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I shifted the blanket and book on my lap to one side and tried to get up from the sofa as Alex crossed the room. We met in the middle, an awkward hug with him reaching down to me and me reaching up, a huge space between our bodies. It was like embracing a stranger.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said as he pulled away. ‘I feel like I’ve let you down.’
‘You haven’t let anyone down. I’m not the person I was. I don’t think you are either. We’ve both changed. No one’s to blame.’
He looked at me steadily and said nothing. He didn’t have to.
We had beans on toast for dinner, the plates resting on our laps as we sat on the sofa and pretended to watch a film. It was better than the alternative, sitting across the kitchen table from each other, shovelling food silently into our mouths as we tried to think of something to say. We went to bed at the same time and automatically reached for our books. It felt as though we were in a bizarre sketch show, the couple who’d just split up but were acting as though nothing had happened.
‘Have you made plans, beyond living with your parents, I mean?’ Alex laid down his book but kept his gaze, and his body, facing forwards. A wave of sadness passed over me. It was real. We were splitting up. We no longer fitted together like pieces of a puzzle. Time had changed us. We’d become warped and incompatible.
‘I was thinking about moving to Scotland.’
‘Scotland?’
‘Yeah. One of the islands maybe. I …’ I discarded my book, twisted onto my side and pulled the duvet up over my shoulders. Looking at Alex’s side profile, I had a flashback to the first time I’d seen him – his long nose, strong brow and slightly recessive chin.
He looked at me curiously. ‘Since when have you wanted to live in Scotland?’
‘I’ve wanted to get out of London for a while, you know that. I told you when we first met.’
‘You said you wanted to move to the Cotswolds or Norfolk, not Scotland.’
‘There was a programme the other day, on the TV. I was only half watching it but I got sucked in. The Scottish Isles … they looked so beautiful and wild and remote.’
‘And cold. And rainy. And miserable.’
I shook my head. ‘No, not miserable.’
‘You won’t know anyone.’
‘Good. I don’t like people.’
He laughed. ‘And I don’t imagine they have a thriving marketing industry.’
‘I don’t want to be in marketing any more.’
‘So what will you do? Become a fisherwoman?’
‘I thought I might work in a tea shop or a restaurant or something. Or I could clean maybe, be a cleaner.’
‘Clean?’ One of his eyebrows twitched in disbelief.
‘Why not? I don’t want to do what I did, Alex. I don’t want the pressure or the … the responsibility.’
He looked grave for a second as my words sank in.
‘This is some weird kind of grief thing, isn’t it? Making reckless decisions. I read about it online.’
‘No, it’s not. I’ve given it a lot of thought.’
‘But …’ He looked at me steadily. ‘You’re the messiest person I’ve ever met. Who the hell’s going to employ you as a cleaner?’
We both laughed then.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Alex said as he twisted round to turn off his bedside lamp.
‘I want you to be happy too.’
He didn’t reply. Instead he pulled the duvet up over his shoulders and buried his head in his pillow, shifting and shuffling as he made himself comfortable. I studied the shape of his head and the curve of his shoulder as his breathing grew slower and deeper. Then, when I was sure he was asleep, I slipped out of bed.
I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms above my head. 5.04 a.m. I rarely fall asleep before four. I’ve tried hypnosis apps, lavender, Night Nurse and Calms but nothing works.
I’ve just spent the last couple of hours searching for jobs in the Scottish Isles. There were more than I expected, particularly in Orkney, but where I want to live, the isle I fell in love with when I watched the BBC documentary, was Rum. The thirty-one residents are outnumbered by the animal life – deer, eagles and ponies – that run wild on the rough, rugged terrain. But there’s only one job available – ‘General Help’ at the Bay View Hotel. Duties including reception work, cleaning and website updating. The salary’s pitifully small and the hours are relentless. I’d barely get time to rest, never mind think. It’s just what I want.
As Alex said, I’m hardly qualified to be a cleaner but I worked in a hotel bar for a couple of years after school and I can do the website stuff standing on my head. I peer into the laptop screen, reread my application again, checking for typos or errors, then grab the mouse and click ‘Send’.
I stifle a yawn as I close the laptop and stand up. The sun is coming up now and a sliver of bright light slips into the room where the curtains don’t meet in the middle. Below a blanket of grey cloud the sky is streaked orange and red and I can just make out the arc of a white sun peeping between the buildings opposite and—
Movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn my head. Someone just ducked down behind a car at the end of the road, on the opposite side of the street. I steady my hand on the glass and squint into the distance. There’s a piece of paper fluttering under the windscreen wiper of my car.
‘Alex?’ I whisper his name then cross the bedroom and step into the hall, pulling the door closed behind me. I turn on the hallway light, pull on my coat, slip my feet into my shoes and grab my keys. Less than two minutes later I’m down the communal stairs and opening the front door. I pause in the doorway and glance along the street. There’s no one else here, just me and a large tabby cat that stares indifferently at me from a low wall, several houses down. I put the door on the latch and dart out of the house. It only takes twelve frantic strides to get me from the front door to the car. I snatch the piece of white paper from beneath the windscreen wiper then speed back into the house. I shut the door behind me, release the latch and unfold the paper. There are three words printed in the centre.
YOU WILL SLEEP.
In Memoriam (#ulink_2cfcb88d-6440-5255-aea8-39382d82add9)
In Memoriam
Emily and Eva Gapper
Emily Gapper, devoted wife and mother. Passed away on 13.2.2015 to be with our darling daughter, Eva Gapper. Knowing that the two of you are together is my only comfort. Forever in my thoughts, my beautiful girls. Love and miss you always …
I have always prided myself on my ability to read people; to interpret their body language, intonation and micro-expressions. It’s not so much a gift as a survival technique, an arsenal in my armour that was fashioned in my childhood – a necessity when faced with a mother as emotionally stunted as mine.
Take you, for example, Anna Willis, sitting in the window, lit by the glow of your laptop, then sprinting along the pavement with your oversized cardigan wrapped around your body and belted by your arm gripping your waist. I might have been too far away this time to study your face but I’ve been nearer. I’ve been close enough to study your pale skin, wide unblinking pupils, the sweat prickling at your hairline, your repetitive throat-clearing and the way you twist your hands. Your anxiety and your pain shine like a beacon but only to your nearest and dearest, sweet Anna. And, of course, to me.
I was going to retire. I was going to leave this life behind me and take up new pursuits. But he wants you gone and I couldn’t say no. I have never been able to say no to him.
I thought I’d want to hurry your passing, Anna, to get it over and done with quickly, but this will be the last time I ever do this, my final flourish, so to speak, and I want it to be perfect. When the time is right I will help you sleep.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_14b0c8c5-5294-55aa-8261-71b88e419a10)
Anna (#ulink_14b0c8c5-5294-55aa-8261-71b88e419a10)
Alex walks into the kitchen, dressed in his suit and smelling of shampoo and aftershave. He holds out a hand. ‘Show me that note.’
I tried to wake him after I ran back up the stairs with the piece of paper I found under the windscreen wiper but he swatted me away and told me to go back to sleep. I tried again when his alarm went off at six thirty but he peered at it through bleary eyes, shook his head and said he needed the loo. I trailed him to the bathroom, note in hand, then retreated to the kitchen when I heard the shower start.
‘Someone put it on my car,’ I tell him again.
Alex takes one look at the note, flips it over to look at the blank other side then crumples it up and throws it in the bin. ‘Sounds supportive to me. Maybe someone else on the street has noticed that you stay up all hours of the night.’
‘But they’ve underlined “will”. It makes it sound threatening.’
‘Maybe it’s the journalist that’s been hassling you for an interview. Give me an interview and you’ll sleep better, that sort of thing. Was there a business card with it?’
‘No, nothing.’ I pause. ‘I think it’s Steve Laing.’
Alex frowns. He doesn’t recognise the name.
‘Freddy’s dad. Remember what he said after the trial, that justice had only partially been done? I really think it’s him, Alex. First “sleep” written in the dirt, then the postcard, now this.’ I reach into the bin and pull out the crumpled ball of paper. ‘Maybe he thinks I fell asleep at the wheel too? Or that I feel too guilty to sleep.’
Alex reaches under the kitchen table for his shoes and eases his feet into them. ‘Anna, put the note back in the bin.’
‘But it’s evidence.’
‘Of what?’
‘That someone’s …’ I tail off. What was it evidence of exactly? That someone had noticed I was still awake at 5 a.m. and had left a sympathetic note on my car? It wasn’t illegal to write in the dirt on someone’s car either. If it were, hundreds of ‘clean me’ pranksters would be in jail for defacing grubby vans.
‘Has anything else happened that you haven’t told me about?’ Alex stands up and pulls on his coat. ‘Any weird phone calls or emails?’
‘No, just, you know, the feeling that someone’s been watching me.’
My boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, clamps his top teeth over his bottom lip and gazes down at me, his brow creasing as his eyes search mine. ‘The trial was covered in the paper, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And they mentioned our address? The street, anyway.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Probably a member of the public then. Some weirdo who’s become obsessed with the case. Or not,’ he adds as he registers my startled expression. ‘It could be something to do with Steve Laing, like you say. Either way, you need to stop worrying about it. Whoever it is isn’t going to bother you at your parents’ house.’
It’s a reassuring thought but I’m fooling myself if I think I’ll be out of the flat today. I’ve got too much stuff. There are pots and pans, dishes and cutlery in the kitchen. Books, clothes, DVDs and music in the bedroom. Ornaments, photo frames and pictures in the living room. Then there’s all the furniture that belongs to me. It’s going to take me days to get everything packed up.
‘Alex.’ I reach out to touch him on the arm but my hand falls away before I make contact. We aren’t together any more. Lingering touches are no longer appropriate.
‘Yeah?’
I want to ask him not to go to work. To stay in the flat with me and watch a film and get drunk or play a board game and listen to music. I know if I stay in the flat alone I’ll flinch at every noise, peer out of the window, pace and worry and google real-life stories about stalkers. But I can’t ask Alex not to go to work. Not least because he doesn’t have to protect or comfort me any more. I have to let him get on with his life.
‘Can I leave my furniture here?’ I ask instead. ‘Until I’m settled? And some boxes of stuff?’
He shrugs. ‘I guess, until I get a new place anyway.’
‘Thank you. I’ll arrange for a man with a van to pick them up. I’ll leave the car outside too. I’ll probably sell it. Unless you want it.’
‘You’re getting rid of your car?’
‘Yeah.’ I’m surprised at his reaction. He’s seen how difficult it is for me just to get into the passenger seat. There’s no way I can face driving again. Not for a long time. ‘I’ll get a train to Mum and Tony’s later, once I’m packed up.’
That’s assuming they’ll be okay with me staying. Ever since they’ve retired they’ve had a succession of long-lost relatives and old friends to visit. I might have to kip on the sofa.
‘Wow.’ Alex looks stunned, as though the reality of what we’re doing has finally sunk in. ‘You’re not going to be here when I get back, are you?’
‘No.’ I look up at the ceiling and blink back tears.
‘Jesus.’ He looks me up and down, his gaze resting on my lips, the top button of my pyjamas and the chipped nail varnish on my toes. ‘I guess this is goodbye then.’
I nod, suddenly unable to speak.
‘One more hug before I go?’ He doesn’t wait for me to respond. Instead he pulls me into his arms, squeezes me tightly then lets me go. The embrace barely lasts five seconds.
‘Take care of yourself, Anna,’ he says as he walks out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He opens the door to the flat and steps outside without looking back. I have never felt more alone.
Part Two (#ulink_fe4a9a7d-656d-5e75-a3a7-316ebb809ad4)
Chapter 10 (#ulink_ec8ea733-6ad3-51f8-950b-5d79e5d46950)
Anna (#ulink_ec8ea733-6ad3-51f8-950b-5d79e5d46950)
Saturday 2nd June
Day 1 of the storm
‘Anna. Anna?’
I turn and smile. Even after a week I’m still not used to the way David says my name. I feel as though I’ve been rechristened. Back in London I was Anna – An-na – emphasis on the first ‘n’ and the last ‘a’. Now I’m Ah-nah. My name sounds softer and warmer when David says it in his soft Scottish burr. For the first couple of days on the island my shoulders remained up by my ears, tight, knotted and wary. But I can feel them loosening; the tension that curled me into myself is fading away. I’m softening, just like my name.
‘Yes, David.’
‘Do you have the list of guest names?’
‘Yeah.’ I swipe a piece of paper from the printer under the desk and hand it to him.
I had my reservations about David when he interviewed me on the phone. He was direct, gruff and pompous, continuously referring to me as ‘young lady’ (even though I’m thirty-two years old) and repeatedly asked me if I was prepared to work hard and not moan. I pictured him as a tall man, broad shouldered, bearded, ex-military. When the ferry docked on Rum and I walked down the ramp and onto the quayside I passed the small, round, pink-cheeked man in a yellow waterproof jacket and bowled straight up to the bearded man in a flat cap, standing beside a large black Labrador.
‘Anna?’ I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned sharply.
‘David?’
‘Yes.’ He held out a hand. ‘How was your journey?’
He had told me on the phone that visitors weren’t allowed to bring cars to Rum, and I’d boarded the small boat with a dozen or so people who were also on foot. Half of them had bicycles. The rest wore bulging rucksacks on their backs. I was the only one dragging a suitcase behind me. I carried it up to deck three and took a seat next to the window. After a couple of minutes the ferry pulled away from Mallaig, the sea as grey as the sky. After about forty minutes we passed Eigg, to our left, rising out of the sea like the dark nose of a whale. If Eigg was a whale then Rum was a dragon’s back, curving out of the water. I thought I was prepared to see it for the first time – I’d watched and rewatched the Small Isles programme on iPlayer after David confirmed on the phone that he’d give me a three-month trial – but my breath still caught in my throat and my stomach tightened with anticipation. I left the lounge and stepped onto the deck, smiling as the wind slapped my cheeks then lifted my hair and wrapped it around my face. With the sky and the sea stretching for miles I felt as though I was being transported to another world, not a tiny community on the west coast of Scotland. I felt vital and energised, alive and free.
I didn’t tell David any of that. Instead I said, ‘Rum’s a long way from Reading. It took forever. But the ferry ride took my breath away.’
