by C. L. Taylor
Gareth unlaces his boots and places them by the front door.
‘Can’t you smell that?’ he asks as he walks back in and pulls
the cord on the standard lamp behind his armchair. ‘That burning smell?’
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His mum wrinkles her nose. ‘Maybe, a little bit. Are next door having a bonfire?’
‘No, Mum.’ He pulls the curtains shut. ‘You just incinerated
two boiled eggs and nearly burnt the house down.’
‘Oh dear.’ She moves to stand up but Gareth waves her back
down.
‘It’s fine. I’ve sorted it. But I think you’re going to have to stop cooking, Mum. This is the third time it’s happened.’
‘But I like cooking.’
‘Then we’ll cook together.’
‘But . . .’ she glances at the clock. ‘. . . you always get home so late and I was hungry.’
‘Didn’t Yvonne make a snack before she left?’
‘Who?’
‘Yvonne, your carer. She texted me to say you’d had fruitcake
and an apple. And Sally made you a sandwich for lunch.’
‘Did she?’ His mum waves a dismissive hand in his direction.
‘Stop talking please. I’m trying to watch EastEnders and you’re spoiling it.’
As Gareth settles back into his armchair he thinks guiltily of the fifteen minutes he spent parked up in McDonald’s car park
enjoying a Veggie Deluxe burger and large fries, washed down
with a vanilla milkshake. He’s going to have to give that up and get home earlier to cook supper for his mum. Not that he knows one end of a saucepan from the other. He’s going to have to get some recipe books and teach himself. Or maybe he could ask
someone to teach him. He thinks idly of Kath next door and
the nice smells that emanate from her kitchen when he’s out in the back garden hanging up his work shirts. He imagines a
different life, making dinner with her after work. He’d chop and she’d organise. They’d talk about their days and they’d laugh
about the stupid stuff they’d seen or heard and then—
Out of the corner of his eye he spots something unusual on
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the side table and snatches it up. It’s a postcard, of a man and woman dancing cheek to cheek. It’s all very 1950s. He’s in an
army uniform and she’s got bright red lips and hair that’s smooth and rolled around her face. He flips it over, reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses then peers at the familiar handwriting on the back. There’s his mother’s name and address on
the right and five words on the left.
I love you, Joan.
John
xHe smiles to himself at the simple romantic gesture and places it back on the table. Sally or Yvonne have obviously been through Mum’s memory box with her again, encouraging her to chat about her life. They must have forgotten to pack it all away. He gets up and retrieves the large wooden box from the dresser on the right of the TV then settles back in the armchair and opens the lid.
‘Mum,’ he says as he picks up the postcard, ‘how do you
fancy scrambled eggs on toast, or maybe—’
He breaks off, frowning at the stamp in the corner of the
postcard. It shows a Christmas scene but there’s something about the image that doesn’t look right. There’s a bright red post box with a bustling snowy shopping scene behind it but it’s not that that catches his eye. It’s the postwoman in a neon orange reflective jacket crouching down to retrieve the mail. A postwoman?
In a reflective jacket? It’s far too modern an image for when his mum and dad were courting. He holds the postcard at arm’s
length, squinting to make out the date in the blurred mark beside the wavy grey lines that cover the left side of the stamp. He
turns to stare at his mother.
His father went missing twenty years ago and the postmark
shows yesterday’s date.
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Chapter 8
@sammypammy99:
OMG. Apparently another man went missing on the
Harbourside.
@NotMobiledriver:
Yeah, I heard. Just disappeared around 3 a.m.
@sammypammy99:
Probably drunk, coming out of a club and fell into the water.
@MotobkeBob:
Clubbing on a Monday?
@elbowframe15:
People do do that you know.
@MotobkeBob:
Not if they’re over thirty.
@elbowframe15:
Well I’m over thirty and I’ve been known to go clubbing
after a work do on a weekday.
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@dopeydons:
Poor bloke. I guessing they’ll be fishing him out of the
water in a few days.
@lisaharte101:
Fishing him out of the water? Nice. Imagine it was your
son or brother who was missing?
@sammypammy99:
Actually the first man to go missing hasn’t been found
yet.
@gemzy9:
OMG. We’re all assuming they fell in the Avon but what
if a serial killer’s hiding them in his basement or some-
thing?
@MotobkeBob:
Yeah, because that’s likely.
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Chapter 9
Ursula
Ursula parks up outside number fifteen William Street, flips down the sun visor and scrutinises her refection in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her eye make-up is a little smudged and her bottom lip is chapped but she looks presentable. Presentable-ish.
She rakes her fingers through her fringe then sniffs at her armpits and wrinkles her nose. She takes a deodorant can from the
glovebox and applies it liberally. 5.58 p.m. Time to meet her
new landlord.
After Charlotte and Nick kicked her out she burned through
her deliveries, forgoing chats with her regulars to try and make up time. A visit to the shopping centre was the carrot at the
end of her shift and, after she’d delivered her last parcel, she’d driven to the Meads with her shoulders hunched, a pain in her
chest and her forearms knotted tight.
Don’t, said a voice in the back of her head. Don’t do it. It’s what got you in this mess in the first place. But her legs had 41
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ignored the frantic pleading of her mind and carried her out of the car park, across the forecourt and through the glass doors of Mirage Fashions. The shop was empty apart from two assistants and the bored-looking security guard. That made it risky, more risky than normal, but she didn’t turn back. Instead she
headed towards the back of the shop as adrenaline coursed
through her, quickening her reflexes and sweeping her anxiety
away. There was no plan, no item she particularly wanted or
needed, but the urge to steal crawled from her forearms to her fingertips, like ants under her skin. She’d feel better once she’d taken something, when it was in her hand or under her jacket
or shoved deep into her bag; the tension knotting her shoulders would vanish and she’d be able to breathe deeply again. She
searched the rows of clothes like a magpie, her heart thumping in her chest. She felt a spark of irritation as the shop manager drew closer, pretending to sort one of the racks.
Spotting the man with the bunch of flowers, gesturing for her
to get the shop manager’s attention, had been a godsend. The
moment the manager set off across the store, Ursula had whipped the sparkly dress from the hanger and shoved it into her jacket.
The security guard hadn’t given her so much as a second look
as she’d marched through the glass double doors. Her high had
lasted for all of the four or five minutes it took her to leave the Meads, enter the car park and open the door to her van. Then
the shame set in and her mind filled with noise: discordant voices shouting over each other, telling her she was fat, a failure,
unlovable, unliked and unwanted.
‘You’re a freak.’
‘What’s the weather like up there, Mount Ursula?’
‘You scared the children. You need to get help.’
‘You’ll never amount to anything.’
She shoved the dress under the passenger seat, squishing it
up against cutlery she’d stolen from restaurants, plastic pot
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plants she taken from McDonald’s, a cushion she’d nabbed from
a café, make-up she’d swiped from Debenhams and lots and
lots of clothes and jewellery with the tags still on. Then she started the engine, pressed play on her CD player and blasted
out George Michael, turning the volume louder and louder until her eardrums throbbed.
Now, she opens the door to the van, walks up the path to
the small terraced house in Totterdown and knocks on the door.
Unlike the other houses on the narrow, car-lined street there’s no light on beyond the bay window and no television screen
flickering from between the gaps in the blinds. Ursula raises her eyes to the first floor. No light on in the bedroom either. She checks her watch. 6.03 p.m.
She knocks again, then jolts as the door is wrenched open,
leaving her curled fist hanging in the air. Even with the step up into the house the man in the doorway is still several inches
shorter than her. His gaze flicks from her face to her battered trainers and then back again and she braces herself for the
inevitable comment about her height.
‘Edward.’ He holds out a slim hand. His eyes seem to bore
into her from behind his round, wire-framed specs. ‘You must
be Ursula.’
She returns the handshake, noting the man’s neatly clipped
nails. He doesn’t look like she imagined from their brief phone call. She thought he’d be tall and angular like Benedict
Cumberbatch, but he’s actually very small and slight. His is the physique of a thirteen-year-old boy but there’s a ruggedness to his skin and a peppering to his temples that suggests he’s at
least mid-thirties. His accent, and polo shirt and chinos, suggest he’s posh, but the hall carpet by his feet is thin and worn, and when he turns on the light only one bulb in the overhead fixture comes on.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ she says.
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Edward doesn’t immediately respond, instead he continues to
stare up at her. The intensity in his eyes, small and bright behind his Harry Potter glasses, makes her shift from foot to foot. But then he smiles and Ursula feels the tension in her belly melt
away.
‘Do come in,’ Edward says. ‘I’ll give you the tour.’
He leads her into the living room first and switches on the
light. There’s nothing unusual about the rooms. Nothing remarkable either. There’s a shabby two-seater sofa covered with a
multi-coloured ethnic throw that looks like it was rescued from a student bedroom in the 1990s, a forty-inch TV in the corner
of the room, a large brown leather armchair and a gilt mirror
above the fireplace. There are no prints on the walls, no books, no ornaments, nothing to give the room any character apart
from a dartboard on the wall opposite the doorway. Edward
catches her looking at it.
‘I like darts.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Obviously.’
A memory creeps into Ursula’s head, of Nathan standing
beside her in the pub, pointing across the room and shaking
with laughter at the three darts she managed to embed in the
wall.
‘I’m a courier,’ she says as she follows Edward to the galley
kitchen. It’s so cramped she has to remain in the doorway while he points out the oven, sink, microwave and recycling bins and explains that he does his washing at a local laundrette because there’s no space for a machine. Like the living room it’s a bland, characterless space. There’s a wooden knife block with six
gleaming stainless steel handles and a yellow-white kettle that looks like it’s seen better days. The only splash of colour is a portable red digital radio, the news reporter gravely explaining how another man had gone missing near the Harbourside.
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I get a delivery of parcels every morning, at about 6 a.m. It’s my round for the day. Would that be a problem?’
Edward glances in her direction but his gaze doesn’t rest on
her face, instead it drifts past her, towards the front door. He frowns as though considering the request. ‘Where would you
keep them?’
‘In the living room.’ Ursula mentally kicks herself. She should have given herself enough time to make a good impression on
him before mentioning this. ‘But only for an hour or so, until I load the van.’ She pauses, trying to read the troubled look in his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a problem, isn’t it? I can tell by the look on your face.’
‘No, no.’ His gaze sweeps past her to the knife block. He
straightens the breadknife by a millimetre or so then wipes his hands on his chinos. ‘I don’t get up until 7.30 a.m. so if they’re out of the house by then it won’t be a problem.’
‘What do you do,’ she asks him, ‘for a living?’
‘I get by,’ he says in a manner that lets Ursula know that the subject is closed.
The voice on the radio stops speaking and the tinny beats of
a pop song fill the room. It’s loud, louder than most people
listen to the radio in their homes, but Ursula doesn’t care; when a good track comes on she cranks the volume right up in her
van.
‘I like this song,’ she says, then immediately wonders why.
She doesn’t like this sort of thing – a trembling female voice, screeching about a man who did her wrong. She likes George
Michael, Mariah Carey, Whitney Houston, ABBA and early
Madonna. She was too young to enjoy the music when it first
came out but there’s something about 80s hits that appeals to
her. They’re cosy and safe.
‘Do you listen to the radio?’ Edward asks.
‘Not much.’ She shrugs. ‘I prefer CDs. But I listen to Ken
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Bruce’s pop quiz sometimes, to test myself. I never score very highly though.’
He wrinkles his nose disapprovingly. ‘Well don’t get any ideas, about changing the station. I like it t
o stay on all the time. No turning it off. No fiddling with the volume.’
‘No problem. Oh. What’s through there?’ Ursula touches the
door to her left. There are three doors in the kitchen: one at the far end that leads to a boxy garden, the door to the hall
that was propped open, and this one. ‘Downstairs loo is it?’
‘No.’ Something in his expression shifts. ‘The basement.’
‘Oh. Cool. Good for storage. You wouldn’t believe the amount
of stuff I’ve got in the van. I could—’
Edward crosses the kitchen and lays a hand on the door. ‘I’m
afraid the basement is off limits.’ He smiles tightly. ‘Although you’re very welcome to make full use of the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom and the garden.’
‘Great.’ Ursula flashes a fake smile in his direction as a knot forms in her stomach. She can already predict how this living
arrangement will work out. She’ll be told off for leaving coffee mugs in the living room and smearing toothpaste onto the sink.
On the other hand – she glances around the minimalistic space
– there’s nothing to steal.
She sniffs, subtly. There’s a weird smell in the kitchen that
she can’t place. The counters and oven top are thoroughly
scrubbed but there’s a distinctly musty tang to the air.
‘Upstairs next,’ Edward says and she flattens herself up against the hall wall to let him past.
Any doubts Ursula might have had about living with Edward
disappear the second he opens the door to her potential bedroom.
She’d anticipated the room being poky but it’s absolutely enormous. Well, maybe not enormous, but it’s much bigger than the
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bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers with a small flat screen television on the top and a comfy-looking armchair in the corner.
Not to mention the picture window that stretches across one
wall. The curtains are drawn back and the sun is an orange
streak across the sky but she can imagine the room being flooded with light earlier in the day. She’d never need to venture down to the lounge with a room like this.
‘It’s £350 including bills, right?’ she asks, perching on the bed and running her hands over the spotless mattress.