Keep Your Friends Close

by Janelle Harris

  ‘I’m scared,’ I whisper, desperately fearing that I’m whispering into the wind.

  I think about Rose. Poor, poor Rose. I wonder about where she could be or what could have possibly happened to her between the corner shop and her home. Most of all, I wonder when her husband started to panic. Was it after a couple of hours, after a whole night, the next morning? When? When did he realise something was very, very wrong? When was the moment of realisation that Rose was gone?

  The digital clock in the corner of the television says it’s almost midday. I’m not watching telly. It’s just on. It’s almost always on. Gillian seems to like it that way. As if the low mumbles of chat shows drown out the noise of her walking around my house. As if I’ll get so lost in a cookery programme I’ll forget she’s ever present in my home. I never forget. And I never don’t hear her. Even now, as the afternoon approaches and Gillian should have left for work long ago, I hear her talking and fidgeting.

  My phone vibrates on the bed next to me and a number I don’t recognise flashes up on-screen. I don’t usually answer unknown numbers, it’s often someone begging for sponsorship for a race or walk or something similar in the name of their chosen charity. As much as I’d like to, Darcy’s Dishes simply can’t support them all. And people’s reactions range from heartbroken to furious when I explain. But I have no hesitation answering today, as I cling to the possibility it could be Luke. Maybe he really has lost his phone. Maybe this is his new number. Maybe everything is okay. Maybe. Please God, maybe.

  ‘Hello. Hello,’ I gasp, pressing my phone to my ear.

  ‘Is that Darcy Hogan?’

  My heart sinks and slowly I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Good. It’s Hugh here, you called about a problem with some rats.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ he asks.

  ‘Erm . . .’ I swallow, struggling to get my thoughts straight. ‘I’m not sure there is a problem, after all. I thought I saw something. Heard something, actually. But, eh, I’m not so sure any more. It’s an old house and . . .’ I trail off.

  ‘And it sounds like a problem to me,’ he says. ‘Rats don’t stay still for long. If you saw one, I’m sure there’s a few you didn’t see. Old houses are the worst for it. Lots of cracks and such. The little buggers can get into the slightest of gaps. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Will I come round later and take a look?’

  My head hurts and the sound from the television is blurring with the sound of his voice.

  ‘No rat. No fee,’ he adds. ‘You’re there on Cherryway Road, you said?’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘I remember because that’s where that cop went missing, isn’t it?’

  I swallow. Oh, Rose.

  ‘Ah, feck. Sorry,’ he says. ‘You probably knew her. I can be an awful insensitive eejit sometimes, I can. Me wife says me gob is the biggest part of me.’

  I don’t have words for a moment.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You didn’t know.’

  ‘Right, I’ll be round later to sort this out for ya. I’ve a job on the north side first. I’m on me way there now. No telling what time I’ll finish, but I won’t leave ya stuck. I’ll sort these buggers out for ya. And I’ll keep me rate low, love. Least I can do after opening me big mouth. I’m about to drive through a tunnel here, so I’ll see ya later.’

  I don’t have time to reply before the line dies. I listen for the sound of creatures scurrying through the wall or under the floor. I try so hard to pinpoint the strange sounds of recent days. But the house is blissfully silent. There’s no eerie scratching, no muffled tone that seems to resonate in the walls. And, most important, there is no hint of Gillian in the house. Maybe she has finally gone to work. If I grab a shower and get dressed I might make it to and from the bank before she gets back. I can’t remember the account number off by heart but I’m sure they’re in my emails somewhere. I try searching but I can’t connect to the internet. My phone has no service. I can only imagine I’ve been cut off because the bill hasn’t been paid. It could also explain why I can’t reach Luke. It’s the weirdest thing to be almost relieved that an unpaid bill could explain so much.

  I bend over the usual floorboard. It gets a little easier to lift each time. I shine the torch on my phone into the hole. The paper is gone. My heart races as I fetch Luke’s tools and try to loosen the next floorboard. It’s harder than it looks and I’m working up a sweat, but I finally pop it. Still no paper. I pop the next one. And another. But there’s nothing here except some thick underlay and a cobweb.

  I look at the mess I’ve made. The hole is four boards wide and I’ve taken a chunk out of the side of one of the boards and scratched a couple of others. And for what? To find a spider that’s been dead for goodness knows how long. I put the boards back in place as best I can, but they bounce and creak when you step on them and the damaged one stands out like a bloody beacon. There are only two people in this house. If I haven’t touched the bills then Gillian has. But I can’t figure out why.

  The doorbell rings. Quickly, I drag the heavy shag rug that resides at the end of the bed to the side and cover everything up. The exterminator must have decided to call on me before his other job. Dammit.

  I pull on a hoodie and a pair of Luke’s tracksuit pants over my pyjamas. I can’t find my flip-flops and my feet are too swollen to shove into anything else.

  The doorbell rings again.

  ‘I’m coming!’ I shout.

  Another ring. Jesus.

  I finally find my flip-flops behind the door, shuffle in and waddle downstairs, clinging tightly to the banister.

  The doorbell rings twice more before I reach it.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, pulling back the door that feels insanely heavy today. I gasp when I see who’s on the other side.

  ‘Darcy,’ Polly says, standing in front of me. She has a neat, noticeable bump now. Her stomach was washboard flat the last time I saw her. Her beautiful, long shiny hair is scraped off her face in a much-too-tight bun and the bags under her eye are fierce.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she asks.

  ‘Gosh. Yes. Of course,’ I say. ‘Sorry. Sorry. Come in. Come in.’

  ‘I don’t mean to drop by unannounced like this. I know it’s been months. It’s just . . .’

  I nod, and Polly nods, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. Rose.

  I close the door behind us and give Polly a moment to catch her breath. I guide us towards the kitchen. My mind is on fire as I shuffle slowly forward. Polly doesn’t seem to mind how slowly we move, as she keeps her head low and her shoulders round.

  In the kitchen I offer to make us tea and she nods and takes a seat.

  ‘Have you seen the news?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, pouring some water in the kettle. ‘Have you heard anything? Any updates? Her poor husband.’

  I flick the kettle on and sit at the table opposite Polly.

  ‘I just can’t believe it.’ Polly sighs, dropping her head into her hands, and I realise Polly and Rose have become very close while I’ve been missing from Pilates class.

  ‘She’s overdue, you know, by a few days now,’ Polly says.

  I didn’t know. Rose and I are due around the same time, but I didn’t know she was there already. Instinctively, I hold my large bump. Even beneath clothes I can feel my skin taut and stretched, and I realise how soon this will all be over.

  Polly’s hands touch her face, and I watch with a breaking heart as her fingers tremble. She says, ‘Rose didn’t turn up for her last hospital appointment. Her phone is turned off. Her phone is never off. Her family are sick with worry.’

  Luke’s phone is turned off too, I think, my heart racing. I wonder if I should tell someone. But not Polly. I can’t burden her with my worries now.

  The kettle bubbles loudly behind us and the noise almost feels inappropriate somehow.

  ‘Where do you think she is?’ I ask, and I know as s
oon as the redundant words tumble past my lips that I’ve upset Polly even more.

  She shrugs.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, standing up to make tea I know neither of us wants to drink as the kettle flicks off.

  ‘Look,’ Polly says, the leg of her chair squeaking when she turns to watch me. ‘As I said, I know this is a bit weird, me turning up out of the blue after months. We don’t even know each other that well, but . . .’

  She pauses and she’s obviously waiting for me to say something. But I’m lost for words. I pop a teabag into each cup and add some water, glad to have a distraction.

  ‘Sugar?’ I ask, the weight of awkward silence crushing me.

  Polly nods.

  ‘Milk too?’

  ‘I need a favour,’ Polly says.

  Listening, I fetch some milk, assuming she’ll want some. I don’t. Polly watches me with heavy eyes as I move the cups to the table and place down the milk and sugar too.

  ‘You need a favour?’ I say, sitting.

  Polly curls her hand around one of the cups and drags it close to her as she puffs out heavily. ‘You know Lindsay St Claire, don’t you?’

  ‘Well not—’

  ‘It’s just, everyone watches her show,’ Polly cuts across me. ‘And if we could get Rose’s family on the air, to raise awareness . . .’

  ‘Yeah. Erm . . .’ I spoon some sugar into my cup, noticing how my hands are shaking. I spill a little on the table, but Polly doesn’t seem to notice, or care. ‘I think it’s a great idea to raise awareness,’ I say. ‘I’m just not sure how much help I could be.’

  ‘Could you ask, at least?’ Polly’s eyes are glistening and I can hear her choking back tears. ‘They’d only need a quick slot. Even ten minutes would do.’

  The desperation in Polly’s voice is heartbreaking. And I want to help, I’m just not sure I have the influence Polly so desperately hopes I have.

  I try to be optimistic as I stir my tea and say, ‘Rose’s name is in all the papers. And I’ve seen her picture on social media. Facebook mostly. But Instagram too. People know she’s missing. Hopefully someone will come forward with a sighting soon. I can only imagine how hard this must be for her husband. And her kids. She has quite a few little ones, doesn’t she?’

  Polly nods. ‘The youngest is only two. He doesn’t understand and just wants his mammy.’

  Tears cloud my eyes.

  ‘It all helps.’ Polly sips some tea that must still be too hot, but she doesn’t flinch. ‘If people don’t see Rose’s face online, they’ll see her on the telly. If they don’t read about her in the paper they’ll hear about it on the radio. I mean, I don’t know how effective it really is. But it’s helping her husband and kids to know people are doing all they can.’

  I nod. I can imagine. If it was me and Luke . . . I freeze as a shiver runs down my spine. I can’t bear to think about it.

  I place my hand over Polly’s and I say, ‘I’m not really that friendly with Lindsay, but—’

  ‘But you will ask . . .’ Polly cuts me off, guessing. Hoping.

  ‘Of course. If it helps. I’ll try my best to get Rose’s family on the show.’

  ‘It will. It really will.’ Polly sips more tea. ‘This is nice. Thanks.’

  I’m sipping tea too, when we’re both startled by banging that seems to be coming from somewhere within the house.

  ‘What was that?’ Polly asks, sloshing some tea over the edge of her cup. It trickles towards the loose grains of sugar I spilt earlier, creating a sticky mess.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, and I can tell from Polly’s face that she thinks the noise is as unusual and weird as I do.

  The noise stops as suddenly as it began. And Polly stands up, straightens her clothes over her growing bump, and says, ‘Thank you so much, Darcy. We’ll find Rose, won’t we?’

  I’m nodding when I remember I have no phone service. I’m about to ask Polly if I can borrow hers when the kitchen door swings open roughly and Gillian appears in the gap.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, her eyes wide as she ducks back out.

  Pretending this whole situation is not peculiar, for my own sake as much as Polly’s, I say, ‘S’okay. Come on in. Polly is a friend from Pilates.’

  I wait for Gillian to open the door wider and enter. But after a couple of silent seconds I realise she’s not coming back.

  Polly squints and scrunches her nose, staring at the door, as if she can see through to the other side. ‘I didn’t realise you two were friends.’

  ‘Sort of. She’s looking after me while my husband is away with work,’ I say. I can’t understand why Gillian ducked out so quickly. It was almost as if she got a fright seeing Polly. Surely she can’t be that shocked that someone has called around to visit me in my own house?

  The banging and scratching starts again. It’s quieter this time, you have to really concentrate to hear it. But I can’t concentrate on anything other than where Gillian has gone. No doubt the creepy noise is coming from her. It’s only here when she’s here. What the hell is she doing to my house?

  ‘That was the new girl from Pilates, right?’ Polly says, pointing towards the kitchen door.

  I’m so confused. My mind races. The noise. Gillian. Polly. Rose. Pilates. Lindsay. And Luke. Oh, Luke.

  ‘She’s new, so . . .’ Polly tilts her head towards the sounds from deep within the house, distracted for a moment by how dramatic and freakish it is. So am I. ‘She started after you left,’ Polly continues. ‘I didn’t realise you two knew each other.’

  The house is suddenly silent again, apart from the sound of our breathing in the kitchen. I shake my head and say, ‘She’s a new neighbour.’

  ‘Oh right, okay.’ Polly shrugs, but I get the impression she thinks I’m lying. Why on earth would I lie about something like that?

  Polly and I finish our tea and we try to chat and act normal, but her mind is on Rose and mine is on every damn thing. We seem to naturally drift towards the door when we’ve run out of tea and conversation. We hug and Polly wipes tears from her eyes before she mouths, ‘Thank you’, and slowly walks away. I close the front door and take some much-needed deep breaths. It’s less than a couple of minutes before I remember I still have no way of making a call. I’m about to race after Polly when I feel the weight of Gillian’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry about earlier,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realise you had company.’

  I don’t say anything.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about the investment and some serious financial concerns.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘We’ll discuss it now?’

  I nod. It’s probably too late to catch Polly anyway, and I can borrow Gillian’s phone to call Lindsay. Gillian has already helped herself to our private bills, she knows we’re broke. And when I’m finished on the phone, I can tell the nosey bitch to get the hell out of my house. Enough is enough.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  DARCY

  Friday 19 July 2019

  I tolerate Gillian’s bullshit for at least half an hour as we sit side by side at the kitchen table. She presented reams and reams of paper. Legal documents that I’m almost certain she printed off the internet.

  ‘Shouldn’t our solicitors be dealing with this?’ I ask.

  ‘Bloody solicitors.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Expensive idiots in suits. We can handle this ourselves. We’re all friends after all.’

  ‘I really think we need to sign stuff like this in the presence of our respective solicitors. And Luke needs to be here.’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ she says, flicking to the next page.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I lie. ‘As you say. We’re old friends.’

  Gillian never once mentions the bills she stole from under our floor and neither do I. And as I sit and listen to her lies and rambling, I realise Gillian Buckley hasn’t the faintest idea about running a business.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, standing up.

  Gillian glares at me as if I�
��m interrupting an important meeting. Her reaction would be laughable if it wasn’t for her warped belief that this impromptu kitchen-table nonsense is actually of significance.

  ‘Bathroom,’ I say, pointing to my bump.

  Gillian grimaces but she nods. ‘I’ll be reading over this while you’re gone.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, keeping my tone as interested as I can fake.

  I hurry upstairs and search for my handbag. It’s at times like this I wish I could drive. It’s a long walk to the factory but I have to reach Mildred before she finishes work for the day.

  As always, the television is on in my bedroom. The sound is off and I’m surprised to find Lindsay St Claire on the screen at this time of day. I instantly feel a pang of guilt that I’ve promised Polly I’d call Lindsay with a phone that can’t make calls. Thankfully I can borrow Mildred’s when I make it to the factory.

  It takes me a moment to realise that Lindsay is the interviewee and not the host. She’s sitting centre screen, radiant and dressed to perfection as always, but her face is serious and stern and she’s not her usual bubbly self.

  Lindsay and the host are talking about Rose and sharing her photo again. My heart soars, assuming Polly found her own way to get in touch. I find my bag resting beside my dressing table. I sling it over my shoulder and I’m ready to make a dash for the front door when I’m startled by a photo flashing up on-screen.

  ‘A MISSING WOMAN’, it says, in giant bold letters that jump out at me from the bottom of the screen. But this isn’t Rose. She’s years younger. A teenager, in her school uniform. And I remember her. Or the uniform, at least.

  I turn up the sound. I recognise her cherry lips, which curl at one edge into a slightly crooked smile. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair has a natural curl and her eyes glisten turquoise like the Caribbean Sea on a sunny day. This is the photo that was splashed all over the newspapers when Gillian ran away. It was taken from our yearbook and it’s shocking to see how much she’s changed. The Gillian on-screen takes my breath away, with her ivory skin like a porcelain doll’s and freckles that sprinkle the bridge of her nose and spill on to her cheeks. Gillian’s skin has darkened with age and she doesn’t have freckles any more and I think what a pity it was she had them removed. She really was beautiful. Much more so than now.