by Lynda Stacey
Sighing, she thought of Dan. Of how he’d offered them both a home, somewhere to live. He’d been her friend, her former boyfriend, and she knew that a little part of her would always love him. Problem was, she could no longer trust him. They’d stayed friends, but things hadn’t been right. Dan had changed. He’d become more secretive. Distant. None of it had made sense, until the week before. The day she’d driven to the solicitors. Into Scarborough. The day she’d spotted Dan standing by the sea front. The man who’d walked towards him. The handshake, the obvious transaction shared between them. It had been a moment of realisation. Of deep sadness. And if she hadn’t already been planning on moving out just two days later, she’d have moved both her and Beth out immediately.
Every minute since, she’d been on her guard. Tried to decide whether or not to tell him what she’d seen, whether or not she should go to the police. Knew the consequences of what that meant.
It had been a heart-breaking decision. One she hadn’t wanted to make. The relief she’d felt had been palpable when the furniture men had arrived. The van had already been filled with her mother’s possessions and as the last of hers and Beth’s things had been put inside, she’d noticed the look in his eyes as she’d climbed into her car and, for the very last time, she’d driven away without looking back. And by doing so she was breaking his heart, along with a little piece of hers.
Picking up her phone, she wondered how he was. Hated how much she cared, when she knew she shouldn’t. Tapped out a message, told him about the move, the house, the oddity that had been the back door incident, the shed and, for a few moments, she stared at the screen, watched, waited, saw the three dancing dots appear, indicating that a response was imminent.
Ohhhh, are you missing me? Put the kettle on. I’ll be right over. xxx
Panicking, she hastily replied.
Sorry. Probably not a good idea. Place is a mess. Me and Beth have resorted to sharing a mattress on the floor. But we have a fire. All is good. Don’t worry. xxx
Holding her phone to her chest, she listened to the sounds of the house and took pleasure in hearing the rain thrash against the windows, the random creaks and bangs, along with the sound of the storm that blew violently down the chimney, making the flames lick and dance around half-charcoaled logs, before flying up the chimney in colours of golds and orange.
Supressing an involuntary shiver, Molly sat forward, stabbed at the fire with the poker, threw another log on top then lay back, and closed her eyes. ‘Good job I found the logs.’ She wanted to ask about the shed, wanted to ask why Beth would lock her inside, but bit down on her bottom lip, pondered the thoughts.
‘Did you see that old hallway carpet? It was thrown down the side of the shed, under all the crap,’ Beth whispered.
Molly’s eyes shot open. ‘Really? I wonder why she pulled it up, just to throw it away.’ Pausing, she inched herself up against the pillow. ‘Do you think we could salvage it?’
Beth shook her head, wrinkled her nose and pulled a face. ‘Nah.’ She pointed at the window where the storm still raged. ‘It’s been out there in the rain, it’ll stink, and by now it’ll be full of centipedes, slugs and God knows what else so, to be honest, I’m not sure I’d want it back.’
Molly moved onto her side, made a mental note to order more logs and then, out of habit, she began to stroke her sister’s forehead and sighed. It suddenly occurred to her that Beth was no longer a child. Yet she wasn’t an adult either and her daily frustration at being at the in between stage was becoming more and more apparent.
Settling down, Molly felt her breathing slow down and began to concentrate on the distant sound of the storm, on the rain that battered the rooftop and the annoying but hypnotic ‘tap, tap, tap’ of a tree branch that repeatedly caught against the window frame. Her exhausted mind began to drift into sleep, then a click, a new distinct noise, pulled her back to consciousness.
Grabbing hold of the settee, Molly used it to pull herself up. Listened nervously. Heard the distinct sound of footsteps while taking sharp intakes of breath. She picked up the poker and walked over to the door, where she moved the towel that had been their makeshift draught excluder. Then, with a hand on the door handle, she once again stopped and listened.
Holding onto the door, she looked down at where Beth peacefully slept, considered waking her, but shook her head. Wanted to let her sleep, to feel comfortable in her new home, and rather than give her something new to worry about, Molly made the decision to leave her be, swallowed hard and felt the taste of fear trickle down her throat, like a putrid acid that burned her all the way down. Her mind brought up a million flashing images, all at once, as she imagined her mother, how she must have felt, and what she’d have gone through, the moment she’d realised that someone was in the house, someone who wanted to hurt her.
Trying to shake the feelings off and with her back to the door, she listened to the house, to a distant thud that was masked by the storm. Felt her stomach lurch nervously, while all the time trying to remember what had happened when the pizza had arrived, and Beth had answered the door. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she’d shouted happily. ‘There you go, keep the change.’ Her voice had echoed in the hallway, the lack of carpet making it sound louder than it actually was.
Shaking her head, Molly bit down on her lip, tried to remember the door slamming, the loud bang it would have made, but couldn’t, and with the poker still in her hand, she quietly opened the door, flicked on the hallway lights, held her breath, waited. Slowly and deliberately, she tiptoed along the hallway. The normal creaks and bangs of the house had suddenly dropped into silence, the only noise she could hear was the sound of her own heartbeat that boomed in her head at speed, like a bass drum.
Flicking on the kitchen light, she saw the boxes with their lids thrown to one side, the contents obviously disturbed. Searched through. Three different pictures of their mum had been placed around the kitchen, another on the windowsill. All oddly positioned, as though thrown into place. With her mind on high alert, her eyes immediately shot to the hallway, to the windowsill and to the empty space where Michael’s picture had previously lain.
6
Laughing, I cower behind the shed, rub the grime from my hands down my jeans and close my eyes for just a minute. I’m listening to my heart, which is racing and beating so fast that the sound is scarily audible. I can barely breathe, the adrenaline is coursing through my veins and, for the first time in years, I feel alive. So alive that I want to laugh hysterically, knowing that I only just made it out of the house before you opened the door, knowing that I was so close, and if I’d have so wished, I could have murdered you both. Right there, while you slept.
Narrowing my eyes to see in the darkness, I look down at the picture. Wipe it clean. Stare at it. I don’t know why I took it, but it feels like a trophy. A way of proving that I have the power, that I can take what I want. When I want it. Yet, for the second time today I wish I’d waited for the house to be empty. Realising now, I’ll have to come back. Find a time when I can search the house properly. Without you being home.
The rain has stopped, the sky is dark, uncompromising, and it perfectly sums up my mood as, with frustration, I kick out at the cliff, feel the pain in my toes and jump backwards as I watch a few random stones topple downwards, to land heavily on top of the body. I realise I can’t bury her here. I pick up the spade, then toss it to one side as the euphoria leaves, I feel the need to calm myself down and I sit down on wet rocks – watching the house – watching it through the darkness, where now I can see you walking up and down the hallway, poker in hand, as though you think it would help you. It’s a sight that makes me laugh, especially when I know that I’m not going to hurt you – not today, maybe not even tomorrow – however, I do like the way I can control your mind – the way I can make you feel the fear!
7
After a long night of listening to Beth tossing and turning in her sleep, Molly reluctantly pushed the duvet down and crawled on her hands
and knees to the bottom of the mattress. Every part of her ached. It was a pain she couldn’t explain, didn’t know if it had come from moving multiple boxes, or from sleeping on Beth’s dodgy old mattress, on a wooden floor, surrounded by draughts. Taking a moment to roll her shoulders, she used the settee to pull herself up, stood and made an attempt at stretching each of her muscles in turn, before padding down the hallway in search of coffee.
Tentatively, she pushed the kitchen door open, peered around it. Gave a half smile and she shook her head as her gaze landed on the boxes, on the way the lids had been tossed to one side. Realised now that Beth would have been doing as she’d been asked, making herself at home, unpacking. Picking up the randomly placed photographs, Molly placed them on the windowsill, lined them up with equal spacing, smiled. ‘If Beth wanted to see the pictures, then we’ll put them out properly.’ Casting an eye around the kitchen, she began opening cupboards searching for the picture of Michael. ‘It has to be here.’ She rolled her jaw, stared down the hallway to where Beth still slept, then back at the boxes that were piled up at the side of the room.
It occurred to her that the picture could now be hidden in any one of the boxes. She didn’t have the energy or the inclination to look and instead she flicked on the kettle, stood and looked through the kitchen window. She could see that the worst of the storm had passed and sighed as she studied a small willowy tree that stood central to the front lawn. It still arced in the wind and overnight the last of its autumn leaves had been torn from its branches to lie haphazardly scattered around its trunk, waiting for the next breeze to come along and blow them over the cliff and into the sea.
After making a mug of coffee, Molly began pulling open drawer after drawer, still searching for the picture, wondering whether Beth really would have moved it. She lifted one of the box lids. Looked inside, then stood back, counted the many boxes that still circumnavigated the kitchen. Some had laptops, iPads and other electrical items lying on top, and now the idea that someone else could have been in the house seemed ridiculous and she laughed at herself, remembering the way she’d stalked around the house, poker in hand, ready to fight. ‘They’d have taken a whole lot more than one scabby old photograph, wouldn’t they?’ she whispered as she moved along the boxes. Most were still sealed and she allowed her hand to move from one to the other, resting it on top of each as she went, palm down. It was as though by doing this she’d know the content, yet she still felt too afraid to open them and face the memory that would jump out from within.
Swallowing hard, she knew that every part of hers, Beth’s and her mum’s life was packed inside, and now she regretted not packing them herself, not labelling them properly. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried. She’d gone back to the rental and stood on the doorstep, daring herself to open the door, to place the key in the lock, but couldn’t. Within minutes of arriving, her legs had turned to jelly. Her breathing had quickened. Her skin had turned hot and clammy. The rapid blinking had begun, and she’d found herself holding onto the door jamb, unable to breathe. The need to run had become overwhelming and, in desperation, she’d slowly slid down the wall, to sit on the wet doormat, in the rain, sobbing uncontrollably, too afraid to venture inside. The thought of walking into that kitchen, her mum’s kitchen, seeing the exact spot where she’d died, had been simply unbearable.
Sitting there in the rain, she’d held onto her privacy for just a moment. Held a hand to the door, said her goodbyes. Then, as she’d looked up, she’d spotted the photographer. Frightened and alone, she’d scrambled around the house. Hiding in the garden, as unbelievably, she realised that the vultures were back, taking pictures, making money from her grief. Her only escape had been across a neighbouring garden. And feeling much too scared to go back, she’d arranged for the whole house to be cleaned and packed by a specialist team, only leaving her with the job of handing back the keys.
Moving from kitchen to hallway, Molly looked up the stairs, at the sloping roof, to where the small dormer window was perfectly positioned, and to the roofline that sloped haphazardly into the rooms. Furniture had been fitted sympathetically to make maximum use of the space and she smiled at the memory of the two small doors she’d found hidden inside each section of fitted wardrobes, two secret openings that led to the space within the eaves, two on each side of the house, one in each bedroom. The find had made her laugh and she’d imagined how lucky she was to have her very own entrance to Narnia, the perfect place to put all the boxes, all the parts of her life that she either had no wish to see or simply couldn’t let go.
‘Maybe I should step inside, look for Aslan,’ she whispered between sips of coffee. Felt the liquid sear her throat. The events of the night before had played on her mind, left her tired. She’d tossed and turned, hardly slept and had waited patiently for the sun to rise. And now that it had, she wanted to get out there, to run, to burn some energy, and she wanted to do it on what felt like her very own private beach. Taking in a deep breath, she rolled her shoulders backwards, tentatively looked past the willowy tree and at the sky, tried to decide whether the rain, wind, thunder and lightning of the night before would return, or whether they might get a reprieve that would last long enough for her to go for that run.
Nodding, she placed her coffee cup on the counter, ran upstairs, dug around in one of her many suitcases, and quickly pulled her running clothes on, found her trainers from the depths of another bag, and added them to her outfit.
‘Beth, I’m going for a run. I won’t be long,’ she shouted as she ran back down the stairs and along the bare floorboards that felt rough and cold beneath her feet. She heaved a sigh, wished for a new carpet, or even an old one. Knew she didn’t have a hope, not until payday, and even then she’d have to budget, have to work out how much running a house would cost. It was something she’d never had to think about before, she’d always paid board, but her mum had dealt with the bills and the shopping. And carpets or other necessities needed for the house had always been provided by the many landlords they’d known over the years.
‘You will be okay while I’m out, won’t you?’ She pushed her feet into her trainers. ‘Beth, did you hear me?’
‘Yes, the first time you growled.’ The muffled sound of Beth’s still half-asleep voice came from the makeshift bed, buried deep beneath a mountain of duvet. ‘Moll, don’t go. I—’
Molly took a deep breath. Thoughts of Charlie were fresh in her mind. She knew he was about to get out of prison and the thought was making her paranoid. Looking at her phone, she found the message. Furrowed her brow, shrugged it off. Knowing that it could have been sent from just about any one of her friends. Possibly one who’d changed their number and forgot to tell her. Worried she was reading into things that weren’t really happening, she deleted the message with a satisfied swish of her finger, turned the key in the lock, held a hand over the handle. ‘Hun. Don’t be silly, you’re perfectly safe and I won’t be long, I need to run. When I get back, we’ll start moving some of those boxes, find whatever it was you were looking for.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Beth shouted inquisitively.
‘The pictures of Mum?’
‘As normal, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
Molly shrugged. ‘And the picture of Michael. Did you move it?’
‘What?’
‘His picture, Michael’s picture, the one that was left behind, it’s missing.’ Molly rolled her eyes, once again stepped into the kitchen, began pulling cupboard doors open at speed, knowing that if Beth had hidden it, she wouldn’t have put too much effort into doing so. ‘Beth, come on. Help me look. This is serious.’
‘Oh, it’s serious, is it?’ She flounced dramatically down the hallway. ‘Actually, yeah, I remember moving it now. I put it on my bedside cabinet. Wanted a daily reminder of the man who fell off the bloody roof.’
‘Beth,’ she snapped, grabbed at the door.
Beth glared. ‘If you want a serious answer, then ask a serious
question. Why the hell would I want the picture? I didn’t even want to move here. And now look at what’s happening. You haven’t stopped shouting at me since the minute we got here. Things are disappearing and we, we’re creeping around, waiting for Mum’s murderer to jump out of the understairs cupboard.’ Her voice was loud and shrill. ‘Before you know it, we’ll be on the news, just like she was.’
Molly thought about what her sister had said and shook her head. ‘Is that what all of this is about, Beth? Are you doing things to freak me out? Because if you are, you need to stop it right now. We are not going back to live at Dan’s, and we’re not moving house again. Do you hear me?’ Angrily, she pressed her lips tightly together, felt her stomach twist with anxiety. ‘And as for locking me in the shed, that was a new low, even for you.’ Immediately she regretted her words, watched as Beth launched herself into the living room, slammed her phone down on the mattress, pulled at the duvet and held it protectively in front of her.
‘You really think I did that, do you?’ She paused, sobbing. ‘Well. If you want to believe that, then that’s fine. But, when we both get murdered in our sleep, you might want to remember – it was you that wanted to live here. Not me.’
8
Standing in the doorway, Molly tried to control her temper, tried to imagine what it must be like, to be just fifteen years old and to have lost so much, so quickly. Knuckle rubbing her eyes, she wished wholeheartedly that she could take back the words, turn back into being the sister, rather than the reluctant parent. Shaking her head, she poked the quilt with her toe, knelt down, laid a hand on Beth’s back and hoped for a response that didn’t come.
‘Okay,’ she said, standing back up, ‘I’m going to go for a run. When I get back, we’ll make some breakfast. I bought some bacon, some nice rolls. Oh, and some really nice tomatoes and lettuce, we could make BLTs with a big squirt of mayonnaise.’ Hoping the thought of food would cheer Beth up, she opened the front door, stepped outside, stretched her arms up above her head and took in a long, deep breath of salty sea air. The cold wind hit her squarely in the face and she shuddered as the offshore breeze seemed to attack from all directions, cutting swiftly through her, with sharp, penetrating razor-like slices.