A pulse throbs in my neck as I read his message, asking if I want to go for a drink in The Grapes next week. I would love to go to The Grapes but decide to play it cool and leave it for another hour before I reply, finishing an essay and tidying my room first to pass the time. If he’s as keen as he appears then he won’t mind waiting, will he? My heart thuds as I type up my reply, my fingers clammy with anticipation.
That sounds really cool. What time?
I click send and refrain from putting a kiss at the end of my message. Too familiar. Too soon. Don’t want to scare him off, make him think I’m a bunny boiler. There’s a fine line between keeping somebody interested and making them think you’re some sort of unhinged individual. The type of person who puts kisses at the end of a text for fuck’s sake or stalks people.
Somebody like Phillip Kennedy.
I sigh and close my eyes: despair, anxiety, that man never far from the fringes of my mind. He’s always there – waiting, ready to jump into my head even though every fibre of my being doesn’t want him in my thoughts. I don’t want to think about him and Mum together. I’m almost certain they both thought they had kept it from me – Dad and Mum – but I’m not an idiot. I could see what was going on. As much as they tried to mask their troubles, there was no way to stop the truth from leaking out. And then of course, I saw that text. There was no escaping from the reality of the situation once I saw those words. The intensity of them. The intent.
It’s as I’m sitting waiting for a reply from Josh that it happens. The sound almost sends me into a meltdown. I’m already on edge. Jittery. Dad is at work and I’m in the house on my own. I have no idea what’s happened and am too scared to go downstairs and look. It was a loud bang, something smashing or breaking. My head is pounding, my heart pummelling against my ribcage, making me woozy and slightly sick. The thought that somebody could be down there, somebody who knows, and is wandering about, is enough to make me crumple, my body folding and becoming floppy with fear, my innards turning to liquid.
I sit for a few seconds, arms wrapped around my body, legs tucked under me on the bed, listening, waiting. Waiting for what? I should get up and investigate. I know this but am unable to move, my limbs solid as rocks, my entire body frozen.
The sound of my own breathing rattles around my head. I take a few gasps and tell myself to stop being so bloody ridiculous. The door is locked. Nobody can get in. I am the only one in this house. I know this for certain. So why do I feel so full of dread, as if something terrible is about to happen? I visualise a big hammer smashing down on me, fragmenting my skull, atonement for my sins.
Time ticks by as I sit, listening out, trying to regulate my breathing. I’m greeted by a long, drawn-out silence. Nothing to hear. Nothing to see. Nobody else around. I stand up and tiptoe across the landing, peeking into rooms as I pass, making sure they’re empty and there isn’t some skanky druggy waiting to smash my head in. Then I look down the stairs and let out an involuntary shriek.
Shards of coloured glass are spread over the mat, scattered over the tiled flooring and even sprinkled on the console table next to the front door. There is a hole in the top panel where the rock was thrown through it. It sits there, a large, jagged stone, incongruous and scary looking against the polished floor and recently vacuumed rug.
Adrenaline pulses through me, whistling through my veins as I thunder downstairs and pull at the handle with clammy fingers. I step outside, craning my neck to look up and down the road. It’s empty. Nobody around. Nothing to see. Whoever did this could have strolled up and announced their presence on a loudspeaker and they wouldn’t have been seen. Everyone’s at work or school or out shopping. Nobody home to witness this shitty little act.
The pulse in my neck is so strong and rhythmic, it makes me feel as if I’m going to vomit or pass out. I step back inside the house and lock the door, bending down to pick up the lump of rough, serrated rock, clutching it, inspecting it as if it holds the answer as to who did this.
It sits close to my chest, pressing against my sternum, the sheer heft of it causing me to catch my breath. So many awful thoughts buzz around my brain – worrying thoughts, sickening images. Who did this? Am I being watched? Maybe this was meant for Dad but part of me thinks not. I have a horrible feeling it was definitely directed at me.
I tell myself to get a grip, not be so stupid, so paranoid, my tendency to over-react a physical force within me. I have no idea what to do next, how to deal with this thing. I don’t want to ring Dad and worry him. He’s just started to climb out of a deep, dark hole. No way do I want to drag him back in there before he has seen real daylight. Fucking stupid, rock-throwing bastard. Whoever it was that did this needs to get a bloody life.
Glass crunches under my feet. I get a brush and dustpan and sweep it all up, picking up the larger shards with my fingers and placing them in the bin. This door panel has been in place for decades, small pieces of stained glass set in individual panes. It’s eye-catching, unique, expensive. I am immediately furious. How dare they? How fucking dare they try to scare us, whoever it was that did this. They have no right. My palms are hot, my skin flushes with anger and frustration. I thought it was over. It was all meant to be over and done with, our worries and unhappiness.
Grunting loudly, I finish cleaning up and go around checking all the windows and doors, making sure they’re locked. I carry the rock through to the kitchen and place it on the table in the centre, trying to work out how to tell Dad about this. How to explain that I sat tight, did nothing for as long as I did, too fearful to move. Too fearful to do anything at all. He’s been through enough. He doesn’t need any more shit throwing his way and I don’t want to have to show him this after he’s had a long day at work. Life with Mum was difficult. Things are getting easier now. We don’t need any more hatred or upset in this house. I hope that this is just a stupid, awful coincidence. I really hope so. I can’t think what else it could be.
I’m still mulling it over when I hear his key in the door. A chunk of air sticks in my throat like a jagged pebble. My heart starts up its uncomfortable, erratic beat once again. I stand and wait for him to come in, for him to ask what the hell has gone on. There is the familiar shuffle of his feet on the mat, the clink of his keys as he places them on the console table and then his voice as he calls my name.
17PETER
He stares at the gaping hole in the panel. What the hell has happened here? This door and the glass in it are as old as the house itself, each pane carefully set in individual pieces and held together by the leading. It’s irreplaceable. Sickening.
Lauren stands beside him, both of them staring up at the large hole as if it will magically repair itself if they wait and watch it for long enough.
‘I couldn’t see anybody,’ she says weakly, as if she is being blamed for this. ‘I ran out into the street after it happened but it was empty.’
He puts his arm around her shoulder and cuddles her tightly, her sharp bones pressing into his thick chest. ‘I’m glad you didn’t. Whoever did this could quite as easily have turned around and done something to you. If anything like this ever happens again, promise me you’ll call me, okay?’
She nods and sniffs. For all of her initial bravado, pretending that everything is fine, feigning bravery and telling him that she wasn’t alarmed or frightened, he can tell by her quiet demeanour that this has shaken her up. She’s fragile, easily startled and upset. She needs protecting.
‘Well, my thinking is that this was done by kids,’ he says with a sigh. It’s the only rational explanation. That’s what he tells himself. And it’s partly true. Sophia’s death evoked pity from neighbours and friends, not hatred. This definitely wasn’t done by somebody local, somebody who knows their circumstances. His face still prickles with fear and apprehension: emotions he tries to conceal from Lauren. Did somebody see him that night? The night he trailed behind Sophia, dipping in and out of the bushes and shrubbery, anger and jealousy pushing him on, forcing him to do their bidding. Does somebody know that he was there, right behind her and this is their way of letting him know that they saw him? A sharp reminder that the past is never far behind him. Always ready and waiting to throw everything back in his face, the things he thought could be kept hidden, nicely secreted away. If he is being honest with himself, Peter knows that there is no such place as away. Everything is visible. Known. Nowhere to hide.
‘You reckon?’ Lauren is looking up at him, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
‘I do reckon. There’s no other explanation for it.’ He swallows down his fears, tells himself this is a coincidence. He won’t think about the other possibilities. He can’t. It’s over and done with. No going back.
He makes a call to a glazier and after cleaning up the mess, they sit and eat, talking about their day, avoiding the subject entirely. Easier. Less troublesome than raking up the past, delving into the trauma of the past year, the guilt and regret, thick like tar, coating his insides.
‘I was thinking about going to university. I’m definitely going to do it.’ Lauren is watching him, waiting for his reaction. Her plans for further education were put on the back burner after Sophia died, all discussions about it grinding to a halt.
It’s about time, he thinks, that she put it back in her sights. Having a goal to work towards will help her focus. Keep her grounded. Not that she isn’t already. His daughter is a marvel. One of the best. The sensible parts of him and Sophia combined minus the bitterness and spite. The best of both worlds.
‘Sweetheart, I think that’s a great idea.’ He reaches across her and scoops up lumps of fluffy, white mash with a large spoon, piling it on his plate before smothering it in gravy. Lunch was a prawn sandwich and his stomach feels hollow, as if it has been deprived of food for an age.
‘Really? You’re not upset about it?’
‘Why would I be upset? You’ve always wanted to go. I think it’s a fantastic opportunity. You’ll broaden your horizons, meet new friends. Drink lots of alcohol and party like a demon.’ He narrows his eyes and winks at her.
She laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that helps soothe his nerves and warm his heart. ‘Dad, I am never drinking again after that party.’
‘Oh, we’ve all said that,’ he replies, chewing on his food. ‘I still do after too many glasses of whisky.’
‘No, really. I honestly thought my head was going to fall off the next morning. No more vodka for me.’
‘Whatever you say,’ he murmurs, eyeing her carefully. ‘Until next time, that is, eh?’
They chat like a family that doesn’t have a care in the world as they eat their evening meal. Maybe we don’t, he thinks. Maybe at long last, all our troubles and worries are behind us.
Maybe the rock was a horrible coincidence, thrown by the little shits that regularly parade around the street with nothing else to do; young lads with nowhere to go and nobody to monitor them. He daren’t be too optimistic and he daren’t pin his hopes on this relationship with Alice working out and Lauren getting a place at university and all the things that many people take for granted happening to them. He just daren’t hope.
Before Sophia died, before their marriage crumbled and she turned to another man for comfort and solace, he didn’t give such things a second thought. Life rolled along in a linear fashion and not once did he think that things could go so badly awry. But they did. And they can again. He needs to be vigilant at all times, never letting his guard down. Be mindful of everything he says and does, sticking to the story he told the police about that night, that he was ill in bed. A phone call he had made to the doctors earlier in the day gave his story a little more credence.
Lauren was out with friends. He had no alibi but then neither did Phillip Kennedy. Apparently, his wife was unable to vouch for his whereabouts that night. He too, was out walking the streets, clearing his head, no doubt trying to push all thoughts of Sophia out of his mind. At least that’s something they have in common.
