No Longer Safe (11 page)

It was lunchtime and still the police hadn’t arrived.
Karen fed Mel and ate a sandwich herself, but I couldn’t touch anything.

‘They should have been here by now,’ I said confused.

‘Maybe I didn’t get through properly,’ she said simply.

‘I thought you spoke to someone.’

‘I did…it was a very bad line…maybe I was cut off…’

‘I’m worried someone will come looking for him,’ I said,
plucking at the skin under my chin.

‘Stop fussing,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll put Mel down for a nap
and try them again – see what’s going on.’

It was snowing heavily when Karen enveloped herself in her
thickest coat to brace the elements again. I lost her in the blizzard as I
watched from the hall window. White flakes had stuck to the fur around her hood
and she shook them off when she got back inside.

‘No good,’ she said, shuddering with the cold. ‘I reckon the
atmospherics are playing havoc with the signal. It’s dreadful underfoot, too –
I don’t fancy driving unless I have to. I’ll try later.’

I stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I can’t bear this.’ I
stamped my foot on the verge of hysteria.

‘Okay – come on.’ She took my hand and put her foot on the
first stair, but I pulled away.

‘Come on – where?’ I said, backing off.

‘We should find out who he is. It might tell us why he came
here.’

‘No – I don’t…I can’t…’

‘Let’s just see if there’s anything in his pockets.’

I let her open my bedroom door. I tried not to breathe in;
there was already a bad smell, a cross between Mel’s nappy and cat food that
had gone off. I noticed a dark stain in the seat of his jeans this time and put
my hand over my mouth.

Karen was already beside him on the floor. She felt his
pockets and pulled out a wallet from the inside of his bomber jacket. She began
fingering through it. My body was stiff with terror.

‘Okay – it says here he’s called Charles Smith and he’s
twenty-three years old.’

‘Smith?’

‘You don’t think that’s his real name?’ She pulled out a
piece of card. ‘There’s a train ticket – for tomorrow – from Glasgow to
London.’

‘What else?’

‘Looks like there’s also an open train ticket to Europe.’
She sank back on her heels. ‘It’s okay, he’s a backpacker.’

‘What do you mean,
It’s okay
?
It’s hardly okay, is it? He’s dead.’

‘He’s a free spirit.’

‘But won’t someone come looking for him? Wouldn’t he have
told someone where he was going?’

She flipped through the rest of his wallet; I saw a few
notes, but no credit cards.

‘There are no photos of a girlfriend – no photos of kids. I
reckon he was on his own.’ She peered up and down the body. ‘Look at him – he’s
been living rough, he’s a drifter. He was about to leave the country. No one’s
going to miss him.’

I sent my eyes across the floor, everywhere but the spot
where his body lay. ‘If he’s a backpacker where’s his rucksack?’

‘Let’s look outside,’ she suggested. I followed – any excuse
to get away.

We stuffed our feet into our boots at the front door and
hurried out. Karen checked the hedges at the front and I followed the wall
round the cottage to the back.

‘Got it,’ I called out. A tall rucksack had been left under
the same window where the intruder had let himself in. Karen joined me.

‘He obviously wasn’t planning on staying long,’ she said.
‘Quick in and out – then he was heading off to Europe with his rich pickings.’

‘Just an opportunist thief, you think?’ I asked her. ‘Trying
his luck with the holiday cottages?’

‘Maybe.’ She pointed to the window. ‘It was pretty easy to
break in – he probably just levered it open with a penknife.’

She was unzipping his rucksack before I could stop her. ‘Not
much here,’ she said. ‘A paperback, a few maps – oh, look – a passport,’ she
said, flipping it open. ‘Yeah – Charles Smith.’ She started putting things
back.

‘Shall we bring it inside?’

‘No – better leave it here. The police need to know where we
found it.’

I looked down at her bare hands. ‘You’ve touched things,
Karen. Your fingerprints are going to be all over his wallet, his bag, his
clothes...’

She straightened up, shrugging me off and we went inside.
‘At least we know,’ she said, blowing into her hands in the hall.

It did little to set my mind at rest. All we really knew was
that our cottage was exceedingly easy to break into and we’d contaminated a
murder scene. We didn’t know how he’d died and we didn’t know why he’d broken
in.

‘Why don’t you have a bath? You look frozen,’ suggested
Karen. ‘I’ll try the police again. If I can’t get through, I’ll risk the drive
to the village and find a public phone.’

‘There’s one in the pub,’ I replied. ‘And there’s a phone
box on the village green.’

‘There you are – I’ll go once you’ve had your bath if I
can’t get a signal.’

As soon as I stepped onto the bathmat, I knew I had
a problem. I felt the floor sliding away from me.
Oh, no. Not here. Not now
. I buried my face in
the towel, hoping I could wipe this crazy seizure away.
It’s okay. Breathe. In. Out. Steady
. But it
wasn’t okay. Another earthquake was coming on inside my head, just like the
other time.

As I tried to make my thoughts follow a straight line, my
vision began to go patchy; large white holes started appearing where the floor
should have been, where the door should have been. It was back; the same
terrifying episode I’d had in London after I’d been mugged. I thought I’d left
it behind.

I couldn’t get my brain to work at all; an intense vertigo
had claimed me. Next thing, I was lying in a heap on the wet lino holding the
base of the sink, blinking slowly in big pronounced swipes but seeing only
fractured shapes. I could feel the panic hissing behind my teeth. I kept seeing
the man’s body as if he was right next to me – feel his skin, his hair brushing
my naked leg, his cold stiff hand on my arm.
Get
him off me! Someone – take him away!

I couldn’t think straight, whatever was taking over felt
loud and angry and was heading straight towards me. I lay there, my mouth hanging
open, waiting for whatever this was to pass.

There was a loud rapping on the bathroom door and when there
was no reply, someone came in.

‘What the—?’ cried Karen, cradling my head. ‘Speak to me,
Ally. What happened?’

She must have heard me. I didn’t know I’d cried out.

More than anything, I was ashamed. I was better than this.
I’d done a lot of work on myself in the last six years. I’d stopped being weak,
stopped giving in to negativity, but what happened three months ago – and now
this dead body – had done more damage than I could handle. 

My mouth wouldn’t work anymore. There was no moisture
inside, only grit. But I knew who Karen was. A good sign. I was coming back.
She half shook, half cradled me, repeating my name. Eventually, I could feel
sensation in my fingers. I could smell her coffee breath over my mouth, feel
the hard floor pressing into my bare backside and the pain in my head. I
stirred and tried to sit up.

‘Shit, Alice – what the hell happened?’

I tried to form words but they came out sounding nothing
like I wanted them to. ‘Imffnnnn…’

‘What?’

‘Imffnnnn…’

She hauled me towards the bath and leant me against it while
she grabbed something in the sink. The next thing I knew she was dabbing a cold
wet flannel over my face. She squeezed a few drops of it into my gaping mouth.
It tasted soapy and I coughed, trying to spit it out.

She wrapped a towel around me and tried to rub sense back
into me.

I lost track of what happened next until I could feel my
eyes being peeled open with damp fingers. I was lying flat on something soft. I
blinked, then kept my eyes open, my vision pulling items back into focus again.

‘Alice – what the hell happened? Are you okay? Have you had
a stroke?’

I checked the carpet quickly, wanting to know which room I
was in. It was Karen’s.

‘I slipped, that’s all,’ my mouth was dry and clacky. ‘I
lost my balance…’

She rolled her tongue over her lips and stared at me. I
could tell she didn’t believe me. She held my hand for a second or two, then
let it fall on the bedspread. ‘You’d better rest,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring up
some tea.’

As she set the mug down beside me I decided to explain
everything – the mugging in September, the subsequent panic attack.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ she said.

‘I would have done,’ I insisted, ‘only the others turned up
and you were worried about the baby…and …’

‘Getting mugged at knifepoint is a big deal, Alice. No
wonder you’ve had panic attacks.’

‘Only one…before this. They’re like seizures,’ I explained, ‘parts
of my brain burn themselves out. That’s the only way to describe it. I’ve never
experienced anything like it before. I thought I wouldn’t have any more…I don’t
have the tablets…’

She took hold of my hand. ‘You’re going to be fine, Ally.
You’ve had one nasty shock after another. Finding someone dead on the
floor…can’t have…well…’ She didn’t need to go on.

‘I didn’t want you to think I was a head case,’ I admitted.

‘Don’t be silly. A mugging can happen to anyone. And
this…you were in the wrong place at the wrong time – that’s all.’

‘Thanks…’ Everything she said reminded me of why I liked her
so much. Attentive, caring, no shred of disapproval.

‘You’re a tough cookie now,’ she said. ‘You’ll get through
this.’ She grabbed my shoulders, gripping me firmly. ‘We both will.’

I nipped my lips together, cursing the fact that she’d
caught me like this. I was desperate she shouldn’t feel sorry for me. I wanted
to be her equal, not the fragile, hopeless one who still needed looking after.
‘What time is it?’ I said, trying to sit up. ‘No sign of the police?’

‘I tried again just now,’ she said. ‘There’s still no signal
and the car won’t start. I must have forgotten to top up the anti-freeze –
she’s normally incredibly reliable. We’ll wait until the morning. The police
will take it in their stride, I’m sure.’

She had more faith in their understanding than I had. Once
the police knew how long it had taken us to inform them – and the fact that
we’d interfered with the body and his belongings – I was convinced they’d be waving
their fists in our faces.

‘One of us should walk to the village,’ I said.

‘Well, you can’t go like this,’ she stated. ‘And Mel isn’t
too great – she’s been coughing – so I’m staying put.’

‘Has Stuart been round?’ I asked.

‘No.’ She smoothed out the pillow beside my head. ‘Try to
get some sleep.’

A tidal wave of exhaustion claimed me before she left the
room.

I woke to cooking smells rising up from downstairs,
but they made me feel sick. I kept thinking of what was lying behind my closed
bedroom door. What if the others came back? 

Karen had brought my clothes back from the bathroom and left
them neatly folded on a chair, so I pulled them on, ready to join her. I had to
make myself eat something; I was feeling light-headed.

I plumped up the pillows so they’d feel fresh for Karen that
night and tidied up the bedspread. Simple, normal, familiar actions to ground
me. I put the lamp on beside her bed and glanced down into the suitcase Mark
had been hovering over when I’d caught him.

It looked full of baby clothes; that’s all. I lifted out a
pink sleepsuit, a pullover, a pair of leggings. They had all been well worn,
the colours fading, the surface slightly pilled through many turns in a washing
machine.

A batch of baby clothes – nothing could be more innocent –
and yet, there was something that struck me as not quite right. It was then, I
noticed. The label on the vest I was holding read 9-12 months. I picked up a
coat with a hood, which read: 12-18 months. Mel struck me as a fairly small
child, not surprising, given she’d been so ill – these items were bigger yet
they had been worn.

I heard a footstep and snapped round. Karen was standing
right behind me.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m sorry – they looked…so soft and cute…’

‘You’re not getting broody now, are you, Alice Flemming?’

I laughed. ‘No – I…’

‘She’s going to grow, you know,’ she said, taking the coat
from my hand and folding it. ‘I’ve been stocking up. Kids go through things at
such a rate – it costs a fortune.’

She was absolutely right, of course, but Karen had never
been the sort to buy second-hand clothes. I remembered her making fun of me
once, when I’d turned up to a party in a Laura Ashley dress I’d found in a
charity shop.

Karen must have changed a lot since then.

There was so much I didn’t know about her.

Over supper we both acted like the body upstairs
wasn’t there. It was the only way to get through it. With continuing brutal
weather, no signal and the car refusing to start, we couldn’t get the message through
by any other means. There were no police on their way. We asked each other
superficial questions about life after University, killing time until we were
tired enough to go to bed.

I didn’t refer to the period straight after we graduated,
when we’d spent a couple of days – just the two of us – at her parent’s place
in Bristol.

I could tell instantly from the size and interior of their
huge property that they were rolling in money. Karen’s father owned a record
label and was fiercely ambitious. I’m sure Karen learnt how to win people over
from him.

He had a way of making you think you’d made a decision of
your own, when in fact you’d only gone along with one of his – just like she
did.

Her mother, too, was a high-flier; a senior editor for an
antiques magazine, if I recall correctly. She oozed grace and allure, chatting
with me and asking my opinion as if I was a trusted friend. I could see where
Karen got her ability to make people feel special.