes on for much longer, it’ll affect my stats for the day and I’ve been working my arse off to get them up after that telling-off from Jason earlier. “Look, that’s all I can do. I don’t know what happened before.”
“There’s no need to take that tone,” she chides, before hanging up on me.
I stare at my screen with a growing sense of terror. I should be glad to finally have her off the phone, but I’m not. She’s the type who’ll call back to complain and I can’t afford to have that happen.
I bury my face in my hands. This is all too much. I feel like I’m on a knife-edge. It’s not just the angry caller—my phone hasn’t vibrated again since I cancelled the call from Nathan. Why do I even care so much? I hardly know him.
When I look around, Jason is standing at the door watching me with a frown on his face. I look away, heart pounding.
I’m a nervous wreck. I haven’t been to the toilet in hours and my bladder is full to bursting. I haven’t wanted to run the risk of walking past Jason. Why the hell did I admit that I couldn’t remember where I saw him last night? I should have tried to bluff him: anything would be better than admitting to my boss that I got blackout drunk last night.
I take another call and try to immerse myself in helping the caller, but it’s impossible. When I’m not fretting about losing my job, I’m worrying that Nathan has given up on me. The thoughts are swirling around in my head and I don’t know how to free myself.
By the time eight finally ticks around, I’ve calmed down a little about work. Jason works nine to half five, so I’ve been able to relax a bit without him breathing down my neck. I’ve had a few good calls that I was able to resolve quickly and even been praised by a couple of the callers. It’s not all doom and gloom: I’m good at my job and I’ll get my numbers back up soon.
I’m not completely relaxed, though, because I haven’t heard from Nathan. I’ve messaged him a couple of times but heard nothing back.
I log off and remove my headset, reaching up and stretching to ease the stiffness in my neck from sitting in the same position all day. The hangover has eased, but my stomach feels horribly empty like I’ll never be full again. I need to get something to eat—fast.
I try to call Nathan but it goes straight to voicemail. It’s not even his voice I hear, but an automated voice from the phone company telling me to leave a message.
I hang up and hurry out of the building. It’s dark now and deserted. There’s supposed to be a security guard at the desk downstairs, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I linger in the lobby for a few moments, looking out at the dark deserted streets beyond and a weird feeling comes over me.
There’s a man across the road, just standing there. I take a few steps back towards the lifts to make it harder for him to see me.
Is it my eyes playing tricks as they adjust to the darkness?
I blink a few times. No, he’s still out there. What’s he doing? There’s no bus stop over there; no businesses on that stretch of the street.
I look around. There’s only one way out of this building and that’s through the front doors directly opposite him. I swallow back my fear and dash out, telling myself it’s probably just exhaustion and there’s a perfectly good explanation for this.
14
Ellie
I’ve just about managed to calm myself by the time I get off the bus down the road from my flat. If there’s one thing I like about working late it’s that the buses are empty by eight and I don’t have to squish in next to somebody.
I jump off and hesitate when I see the lights from the corner shop up ahead. Should I get a bottle of wine?
No, I tell myself. No, that’s the remnants of the hangover talking. I can tell because the thought of a cold soft drink can is enough to make my mouth water.
Then I remember there’s no food in the house so I have to go there anyway.
The guy behind the counter mutters hello and immediately turns his attention away. I can’t see whether he’s got a phone or a TV back there. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been in here at least once every week for the last several years, but we still don’t make small talk—let alone have actual conversations. I don’t know if that’s just me or if he’s like that with everyone else too. I try to remember if Mikey ever chatted to the staff here when we were together and we’d pop down to get a carton of milk.
I wince. Sometimes it’s still too raw, especially when I remember the normal times when it seemed like we were just one more happy couple in a whole sea of other couples like us. I loved him so much. No, I wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t deserve to be treated the way he treated me: he’s turned me into a pariah in my own town. I look up and see the owner staring at me. I hurry to the back and stare at the uninspiring selection in the freezer cabinet. It’s either this or canned food. I choose a frozen lasagne. Judging by the battered corners of the box it’s been there a while, but it’s still in date. It’ll have to do.
I pay and walk out, surprised by how cold it’s gotten in the few minutes since I entered the shop. I pull the collar of my coat tighter around my neck and walk as quickly as I can. My flat isn’t far away: just ten houses down. Traffic is so light now it may as well be the middle of the night.
My hand feels like it’s going to stick to the frozen box so I shove the box under my arm. I don’t need to worry about it defrosting because it’s going straight into the microwave as soon as I’ve…
I reach the front door and stumble backwards. The lasagne falls to the ground.
The door.
I stare at it, desperately trying to remember leaving the house this morning.
Did I leave it open?
I’m always so paranoid about leaving it open. Sometimes I run back to check it. But I can’t remember doing that this morning…
I take a step closer, holding out my hand to push it open, as though I need physical proof of what I’m seeing with my own eyes. The door is definitely ajar. I can see two or three inches of the hideous wallpaper that lines the hallway.
I blink. My palms are clammy despite the cold night and I tell myself to keep it together. This would be the worst possible time to panic when there’s nobody around to help me.
I look around behind me. There’s nobody there that I can see but what if somebody’s lurking out here?
I turn back to the door and take a deep breath. There’s nobody out there. I was hungover this morning and in a hurry to meet Steph, that’s all. I was distracted and forgot to check I’d pulled the door behind me.
Still, it takes a while to work up the courage to walk inside.
I lose my nerve and rush outside again. I think about calling Dad, but I can’t bring myself to do that after how we left things on Sunday. I try Nathan, but the call rings out. Biting my lip, I call the only other person I can call. Luckily she answers immediately.
“Ellie. Is everything okay? I’m still at work.”
“No,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “I just came home and the door was open.”
“Oh no,” she gasps. “Have you called the police?”
“No. Look, I’m pretty sure it’s nothing. I was distracted this morning and I forgot to close it after me.” I hesitate. “Can you come over and come inside with me? I know it’s silly, but—”
“Of course, Ellie, no problem. I’ll be there in five. Is there a neighbour you can sit with before I can get there?”
“Thanks, Steph.” I look around. I could go knock on one of the doors across the street, but I don’t want to pester people. They could be putting their kids to bed or having an early night themselves. I’m just being paranoid. Nobody else needs to know about this.
I linger on the footpath as I wait for Steph, praying she’ll be as punctual as usual. It’s cold out here but I don’t want to go in there alone. I try not to think about who’s out here. I’m safer out here until we can check
the flat and make sure there’s nobody inside.
After a few minutes, a car pulls up on the other side of the road. It’s too dark to see who’s inside. I watch, holding my breath. Please let it be Steph.
I’m almost giddy with relief when I see that it’s her.
“Thanks for coming. I appreciate it. I’m probably just being a big baby,” I say. A bolt of fear hits me then. What if I’m not? What if someone has broken in?
“Come on,” she takes my arm. “Let’s go check it out.”
The house is quiet. I hold my breath as we flick on the light in the hallway, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary there. We’ll only know for sure when we get into the flat itself because there’s nothing in here—it’s just a long hallway that runs past the boarded-up shop at the front to my flat at the back. The shop has been empty for as long as I’ve lived here. It’s all boarded up with no access from my place. I always liked the peace of not being surrounded by neighbours, but now I wonder if it might feel safer to have neighbours close at hand because the houses on either side are empty too.
I tiptoe towards the door that leads to the kitchen and living room. This hallway has never seemed so long. I hold my breath as I reach for the door handle. I twist it and shove the door with as much force as I can.
Dread fills me in the few seconds it takes to look around.
“Shit,” Steph hisses. “Stop. We should get out and call the police. This is crazy.”
“No. We can’t.”
“What do you mean, we can’t? That’s what they’re there for.”
Oh God, I shouldn’t have called her. She’s not going to let this go.
I run on ahead, quickly checking the bathroom—it’s a mess, but it’s my mess. Nothing looks out of place in the living room, so I’m starting to relax by the time I walk into my bedroom.
I scream.
The boxes of paperwork and memories that I keep on the top shelf of my wardrobe are lying on the floor. Someone’s been in here and tipped them out. There are bits of paper all over the floor.
“What? What is it?” Steph hurries over to me.
I quickly shut the door so she can’t see. My heart is pounding. What were they looking for?
“Ellie, what happened? What’s in there?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “Nothing. It’s just… I feel like such a fool, Steph. I’m so frustrated at myself.”
I do feel like a fool—for calling her. Someone’s just broken into my house and calling Steph was a mistake because she’ll insist on getting the police involved. And even if I can convince her not to, she’s going to wonder why I’m being so cagey.
As much as I want to tell her everything and lean on her for support, I can’t. I can’t risk losing her as a friend.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “What an idiot. It’s because I’m hungover.”
“It’s alright, Ellie.” She pulls me into a hug.
I get no comfort from it. My mind is racing, wondering what anyone could have wanted in those boxes. It’s just paperwork, mostly, and a few souvenirs.
Was Mikey behind this?
I need to get Steph out of here so I can take stock and try to figure out what’s missing.
“I feel like such a moron,” I wail, before making a big show of yawning.
Steph picks up on it straight away. “Oh you poor thing, you’re exhausted.”
I sigh, feeling like such a bad person for lying to her. What’s the alternative? Tell her everything? There’s no way I’m doing that.
She pulls away from me and puts her hands on my shoulders, staring into my eyes. “Look, are you sure this was just a mistake? You’re certain there’s nothing out of place?”
I make myself nod and hope she can’t see the fear in my eyes. “I’m sure. I was rushing this morning.”
She seems satisfied with that. I walk her to the door, discreetly scanning for signs of other damage as we pass. The good thing about it being such a small flat is there are very few hiding spaces and we’ve already checked them all.
The bad news is that’s not going to help me sleep—not when I know somebody was in my flat earlier today, poking through my things.
I wave Steph off and once her back is turned I check the lock. There’s no sign that it’s been forced. I test my key in it and it works just as smoothly as before.
What does that mean, exactly? Was the person who broke in here an accomplished burglar or did they have a key?
I bury my face in my hands. Neither option puts me at ease.
But I still haven’t been able to answer the more important question: what were they looking for?
Perhaps they thought I had jewellery hidden in those boxes? I don’t know. This doesn’t make sense to me. Anyone with half a brain could tell from the clothes in my wardrobe that I’m not the sort of person who has valuable jewellery hidden away.
An hour later I’m still none the wiser. I’ve been slowly working through the piles, forcing myself to confront once-happy memories that are now so painful to look back on. I’ve got to if I have any hope of finding out what they were looking for or what they took.
I take another sip of wine and I’m filled with self-loathing for having run to the corner shop to buy two bottles to help me through this.
I needed the crutch.
I can’t describe what it’s like to look through smiling pictures of my former best friend and know that she turned her back on me when I needed her most. I can’t help but feel bitter every time I find a ticket stub to a concert we all went to together. Those pictures of me and Mikey and Katie where it looks like we were having the time of our lives—and we were. How will I ever be able to look at them again without feeling bitter about what happened next? Katie used to be my best friend and now she acts as though I’m invisible when I pass her on the street. How can I keep those pictures? It’s not like I’ll ever want to flick through them again now that they cause more pain than happiness.
I reach into a pile and pull out another photo. This one is older, faded.
Mum, I think, looking at it with a rush of relief. The one person in my life who didn’t deliberately let me down. I clutch the shiny paper to my chest and feel a stab of guilt. Dad said a lot of hurtful things the other day, but he was right about one thing: I’ve never shown much interest in finding out about her.
It doesn’t seem fair. He can remember her but he chooses not to. I don’t remember her at all, but then I haven’t even tried. And there are other things I can do. I can find out more about her; I can make sure the memory of her lives on.
I stare at the picture and trace the outline of her face with my fingertips. I feel a sudden surge of love for the girl who can’t be more than seventeen in the picture. Who was she, really? What did she like? What drove her crazy? She looks so carefree. She’s leaning against a car in front of an old stone wall with a forest in the background. There’s no indication of where it is—no signs in the photo or writing on the back.
I dig into the pile with a renewed sense of purpose. I have other photos of her, two of them I think. Perhaps there’s somebody in the background, a friend or distant relative I can trace.
It doesn’t take me long to find them, but my hopes are dashed. In one of the others, she’s all dressed up standing beside Dad, who’s in a suit. Perhaps it’s a wedding, but there’s nobody else in the picture and no date on the back. The other one is a close up of her laughing—I can’t even see what she’s wearing in it, let alone where the photo was taken.
I look through the three pictures again before putting them in their own separate pile on my bed. For the first time I wonder why there are no pictures of the two of us together. Didn’t either of them want a photo of us as a family?
I squeeze my eyes closed and concentrate on my breathing. In in in hold out out out hold. This is no time to start feeling sorry for myself.
I refill my glass and get back to sorting through the mess of papers on the floor. I move quicker this time, forcing m
yself to stay detached from what I’m seeing. I have to stop when I find some old valentines cards from Mikey as well as a birthday card from Katie, the whole inside of which is crammed with impossibly tiny writing.
I don’t read any of them. What would be the point? I throw them on top of the burn pile and move on.
It takes at least another hour to go through everything. When I’m finished, I’m left with three piles: paperwork, painful memories I have no intention of keeping, and the photos of my mum.
As far as I can tell, there’s nothing missing and I still have no idea why he’d do this. The only thing that’s changed lately has been me seeing Nathan. Is that it? Is that the reason Mikey’s come back to mess with me?
15
Ellie
Wednesday
I step into the shower feeling groggy and lethargic. My head aches behind my eyes, which are almost swollen shut. I barely slept last night, despite the wine. Even the slightest noises had me leaping out of bed. I even fetched a knife from the kitchen and put it under my pillow—not that it made me feel any safer.
Steph’s words have been rolling around in my mind ever since she left last night. Should I have called the police?
I don’t have to think about that for very long. The answer is no—they wouldn’t help me before and the situation was definitely worse then. They’re not going to help me now. I have no proof that it was Mikey.
I lean against the plastic shower wall and try to think clearly. Who else could it be? It has to be him.
I turn off the water and reach out to grab my towel from the hook. My thigh skims the shower curtain and its horrid mouldy dampness clings to my leg like a second skin. I kick it away. Nausea rises in my throat and I breathe shallowly to try and quell it.
I check my phone and there’s still nothing from Nathan. Maybe it wasn’t Steph I needed to worry about—what if Nathan has heard about me and chosen to believe the lies? I can picture it now: all he had to do was ask a mate or colleague if they knew Ellie Cartwright.