by Nikki Smith
‘What happened? Did you faint?’ Her hand grips my shoulder.
I shake my head, searching the empty tables. ‘Did you see—?’
She ignores me. ‘Let me help you.’ She holds out her hand and I take it, pushing myself up as I glance around the room. The chair he was sitting on is pushed neatly under the table in the same way as all the others. There’s no sign of Jack.
Mrs Painter continues to gather the books off the floor and stack them in a pile. She speaks slowly and loudly as if she’s talking to a child.
‘Let’s lay these on the table. You can put them away one at a time. You need to be more careful. I’ve learned from experience that a nasty fall can take you out for weeks. I went over on my ankle getting off the plane in Madeira last year and it took a good couple of months before I was back on my feet.’ She hesitates as she puts down the last of the books. ‘Sit here for a minute. Catch your breath.’ She pulls out a chair and I lower myself into it, steadying my breathing and rubbing my wrist which throbs heavily. I bet it’ll bruise later. ‘Better?’ she asks. ‘I’ll get you some water.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘I’m fine.’ I don’t want her to leave me. Not yet.
‘OK. If you’re sure.’ She pats my shoulder and notices what I’m doing. ‘Do you think you’ve done yourself some damage? I bet you came down hard on it when you fell. We can get it looked at if you think …’
‘I’m fine.’ I won’t let myself cry in front of her, but she doesn’t look convinced.
‘Well, take it easy. Let me know if you need any help putting those away.’ She points at the large pile. ‘I’ve got some paperwork to do, but I’ll be at my desk. Are you sure you’re all right?’
I nod, blinking back tears.
She walks off down the row of bookshelves and I stare after her. She’s annoyed; I can see by the way she stops and impatiently shoves a couple of paperbacks that someone has discarded horizontally on top of others back into the already tightly packed shelf. She hates any kind of a scene at work. I don’t want to give her another reason to check up on what I’m doing. After the photocopying incident, I know she’s been watching me and this is going to make things worse. I can’t lose this job. It took me so long to find one after everything that happened. I need to try harder and get myself together. I need to stop inventing things that aren’t there.
I pick the first book off the top of the stack on the table and avoid looking at the empty chair, lined up with the others against the side of the table. Nothing appears to be out of place. There’s no sign of anyone having been here, but as I glance at the title and open the front cover, I swear I can smell his aftershave on my skin. I tell myself that I’m imagining it and that I’m safe, but there’s an ache in my chest as I check the barcode to see where it belongs.
I rub my wrist, but it’s really sore. I must have caught it on one of the shelves as I fell.
Mrs Painter is watching me from behind the counter as I bend down to put the book back and I realise it’s not my wrist that’s bothering me at all; the pain is too deep for that. It’s because I miss him. Or part of him. The nice part. The other part of him, the one that hurt me – I don’t want to think about that.
I’m restless for the remainder of the afternoon, watching the clock, whose hands slow down as the end of my shift approaches. I stiffen as someone comes up behind me to ask a question, but Jack doesn’t reappear. A couple of times, I walk round the tables, staring at people’s faces. If I screw up my eyes, I can make them change shape in front of me, blurring their features until they’re unrecognisable, but I can’t recreate him, or anyone who even resembles him. A man looks up and notices me studying him and glares. I turn away, pretending I’m trying to tidy up a nearby shelf before walking back to the counter.
‘So, this is where you hide yourself.’
I look up from the computer to find Sarah standing in front of me, book in hand.
‘Great place to work,’ she adds. ‘You’ve got so much more space than I have in my office.’ My scanner is frozen, mid-air. ‘Aren’t you going to check this out for me, then?’ She pushes the book across the counter until the pages touch my fingers.
I hesitate before I pick it up. ‘I thought you said you didn’t have time to read.’
‘I don’t usually. I need this for some research I’m doing, so thought I’d pop in. I remembered you said you worked here; I hoped I’d bump into you.’ Her nails tap her library card gently as she speaks. The random pattern of sound is irritating. I wonder if it’s some kind of code, whether she’s waiting for me to figure out the meaning behind her attempt at polite conversation. She tucks her hair behind her ear and the gesture seems familiar. My brain searches for something just outside its reach and I almost grasp it before it whisks itself away, leaving me empty-handed.
I pass the scanner over the barcode and hand the book
to her.
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know how I get on with it.’ She tucks it into her bag and smiles as she walks out.
I’m convinced I know her from somewhere, but I can’t recall where. Memories climb over each other in a fight to get to the surface and the struggle makes me dizzy. There are too many to sift through to find her and I don’t want to look in case I see something I’ve tried to forget. My shift is almost over and, as I glance down the aisle, I realise the library is practically empty. Mrs Painter is kneeling down, sticking labels onto books at the far end of the shelves.
I log back into the computer. The last record is still showing on the screen. Sarah Henderson. A local address. I run my eyes down the list of books she’s borrowed. Eight entries, four in the last five months, the last one returned three weeks ago. She said she hadn’t been in here recently. And she’s managed to find the time to read four books. I glance up just as Mrs Painter reaches the counter and feel the heat spread across my face as I frantically move the mouse to minimise the record so it disappears.
‘Are you all right, Alison?’ she asks.
I nod, mutely, not wanting her to hear the tremor in my voice. She looks at the screen and I wait for her to notice my guilt, but she turns away and walks to the end of the shelves. I wipe my sweaty hands on my trousers. I don’t understand why Sarah would lie to me; I barely know her. But a niggling voice in my head tells me that perhaps I do and if I tried a bit harder, I’d be able to remember where from.
I try not to think about it as I walk back to my flat after my shift finally finishes, wondering if my subconscious will come up with the solution. I can’t stop her face appearing in my head, but it doesn’t stay still long enough for me to examine it closely. My brain alters her features, filling them in with familiar details to trick me into believing I’ve solved the puzzle. I relax for a few seconds until the frustration returns when I realise I’m staring into someone else’s eyes and not hers at all.
I push open my front door very slowly, but the mat is empty and it’s only as I shut it behind me that I realise I’ve been holding my breath in anticipation that something unpleasant would be waiting for me. Something designed to cause me more pain.
I press the purple mark on my wrist gently. It hurts and I press harder, pushing my finger into the centre of the colour to remind myself what Jack is capable of, only stopping when my vision blurs with tears. I can’t allow myself to forget.
I pull off some toilet paper to dab my eyes and notice the cleaner has been in. She’s wiped round the sink, but she never does it properly like I do. Getting deep into the lines of grout along the bathroom tiles and removing any fluff balls from underneath the bed. Scrubbing the kitchen sink with a toothbrush to get the limescale off the bottom of the tap. Taking all the plates out of the cupboard to clean the surface before putting them back. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth her coming once a week.
Dad had done most of the cleaning in our house. At the time, I hadn’t thought that was unusual. He’d let me help him wash his car at the weekends. I’d turned the hose on and he’d sponged down his
Ford Escort and put on the wax, spreading the liquid over the bonnet, turning the silver paint a dull grey colour. I’d followed behind him with a soft cloth that he’d kept folded in a special bag, rubbing everything off until the metal shone. He had paid me when I’d done it properly and had treated me to one of his speciality hot chocolates after I’d finished, letting me tip hundreds and thousands all over the whipped cream before he’d stuck in a flake, grinning as he’d put his finger up to his lips to let me know it was our secret.
The memory makes me so hungry that I have to refocus on what I’m doing, removing every mark so the surfaces are pristine. It helps clear my brain and for half an hour I don’t think about Jack, or Sarah.
After I’ve wrung out the wet cloths, I make myself a sandwich and sit down to watch television, cold now I’m no longer exerting myself. I pull a cardigan out of my wardrobe and wrap it round me as I curl up on the sofa. The pocket crackles and I reach inside, pulling out a folded note.
Ali,
I’m told that you’re doing well and I’m pleased for you. I wondered if you’d write back and let me know if we could meet – I’d really like to see you. I wish things could have been different.
Jack
My first thought is that he’s in the flat, but after the initial surge of adrenaline I realise that’s almost impossible. There’s nowhere I know of to hide in the tiny rooms; I would have seen him. He must have been here when I was at work. There’s no sign of a break-in, but he could have found a way to get a key. Jack has always been able to find a way to get what he wants. He’d probably waited until I’d left and then told the cleaner a sob story about how he’d locked himself out and asked her to let him back in. And then come to the library afterwards. To show he’s managed to find me. He knows I’ll suffer more if I think he could be watching me at any time, unaware of his presence until the moment he decides to confront me.
My heart races. I tell myself he isn’t real. That there hadn’t been anyone on that chair when I’d looked up. But something tells me I’m just trying to reassure myself and that I have to acknowledge, if Jack knows where I live, I’m no longer safe here.
‘Jack is gone,’ I say it out loud, forcing a reality I don’t feel into the words.
I fold the piece of paper up and put it inside a notebook on my kitchen table. I don’t want to stare at it, but I don’t want to throw it away either. I want to keep it so I can prove I’m not imagining his letters, even if I’m not sure whether he’s
real.
I run the tips of my fingers over my eyebrows, searching for hairs that don’t follow the neat line of the others. When I find one, I pull it out. There’s a sharp prick of pain, followed by a sense of relief that I’ve restored order. I roll the hair between my fingers, for a few seconds comforted by the sharpness of the end on my skin that I press to make me feel whole. I savour the respite, but it’s only temporary. I find another. And another. And after a while it’s difficult to follow the line at all.
I glance at myself in the mirror the following morning whilst I’m cleaning my teeth. Something looks odd. I lean in to look more carefully and realise what it is. Part of my eyebrow is missing. There’s a large gap in the middle. My left eye now looks slightly higher than my right.
I run my finger under the tap and try to smooth out the existing hairs so they cover the space. It doesn’t really work and the gap is still obvious. I resist the desire to pull out any more and hunt around in the bathroom cabinet for something I can use to disguise it. I don’t normally wear make-up as no one else at work does, but I find an old eyeshadow lurking at the back of the shelf and dip a damp cotton bud into the brown colour. Carefully, I paint it across the space, creating the illusion of normality that doesn’t at all reflect how I feel inside.
THEN
Jack
‘I’m sorry, do I know you? I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’ She clasps her keys firmly in one hand and adjusts the shoulder strap of her handbag with the other, her unconscious movement revealing her concern at the unexpected confrontation.
‘I think you do,’ I say, still smiling.
‘I’m afraid I don’t. If you need to speak to someone, you need to ask at reception.’ She points towards the glass doors at the entrance to the building. ‘Can you move out of the way, please? I want to get to my car.’
I continue to stand in front of the driver’s door. ‘You sent me a letter.’
She frowns. ‘I don’t think I did.’
I hold out the piece of paper. ‘Read it,’ I say. ‘It’s got your name at the bottom. Sarah Henderson. That’s you, isn’t it?’
She stares at my face, not taking it out of my hand. ‘If you’ve got something you want to discuss, we can go inside, Mr …?’ She lets the words hang in the air, waiting for me to answer.
‘Reynolds. I’m Alison Reynolds’ husband,’ I reply.
She says nothing but a muscle in her jaw tenses. I step towards her, but she backs away.
‘You do know her, don’t you?’ I ask quietly. She doesn’t answer. ‘About five feet five, long blonde hair?’ Her green eyes stare into mine, but she stays silent. ‘Look, I know you’re Sarah Henderson and you work here,’ I say. ‘You signed this letter and so you must know my wife. It arrived on Friday and says I’m supposed to stay away from her. As her husband, I’ve got a right to see her.’ She’s gripping her keys so tightly, her knuckles have turned white. ‘Go on,’ I add. ‘Take it. Tell me what it says.’
‘Mr Reynolds, I don’t—’
I push the letter into her free hand before she has time to react, bringing my face close to hers. ‘I’d really like you to look at it,’ I say, my fists clenched. I catch a glimpse of my face in the reflection of the car window and see my father staring at me, which makes me take a step
backwards.
‘I know what it says.’ She speaks calmly, but I can tell she’s agitated by the way she’s fiddling with the strap on her bag. She scans the page briefly and then hands it back to me. ‘I can appreciate you’re upset, but I can’t give you any information other than what’s already been written here.’
I stop smiling. ‘You don’t understand. I need to give her something.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t. This letter says you’re not allowed near her,’ she says. I glance at the entrance to the building. ‘There are cameras everywhere,’ she adds quickly, ‘you’ll be spotted straight away. Why don’t we go and speak to someone at reception? They might be able to help you.’ She looks over my shoulder to see if anyone else is nearby, but this part of the car park is deserted.
‘I’m not here to cause you any trouble,’ I say. ‘I’m not going to hurt you. Or her. I just want to talk to my wife. I should at least be allowed to talk to her.’
‘This isn’t the way to do it, Mr Reynolds.’
‘It’s Jack.’
‘This isn’t the way, Jack. You need to go through the proper channels. I’m really sorry, but I can’t help you.’ She tries to walk away, but I stand in front of her.
‘Can you at least give her what I’ve put in here?’ I hold out the envelope I’ve brought with me. ‘I know you can get it to her. Please. I need to explain and if she won’t see me, I don’t have any other way to tell her.’
She hesitates, staring at me, and I catch something that I hope is a flicker of pity in her eyes. She takes it and I notice her hand is trembling. I retreat another couple of steps.
‘I just need her to know I’m here. I want her to understand why …’ I pause, wiping my face on my sleeve, my voice choked. It’s a crack in the façade that I can normally keep intact when I talk about Ali.
Keeping her eyes fixed on me, Sarah pulls open her door and gets into the driver’s seat. I hear the locks click down before she starts the engine and pulls away, past me and out of the car park. She doesn’t look back. I hope she opens what I’ve given her. All the things that Ali needs to remind her of what we had together, as well as my contact details. Again. Jus
t in case Sarah’s lost them. I’ll give her a couple of days to follow the instructions I’ve written down.
As I climb into my car I can’t help but think that the way Sarah had looked at me felt familiar. It reminded me of Ali when I last saw her. Eyes a little too wide.
I jump as the shrill of my ringtone sounds on the seat beside me, and put the call on speaker as the familiar warm tones of my mum’s voice fill my car. I tell her I can’t talk as I’m on my way back from visiting a client and won’t be home until late. I don’t like lying to her but don’t want her to worry and then turn up at the flat this evening. She’ll know something’s wrong if she sees me face-to-face. I need to get home and check I’ve got everything ready for after Sarah does what I’ve asked.
I drive the short distance through the suburban streets, trying not to look at all the different places that remind me of Ali. Often they’re just blurs of colour outside the window that I pretend to ignore despite the bubble of emotion that rises up and then pops inside me as they flash past. But this evening, the crawling traffic doesn’t let me escape their presence, reminding me of my guilt.
People ask me why I haven’t moved out of the flat, and I can’t give them an answer. I wonder if I need to put myself through the continuous pain as a punishment, or whether there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to forget. That wants to keep her
close.
I stop at the local garage to fill up the car and pick up some food; the fridge at home is empty, apart from wine. A woman stands in front of me in the queue, waiting to pay, a small baby – a girl, I think – is fast asleep on her shoulder, her mouth open as she slumbers, oblivious. I glance at her and the mother smiles. I smile back.
‘They’ll sleep anywhere at this age,’ she says, wiping a line of drool off her coat with a tissue.
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘I wish I could do the same.’
She nods. ‘Me too. Just a shame she won’t do it more at night. But you can’t have everything. I don’t think I’ve ever been so knackered, but people keep telling me sleep’s overrated.’