Chapter 19
Cathy is standing with her hands in the sink, up to her wrists in hot, sudsy water.
She hasn’t moved in almost thirty seconds.
Her eyes are glassy, staring into space.
She’s thinking about that black shape on the nanny cam and the way it had moved: convulsive and somehow insectile, low to the floor.
Last night Cathy had managed to convince herself it was a trick of the light, something like headlights moving shadows across the wall.
That was no shadow, and you know it, the voice in her head intones, but Cathy ignores it. An optical illusion. A spider crawling over the lens. These are rational thoughts. Good, safe thoughts.
The doorbell ringing surprises her. Her head switches round, hands jumping to her chest in fright.
She isn’t expecting anyone. Danny has gone skating in town and will probably be out for hours.
Scout is at nursery until after lunch. It’s her day to clean and straighten the house out. Her one day off.
Frowning, Cathy dries her hands on the tea towel slung over her shoulder. The front door has an inset of frosted glass in it, and through it she can see the distorted outline of the waiting visitor like a dark smudge.
Like a creeping figure, hauled upright.
“Shut up.” Cathy mentally swats the voice away, edging her way down the hall.
Her caution isn’t just because she is jumpy.
It’s a survival tactic, forged in New York when bailiffs were knocking down her door and posting final demands through the letter box, stamped by the court.
Even though Cathy is on top of her debts these days, paying them off at a drip-feed pace she can barely afford, there are still things that make her heart palpitate until it feels like she might faint.
A phone call from a withheld number. An unexpected knock at the door. A formal-looking letter.
The doorbell chimes again and this time the stranger taps something against the frosted glass—a pen or a finger, Cathy isn’t sure which—but it’s enough to force her the last few steps to open the door, forcing a smile to her face as she does so.
“Mrs. Maddon?”
“Miss.” Relief sweeps through Cathy like clear running water. This man is not an official. He is wearing stained blue overalls and big work boots. He’s scruffy looking, with dark curls to his jaw and a rash of blue stubble as if he hasn’t shaved in days. “It’s Miss Maddon. I’m not married.”
“Ah. I’ll get that corrected, then. Sorry.” He holds up the tablet in his hand, turning the screen toward her. “They’ve got you here as married. You are Catherine, though, correct?”
She nods.
“My name is Andrew Garrison, and I’m here on behalf of your landlord, Kerrier Council. You reported a repair back in”—he consults the bulky-looking tablet again—“June. Bloody hell, you’ve been waiting awhile, haven’t you?”
“I’m considered low priority,” Cathy tells him pointedly. “That’s what they told me.”
“Bunch of charmers, aren’t they?” He laughs. Cathy thinks his eyes might be the most unusual she’s ever seen. They are the palest brown, almost sand colored. “You want to let me have a look at this window, then?”
“Hang on.” She pulls her mobile phone from the back pocket of her jeans. “What did you say your name was?”
“Andrew Garrison. Here.” He turns his lanyard round to face her. It’s an ID badge, with the Kerrier Council logo at the top and a photograph of the man standing before her, only looking slightly younger, his face considerably less creased. “I can give you the number if you need to call them.”
“No need.” Cathy pulls her phone from her pocket and snaps a photo of the card. She probably won’t check up on it, but she’s happy for him to think she might. He gives her another smile as he lifts the tool bag by his feet, and Cathy stands aside to let Andrew Garrison into her home.
Scout’s bedroom is downstairs, a small, narrow room just off the kitchen.
It had once belonged to Danny, when Scout had been young enough to still be sleeping in with her, but when she’d caught Danny sneaking out the window to go skateboarding at night, she’d moved him upstairs in the room next door to her own.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such a long wait,” Andrew tells her as he follows her through the kitchen. “Sometimes these things get lost in the machine. It was much easier in the old days when all our jobs were written down with a pen and paper.”
“I’d be amazed if the council could find a pen and paper when they can barely find their arse with both hands.” Cathy catches his eye. He is smiling.
“Yup. It’s always been like that. They’re a shambles. I can’t wait to leave.”
“How long until your time is up?”
His smile becomes a grin. “Next week. I’m just tying up all the loose ends.”
“Lucky you. Will you not go mad with nothing to do?”
“I’ve got a project I’m working on, so I’ll be able to dedicate all my time to it.” His eyes move over her, and just fleetingly Cathy feels a flicker of something—not fear, not exactly, but something akin to it. Something more like despair.
“It’s through here.” She points to Scout’s doorway. It’s a cheerful little room, with bright framed prints on the walls and stacked bookshelves. Scout has tipped his toy basket all over the floor, and Cathy apologizes to Andrew as he is forced to tiptoe through the mess.
“Sorry. I was planning to tidy this room later. I just keep putting it off.”
“You should work for the council. You’d fit right in.”
She laughs, and that momentary feeling—nerves or despondency, she isn’t sure—dissipates like fog on a sunny morning.
She offers him a cup of tea, which he accepts.
As the kettle boils, Cathy finds herself watching the video clip again, trying to freeze-frame the moment that the crawling figure appears.
She wishes the camera had caught whoever had stuffed the cats into the suitcase.
It’s been bothering her, like a deep-rooted itch.
The person Mr. Jenner had described had been tall and hooded, and he’d had a key. Who was it?
“How long did you say the latch on this window has been busted?”
Cathy looks up to see Andrew standing in the doorway. There is a drill in his hands. He holds it like a gun hanging down by his hip, finger wrapped around the trigger. She experiences that disquiet again, like a tidal pull.
“About five months.”
“How have you been locking it up, out of interest?”
Cathy straightens up. She’s never been a good judge of character—just ask either of her sons’ feckless, absent fathers—but she’s suddenly wishing she hadn’t answered the door today after all.
She doesn’t know what it is—those eyes maybe, so pale and still they are almost reptilian—but she wants to hustle this handyman out of her house. Behind her, the kettle reaches a boil.
“I use a bike lock. I just thread it through.”
His face gives nothing away. “Uh-huh.” He scratches at his chin with his index finger. “You said your littlest sleeps in there?”
“I never said that.”
The kettle is screeching, but turning to pull it off the stove will mean turning her back on this man, and Cathy is sure she does not want to do that.
When he moves toward her, she reaches below the counter for the drawer where she keeps the knives.
Her head is full of alarms, bright, ugly Klaxon calls, but Andrew just sweeps right past, one hand extended to swipe that tea towel clean off her shoulder.
In one quick movement, he wraps it round his hand, lifting the screaming kettle from the stove.
He stands there, haloed by steam, looking at her with some concern. “Miss Maddon? You okay?”
She nods, her hand still grasping the handle of the drawer. He slowly places the kettle onto the empty hob, his eyes never leaving her. She thinks he is moving with the same care and delicacy you would around a dog baring its teeth.
“I only assumed your youngest slept in there because of the toys and the cot. Besides, it tells me in your housing record that you live with your two sons. Do you want me to show you?”
“It’s okay. I believe you.”
He’s wary. Unsure. She must look crazy, she thinks.
“Well, I should probably tell you I won’t be able to get that latch fixed today.
I need to send off for a part. They built all these houses in the sixties, so most of the specialist parts you need to fix them aren’t readily available anymore.
It’ll probably take another week. I’m sorry I can’t do more. ”
Cathy feels herself relax a little. If it takes longer than a week, that means Andrew Garrison won’t be coming back to fix it, because he’ll be retired and spending all his time on the special project he spoke of.
Knowing this makes her feel a little better, and she almost laughs at herself for being so dramatic.
“That’s fine, Andrew. Listen, I’m sorry if I seem a bit on edge. I’ve had a very stressful week.”
“Not a problem. I’ll make a note of it and put my report in.” He gives her a small smile. “And I’ll make sure you’re not waiting another five months this time.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry you had to come all this way for nothing. I’d ask you to stay for that cup of tea, but I’ve just realized I’m all out of milk.”
Another lie, but she finds she doesn’t care if he reads it in her or not. She just wants to stop feeling like she’s lifted a rock to find a nest of bugs underneath; squirming, chittering bugs.
“No problem, Catherine. Let me grab my things and get out of your hair.”
She watches him walk down the few steps from her front door to the pavement, latching the gate carefully behind him.
Cathy waits, convinced he will say something, some jarring little note of discord that she will play over and over in her head that night, but instead he simply turns toward her and lifts his hand, the sunlight turning his eyes golden.