No Longer Safe (8 page)

It’s all moving so fast. Can hardly believe
it. I’m still desperately nervous about it all. I have to keep going over what
I need to do to see if I’ve left anything out and make sure I don’t make any
mistakes.

Alice is her usual clumsy self – she took a tumble in
the snow, but she seems fine. I’m relying on her loyalty to hold everything
together. She was never one to break rank and I’m hoping she’s still under my
spell – enough to stick by me if there’s any trouble. I need her to vouch for
me when the time comes.

Dear Alice has always had illusions about our
relationship. Felt sorry for her back then – did what I could to help her out,
but never thought of her as a friend. It was more like looking after an injured
animal; you have to take it in, you can’t leave it by the roadside. Of course,
I’d never tell her that – it would break her heart.

When I think back to those early days and how gooey
and grateful Alice was, I feel a bit crap actually. But my ‘affection’ for her
wasn’t entirely phoney. My sisterly instinct kept kicking in; she was so lost
and helpless, but my main motive was to make sure she did what we wanted.

No one else I know would have worked as well in this
current situation – my real friends are too smart. That’s why Jodie and Mark
are good, too – they’re too self-obsessed to see what’s really going on. We all
have our parts to play.

We’d settled into a routine by now, where I was the
one who did most of the cooking, which didn’t seem quite fair under the
circumstances. I’d agreed to it when there were only two of us; now there were four.
So, I drew up a three-day rota with Mark and Jodie’s names on it and Blu-tacked
it to the fridge. I waited for a big showdown, but the backlash from Jodie and
Mark was minimal.

‘I see you’re taking it in turns,’ Karen said to me, later,
when I began preparing the veg for that night’s chicken risotto. ‘I hope that’s
going to work.’ Her tone was clipped and she made me feel like I was the hired
help. She must have been overtired. I looked the part, standing at the kitchen
sink with my rubber gloves on and my hair scraped back. It seemed like any
chance of sharing any special time together was rapidly evaporating.

Without warning, my blinding headache was back, like a thick
metal band squeezing my temples and I reached into my pocket for another
painkiller.

After supper, I bumped into Mark at the bottom of the
stairs, putting his jacket on as I came down from the bathroom.

‘We’re going to the pub,’ he said. ‘That wailing kid is
doing my head in. You can come if you like. Karen said we can use her car.’

‘Thanks – but I need a cocoa more than anything.’

Jodie flapped her mittened hand at me by way of a goodbye,
and they disappeared into the night.

I checked the fire was safely dying, made two hot chocolates
and took them upstairs.

Karen was lifting a bawling Melanie out of her cot in the
half-light as I eased open the door. ‘Can you pop into their room upstairs and
bring another towel down from the linen cupboard? One of the soft white ones?
She’s just been sick.’

‘Go into their room?’ I asked. ‘Shouldn’t we—?’ I glanced
downstairs. I’d already heard the car leave.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘They know I need access – they’re
fine with it. It’s the thin white cupboard in the far corner.’

I felt highly uncomfortable invading Jodie and Mark’s
private space. When I pushed open the door, the room was a shambles. How could
they have made that much mess in such a short amount of time? Clothes were
plastered over the bed, shoes littered across the floor and there were open
jars of potions and creams left out on the dressing table, the chair, the
window ledge.

I snapped open the cupboard in the corner and scanned the
shelves. There were sheets and pillowcases near the bottom, a squashed up
counterpane, spare pillows, and at the top, under a canvas sports bag, the
spare towels. I tried to drag one out without dislodging the bag, but it came
down too, landing with a thud at my feet. There was a ripping sound as it fell
and I stopped to inspect it, concerned I’d damaged it. I discovered it was only
the zip that had made a sound – it had opened at one side and the contents were
spilling out.

There were CDs, a tatty paperback, aerosol cans. Then I took
a sharp breath and stood back.

Poking out at the bottom was a wad of fifty-pound notes.

I’d rarely seen a fifty-pound note before and gave
the bundle a closer inspection, tracing the silver line inside the top two.
Curiosity got the better of me and in one swift yank I whizzed the zip open
along its full length and took a good look inside. Salmon-coloured fifty-pound
notes – a
lot
of them. Five batches,
maybe forty notes to each one, held together with elastic bands. I worked it
out in my head. Crikey – that was a heck of a lot of money – ten thousand
pounds! Surely not. What the hell was anyone doing carrying that amount of cash
around in a holdall?

I closed the bag and flung it back over the towels on the
top shelf, backing out of the room. I held the towel I’d taken comfortingly
against my face.

I tapped on Karen’s door and she called to me. ‘Can you
leave it in the bathroom, Alice?’

‘Sure…need a hand?’

‘No, I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

I draped the towel over the edge of the bath and left the
mug by the sink so she’d see it. Melanie was wailing now and I could hear Karen
trying to sooth her. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart – we just need to get you cleaned
up a bit.’

I didn’t relish Karen’s task of re-establishing the bond
between them after so many interruptions. I sat on my bed with the door open
and drank my cocoa, waiting for her to finish so I could tell her what I’d
found.

Karen eventually appeared in the doorway with a sleepy
Melanie tucked into her breast. Karen seemed fraught, her sleeves rolled up,
barely looking at me.

‘Thanks for the drink. I’m shattered. G’night.’

I beckoned her inside, but I was too late. She’d gone.

The front door knocker rapped just as I was
thinking of having an early night. The others wouldn’t be back this soon. I
answered it. A firework ignited inside my chest. It was Stuart.

‘Hello again…’ I said. I thought he was just being polite
earlier, when he said he’d come back; I didn’t expect to see him again.

‘I wondered how the patient was getting on.’

I waved him into the warm. ‘I didn’t even come down with
pneumonia,’ I said. ‘But, I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t turned
up when you did.’ He followed me into the kitchen. ‘Thank you again, for
getting me back here safely.’ I held up a mug in one hand and an empty wine
glass in the other. ‘Which one?’

‘Actually – I came over to see if you fancied the local
pub,’ he said.

There was a tiny flash between us. ‘I’d love to.’ The
blanket of tiredness that had been wrapped tightly around me slid to the floor.

Stuart looked pleased with himself. I scribbled a note and
left it under the sugar bowl on the kitchen table.

A khaki Land Rover was parked where Karen’s 2CV had been. It
looked like an old army-style model with thick tread on the tyres and a spare
wheel clipped onto the bonnet. We bundled inside and chugged down the track,
onto the lane. It was a bumpy ride, the clanks and thuds made it noisy, but
made me laugh, too. It was like being thrown around on the mechanical bull at
the funfair. I was glad of the seatbelt.

The Cart and Horses was surprisingly busy. There must have
been dozens of landowners, farmers and holidaymakers from little hamlets,
tucked away from the main roads. This wasn’t simply a rustic country pub; it
looked as though it acted as a kind of community centre. There was a group of
men in tweed caps playing chess, another playing Trivial Pursuit and a game of
darts was well underway at the far side. Best of all, it had a raging log fire.
I expected to see Mark and Jodie, but they must have gone somewhere else.

I was going to stick to apple juice because of all the
painkillers I’d had during the day – then thought what the hell – and chose a
brandy instead. Stuart had the same and we swilled the drinks around in our
glasses in unison. We had the whole cavernous hearth to ourselves, so I took
off my boots and put my feet up on a padded stool. No one batted an eyelid.

I felt a shiver of emancipation. No one knew me here; I was
just another tourist-stranger. I could even afford to reinvent myself a little
– try out a bolder Alice; one who wasn’t frightened to close her eyes at night
for fear of reliving the trauma she’d been through in September.

‘It’s my birthday, tomorrow,’ I announced.

‘Ah – so
that’s
why
you’re on holiday at this time of year. Doing anything special?’

‘Very low key, I think,’ I said. I was anticipating the
contrary, but didn’t want to get my hopes up. Karen wouldn’t make a point of
highlighting my birthday then forget all about it, would she? I swiftly shunted
the conversation on to other subjects. ‘So what brought you to this particular
area? Do you know people here? Have you been here before?’

‘No,’ he said simply. ‘I came across it browsing online. I
wanted somewhere remote and quiet – mainly to try birdwatching.’ I didn’t tell
him about my mother’s interest in wild birds; I didn’t want to bring my parents
into the discussion, just in case I let slip that I hadn’t yet left home.

Stuart asked what I did for a living. I skipped the bit
about being an administrator. ‘I’m starting a teacher-training course soon.’

‘Ah.’ He looked pleased. ‘I’m in teaching too.’

He told me he lived on his own in a crescent of Georgian
houses near Edinburgh railway station and worked at the University as a
lecturer in Classics and Archaeology.

‘It’s revision week for students right now, followed by exam
week, so I’ve been able to sneak away. I usually spend this period with my
brother or take off somewhere warm, but I fancied a change.’

He was probably in his forties and dressed like a TV ‘lord
of the manor’, but he was affable and charming. More to the point, he was
disarming. It made me realise that even though we were all getting on at the
cottage, I found myself walking on eggshells a lot of the time, partly because
Melanie wasn’t yet stable, but also because Mark was so changeable. It was a
relief to let my guard down a little.

As we spoke, I began to sense something else; I could only
describe it as an aura of sadness around him. It came from the lines around his
eyes, the way his mouth flickered into a smile and then died quickly. From time
to time I caught him looking into the distance, squinting, as if he was looking
for someone.

‘How long are you staying for?’ he asked. I’d told him this
already, I noted, when he’d found me in the snow.

‘Until a week on Saturday at the latest.’

I took it as a good sign that he was keen to confirm how
long I’d be around for.

‘Well, then – if you’re stuck for things to do, we can
always team up together and go for walks.’ He stopped himself. ‘That’s if – you
know – you haven’t already made plans with your friends or—’

‘No…thank you. I’d like that. I’ve brought my camera and was
hoping to take plenty of pictures. I’m not very good – but I do love trying to
capture a moment, an atmosphere.’

‘You’ve come to the right spot.’

A few feet away, a man tripped over someone’s rucksack and
my mind flitted back to the money I’d found in the holdall. Stuart seemed like
someone I could trust, but it felt like an odd thing to bring into the
conversation when we’d only just met.

Stuart asked me whether I went to art exhibitions in London
and we chatted about an odd combination of subjects: the O2 arena, escalators,
crinkle-cut crisps, the pros and cons of electric blankets. By then it was
getting late and we stood to go.

As I got up I spotted a local paper folded over on the table
behind us. There was a photograph of a man staring out at me. He’d been
arrested for shoplifting and was wearing a hoodie. The same kind of hoodie that
had plagued my nightmares. He looked older and broader than the man at the
centre of that dreadful day, but I knew in an instant that I hadn’t beaten back
the demons he’d left me with. They were still alive and kicking under the
surface, waiting to climb out and terrorise me when I was least expecting it.

*

Three months earlier

It had been raining. Mum had sent me over to East
Street Market to buy net curtain material and I was minding my own business,
heading back to the bus stop when I saw what I thought was someone in pain down
an alleyway. I thought he was hurt, doubled over next to two industrial-sized
wheelie bins, clutching his stomach.

I called out to him; I couldn’t see his face. I thought
perhaps he’d been mugged or a gang had beaten him up. Then I thought perhaps
he’d been stabbed. I should have alerted other people; I should never have
drifted down there on my own.

He didn’t seem to see me when I got closer, he was still
holding his stomach and moaning. I tapped him gently on his shoulder and asked
if he was okay. Then it all happened so quickly. One moment he was bent double,
the next my umbrella went flying and he dragged me behind the bins, his arm was
around my neck. He’d tricked me.

I’d been partly right; there
was
a knife, but it was in his grip at my
neck. I could feel the point of it pressing against my skin as he pulled me
further back into the shadows – we were invisible from the street. He told me
in a deliberately rough voice to hand over my purse. I dropped my bag trying to
do as he said and at that moment a dog came trotting into the alley.

I’ve asked myself the same question over and over since it
happened. What if the dog hadn’t come along at that precise moment? What if my
attacker hadn’t freaked out, thinking the owner was right behind it?

He spotted the dog, grabbed my purse and bolted.

I picked up my wet handbag, followed by the bundle of soggy
fabric, and ran back to the busy street – my sole aim being to blend in and
disappear, just in case he came after me. What if he thought I’d seen his face?
What if he decided to find me and finish the job?

I went through the first open door I could find – an
off-licence – and feigned interest in Chilean wines, waiting for my heartbeat
to subside.

Only it didn’t.

I ran out, knowing I was in difficulty, my breathing all
over the place. I couldn’t swallow. There was a brick lodged in my throat,
jagged, crushing. Then the anxiety gathered steam and developed into a
full-blown attack. I didn’t know what it was at the time. All of a sudden the
light was too bright, the pavement was sliding away from me.

I was in the middle of the market, green and white striped
awnings flapping everywhere. My legs didn’t belong to me anymore, but I
couldn’t afford to collapse in front of all these strangers; I had to get away,
get home, get help.

The street before me suddenly dipped sharply to the right
and I reached out for something to grab hold of. I felt my arms close around a
wastepaper bin. My mind was rapidly filling up with sand, my focus chipped and
fragmented, like I was looking at the world through a smashed windscreen. A
cyclist became a post-box, a car blended into a tree. I hadn’t a clue how I was
supposed to deal with what was happening to me. I held on to the black bin and
felt the street lurch the other way.

I felt a touch on my arm and shot round, thinking it was
him. A black woman in her fifties was saying something to me. Her face came and
went, backwards and forward as if she was on a swing. A mustard- coloured hat,
torn gloves, the tassels on a scarf. I couldn’t put her words together.

‘Bus stop…darlin’…alright...?’

Then she was gone.

I tried to get a grip.
Everything’s
okay now. He’s got your purse – that’s all – you can cancel your cards, no
one’s hurt.

I wanted to run, but my feet were embedded into the
pavement. I watched women at the stalls press their thumbs into mangos and
weigh out shallots with their eyes. They made life look so ordinary. So safe. I
didn’t know what to do. I patted my pocket. I still had the Oyster card – thank
God. It was fine. Everything was fine.
Just
breathe. Wait for the world to straighten itself out again.

I joined the queue at the bus stop, my head down against the
internal blizzard, trusting I would find my way out. I waited.

The roar of the outdoors hit me when I got off the bus, but I
knew I’d done it. Got away. Now all I had to do was find my way home. I heard
my heels hit the pavement, so I knew I must be moving. Click, clack, click,
clack. I turned a corner and the road ahead looked vaguely familiar. I hung on
to a telegraph pole, but didn’t want to stop. A corner shop, the deli –
yes, this looks right
. The white gate, the
black gate – then I was there.

I fell inside the hall and let myself sink to the floor,
clutching the front-door key to my chest. Exhausted, but triumphant.

Thank goodness Mum and Dad were both out. I didn’t want
anyone to see me like this. I got to my knees and grabbed hold of the newel
post, waiting for my breathing to settle to a regular judder. Inch by inch, I
pulled myself up to my feet, still wobbly and disoriented. My head was
throbbing, but it felt more like a severe headache than anything else. Normal.
I could cope with that.

I felt my way into the kitchen, opened a drawer beside the
sink and took out three paracetamols. Cupping my hand under the cold tap, I
took several sips and washed them down.

Mum came back soon afterwards having given a talk at the
local library, rattling on about how much sugar should go into a vat of jam. I
let her talk. She asked for the curtain material. She asked why it was soaking
wet. Then she realised something was wrong. I told her. Only the details about
the mugging, though, not about the panic attack that followed. I’ve never
mentioned those to anyone except my GP and therapist.

Mum’s reaction was to get onto the police straight away. It
all had to go through the official channels, she said. I knew we had to report
him, but also that it was hopeless.

I told the police everything I could, but the mugger had
been bent over when I first heard him crying out, then suddenly he was behind
me with the knife at my neck, so I didn’t see his face. His hood was up, so I
wasn’t even sure of the colour of his hair. All I could tell them was that he
was white – and a man. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out in a line-up
even if the police had gone that far.

Dad came back from a chess game later to prepare for his
prayer group. I didn’t want to tell him – I didn’t want to worry him – but Mum
insisted. His immediate reaction was to fling his arms around me. He’d hardly
ever done that before and it made me burst into tears.

‘My dearest Pumpkin – what a terrible nightmare it must have
been for you. My poor little girl.’

I withdrew, trying to contain two conflicting emotions.
Gratitude, that Dad actually seemed to care about me, but disappointed that
he’d ended up making me feel so pathetic. That’s how Dad – and everyone else
always saw me. Hapless, wretched, pitiable.