The Flavours of Love (22 page)

‘Oh.’

‘It’s such a mess. I panicked. I didn’t have a chance to think about what to do properly. I’ve never been in that situation before.’

‘Yes you have.’

‘Not like that. People might say something, and you can flirt a little, but there’s always the boundary. I always shut it down before it gets that far. In this case, there was nothing to shut down because I didn’t think she was interested. And even if you are interested, who tries to kiss a married man?’

‘More people than you’d imagine.’

‘Well not me!’ He was genuinely disgusted by the idea. ‘This doesn’t happen to me.’

‘It does all the time, you simply don’t see it.’

‘I haven’t done anything like that since Lisbon. I swear, Ffrony.’

‘I know. And I know you. I know, for example, that you’re going to feel awful for hurting her feelings, so I think the best thing would be for you to ring her right now. Apologise for saying all those things in the middle of the pub, and then repeat them but for her ears only.’

‘You think I should call her?
Are you mad?
She’ll think I’m interested in her or something.’

‘Oh, yeah, maybe. Look, tell her your wife’s told you to call and apologise. That it was a misunderstanding and you don’t want it to spoil going to the classes.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Yes. You can’t give up on your classes, you love them. They cost me a fortune and I get three hours of peace every Wednesday night. I’m not giving that up without a fight.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. But I’ll look around for other classes, too. See if anything else is as good for all-round stuff. Then I can migrate over to them.’

‘Good plan, Batman. Go on then, get dialling. Better out than in.’

‘Mum, Mum,’ Phoebe says frantically. She is shaking me, her fingers gripped around the brow of my shoulder like she is hanging onto the edge of a cliff with a huge drop below.

‘I’m awake, I’m awake,’ I say. I force my eyes open and myself upright at the same time. ‘I’m awake.’ I don’t usually sleep that deeply, so it’s disorientating to have to be shaken awake, rather than to simply wake up. In the light cast from the corridor by the open door, I see her kneeling beside the bed, and I notice immediately that fear is flurrying across her face.

‘What’s the matter?’ To force myself further awake, deeper into consciousness, I blink hard and fast.

‘Someone’s trying to break into our house,’ she whispers.

My body and mind freeze. ‘What?’

‘I heard them below my room, they’re trying to break in through the back door.’

Automatically, I glance at Joel’s side of the bed.
What would he do?

When we first moved here we lived in fear of this happening: we’d never had so much space, so many doors and windows and points of entry that we were solely responsible for. We’d go around every night and check everything was locked up, and sleep with one ear cocked in case someone tried to get in.
Joel
would go around every night and check everything was locked up. We knew we’d probably be able to handle the idea of things being stolen, but not beloved items being damaged, nor someone walking around our home, infecting it with their unwelcome presence.

Over time, we eased off the worry, found other things to think
about. We’d never made a formal plan for something like this happening and I have no idea what to do.

Should we alert whoever it is that we are awake by switching on some lights, making a lot of noise and hopefully scare them off? Or do we hide and call the police? Or, do I check that my daughter is right before I set in motion another drama? ‘Show me,’ I say.

With Phoebe behind me, we move quickly and quietly down the blue-carpeted corridor, past the bathroom, past Zane’s room, past the stairs up to the loft, until we arrive at her bedroom at the back of the house, over the kitchen.

I stand by the window and almost immediately hear it: the scritch-scratching of someone at the back door who pauses regularly to try the handle. The distance from the back door to Phoebe’s room doesn’t smother the way the person below is industriously trying to enter our home. They’re obviously not a professional as they would have got in by now, I’d imagine. They’re not reckless amateurs, either, otherwise they would have tried to smash the door in by now. The noise – I cock my head towards it, hoping it will make it clearer – is like the sound of someone trying keys in the deadlock. One after the other, keys are pushed into the lock, then that pause after each go – even though the lock hasn’t been thrown – to turn the handle. They are expecting to get in. It’s only a matter of time.

I can’t look out, see if I can spot them,
identify
them because the back door is hidden from where I am by the brow of the kitchen extension at the back of the house.

Beside Phoebe’s bed is her mobile phone, a long black wire trailing from its side as it is charged. I gently unplug it, then as quietly as possible, I back out of the room, almost tripping over Phoebe who is waiting on the threshold, her face still a mask of terror.

‘OK, Phoebe, I want you to come with me to wake your brother,’ I whisper. ‘And then, the pair of you are to go upstairs to Aunty Betty’s room and lock yourselves in.’ I hand her the mobile. ‘After you’re all safe together, dial 999. OK?’

Her eyes double in size, leaving her with huge whites of her eyes
and tiny melted-mahogany pupils, and she refuses to close her fingers around the phone. She’s scared of talking to the police in case she spontaneously confesses what she knows about Joel’s death that she begged me to keep quiet. ‘I know you’re scared of the police,’ I whisper. ‘But they’re the only ones who can help us in this situation, OK?’ I push the phone into her hand.

Slowly, she accepts it and gives a reluctant nod.

‘When you call them, make sure you say there’s someone coming into your house and there are two children and an old lady. That might make them respond quicker.’

Zane has always been a heavy sleeper – I’ve been known to vacuum in his room while he’s having a nap on his bed and not even cause the slightest stir. It takes an age to wake him and, to stop him shouting at us, I have to push my hand over his mouth while tapping my finger to my lips with my other hand. ‘Go upstairs with Phoebe to Aunty Betty’s room,’ I whisper to him. ‘Try to be very quiet, she’ll explain to you what’s going on up there.’

‘Wait, where are you going, Mum?’ Phoebe asks quietly.

‘I’m going to sneak downstairs and turn the light on, see if that’ll scare them away.’

‘You can’t—’ they both protest.

‘I’ll be fine. Especially once you’ve called the police.’

Both of them are reluctant to leave me, so I stand at the bottom of the carpet-covered stairs to the attic and watch them go up. With Phoebe’s phone as a light, they round the corner and go onto the landing up there. I see the bluey glow from her mobile as it illuminates the landing, and I hear them open the door to Aunty Betty’s room. When it shuts behind them, and then the lock is turned, I go back to my bedroom. Before I grab my phone, I struggle into Joel’s jumper.

The floorboards that creak on the landing and stairs are easy to avoid – I’ve been doing it for at least nine years, unconsciously mapping them out as I’ve avoided waking up my children and husband if I need to go downstairs in the middle of the night. At the bottom
of the stairs, an unexpected rage overcomes me. I was scared before, now I am angry. That this is another ‘difficult’ thing coming into our lives: Joel’s death, my stupid work situation, Phoebe’s pregnancy, the letters. Why us?
Why us?

I have an urge to pick up the large umbrella that stands at the foot of the stairs in our umbrella stand and charge into the kitchen, screaming my head off and going straight for the back door. I want to scare the life out of whoever it is that is trying to break in. I want them to know, even for a sliver of a second, the fear they’ve put into us.

‘
Your children don’t need to lose another parent
,’ Fynn said to me. Those words are stopping me going in there right now. I would love to, but I can’t. I don’t know who they are or what they want, or if they’ve got a weapon. I don’t know what I will be walking into and if it will leave my children orphans.

What I do know is that this burglar thinks they have a key to our house and they have deliberately come here. Our house backs onto other gardens, the only access from the street is from the small walkway on the other side of the house next to us. And that walkway is only to their back garden. Their house is always in darkness, they often come and go so this person, if they were merely on the rob, would have a much easier time of it in that house. Not ours. Ours, the house they think they have a key to.

The way my heart pounds is erratic and volatile: different to the beat from the other night when I was rowing with Fynn, nothing like when I was with Lewis in the kitchen. This beat is violent, forceful, intense, like nothing I have ever felt before.

Deep breath
, I tell myself as I wait in my corridor, a few feet away from the living room, staring at my shut kitchen door.
Deep breath
. Joel always used to complain about me never shutting doors on the way to bed. ‘It could save our lives in a fire,’ he used to say, ‘by helping to contain the flames in a single room.’ I’ve had to remember to do that ever since
that day
.

Deep breath
. I step back towards the umbrella stand, my fingers
close around the cold fake wood handle of the large umbrella Joel was given when he worked on the designs of a series of products for a large Brighton company. As quietly as possible, I slide the umbrella out of the brass stand and I move closer to wait by the white, six-panelled kitchen door.
Deep breath, deep breath
.

In the distance, I hear it. What I’ve been waiting for, the high, insistent, persistent whine of the approaching police sirens. As they draw closer, the sound definitely coming towards us, I throw open the kitchen door and flick on the light, momentarily dazzling myself with the brightness bouncing off the white surfaces and white floor. The figure at the back door is small, slender, disguised a little by the mottled glass. The person freezes for a second before they snap to their senses, drop what’s in their hands, and then run off into the darkness of our garden.

I’m petrified, frozen where I stand. I know who it is that has targeted us in this way.

The night around our house is now a circus of sirens and blue flashing lights and car doors being opened and slammed shut. There’s a loud, momentarily terrifying knock on the door, above the crackle of radios giving directions.

I can’t move. I stand on the stain in my kitchen, staring at the place where Audra, the woman who murdered Joel, was attempting to break into our home.

‘I’m sorry we’ve had to meet again under these circumstances, Mrs Mackleroy,’ the he one from all that time ago says.

‘It’s almost worth it to hear you say my name right first time,’ I reply.

The others, still in pyjamas, wrapped in layers of terror, are all in the living room together, huddled up on the sofa with Aunty Betty as the centrepiece the children cling to. It should be me, I want to be doing that right now, but I need to be here, giving a statement. I have to do this away from the children because I do not want to add to this horror, give any type of shape to their nightmares.

The he one manages a weak smile while he keeps an eye on his colleagues who march in and out of the kitchen, dragging mud through from where they have been on the lawn, in the flowerbeds, in the vegetable patch, apparently searching for clues. The world outside is brightening; day approaches without thought for what people like us have been through in the darker hours. None of us are going anywhere this morning – I’ll have to take another day off work.

‘Are you able to tell us anything?’ the he one asks. He’s a detective now, and an altered man. Maybe as part of his new role he has been on sensitivity training courses, or maybe he’s been told off by a few more victims of crime, or maybe he’s simply grown up. Whichever it is, his manner is different, genuinely gentle instead of aggressive and bullying in a quiet voice.

I tell him what I know and he confirms what I thought – that the person was trying keys – by holding up in a plastic evidence bag well over fifty keys (not only deadbolt ones, but Yale ones, too) all slotted onto a keyring the size of a saucer.

‘Do you think whoever it was regularly takes a bunch of keys to randomly try to break into someone’s house?’ I ask.

‘To be honest, I haven’t ever heard of that,’ he admits. ‘What I have heard of, though, is someone who has the keys to a house but can’t remember which key it is, taking the lot with them with the intention of trying them all until one fits.’

He’s only being honest, but that reply releases a shower of ice that starts at my neck and pools at the base of my spine. I didn’t change the locks after Joel died. I eventually had his keys returned to me along with his wallet and mobile and clothes he wore
that day
, but I didn’t change the locks. It didn’t occur to me to do so, nor did it occur to me to even check that all his keys were there. I had a bunch of keys and they were simply keys, nothing unusual or worthy of note beyond being his.

‘Do you have any idea who it might be? Did you change the locks when you moved in, for example?’

‘Yes, it was one of the first things we did.’ I pause. ‘I didn’t change them after Joel …’

‘Oh, right. I don’t suppose you would. I’m sure I wouldn’t think it necessary myself if I thought I’d got the keys back. I wouldn’t notice, really, if they were all there.’

‘I’m going to have to change all the locks,’ I say tiredly.

‘Get some window locks fitted as well, on both floors.’

‘You think that’s necessary?’
Are you saying we’re in real danger even though you don’t know about the letters and Phoebe’s secret about
that day?

‘It’s the minimum people should have, I think,’ he says, gently.

‘It never ends, does it?’ I say to myself but out loud, so he thinks I’m talking to him.