by C. L. Taylor
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Gareth raises his eyebrows. ‘Received. What do you mean by
scuffle? Over.’
‘Not entirely sure. Sounds like she was assaulted but fought
back. Not by the IC1, someone else. Over.’
‘Is she pressing charges? Over.’
‘I asked her that and she said no. Over.’
Gareth runs a hand across his face. He wishes he could go
down and chat to her, to see if she’s okay and counsel her about pressing charges. But he can’t. He can’t leave the CCTV office when he’s manning it alone, not even for five minutes. At 2 p.m.
he’ll swap with one of the other guards, currently on patrol.
Until then he’s got to stay where he is.
‘All right,’ he says into his radio. ‘Don’t forget to write it up and file it. Over and out.’
He wheels himself over to the side of the desk and enters the
details of the incident into the database, then rolls back to the centre of the desk. He looks from screen to screen, watching
mothers pushing babies in prams, dads carrying young children
on their shoulders, toddlers having tantrums, two elderly ladies walking arm in arm, a small group of teenagers on the skive
from school, a single bloke, a single woman, people frowning,
laughing, chatting and deliberating. It’s not a large shopping centre – two floors (three if you count the level where the CCTV
office is situated) containing about forty shops. But hundreds of people go in and out of the Meads every day, and he watches
them – looking for signs of trouble, for shoplifters and vandals, for the infirm and unwell, for missing children and frantic
parents, for accidents waiting to happen (or accidents that
already have). Even when he’s on patrol people rarely look him in the eye. The other guards moan about their families – how
their wives nag, how their kids fight, and how the dog’s shat
behind the sofa again. But in the same breath they’ll tell him what a bloody good mum their missus is, how their kids were
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‘star of the week’ at school, and how the dog’s learned a new
trick.
Gareth’s just got his mum. He lives in the same house he was
born in. You could blindfold him and spin him around and he
could still find his way from the living room to his bedroom
without stepping on the loose nail in the stairs or the squeaky plank in the hall.
His mum used to wake him up in the morning with a sharp
tap on the door and a cup of tea on his bedside table. He can’t remember the last time she did that. Before Dad left maybe?
These days it’s him doing the waking up: knocking softly at her door, opening it a crack, holding his breath, looking at the small shape of her shrouded by the duvet, watching for the rise and
fall of her chest.
The thought makes him dig in his back pocket for his mobile.
It’s 1.40 p.m. and, sure enough, there’s a text from his mum’s carer Sally.
All good. Mum seems coherent today. She was telling me all about your dad and how he won the biggest marrow competition at some fair. I’ve left her with a sandwich and Bargain Hunt
on the TV. Yvonne arrived before I left.
Yvonne is his mum’s other carer. Gareth hits reply and slides
his thumb over the screen.
Any visitors today?
There’s a pause then,
That man from the church popped in.
Gareth grimaces. William Mackesy, the local Spiritualist
Church leader, aka the biggest fraud that ever lived. He taps out a reply: What did he want?
A text pings back: He just wanted to say hello but he did
mention something to your mum that freaked her out a bit.
What’s that?
I’m not sure I should tell you.
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Tell me!
There’s another pause then Gareth’s phone pings again.
He said he’s been receiving messages from the other side for you and that you should be careful. There’s someone close by who means you harm.
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Chapter 5
Ursula
Ursula steps from foot to foot as she fumbles her key into the lock.
‘Come on, come on, come on!’
The key doesn’t turn so she wiggles the handle. To her surprise the door opens. It’s the middle of the day and both of her flatmates are at work. There’s a distinct possibility that she might be about to interrupt a burglar clearing out the house, but Ursula doesn’t care. She bursts into the hallway, slams the front door shut with a kick of her foot and speeds up the stairs to the
bathroom. At the sight of the white porcelain her pelvic muscles weaken, she lets out at little squeal of alarm and yanks down
her jogging bottoms. She needs to use the toilet, leave the house and get back in the van as quickly as possible. The traffic was terrible at Temple Meads and she’s already running seven minutes behind schedule. Much more and she won’t complete her delivery round on time.
‘Ahhhh.’ She sighs with relief as her bottom hits the seat. As 20
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she reaches for the toilet roll there’s a sharp knock at the bathroom door that makes her jump.
‘Ursula, it’s Charlotte. Can I have a word in the living room
when you’re done?’
Charlotte? What’s she doing at home? Ursula pulls up her
pants and jogging bottoms, washes her hands and reaches for
her pink hand towel. But it’s not on the top rung of the metal wall radiator. Matt’s black towel is on the next rung down and Charlotte’s grey towel beneath that, but hers isn’t there. She looks down at the tiled floor then peers behind the sink. It’s definitely gone. As she casts her eye around the small bathroom she notices other missing items – her toothbrush and toothpaste, her shower gel, her shampoo and conditioner, her body cream
and her contact lens solution and pot. Charlotte and Matt’s
things are still in their usual places so it’s not as though one of them went on a cleaning rampage – something Matt is very fond
of doing ridiculously early on a Sunday morning, Ursula’s only day off. So why move her things? Glancing at her watch, she
hurries across the landing, throws open the door to her bedroom and steps inside. Then immediately steps back out again. She’s in the wrong room, maybe even the wrong house . . .
‘Charlotte!’ She hurries down the stairs and through the open
door of the lounge. She stops short and gawps at the enormous
pile of cardboard boxes crowding the middle of the room.
‘We’re very sorry, Ursula.’
She jolts at Matt’s voice. He’s sitting on the sofa behind the mountain of cardboard, his fingers entwined with Charlotte’s.
‘Sorry? Sorry about wh—’
The pieces slot, Tetris-like, into shape. They’ve packed up all her stuff. That’s why her bedroom has been stripped bare and
none of her things are in the bathroom. That’s why Charlotte
zipped back into her room without saying good morning when
they passed on the landing a little after seven. It’s why Matt 21
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cheerily offered her a cup of coffee when she came downstairs.
They planned this. They let her think they were going to work
and then they let themselves into her room and they moved her
out.
‘You’ve been through my things,’ she says, goose bumps prick-
ling beneath the thick cotton of her hoody. ‘My personal things.’
‘Not just your things, Ursula.’ Matt tugs his hand from Charlotte’s and stands up. At a little under six foot he has to tilt his chin up to make eye contact with Ursula but there’s no fear on his face (despite her size). Instead he looks determined, and more than a little pissed off.
‘We knew it was you.’ Unlike Matt’s steady tone, Charlotte’s
voice is tight and screechy with emotion. ‘We tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. We made allowances for you, Ursula.
We even told you that if you returned our things we’d say no
more about it but—’
‘You took her granny’s wedding ring,’ Matt says. ‘That had
huge sentimental value to Charlotte. Didn’t it, Char?’
Charlotte nods, her eyes shining with tears. Ursula’s throat
tightens. She didn’t know it was her granny’s ring or that it had sentimental value. The little ceramic dish had been in the bathroom for what felt like forever. There wasn’t much in it – some hair bands, toothbrush heads, the knob that had come unscrewed from the cupboard, and a slim gold band with a slit that broke its perfect circle. It had glinted at her in the early morning sun and she’d picked it up and put it in her pocket. She barely even noticed herself doing it. She’d been thinking about Nathan at
the time.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says now. ‘I meant to put it back.’
‘Like you meant to put my watch back,’ Matt says, ‘and Char’s
mug and my pen and her scarf and my photo frame and . . .’
He shakes his head. ‘I’d be here all day if I listed it all. We found it, by the way, all our stuff, and some things that belong to our 22
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friends. Friends who stayed over on the sofa believing that their belongings would be safe in our house.’
Ursula swallows. She hadn’t meant to take the fancy shower
gel from the bathroom, or the book from the arm of the sofa,
or the umbrella from the hook in the hall. She’d wanted to
return them – she always wanted to return the things she took
– but the friends never stayed long enough for her to sneak their valuables back into their bags. Unfortunately there’d been no
way she could return Charlotte’s ring to the dish after she’d
practically torn the bathroom apart looking for it.
‘There was other stuff we found in your room too,’ Charlotte
says. ‘Clothes, jewellery, knick-knacks with price tags attached.
Matt said we should go to the police but I don’t want you to
go to prison. I just want . . . I just want . . .’ Her voice breaks and she sobs.
‘Please, Charlotte,’ Ursula begs. ‘Please don’t do this. I’ll
change. I promise. You can’t kick me out. I’ve got no money
and nowhere else to go.’
‘You could stay with your mum.’
‘I can’t. Even if she wanted me there I couldn’t afford the
flight to Spain and there’s no one, literally no one else in Bristol I can stay with.’
‘Nathan’s mum then.’
‘No.’ Ursula shakes her head violently, tears pricking at her
eyes. ‘Please, Charlotte. Let’s talk about this. Let’s sit down this evening, have a glass of wine and sort it out.’
‘I can’t.’ Charlotte shakes her head miserably. ‘I’m sorry but I really can’t.’
Matt presses a hand to his girlfriend’s shoulder and gives it
a consoling squeeze. ‘I’m sorry, Ursula. We just want you out.’
Fat tears drop onto the piece of paper in Ursula’s hands. The
back of the van is crammed with her belongings, the engine is
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running and she’s nearly forty-five minutes behind schedule, but she can’t bring herself to release the handbrake and pull away.
She managed to hold it together until Matt held out his hand.
When she went to shake it he snatched it away.
‘Your house keys.’
Hot tears welled in her eyes as she unclipped two keys from
her keyring and dropped them into his palm.
‘Where do I go?’ The words scratched at her throat. ‘I’ve got
nowhere to live.’
Other than Charlotte and Matt, she doesn’t really know
anyone in Bristol. There’s Bob, the guy who drops round her
packages every morning, but other than a brusque ‘hello’ they’ve never actually spoken. Her boss Jackie is nice but she’s married with two kids and won’t have space. And Ursula isn’t in touch
with anyone from her previous job as a primary school teacher.
Her thoughts flit from the present to the past, to a bench outside Banco Lounge, six pints lined up on the table, male laughter
and the sun making her squint. Nathan is beside her, as small, round and hairy as a bear, his rotund tummy wedged between
his lap and the top of the table. His friends . . . she searches their sepia faces and plucks names from the air. Andy. ‘Randy
Andy’, Nathan called him. Joe. Tom. Harry. Even if she could
get in touch and they had a spare room, they wouldn’t want
her to move in. They blame her for what happened, even if
they’ve never come out and said it. It’s why she deliberately lost touch with them. When she lost Nathan half her world disappeared too.
She swipes a hand over her eyes, dampening the sleeve of the
Long Tall Sally hoody she bought on eBay, and focuses on the
image on her phone. It’s a photograph Charlotte just texted her of an advert in a shop window. She can see the grey shape of
Charlotte reflected in it. Something twangs in Ursula’s heart.
She’d assumed that Matt was the driving force behind getting
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her out of the house. She never completely warmed to him,
despite sharing a home for over half a year. He’d given her a
strange, narrow-eyed look, and wrinkled his nose – just the
tiniest amount but enough for her to notice – when Charlotte
introduced them for the first time.
‘My boyfriend, Matt!’ Charlotte’s face glowed with pride,
before a flash of apprehension dulled it as she glanced at Ursula, looking – hoping – for approval.
They were living together – Charlotte and Ursula, best friends since secondary school – in the two-bedroom terraced house
that Charlotte had bought with her inheritance money when
her father died. They were happy – happyish – and then Matt
moved in and everything changed. All the little routines they’d established – late night sofa chats, girls’ night in, cinema on Sunday – gradually disappeared and Ursula began to spend more
and more time alone in her room. Three was most certainly a
crowd.
House share available now.
She reads the first line of the handwritten advert.
William Street. Decent-sized double room with bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers available for clean, tidy, non-smoker empl
oyed person (m or f). Shared use of kitchen. Live-in landlord. Parking available. £350 pcm including bills. No pets, couples or benefits.
A telephone number is listed below the description.
Ursula glances back at the house she called home for nearly
two years and spots movement at the far left of the living room window, Roman blinds that suddenly close.
She looks back at the advert. William Street is still in
Totterdown, just a few roads away. If she stays in the neigh-
bourhood she’ll get to keep her round and she likes her clients and the safe familiarity of the local roads. The rent is very
reasonable too. It’s a whole hundred pounds less than she’s been paying Charlotte.
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She dials the number, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. She mustn’t get her hopes up. The room’s bound to have gone, or
else it’s tiny and dirty, or the landlord’s a weirdo. If she doesn’t
– or can’t – take it she’ll have to find a hotel for the night, something she can barely afford when she’s earning seventy
pence for every parcel she delivers. And she can’t take tomorrow off work to go round letting agents; she simply can’t afford it.
As the number dials out she raises her eyes to the ceiling of
her white van and says a quick prayer.
If this pans out I’ll never steal anything again. I promise.
And this time I’ll keep it, she adds as an afterthought.
‘Hello?’ a pleasant male voice says into her left ear.
‘Hello, I’m calling about the room. My name’s Ursula Andrews
and—’
‘Like the Bond girl?’
She fakes a laugh, the number of times she’s heard that. ‘No,
that was Ursula Andress, she’s like eighty or something. I’m
thirty-two years old. I don’t smoke and I’m very neat . . . well . . .
quite neat. I’m a courier. I wasn’t always one. I used to be a primary school teacher . . . Sorry, I’m waffling. Anyway, I need to take in my deliveries every morning but they wouldn’t get in your way and—’
Warm laughter interrupts her. ‘You sound nervous, Ursula.
Take a breath.’
He sounds posh, which makes her more nervous, but she does
as she’s told and fills her lungs with the warm cab air then