‘As topical as it is tense . . . No skill is required to recognise why John Marrs has become such a popular author,withhisrelatablecharacters,clever ideas,andsmoothstorytelling.’
‘Marrs excels at thrilling readers by creating a real sense of tension and delivering a believable, harshcriticismofmodernsocietythroughthisdarkandentertainingstory.’ LA Times
‘Fun and compelling; I read the final pages while walking down the street, unwilling to wait until I gothome.’ Wired
‘Thiswill haveyougripped.’
‘Engagingconcept,craftilyexecuted.’
AdrianJ.Walker,author
of The End of the World Running Club
‘Wonderful concept, ridiculously entertaining . . . an absolute pleasure, the malevolence and impishnessofayoungRoaldDahl.’
‘[Her Last Move] will suck you in . . . This is one of those books that will lead you to shirk responsibilitiesathomeandwork;postponethingslikeeatingandsleeping...’
Woman’s Own
ALSO BY JOHN MARRS
The One
When You Disappeared
Welcome to Wherever You Are The Good Samaritan
Her Last Move
The Passengers
Thisisaworkoffiction.Names,characters,organizations,places,events,andincidentsareeither productsoftheauthor’simaginationor areusedfictitiously.Anyresemblancetoactual persons, livingor dead,or actual eventsispurelycoincidental.
PublishedbyThomas&Mercer,Seattle www.apub.com Amazon,theAmazonlogo,andThomas&Mercer aretrademarksofAmazon.com,Inc.,or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542017022
ISBN-10: 1542017025
Cover designby@blacksheep-uk.com
CHAPTER26
CHAPTER27
CHAPTER28 CHAPTER29
CHAPTER30
CHAPTER34
CHAPTER35
CHAPTER36
CHAPTER37
CHAPTER38
CHAPTER39
CHAPTER40
CHAPTER41 CHAPTER42
CHAPTER43
CHAPTER44 CHAPTER45
CHAPTER56
CHAPTER57
CHAPTER58
CHAPTER59
CHAPTER60
CHAPTER61
CHAPTER62
CHAPTER63
CHAPTER64
CHAPTER65
CHAPTER66
CHAPTER67
CHAPTER68
CHAPTER69
CHAPTER70
CHAPTER71
CHAPTER72
CHAPTER73
CHAPTER74
CHAPTER75
PARTTHREE
CHAPTER76
CHAPTER77
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Charles Spurgeon
PROLOGUE
I have stopped loving you. I have stopped caring about you. I have stopped worrying about you. I havesimply... stopped.
This mightcome as news to youbutdespite everything, despite the cruelty, the selfishness and thepainyouhavecaused,Istill foundawaytocare.Butnotanymore.
Now,Iamputtingyouonnotice.Inolonger needyou.Idon’tthinkfondlyofour earlydays,so Iamerasingthesememories andall thatfollowed.For muchofour timetogether Iwishedfor abetter relationship thanthe one we have, butI’ve come to understand this is the hand Ihave beendealt. And now Iamshowingyouall mycards.Our gameiscomplete.
You are the person I share this house with, nothing more, nothing less. You mean no more to methantheshutters thathidewhatgoes oninhere,thefloorboards Iwalkover or thedoors weuseto separateus.
I have spent too much of my life trying to figure out your intricacies, of suffering your deeds like knives cuttingthroughscar tissue. I amthroughwithsacrificingwho I should have beento keep youhappyasithasonlylockedusinthisstatusquo.Ihavewastedtoomuchtimewantingyoutowant me. I ache when I recall the opportunities I’ve been too scared to accept because of you. Such frittered-awaychances make me want to crawl onmyhands and knees to the end of the garden, curl up into a ball on a mound of earth and wait until the nettles and the ivy choke and cover me from view.
It’sonlynow thatIrecognisethewretchedlifeyoucloakedmeinandhow your miseryneeded mycompanytopreventyoufromfeelingsoisolated.
There is justone lessonIhave learned fromthe life we share. And itis this: everythingthatis wrong with me is wrong with you too. We are one and the same. When I die, your flame will also extinguish.
The nexttime we are together,Iwantone ofus to be lyingstiffina coffinwearingrags thatno longer fitour dead,shrunkenframe.
Only then can we separate. Only then can we be ourselves. Only then do I stand a chance of findingpeace.Onlythenwill Ibefreeofyou.
And should mysoul soar, Ipromise thatyours will sinklike the heaviestofrocks, never to be seenagain.
PART ONE
CHAPTER 1 MAGGIE
Youcan’t see me frommyplace up here inthe crow’s nest. No one goingabout their business inthe street can. I know that because I must have waved at my neighbours hundreds of times and they’ve never responded. To all intents and purposes, I’minvisible to the world. Idon’texist, Ihave expired, Iamaghost.
I probably resemble one too, standing behind these shutters that mute the light entering my bedroomandturnme intoa shadow.Whenthe lamps aren’tswitchedonoutside,it’s like duskinhere evenduringthe sunniestofdays. It’s whyeachtime Iventure downstairs,Isquintuntil myeyes adjust tothedaylight.Whentheshutterswerefirstinstalled,theymademeclaustrophobic;abarrier between the outside world and me. But I’ve grownaccustomed to them. Givena little time, I become used to mostthingsintheend.I’mthatkindofwoman;I’velearnedtobeadaptable.
I refer to this roomas the crow’s nest because it reminds me of a ship’s lookout point onthe tallest of its masts. Sailors use themto see for miles across the horizon. My view extends as far as thishousingestate.
Right now, I’m watching Barbara helping her mum Elsie into the passenger seat of a car. Barbara always makes time for her mum. Any parent would be proud of her. Elsie recently became reliantonawalkingframe,oneofthosealuminiumones withcastors attachedtothefront.Iremember her complaining how the arthritis in her ankles and knee joints was escalating and that over-thecounter anti-inflammatories were no longer effective. Ican’ttell youthe number oftimes Isuggested she make anappointment to see Dr Fellowes. Once I evenoffered to pull a few strings inmyjob as the deputy practice manager to ensure she got an appointment on a day of her choosing. But she’s a stubbornoldcoot.Shethinks she’s beinganuisanceifshesees adoctor morethanonceayear for her flujab.
Iwonder ifElsie still thinks ofme. Iwonder ifshe ever questions whyIjuststopped goingto her house for coffee everyThursdayafternoon. Half-pastthree sharp, regular as clockwork;we stuck to that routine for years. I’d return home fromwork, grab my own jar of coffee fromthe shelf – she always served that bitter supermarket brand I hated – and we’d spend a couple of hours putting the world to rights or gossipingaboutthe neighbours. Imiss those chats. I’ve caughther lookingtowards thehouseonnumerousoccasions,soIliketothinkshehasn’tforgottenaboutme.
Barbara’s car moves off the drive, along the street and past number forty. The letting agency has taken its eye off the ball with that one. From up here, I can just about see into the rear of the property– and what a pigstyit is now. If the previous owner, Mr Steadman, knew what had become of his once-beautiful garden, he’d be turning in his grave. The lawn has grown into the borders he spent hours fussing over and they’re filled with cans and takeaway boxes. Students have no respect for anything.
His grandson should have just sold the place. Or perhaps he couldn’t find a buyer. Not everyone is contentto live ina house where the previous occupant’s dead bodylayundiscovered for
weeks. I was the only one who noticed the build-up of newspapers poking through Mr Steadman’s letterboxandspottedthathiscurtainshadn’tbeenopened.Iwouldhaveraisedthealarmmyselfbutof coursethat’sthelastthingIcando.
Outside, a red car with a dent in the front bumper parks on the grass verge by the telegraph pole. It’s Louise atnumber eighteenand whenshe exits, Icansee the swell ofher bellyunder her Tshirt.She’s pregnantagainandI’mdelightedfor her.Shereachedthis stageoncebefore,thenoneday, an ambulance arrived at her house and the next time I saw her, she had suddenly just stopped being pregnant. Her body returned to its normal shape as if nothing had happened. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have to ‘untell’ people. I don’t think you can ever be normal again after losing somethingyouweresolookingforwardtoloving.
Iwonder ifshe is still workingpart-time atthe cashand carry. Ihaven’tseenher wearingher uniformfor a while. Iknow thather husband is still a cabbie because his taxi’s headlights frequently flashacross myceilingwhenhe arrives home after a nightshift.Sometimes ifIcan’tsleep,I’ll watch his shadow behind the wheel, engine switched off, his face barely illuminated by the dashboard. I oftenwonder, whatprevents himfromgoinginside straightaway? Perhaps he’s imagininga different life to the one beyond that front door. I can understand that; I often imagine my own alternative existence.Butlikethatoldsonggoes,youcan’talwaysgetwhatyouwant.
There’s nobodyelse to lookat so I turnto face myroom. There isn’t muchinhere, but thenI don’t need a lot. A double bed, two side tables, two lamps, a wardrobe, a dressing table and an ottoman. The wall-mounted televisionhas longsince ceased to workand I haven’t asked Nina for a new one because I don’t want her to thinkI’mmissingit. And without it, I’mno longer reminded of how muchlifeI’mlacking.
I have mybooks to keep me companyand sometimes I canconvince myself they’re enough. I don’tgetto pickwhatIread – I’mreliantonwhatshe brings home for me. Everycouple ofdays, I’ll start and finisha brand-new one. I prefer detective or psychological thrillers, anythingthat promises and thendelivers a twist. I like to get the old greymatter workingand decipher who the bad guyis. I’mhard to please though. IfIguess the culprit correctly, I’ll be disappointed at how predictable the storyis.IfIgetitwrong,I’ll beannoyedatmyselffor notspottingitearlier.
I’d like to have writtena book. I have manystories inside me and just as manysecrets. But I doubt it will happen. A lot of things won’t, like me leaving this house again. Try as I might, I just cannot manage it. And it’s my own fault. I don’t believe anyone who claims to have no regrets. They’re lyingto themselves. We all have them. If I was giventhe opportunityto go backand change somethingaboutmylife,I’dbeinthattimemachinequicker thanyoucouldsayH.G.Wells.
Suddenly, I hear a door opening downstairs, then a voice. I must have missed her as she walkeduptheroad.
‘Okay,’Ireply,andreturntomyroomasshedisappearsfromview. Ipause to countthe liver spots onmyhands. It’s beenso longsince I’ve seenthe sunthatthere are no new ones forming. That’s a small plus amonga longlist of minuses. I take inmyreflectionin the dressing table’s mirror and flatten down my unruly hair. It’s been silver for so long now that I cannot visualise the colour it was before. ThenI use a medium-red lipstickto paint ona smile, then add a little eyeliner. Idab blusher onto mycheeks butbecause myskinis so white, itresembles two redsplodgesdaubedonaragdoll.SoIwipethemoffandleavemyfacebare. Itakeadeepbreathandpreparemyselffor thenightahead.Onceuponatimewewerethebest of friends. But that was before he destroyed everything. Now the two of us are little more than the debrisheleftbehind.
CHAPTER 2 NINA
I remove the glass lid fromthe dish on the bottomshelf of the oven and steampours out. Inside, the chicken breasts appear white in colour and I prod them with a fork to check they’re done. I know Maggie doesn’t like chicken chasseur, but I do, and she’s not the one who cooks in this house. Besides,her fakeenthusiasmisamusingtome.
Iemptythe shoppingbags before Itake mycoatoff. She prefers neatlystacked cupboards and tidydrawers; I don’t. I save myneatness and order for the workplace where I have no choice but to be organised. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to in my own home. So I place the groceries wherever suitsmebest.Maggieisn’tlikelytorearrangethembehindmyback.
Sainsbury’s was busytonight, evenmore so thanusual. Families were out inforce; armies of beleaguered parents trying to do the weekly shop accompanied by sleeve-tugging children whining and demandingsweets, toys and comics. I watched some of these mothers, frazzled and rollingtheir eyes,thinkingtheydidn’tknow how luckytheywere.
One little boywitha mopofdark-brownhair caughtmyattention.He couldn’thave beenmore thana year old and was sittingina trolley, his chubbylegs danglingthroughthe hole inthe rear, one shoe onand another lyingonits side ona bagofsatsumas. His smile was so broad ittookup halfhis face. His mumlefthimfor a momentas she wentto another aisle. Iimagined how easyitwould be to grab himand carryhimoutside. Whenshe returned witha bottle ofketchup, Ihad a good mind to tell her how carelessshewas.
There was a lot offood onspecial offer and close to its sell-bydate tonight so Iboughtmore than was on my list. However, as I couldn’t walk home loaded with all those bags, I hailed a taxi instead, whichnegated the savings I’d made onmybill. I recognised the driver fromhis profile and the shape ofhis eyes reflected inthe rear-view mirror. NathanRobinson. Iwentto school withhim–firstatAbingtonValeMiddleandthen,briefly,WestonFavell Upper.Hehadn’tchangedmuch,except for his receding hairline and ugly tribal tattoos on his hands. He didn’t recognise me and I didn’t introduce myself. Iwas reluctant to spend the journeyhome reminiscingabout people I’ve lost touch withor ruminatingover where the twenty-four years have gone since we lastsaw one another. Itwas unlikelyhe’dremember meanyway.Atfourteen,Iturnedmybackonschool andnever returned.
As his cab pulled away, Itooka momentto face myhouse and glance up towards the secondfloor window. I know that much of Maggie’s life is spent behind those shutters living vicariously througheveryone else, and Iwonder to whatdegree she misses interactingwithpeople. Over dinner, she’ll keep me up to speed withwho she’s seenand what they’re up to, but does she ever longto be amongthem?Watchingisn’tliving,isit?
I’ve tried to make her life a little more comfortable butshe rarelyasks for myhelp. She didn’t mention when her television stopped working. It was only when I remembered I hadn’t seen it switched onfor a while that she admitted it was broken. I was about to offer to get it repaired when she informed me thatthe ‘news is too depressing’and thatshe’d rather lose herselfina bookinstead.
Ileave the kitchen, make mywayupstairs to the diningroomonthe firstfloor and setthe table for two.Iflattenoutthe lace tablecloth,the one Maggie’s grandmother made her.She prefers to‘keep it for best’. I remind her that these days, there is no ‘best’ any more. We live in a time where everything and everyone is disposable. I return to the oven to serve up the food, and take the plates andabottleofPinotGrigiobackupstairs.
Iglance at mysurroundings as Iset the table. It used to be a bedroomand there’s still a chest of drawers that I’ve yet to move. One day I’ll make the time to redecorate. By most people’s standards, this house is a little topsy-turvy. Onthe ground floor is a kitchenwitha basement leading offit, a lounge, anemptyroom– formerlythe diningroom– and a toilet. The firstfloor contains two bedrooms, a family bathroom, a study and the new dining room surrounded by wall-to-wall bookshelves.Eachbookis housedinsideathickplasticcover.Thesecondfloor is theconvertedattic that Maggie calls home. It contains another bathroomthat onlyshe uses, a landingand her bedroom. And that’s it. My home. Well, our home, I suppose. And love it or loathe it, neither of us is going anywhere.
I walk up another flight of stairs and find her standing by the window. There I remain, observing her and wondering what goes through her mind, alone up here. And for the briefest of moments,Iamclosetopityingher.
CHAPTER 3 MAGGIE
As I wait for Nina, I watch over the comings and goings of the cul-de-sac like a sentry guard but without the authority to report suspicious activity or to turn anyone away. I’m as much use as a toothless watchdog. Ithinkbackto whenIfirstmoved here some fortyyears ago now, and how most of the houses were identical in appearance. They were well maintained and had a uniform charm aboutthem. Now they’ve gotdifferent-coloured garage doors, uglyplastic window frames and uPVC front doors. Most have replaced their lushgreenlawns withblockpavingto accommodate a second and in some cases a third car. They have transformed my once-colourful street into fifty shades of grey.
There’s a patternto the wayItake ineachproperty. Beingatthe far end ofa cul-de-sac, Ican see bothsides ofthe road. Istartwiththe houses onthe left. Theyare pricier properties because they backontoschool playingfields.Number twenty-nine is the lasthouse Icansee withoutsquintingand the one thatbrings backthe saddestmemories. Alittle boy, Henry, almostdied ina house fire there a few years ago. I remember himwell: such a sweet, polite little lad. Firefighters rescued himbut he suffered terrible braindamage byall accounts. His mumnever forgave herself and it tore the family apart. But Inoticed her husband and their two girls, Effie and Alice, moved backinnot so longago, soIhopethere’sbeenahappyever after for them.
Next, I’ll continue with the other side. Elsie’s house is next door to mine. She and I must be twoofthestreet’s longest-servingresidents.Wemovedinthreemonths apartandbecamefirmfriends earlyon. She knows more secrets about this house thanNina does. Of all the people out there going abouttheir lives,Imisstalkingtoher themost.
She never closes her curtains until she goes to bed, evenwhenit’s pitch-black. As anelderly woman living on her own, I’d assume she’d be more careful. I can just about spy a familiar greenand-whiteimageonher largetelevisionscreenanddecidethatit’s theopeningcredits of EastEnders. Elsie likes her soaps, as did I. We used to chat about them over our Thursday afternoon coffees. I wonder,after solongoutoftheloop,how quicklyI’dbeabletopickuponthestorylinesI’vemissed. IthinkagainaboutaskingNina to have mytelevisionrepaired butdo Ireallywanther to thinkshe is doingmeafavour?PerhapsI’mcuttingmynoseofftospitemyface.
A small white car with a dark sunroof briefly pulls up outside the house. It must have the wrongaddressbecauseitquicklydrivesawayagain.
I’msuddenlyaware I’mnotalone and turnto see Nina, watchingme. She tries to pretend that she’s only just appeared but I sense she has been here for a few minutes. It’s happened before, knowing that I’mbeing silently observed and likely judged, but I never ask. Neither of us ever says what we actually mean. Untruths and unwillingness to communicate effectively, that’s how she and I function.Or perhapsdysfunctionmightbeamoreaccuratedescription.
‘Are you ready to eat?’ she asks, and I smile a yes. She takes my arm gently and helps me downthestairs,oneatatime.
Nina sits at the far end of the dining-room table by the sash window while I am two chairs awayand to her side. The window’s top halfhas beenopened a few inches and Ifeel a gentle breath ofwindrunningthroughmyhair.Itsendsgoosebumpsacrossmyneckandshoulders.
The wine is anunexpected treatuntil she onlypours herselfa glass. She catches me lookingat it for too long and knows that if she offered, I’d likely accept. But then she glances away so I don’t mentionit.Itakeasipoflukewarmwater frommyplasticcupinstead.
Ninahas putABBA’s greatesthits albumontherecordplayer again.Someofthegrooves have been literally worn away fromthe number of times she has played this LPwith the same old stylus. Songs skip and crackles maskthe words. I once suggested she bought it oncompact disc without the clicksor interruptionsandshelookedatmeindisgust,remindingmeofwhothealbumoncebelonged to and claiming it would be ‘sacrilegious’ to swap it. ‘We can’t start replacing things just because they’regettingolder,canwe?’sheaskedpointedly.
I know the running order off by heart. The opening bars of ‘SOS’begin and inside I chuckle. Gallows humour, Ithinktheycall it. Nina takes a servingspoonand awards me the larger ofthe two chicken breasts, along with an extra scoop of vegetables. She slathers them in more sauce than she gives herself. Later tonight, it will give me acid reflux. I thankher regardless and tell her againhow lovelyitsmells.
‘Itwas the under-sevens’club so itwas busythis morning,’she expands. ‘Some parents dump their kids onus like we’re babysitters thendisappear into townto do their shopping. The idea ofthe programme is to participate and read withtheir children. But some womenaren’t naturallymaternal, arethey?’
She holds her forkinher hand. Achunkofpotato falls fromitand lands onthe tablecloth. She jabs at it twice with her cutlery, moving it around and spreading the sauce deeper into the ivorycoloured fabric. I hate it when she uses this tablecloth. It is made of lace and was the last thing my grandmother madebeforebreastcancer tookher life.However,Ibitemytongueandtrytoignoreit.
‘Oh,’I chuckle, not genuinely, of course. ‘I saw her with a baby bump. She’s just starting to show as it wasn’t there a couple of weeks ago.’ Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I regret bringing this subject up. I should have self-censored because babies are an out-of-bounds subjectinthishouseandIknow whereconversationslikethiscanlead.
‘No, I don’t suppose I do,’ I reply, and turn my attention towards the plate. It is as if the temperatureintheroomhasdroppedseveral degrees.
‘It probablywasn’t until mysixthmonththat I reallynoticed it myself,’she recalls. ‘I had no morningsickness,notiredness,nothing.IsupposeIwasfortunate.’
Ikeepmyheaddown.‘Youwere.’
‘Toapoint,’sheadds.‘Iwasfortunate to a point. ’
Her tone ensures thatthe sentence hangs betweenus. Ineed to change the subject, butso soon intoour dinner I’malreadyrunningoutofobservations.
She drops her knife and fork on her plate with a clatter, which makes me jump. She removes the seconddisc fromthe double albumandchooses a songcalled‘Does Your Mother Know’.It’s one ofABBA’s pacier numbers and her face lights up as she hums alongwiththe firstverse. ‘We used to dance to this, do you remember?’ she asks. ‘We’d each use a hairbrush as a microphone and sing alongtoit.I’dbetheboyandyou’dbethegirl.’
She moves towards me. My instinct is to flinch until she stretches out her hand. I shake my head.‘I’mtoooldfor that.’
‘Noexcuses.’
Her fingers curl to beckonme and I reluctantlyrise to myfeet. We move to a clear space and she holds myhands as we start to dance. She takes the lead and before youknow it, we are bopping around the room like a couple of idiots, albeit with my limited mobility. For a moment, I’m transported backto the late 1980s when, as we are now, we were jivingand singingalongatthe top of our voices. And for the first time in I can’t remember how long, we are connecting. And it feels good...itfeels so bloody good.ThenIcatchour reflectioninthewindow.
Ninaisnolonger mylittlegirl andIamnolonger her mother.
Andas the chorus begins tofade,sodoes the memoryofwhatwe once had.We findourselves backinour chairs,eatingameal neither ofusisenjoying,andmetryingtomakesmall talk.
Iaskher whatshe has planned for tomorrow, thenIthrow a few ofher colleagues’names into theconversationandbythe timeshe has finishedupdatingme onthe lives ofpeopleIhavenever met, dinner isover.Already,Icanfeel thestomachacidbeginningtocreepslowlyupmythroat.Iswallow it back down. I know it will keep me awake throughout the night and I’ll spend much of it spitting foul-tastingsalivaintothebeaker nexttomybed.
I look over my shoulder to check that she has gone and, in her absence, I take a swig of her winefromthebottle.Ittastes as sweetas nectar,soItakeasecondgulp.ThenIworrythatshe’s done this onpurpose, and it’s a test that I’ve failed. So I replace what I have takenbyfillingup the bottle with the water from my cup. I fold the tablecloth and, using the last drops from the glass and a serviette,Idabatthestainthepotatosliceleft.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ she says dismissively when she reappears. ‘I’ll throw it in the washingmachineonahightemperature.’
‘Right, are you ready?’she asks. I look outside. It must be barely seven o’clock and it’s still light.
Withoutwarning, Nina grabs mywristand digs her fingernails into it. Iletouta yelp and feel them pushing deeper into me, pressing my tendons until the pain becomes too much and my hand unclenches fromthe balled fistitwas in. The corkscrew Ihad partiallyhiddenunder mysleeve falls to the table with a clunk. Nina’s hand remains where it is, her nails still drilling into my skin, and I bitehardonmytongueandtrynottoshow her how muchshe’shurtingme.Eventually,sheletsgo. ‘Iwasabouttoputitwiththedirtyplates,’Isay.
‘I’ll save youthe trouble,’she says, butslips itinto her backpocket. Her tone softens as ifthe lastthirtysecondsnever happened.‘Comeonthen,let’sgetyoubackupstairsthen,shall we?’
CHAPTER 4 NINA
Ifollow mymother up the staircase as she takes one step ata time. Inotice the muscles tighteninher sinewyarmsassheusesthebannisterstopull herselfup.Thelasttwoyearshavereallytakenitoutof her.Andshe’snotasconfidentonher feetassheusedtobe.It’sasifsheisafraidthatbygoingfaster, she’ll loseher balanceandfall backwards.I’mheretocatchher ifshedoes.
Most of us at some point in our adult lives come to terms with the fact that we’ll gradually watchour parents erode before our eyes and there will be nothingwe cando to slow itdown. I’mno exception. Despite everything that’s happened between Maggie and me, it makes my heart heavy to know there will come a time when I’ll no longer have her here with me. Sometimes I find myself standingat the bottomof her staircase withmyeyes closed, listeningto her feet pacingthe bedroom floorboards and reading aloud from a book. I wonder if she makes her own noise to fill the empty spaceinher room.
I told her once that she’s like a ghost haunting the house long before she’s dead. She laughed and said she’ll always be watchingme, evenfrombeyond the grave. I sensed a hint of malice inher delivery,butstrangely,itofferedmecomfort.Sharingahousewithatwistedspiritisbetter thanbeing alone.Beingalonescaresmemorethananythingelseintheworld.
We reach her floor and she turns left along the short landing and pushes open the bathroom door.Shetriestocloseitbehindher,forgettingitwill alwaysbeslightlyajar.Iwaitoutside,sittingat the topofthe stairs as the tapruns.It’s a Tuesdaynightsoshe’ll be preparinga bath.Setroutines like this and our meals together are useful in that we know what to expect fromone another. Except for when she veers from the script and does something stupid like trying to steal a corkscrew. Then it feelslikeonestepforwardandtwostepsback.Yetstill Ipersevere.
I switched the immersionheater onwhenI got home but onlylongenoughfor the water to be mild at best. It costs a lot to runthis house and myearnings and her state pensionare limited. There was a cold snap in January and February, so her government winter fuel allowance ran out weeks ago. Once Easter is out of the way, we’ll have summer to lookforward to and we won’t need to put theheatingonasoften.
‘I brought you another book home,’I say fromthe landing, and hear a rattling frominside as shelowersherselfintothewater.
‘Thankyou,’shereplies.
‘I’ll leaveitinyour bedroom.’
I head back downstairs to the ground floor and return with a book whose cover image is the chalkoutline of a body. I questionif her preferred readingmaterial mirrors the darkness beneathher surface.
Placing the book on one of her two bedside tables, I gravitate towards the window. With the exceptionofa movingcar,all is quietoutside.Ispytheflickeringoftelevisionscreens insomeofthe neighbours’lounges and wonder whatthey’re watching. Atthis time ofnight, it’s probablythe soaps.
When I was a girl, we’d gather around the telly to watch Coronation Street and EastEnders. Well, Mum and I did. Dad would be catching up on the newspapers or sitting at his desk in his office upstairsdesigningbuildings.
Outside, our neighbour Louise appears from her front door and collects something from the boot of her car. I spot her paunchinthe streetlight – Mum’s right, she is definitelypregnant. Without thinking,myhands reachfor myownstomachandIfindmyselfcradlingit,as ifthere’s a life growing inside me. I know there isn’t; it’s impossible. My insides are like a broken-down piece of old machinerywithmissingparts.However,itdoesn’tstopthelonging.
I look up to the burned orange and purple sky and am happy the light nights have arrived. I saved up the money I receive as my Carer’s Allowance and have treated myself to a new table and four chairs for the gardenmade ofsomethingcalledrattan.Theyshouldbe arrivingsoon.Idon’tneed all thatseating;it’snotasifcasual visitorsdropby.Butonechair onitsownwouldlookpitiful.
For a moment, Ipicture Maggie and me eatingdinner together inthe gardenone warmsummer evening.Itwouldbe nice todosomethingthatis differentfor us,butnormal for other families.ThenI dismiss the idea as quicklyas itappeared. IfIcan’tleave her alone witha corkscrew for a couple of minutes,thenhow canIbesureshewon’tbeadanger toeither ofusifshe’soutdoors?
I glance at my watch; she’s been in the bath for fifteen minutes and the water must be getting cooler. On my way to the bathroom door, I spot her reading glasses folded on her bedside table. Somethingglints and catches myeye so Istep into her bedroomto lookmore closely. She has tried to hide a spring fromher mattress under her glasses case, but the tip is poking out. Good spot, I think, pleasedwithmyselfbutdisappointedbyyetanother actofdefiance Imustnow retaliate against.Iuse the bevelled end of the spring to unfasten the tiny screw that keeps one of the arms of her glasses attachedtotheframe.Islipboththescrew andspringinsidemytrouser pocketandreturnher glasses, neatlyfolded,towheretheywere.
‘Areyouready?’Iaskfromoutsidethebathroomdoor.
‘I’mjust putting my nightie on,’she replies, and I hear the clanking of metal again. Then she appears,cleanandshiny.Ifollow her intoher bedroomandsheshufflestowardsthewindow.
‘Okay,’ I say, ‘lift your leg up’, and she obliges, familiar with our well-practised routine. I remove a keyfrommypocketandundothe padlockattachedtothe clamparoundher ankle.The chain falls to the floor witha heavythump. Iattacha second, muchshorter clasp and chainto her ankle and lockit.Thischaindoesn’textendfar fromthespike.Onceagain,Ihaveher confinedtoher bedroom.
‘Right, I’ve bleached your bucket,’I tell her and looktowards the blue plastic pail and toilet roll inthecorner oftheroom.‘I’ll seeyouinacoupleofdays.’
Later,I’ll prepare tomorrow’s breakfastandlunchandleave themoutside her door before Igo toworkinthemorning.Her dinner canwaituntil Ireturnintheevening.
Ilockthedoor behindmeandstandatthetopofthestairswithmyeyesclosed.Iwishitdidn’t have to be like this, I really do. I think about a quote I read once in a letter written by one of my favourite authors, Charlotte Brontë. ‘Icanbe onguard against myenemies, but God deliver me from myfriends.’Iwonder ifthatincludesfamilymemberstoo.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 5 NINA
The number sevenbus drops me offatthe stationinwhatused to be Northampton’s fishmarket. Even though they’ve torn the old building down and replaced it with this brick and glass monstrosity, if I inhalehardenoughIthinkIcanstill smell seafood,forever caughtbetweenthepastandthepresent.
Imake mywaythroughanemptymarketsquare, rememberingwhenIwas a girl and this grey, rough-hewncobbled space was the heartofthe town. For three days a week, itwas a hive ofactivity withtraders sellingaffordable clothes, petfoods, music, fabrics, fruitand veg, and videotapes. Now, therearen’tenoughstallstofill evenhalfofitonthebusiestofdays.
I’ma quarter of an hour early when I swipe my way inside the library where I work. I head downthe stone steps, followingthe grooves thatthousands uponthousands ofpairs offeethave made over the building’s 150-year history. Iuse mysecuritypass againto enter the basementand leave my bagandcoatinthestaffroombeforeIreturnupstairstothemainfloor.
Ibid a cheerygood morningto mycolleagues – Icounttwelve ofus onshifttoday, all ofus of differentages. As Iwatchtheminteractwithone another, itstrikes me thatpeople have anantiquated perceptionoflibrarians. Theyassume female employees are quiet, unassuming, bookishfolk;thatour wardrobes consistofa dull collectionofcardigans andcomfortable shoes;thatwe wear our hair tied back in tight buns and we spend our lives sitting behind desks shushing or fining people for late returns. Meanwhile, our male colleagues are equallydull, humourless virgins withbeards, corduroy jacketsandcheckedshirts,whostill liveathomewiththeir mothers.
Nothing could be further fromthe truth. On the library floor, yes, we remain relatively softly spokenand professional and we do love our books. Butthatdoesn’tmeanwe live and breathe them. Wehavelivesawayfromthewrittenword.
One by one we discuss what we did over the weekend. Danielle shows us blue-and-yellow bruisingacrosstheskinaboveher ribcagewhereshelandedawkwardlyzipwiringinWicksteedPark. Then Steve arrives with five minutes to spare and proudly displays cling film wrapped around his forearm. He’s beentattooed again, althoughit’s hard to make out the designhidingbeneaththe wrap and Vaseline. Regardless, I tell himit looks nice. Joanna plays in a rock band while Pete is now in hisfiftiesbuttrainingtobeayogi.
WhenJenna asks aboutmine,Iinformher mymumdidn’thave a greatweekend soshe tookup mostofmytime.Shenodssympatheticallyasifsheunderstands,whichofcourseshedoesn’t.Ihateit when people pity the life they assume I lead. And it’s not like it isn’t pitiful . . . just not for the reasonstheyassume.
Manyofus have worked inthis buildingor inthe libraryservice for years. We joke thatwe’d have served less time behind bars for manslaughter. Some I amcloser to than others but there’s not one personhere IcanhonestlysaythatIdislike. Maggie once asked me ifIwas lonely, notspending time withanyone myownage. For a longtime, Iwas. Butlife has a habitofsurprisingyouwhenyou least expect it. And she doesn’t know about everything or everyone I come into contact with. It’s
Withone exception, Ikeep mostpeople atarm’s lengthfor a reason. Ifyouallow anemotional attachment to develop, eventually that person will disappoint you. They might not mean to, but if a better opportunity comes along, they will always leave you for it. I’ve learned the hard way that people–evenlovedones–aretransientsouls.
As the librarydoors openand the firstmembers ofthe public amble inside, the vancontaining a new stock of books arrives earlier than expected. Steve pushes a trolley containing boxes which need to be unpacked, serviced, jacketed, barcoded and catalogued. Thenonce they’ve beenscanned, any books that have not been reserved are placed on another trolley. Today, I volunteer to stack the shelveswiththem.
There are thousands of books and hundreds of shelves and I know every inch of them. I’ve worked here for eighteen years, so I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t. However, the library has changed beyond all recognition from when I first started. But I’ve moved with the times. I’ve been awardeda couple ofpromotions over the years butIdidn’tapplyfor them,theyjustsortofhappened. I’mnot anambitious womanand I make no apologies for it. Some of us just aren’t drivenenoughto climbthecareer ladder.
Iassignalmostall ofmybooks to their correctshelves intheir correctlocations, spines neatly stacked up together and in alphabetical order by each author’s surname. Sometimes I wonder why I bother trying to keep everything so orderly, as it won’t be long before the public rummages around themlikeit’sthelastcar-bootsaleonearth.
Onlyone bookremains onthe trolley, so Imake mywaytowards the War and BritishHistory section. It’s often empty of customers, unless there’s an anniversary of a famous battle approaching and interestis renewed. Iremove a craftknife frommypocket, slip offthe blade’s protective sheath, slicethepageoutthatcontainsthebarcodeandhidethebookinsideanother.Oneofthebenefitsofmy job is that I get to cherry-pick fromthe latest arrivals. I’ll leave this one here and pick it up on my way out tonight. I’ll slip it into my handbag to pass through the security barriers without setting the alarmsoff.
I could always just borrow the book, but I don’t like giving them back once they’re in my possession. I don’t want anythingthat enters myhouse to leave it. I’mnot one of those hoarders you see in TV documentaries who live like moles in their own homes, burrowing their way through skyscrapers ofcrap-filledboxes theycan’tbringthemselves topartwith.Maggie’s abitlikethat.The basementwas like a rubbishdump until Icleared itouta couple ofyears ago. Butmeaningful things, like her books, I’mreluctant to dispose ofevenwhenshe’s finished them. So theyremainforever on myshelves,their pagesslowlyyellowing,unlikelytobeopenedor touchedagain.
Mystomachroars and I note fromthe clockabove the receptiondeskthat it’s lunchtime already. On my way to the staffroom, I notice an elderly person with a trolley by her side, one of those tartancovered ones that everywomanover the age of seventypushes. Evenfromthis distance, I cansmell her. She leaves a bitter taste in my throat and for a moment I try not to breathe in around her. Her odour isthereasonwhynooneissharingher table.
Her hair is a shockofwhite and silver, matted inplaces, and reaches her shoulders. Her eyes are a milkyblue, her skina mocha brownand her clothes tattyand unwashed. Idon’tknow her name and as far as I’maware, she isn’t a library member. But she is a regular here, more frequent in the
