House share available now.
She reads the first line of the handwritten advert.
William Street. Decent-sized double room with bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers available for clean, tidy, non-smoker employed person (m or f). Shared use of kitchen. Live-in landlord. Parking available. £350 pcm including bills. No pets, couples or benefits.
A telephone number is listed below the description.
Ursula glances back at the house she called home for nearly two years and spots movement at the far left of the living room window, Roman blinds that suddenly close.
She looks back at the advert. William Street is still in Totterdown, just a few roads away. If she stays in the neighbourhood she’ll get to keep her round and she likes her clients and the safe familiarity of the local roads. The rent is very reasonable too. It’s a whole hundred pounds less than she’s been paying Charlotte.
She dials the number, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. She mustn’t get her hopes up. The room’s bound to have gone, or else it’s tiny and dirty, or the landlord’s a weirdo. If she doesn’t – or can’t – take it she’ll have to find a hotel for the night, something she can barely afford when she’s earning seventy pence for every parcel she delivers. And she can’t take tomorrow off work to go round letting agents; she simply can’t afford it.
As the number dials out she raises her eyes to the ceiling of her white van and says a quick prayer.
If this pans out I’ll never steal anything again. I promise.
And this time I’ll keep it, she adds as an afterthought.
‘Hello?’ a pleasant male voice says into her left ear.
‘Hello, I’m calling about the room. My name’s Ursula Andrews and—’
‘Like the Bond girl?’
She fakes a laugh, the number of times she’s heard that. ‘No, that was Ursula Andress, she’s like eighty or something. I’m thirty-two years old. I don’t smoke and I’m very neat … well … quite neat. I’m a courier. I wasn’t always one. I used to be a primary school teacher … Sorry, I’m waffling. Anyway, I need to take in my deliveries every morning but they wouldn’t get in your way and—’
Warm laughter interrupts her. ‘You sound nervous, Ursula. Take a breath.’
He sounds posh, which makes her more nervous, but she does as she’s told and fills her lungs with the warm cab air then exhales shakily. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need to be sorry. The room’s still available if you’d like to see it.’
‘Is it? Brilliant. When could I move in?’
There’s a pause, then, ‘Are you free to see it now?’
‘Yes! No.’ Her heart sinks as she remembers the thirty-odd parcels squeezed up against her belongings in the back of the van. ‘I’ve got to finish my round first, but I could be with you about sixish. Is that too late? I do really want it. I’m very keen and, as I said, I’m very reliable and tidy and—’
More laughter. She’s not entirely sure if he’s laughing at her or with her. ‘You haven’t seen it yet. You might hate it.’
‘I’m sure I won’t. It sounds perfect.’
‘Listen, no one else has booked in to see it today and, if anyone does ring, I won’t make any decisions until after you’ve come round. Okay?’
‘Okay.’ A warm wave of optimism courses through her. She’s not going to end up penniless or on the streets. Everything is going to be okay.
‘All right then,’ says the male voice. ‘I’ll see you about sixish. I’m number fifteen by the way.’
‘I’ll be there. Oh.’ A thought hits her. ‘One more question before I go.’
‘Shoot.’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘It’s Edward.’
‘Edward what?’
There’s a pause, then Edward laughs lightly. ‘Goodbye, Ursula. Looking forward to seeing you soon.’
Chapter 6
Alice
Alice catches Lynne staring at her as they sort through the rail of rejected clothes outside the changing rooms and pile them over their arms, preparing to return them to the racks.
‘What?’
‘You’re amazing. You know that?’
Alice laughs. If Peter had been as ready with the compliments they might still be married. Actually, no, they wouldn’t. Nothing would have allowed her to forgive him for his infidelity, but she might have left the relationship with a tiny amount of self-confidence.
‘Why am I amazing?’
Lynne lugs a heavy coat off the hanger and loops it over her arm. ‘Most normal people would have gone home after what happened to you.’
‘So I’m not normal then? Cheers.’
Now it’s Lynne’s turn to laugh. ‘You know what I mean. I’d have been straight under my duvet. Or …’ she gives her a sideways glance ‘… at the police station. Are you sure you don’t want to report him? I don’t want to go on at you but—’
Alice sighs. That was what Simon said – the man who’d nearly given her a heart attack by running after her all the way from the pub to the mall with her dropped purse. He’d seen the whole thing and was willing to make a statement to the police. She’d said no, she just wanted to forget it, but her decision has been rankling at her ever since. What if she wasn’t the first woman Michael abused on a date? What if there were dozens of other women he’d creeped out and hurt? She realised she was going to have to report what happened but now she had no way of getting in touch with Simon, the only witness. She’d gone back to the shop without getting his details, desperate to put the whole episode behind her.
‘Oh, crap.’ She swears softly under her breath, causing Lynne to look round. It’s not long until they close and a customer has just wandered in.
‘It’s her.’ Lynne sidles up beside her and hisses in her ear. ‘The one I told you about.’
Alice watches the customer as she drifts from rack to rack, trailing her fingers over the clothes. She’s the tallest woman Alice has ever seen – at least six foot three or four – with wide shoulders, a weighty physique and a large face with a broad forehead that her fine fringe draws attention to rather than hides. She’s dressed casually, in jogging bottoms, trainers and a lumpy wool coat.
‘Last time she was in she took a size eight skirt,’ Lynne hisses. ‘One of the new lot of stock – the ugly blue floral design none of us like. And she’s at least a size twenty-four.’
Alice’s gaze flicks towards the door where Larry, their sixty-something security guard, is staring longingly out towards the concourse. Probably desperate to get home.
‘Did he catch her?’ she asks Lynne, already knowing the answer.
‘He didn’t even notice and there was nothing on the CCTV.’
Alice sighs softly. Chances are the woman’s stealing to order – probably has a list as long as her arm. The regular shoplifters are known to every manager in the Meads. They’re all banned but it doesn’t stop them from chancing it if Larry’s distracted and the staff are busy. But this woman isn’t on the printout Alice has got pinned up in the back of the shop.
‘But she definitely took it?’
‘Yeah. I saw her stuffing it into her jacket, but I had a customer kicking up a fuss about a button coming off a pair of trousers she’d bought two months ago. The next time I looked up, Godzilla over there had disappeared. So had the skirt.’
Alice watches as the tall woman drifts towards the back of the store where they keep the handbags and jewellery.
‘You cash up,’ she tells Lynne. ‘I’ll tell her we’re about to close.’
She follows the shoplifter across the store, dawdling at the racks en route, sorting the sizes into order as she keeps an eye on her. It doesn’t seem as though the woman’s looking for anything in particular but there’s a strange, tense air about her as though she’s holding her breath or she’s primed for a fight. It reminds Alice of her daughter and the way the air in the house changes when she gets back from work. There’s no point talking to Emily for at least half an hour after she comes in. Alice has to wait for her to stomp along to her room, get changed, stomp back down again to the kitchen, open the cupboard, uncork the rioja and glug a sizeable measure into a glass. Then they both relax.
‘Excuse me?’ The tall woman with the fringe appears beside Alice, making her jump. She looms rather than stands, her shoulders curved inwards, her head slightly bowed. The blue/grey eyeliner under her lower lashes is smudged and there’s a faint tint of pink lipstick on her top lip.
‘Yes?’ Alice tries to read her body language. Most shoplifters are harmless – they want to get in and out without being spotted. But there’s another, more dangerous, breed: feisty and desperate women who’ll threaten anyone who gets too close with a dirty syringe. This woman doesn’t look like a druggy but there’s an edgy vibe to her that puts Alice on her guard.
‘There’s a man over there who’s trying to get your attention.’ The shoplifter raises a long arm and points over Alice’s head.
Standing near the cash desk, shifting awkwardly from side to side with an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hands, is Simon. Lynne, still behind the counter, catches Alice’s eye and pulls a face as if to say, ‘What the fuck?’
‘Excuse me.’ Alice abandons the shoplifter and hurries across the shop towards Simon. He clears his throat as she draws closer, the base of his neck flushed red.
‘I … um … sorry, this is probably a bit weird but I … er … I’ve been wrestling with what happened earlier. I can’t help but feel that I should have stepped in or done something and I really didn’t help matters by chasing you down the street so um …’ He thrusts the bouquet of lilies and roses at her. ‘These are to say sorry. For what you went through and me …’ he clears his throat again ‘… being a bit crap.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Alice feels herself flush as she takes the flowers. She buries her face in the blooms, sniffing to give herself a couple of seconds thinking time. She can’t remember the last time someone gave her flowers. Peter was never much of a romantic; she was lucky to get a card on Valentine’s Day and she’d always receive something functional and lacking in romance on her birthday.
‘My … um …’ Simon taps the cellophane wrapper. ‘I wrote my number on the florist’s card. Just in case you changed your mind about talking to the police.’
‘Thank you.’ Alice raises her eyes to meet his. ‘You really didn’t have to do this. But it’s very kind of you.’
He smiles awkwardly, one side of his mouth lifting more than the other. He’s not an attractive man per se – it’s not just his mouth that’s asymmetrical; there’s something about the balance of his face that’s a little bit off – but his grey eyes are soft and warm and his voice is deep and melodic.
‘Okay then.’ He shrugs and half-turns to go.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Alice says.
Simon stops walking and looks back at her, surprise registering on his pale, freckled face.
‘About the police,’ she clarifies. ‘I’m going to ring them when I get home.’
‘Of course.’ He gives a small sharp nod, his eyes flicking towards the hulking woman who slips between him and Larry and trots out of the shop, arms folded tightly over her bulky coat.
‘Oh shit,’ Lynne breathes from behind Alice. ‘She’s nicked something else.’
Chapter 7
Gareth
Gareth is still fizzing with irritation as he parks up outside the house he shares with his mother. How dare William Mackesy scare his mum with a message like that? She suffers from dementia – something Mackesy knows perfectly well – and a comment about Gareth being in danger could easily make her have one of her turns. It wouldn’t just be a momentary upset either; she could be unsettled for days. It was a ridiculous thing to say. Of course he’s at risk from harm. He’s a security guard: there’s always the possibility that someone he apprehends could be carrying a weapon. Hell, just the other day he read about an ASDA guard stabbed in the arm and leg trying to stop a shoplifter.
Bloody William Mackesy with his weasely little face, dark, shiny ball-bearing eyes and balding comb-over. He’s only met the man twice – once when he accompanied his mum to one of the ‘services’ at the church and once when he returned home from work to find him sitting in his armchair and drinking out of his mug. Gareth’s mother Joan, a book-keeper pre-retirement, had always pooh-poohed religion but she’d been talked into going to the spiritualist church by a friend (some time before she developed dementia). She’d find some comfort, the friend said, in knowing there was an afterlife, even if she didn’t get a message. Gareth tried to talk his mum out of it but somehow found himself going along too.
It was mostly women in the small, packed room, their coats and bags gathered onto their laps, their eyes fixed on the slight, slim man who stalked back and forth at the front of the room, pausing whenever he received a message ‘from the other side’, one hand pressed to the side of his head, his eyes raised to the polystyrene ceiling tiles. Gareth had braced himself for a miserable experience, for the weight of sadness and loss to pin him to his plastic seat, but there was a palpable excitement in the room. All the attendees were sitting up straight in their chairs, alert and ready, desperate for a message from their loved ones.
‘I’ve got a man here,’ William Mackesy announced, his gaze sweeping the audience, ‘and he’s shivering.’
Sitting beside him, Gareth’s mum gasped softly and Mackesy zoomed in on her like a heat-seeking missile dressed in shiny Littlewoods trousers.
‘I’m so cold.’ He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, shivering dramatically. ‘That’s what he’s telling me. I’m so, so cold.’
Joan nodded, lips pressed tightly together.
‘I’m getting a … Marvin …’ Joan gently slumped. ‘No … no, that’s someone else trying to come through. Wait your turn please, Marvin!’ The audience tittered. ‘Now I’m hearing from a Jeffery …’ Gareth felt his mum stiffen at the ‘J’ sound. William Mackesy obviously noticed too. ‘Or is it John … yes, it’s John. A John and he’s …’ he tilted his head to one side ‘… he’s calling for you. He’s asking you to help him. Is that ringing any bells, love?’
His mother’s croaked, heartbroken ‘yes’ was so painful it was all Gareth could do not to storm up the aisle and punch Mackesy straight in the face. Instead he reached for his mum’s hand, squeezed it and stared at the floor. An excruciating minute or two later, Mackesy finally moved on to someone else.
‘Do you think it was really him?’ his mother whispered when they filed out of the room forty-five minutes later. ‘Do you think it was Dad?’
‘There’s no way Dad would send you a message via a cock like that,’ Gareth wanted to reply. Instead he said, ‘If it brings you peace, Mum.’
She gave him a long look. ‘I won’t find peace until I see him again.’
As Gareth gets out of his car and opens the gate his thoughts switch from William Mackesy to his dad. It’s been twenty years since he went missing whilst hiking on Scafell Pike. A huge search and rescue effort was mounted but his dad was never found. They’d always assumed, and the police had agreed, that his dad had suffered some kind of accident while hiking alone on the mountain, and his body had fallen or rolled somewhere he couldn’t be spotted by the search and rescue helicopter or the on-foot search teams. When the police interviewed Gareth and his mother and they’d asked about his dad’s mental health his mum was quick to dismiss suicide as a possibility. They were a happy family and John was enjoying his retirement. He had a sturdy constitution – physically and mentally – and rarely visited the doctor.
Gareth agreed. His had been a happy childhood, without the arguments and stony silences that seemed to punctuate so many of his friends’ memories. Life became more difficult when Gareth entered his teens. Almost overnight he seemed to morph from ‘my little man’ to ‘you don’t know what side your bread is buttered’. Looking back now he understands why his dad had such a heavy hand when it came to school and homework – he wanted Gareth to achieve more than he had – but it still stings, remembering his father walking out of the kitchen in silence when Gareth’s O Level results arrived. Years later his dad made no secret of the fact that he was bitterly disappointed with Gareth’s decision to become a security guard. ‘A job for a failed policeman,’ was how he dismissed it. But Gareth wasn’t a failed policeman. He was a man who’d failed to get into the police. Regardless of the distinction, the criticism was still there and it hurt.
He glances up, sensing movement at one of the windows in the house next door. He catches a glimpse of Georgia, the thirteen-year-old who lives with her mum Kath, but the curtain is drawn swiftly across the window before he can raise his hand in hello.
Gareth sniffs as he steps into the dark hallway and turns on the light. An eggy, carbon smell floods his nostrils. What’s she burnt this time?
‘Mum!’ he calls as he runs towards the kitchen, but there’s no sign of his dumpy mother in her sheepskin slippers and Dad’s oversized navy-blue cardigan in the tiny smoke-filled kitchen. There’s a pan holding two incinerated boiled eggs smouldering on a gas ring. Covering his mouth with his sleeve, Gareth grabs a tea towel from the drawer, yanks the billowing saucepan off the cooker top, and drops it into the sink. It fizzes against the cold metal as he throws open the back door and turns on the extractor fan.
‘Mum!’ He pushes through the living room door. ‘You know you nearly burnt the house down!’
His mother, sitting in complete darkness save for the flickering television in the corner of the room, turns and looks at his feet. ‘You’ve still got your work boots on. Take them off; you’re traipsing mud into the fitted carpets.’
Gareth unlaces his boots and places them by the front door.
‘Can’t you smell that?’ he asks as he walks back in and pulls the cord on the standard lamp behind his armchair. ‘That burning smell?’
His mum wrinkles her nose. ‘Maybe, a little bit. Are next door having a bonfire?’
‘No, Mum.’ He pulls the curtains shut. ‘You just incinerated two boiled eggs and nearly burnt the house down.’
‘Oh dear.’ She moves to stand up but Gareth waves her back down.
‘It’s fine. I’ve sorted it. But I think you’re going to have to stop cooking, Mum. This is the third time it’s happened.’
‘But I like cooking.’
‘Then we’ll cook together.’
‘But …’ she glances at the clock ‘… you always get home so late and I was hungry.’
‘Didn’t Yvonne make a snack before she left?’
‘Who?’
‘Yvonne, your carer. She texted me to say you’d had fruitcake and an apple. And Sally made you a sandwich for lunch.’
‘Did she?’ His mum waves a dismissive hand in his direction. ‘Stop talking please. I’m trying to watch EastEnders and you’re spoiling it.’
As Gareth settles back into his armchair he thinks guiltily of the fifteen minutes he spent parked up in McDonald’s car park enjoying a Veggie Deluxe burger and large fries, washed down with a vanilla milkshake. He’s going to have to give that up and get home earlier to cook supper for his mum. Not that he knows one end of a saucepan from the other. He’s going to have to get some recipe books and teach himself. Or maybe he could ask someone to teach him. He thinks idly of Kath next door and the nice smells that emanate from her kitchen when he’s out in the back garden hanging up his work shirts. He imagines a different life, making dinner with her after work. He’d chop and she’d organise. They’d talk about their days and they’d laugh about the stupid stuff they’d seen or heard and then—
Out of the corner of his eye he spots something unusual on the side table and snatches it up. It’s a postcard, of a man and woman dancing cheek to cheek. It’s all very 1950s. He’s in an army uniform and she’s got bright red lips and hair that’s smooth and rolled around her face. He flips it over, reaches into his pocket for his reading glasses then peers at the familiar handwriting on the back. There’s his mother’s name and address on the right and five words on the left.
I love you, Joan.
John
x
He smiles to himself at the simple romantic gesture and places it back on the table. Sally or Yvonne have obviously been through Mum’s memory box with her again, encouraging her to chat about her life. They must have forgotten to pack it all away. He gets up and retrieves the large wooden box from the dresser on the right of the TV then settles back in the armchair and opens the lid.
‘Mum,’ he says as he picks up the postcard, ‘how do you fancy scrambled eggs on toast, or maybe—’
He breaks off, frowning at the stamp in the corner of the postcard. It shows a Christmas scene but there’s something about the image that doesn’t look right. There’s a bright red post box with a bustling snowy shopping scene behind it but it’s not that that catches his eye. It’s the postwoman in a neon orange reflective jacket crouching down to retrieve the mail. A postwoman? In a reflective jacket? It’s far too modern an image for when his mum and dad were courting. He holds the postcard at arm’s length, squinting to make out the date in the blurred mark beside the wavy grey lines that cover the left side of the stamp. He turns to stare at his mother.
His father went missing twenty years ago and the postmark shows yesterday’s date.
Chapter 8
@sammypammy99:
OMG. Apparently another man went missing on the Harbourside.
@NotMobiledriver:
Yeah, I heard. Just disappeared around 3 a.m.
@sammypammy99:
Probably drunk, coming out of a club and fell into the water.
@MotobkeBob:
Clubbing on a Monday?
@elbowframe15:
People do do that you know.
@MotobkeBob:
Not if they’re over thirty.
@elbowframe15:
Well I’m over thirty and I’ve been known to go clubbing after a work do on a weekday.
@dopeydons:
Poor bloke. I’m guessing they’ll be fishing him out of the water in a few days.
@lisaharte101:
Fishing him out of the water? Nice. Imagine it was your son or brother who was missing?
@sammypammy99:
Actually the first man to go missing hasn’t been found yet.
@gemzy9:
OMG. We’re all assuming they fell in the Avon but what if a serial killer’s hiding them in his basement or something?
@MotobkeBob:
Yeah, because that’s likely.
Chapter 9
Ursula
Ursula parks up outside number fifteen William Street, flips down the sun visor and scrutinises her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks are flushed, her eye make-up is a little smudged and her bottom lip is chapped but she looks presentable. Presentable-ish. She rakes her fingers through her fringe then sniffs at her armpits and wrinkles her nose. She takes a deodorant can from the glovebox and applies it liberally. 5.58 p.m. Time to meet her new landlord.
After Charlotte and Matt kicked her out she burned through her deliveries, forgoing chats with her regulars to try and make up time. A visit to the shopping centre was the carrot at the end of her shift and, after she’d delivered her last parcel, she’d driven to the Meads with her shoulders hunched, a pain in her chest and her forearms knotted tight.
Don’t, said a voice in the back of her head. Don’t do it. It’s what got you in this mess in the first place. But her legs had ignored the frantic pleading of her mind and carried her out of the car park, across the forecourt and through the glass doors of Mirage Fashions. The shop was empty apart from two assistants and the bored-looking security guard. That made it risky, more risky than normal, but she didn’t turn back. Instead she headed towards the back of the shop as adrenaline coursed through her, quickening her reflexes and sweeping her anxiety away. There was no plan, no item she particularly wanted or needed, but the urge to steal crawled from her forearms to her fingertips, like ants under her skin. She’d feel better once she’d taken something, when it was in her hand or under her jacket or shoved deep into her bag; the tension knotting her shoulders would vanish and she’d be able to breathe deeply again. She searched the rows of clothes like a magpie, her heart thumping in her chest. She felt a spark of irritation as the shop manager drew closer, pretending to sort one of the racks.
