Chapter 12
Twelve
Wednesday
EMILY
The house is quiet in that peaceful early-morning way before the street wakes properly.
Oliver left about an hour ago to work in a shared city workspace with viewings of rented office premises lined up later.
When I’ve made coffee downstairs, I carry it out through the French doors, barefoot on the cold stone, planning to sit for a few minutes and enjoy the calm.
That’s when I see it. The bench.
After much deliberation—not to mention Vanessa’s advice—we’d positioned it carefully, angling it to catch the morning sun. Now it’s lying on its side, having been dragged about six feet away from that spot, rucking up the lawn in the process.
There’s something else about it too. A big black X, scrawled in the middle of the seat.
I stand very still, coffee still cooling in my hand, and try to think logically. Surely it’s kids messing about, or a bored teenager passing through . . .
Still, I glance up and down the lane.
The usual curtains and blinds and parked cars. The neat sameness at the front of the houses. No one is looking back at me, watching for a reaction. The curtains remain perfectly still even over at Sunnyside.
I pull out my phone and call Oliver, but it goes straight through to voicemail.
I bend down and run a finger over the X. It’s spray-paint, dried into the grain of the wood. I fetch a cloth and a bucket of soapy water and scrub hard, but it doesn’t shift at all.
Later, when I see Lara out front, watering her hanging baskets, I cross the road.
‘Morning,’ she calls brightly. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it? You OK?’
‘Mostly,’ I say. ‘Can I ask you something?’
She stops watering, instantly alert in that neighbourly way of hers. ‘’Course.’
‘Do people ever complain around here?’ I gesture up and down the lane. ‘About gardens. Or outdoor furniture they don’t approve of. That sort of thing.’
Her brow furrows. ‘Complain how?’
‘I don’t know. Leave notes. Damage things.’
She laughs. ‘Goodness me, no. Not on Orchard Lane.’ Then, a frown. ‘Well, not usually, anyway.’
‘Not usually?’
‘There was a bit of minor drama last year,’ she adds with a rueful smile.
‘A neighbour further up the lane put their recycling out a day early and someone marched it straight back up the drive. Left it right by their front door like a reprimand.’ She laughs.
‘But Orchard Lane doesn’t really do confrontation. People just correct things quietly.’
The damage to our bench was certainly done quietly.
‘It’s a very observant street,’ she adds, as if it’s reassurance. ‘People notice things. That’s all.’
‘Is there anyone here I should know about?’ I ask casually. ‘Anyone particularly invested in how things look?’
‘Well, Ron Windsor likes things tidy,’ she says. ‘His wife, Margaret, is lovely, though.’
‘Yes, we met them a couple of days ago on Central Avenue. He told us he runs the Neighbourhood Watch scheme.’
‘Ahh, well, you’ll get my drift then, when I say he’s a stickler for the detail. Then, of course, there’s their lodger.’
‘Rachel,’ I say, remembering the name. ‘She introduced herself at the gate.’
‘Rachel, yes.’ Lara lowers her voice, conspiratorial. ‘She keeps herself to herself. Even Margaret says they only know the bare essentials about her. But she said she also makes the perfect lodger, stays in her room most evenings and pays her rent on the dot.’
I nod slowly, thinking.
‘So what’s brought all this on?’ Lara asks.
I tell her about the bench. ‘I thought at first it might be a bored teenager, but now I’m not so sure.’
‘We rarely get any antisocial behaviour around here,’ Lara says. ‘The only teenager on the lane is Roman Thomson, and he’s a gaming recluse, from what I’ve heard.’
I think about Oliver’s disagreement with Roman on our moving-in day.
I let out a noise of frustration. ‘So annoying this has happened. I’m going to ask Oliver to fit an outdoor camera.’
‘Why don’t you have a word with Ron? He’s an interfering busybody, but he might have noticed something out of the ordinary.’
I thank her and head back inside, her words echoing after me.
People notice things. Judging by the curtain-twitching I’ve seen so far, they certainly do.
I close the door and lock it, telling myself I’m overreacting.
When he gets in from work, Oliver sees the bench, the damaged lawn. ‘What the hell has happened here?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I thought it might just be kids. I tried ringing you and I texted after lunch, but I couldn’t get you.’
‘Sorry, sorry. Been flying around all day trying to fix up meetings.’ He crouches, runs a thumb over the wood, before swearing softly under his breath.
I glance down at the mark. ‘Why go to the trouble of spray-painting a neat X like that? What does that even mean?’
‘Probably a passing teenager with a new spray can. It’s annoying, but it’s nothing in the scheme of things.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I ask. ‘It feels deliberate. And that bench is heavy for a teenager to drag around. Even you struggled to move it. It’s like someone is sending us a message.’
Oliver exhales, irritation flickering across his face. ‘We’ve been here five minutes, Em. No one’s sending us messages.’
He can’t possibly know that for sure.
He looks at me, searching my face before forcing a smile. ‘I’ll sand it down and stain it. End of story.’
‘What if it happens again?’
Oliver pinches the top of his nose. ‘We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it. OK?’
I nod, but the unease stays with me.
Later, when I glance out at the bench, now repositioned in its sunny patch, I can’t shake the feeling that someone wanted to send us a message loud and clear: We don’t want you here.