‘If you’re sure, pet,’ says the woman. ‘Have you far to go? Can we call someone for you?’
‘No, I’m okay, really. I only live around the corner and I’m not hurt.’ Should I ask them? ‘You didn’t see anyone, did you? I mean, you didn’t notice who bumped into me?’
‘What? Someone did this to you and didn’t stop?’ I shake my head, biting down on my lip. ‘Sods. No, love, we only just came out when we saw you on the floor, sorry. What a sod. Who would do that?’
‘No worries,’ I say. ‘Probably wasn’t paying enough attention. I’d dropped my phone just before,’ I say, holding it up to show the nice crack making its hungry way across the screen.
‘Oh, that’s a bugger, isn’t it? Bloody screens. I did mine just before we came away, didn’t I, Dave?’ The man next to her rolls his eyes.
Slowly, I make my way back home, wishing to God I’d taken the normal quick way after leaving the bistro. But this is something to hold onto at least, because if my mind was thinking of becoming all paranoid on me, informing me – maybe someone was following me? Did this on purpose? – it can’t, because I wasn’t on my normal track home, was I, so how would they have known to find me here? They would have waited down one of those dark alleys as I turn up towards the flats, wouldn’t they?
When I say they, I mean my father. Why did they have to go and let him out of prison? Should have kept him there to rot. What good will he ever be to society, the drunken bully? Unless he was watching me leave? Then he could easily have run around the other way, knowing he’d catch me approaching from the opposite direction at some point. But he’s never hidden behind shadows before. He’s a man, if you can call him that, who thrives on being in the victim’s face, feeds off seeing the fear in the eyes. Or could he have changed, locked away for the last fourteen years? Fumbling for my keys in the front pocket of my bag, I quicken my step for home.
But, let’s face it, I’ve really no idea who he is any more or what he’s capable of. Have I?
19
Natalie
When I finally approach the front door, Nigel is dismounting his bike, preparing to carry it up the couple of steps into the house. He keeps it at the back of the reception hall, balanced against the wall.
I’m aware of my breathing being quicker than it should be. I’ve never been so relieved to see him. Nigel, the perfect antidote for the rising paranoia in my mind.
‘Nigel.’ I wave for some reason, probably because I’m desperate for normal conversation.
‘Natalie,’ he says, glancing sideways, pushing the bike over the threshold.
‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Yes, nothing out of the ordinary. You?’
‘Okay, quiet really. Other than…’ I’m about to divulge my recent horrible experience, then realise Nigel is done with conversation; perfunctory, not for pleasure is the rule. Otherwise it is superfluous waste. He turns to me, raising an eyebrow. ‘The usual stuff, you know,’ I say.
‘Good to hear,’ he says. ‘Good evening, Natalie.’ He unlocks his flat door, then disappears.
‘Good evening, Nigel,’ I mutter to the closed door.
‘You okay, there?’ A familiar voice takes me by surprise from behind. ‘Oh, Nat, love, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ Mo is climbing up the front steps.
I smile at her warm expression. ‘You didn’t, it’s me, miles away. And I left the front door wide open? Surprised Nigel didn’t notice. You’re late tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Popped by the Co-op for some rice and happened upon this wonderful Chardonnay, on offer. Fancy a quick one?’ She wobbles the bottle from side to side, grinning.
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
‘Good job I took it upon myself to buy a few bottles, then, isn’t it? I do love a good offer.’
Thirty minutes later, I was snuggled into Mo’s sofa, all thoughts of the nurturing bath having disappeared. With fleeting feelings of who I really am, the ‘Natalie without a head full of shit’ person. The one who doesn’t always self-question, who would sit on the beach with a bottle of Peroni, a baguette overflowing with prawns, to watch the sun set. Sometimes with people, sometimes not, sometimes just chatting to a random stranger. I’ve always enjoyed the simple things, and when I feel like this, I still own dreams, dreams to travel, to see the world, Asia or perhaps Australia or back-packing round Europe, meeting new people, sharing experiences. When I feel like this, I can still do all these things, it’s never too late – I could leave tomorrow, or the next day, with nothing to hold me here. Anything is possible if you want it enough.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ I didn’t realise Mo is staring at me. ‘You didn’t hurt yourself more than you’re letting on? Shall I take a look? I broke my foot once, walked on it for weeks before I had it checked out.’
I glance at my wrist and the palms of my hands, now with attractive patchy blue and pink shades, nothing I’ve not seen before. ‘Nothing more than this.’ I hold up my hands. ‘I bruise really easily, nothing to worry about. Looks worse than it is.’ Mo helps convince me it was probably just some moody teenager who floored me. Ears plugged with headphones, in an unconscious state, hating everyone and everyone hating them. Did I go through this stage? Or was this stolen from me too? It would have been during my numb years, when I lived in one of the foster homes, when he had some form of pathetic restraining order against him. Then, after they sent me back to the supposedly changed, him, I’d have been too on edge to be sullen. And I certainly didn’t have my own space, to slam doors and lock myself away.
‘It’s shaken you up, though, hasn’t it?’ Mo refills my glass.
‘Hmm. I’m probably being silly. Things always feel worse in the dark. And the mist.’ I nod at the window.
‘Came down so quickly, didn’t it? Still, that’s coastal living for you. I saw Tommy earlier, by the way, in the Co-op.’
‘Oh? With Daniel?’
‘On his own, though picking up some basics for Daniel, he said. Got me thinking about what you were saying about him. You’re right. I can’t quite make him out either. Although to be fair, Nat, he’s always extremely amenable.’
‘You think? Maybe with you. He’s always a little, how would I say it – shifty? With me. Shit, I can’t make any of it out. Sorry, but I still don’t see the point in Tommy, you know – being there with Daniel as much as he is. You’re right, Daniel reckons it is at his father’s insistence but why? I don’t see why.’
‘I know, I know. He mentioned again tonight how Daniel’s father is fretting over being so far removed from Daniel, but he doesn’t have any choice apparently. Needs to think himself… oh, bloody hell, forgot to put the blasted rice on.’ Mo slaps her leg jumping up. ‘Now then – sure I can’t tempt you?’
I shake my head. If I leave it any later I’ll be going nowhere and I can’t allow myself to go back to living like this, constant butterflies, always waiting, wondering. When I finally finished my A levels and took up a position in a hotel in Falmouth with digs, I felt better than I had in a long time. I made a handful of good friends too, but it didn’t take long for me to feel the stirrings of anxiousness again when no longer with them. I found myself spending longer and longer away with them – building some kind of needy dependence? Or was I just being young, enjoying the carefree, sometimes downright irresponsible times? The tipsy banter and frivolous attitude, flats full of sand, beers, half-eaten pizza, wetsuits and surfboards. ‘Thanks, Mo, but not tonight.’
‘If you change your mind…’
‘Back to the Tommy scenario, do you reckon Daniel’s father is some kind of control freak? And he’s using Tommy to spy on Daniel, keep him in line, that kind of thing?’
‘Not sure really – possibly. It has crossed my mind.’
‘Well, none of us know what really went on, do we?’
‘What do you mean…?’
‘God, where do I begin? The sister, Rebecca. The university thing. Not many people get the chance to study at Camb
ridge, only to leave in the second year, do they? I mean, who would do that?’
‘You’d be surprised – the dropout rate will be just as high as any other university.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Suppose. You know, when I’ve asked Daniel about it, only because I’m interested, not in a nosey way – okay, in a kind of nosey way – he always repeats the same statement. You’d think it had been drummed into him. Pre-rehearsed, you know what I mean?’
‘It didn’t work out in the way I’d hoped. English Literature wasn’t all it promised to be?’
Spinning around, I see Mo adding soya milk to the pan of rice. ‘Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly it and what he says to you too, obviously.’
‘I guess it does sound a little pre-rehearsed, out of character.’
‘Absolutely. It really does.’ I take a slug of wine. ‘And, Mo? Why are you putting soya milk in the rice pan?’
Mo taps the side of her nose with her manicured hand; she always looks after herself. Discreetly, I hide my free bitten-nail hand. ‘All the creamier, it makes it. It doesn’t turn out like rice pudding, only oozier, if there is such a word.’ She laughs. ‘I’m not quite at the senile age yet. I did add it intentionally.’
I laugh. ‘Nothing senile about you. Oozy, hmm, I’ll give it a go. Used to be one of Mum’s favourites, rice pudding. She showed me how to make it once, the skin all rich with cinnamon on the top. Every time I smell cinnamon it reminds me of her.’
‘Yes, smells do that, don’t they? Straight into the emotional memory bank.’
Later, as Mo begins to serve up perfectly cooked rice, the richest of curry sauce seeping in aromatics, I gather myself together along with a throbbing wrist to make my way next door. It’s times like these, I wish I had a dog, someone to return home to that doesn’t make silly demands, doesn’t give opinions, doesn’t question or judge. Perhaps I could have a cat instead, if a dog is out of the question. Inside the flat, I feel along the wall for the light switch, then move quickly through to the front room to switch on the TV for background noise. All the time I’m fighting with myself, knowing I’ll relent and check the flat over before I’m able to relax. There aren’t many places to hide in here but, even so, I’ll need to check. I’m miffed because I’ve not needed to do this for years.
‘Pathetic,’ I mutter to myself as I fill the bath. ‘Bloody pathetic.’ With no sign of forced entry, I’m on the first floor of a house with another front door before you even reach mine, yet somehow, my imagination taunts, someone could be in here, hiding. Come on, Natalie, how preposterous. I fill the bath as full as I can without it running away again down the overflow. I undress, leaving my clothes in a sort of neat pile on the floor, conscious they will most likely still be there in the morning. As a child I was so unbelievably tidy; everything had its place, everything in order. Thinking back, maybe I was attempting to gain some kind of control in such an out-of-control life. Shutting that particular door in my mind, I sink down into the warmth of scented bubbles. My book balances on the side, with a mug of sweet tea. Wine would have been preferable but I’ve had enough already. I dry my hands on the towel hanging beside me, pick up the book, allowing a loud sigh to escape. Then inhale the scented air.
I’m only a chapter in when I hear it. A noise. Coming from the sitting-room-kitchen area? I hold my breath, sinking further into the bathwater. Silence. Did I imagine it? Slowly, I let out a breath, straining my ears. There’s an outburst of loud cheering and clapping from the TV – was it the TV I heard? The walls are so deep, I rarely hear anything from Mo’s flat. So what was the sound? The chain on the front door? Was that what I heard, the jangle of the chain? I lie perfectly still, my fingers digging into the pages of my book. Too scared to move but also aware of my vulnerable state in the bath. The steam from the water making me sweat. Placing the book on the side of the bath in slow motion, I stretch for the towel. Then stand. Wrapping it tightly around me, securing it, in case I need to run. My head rushing with the balminess of the water and adrenaline. I steady myself with the rail. Then, gently placing a white foamy foot onto the bath mat, I step out.
I look around me for some kind of weapon – why did I not bring a weapon in with me? I grab my stupidly expensive, tall but thin glass vase from the corner shelf as I step over the threshold into the small corridor dividing my bedroom from the lounge. Picturing Mark’s face, me about to smash one of his gallery treasures over someone’s head. Taking measured footsteps, I move towards the lounge, vase held in the air ready to bring down. But the light is on and I can see the room is empty; there’s no one behind the sofa. Back out to the hallway. The front door is still locked, the chain lying idle, quickly I move to secure it before making my way to the bedroom. The bedroom is empty too, as I knew it would be. Still, I check in the wardrobe and under the bed. I move on to the box room, stuffed with all my clutter, kicking at mounds of household stuff I should have thrown out months ago. What am I doing? I’m being totally stupid. It must have been the TV, mingling with my dark imagination. Finally, satisfied I’m alone, I return to the bathroom, drop the towel to the floor and climb into the bath. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t do this, Natalie.’ It’s not until my heart rate has returned to normal and my eyes are flitting over words in the book, it occurs to me: the smell.
The sweet, sticky smell. It was in the lounge just then. That same sweet smell as earlier when I knelt on the pavement.
20
Daniel
Reaching the end of the road, Daniel comes to an abrupt halt. STOP. The road sign says stop. He waits there for a few moments wondering how long it will be before he’s able to continue. Maybe he won’t be told the exact time, maybe it’s a sign to take a moment to contemplate. STOP. What was it he heard once? STOP. LOOK. LISTEN. Is this the same? He scans the area for anything he should be looking for. Listening for. As strangers amble on around him regardless, he absorbs his surroundings, attentive for further messages. Nothing. Maybe he needs to search deeper, it wasn’t meant to be an obvious instruction; perhaps it means – take a good look into and at yourself. Listen to what you’re being told. By him? Jacob? Is he being watched by him? Is he stepping closer each and every day, here now breathing down his neck?
Daniel couldn’t help but notice the other day, he’d lost some of his usual swagger. His clothes looked almost as if they’d been slept in. A dark shadow graced his chin, scratchy and unkempt. It wasn’t a good sign, not if he was letting himself go – Jacob’s hunger for control would be unleashed elsewhere. On him? As Daniel read to him, he paced the doorway from the kitchen into the pokey, dark sitting room that smelt of seaweed and smoky bacon, and back again. Leaning on the door frame, from time to time, a look of cold smugness, asking him to reread the chapters he most enjoyed, over and over. Clapping his hands in enjoyment. A half-smile riding across a cut-square jaw. A knowing look, an understanding of how he made Daniel sweat.
Judging it safe to move again, Daniel continues forward, his rucksack bouncing off his back. Today he’s helping Morwenna in the gallery. Mark asked him the other day and he’s looking forward to it. They’re setting up in the back room for an exhibition, with new artists. It will be his job to place and position all the works of art, along with Morwenna, always praised for his eye for detail, a natural flair for design. He likes Mark; he’s always good to him. Tommy says it’s because he needs to be, whatever that means. Tommy also says the casual work at the gallery or the bistro was agreed by his father, a sort of package that came with the accommodation, so he’s no need to feel gratitude for Mark. Natalie likes Mark, so he must be nice. Natalie is probably the nicest person Daniel has ever known. Sometimes she reminds him of Rebecca.
In his hand, Daniel clutches the letter, pushed under his door last night. Someone must have emptied his pigeonhole for him, which isn’t unusual because he always forgets. Nigel never forgets, so he’s become the house official postmaster, Natalie says. With his letter on the kitchen tabl
e, he made a mug of tea. With his mug in hand, Daniel took the letter through to the small sitting room where the large window overlooks the small manicured garden. It isn’t a sea view but he likes the garden, the birds that feed on the seeds he puts out for them each day. Deep down he sort of knew there was something ominous about the letter. The envelope is typed, for a start, and he never receives typed letters – those are always sent to his father’s address. He wondered at this point why he only ever refers to it as his father’s and not his mother and father’s. Slowly, Daniel pulled out the lined postcard from inside the envelope, and smelt it. There was no distinguishable smell, the words few and far between:
TELL THEM ABOUT CAMBRIDGE.
Daniel then spent thirty or so minutes loitering outside Natalie’s front door. Should he show her? Should he tell her? The envelope said it was private and confidential, for his eyes only, so eventually he plodded back to his flat. Now, wandering along the seafront, the air crisp and bright, he blows watery vapour from his mouth, catching the cold air in his empty hand. He stops when he reaches a bench to hide the note away in his rucksack. He mustn’t show anyone, he can’t show anyone, else things could go horribly wrong. Private and confidential. It’s between us, Daniel, always, remember this. Don’t tell anyone.
‘Mornin, Danny boy, it’s a good un.’ Daniel turns as Bill, who runs St Ives Bay Walking Tours, grabs his shoulder.
‘Yes,’ Daniel calls after his retreating back. ‘Good morning, Bill.’
See, he can relax, it’s going to be a good morning, no need to worry about the note. Bill said this morning, at least, is going to be good. Daniel crosses the road to head up to the gallery, passing the bodies enjoying early morning coffee on the sun-filled pavement, the whiff of bacon and warm dough in the air. ‘It’s a good morning,’ he says to them. ‘No need to worry at all.’ Hoping this is not another misleading, confusing comment people have made in the past. Seconds later, he pushes through the glass gallery door.
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