‘You shouldn’t have regrets, Natalie. Tommy always tells me; everything is for a reason. Regrets are wasted thoughts.’
‘Sod the reasons, Dan, sometimes there is sufficient reason for regret. Anyway, you just admitted to having them. You can’t have double standards. If they’re good enough for you then…’ It occurs to me, for the relatively short time I’ve known Daniel, he rarely speaks of Tommy; despite his regularity in his life he only pops into conversation from time to time. I always get the impression he views Tommy as more of an intrusion than anything else. ‘How is Tommy? I’ve not seen him for a while.’
Daniel hands me a cloth to wipe the flour I’m attempting to brush off my black top. I mean, who wears a black cotton shirt to bake in, other than me? Especially one they planned on wearing later for the party? ‘You need a damp cloth to remove flour,’ he states.
This surprises me because, as far as I know, he’s no master baker.
‘I used to bake sometimes,’ he says as if reading my mind. ‘With Mother. It didn’t happen very often and usually under duress because she felt obliged or something.’
I’m about to ask more. I’m intrigued by Daniel’s background, rightly or wrongly; I’d love to understand more about him. But he jumps in first.
‘Tommy is… Tommy. Nothing more to say. He comes, then he goes. I’m never really sure when either, just whenever he turns up.’
‘You don’t like him being around?’
Daniel shrugs. ‘He’s okay. But I didn’t ask for him to be in my life. Don’t need him to be. Sometimes it irritates me, having someone forced on me.’
‘Sure it does, must be so annoying, someone stepping in and out of your life without your say-so. Can’t say I’d like it.’ I know from what Mo has told me Tommy is employed on Daniel’s father’s insistence, but why? ‘So he… pops by because your parents live so far away?’ Daniel is a couple of years younger than me – why would he need anyone to pop by?
‘Sort of. And probably because, in the practised words of my father, I’ve suffered some difficult times.’
‘Your sister.’ I reach over to touch Daniel’s arm, leaving a tacky cake-mixture handprint, which is possibly worse than the flour. ‘Oh, God, sorry.’
Daniel laughs, taking the cloth to it. ‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Because of my sister.’
Together, finally, after the sponges are baked and sufficiently cooled, we decorate the cake. I pour myself a large gin and tonic, whilst Daniel lounges on my sofa flicking through a magazine. Daniel doesn’t touch alcohol as it doesn’t mix well with his anti-anxiety medication. Tommy has reiterated this to me the few times our paths have crossed, which I took to mean he believes I’m some kind of out-of-control lush who could lead Daniel astray because God forbid Daniel has a mind of his own. It’s obvious Daniel doesn’t want to continue our conversation and I’m certainly not going to push him. When and if he wants to talk about… anything, he will. ‘Do you ever have the feeling of someone following you?’ I ask instead.
‘What, you mean, as in someone following me, in the street?’
‘Uh-huh. Someone, you know, who doesn’t want you to realise they’re following you?’
Daniel nods. ‘All the time, I do.’
‘All the time?’
‘I’m always wondering who’s following me.’
‘Well, that’s not right, is it?’ Daniel’s never mentioned this before.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘But someone’s always going to be following behind you, walking down the street, aren’t they?’
I laugh. ‘I didn’t mean literally, Dan. I meant someone following you who shouldn’t be, as in they’re doing it by stealth, creeping after you. With devious intentions or something.’
‘Hmm. Like, when I saw Nigel following Morwenna, you mean.’
‘Nigel following Mo?’
‘Uh-huh. But was he following her, or was he only walking behind her? At first, I would have said he was following her because, otherwise, why didn’t he catch her up and say hello? But then, I thought, why would Nigel follow Morwenna? So he was following her but not following her – we will never know what his intentions were. But because we know it’s Nigel we understand they can’t be bad intentions, don’t we? But most of the time we don’t know who it is following us.’
‘I guess.’
Daniel swings with the breeze, being either completely literal and straightforward or philosophically convoluted to the point of confusing me stupid. But at the end of the day, he is right: just because I’m as sure as I can be someone was following me earlier, doesn’t mean anything. I was on a public thoroughfare, of course someone was following me. Why do I always assume the worst? Just because he’s to be released from prison does not mean he’s heading for me, or that his intentions are bad ones. Okay, so his intentions would most probably be bad, but I can hold to the fact I don’t know he’s heading for me, at least.
It was an utter relief when I first moved here from Falmouth, away from the associations. Hardly a huge move, but it was the opposite coastline, twenty-eight miles, a fifty-minute car ride and an hour and a half bus ride away. Enough for some kind of head space, especially knowing Her Majesty was currently providing appropriate accommodation a further two hundred miles away. Life after him was at first numb, then, as the shock began to wear off, terrifying. As soon as I completed my A levels, I took up a position in a local hotel with staff quarters. Since losing Mum, it was the first place to feel properly like home. It wasn’t much, my room was tiny, but with a view over the active estuary towards St Mawes it was, in another way, perfect.
Still, it didn’t stop me each night from checking the Wiltshire news sites for any reference to the local prison having experienced an inmate breakout. Only after doing this could I properly sleep. At the time, I thought I was reasonably happy; now I realise I was teetering on the edge. I’d always been teetering on the edge.
6
Daniel
It’s the early hours of the morning and he can’t sleep. Late returning from Morwenna’s surprise party that wasn’t, he thought he’d sleep tonight but now there’s the terrible noise. On the edge of his bed, he clamps his ears with both hands. That noise, it’s horrible; he can’t hear himself think, never mind sleep. Reminding him of something in his past, raised strained voices. What’s wrong with people? Why do they always have to ruin things?
Party cake – it reminds him of something. Did he used to have party cake? Back then, before the bad times, was there cake? Before his sister died. How he missed Rebecca. If she were here now, she’d help him. He was only ten years old when he lost her but he can still remember her gentleness, always fearful of something but always gentle. Cried a lot but never did she become angry, not like the others.
His ears begin to burn. Clamping them too tightly and humming loudly as he rocks on the edge of the bed, rolling forward, he slips to the floor, curling himself into the foetal position. Slowly he loosens the grip on his ears but they’re still shouting; sounds as though they’re about to fall through his ceiling, then he’ll really be in the middle of it all. It all began at the party – even Nigel slunk away, or did he leave before it all started? Stuck his head around the door for a cursory half-hour or so, refused the cake and the wine, didn’t even want a cup of tea. Who refuses cake? Especially cake made by Natalie. She spent hours decorating it, only putting the final touches of edible petals on at the very last minute, delicious too. Everything was good until Mark mentioned the cardigan. Not any old cardigan but the very expensive cashmere cardigan he’d picked up for Natalie on one of his trips upcountry. She had shown a total lack of respect, he said, for losing it.
This is another reason Daniel doesn’t drink alcohol, because of what it does to people. Truthfully, he’s been scared of it since Cambridge. Yes, Cambridge; he hasn’t touched alcohol since. Luckily for him, Jacob turned up at Cambridge just in time because he’d let himself down, after doing so well
too. Or was it lucky Jacob turned up? He can’t be certain now – maybe it was unfortunate? Whichever, it wasn’t really a surprise; it was only ever a matter of time before Jacob caught up with him again. There are only so many places anyone can hide, Jacob told him.
And what is it Morwenna says, every week or so? It is such a small world. Daniel has given this considerable thought because if this is true it probably means he can never, ever escape Jacob. If the world had been bigger, then maybe Jacob wouldn’t have found him again. Why couldn’t the world be bigger? Or maybe Jacob is right after all and Daniel does need him more than he realises. It’s all so confusing.
He jumps at a loud bang from the floor above; cuddling his knees to his chest, he begins to hum even louder. What was the noise? He should investigate but the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach has immobilised him. Slowly, pulling his hands from his ears, a millimetre at a time, he listens. Nothing. Nothing but silence. Oh, God, not the silence. Wasn’t this worse? He remembers this stage so well, being far worse than the shouting. His mouth fills with saliva he’s unable to swallow for the lump in his throat. Waiting. A noise similar to an out-of-tune radio buzzes between his ears; he’s straining hard enough for his eyes to pop out, waiting. What has happened now? Does this mean she is dead? Natalie? Is this why she’s silent? Has Mark killed her? Because of the cardigan?
What’s so important about a cardigan anyway? She could have taken one of his – wouldn’t this have been easier? What was it Mark said at the party? ‘So where have you left it? It wasn’t supposed to be a cheap throwaway!’
Then Natalie, still laughing with one of Morwenna’s art club friends, kind of dismissed him. Only after a few minutes of him glaring at her did she turn. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mark, chill, will you? It will be somewhere, won’t it? It’s not like anyone will have stolen a cardigan. Get over yourself.’ Then she laughed, turning her back on him.
But Daniel couldn’t remove his eyes from Mark, feeling those awful dark vibes flowing through him, from him. Mark was fuming. Daniel has witnessed first-hand what anger can do, how it can twist and turn people. Rebecca, his lovely Rebecca. Turning your back on anger, Natalie, is never a good thing. No, never turn your back on anger.
From then on the mood at the party was strained. It was for Daniel, anyway; no one else seemed to notice really. Mark sat, face like grey slate off the beach, up the corner, on his own, flicking through his mobile, knocking back drink that looked like water, but Daniel assumed it wasn’t. Whilst Morwenna danced between her friends, laughing and chatting, once, skipping over to Mark, slapping him on the back telling him to lighten up and relax. She didn’t let it ruin her night. But Daniel couldn’t relax. The vibrations peeling off Mark were like thick steam from a Turkish bath, slowly choking the atmosphere. He also knew this would not be the last of it; things would become a lot worse before they would get better. But he didn’t think it would come to this. So much he wishes he could rush up the stairs to help his friend but, as he sometimes feels in sleep, his legs are paralysed, with Jacob’s words bouncing through his mind: all good things must come to an end.
Minutes later, there is a stamping of incensed feet down the stairs into the central hallway. Mark? How long before he bursts through the door to Daniel’s flat, finds him on the floor, picks him up by the throat and slams him against the wall? He begins to count in his head, sweating, panting, counting. Maybe tonight will be the night he dies too? That other thing Morwenna tells him: life is too short. He’s twenty-eight – is this short enough? In his mind’s eye he sees Mark pacing the door to his flat, as he remembers Mark carries a master key to the door – he wouldn’t even need to kick it down. Then, the floor reverberates beneath him with what sounds like the slam of the front door. And he’s gone. Daniel can breathe again. But Natalie might be dead.
It’s probably another fifteen minutes before he feels sufficiently safe to pull himself up from the bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling as he crosses the room to turn on the light. With the room illuminated, again he checks the ceiling, his legs physically trembling, holding his breath. But there’s no blood. No dripping blood, cloying at the whitewashed ceiling as if ink on blotting paper, only crimson red. He only ever uses blue ink, not black and never red. Red was for death. Red was for his sister – Rebecca.
Speedily he moves through each room in the flat, switching on lights, examining ceilings. She’s still alive. ‘Thank you, Natalie is still alive,’ he whispers. Not sure what he’d have done if she was dead. Dead is so final. He can clearly remember the hideous, hollow feeling, not having appreciated the true value of finality before. Lifting the arm of his thirteen-year-old sister, letting it drop to the floor, begging her to wake up, knowing it was all so absolute. Red. Red. Everywhere. It was all too late. Unable to swallow. Unable to breathe. He didn’t think he would ever be okay again.
That’s what it was about the party cake – it was Rebecca’s birthday that final day. Their last shared meal, the giggling and tomfoolery had all been with party cake.
7
Natalie
My eyelids are closed, squeezed tightly together, willing sleep to take me. I don’t care about the stupid argument with Mark over an even more stupid cashmere cardigan. Who cares whether it’s cashmere or polyester? But Mark’s triggered something deep inside me, the sleeping dragon. Not that I retaliated breathing fire. After my initial defensive stance, the heavy, mawkish feeling took over. This is what a show of anger does to me. To be fair to Mark, how was he supposed to understand this? I’ve not disclosed my past to him and it’s not the kind of thing anyone would guess. So I’ve only myself to blame. I should have told him, should have explained what his outburst did to me.
I’ve seen what anger does, felt what anger does. They say your childhood becomes the backbone of your adulthood, mine was about learning the consequences of anger. Tiptoeing around the house as if it’s a minefield, scared the next uttered word will be the wrong one, worried that with shaky hands I may spill the milk, or that the biscuit barrel will be unexpectedly empty or perhaps I would be breathing too noisily, any of which could be the trigger to trip the hyper-sensitive switch. Then, how I’d watch for the shift in the eyes, the timely pulse on the temples, the raising of the voice, the smile on the face, stretched slowly to become the grimace. Expecting, anticipating, nonetheless still jumping high as the first clenched fist hit the table, the wall, the door. Mum. Me. And before the house filled with silence once more, it would be submerged in disgusting, irrepressible, red-hot anger.
So, I asked Mark to leave, he attempted to apologise, agreeing he may well have taken the entire cardigan thing out of all conceivable context. But it was too late. I didn’t tell him but, despite my outward calm, inside I was trembling. It wasn’t as though Mark ever felt threatening but all the same it sparked the memories and, with those, the pain, then the fear. I hate myself for feeling so vulnerable, still, all these years on. The assurance he was locked up in prison only allowed me a false sense of security, obviously, and now it’s as if I’ve returned to being the teenager on guard. I’m disappointed in myself because I truly believed I was finally free; now I can’t help but wonder if I ever will be. What if my childhood has set like stone in my heart?
Because deep down I understand I will never be safe, will I, Dad? I owe you, don’t I?
8
Morwenna
Morwenna wakes to the sound of herring gulls, stamping some kind of tribal dance on her roof, anticipating the fisherman bringing gifts from the sea. She rolls over, her head thumping against the pillow. Far too many cocktails were guzzled last night with too little eating to soak them up. She’s fifty-four, should know better, she does know better. Oh, what the hell, she won’t be the only one with a sore head this morning. Pulling the inept ear buds, to block the sound of the early-rise gulls from her ears, she peels away the eye mask. Despite the long drapes with blackout linings there is a gap. It’s still darkish outside, more grey than black.
> Softly, she pulls back the drapes to reveal the marbled charcoal sky casting gloomy shades over the turquoise sea. The condensation sitting at the base of the windows like fallen snow tells her it’s a damp and spongy kind of day. Extra conditioner will be the tip of the day. She could never leave the coast but she does hate the way it whisks her hair to look as though she’s walking through some kind of magnetic field. She’s always taken pride in her appearance. There were times it was the only thing to remind her she hadn’t completely lost hope. Mark is often telling her she doesn’t look a day over forty and most of the time she doesn’t even feel a day over thirty, except for the dark days. Then she feels closer to one hundred.
Luckily these times aren’t as frequent as they used to be, only really showing up for the special times like the reluctant family member: the birthdays, the anniversaries and Christmas. Other than Mark, she’s been fortunate enough to make many friends but, still, she’d be lying if she denied the constant dull ache in her chest, the whispers in her ear – friends are great but it’s not the same, though, is it? Nice, but not the same. The therapist the GP referred her to told her to be aware of the little nuances that initiate the pain, to be prepared, to be armed with something heavy to bat them away again. Last night, clearly she’d chosen alcohol as her weapon. All generously supplied by Mark, along with the cocktail recipe sheet. To a point it worked, she almost forgot.
As she pops on the kettle there’s a soft knocking at the door, followed by, ‘You there, Mo? You up yet?’
Nat. Up earlier than she should be on a Saturday morning but, still, she’d been expecting her. Clearly, Mark had a ned on about something last night, something she chose to overlook at the time, leave him brooding up the corner, arms unnaturally tense, lips taut. Nat’s obviously come to enlighten her. She opens the door to a bloodshot-eyed Nat, still in pyjamas, a duvet wrapped around her shoulders. Reaching out, Morwenna pulls her to her, duvet included.
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