by C. L. Taylor
how indestructible these particular knives are. He must have
taken it, although God knows why. She reaches for another knife instead and slips it in between the slab of corned beef and the tin and wiggles it until the meat slips free. As she carefully slices it, making each sliver as thin as she can, the DJ stops speaking and the first notes of a song, picked out on a guitar, start to play.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
Ursula slams her hand onto the radio as the drums kicks in
and the room falls silent before Jon Bon Jovi has the chance to sing. She presses her palms onto the counter, heart pounding,
breath coming in short, sharp bursts, eyes shut. But it’s too late, the song’s already in her head, ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, going round and round on a loop.
‘No!’ she says as faces appear behind her closed eyelids:
laughing and mocking, leering at her. ‘No!’
She opens her eyes again and stares out into the garden,
desperately trying to remember the grounding technique that
Charlotte tried to teach her the last time she had a panic attack.
‘Five things,’ Ursula says aloud. ‘Five things I can see. I can see a patio. I can see grass. I can see a tree. I can see a cat. I can see a wall. Four . . . four things I can feel. I can feel the counter under my fingers. I can feel the tiles under my feet. I can feel air on my lips. I can feel the cold.’ Her breathing slows as she slowly reconnects with her surroundings. ‘Three. Three
things I can hear. I can hear birdsong. I can hear a drill in the distance. I can hear . . .’ She pauses, frowning as she tries to make out the third sound. ‘I can hear scratching.’ She turns
sharply. ‘I can hear scratching coming from the basement door.’
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Chapter 36
Gareth
It’s after 8.30 a.m. when Gareth finally picks up the phone to call his boss. He should have done so an hour ago but whenever he picked up his mobile the thought of what he was about to
say made him put it back down again. But he’s going to have
to make the call now. If he leaves it any longer he won’t have a job to return to. He sits down in his armchair, his stomach
twisting at the sight of his mother’s empty chair.
‘Hello, Mark Whiting.’ His boss’s clipped tones bite at his ear.
‘Hi, Mark, it’s Gareth.’ The words come out in a rush. ‘I’m
afraid I won’t be in today. My mum’s gone missing.’
There’s a pause then, ‘Oh dear. I’m really sorry to hear that.
Have you been in touch with the police?’
‘Yes. I rang them straight away.’
He’d rung everyone he could think of before he rang the
police – Sally, Yvonne, Uncle Tony, his cousin Maureen and the hospitals – then he’d checked the landline to see if there were 208
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any missed calls (there weren’t). He was sitting in the warmth of Kath’s kitchen, his voice becoming more and more strained
with each call. When there were no other avenues to explore he rang 999. The operator was as calm as he was anxious and
asked him question after question – how old was his mum, what
had happened, what was her name and date of birth, had she
ever gone missing before and was the behaviour out of character?
There were more questions, about what she’d been wearing, her
medical condition, and where he was calling from. He’d expected the call handler to pass him on to a police station. Instead she told him that she’d circulate the details to his local unit and someone would come round.
The next hour, as he returned to his house and Kath made
him umpteen cups of tea, squeezing his shoulders whenever
she passed, was one of the worst of his life. Every fibre in his being told him to get up from the table and go and look for
his mum but he’d been told to stay where he was in case she
came back. Finally, there was a knock on the door. Two
uniformed police officers introduced themselves, then ran over the questions he’d already answered on the phone. They also
requested a few recent photos of his mum and then asked if
they could search the house. When he asked why and was told
they needed to check if his mum was hiding, it was all he could do not to cry.
When they returned to the living room carrying his mum’s
hairbrush (‘In case we need a DNA sample,’ the female officer
explained) he showed them the mystery postcards and Kath,
standing beside him, had gasped softly when he’d explained
about his dead dad. He showed the police the CCTV footage
next, pausing as Sally, then Yvonne entered and left the house, then froze the screen as his mum appeared in the frame. She
was carrying a black handbag and was dressed in grey slip-on
shoes, a brown dress and her best M&S red wool coat. It was 209
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for best, she’d tell him, refusing to wear it if he ever tried to get her into it for a visit to the doctor’s.
The female officer took a screenshot of the image of his mum
on the CCTV and reassured him that all available officers would look for her. ‘Where might she have gone?’ she asked. ‘Any
favourite places? Any relatives? Anywhere with any significance?
Old addresses? Places she loved when she was younger?’
Gareth’s mind went blank. It was so long since his mum had
gone anywhere other than the corner shop and the post office
that he couldn’t think of a single place she might be. He silently remonstrated with himself. Why hadn’t he talked to her more
about her past while he still had the chance? He’d been so
wrapped up in the day-to-day challenges of caring for her that he hadn’t taken the time to just talk. It was only when the male officer discovered the memory box that he even remembered
that it existed. They took it with them when they left, promising that someone would be in touch. Shortly afterwards Kath gently explained that she needed to get back to Georgia to check she
was okay, apologising for leaving him alone. Then it was just
Gareth, his thoughts, the silent television and the dip in his mum’s favourite chair.
‘Gareth? Gareth, are you still there?’ The rough tones of his
boss’s voice snap him back into the living room and he grips
the armrest, anchoring himself to the chair.
‘Yes, sorry. What was that?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Liam Dunford.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Liam. You know he’s been reported as missing? The police
came to see me last night.’
In the split second Gareth takes before replying he feels a rush of emotion – incredulity, frustration and, most powerfully of all, rage. How dare Mark Whiting mention Dunford in the same
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through in the last thirteen hours? How terrified he was when
the last of the light faded away and the world outside his window turned black? There was no way his mum would stay out after
dark, no way at all. Why hadn’t she come home? Was she lost?
Walking in circles or heading in completely the wrong direction?
Had she fallen? Was she lying somewhe
re unable to get up,
somewhere no one could see? Whiting doesn’t give a shit about
any of that; he just wants to make sure his rota is filled.
‘Seriously?’ He takes a sharp, raggedy breath. ‘I ring you to
tell you that my mum’s disappeared, that she’s been missing all night and you ask me about that bastard?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘He could be at the bottom of a lake for all I care.’
‘Gareth,’ Mark says slowly. ‘I’m not sure I like your tone.’
‘Well I don’t like your tone either. My mum could be . . . she could be . . .’ He presses a hand to his chest, unable to speak.
But it’s not acid burning beneath his ribs, it’s fear.
Gareth sits at the kitchen table with his head in his hands and a rapidly cooling cup of tea in front of him. He’s screwed it
now, totally screwed it, not just his career but his entire life.
The mortgage might be paid on the house but his mum’s rapidly
dwindling savings are almost gone thanks to the government
deciding that anyone with more than a certain amount of money
has to pay for their own carers. That just leaves him and the
pitiful salary he gets as a security supervisor. Or rather, he got.
He wouldn’t be surprised if when the post arrives tomorrow it
includes his P45.
‘Oh God.’ He sits back in his chair and stares at the ceiling.
At some point, preferably sooner rather than later, he’s going to have to ring Mark Whiting back and apologise. But not now.
Whiting would enjoy hearing him grovel and he can’t deal with
that level of smugness, not until he’s calmed down a bit.
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It seems he’s not the only one to lose his rag; from the high-
pitched screeching coming from next door it sounds like Kath
is having a battle of her own.
‘I don’t want to go to school!’ Georgia’s voice drifts through the wall swiftly followed by Kath’s, ‘Well you’re going whether you like it or not.’
‘I want to join the search for Joan.’
‘You can do that when you get back from school.’
‘I want to go now!’
‘Stop making excuses and go to school!’
‘I hate you. I hate you so much!’
Gareth raises his eyebrows. He’d never have got away with
screaming at his mum like that when he was a kid. He’d have
suffered a swift clip round the head followed by, ‘Wait till your father gets home.’
He sits forward in his chair. Is that where his mum’s gone
– to look for his dad? He used to work at WD and HO Wills,
a cigarette manufacturing plant in Hartcliffe, after he left the navy until it closed in 1990. Then, somewhat ironically, he
worked as a hospital porter in St Michael’s until he retired in 1998. But there’s no factory in Hartcliffe any more. It was flattened years ago and now it’s Imperial Retail Park. It’s in South Bristol, a good hour’s walk from the Meads and two miles from
Gareth’s house. It’s not somewhere he’s ever worked and he
can’t remember taking his mum there for years but, in theory,
she could walk there. He stands up, phone in one hand, the
small, white card the police officer gave him in the other. He should call and tell them what he’s remembered. But what if
the police can’t get over there for another hour? It could be too late. If his mum is in the retail park she’ll be confused and upset and he needs to be the one to find her, not a stranger in a
uniform.
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Chapter 37
Alice
Are you watching me? Alice stands at the glass double doors of the store, searching for her stalker, scanning the walkway for anyone who isn’t striding around the shops. Anyone watching
her is likely to be stationary, resting up against a wall or a column or sitting on a bench. She’s been a nervous wreck all
day. When one of the clothes racks collapsed at the start of her shift she shrieked so loudly that Lynne came running.
She still feels shaky, but not as much as she did last night
when she read Ann Friend’s message about Flora. Unsure what
to do, she rang Lynne. Ten minutes later her best friend was at the front door.
They talked for hours, reading and rereading the messages,
trying to work out who could be behind them. They drew up
a list of suspects beginning with people who might hold a grudge against her: Peter, his new girlfriend, Jenna who she’d sacked, Michael, and Adam. Then they spread the net wider, writing
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down anyone Alice had ever had a disagreement with: the hair-
dresser she’d complained about, the manager of the rival fashion chain who’d once accused her of luring away her staff, even her grumpy ‘mail-stealing’ neighbour on the first floor. Then they wrote down all the people that might have a problem with
Simon. There were only two names on that list: Flora and the
woman from Costa. With Simon refusing to answer his phone
there was no way of knowing if there were more.
On Lynne’s prompting Alice texted him, telling him about the
latest message. She’d expected silence but he’d replied almost immediately:
Whatever you’re doing, stop. It’s over. Forget you ever met me.
She tried calling but he didn’t pick up and when she got
voicemail six times in a row she had to admit defeat.
‘He must care about me,’ she said to Lynne, ‘or he wouldn’t
have replied to the text.’
‘If he cared he’d pick up the fucking phone and tell you what’s going on.’
By this point in the conversation it was nearly two o’clock
in the morning and neither of them could see straight for tiredness and red wine so they decided to call it a night. They argued about who should take the sofa and who should take the bed
but Lynne won out and Alice dragged herself off to her room.
When she got up five hours later she rang DC Mitchell to tell
her what had happened the previous night but the call went to
voicemail. It’s nearly six hours later and she still hasn’t heard back.
‘Hey!’ Lynne nudges her elbow, then immediately apologises
as Alice jumps out of her skin. ‘Sorry, but I was just wondering what to do with this?’
Alice looks at the thick winter coat she’s holding towards her and shakes her head. It’s not a coat they have in stock. ‘What is it?’
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‘That shoplifter, you know Godzilla, she left it in the changing room last night. Kaisha hung it up in the staff changing room
when she checked the cubicles but I’m wondering if we should
just chuck it?’
‘No, she might come back for it and if we’ve binned it she’ll
kick off. I can’t deal with that at the moment. Could you, um . . .
could you just tuck it under one of the counters? We’ll keep it for a week and chuck it if she doesn’t come back.’
‘All right.’ Lynne doesn’t look convinced but she tosses the
coat over her arm. ‘Fancy grabbing some lunch?’
‘I, um . . . I thought I might go out and get some air. Wander
round a little bit.’
‘Great idea. I’ll just go and grab my bag.’
‘No, don’t. I just . . . I just need a bit of time alone.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to be on your own.’
‘I don’t, not at home, anyway. But I’m just going window-
shopping. There’s loads of people about. I’ll be fine.’
‘Yeah, and your stalker could be one of them.’
‘Cheers!’
‘No . . . I mean . . . I just want you to be safe.’
‘I will be.’ She touches a hand to Lynne’s arm. ‘Whoever’s
behind this wants me to be scared and lock myself away. But
I’m not going to do that. If I want to go out, I will.’
Lynne doesn’t look convinced and when Alice walks out of
the shop, coat on, handbag slung across her body, her silence
follows her.
As Alice walks down Broad Street she can’t help but feel bad
about Lynne. She doesn’t like lying but if she told her where
she’s actually going she’d have disapproved. Both Lynne and
Emily have told her over and over again that she’s got to let
this thing with Simon go. And maybe she should. Trying to work out what the hell’s going on has given her sleepless nights and 215
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made her feel more stressed than she has in a very long time.
But it’s not even about Simon any more. Any feelings she had
for him vanished when he chose to dump her rather than explain what was going on. No, this is about her anonymous messenger.
She doesn’t like the fact that someone is pulling the strings of her life. She’s going to find out who they are and take back
control.
The barman at the Evening Star looks up as she walks in,
then reluctantly puts away his phone as she approaches the bar.
‘What can I get you?’
‘A gin and tonic, please.’ Screw not drinking at lunchtime.
She’s going to need all the Dutch courage she can get.
‘Anything else?’ He gestures at a red-backed menu lying on
the bar. ‘Any food? We’ve got a new chef.’
‘No thank you.’ She’s already decided that she’ll grab a sand-
wich from Sainsbury’s on her way back to work.