‘Kirst? That you?’ His voice is gruff. ‘What you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ I reply in an upbeat whisper. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘I will, but what are you doing?’
I can’t tell him I was getting a glass of water as my hands are empty and I can’t think of an excuse, so I stupidly tell him the truth. ‘Sorry if I woke you up. I was just checking Martin’s rubbish bins in case he had anything dodgy in there.’
‘You were what?’
It sounded even worse when I said it out loud. ‘Don’t worry about it. Just go back to sleep.’
But instead of shuffling off to bed, he switches on the hall light. I wince at the brightness, and at the realisation that we’re about to have a row.
‘Kirstie,’ he says, ‘do you know how crazy that is?’
‘Shh, you’ll wake Daisy.’
‘Come into the bedroom,’ he says, turning his back on me and striding away into our room.
I follow meekly, wondering how I can make my actions sound saner. Dom is sitting on the edge of the bed in the semi darkness, light from the landing casting a yellow glow up the wall and across a triangle of carpet.
I stand in front of him, hanging my head, understanding I’ve crossed a line in the what’s-acceptable stakes.
‘This has to stop, Kirstie,’ he says, rubbing at his forehead.
‘What has to stop?’ I say, knowing full well what he’s talking about.
‘Don’t think I can’t hear you going downstairs at night, triple-checking the locks, laying out Daisy’s toys as some kind of booby trap against imaginary burglars.’
My shoulders sag. He knows.
‘I’m not stupid,’ he says. ‘I didn’t say anything before, because I thought things would get better if I didn’t make a fuss. But it’s getting worse, isn’t it?’
I don’t respond. Humiliation coats my skin and furs the inside of my mouth.
‘Kirstie, I’m not angry; I’m worried about you.’ He pats the space next to him on the bed, but I can’t move. So instead, he gets to his feet and takes my limp hands in his firm ones. ‘What did you think you were going to find in Martin’s bins?’
I clear my throat. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Kirst. What were you hoping to find? I’m on your side here.’
I shrug. This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like a naughty schoolchild this week. ‘Something incriminating, I suppose.’
‘Like what?’
‘Baby formula tins, nappy bags, baby toy packaging.’
‘You seriously think Moaning Myrtle could be a child abductor?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snap. ‘That’s why I was looking in his bins. I wanted evidence before I came to you, or the police.’ Unable to look at my husband’s incredulous expression any longer, I get to my feet and walk over to the window. I peer behind the curtain and stare out across the silent close, the stillness out there a deep contrast to the turmoil inside my body. On the one hand, I can see why Dom is so worried about my behaviour, but on the other hand, I know I’m right to be anxious about this.
‘Do you think…’ he begins, but then trails off.
‘Do I think what?’
‘Do you think you might need to talk to someone?’
I turn around to face him. In the gloom, I see his eyes are full of concern.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.
‘But, Kirstie—’
‘Honestly, I think if I just try to get a few nights’ good sleep, I’ll get back to my old self. That baby monitor thing last week freaked me out, but I’ll be okay.’
‘But if you went to your GP, she might be able to—’
‘I don’t need to see my GP. I just need to get some sleep.’ I turn away from my husband again and go back to staring out of the window. This time I don’t see what’s outside, instead, my distorted reflection stares back at me. The truth is that I’m scared to put into words how I’m really feeling. I’m afraid that if I go to a doctor and unburden myself, they will say I’m having some kind of breakdown. They may even say I’m not fit to look after Daisy. And no one is taking my baby away from me. No one.
Twenty-One
Dom is upstairs getting ready for bed while I’m curled up on the corner of the living-room sofa watching the end of a feel-good chick flick. The girl is getting the guy as the lights twinkle on the screen and the music soars, but I feel detached from the movie, not warm and fuzzy like the producers intended.
At least today felt like almost a normal day. Dom went to work, I stayed home with Daisy and we played inside. I also managed to read some of my book while she napped. I made a vegetable bake for dinner and only checked the locks three or four times all day. Dom now knowing about all my insecurities means that I don’t feel quite so alone. I mean, he might not agree with me, he might think I need professional help, but he’s not giving me a hard time about it. This morning he hugged me extra tight and told me he loved me. Tonight he was late home from work, but he brought flowers and said he would skip the training. He’s being supportive and understanding. That helps.
I’ve been trying not to think about Martin. To blank him out. To blot out even his house from my mind. I’ve been attempting this thing where I imagine that the houses in our road end at number four – our house – and to our left are simply fields and empty spaces. If I picture his house gone, then my panic recedes. Every time Martin or the image of his basement pops into my head, I push them right out again. Maybe it’s not the right thing to do, but it’s got me through the day without having any type of meltdown.
As the credits roll on the movie, I pick up the remote and switch off the TV. I should go to bed. I’m still not secure enough to leave Daisy alone in her own room, but I’m not being too hard on myself about it. Baby steps.
I stretch my arms and give a noisy yawn, about to move, when my phone lights up and starts vibrating on the sofa cushion next to me. I glance at the screen and see it’s an unknown number. Probably someone trying to sell me something. I ignore it and uncurl my legs, get to my feet and pick up my phone. It needs charging. I take it into the kitchen to plug it in when it buzzes again – an unknown number again. Must be the same person. Probably not a sales person if they’re this insistent. I swipe to reply.
‘Hello?’ I say.
‘Kirstie.’ It’s a gruff male-sounding voice.
‘Yes?’
‘Stop poking your nose in where it’s not wanted, or you’ll regret it.’
The line goes dead.
I drop the phone onto the kitchen counter like it’s a hot coal. What the hell?
With shaking hands, I scrabble for my phone again and flee the kitchen, thundering up the stairs to our bedroom, where Dom is drawing the curtains. He turns around, takes one look at my expression and his face blanches.
‘Kirst? What is it? What’s happened?’
‘Someone called,’ I stammer. ‘A man. It was withheld… the number I mean. They knew my name. They threatened me.’
‘Threatened you? What man?’
‘They said I was poking my nose in. They said I’d regret it. Oh my God, Dom. Who could it have been? Do you think it was Martin?’
‘Kirstie, slow down, you’re not making any sense.’
I inhale deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, sit down heavily on the end of the bed and try to explain. ‘My phone just rang.’
‘Okay.’ Dom’s eyes are wide with concern.
‘It was an unknown number, so I didn’t answer it the first time. But then they rang again so I picked up.’
‘What did they say?’ Dom’s eyes narrow.
‘They said my name. Then they told me to stop poking my nose in where it’s not wanted.’
‘They said that?’
‘Mmhm. Then they said, “or you’ll regret it”.’ I exhale through my mouth. ‘Who do you think it was? It must have been Martin, mustn’t it? I was looking through his bins last night. Maybe I was onto something and he’s done this to sca
re me off.’
‘Come here.’
I step into my husband’s arms and try to let myself be soothed, but the voice on the phone keeps going round and round in my head on a loop. It didn’t sound like Martin’s voice – it was deeper, gruffer. But he could have made it that way on purpose so I wouldn’t recognise it.
‘Let me see your phone,’ Dom says.
I step out from the circle of his arms and pass him the phone. He looks at the screen, frowning.
‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘Nothing. It’s like you said, there’s one missed call from an unknown number and another call that you answered. If they threatened you, we should probably call the police.’
I nod, clasping both hands together to stop them from shaking, wondering whether the police will believe me. This will be the third time I’ve rung them in the last few days.
‘Shall I call them for you?’ he asks.
‘Okay. Yes please.’
* * *
We sit downstairs in the lounge while we wait for the police to arrive. Dom has made us both a cup of tea and I sip the scalding liquid, not caring that it’s burning my tongue and stripping the top layer from the roof of my mouth.
‘You okay?’ Dom asks.
‘Mmhm,’ I reply, not meaning it. I feel numb.
Car headlights pan across the closed curtains like anti-aircraft searchlights. Dom jumps to his feet, goes to the front door and opens it. I stay on the sofa, picking at the skin around my nails, wondering if the police will be able to trace the call.
Two uniformed officers follow Dom into the lounge – a dark-haired man and a blonde woman, both young, their dark uniforms looming above me. Dom gestures to the other sofa where they both take a seat while Dom comes and sits back down next to me. I suddenly realise that if whoever called me lives in our road, they will see the police car outside. They will know that I have reported them. I hope it’s made them nervous. I hope they’re really worried about getting caught.
‘Would you like to tell us what happened?’ the female officer says to me with a professional smile.
I tell her about the phone call while the male officer takes notes in a pad.
‘Did you recognise the voice?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘But it sounded really deep, like someone was trying to disguise their voice.’
‘You’re sure it was a male voice? Could it have been a woman trying to pretend to sound like a man?’
‘I don’t think so. No. It was too deep.’
‘May we see your phone?’ she asks.
Dom stands and takes it to her. They both lean over the screen while Dom points out the call history.
‘Unknown number,’ the officer says, clicking her teeth.
‘Can’t you trace it through the phone company?’ Dom asks, taking back the phone and returning to my side.
‘You can call your phone company to find out,’ she says, ‘but the caller may have used an unregistered phone. Unfortunately, anyone can buy a phone and a sim card without registering the number. Is your mobile number private? Do you have it listed anywhere online?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘Definitely not. Only friends and family have it.’
‘Have you fallen out with anyone recently?’ she asks. ‘Two of our officers came out to see you last week. And we were also called to this address on Monday. Could this be related to either of those incidents?’
‘I am a little suspicious of my neighbour,’ I say to her without catching Dom’s eye.
‘Your neighbour?’ she asks.
‘Yes. Martin Lynham. He lives next door at number five. I thought I heard a baby crying over there the other night. And I noticed he has a basement and toy shop carrier bags.’ As I rush to get the information out, I know how it sounds – like I’m a paranoid woman with nothing better to do than imagine sinister occurrences. Dom puts a hand on my forearm and squeezes slightly. The two officers glance at one another. I daren’t tell them I was looking in Martin’s recycling bin last night. Maybe that could even be construed as trespassing.
‘I would suggest only answering the phone to recognised numbers,’ she says. ‘If you do answer the phone to an unknown number, don’t confirm your name or address. If you receive any further threats, please give us another call.’
I shake Dom’s hand off and get to my feet. ‘Aren’t you going to talk to my neighbour?’
‘Was it definitely his voice you heard on the phone?’ she asks.
I hesitate. ‘It… It didn’t sound like him, but like I said, I think the person was putting on a fake voice.’
She twists her mouth into a sympathetic expression. ‘We haven’t really got enough to go on. But if your neighbour does or says anything threatening towards you, please let us know.’
Both officers get to their feet, obviously satisfied that there’s nothing to worry about here.
‘What about the crying baby?’ I ask.
‘Like I said, a crying baby is not really enough to go on either.’
‘Please, can’t you just go round there? Look in his basement?’ Dom’s warning hand reappears on my arm, but I shake it off again.
‘Tell you what,’ the officer says. ‘We’ll knock on his door and ask him if he’s seen anyone suspicious in the neighbourhood. That way, if he did have anything to do with the call, our presence might be enough to deter him from continuing with any anti-social behaviour.’
I don’t reply, disappointed but reluctantly understanding that they have to follow the law. They can’t go storming into someone’s house on the say-so of someone else.
‘Thank you,’ Dom says, getting up to see them out.
I plop back down on the sofa, dejected. A visit from the police didn’t deter Martin before. It won’t deter him again.
Twenty-Two
I wake with a gasp and a start, the memory of last night’s phone call lodged in my brain like a poisonous thorn. Daisy is fussing in her cot, so I sit up and open my tired eyes, the brightness of the room in direct contrast with my grey mood. I stretch out the kinks in my neck caused by lying on this godawful futon. My jaw is just as tense as my neck. My teeth must have been clamped together while I slept. I yawn and wince as my jaw gives a series of dull clicks.
A different memory assaults me. Last night’s caller used the phrase ‘stop poking your nose in’. That’s the exact same phrase Martin used this weekend when he told me about Dom spending time over at the Cliffords. He said something like ‘I don’t want to poke my nose in’. That has to be more than a coincidence, surely. It’s not that common a saying.
I get up and take two steps over to the cot to say good morning to my daughter, who gives a wide smile at the sight of my face. I pick her up and take her over to the changing table, trying to lie her down on the padded surface, but Daisy’s not having any of it. She clings on tight like a koala. She wants a cuddle. I give up for the moment and bring her back to my chest, smiling as she looks up at me and grabs at my nose. My days should be spent revelling in the joy of my daughter, not worrying about evil people trying to snatch her. I’ve only got a couple more months until I have to return to work. How can I go back to work when Daisy’s life may be in danger?
‘Morning, Kirst.’ Dom pokes his head around Daisy’s bedroom door. ‘Sleep okay?’
‘On and off,’ I reply. ‘Mostly off.’
‘How you feeling?’ He comes in and plants a toothpaste kiss on my lips, and another on Daisy’s head. Then he pings one of my curls to try and get me to lighten up.
‘Still a bit weirded out,’ I say. ‘I’m not looking forward to turning my phone on this morning in case there’s another missed call, or a message.’
‘I’ll check for you,’ he says. ‘Where is it?’
‘Charging in the kitchen.’
‘Usual pin code?’
‘Yeah. Dom…’
‘What?’
I tell him about Martin using the same phrase that was used by the caller last night. ‘What
do you think?’ I ask. ‘Should I tell the police about it?’
Dom frowns. ‘To be honest, I don’t think you should be making any more accusations without evidence.’
‘But it’s pretty coincidental, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah. But that’s all it is, Kirst – a coincidence.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ Tears prick behind my eyes.
‘When have I ever said I don’t believe you?’
I take a breath. ‘Sorry, just woken up. Bit grumpy and all over the place.’
‘That’s okay. Look, do you want me to stay home with you today?’
I would love nothing more than for Dominic to stay with me. I’m craving his company, the comfort of his words, his arms, his support. ‘You need to be at work though, don’t you? Show them that you’re committed in case of redundancies.’
‘One day shouldn’t hurt.’ But he looks nervous, like one day will hurt.
‘How about if you knock off a bit early instead?’ I suggest.
‘Are you sure? I can stay home if you need me.’
‘I’m sure.’ But I go and ruin it all by allowing a tear to slide down my face.
Dom peels Daisy from my arms and places her back in her cot. ‘You’re not okay, are you?’ he says. ‘How much sleep did you actually get last night?’
‘Not sure.’ I sniff. ‘Maybe an hour or two.’
‘Two hours? That’s nowhere near enough. No wonder you’re tired and tearful. Go back to bed – our bed – and I’ll bring you up some breakfast.’
‘But what about work?’
‘I’ve got time to make you breakfast. Then you can go back to sleep for a bit.’
‘I’m not sure if I’ll have the chance to sleep,’ I say. ‘I have to change and feed Daisy, and she won’t be ready for another nap for ages. I’ll have to play with her to tire her out.’ More tears slip down my cheeks and I feel like a useless, soggy mess. I sink cross-legged to the floor and put my head in my hands.
‘Kirstie?’ Dom’s voice sounds anxious. Probably because I don’t normally cry about stuff. Even when I miscarried, I didn’t really cry. I was quiet, sad, angry, but rarely tearful.