Sleep. C.L. Taylor
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9
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.
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