Kitabı oku: «11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat», sayfa 4

‘Are you all right?’ I say.

He tilts his head to one side, blinking his thoughts away. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. After that email—’

‘I’m fine.’ I don’t want to talk about it in front of Sophie. I nod in the direction of our daughter, her little head down in concentration.

‘If you put Sophie to bed,’ says Jack, ‘I can nip out to the storage unit and get that box of things you were looking for the other day.’

‘That would be great. Thank you.’

It seems I’m not the only one pretending we’re all right. I know he’s tried to make it better with the flowers, but I know there is something he’s hiding from me.

It was four years ago when I first searched Jack’s belongings. Sophie was asleep, and Jack had nipped to the bathroom. He’d just used his phone and the pin number wasn’t needed so I picked it up. There were several texts from a woman.

Jack caught me looking, though I was hardly subtle. I was standing in the middle of the living room with his phone in my shaking hands.

‘What are you doing, Anna?’ he’d said.

‘I was just borrowing your phone – mine’s out of battery.’

I didn’t look up. He walked towards me quickly, holding out his hand for me to give him the phone, but I held on to it.

‘But we’re at home,’ he said. ‘Use the landline.’

‘Who’s Samantha?’

‘What? Give me the phone, Anna. You can’t just go through people’s things.’

He lifted his hand to grab it, but I put my hand behind my back.

‘You’re my husband, Jack. We shouldn’t have secrets.’

He folded his arms slowly.

‘There are boundaries, Anna. People have boundaries. Haven’t you learned that from what happened with Gillian Crossley?’

‘That’s nothing like this. And you said we’d never mention it. It was two years ago.’

He tilted his head to the side.

‘I know. But sometimes I get scared you’ll do something like that again. She said you were stalking her. It’s happened one too many times.’

‘That’s below the belt, Jack. You know I wasn’t well. I had counselling. I know the signs, when to get help.’

He stared at me.

‘You’d tell me if things were getting on top of you, wouldn’t you? I love you. I’m not your enemy.’

I glanced at the photographs on the wall: of Jack and me, of Sophie.

‘I know. I’m just tired.’ I brought my hand round and handed him the phone. ‘But who is Samantha? I’m sure any wife would want to know who the woman texting her husband is.’

He shook his head, grabbing the phone from my hands.

‘A new solicitor at work. And if you’d read the texts properly you’d have seen that.’

My face burned.

Later, when he was asleep, I checked his firm’s website and there she was: Samantha Webster, Solicitor – her arms folded in a serious pose for the camera.

I look at him now, listening to Sophie read, and you wouldn’t think he was hiding something. If I were to admit I had searched his wallet, he would accuse me of relapsing. But what happened all those years ago has taught me one thing: two can play at that game.

Monica used to say that if a boy caused you so much heartache, then they weren’t the right one for you. My first heartbreak was aged twelve. I lay on my bed, listening to LeAnn Rimes belting out ‘How Do I Live’ to drown out the sound of the boys arguing in the room next to my head. Monica knocked at the door.

‘Are you okay, Anna? You’ve not come down for your tea.’

‘Fine,’ I shouted over the noise.

She walked in, closed the door, and opened the curtains and the window.

‘A bit of fresh air is what’s needed in here,’ she said. She sat on the edge of my bed and swiped the hair from my face. ‘What’s wrong, love?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’ve plated your dinner up. I’ll leave it on the side. Just heat it up in the mike when you’re ready to come down.’

She didn’t move from the bed, was still stroking my hair.

‘Thanks.’

‘If you want to talk about it, I’m here.’

‘Hmm.’

The song ended, but it started again because I’d put it on repeat.

‘Is it your friends, Annie? Have they all ganged up on you again?’

I shook my head. That hadn’t happened in months, but it wasn’t them this time.

‘A boy?’

I shrugged, my shoulders cushioned against the pillow.

‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘I suppose.’

I had to blink quickly so my tears didn’t fall out of my eyes.

‘Hannah said yes to a date with him. She knew I liked him.’

In the end, I couldn’t stop the tears falling.

‘Oh, love.’

I sobbed into the pillow. Monica lay down next to me, put her arms around me, and I cried into her jumper.

‘Let it all out, sweetheart.’

We lay like that for ten minutes. The song played another two times, and I finally stopped crying.

‘He wasn’t the right one for you, that’s all. The One will come along and he’ll like you right back.’ She stood up. ‘Talk to me about it whenever you want. I’ve been there. School is tough, I know. It’ll pass quickly enough.’

Now I blink away the tears that have formed in my eyes as I hear Jack’s car pull up outside. I open the front door quietly and watch him open the boot and take out the box.

Is he being nice because he feels guilty, or because he genuinely wants to help me? Heartache sounds too indulgent when you’ve been with a person for years. I might not like Jack sometimes, but he’s my family. I love him. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t confronted him: I don’t want to hear the truth.

He’s trying hard to be quiet, so he doesn’t wake Sophie. I stand aside as he carries the box into the house as though it were a boulder. I shove my hands underneath and take it from him. It’s not that heavy at all, but I pretend it is as I lower it to the ground.

‘Careful – it’s weighty,’ he says.

‘It’s okay. I’m used to carrying boxes of books at the shop.’

It’s fifty centimetres square and painted pale blue with hand-drawn flowers all over it. It has my writing in black marker: Mother. I don’t remember writing that; it’s been years since I’ve seen it. I want Jack to leave the room, so I can look at the contents alone.

‘Well?’ he says.

‘Well?’ I repeat, in the hope he’ll take the hint, but he sits on the edge of the sofa.

I sit on the rug and lift the lid off. Straight away I see my scrapbook. It’s decorated with pictures of beaches in Tenerife from holiday brochures, models from Mizz and Woman’s Own who I thought might look like her, and The Beatles. Inside the box are the 45rpm singles Gran gave me: ‘Norwegian Wood’ and ‘Heart of Glass’. Dad always switched the car radio off if one of those songs came on.

After Gran died, I began asking him more questions about Debbie. He gave me a telephone number, saying it was for Debbie’s old mobile. At first, I rang it every day, but there was never a reply, obviously. I used to tell the answer machine my problems, what was happening at school, how much I missed her. It only dawned on me a few years later that it can’t have been Debbie’s – she wouldn’t have had a mobile phone in 1986. It was probably one of Monica or Dad’s old numbers; there must be at least a thousand missed calls on it. I don’t want to imagine them listening to the messages I left.

‘That’s an unusual collection of pictures,’ says Jack, making me jump.

I had forgotten he was here.

‘I was a child when I decorated it.’

I shouldn’t feel embarrassed in front of him, but I do.

‘But why beaches?’ he says.

‘It’s Tenerife. It was where she was last seen.’

‘That’s a bit macabre, isn’t it? What if she was …’

He stops himself from saying what he usually says after he’s been drinking.

‘I just thought she must have really liked Tenerife,’ I say, ‘to have never come back.’

It’s like my eleven-year-old self is saying the words.

Jack gets up and heads towards the door. Before he leaves, he turns around.

‘Why didn’t you just put a picture of Debbie on it – instead of models who look like her?’

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He looks away from me and tilts his head as though pondering. He hasn’t seen the memories inside my shell box. He might have feigned interest when we first started going out, but he isn’t bothered about the details of her as a person. He would rather pontificate at length about what happened to her – as though he were discussing a murder victim on the television.

I lay everything out on the floor as I take it out of the box. The records, the scrapbook, the old cigar box Debbie decorated with seashells – half of which are chipped. I know what’s in it without opening it, but I flip the lid anyway. It’s quite pathetic really, the number of things in there: my hospital wristband, a stick of Blackpool rock – now a mass of crumbled sugar held together by a cylinder of cellophane. There’s also a pen with a moving ship and a silver pendant depicting the Virgin Mary with the words Bless This Child, threaded on a piece of pink string. Dad can’t remember buying any of the items in the box, so I like to think Debbie chose them just for me.

I open my scrapbook.

She wore flip-flops in the summer and Doc Martens boots in the winter.

She had a birthmark in the shape of Australia on the top of her leg.

She ‘couldn’t take her drink’ after having children.

The front door shuts – I hadn’t heard it open. Jack walks into the living room carrying a box the same size as my seashell one.

‘I forgot this,’ he says, placing it on the floor beside me.

It’s decorated with what looks like real Liquorice Allsorts. I pick it up; it smells sugary, medicinal.

‘They’re real sweets,’ I say. ‘Where did this come from?’

He shrugs, and walks towards the door.

‘It was packed next to your box. I’m going upstairs to make an important phone call. Don’t just walk in, if that’s okay? It’ll seem unprofessional.’

I wave my hand in reply. His phone call might be far from professional, but I can’t take my eyes off the box covered in sweets. It must be Robert’s. It’s an old King Edward cigar box like mine. I knew he must have had one, but I’ve never seen it before. I assumed he’d thrown it away. What was it doing in our storage?

I don’t open it straight away. Like with presents, an unopened object is far more interesting than an unwrapped one. I turn it in my hands and hold it. She must have spent ages gluing them on like this.

I place it on the floor and slowly lift the lid.

There are more items in this one than in mine. Robert probably added some pieces himself. There’s his conker that Grandad told him to bake in the oven for seven hours. After that, he painted it with five coats of Ronseal in mahogany. I would have been three or four years old. I bring it up to my nose – I remember the scent as he painted it, but it doesn’t smell of anything now. The treatment was effective; it still looks as smooth and shiny as it did then.

I take out his other things: hospital wristband; a Pez dispenser, with a few rectangular sweets still inside; his first report from primary school; and birthday cards signed from Mummy and Daddy. I don’t have any birthday cards with my mother’s name inside. I run my fingers along the writing in one of them.

Underneath all of these is an old photo processing envelope. It lists different sizes and finishes of photographs – our old home address is scrawled on the form in childish handwriting. It’s dated 20 February 1987 – nearly seven months after my mother disappeared. There is a cylinder inside it. I stick my hand in and pull out a black plastic container. I peel the cap off it, praying there’s something inside.

There is.

A whole roll of film that might contain pictures of my mother that I’ve never seen before.

Chapter Eight
Friday, 4 July 1986

Debbie

The sun on my face is delicious. I feel like I haven’t been outside for weeks, when it’s only been days. Being inside feels so oppressive, like there are a hundred faces watching every move I make.

Outside, I feel free, away from prying eyes. Annie’s sleeping in her pram, and even though I’ve only had two hours’ sleep I feel calm for the first time in days.

Peter’s finally back at work (I didn’t tell him it was silly starting back on a Friday) and Bobby’s at school until half three so I’ve over two hours of freedom. I park the pram outside the newsagents and pull the hood up.

The bell dings as I push the door.

‘Is it okay if I leave it open? The baby’s asleep outside.’

‘Right you are, love,’ says Mrs Abernathy.

There’s that new song on the radio playing: ‘The Lady in Red’. It’s not like Mrs Abernathy to have the radio on. For a love song, it sounds pretty dreary – it’s no ‘Addicted to Love’, that’s for sure. I can’t remember it on Top of the Pops last Thursday, but then I can’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I do remember the ‘Spirit in the Sky’ video though, because it cheered me up. Mum wouldn’t approve. She keeps harping on about Bobby being baptised so he can go to a better secondary school. I told her that’s hardly the Christian way of thinking about things, but she just spouted her usual words of eternal damnation. I’ll probably be waiting for my children in the burning fires of hell, if my mother’s prediction comes true. It’ll be more fun there anyway. Though the temperature might get a bit much; it’s far too hot today.

Under the window is a giant freezer. I used to love picking an ice cream out of those as a kid – when Mum and Dad could afford one, that is.

I choose a lemonade ice lolly and, as I close the lid, I see him outside.

He’s getting out of his car across the road. I quickly pay for the ice and dash out of the shop. He’s walking in the opposite direction; he hasn’t seen me. I’ve never been an attractive runner, so I try to walk a little faster. He’s still a fair distance away from me. My flip-flops are smacking my heels – I’m surprised he can’t hear me. I look around; there aren’t many people.

‘Nathan!’

He stops and turns around. I stop trotting just in time, and the breeze blows my long dress so it clings to my legs. He’s still looking at it when I reach him.

‘Hi, Debs.’ He lifts his sunglasses and puts them on the top of his head. ‘Pete let you out of the house, did he?’

I just nod. There are tiny freckles on his nose.

‘Are you all right?’ he says. ‘Fancy a quick coffee?’

‘Okay.’ It seems the ability to think and speak has abandoned me.

He takes me by the hand and doesn’t let go as we cross the road. I should be worried that someone we know might see us, but I’m not. He only lets go of my hand when he pushes the door of the café.

There are at least six tables free, but he chooses one at the back next to the door to the toilets. He pulls a chair out for me, and I sit. I feel like my head’s out of my body – this whole situation feels so weird. We’ve not been alone since we were an item ten years ago.

That summer was so intense. We were sixteen, and secondary school had finished. We had no distractions from each other. Both of his parents went out to work, and we’d spend lazy days lying on his bed, listening to records and smoking cigarettes.

‘Promise you’ll never leave me for someone else,’ he said to me one hot afternoon.

We’d closed the curtains for shade and they blew gently in the breeze.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said, staring at the ceiling.

He rested his hand on my tummy and I placed my hand on his.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you did.’

He’s still as good-looking now – better even. He’s holding the menu, but staring into my eyes. I know, without glancing in the mirror, that my chest and neck will be red and blotchy.

‘I’m sorry I was a bit quiet at yours the other day,’ he says.

‘I didn’t notice.’

He laughs. ‘You didn’t notice? You were giving me evils.’ He leans forward and puts his hand on mine. ‘You won’t tell Monica you’ve seen me today, will you? It’s just—’

The waitress clears her throat – she’s standing at the side of the table. How long has she been there? I swipe my hand from under Nathan’s. I don’t recognise her, but then, I’m not the best with faces these days. She’s holding a notepad, a pen poised in her other hand.

‘What can I get you?’ she says.

I look down at my skirt. The top of my leg feels cold and wet. I grab a serviette, but it’s no good. Something must’ve fallen from the table. I reach into my pocket and there’s a wrapper. I take it out.

‘Oh God.’

The ice lolly. From the paper shop.

I run out of the café without saying goodbye, and sprint down the street.

How could I have forgotten my little Annie? What if Mrs Abernathy tells the police and they’re waiting for me. They might send me to prison.

I’m only seconds away. I can hear Nathan shouting my name, but I don’t turn around.

What if Annie’s not where I left her?

It’ll be my punishment. What would I do without her?

As I cross the side street, I see the hood of her pram outside the shop.

Please be in there, please be in there.

I reach it, and push the hood of the pram down.

‘Oh, thank God.’

I bend over to catch my breath.

Annie’s still fast asleep. My beautiful, sleeping baby is where I left her.

Mrs Abernathy comes to the doorway. ‘Did you get what you went for?’

I try to work out if there’s a hidden meaning in what she’s asking, but when I look at her face, I realise there’s no agenda behind her words. She’s not as dishonest as I am.

I can never see Nathan again.

‘Yes,’ I say to her. ‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her.’

‘Anytime, dear.’ She turns and walks back into the shop.

I’m nearly at my house when the tears start streaming down my face. How could I have been so stupid? I reach under the pram for a tissue.

I see his shoes, his legs, walking towards me.

‘Are you okay, Debbie?’ Nathan can barely speak, he’s breathing so hard. ‘Did I say something to upset you? I didn’t realise you had Annie with you.’

I’m still crouching near the floor, dabbing my face. I must look a right mess.

I stand to face him.

‘I forgot about her … left her outside the shop. Please don’t tell Peter.’

He frowns. Is he angry with me as well?

‘What do you take me for, Debs? Course I won’t tell him. What would I say? Sorry, Pete, but while I took your wife for a sneaky coffee, she left the baby outside a shop?’

I bury my face in the tissue. He strokes the top of my arm; I step away from him.

‘I can’t see you again,’ I say, sniffing away the last of my tears.

‘Why are you being so serious? We have to see each other. I’m married to your best friend.’

‘What time is it?’

He looks at his watch. ‘Ten to three.’

I turn around and walk away. I’ve forty minutes to get to Bobby’s school. I can’t forget another child. I dab my face to wipe away the remaining tears. I can’t be seen crying at the school gates.

The phone’s ringing as I open the front door. I back into the hallway, pulling the pram over the step and into the house.

If it’s still ringing when I’m properly inside, then I’ll answer it. I’m not in the mood to speak to anyone on the phone. Sometimes it can ring and ring and ring until the sound buries itself into the middle of my brain and I want to rip the cord from the socket.

I shut the front door and wheel Annie into the living room.

The phone’s still ringing.

It might be Peter. I haven’t spoken to him since this morning. The thought of him covers me in a warm hug. But I don’t deserve that – not after the way I’ve behaved.

‘Hello?’

‘Debbie?’

Oh. It’s Monica.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s me.’ Who else would it be?

‘You sound funny,’ she says.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Hmm.’ She says it in that disapproving way of hers. ‘I’ve just seen you running up and down the high street in your bare feet – are you wearing a nightie?’

‘What?’

My blood feels as though it’s been replaced with antifreeze.

‘Up and down the street. Are you okay? Do you need me to pop round? Is Annie all right – only I didn’t see her with you.’

I don’t understand what she’s talking about.

‘When?’

‘Just now. I was driving back from work.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Did you see Nathan too? I saw him near the shops.’

‘Debbie, are you sure you’re okay? I can be there in five, no problem. I can watch Annie while you have a sleep.’

‘I don’t need a sleep. I’m getting Bobby at half three.’

‘I know, but even half an hour might help.’

‘Help? Are you sure you didn’t see Nathan? He’ll tell you I wasn’t running around in my nightdress without my shoes on.’

I almost want to laugh at the image.

‘Debbie, Nathan’s at work. He’s just telephoned me from his office.’

‘Oh,’ I say.

‘I can come after school. Would that be better?’

‘No,’ I say, but I can’t think straight. How could Nathan have phoned her from the street? I can’t remember where the nearest phone box is … where is it? ‘It’s okay – Peter’s coming home early today.’

He isn’t, but it gets her off the phone.

Why the hell would she think I was running around without shoes? And in a nightie?

I feel the soft fabric of the carpet, underneath my toes.

I look down.

My flip-flops aren’t on my feet any more.