Last Seen Alive Page 8

  ‘I don’t remember Mr Heywood mentioning you were coming to stay. This place has been empty for a few months. Building work has been going on,’ he says, scowling at me. ‘This isn’t your property. It belongs to Philip and Tara.’

  I swallow down a sigh. ‘I know,’ I begin patiently. I wonder if he is, as my mum used to say, a sandwich short of a picnic.

  ‘Why are you here?’ He pushes the front of his cap back and assesses me with startling blue eyes. I long to tell him to get lost and mind his own business but know I can’t be so rude. I remind myself of my teacher’s training, to remain calm and professional at all times. To not lose control.

  So I smile politely as I fill him in on the house swap. ‘They needed to be near the hospital. For their daughter.’

  His pale eyes narrow. ‘Daughter? They don’t have a daughter.’

  I stand up straighter, gripping Ziggy’s lead. He’s straining, trying to get away. ‘What do you mean? Of course they have a daughter.’

  ‘They don’t have children.’ He leans on his cane. ‘Philip has never mentioned anything about you staying here. He was here a month or so ago, overseeing the building work. Why didn’t he tell me then? He’s never done anything like this before. I look out for this place, you know. When he’s away.’ He begins pacing, as though talking to himself. His agitation is making me nervous.

  ‘Feel free to ring him,’ I say. ‘It’s all above board. It was only agreed last week.’

  He stops and glares at me and I realise, in that moment, that he probably doesn’t even have Philip’s number. He’s just a local busybody who can’t keep his nose out. He mumbles something under his breath and turns his back on me to walk away.

  ‘Oh,’ I call as he’s about to step onto our grass, ‘could you please stop walking through our garden? Just while we’re staying here. We leave on Saturday. Thanks. I’d really appreciate it.’

  He swivels around to stare at me, his eyes cold. ‘It’s not your garden. So I’ll do what I like. I take orders from Mr Heywood, not you.’ And he waves his cane at me threateningly. His anger makes me recoil. I open my mouth to say something else but he stalks off. I can’t help but stick my fingers up at his retreating back. My heart thuds in anger as I watch him cross the garden and disappear around the side of the house. ‘What an arsehole,’ I mutter under my breath. I want to run after him and tell him that if he trespasses on our property again I’ll call the police, but then I remind myself that he’s right, it isn’t my property. It’s Philip and Tara’s house. If they’re happy for him to wander around their grounds then what can I do?

  I go to find Jamie. ‘You’ll never guess what!’ I exclaim as I run into the master bedroom. ‘I’ve just had a stand-off with that Jim. He says the Heywoods don’t have a daughter. Why would he say that …?’

  I stop at the sight of my husband, prostrate in bed. He’s deathly pale, a sheen of sweat coating his face and body. The room smells musty, of sweat and vomit. ‘Jamie …’ My stomach lurches. I hurry over to the bed. ‘Jamie!’ I shake him and his eyes blink open.

  ‘Libs …’ he croaks. His mouth sounds dry and raspy, his lips are cracked. ‘There’s an orange string bag under the bed … get rid of it …’ His voice grows weaker as his eyes flicker shut. I stare at him in horror, at the blue veins that criss-cross his eyelids, at his waxy pallor.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I soothe, stroking back his hair. ‘It’s going to be all right, don’t worry.’ I concentrate on keeping calm so that I can remember my first-aid training, like the day little Maya Price collapsed at school with suspected meningitis, or when Finlay Ward crashed headfirst into a tree and knocked himself out. I can tell my husband needs urgent medical care, but I don’t know where the nearest hospital is, and worse, even if I did I can’t drive him there. I flee downstairs to get my mobile from the kitchen island. Without even thinking, I dial 999. I have no choice. Jamie’s clammy skin coupled with his delirium means he’s probably dangerously dehydrated from the stomach bug.

  I’m surprised that the ambulance only takes fifteen minutes to arrive. Jamie is stretchered into it and I jump in. As the doors slam shut I notice Jim hovering in the bushes near the driveway, staring after us with those pale, hostile eyes.

  10

  I hold Jamie’s hand all the way to the hospital, murmuring words of comfort while the paramedics attach him to a drip and he retches into a cardboard bowl. The journey takes about twenty minutes and I begin to feel sick myself as the ambulance swerves around bends and down narrow lanes. Then I sit, shell-shocked, in the waiting room of the hospital as Jamie is wheeled away, dread growing in the pit of my stomach with every passing minute.

  Logically I know that Jamie will be OK, that it’s just a stomach bug, or maybe food poisoning, but I’ve heard horror stories of dehydration leading to failing kidneys and even, in rare cases, death. Before I can push it away. the image of life without him flashes through my mind. Both my parents died before I’d even hit twenty. I have no grandparents, aunts or uncles. Jamie is my only family, my everything. I couldn’t bear it if he was taken away from me too.

  Catastrophising, that’s what Jamie’s mum calls it. She’d caught me doing it once over the wedding with my ‘What ifs?’ ‘What if it rains?’ I’d asked. ‘What if I faint at the altar?’ ‘What if I’m ill on the day?’ She’d reprimanded me in front of Jamie and her daughters as if speaking to a child, and I’d bristled. I felt like one of my pupils being ticked off. Then, when she noticed that my face was flushed with embarrassment, she gently told me it was because of my upbringing and a symptom of both my parents dying when I was still young. She’d tried to psychoanalyse me then, but I’d pulled the drawbridge up, as though I was a castle that needed protecting.

  I sit on a hard, plastic chair kneading a tissue with my good hand while trying to bite back my panic, to hold back the tears. The waiting room is packed, an air of anticipation seeming to hang over everyone, evident in their worried faces, their wringing hands, their jiggling legs. Nurses scuttle in and out with files pressed against their chests. Jamie will be fine, I reassure myself. But I can’t get the image of his pale, sweaty face and his delirious talk of bags hidden under the bed from my mind.

  Eventually a young woman with a slightly harassed expression approaches me, her small heels clip-clopping on the tiled floor. Her brow is creased and my heart beats faster as she gets closer. I notice a child’s sticker on her cardigan, a lion with the words ‘I’m Brave’ underneath.

  ‘Mrs Hall?’ I can only nod and stand up to shake her proffered hand. ‘I’m Dr Carter. Your husband is going to be fine. We’ve run some tests and he has E. coli, which has led to dehydration …’

  ‘Food poisoning?’ I remember the sausages he’d eaten last night. I hadn’t been able to stomach them after finding those dead animals in the basement. ‘He ate sausages last night for tea. Do you think they caused it?’

  Dr Carter has an attractive face with nut-brown hair piled into a messy topknot and thin, wire-framed glasses that give her an intimidating appearance, although she looks about my age. ‘Possibly,’ she says. ‘Contaminated meat or …’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  Dr Carter’s smile lights up her face. She looks like she could be fun outside of this hospital, somebody I’d like to go for a drink with. ‘Of course,’ she says, touching my shoulder lightly, and I follow her into a private room.

  Jamie is sitting up in bed, a tube snaking from his arm to the drip at his side. He still looks pale but more like his normal self, orange string bags forgotten.

  ‘You gave me a fright,’ I say, trying to hug him, which proves awkward with my arm in a sling and him attached to the drip.

  He kisses the top of my head. ‘Sorry about that,’ he says into my hair. ‘But, Christ, I’ve never felt so ill in my life.’

  Dr Carter is at my side. ‘We’re going to keep him in overnight, just to observe him, but he should be fine to go home in the morning.’

  I stare at her, my mout
h falling open. ‘Um … overnight?’ My whole body grows cold at the thought of spending the night alone in that huge, secluded house. I meet Jamie’s eyes. He looks worried.

  ‘It’s OK, Doc,’ he says, sitting up straighter and trying his best to look less ill. ‘I’m feeling fine now. I’ve always had the constitution of a fox. Or is it a horse?’ He grins at me over her shoulder then switches his gaze back to hers. ‘My fault for not drinking enough water. Surely I can be allowed home?’

  She shakes her head, taking the chart from the end of his bed and scribbling something onto it. ‘Sorry, Jamie, but you can’t. You still need lots of fluids. Is there a problem?’ She looks up at me with her clear eyes. She seems so calm, so together. Professional, like I was a couple of months ago. I can see myself through her eyes; a jumpy, nervy woman in her late twenties who’s so clingy and neurotic that she can’t spend a night away from her husband.

  I swallow. ‘No. No problem,’ I say, plastering a smile onto my face.

  ‘Great.’ She pushes her glasses further up her nose and returns the chart to Jamie’s bed before breezing off, already thinking about her next patient.

  Jamie squeezes my hand. ‘Are you sure, Libs?’

  ‘I don’t have much choice.’ I notice a flash of concern cross his face and add, hurriedly, ‘I’m a big girl, Jay. I lived alone before I met you. It never bothers me staying in our flat when you’re away with work. And I have Ziggy with me. I can’t leave him there alone. He needs feeding …’ I take a deep breath. ‘Everything will be OK.’

  He’s still frowning. ‘The Mini is still at the Hideaway. You’ll have to get a taxi. Are you sure you’ll be OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jay. I’ll be fine.’

  11

  It’s gone 7.30 p.m. by the time the taxi drops me off outside the Hideaway. I pay the driver then climb out of the car, my heart sinking as I stare at the house, dark and unwelcoming. I think of that basement, with its animal skins and surgical implements and I shudder. I’m not helping myself with my gruesome thoughts. The house isn’t threatening. It’s safe. Tara wouldn’t live here otherwise, I tell myself. It’s obvious she likes the best things in life, the little luxuries.

  As I step onto the driveway the security light flashes on, momentarily bleaching the surroundings. From the corner of my eye I can see something hanging from the nearest tree. Something bone-white and sinister. I cry out.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ the driver calls as I stand, rooted to the spot. His window is wound down, his arm leaning against the frame, his sleeve rolled up so I can see the long dark hairs sprouting out of pale flesh. I run over to the car and point up at the tree with a trembling finger.

  ‘Look, that up there. What is it?’ It resembles a disfigured skull, its jaw hideously jutted open as if it has died screaming.

  He squints. He has a kind face, the sort of face my grandfather might have had if I’d ever known him; laughter lines and a grey bristly beard. ‘Looks like a sheep’s skull to me, love.’ He sounds unperturbed, as if he encounters animal skulls hanging from trees on a regular basis.

  ‘I’m sure it wasn’t there earlier,’ I say, my throat dry. I would have noticed it, surely?

  He shrugs. ‘It looks like it’s been there a while. Quite weathered, ain’t it?’ He grins and then winds his window up. I want to beg him not to leave me alone but I steel myself. I’m being paranoid again. That skull has most probably been there for years. It doesn’t mean anything. I watch as the taxi drives off, its tail-lights winking in the dark night until it rounds the corner out of sight. I shiver as I realise I’m totally alone, with just the crashing waves and the desolate beach for company. And Ziggy, I remind myself. At least I’ve got the dog.

  I can’t get into the house quick enough. I fumble with the key in my eagerness to insert it into the lock. I push the door open and Ziggy bounds towards me, nearly knocking me off my feet. I clap twice to turn the lights on, feeling silly, but I can’t remember where Jamie put the remote. The lights flood on overhead, making me feel more secure, even though the house still has that lonely air about it. Can I really stay here on my own all night? I bend down to hug Ziggy, my mind whirling. What if I paid to stay in a hotel? But could I take Ziggy? I can’t leave him alone. He pushes his nose into me, his way of telling me he’s hungry.

  The house is cold and it feels too quiet, so I switch the television on just to have some background noise. I concentrate on giving Ziggy his dinner. I’m too scared to take him for a walk at this time of night – that’s usually Jamie’s job – so I let him into the garden and I sip a mug of tea while he darts about the lawn, setting off the security lights, which just emphasise the darkness of the boundaries; the shrubs and hedges where somebody might be hiding.

  When Ziggy is back inside again I make sure to double-lock the doors. I wish, not for the first time, that the Heywoods had curtains. I hate the thought that I can’t see out of those huge windows, but somebody might be outside looking in, watching me, maybe the man from Lizard Point or that weird Jim creeping about. I remember our conversation earlier, about the Heywoods not having a daughter. Why would he say such a thing? In all the worry over Jamie I didn’t have the chance to talk to him about it.

  To take my mind off the fact that I’m alone in the house, I start to dial Jamie’s number, then realise, in all the confusion, we left his phone behind. I run upstairs to get it and see if it needs charging. A lump forms in my throat as I glance at the bed, at the sheets all twisted into knots, the dip in the mattress where Jamie’s body had been. I sit on the edge of the bed and touch the sheets, still damp from his sweat. My eyes fill with tears but I shake them away. I have no time for self-pity. Jamie will be fine. It’s just one night on my own and I wouldn’t think twice about it in Bath. I have to, as Jamie would say, grow a pair.

  I pick up his phone from the bedside cabinet. There’s a message. From Hannah.

  I’ve been thinking about it. I know you won’t tell anyone but can we talk …

  I’m tempted to open it to see the remainder of the message. My finger hovers indecisively over the text. I trust him. I have to. Unfortunately for me, Hannah is part of our lives. I don’t particularly like her but she’s wormed her way in with his family; she’s not going anywhere, so I have to live with it. And, if I open it, he’ll be able to tell and then he’ll think I’m even more paranoid and neurotic than he does already. I don’t want to be one of those wives who’s always checking up on her husband, constantly suspicious. My mum was like that with my dad, never trusting him, always worrying he was out drinking instead of working, constantly checking his pockets for receipts. I saw how unhappy it made her, how the doubt and suspicion aged her.

  And now I’m the doubtful, suspicious one. The nagging worry about the man at Lizard Point is suddenly back. Was it him we saw here yesterday? Did he follow us? His camera was angled at Jamie, I’m sure of it. Could he have been paid to take photos of us? But why? Again, I wonder if he’s a private detective. He didn’t seem interested in me though. He definitely seemed focussed on Jamie. Although what if it is about me?

  The tears come out of nowhere so that I’m rocked by them, my shoulders heaving. I’m not even sure what I’m crying about. Jamie, the miscarriage, or that other pregnancy a lifetime ago. I cradle my stomach; the loss is so acute it’s painful. Ziggy jumps up onto the bed and sits silently beside me in comfort.

  I wipe away the tears and stare down at the phone in my hand, my eyes focussing on the words I know you won’t tell anyone. What does she mean? What is she asking Jamie to keep from me?

  Hannah being in our lives sometimes unsettles me, that’s true; the way she studies Jamie when she thinks nobody’s watching, her face full of longing. It irks me how she uses him as a sounding board, how she acts like she’s the daughter-in-law, instead of me. Sometimes, when I look at her blonde hair or her tall, wide-shouldered frame, so different from my small-boned, petite body, I wonder what their sex life was like, whether he prefers her
figure, her larger breasts, her longer legs. I don’t want to have these thoughts and, on the whole, I don’t let my mind go there.

  I know you won’t tell anyone.

  What are they keeping from me? Maybe it’s something to do with my thirtieth birthday in June, or a surprise for Sylvia. It doesn’t have to mean something underhand, does it? It doesn’t have to mean they’re having an affair. I push the text from my mind. I’ll try and get it out of Jamie tomorrow. If he has nothing to hide then he’ll tell me, won’t he?

  Unless he has got something to hide.

  I slap my palm against my forehead. Stop it, stop it, I tell my brain. I have to think the best of Jamie. He likes women, it’s true. He’s comfortable with them, having two sisters. But it doesn’t mean he’d cheat on me. Especially not with an ex-girlfriend. He was the one who’d ended things with her all those years ago after all, not the other way around.

  I consider calling Sylvia to let her know that Jamie’s in hospital. I go as far as scrolling to her name, but something stops me. She’s so over-protective about her son that she’ll only worry unnecessarily. Jamie’s going to be fine.

  I prowl around the place, unable to settle; my thoughts oscillate between worrying about the skinned animals in the basement, to thinking about that sinister skull in the tree and then going on to the text from Hannah. I’m giving myself a headache.

  Ziggy follows me as though sensing my unease. I toy with the idea of turning all the lights off. It means the house will be in darkness, but at least I’d be able to see out. If I keep them on then I’m completely visible to anyone looking in. Neither option thrills me but I keep them on, mainly so that I don’t bump into things.

  Why do I feel so scared being here by myself? I can hear Sylvia’s voice in my head, loud and clear as though she’s standing in the room, telling me it’s just the shock of the recent fire together with my errant hormones after the miscarriage. Surely, though, most people would be a little unnerved by a taxidermist’s basement or an animal skull in a tree?