by C. L. Taylor
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I’d love to go to dinner with you.’ She’s just about to ask him what time when she’s interrupted by her
mobile bleeping. ‘One second, sorry.’ As she takes her phone
out of her bag she inhales sharply. It’s 2.17 p.m. She’s late back for work.
Where are you? Lynne’s text asks. Everything ok? Fancy the cinema later?
Sorry, she texts back. I’ve got a night in with Emily planned.
She cringes at the lie but she can’t tell her best friend about dinner with Simon or she’ll have to explain that she ran into
him at Costa. Lynne would insist on analysing every detail to
death and she can’t face the third degree, not when she’s got so much else on her mind.
‘You all right?’ Simon asks as she gathers up her partially
eaten sandwich, the edges dry and curling.
‘Yes, yes. Just um . . . I didn’t realise what time it was. I’m late for work.’
‘Oh God, sorry. Shall I text you later, about going out for
dinner?’
‘Yes,’ she says, as she pushes her chair away from the table.
‘That would be lovely.’
As Alice and Simon get up, so does the woman at the other
table. She bounds across the two metres or so that separate them and touches Simon on the arm. He reacts as though he was
prodded with a knife rather than a finger and turns sharply,
knocking against a passing barista.
‘Simon?’ the woman says as he stares at her with undisguised
horror. ‘It is you, isn’t it? I’ve so missed—’
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He shakes his head sharply. ‘You’ve confused me with
someone else.’
‘No, I don’t think I have. I’ve been—’
The rest of her sentence is lost as Simon says to Alice, ‘Let’s get you back to work,’ then he takes her by the arm and half-guides, half-pulls her down the narrow corridor between the
other diners. Alice glances back as he opens the door. The other woman is still standing by the table, watching them go, her arms spread wide and a look of incredulity on her face.
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Chapter 13
Ursula
Tuesday
Ursula flicks the Vs at Charlotte and Matt’s house as she drives past in her van. She’s starting to suspect that it was a blessing in disguise, them kicking her out. Edward, her new landlord,
wasn’t awake when she got up and she’d leisurely nosed at his
bathroom belongings as she brushed her teeth. Her fingers had
closed over a small nailbrush next to a metal pair of clippers in the back of the bathroom cabinet. She scrubbed her fingernails in the sink, then, before she knew what she was doing, slipped the nailbrush into her pyjama bottom pocket. She ran her fingertips over the bristles as she left the bathroom, then stopped at her bedroom door and reluctantly turned back. Edward might
not miss this nailbrush today, he might not even realise it was missing for weeks, but at some point he’d want it. She had to
return it.
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Afterwards she headed down to the kitchen with the small
box of groceries that Charlotte and Nick had so ‘helpfully’
packed up for her. She put on the kettle then glanced at the
radio, blaring out Stevie Wonder’s ‘Superstition’. Smirking to herself, she wondered what Ed would do if she changed the
station. She moved a finger towards the retune button, then
snatched her hand away, turning the movement into an elaborate dance move. She didn’t really care what radio station her landlord listened to, as long as it played music. As the kettle bubbled she slotted two pieces of bread into the toaster and looked
through the cupboards. Edward’s minimalism ran to his food
choices too – half a dozen tins of baked beans, the same of
baked beans with sausages, seven tins of tomatoes, seven cans
of sardines, a half-kilo bag of pasta and the same of rice. That was it. There wasn’t a single vegetable in the fridge, just a four-litre bottle of milk, some Flora Light and several bottles of
Actimel. It was only when she investigated the drawer beneath
the cutlery drawer that she found something of interest. Lying flat on the base of the drawer, beneath a roll of duct tape, a box of nails and a screwdriver kit, was a thick wodge of paper, stapled together. She lifted out the tape, nails and screwdriver, then hooked her nails under the edge of the document and
picked it up. She scanned the first few lines: ‘Tenancy Agreement between Mr Edward Bennett and Mrs Maureen O’Shea . . .’ So
that was why Edward hadn’t given her a contract to sign. He was subletting her room; something explicitly forbidden in the agreement. She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t the only member of the household with a secret. Always useful to know.
She turned her attention to the locked door to the basement
next. She jiggled the handle up and down several times, pulled on it, then peered into the dark keyhole.
‘Hello!’ she shouted into the tiny space, her lips grazing the cold brass fixture. ‘Is there anyone in there?’
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She fell silent, listening for an answer, then laughed nervously.
If there was someone in there and they shouted back, she’d shit her pants.
There was no way that Edward was keeping a person locked
up in the basement. Strange landlord, locked basement, lone
female flatmate hunting around. It was like something out of a Sunday night ITV drama. At best he was keeping something
expensive down there. At worst it was a dumping ground for
all his unwanted junk. She hadn’t spotted any keys during her
search and if there was something expensive in the basement
Edward probably wouldn’t let them out of his sight.
Now Ursula sings along to ‘Holiday’ by Madonna as she
navigates the narrow streets of South Bristol, parking up outside identikit terraced houses and rummaging around in the back of
her van for parcels. She’s met with smiles of delight, surprise and relief at every door she knocks on. Apart from one. It hasn’t opened once in the eleven months that Ursula has been doing
this round. She rings the bell, then looks expectantly at the
nearest panel of the bay window. There’s a light on in the living room and some kind of kid’s show on the TV, but there’s no
one sitting on the sofa and no small child crawling around on
the rug. The parcel in Ursula’s hands is from a clothing store and there’s a man’s name written above the address: Paul Wilson.
She doesn’t visit this address more than once or twice a month but the parcels are always for him, never for the flustered, pink-cheeked woman who takes them in through the living room
window rather than open the front door. But there’s no sign of her now. Ursula glances at her watch then rings the doorbell
again. A non-delivery means she won’t get paid and she’ll have to try again tomorrow which will cost her in petrol and time.
Perhaps the woman’s gone out? But she’s always in, no matter
what time of day Ursula arrives.
‘Hello?’ She tries tapping on the windowpane then crouches
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down and peers through the letter-box. There’s washing hanging on the radiator in the hall and a row of shoes – male, female
and toddler sized – along the skirting board. There’s no door
to the kitchen and she can see into that too – to the messy
worktops covered with pots, pans, plastic containers and what
looks a large pile of vegetable peelings.
Sighing, she turns to go. It’s a wasted visit and 70p lost. As she reaches the gate a tapping sound makes her turn. The home-owner is at the window, the baby in her arms and a frantic
expression on her face.
It’s an unusual way of delivering parcels, through a window,
and the first time it happened Ursula had assumed that maybe
the woman didn’t want to leave her child alone on the floor of the living room to answer the door, or maybe she felt it was
quicker. Lots of Ursula’s customers have little quirks – there’s the weird man on Hawthorne Street who always asks her if
she’d like to come in to use the loo, the elderly lady on Redcatch Road who always mentions the weather, and the young couple
on Bushy Park who always race to answer the door first. The
second time this customer opened the window to her, Ursula
asked whether the door was broken and received no reply.
‘Sorry,’ the woman pushes the window open and jiggles the
baby onto her hip as she reaches a hand out for the parcel. ‘I was in the toilet.’
It’s the first time the woman has ever spoken directly to her.
She normally opens the window, reaches for the parcel, signs
the electronic tracker and then disappears out of view.
‘No problem.’ Ursula smiles at the child that’s gawping at her with large, startled blue eyes that match the woman’s. ‘Out of curiosity, why do you never answer the door?’
‘I’m . . . I’m . . .’ The customer’s gaze flits from Ursula to the house opposite and then to the cars parked up on the street.
The base of her throat flushes red.
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‘Agoraphobic?’ Ursula ventures. ‘You don’t like going out?’
‘No.’ The woman shakes her head sharply. ‘No . . . no, I don’t.’
‘Food shopping must take a while if they have to hand each
item to you through the window.’
The blush at the base of the woman’s throat deepens. ‘I . . .
I don’t . . . my husband does the food shopping. He brings it home with him after work.’
There’s something about the woman with her wide, frantic
eyes, twitchy hand gestures and her habit of shifting from foot to foot as she speaks as though her skin is pulled too tightly over her body that strikes a chord with Ursula. There’s something about her awkwardness that she can identify with.
‘Is your husband very understanding?’ she asks. ‘About your
condition? It must be very hard, especially with a little one.’ She gestures towards the child. Her soft grunts have become pained whines and she twists and thrashes in her mother’s arms.
‘If I could just have the parcel?’ The woman presses her
shoulder up against the windowpane and waggles her hand.
‘She’s due a nap.’
‘Of course.’
There’s an awkward dance between Ursula and her customer
as the parcel is tugged and pushed through the small gap in the window. Ursula waits while the woman juggles the heavy package with one hand, using her knee to carefully guide it onto the
sofa, then slips the electronic parcel tracker through the window.
‘You can sign it with your fingernail,’ she says, even though
the woman has signed for multiple parcels before. She waits for the woman to look up, to smile tightly as she normally does,
but, as she lifts her finger from the screen, her gaze remains lowered. She continues to stare at nothing for a second, maybe two, after Ursula has pulled the device back through the open
window, then without stopping to pick up the parcel she turns
and walks across the living room and out of the door.
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‘Bye!’ Ursula stares after her, then swears under her breath
as her phone vibrates in the little leather pouch attached to her belt.
Please don’t let it be bad news, she thinks as she unsnaps the popper on the pouch and pulls out her mobile. She’s only had
one customer complaint to the office in the eleven months she’s been doing the job and even then the damaged parcel wasn’t
her fault; it was battered when Bob delivered it.
But it’s not a message from the office informing her there’s
been a complaint. It’s not from the office at all. It’s from Edward, her landlord-cum-flatmate.
While I am happy for you to use the items of crockery and
cutlery in the kitchen, may I kindly remind you that my personal possessions are not for shared use. I wouldn’t dream of touching any of your belongings (unless I were cleaning and even then I’d ask you to remove such items before I began). Please extend me the same courtesy. You really DON’T want to fall out with me about this. E.
Ursula raises her eyebrows as she rereads the message. It’s a
bit of an overreaction considering all she did was use his nailbrush, and she doesn’t like the threatening tone. And how does he know that she used it anyway? Unless he’s got spy cameras
rigged up in the bathroom? A shiver runs up her spine. As soon as she gets back she’s going to check.
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Chapter 14
Gareth
Gareth is in the CCTV room, scanning the screens, when he
spots his dad. But that’s not his first thought. What goes through his mind is, that man’s moving very slowly. The other shoppers appear to be zooming past him. He’s walking against the tide,
his white-grey hair contrasting against the white, pink, brown skin tones of the people moving towards the camera rather than away. Gareth zooms in. There is nothing remarkable about the
man. He’s average height, his age-bleached hair thinning at the crown to reveal a pink scalp, and his olive-green Gortex-style jacket is slightly too large for his shoulders. But there’s something about his stance that makes Gareth sit up taller in his chair. The man might be in his seventies or eighties but there’s no curve to his back or stoop to his head. He’s standing erect, shoulders back, neck long, head still. It’s the posture of a private on parade or a sailor standing to attention in front of a senior officer.
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sideboard at home, of the neatly looping writing and I love you, Joan.
Gareth’s heart pounds against his ribs. Could it be him? Could his dad have shown up at the Meads looking for his son? Is
that why he’s standing to attention on a walkway, staring intently into a shop? Does he want to reconnect with Gareth before he
makes his way home? Does he want to soften the shock?
Frantically, Gareth looks from screen to screen, searching for a better angle of the man who may or may not be his dad, but
none of the cameras are situated in a position where they can
zoom in on the man’s face. The best he can find is a quarter
profile. He zooms in, examining the shape of the man’s nose,
the heav
iness of his brow and the curve of his chin. Is it him?
It’s been twenty years and his dad will have aged, but there are enough similarities to make Gareth jump to his feet.
He looks from the screen to the door, then at his radio, lying on the desk. He could ask one of the other guards to apprehend the man and ask him who he is but what if he lies? What if his dad isn’t ready to be reunited with his family yet? What if the confrontation makes him go back underground? He can’t take
that risk. He has to look the man in the face himself. Even after twenty years he’d know his dad. There are some things time
can’t steal.
He picks up his radio. Strictly speaking, the control room
should be manned at all times – he could count on the fingers
of one hand the number of times he’s abandoned his post for
more than a three-minute toilet break over the last thirteen years
– but there is no way he can ask for one of his colleagues to
take over. They’d ask questions, questions he isn’t entirely sure he wants to answer, not yet. As far as everyone else knows, his dad is dead. He decides to go for it. He’ll sprint down the steps, run across the first-floor walkway, take a look at the man and, if it isn’t his dad, he’ll run back again. He’d be away from his 76
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desk for less than four minutes. Three minutes tops. And if it is his dad? Then he won’t care how long he’s away from his desk.
He glances at his watch as he leaves the office, then he speeds down the stairs.
He’s gone. Gareth stands outside Mirage Fashions and turns in
a full circle but there’s no sign of the man who was standing
there just minutes ago. He’s completely disappeared. Gareth runs the length of the upper floor, searching the escalators and peering over the barriers into the lower floor. Several white- and grey-haired men catch his eye but there’s no sign of the one he saw on the screen. He runs back towards Mirage Fashions and
through the open door. Larry, their security guard, is on the
other side of the shop. He raises a hand in hello but Gareth