by C. L. Taylor
‘I’m sorry.’ He meets her eyes. He’s got a good three or four
days of stubble on his chin and his skin looks patchy and dry.
‘For everything. I’m guessing someone at the station told you
what’s been going on.’
‘Yes,’ she lies.
‘I was only ever trying to protect you.’
‘Protect me!’ She’s surprised to hear herself laugh.
‘They were threatening to hurt you, Alice. If I ever saw you
again.’
‘They?’
‘Whoever’s been stalking me.’
‘It’s not your ex then?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Flora.’
She stares at him open-mouthed. ‘Then why mention her when
I asked you over dinner if there was anyone who’d try to put
me off you?’
‘Because . . .’ His gaze drifts to the table. ‘Because she’s the only person I’ve ever really hurt.’
‘But it’s not her?’
‘No.’
‘Then who’s stalking you?’
He raises his eyes to look at her. ‘It could be half of Bristol for all I know.’
Alice listens intently, elbows on the table, leaning towards Simon as he tells her in hushed tones about his old job as a radio
presenter and the pranks he used to play – ringing up Subway
to say he was trapped on the tube, ringing hotels to say he was on the toilet in room 211 and didn’t have any toilet paper,
ringing random numbers and pretending to be a mobile phone
operator testing the volume levels on their phone by making
them say increasingly nonsensical phrases.
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‘It was all light-hearted stuff,’ he says. ‘The listeners loved it.
They were always emailing to tell me how much it made them
laugh or to give me new ideas. Of course, I’d get the odd email telling me I was cruel, but they were in the minority.’
‘And then what happened?’ Alice asks.
‘And then . . . then someone tried to destroy my life.’
He tells her about the stalker who has made his life a misery
for the last three months; about the anonymous letters he received at the station telling him that he’s not the big man he thinks he is; the Twitter abuse; the photos of him going about his day-today business posted on social media; the texts telling him to kill himself; and the emails to the radio station manager accusing
him of paedophilia and rape and demanding his job. He tells
her how, after one particularly vicious text, he was too scared to leave his house for three days. When Alice asks whether he
contacted the police he smiles tightly and reels off the same
advice she was given by DC Mitchell after she reported the
damage to her car: keep a record of everything, vary your routine, tell friends and family what’s going on etc., etc. The police are actively investigating, he tells her, but they’ve got no leads.
‘That’s why you freaked out, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘When that
woman recognised you in Costa. You thought she was your
stalker?’
‘Yeah. Being on the radio not many people recognise me and
when she launched herself at me like that I . . .’ He tails off and shrugs.
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’
‘I didn’t want to scare you.’ Simon rubs his hands over his
face. ‘I know, I know . . . it was the wrong thing to do.’
‘The wrong thing? Simon, you let me believe that I had a
stalker but it was you they were after. Why the hell didn’t you tell me? We had so many conversations – in person and on the
phone.’
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‘Yes,’ he says, ‘yes we did. But I didn’t want to come across
as a victim. I didn’t want to be that person any more. I liked how I felt when I was with you. I felt like the old me. I felt . . .
normal.’
‘Great, bully for you. So you let me freak out instead? Wow.
You’re . . . you’re quite something.’
‘I’m sorry, Alice. I know apologising isn’t enough but—’
‘Who did you ring in the restaurant?’ she snaps. ‘After I
showed you the Facebook messages?’
He sighs. ‘The detective in charge of my case.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me then? Or after we found my
car?’
‘I know. I know.’ He rubs the back of his neck, unable to
meet her eyes. ‘I just . . . I dunno. I thought it would scare you off.’
She stares at him incredulously. She could have been – still
could be – in danger and Simon still didn’t tell her about his stalker. Not because he was protecting her, but because he didn’t want to feel like a victim any more.
‘I realised,’ he says, ‘that I had to stop seeing you when I got the message in the cinema. I know . . . I should have told you about it but I didn’t want you to be scared. I thought the best thing to do was to cut off all contact so the stalker would leave you alone.’
‘What did it say? The message?’
He sits back in his chair, craning his neck to look at the diners.
When he turns back to Alice there’s fear in his eyes. ‘I don’t even know who I’m looking for. They could be old, young, male
or female, and the police are as clueless as me.’
Alice shifts in her seat, suddenly aware of an elderly couple
at the next table looking at her and Simon and whispering
between themselves.
‘Simon! What did the text say?’
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He shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t a text. It was a Facebook
message.’
‘Tell me what it said!’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes.’ She glances at his mobile on the table in front of him.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Okay.’ He unlocks the phone, then slides it towards her.
She looks at him, searching his grey eyes, then glances down
at the screen. Same blank profile photo. Same name, Ann Friend.
Are you enjoying the film, Simon? Nice blue skirt your girlfriend is wearing tonight. Her hair looks lovely. It smells great too.
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Chapter 41
Ursula
Ursula is lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, her fingers interlocked behind her head. Whenever she closes her eyes she
sees ferrets, dozens of them, twisting and jumping around the
cellar, zipping in and out of plastic tubes and digging into pieces of old carpet. When the glass in the basement window smashed
they all darted from sight, scurrying backwards and hiding in
tubes, squeaking and shrieking in fright. As she watched through the broken pane they slowly crept out again and resumed their
play, neatly avoiding the shards of glass scattered all over the floor.
Ferrets. Why hadn’t Ed told her instead of being all myste-
rious about the locked basement door? She can’t stop thinking
about the glass, scattered over the ferrets’ play area. It would only take one of them scooting frantically backwards to end
up with a shard in its foot. There was no way she could sweep
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couldn’t fit through the small window, and with the basement
door locked there was no other way in. As she tried to decide
what to do, a white ferret, larger than the others, darted up
the stone steps and scratched at the bottom of the kitchen
door.
Bloody ferrets. She would have understood if Ed had told her
about his pets. Why on earth didn’t he just say?
A sharp knock at her bedroom door makes her sit up sharply.
‘Coming,’ she says, heart thumping as she swings her legs off
the bed.
Ed is every bit as angry as she expected him to be. His face is flushed red, from his cheeks to the base of his neck.
‘I take it that was you,’ he says. ‘The smashed basement
window.’
Ursula drops her gaze, a muscle twitching in her cheek. ‘I’m
sorry, I—’
‘What the hell were you thinking?’
A droplet of spittle lands on her chin and she raises a hand
to wipe it away. ‘I heard a noise, in the basement and—’
‘So you thought you’d smash your way in? Jesus Christ, what’s
wrong with you? Ever heard of one of these?’ He raises his
mobile and thrusts it towards her face.
‘I . . . I . . .’ She doesn’t know what to say. I thought you had men locked down there?
‘You could have killed them! I’ve had some of those ferrets
for nearly ten years. Do you think I like keeping them in the
basement like that? If I had my way they’d have the run of the house, but for some reason this country has fucked-up, arcane
rules about keeping pets in rental properties so instead I have keep them hidden away in case the landlord drops in. It’s not
good for them, being deprived of sunlight like that.’
‘You should have told me. Then I wouldn’t—’
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Ed lifts his hand and, for one horrible moment, she thinks
he’s going to hit her. Instead he runs it through his hair. ‘Why couldn’t you just do what I told you? Three rules, that’s all you had to keep. Three . . . little . . . rules.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ursula says again. ‘Please, Ed. Let me make it up to you. I’ll, um . . . I’ll tidy up. I’ll make you dinner for a week.
I’ll—’
‘Make it up to me?’ He laughs in her face. ‘How? By rooting
through the drawers? By using my things? By damaging the
fixtures and fittings?’ He presses a hand to the door frame and the latch she installed. ‘Oh, and I’d like my dart back please, the one you stole from downstairs.’
‘I haven’t got it. I . . . I did but it was in my coat pocket and I’ve lost it. My coat I mean. I lost my coat.’
‘And now you’ve lost your room.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I want you out on Monday. You can pack
tomorrow.’
‘But I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ve got no money. And I lost
my job this morning.’
‘Not my problem. And don’t even think about reporting me
to the letting agency for subletting or keeping pets because I’m moving on too. My ferrets aren’t safe in the basement any more.
I’ve had to lock them in their cage.’
Ursula’s lips part but no sound comes out. There’s no point
arguing or begging for her deposit back. She’s massively screwed up. Again. It’s as simple as that.
It’s just after 1 a.m. and Ursula is sitting on her bed, looking around her room. When, she wonders, did her life become so
small? Why, she keeps asking herself. Why does she keep fucking up? She had a nice home with Charlotte but she screwed that
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place too because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. She’s
got no money, no job and, after tonight, nowhere to sleep. She’s also got nowhere to turn. Her dad’s dead and her mum lives in
Spain with the stepdad she can’t stand. There was a time, when Ursula was at university studying to become a primary school
teacher, when there were loads of people she could have turned to, but they’ve all fallen away over the years. How does that
happen? she wonders. How does someone’s world shrink until
there are only a handful of people left in it? She had Nathan.
She had Charlotte. And that was enough for her. She loved them and they loved her. But Nathan is gone and Charlotte hasn’t
responded to any of the texts Ursula has sent apologising for
what happened and begging to meet up.
She looks down at the framed photograph in her hands and
runs a finger over Nathan’s cheek.
‘Help me,’ she says. ‘Tell me what to do.’
She waits for his voice, for those familiar warm, loving tones that she holds in her head, but all she can hear is the panicky beat of her pulse in her ears. It was the same sound she heard when she thought someone was trying to get out of the basement, the same frantic pounding she felt in her throat when
Nicki fell down the stairs. It was the same sound . . .
She squeezes her eyes shut as the memory consumes her and
in an instant she’s walking towards the exit of the Wellington pub in the centre of Bristol, hand in hand with Nathan. It’s
Friday night, the barman has called last orders but the speakers are still pumping out music – Bon Jovi’s ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’.
She and Nath are both pleasantly drunk. They’re chatting about which kebab shop to visit before they go home and Nathan’s
reaching for the door handle. It’s hot in the pub and Ursula’s already imagining the sweet relief of the cool night air on her face.
‘Taking your kid for a walk are you?’ The words cut through
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the pounding music and Ursula feels Nathan’s hand tighten in
hers. She turns her head. There’s a large group of lads sitting at a table to their right.
‘Ignore them,’ she hisses.
‘What was that?’ Nathan turns towards the lads.
‘I was talking to your bird.’ A bald bloke, early thirties with tattoos poking out of the sleeves of his polo shirt, raises his chin in Ursula’s direction. ‘Who’s wearing the heels? You or her?’
There’s a chorus of laughter and two of the men reach across
the table to high-five each other. Ursula pulls on Nathan’s hand again. They’ve heard every possible comment about their height difference since they got together and normally her boyfriend
would ignore them or shrug them off, but he’s had a hard day
at work. One of the kids he was looking after in the paediatric unit at St Michael’s developed an infection and had a cardiac
arrest and died. It’s taken her the best part of three hours to lighten his mood.
‘Who’s wearing the heels, mate?’ Nathan asks. ‘Your missus
was – when I bent her over your kitchen table.’
There’s a flurry of movement as the bald bloke jumps to his
feet, knocking the table and showering his mates with beer. ‘Say that again!’ he roars. ‘Say it again, you little runt.’
The barman shouts something about calming down but all
Ursula can hear is the blood pounding in her ears as she tugs
at the door handle and pulls her boyfriend after her. ‘Nathan, come on!’
Somehow she manages to get him out of the door but then
she feels his grip loosen and his hand fall away.
‘Nathan!’ She pulls on his arm as the bald bloke and his four
mates pile out of the pub but Nathan doesn’t move an inch.
‘I’m not running,’ he says.
‘Please!’ She pulls on his arm again. ‘Please! They’re not worth it.’
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She’s never seen him like this before, rigid with anger, clenching his teeth. He’s not a fighter. He’s never shown the slightest hint of aggression, towards her or anyone else.
The bald bloke gets the first punch in. It connects with
Nathan’s jaw and he reels backwards. Ursula screams but Nathan doesn’t hit the floor. Instead he regains his balance and swings round, landing a blow on the bald lad’s cheek. There’s a pause, a split second where Ursula sucks in the cold night air, and she prays that it’s over, that two punches are enough, but then one of the other lads leaps forwards, smacking Nathan on the side
of the head. Then there’s no time to think or hope or pray
because the others leap in too and there’s arms and fists and
blood and rage and Nathan’s dark head disappears as he’s
punched and kicked and thumped to the ground. And now
Ursula’s scream fills her ears as she launches herself at the mass of torsos and limbs, shoving and pushing, desperately searching for Nathan’s hand or foot, his shoulder or his leg, anything she can latch onto to pull him away. She doesn’t see it coming, the blow that lands on the side of her head, that makes her brain
rattle in her skull and her ear explode. Then she’s toppling and dropping, palms scraping against the hard concrete of the pavement, her bare knees taking the brunt of the fall. She feels rough hands in her hair, yanking her back up, then Nathan shouting,
screaming at her to go. And she twists and she fights and she
claws at the man that’s holding her and when she’s finally free she scrabbles to her feet and she runs.
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Chapter 42
Gareth