CHAPTER 4 #2
I place my laptop in the holder and pull the headphones off the little hook.
There are a few episodes that I need to edit, but the idea of filtering through sordid details of true crime turns my stomach, so I opt for giving feedback on some ad segments I’ve been asked to create.
There’s something beautiful about this space, where time loses that edgy, jittery energy and falls back.
I lose myself in writing notes, cutting voice recordings and doing a few voiceover snippets, becoming me again, being creative.
By the time I’m finished, the sun is blaring directly through the closed blinds and heating the space.
I could open the window to draw in the breeze and yet I can’t quite bring myself to.
The day has moved on without me, the only indication is the gnawing hunger that grows.
I need proper food. The soundproof studio door opens with a sigh.
Helena popped in a few hours ago to say she was off to the market and so I’ll have to rely on my own makeshift cooking skills.
As I step into the silent hallway, footsteps dash up the staircase overhead.
On any other day, that noise would be nothing.
There’s always a member of staff, Helena or otherwise, in the house.
Yet today it paralyses me, my feet sinking into the plush carpet, hand on my chest for a moment.
It’s the cleaners. I’m so used to our usual cleaner, Amy, whizzing through the house in a few hours, that I forget the size of it may be intimidating to someone new.
I drag myself forward, craning over the banister to speak to the cleaner upstairs, but no one comes into view.
The sound of someone moving across to the spare bedroom carries overhead.
The calming warmth from earlier drops like a veil.
I’m watching you.
I sigh. “You don’t need to clean the spare room.
Just redo the main and the ensuite, please,” I shout up the stairs.
The footsteps pause. I should go up and talk her through what needs cleaning upstairs, but I hate to be that person.
Having a cleaner is the one area I can’t get used to, an extravagance that I can’t get behind, and yet every house here has one, if not two.
I pause, head tilted to catch where the footsteps move to.
For a moment there’s nothing, but then I hear the gentle click as a door closes.
“Thank you!” I call up as the footsteps move off into our bedroom.
I head into the kitchen, and ideas form as I flick the kettle on.
Perhaps I don’t need to worry about who is watching me if I keep moving forward.
The wedding is due in less than a year. If we push forward the date, I’ll have a new name and will be completely erased from the world.
My skin prickles. We could move to Europe, that would help.
Rufus has work out there and I could pick up Italian easily enough.
If I tried. I run my finger over the now pristine counters, the kitchen that I had redone when I moved in, designed and decorated to my taste and style.
It would be a shame to lose all of this.
The surfaces sparkle, and when I pull open the cabinets, I find the morning bowls and plates are back where they belong.
Dropping in a herbal teabag, I pour in the water, enjoying the steam on my face.
It’s then that I notice a piece of paper sticking out underneath the toaster.
It’s folded in half and seems to be ripped along a serrated edge.
It’s out of place. My eyes glance around, as though the answer to the question that flips through me is painted on the walls, the kettle missing its base as I do.
Somewhere in the house a door closes. Footsteps descend the staircase.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the note, the paper unfolding with a crinkling sound.
Could it be another threatening letter? The paper is thin and the words are written in biro.
My chest tightens. I hear the front door thud close but ignore it, trying to process the words in front of me.
My brows draw in confusion.
Tried to knock but I think you were working. Finished around 11 so will charge you for only two hours. We’ll invoice you as normal. Kind&Clean Cleaners.
My eyes flick to the clock: 12.54.
I step back, my pulse quickening. My saliva catches in the back of my throat. The note was here when I came into the kitchen, which means…
My feet move fast, and my skin is hot. The paper falls from my hands somewhere between where I found it and the staircase. By the time I reach the stairs, my thoughts catch up with me. The thud of the door came when I was reading. Someone was in the house.
He was in my house.
“It could have been the cleaners returning,” I whisper, my hand rubbing the side of my face.
I turn to the front door. The wind hits me square in the face as I yank it open.
My thoughts race. Someone could have been in the house with me.
I think of myself locked in the recording studio, headphones on and door pushed tight.
The walls are padded so no sound could get in.
I was a sitting duck. I scan the street, my toes growing cold on the gravel.
There’s nothing there but I’m also unsure what I’m looking for.
Upstairs.
Whoever was here had been upstairs. I push the door closed, sliding the lock through. It catches, my fingers missing its corresponding hole.
“Come on,” I grumble, a nervous energy leaving me off kilter.
Finally, the chain slides into place. I turn the deadbolt too, grateful now that we had all this installed.
I should check the gate camera but I can’t shake the idea of checking upstairs.
I take them two at a time, my foot slipping on the top step so my body slams flat into the carpet.
A cold dread seizes me as I scramble onto all fours.
“Someone was here,” I whisper, the verbalisation hitting me like a tidal wave.
I dart towards the spare room, my fingers stopping short of the handle.
The memory of my voice carrying me up the stairs.
I told them to leave. I whirl around, my gaze fixing on our bedroom door, slightly ajar.
What if there’s someone on the other side?
My heart lurches as I imagine him here now, still as young as the last time I saw him but sat on my bed, hand on my pillow and that smile on his face.
There’s no way it could be him because he’s in prison, where I left him.
I push the door open, the carpet dragging against my hesitant steps.
It’s empty, but there’s an eerie chill in the air, a scent that lingers with no presence.
There’s a sheet of paper on the pillow, a printed newspaper clipping.
It can’t be, but it is.
The room swirls. My feet drag as I step closer. My hand covers my mouth as my eyes fall on the single sheet. He’s standing there, captured in time, held in print. His crooked smile, his brown eyes, the gold necklace he always wore and our family house in the background.
I snatch the paper, rage boiling up as I crumple it into my trembling fist. I stumble into the bathroom, frantically digging in the back of the cabinet until my fingers fall on what I need.
Dropping the scrunched paper in the sink, I take a single match.
The Bourdoi Amore set that we got in Venice because I liked the way they burned blue.
I strike it, placing the flame against the side of the paper.
It catches instantly and fills the room with a pungent scent.
As the last remnants of the haunting image vanish down the drain, the realisation washes over me: this is more than an idle threat.