Daniel clamps his eyelids shut. There isn’t a day he doesn’t see Rebecca. Doesn’t feel the warmth of her hand in his.
‘Rebecca trusted. Rebecca saw the good in people. Rebecca didn’t look beyond the surface. Failed to see the distinct parts that made up the very essence of who they were. Failed to see what they were hiding. Don’t let this be you, Daniel. You saw a shadow because you’ve lost sight of who you are. You’re searching for a shadow. It’s not what’s outside you need to worry about it, it’s what’s within those walls of yours. You think you know people – you don’t.’
‘I do, I—’
‘Someone is playing games. Someone isn’t what they seem. Have you not worked this out yet?’
‘But you did say it was you who sent the notes.’
‘I may have, I may have not. The notes are not the issue. The notes are nothing more than hints and clues. Someone is telling lies, aren’t they? The only problem is – who? You’re too close to see, aren’t you?’
Half running, half tripping, Daniel makes his way back to St Ives, with a feeling of wretchedness. He doesn’t want to separate himself from his friends. But what happens next if he doesn’t? Will Jacob make his presence known? Is he already doing this? All the strange happenings – is this Jacob firing a warning? All this time he’s believed they met up at the cottage so not to interfere with his everyday living. But has Jacob been watching him all the time?
Stay away from Natalie. Stay away from Natalie. These were Jacob’s parting words. Always remember Rebecca.
47
Natalie
WE’RE PLAYING THE SAME GAME AREN’T WE. ONCE ONE, ALWAYS ONE.
Oh, my God, why didn’t he tell me the truth? Mark tugs the car door open; a whoosh of cold air engulfs me. Only back at the restaurant, I told him about the notes, asked him if he had received any strange messages. ‘Why did you lie? Fuck’s sake, why did you lie?’ Mark’s eyes dart between me and the postcard I’m holding between shaky fingers. ‘I asked you if you’d had one of these shitty notes, you said no. In fact, you laughed then had the nerve to look quite appalled, as if I was implying you were somehow part of this. Or that it was some childish game I was asking you to join in. You made me feel completely mad for asking. Why did you lie to me?’
Mark slides into his seat, pulls the door to, starts the ignition. The pulse on his temple responding in place of spoken words. ‘Mark?’
‘It’s not mine.’
‘What? So why is it in your car, hidden away in your glove compartment?’ Many seconds pass. Mark accelerates away, face like thunder. ‘Mark. Fuck’s sake. Answer me. You seriously expect me to believe this isn’t yours?’
‘It is mine.’
‘Make your bloody mind up.’
‘I meant, it doesn’t have any meaning for me. I’m not sure why I have it. It couldn’t have been meant for me. Yes, I have it, but it belongs to someone else.’
‘Shit on a stick. This is insane. So what you’re saying is – someone took the trouble to plant this on you but unfortunately they delivered it to the wrong person. Or perhaps they gave it to you to pass on to someone else on their behalf. How liberal of you.’
‘Don’t be facetious. Of course I’m not passing it on to anyone else. Whoever left it…’ The car veers to the right; braking hard, Mark pulls into a small layby, the car skidding on gravel. Mark shrugs off his seat belt, pulls his sweater over his head, throwing it onto the back seat, then, refastening his seat belt, he wheelspins away from the gravel. In this moment I am sidetracked by a subtle but unmistakable whiff of aftershave, sweet and sticky, and I feel heady with its familiarity. ‘Whoever planted it meant it for someone else. It makes no sense to me – the words, they were not meant for me,’ he continues.
I slap myself back to the moment, pushing the scent aside. ‘Makes no sense to me either. That or what you’re telling me.’
‘Natalie, are you not listening to me? The note was not meant for me.’
‘Really. How come you’re so sure?’
‘I just am.’
‘You say this as if the rest of us were expecting the notes, I can tell you – we were not. But, if what you’re saying is true – and, for argument’s sake, it’s been incorrectly delivered – what I still don’t get is why you’ve not mentioned it. Why lie about it?’
Mark clears his throat, turning on the air conditioning despite the chill in the car. I pull my loose woollen coat to me. ‘Fair point. I should have told you. But because the note couldn’t have been intended for me, and after all you’d told me about your father, I didn’t think it was the right time to discuss the notes. I didn’t want to upset you any more than you already were, Nat.’
‘Didn’t want to upset me? You thought it better I felt like one of the few being targeted?’
He jerks his head towards the postcard I’m still clutching. ‘No. For Christ’s sake, Nat, stop this. Twisting my words.’
From the compartment, still hanging open, I pull out a white envelope I assume to be the same envelope as all our notes have been delivered in. But this one is different. It has a window on the front instead of a typed address and something that looks very much like the beginnings of a shopping list. Milk and bread in Mark’s handwriting. ‘Where’s the envelope it came in?’
‘What?’
‘The envelope. The one it was delivered in. For this.’ I hold up the postcard as if he somehow needs reminding. What is wrong with him? He clearly understands what I’m referring to. Biding time to manipulate an answer?
‘It didn’t have one.’
‘What, no envelope?’
Mark shakes his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Well, that’s odd, isn’t it? So, where did you find it? How did you know it was for you if it wasn’t addressed to you, with no envelope?’
‘How many times, Nat? Exactly that – it wasn’t for me!’
‘So you keep saying… but what’s so difficult about answering? Where did you find it?’
He can’t have forgotten, surely. Rubbing at the skin on his chin, eventually, he says, ‘Thrown amongst my paperwork in the town gallery. In the back office. The office, more often than not open into the shop – anyone could have put it there. It could have been left for any one of us. Why are you finding this fact so difficult to comprehend? I just happened to be the one to pick it up.’
We don’t really speak for the remainder of the journey. When we pull up at the house, Mark reaches over, running bent fingers over my cheekbone. It’s only slight, but I wince at his touch. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’ he asks.
Do I? I’m not completely convinced; however, I know I should be. But he’s already lied once. He can’t deny this: he has lied. Then again, what am I insinuating here? At worst Mark is a little precious, a little controlling, hugely possessive, but he’s not a perverted stalker. Eventually, because I see the worry in his eyes and because I really want to get away, take myself in, curl up in a ball and pray for tomorrow to be better, I tell him I do believe him.
I leave him behind in the car. Climbing the steps, I notice the lights are off in Daniel’s flat, which I’m secretly relieved about. My conscience has been nagging for me to remember to call in on him, he appeared so upset about the shadow thing earlier, but, selfishly, I can’t face it tonight. Nigel’s sitting-room light shines through the edges of the damask drapes. I glance at my watch; it’s 12.35 a.m. Clearly Nigel isn’t planning on popping by the office again tomorrow – he never stays up beyond the ten o’clock news, by his own admission. Mark waits until I’ve closed the front door behind me and I wave him goodbye. It all feels so phoney. Inside the reception hall, I hear the gentle hum of Nigel’s TV. I pull a piece of scrap paper from my bag and begin scribbling my mobile number on it with a few words. You never know – maybe he lost the last note.
Hope you’re ok. If you fancy a chat tomorrow, I’m free lunchtime.
Then I remember I can’t leave the restaurant again at lunchtime so I cross it out and write:
free at 14:45 for an hour? Natalie x
I add my number again then slide it under Nigel’s door. As I climb the stairs I think of how cross Mark would be if he knew, despite my telling him in no uncertain terms, Nigel is a man in need and I shan’t be turning my back on him. If Mark and I are going to survive this odd relationship, I need to rebuke these jealous stabs. Having said this, I probably won’t be telling him about what I’ve just done. I push the key into my front door, easing it open. Secrets. Is this normal? I don’t have the best of relationships to set an example of how they should be, what with my parents’ tragic and shambolic marriage. Then the few messy, failed, short-lived relationships of my own. But thinking about it, there have always been secrets. I call Mark for lying to me, then sneak behind his back to slip a note to Nigel with no intention of mentioning it to him, but I’m doing the right thing this time. I know I am.
Switching the light on, I slump back against the front door. At what point does life begin to be fun? Even simple would suffice. I guess the difference between lying and secrets is if Mark asks me about Nigel, I won’t lie to his face, I’m simply not volunteering the information. There’s a difference, as Mark said himself. I complete my routine Jack-the-Ripper checks and discover he’s not here. I’m too agitated to contemplate sleep, so pour myself a nightcap, deciding to sit and read one of the books I chose from Daniel’s personal library. Reading is good for sleep and general mental health, I read somewhere, allowing you to draw metaphorically whatever you need to self-medicate. I set aside the first book I pick up: perhaps best not to opt for The Silence of the Lambs tonight.
Deciding on a light, feel-good paperback, I move towards the window to turn on the standard lamp that came from Mark’s shop after he decided to renew the newish décor. He’s terrible for discarding perfectly good bits and bobs on some faddish trend. Perhaps I’ll be next when he finds out about Nigel again. I’m leaning down in the window, grovelling for the ground-level socket, when a flash of light catches my attention. Lowering myself onto my hands and knees, I peer into the garden where it appeared to come from. Or did I imagine it? I inch myself further forward. There’s a huge palm tree near the wall to the right, nearest to the dead-end road. And as my breathing rises in my chest, I’m trying to convince myself that the dark bulk between the trunk of the tree and the wall is not staring right back at me. I fall back against the sofa. Mark has only this minute left – suddenly, being alone isn’t quite so attractive. I should call him, ask him to come back. I drag my bag off the sofa, across the floor, fumbling in its depths for my mobile, then dial Mark’s number. He can’t possibly be far. But the mobile switches straight to voicemail. Either he’s without signal or he’s turned the damn thing off.
I contemplate running to Mo’s, but then it’s gone midnight – she’ll be asleep with ear plugs in. Should I call the police? But that will freak Daniel out. I begin to edge myself forward an inch at a time to peep once more into the garden. The mysterious bulk has vanished. Foot by foot, I take in the remainder of the garden. There’s no gated access into it. The only way to this area is via the bottom door through the back of the house. Unless someone has climbed over the wall? It’s high but it wouldn’t be impossible. I’ve contemplated it before, the night I’d locked myself out, until the sobering thought hit me: it was pointless because the bottom door is always locked from the inside. Or at least it should be.
The fine hairs are standing up on my arms; I have goosebumps, peering back out into the darkness. Did my mind see, not what it wanted to see, but what it was afraid of seeing? Was this figure staring right back at me or was it a dark figment of my imagination? Come on, Natalie, get your stuff together. It could have easily been nothing more than a shadow from a neighbouring light that’s now been turned off. It was nothing more than a dark shading in the shape of a person. And what appeared to be head-shaped was covered by something: an illusion, or a hood? Everything about the head shape blurred into the obscure mass. Could have been nothing more than a human-shaped shrub? But do human-shaped shrubs have eyes? This one did. And something about those whites of the eyes told me – they were smiling. Smiling at me. And shit, shit, shit, even in my wildest imagination, shrubs don’t have teeth.
48
Morwenna
A police car came for Nigel again today, pulling up as Morwenna negotiated the steps down from the house. She asked if she could be of any assistance, they said no, but could she hold the door open as they required access to the house. She explained how the front door is mostly left open in the morning, anyhow. ‘For the postman,’ she told them. ‘It’s not usually locked until one of us returns from work.’ They then passed her on the steps to knock on Nigel’s door.
Poor Nigel, she thought about telling them, he’s not been the same since all this business, then decided better of it. She’d offer to stay with him in case he’d like some moral support but she’s expecting a delivery from the local pottery. She’s already later than she hoped to be. Such a shame because she’d felt a lightness in herself today after her little chat with Natalie yesterday. Coming clean about one of her secrets has literally left her feeling a stone lighter. Guilt, having to duck, dive, cover and lie, can do this to you; she’ll share this at one of the meetings. As the note said, everyone has their secrets. She still has one, but it’s lodged in her throat and that’s without the Mark issue.
Reaching the bakery on the corner, Mo turns up the collar on her camel coat as the biting offshore wind attempts to penetrate her bones. It upsets her to see her two favourite people at loggerheads. She’ll never forget Mark’s unprompted thoughtfulness, setting her up in the gallery, insisting on taking a reduced rent for the flat. Then, the time she had the heart scare, with an irregular beat, he insisted on driving her, waiting with her while they ran obligatory tests. She wishes to goodness he’d never met the previous girlfriend – she broke his heart. Now look at them: he and Nat could be so happy; it’s their hidden feelings and experiences that bump and clash. Both of them guarding secrets. Had she not been found out, maybe she’d never have spilled her beans. Even Daniel has a past they’re unsure of. And Nigel, what’s going on with him? Is he the unidentified Truro landlord? Who’s the mysterious woman on his mantelpiece? The Polish girl? As for Tommy, she bets he has secrets – Nat’s right, there’s something not right about him.
Natalie – she texted Morwenna in the early hours of this morning, something about finding a note in Mark’s glove compartment. What is he playing at, lying to her again? Only yesterday she told him how stupid it was not to have come clean to Natalie about everything. She told him, either he told Natalie soon or she would have to. And now this:
We’re playing the same game aren’t we. Once one, always one
Natalie reiterated the words in her text. Mark knows perfectly well what someone’s referring to? This is a small town. How long before Natalie finds out anyway and if Natalie asks her, she warned him, she will not lie to Nat, not any more, not about this. What a dreadful, dreadful mess.
49
Natalie
There’s something really irritating buzzing in my ears. The lights are off and I’m sitting with my back against the wall. Knees pulled tightly to my chest. In defence, holding the door tightly shut. But it’s too late. My arms are already hot with fire. My stomach, raw with tenderness. Weirdly, the pain doesn’t hurt. Looking at my ankles, I see shackles securing them to the floor. A giant steel loop is what I’m tied to. But wait – how come the social, kiddie-carer people didn’t notice when they came to inspect today? The steel loop is huge, growing bigger, more obvious, each second I stare at it. How did they not notice these shackles either? Something to do with the wink that passed between the brown-cardy-clad social woman, clipboard glued to her chest, and my outwardly charming father? A collaborative wink.
Oh, God, someone shut that buzzing up. ‘SHUT THE SHIT UP.’
‘Shit.’ I jump forwards in bed. ‘My alarm.’ I’ve no idea how long it’s b
een going off for. I reach for my mobile to stop the repetitive noise from drilling a hole in my brain. My sweaty hand slides across the screen; it takes several attempts to silence the damn thing. I must have finally dropped off to sleep, a couple of hours ago? I stretch out my foot, wincing with the ache of eighty-year-old muscles, then pull the curtain to one side. It’s already light outside. I must have slept through the first alarm – thank God I set the second one. I fall back against the pillows as memories of last night flash through my mind. Mark. The note. The shadow. The whites of those eyes. The teeth. Oh, my God, those teeth in the dark. Could I have imagined something so vivid? In the cold light of day, with a kind of rational mind, can I be so sure of the teeth?
In the kitchen with the kettle boiling, I spread chunky marmalade across badly cut thick granary bread. Carbohydrates needed. Taking the first lifesaving bite, I flick through the texts on my mobile. I’ve two new messages from Mo and one other, an unsaved number. Mo must have read my frantic text last night, sent before the shadow stuff, only detailing the fact Mark had also received a note, that we had yet another argument. Meet Mark, my boyfriend, the liar. I take a bite of toast to distract from the lurching feeling in my stomach. Mo’s suggesting we meet for a drink after work at The Crab. This sounds ideal except I absolutely have to find time for Daniel today and there’s Nigel too, possibly. I open the other message, it’s from Nigel and blow me, I read the words twice in case I’ve shovelled them together to mean the opposite of what he’s saying, I didn’t think he would take me up on my offer.
Thank you. The Crab and Tiller? Appreciate it Natalie. Be good to see you.
Blimey has Nigel been on something? I text him back.
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