by C. L. Taylor
about. Ruth Cotter, the auntie he’s never met. He’s not entirely sure why the two sisters fell out – his mum said it was because she was left more money in their father’s will. Whereas Uncle
Tony, his mum’s brother, once drunkenly claimed that the sisters fell out when Ruth spotted John at a dance and told her sister that was the man she was going to marry, only for Joan to
accept his invitation to dance. But that was over fifty years ago.
His aunt went on to marry someone else and have three children, cousins Gareth has never met.
He scans the room, taking in the open wardrobe doors, the
chest of drawers with clothes spilling out, the odds and ends
from every room in the house piled up on the bed, but he can’t find what he’s looking for. ‘Did Ruth come round or did she
send you a postcard?’
His mum smiles. ‘Of course I’ll send you a postcard, Gareth.’
He takes his mother’s tremoring hands in his. ‘Did any post
arrive today?’
She looks at him blankly, confusion sucking the colour from
her skin.
‘Post,’ he says again. ‘Letters? Postcards? Maybe Sally or
Yvonne put them somewhere. Can you remember?’
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As she shakes her head he catches the panic in her eyes and
the rigid set of her shoulders. She’s on the verge of a meltdown, a sudden outburst of anger and frustration that will traumatise them both.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asks. ‘Shall we go downstairs and I’ll
get you some toast and soup?’
‘I want a cheese sandwich.’
‘Okay.’ He offers her the crook of his elbow. ‘I’ll make you
one. Shall we go?’
While his mother watches TV, taking tiny mouse-like nibbles of her cheese sandwich, Gareth checks the box under her bed. The
bundle of cash inside still contains £140. He pushes it back into place, then texts her carers, asking if anyone visited that day.
When they both confirm that there weren’t any visitors, he
returns to the living room and fires up his laptop. The CCTV
will reveal whether there were any unwelcome guests between
shifts. His Auntie Ruth. Or someone pretending to be her?
The software that comes with the CCTV is nothing like the kit
he uses at work. The interface is clunky and unintuitive and it takes him forever to retrieve the files he needs, then an age for them to load. His laptop is at least five years old and the fan whirrs noisily as the processor struggles with the size of the footage.
Please, he prays, as the screen freezes, please don’t crash.
Something flashes white on the screen then row upon row off
of black and white cells appear. He presses play and watches
himself leaving the house at 8 a.m. The resolution is terrible –
he looks like a faded, grainy image of himself, his goatee a grey smudge on his chin, but he’s identifiable. If anyone he knows
arrives or leaves the house he’ll be able to recognise them. He presses play again, then fast-forward. For what seems like an
age there’s nothing but a doorstep, a patch of pathway and a
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house and disappears. He rewinds the footage, then sighs as he recognises the short, round shape of Sally, his mother’s carer.
He checks the time stamp in the corner – 8.30 a.m., the exact
time he’d expect her to arrive. He speeds up the footage again.
One minute passes, two, five and it’s still just a shot of the step, the path and the garden with the occasional tiny black blur as an insect zooms in and out of the frame. He hits pause as a
figure appears on the step and speeds down the path, but it’s
just Sally leaving. Then Yvonne arrives and, later, leaves too. He blinks several times; his eyeballs are drying from staring so
intently at the screen, but he keeps watching, silently praying that someone, anyone, will appear. But the only person who
does interrupt the monotony of the black-and-white footage is
him, arriving home from work.
Sighing, he sits back in his seat and folds his arms over his
chest. The TV’s still blaring but his mum’s fallen asleep in her chair, her temple against the headrest, mouth slightly open and a small piece of cheese sandwich crust hanging loosely from her fingers. There’s no sign of a postcard anywhere. He searched his mum’s room after he gave her the sandwich, then combed the
ground floor of the house, even turning out the kitchen bin.
Think, Gareth. Think. If you wanted to get a message to
someone how would you do it?
He looks around the room, his gaze flicking from his mother
to the windows, sideboard and . . . phone! He carefully moves
the laptop onto the floor and gets up. Did Ruth ring his mum
on the landline? They might not have been in touch for years
but his mum’s lived in this house since he was born and she’s
registered on the electoral roll. It wouldn’t take a genius to get in touch. But why ring after so long?
Gareth keys 1471 into the phone and waits as the call connects.
‘You were called today at 16:41,’ says the recorded voice, ‘by 0161 . . .’
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Manchester? Who do they know in Manchester? He takes his
mobile out of his pocket, then listens to the message again,
keying the digits into Google. He sighs as the search engine
returns its results. It’s a bloody PPI company and there’s no way of finding out who might have rung before them. Taking another look at his mum to check she’s still asleep, he walks into the kitchen with his mobile phone. Ruth’s not the only one with
detective skills. If she could find his mum then he can find her.
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Chapter 26
Alice
‘Alice!’ Simon half-walks, half-jogs towards Alice as she steps through the doors of Showcase Cinema feeling self-conscious in the blue pencil skirt that hugs her hips.
He pulls her into a tight hug. She returns the embrace, then
moves her hands from his back to his chest and gently pushes
him away.
He looks down at her, concern wrinkling his brow. ‘Are you
okay?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’ He rests a hand on her arm.
‘I’ve been stressed out all day and . . . Simon, why didn’t you reply to my WhatsApp messages?’
‘What?’
‘I sent you a few, including one that was quite important, and you didn’t reply.’
He takes his phone out of his back pocket and looks through
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it. ‘Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I meant to and then . . . I guess I got distracted and forgot. I’m sorry. Are you really pissed
off?’
‘I . . . I . . .’ She doesn’t know what to say. She wants to be honest with him but she doesn’t want to come across as needy
either. ‘I thought you’d understand,’ she says, ‘about how much the car thing freaked me out. If Michael didn’t do it, I don’t know who did.’
‘Ca
n we talk about it later?’ He runs a hand through his hair.
‘I’ve had a lot on my mind recently and . . . it’s no excuse, I know. But I do care, honestly.’
‘Forget it, it’s fine.’
But it’s not fine, not in Alice’s mind anyway, and as they walk to the concession stand, side by side rather than hand in hand, she can’t shake the feeling that something’s not right.
They settle into their seats, the box of popcorn propped up on the armrest between them, and Alice tries to relax as the trailers begin. It’s a film she’s wanted to see for a while and, unlike Peter who always decided what they’d watch, Simon was more
than happy to go along with her choice. The rest of the audience are obviously keen to see it too because the screening’s packed: there can’t be more than twenty empty seats. She glances across at Simon as she takes a handful of popcorn, but he’s too fasci-nated by the fight scene playing out on the screen to return her smile.
As the trailer ends and a new one starts she angles her body
towards him. ‘Who do you think did it then?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Who do you think scratched my car if it wasn’t Michael?
Could it have been Flora?’
‘I don’t know. No, I wouldn’t have thought so.’ His eyes flick back towards the screen.
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‘So who was it? I can’t think of anyone who’d—’
The man in front turns around. ‘Excuse me, but the film’s
about to start.’
When he turns back Simon whispers in Alice’s ear, ‘I feel like a kid told off in assembly.’ He tips the popcorn box towards
her so she can take another handful.
Alice settles back in her seat. She needs to chill out and try and enjoy the film. They can finish their conversation about her stalker afterwards. They’ll both be more relaxed once they’re in the pub and they’ve had a glass of wine or two. As the curtains roll back and the name of the film appears on screen, a latecomer makes their way across the front row, striding confidently
through the gloom with a mobile phone torch app lighting their way. Alice frowns as the statuesque figure reaches the bottom
of the stairs to her right. There’s something about the broadness of the shoulders and the width of the hips that’s familiar.
Oh my God, it’s her!
As the film starts, flooding the first few rows with light, she catches a glimpse of the woman’s face as she takes the steps
two at a time – the square set jaw, the broad nose and the fine, wispy fringe. It’s the shoplifter Lynne pointed out a few days ago, the one she called Godzilla. Alice sinks into her seat, but it’s too late, the other woman must have felt her gaze. Their
eyes meet for a split second and Alice glances hurriedly away.
It’s irritating, being in the same room as someone who’s been
stealing her stock and pushing down her targets. She probably
flogged the skirt she stole on Monday and used the cash to buy a cinema ticket. That’s if she didn’t steal that too.
As the thundering soundtrack fills the screening room, Alice
glances back at Simon, her gaze travelling from his face to his chest to his hands, gripping his thighs just above his knees. She barely knows the man but she’s never seen him look so tense.
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and popcorn are in the way and she’s worried about rejection.
What if he doesn’t weave his fingers through hers and instead
lets his hand lie limply under the weight of her palm? Or worse, gives her hand a quick squeeze, then returns it to her own lap?
No, she decides, pulling her handbag a little closer so she can wrap her arms around it, if Simon’s stressed it’s not her job to make him feel better. They’re dating. She’s not his girlfriend.
As the main character appears on screen and sprints through
a dark street as bullets bounce off walls, skips and cars, Alice senses movement out of the corner of her eye. The shoplifter,
three rows in front and half a dozen seats to the right, has
twisted round in her seat. Alice averts her eyes, her body stiffening under the weight of the other woman’s gaze. She tries to block her out, to lose herself in the action on screen, but she can feel that she’s still being watched. She turns sharply, prepared to stare the other woman out until she’s so uncomfortable she
has to look away, but the shoplifter has turned back around.
Sighing, Alice settles back and focuses again on the film. Twenty minutes later and she’s completely absorbed. Forty minutes later she feels Simon shift in his seat. He’s got his mobile in his hand, angled away from her, the screen casting a grey-blue light onto his skin. What could be so urgent that he needs to use his phone in the middle of a film? Before she can ask him what’s wrong
he twists round sharply, knocking the tub of popcorn to the
floor.
Alice sits forward to pick it up, but Simon grabs her hand
and hisses something in her ear.
‘What?’ She looks at him, his face all hollows and shadows
in the darkened room.
‘We need to leave.’
‘Now?’
The man in front turns at the sound of her raised voice and
tuts.
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‘Now,’ Simon says.
‘But the . . .’ She gestures at the screen.
‘Please, Alice. We have to go.’
She snatches up her bag and coat and, apologising repeatedly,
makes her way past the knees of the other cinemagoers until
she reaches the end of the row. She’s vaguely aware of the shoplifter staring as Simon gestures towards the exit but she’s too anxious to give her a second thought.
‘What’s the matter?’ Alice asks as they step into the brightly lit foyer. ‘Is it bad news?’
Simon pushes his hands into his jacket pockets and shifts his
weight from one foot to the other, his gaze fixed on the double doors that lead out into the heart of Cabot Circus shopping
centre. ‘I, um . . . I can’t really explain right now. Let’s just get to the taxi rank.’
‘I thought we were going to the pub.’
‘I can’t now, sorry.’
‘What is it?’ She puts a hand on his arm. ‘Has something bad
happened?’
‘I . . . I really don’t want to talk about it. I’m sorry.’
A myriad of explanations flood Alice’s mind: there’s been a
death in the family, a fire, a terrible accident. It has to be serious to explain how pale he’s become.
‘So where are we going?’ she asks.
‘Home.’
‘Okay but I might need to pop back to mine to get a few
things first. I’m at work tomorrow and I haven’t got my—’
‘Sorry, Alice. I’ve confused you. I’m getting a cab back to
mine and you’re going . . .’ He tails off but the implication is clear.
*
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Alice stares out of the cab window, her mind so muddled she
can’t separate one thought from the next as the taxi ferries her out of the heart of Bristol towards Kingswood. Why was Simon
so keen to bundle her into a cab? Why not suggest she watch
the rest of the film alone? On the walk from the cinema to the taxi rank he’d looped a
n arm around her shoulders and they’d
walked side by side. He didn’t speak the whole way, but she felt comforted by his fingers on the top of her arm and his body
bumping against hers; it was the most intimate they’d been all evening. There was a protectiveness to the embrace that made
her feel safe.
Safe. She hugs her handbag tighter to her body as one thought
rises out of the maelstrom. What if the text that Simon received hadn’t been bad news at all?
Simon, her thumbs fly over her phone’s keypad as she taps out a message. If the text was from my stalker we need to tell the police. Please, ring me. We need to talk about this.
She hits send then rests her hand on her lap, the phone still
clutched between her fingers.
She forces herself to look out of the window as graffitied
walls and buildings flash past. Simon’s not going to reply, she tells herself. I’m going to have to ring him but not here, not with the taxi driver listening in. I’ll get home, pour a glass of wine and then—
Her phone vibrates in her hand and she nearly drops it in
her haste to check it.
I’m really sorry, Alice, Simon has written, but I can’t do this any more. We can’t see each other again.
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Chapter 27
Gareth
‘Damn it.’ Gareth hangs up, cutting off the automated voicemail message mid-sentence, and runs a hand over the back of his
neck.
It would have been a rare stroke of luck to get through to
his uncle on the first try. Tony, his mum and Ruth’s brother, is an alcoholic who spends his retirement splitting his time between the bookies and the pub. He’s younger than his sisters, early
seventies, and a nice enough bloke, jovial with a strong line in dirty jokes that had Gareth in fits of laughter as a teen. But he’s as unreliable as they come and goes underground for long periods of time, only resurfacing when he wants something or he’s run
out of money. Not that Gareth’s mum minds. On the rare occa-
sions he pops round to say hello he’s so witty and attentive that her mood is lifted for hours after he leaves.
Getting hold of him is going to be tricky though. He’s rarely
at home to answer his landline, never checks his answerphone