So, I was running late, in such a fluster. For the life of me, I can’t remember – did I lock the kitchen door? Did Jack do it? I’d let our cat, Humphrey, out before we left, but did I lock the door after him? I keep trying to retrace my steps in my mind. But all I come back with is brick walls and fuzz. With a twisted stomach, I continue to wind my way home to St Agnes, my home village, postcard pretty. It’s 08.09. Until the phone calls, we’d almost managed to stuff our heavy baggage deep down in the dark limbic system. Now, stress hormones are gradually creeping back through the back door. My sleep cycle has bowed to their intrusion. Hence why I keep forgetting things, doubting myself. I’m anxious but haven’t the time to be. Is Jack aware? My little absorbent sponge, soaking up my emotions, internalising them as his?
I jump at the trill of my mobile, breaking hard, I squeeze my car into the bramble and stop. I snatch at the device, to answer your call. I don’t speak. Each intake of air hurts; something is crushing my chest. I hold the phone at a distance on loudspeaker, not wishing to be close to you, in any way. Silence. I see you smirk, loving your perceived power. You don’t see it, do you? Despite my fear, I will not bow down to you again. I’ve too much to lose. At 08.11, I hang-up. Why do I play your games? Because it’s the only way I will ever be rid of you. However much it pains me, playing your game is the only way. Sometimes, I scare myself, no longer recognising who I’ve needed to become. It revolts me to think I’ve needed to behave anything like you, in order to survive.
I head back off, being roughly only five minutes from home, switching on the radio. Anything to shroud the images of you. The curse of the imagination, I tell my clients, re-establishing old neural pathways. The greater the imagination, the greater the fear. How often I see people’s lives destroyed by this and worrying, the perverse comfort blanket. Somewhere along the twisted life line it’s believed worrying keeps us safe. Always on-guard, balanced on the lookout post, with a gunshot startle response. Last night it meant I slept with my car keys and mobile laid ready in position on my bedside table. Just in case.
From my objective position in clinic I ask anxious clients, ‘What evidence do you have for this worry? Actual facts, not subjective reasoning?’ Mostly, they have none, but my worries are fed from past battered memory templates. Preparing me for fight or flight. With the smell of impending danger. A whiff of insanity. A scent of you. I do have the evidence. We relocated to Cornwall to escape. But even then, how do you ever escape something implanted in your mind? I turn off the radio, or the Pied Piper of emotions, as I prefer to call it. Each track to be vetted as a potential co-conspirator, sneakily partnering up with emotions in a microsecond. Does perspective change with music? Or does music change perspective?
Then there are the shadows too, the feeling of being watched, opaque dark shapes playing with my eyes. Not long before that first phone call, they seemed to appear. When I leave work, when I’m at home, something in the air, something dark, lingering. Biding time. I can’t go to the police; experience tells me I’d be wasting my time. Not long after our divorce proceedings began, you were there, waiting, and watching. I know you were; I could feel you. Following us home from the park, waiting for me to leave for work, just outside the window – whilst I read Jack his bedtime story. You were there. No crime without evidence though.
Just a feeling of being watched. That’s it? they said.
How stupid would they make me feel again?
Miss Sands, what exactly do we have to go on? they’d say. Other than an empty phone call, and what else was it you mentioned? Oh, yes, shadows in the dark?
History repeating. I was married to a psychopath. Years of hell. Near-death experiences. The things I thieved, how about those?
It’s 2016. There’s been no contact for ten years. That’s a very long time ago. We’ll need something more concrete to implicate your… ex-husband? they’d demand.
Something else: there’s been a definite shift in Jack’s carefree demeanor; I’m sure he senses you too, your presence. Hunted, wounded animals, aren’t we? Or, even worse than sensing your proximity, maybe Jack knows something he hasn’t wanted to share with me? He’s really only a child but even so he tries to protect me, from you, from the memories. He’s been a little secretive with his mobile, now I think of it. But he’s just being a teenager, normal. Isn’t he?
I will not go back to my cell of old but how can I deny I remain locked in your world? Too many lies; too many secrets. The world we created together. Both of us declaring to be the casualty. But now I hold the key to freedom, there doesn’t appear to be a door, never mind a keyhole.
You have the door; I have the key.
Waiting and watching.
You’re getting closer again, aren’t you?
Chapter Five
Nothing can be obvious; discreetly does it.
No one will realise I was ever here.
How bloody crazy; why leave the door unlocked? Especially you.
A foolish mistake or, in your defence, an overwhelmed mind? Both.
Dangerous. Good job I’m here.
Still, can’t help getting a thrill, being places I shouldn’t be, operating behind the scenes. Takes me back to the good old days. To be fair, I could only observe for so long; I needed to gain access to what lay inside. For your sake and mine.
My mind has become an expert camera.
Record an image and store.
Move important object to become an untrue image.
Return to reflect the true image.
Time; I must be aware of time.
I’ll secure the back door before I leave, then exit via the front.
Come on, you should know, Eve, the truth is dangerous in the wrong hands.
Chapter Six
Cornwall 2016
I creep nervously into my own home; listening. Silence. Keys clasped tightly in my hand. No obvious signs of an intruder, no kicked-down doors or shattered crockery strewn across the floor. My heart pounds in my ears like a damp drum as I slink through the kitchen towards the back door. Startled, as a dark shadow thuds at the window. I jump and drop my keys. The minute sound of my keys hitting hard floor fills the room. ‘Christ, Humphrey, why did you do that?’ He waits in total nonchalance at the foot of the door outside. I rattle the handle, and breathe again. Thank God, I did lock the door.
But still there is something alien dangling in the air. If I didn’t know better, if the door had been unlocked, I’d swear someone has been in my home.
I pull open the door to an appreciative ball of fluff; he wraps himself around my legs. Purring. I pick him up and snuggle my face into indulgent fur, allowing my heartbeat to return to baseline. ‘You’re coming upstairs with me, mister, keep me company whilst I get ready for work. Frightening me like that, how could you? Haven’t you realised you’re living with a neurotic woman?’
I survey the sitting room as I creep through, before gingerly taking the stairs, still half-expecting someone to jump out. ‘What’s wrong with me, Humph, eh? Why can’t you talk to me? Did you see anyone?’ I sneak along the landing towards my bedroom, stopping to check Jack’s room first, all the usual potential hiding places. The wardrobe, under the bed. Nothing but used crockery – Jack and his blinking late-night cereal cravings. Still with Humphrey purring in my arms, I move on to my room.
I place him on my bed, where he immediately stretches out to fill the abstract shape of sun rays. ‘So tell me, Humph, to pull myself together. No one’s been in the house. The door was locked and there’s no other way in.’ Big round eyes glare back at me before he begins his grooming process. ‘No useful words of wisdom, eh? Anything will do? Or have you been silenced? Coerced to the dark side?’ He gives me the look of disdain only cats can do. ‘I get it, you’re just refusing to humour me. Wise move.’
I convince myself it’s safe for the moment. I need to get a move on for work. An invigorating shower of soft florals, all the time with a watchful eye on the door. Only panicking when the shampoo temporarily obscures my vision, rinsing it through as quickly as if my life depends on it. Not long later, I leave the house, double-checking the locks. Not bad, a transformation from home-comfort clothes to a tailored azure dress. Softly applied make-up, coral lips. Elegant shoes with a sharp distinguishing echo. Finally, my files, mobile and diary. All in less than thirty minutes. Trepidation has its perverse benefits.