Chapter 19
LENA
I mull over my conversation with Drew as I’m driving home from his farm.
I’m playing the soundtrack from John Carpenter’s The Fog, which Rufus recommended, and I can’t stop thinking about Drew’s sister.
Different theories drift through my head, not helped by the atmospheric music.
When Sarah-Jane worked with Henry, did she discover something about him that he doesn’t want getting out, and it’s taken him this long to find her?
Is that what all this is about? No, it’s a ludicrous idea.
I think of The Vanishing, which I saw years ago, and shudder when I remember how an unassuming chemistry professor, played by Jeff Bridges, carefully orchestrates a kidnapping and abducts Sandra Bullock’s character from a service station.
Fifteen minutes later I’ve pulled up outside my house.
Henry is running a soapy sponge over his car’s windscreen, the pale blue bonnet gleaming in the sunshine.
He looks the picture of respectability: a suburban retired grandfather happily going about his day.
Look at him, for goodness’ sake, with his neatly pressed linen shirt and his chino shorts, not a drip of perspiration on him.
Yet just yesterday he’d made Drew feel threatened.
A cool customer. A surgeon. Not easily rattled.
I’m letting my imagination run away with me.
All this stuff with Drew and his sister isn’t helping and, more than that, I know, deep down, that this is a distraction for me.
A distraction from feeling lonely, from worrying about my broken marriage, with Rufus about to leave home.
It’s my anxiety about the future that’s causing all these increasingly dark thoughts.
Henry nods in acknowledgement when he sees me, but he looks serious as he continues washing the car. I remember the key that Phoenix found in the Morgans’ garden.
‘Excuse me, Henry,’ I say, as I approach him. I reach into my bag where I’d put the keyring earlier in the hope I’d run into either Henry or Marielle. ‘My dog found this in your garden. I’m so sorry, he got through the gap in the fence.’ I smile in apology.
Just then Marielle walks briskly out of the house.
She’s wearing a gingham apron, which is at odds with her neatly coiffed hair, her immaculate make-up that hasn’t sweated off, like mine has, and her well-cut dress.
She’s wearing kitten heels and looks as if she’s about to go out for a champagne lunch.
It’s almost as though she’s quickly thrown on the apron to give the impression of domestic bliss. Non-threatening.
Did she come out to see me?
‘Lena. Lovely to see you again.’ There’s something in her tone that makes me wonder if she saw me tailing them yesterday. ‘Henry, lunch is ready.’ And then she glances down at my outstretched hand and frowns. ‘What’s this?’
‘Lena found it in our garden,’ says Henry.
‘Well, my dog did,’ I clarify, not wanting Marielle to think I’ve been snooping around her property. ‘Sorry, the bear got a bit chewed. Just wondered if it belonged to you?’
‘Oh, yes, that’s –’ begins Henry.
At the same time Marielle shakes her head, ‘No, that’s not ours.’
I glance from one to the other, trying to read their expressions. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s not ours,’ repeats Marielle, firmly. She shoots a glance at Henry. Is it my imagination or is that fear I can read in her eyes?
‘No,’ agrees Henry. ‘No, I don’t recognize it.’
‘Okay.’ I slip it into the pocket of my dress. ‘Well, nice to see you both.’
When I get to my front door I look back to see Henry has stalked into the house, Marielle trailing after him.
He’s left the bucket on the pavement, his precious car half washed.
I recall Drew’s story about his sister being followed by someone in a blue classic car and, despite the blazing sunshine, goosebumps pop up on my arms.
I’m surprised to see Rufus and Kit in the kitchen.
Rufus is strumming his guitar with an expression of intense concentration, his fringe falling into his eyes.
I can see the nodules of his spine through his T-shirt and a surge of love threatens to overwhelm me.
He’s taller than me, basically a man, but he’ll always be my little boy.
I turn towards the sink to hide the tears that have filmed my eyes.
This is ridiculous. He’s growing up. It’s normal.
I just wish I’d appreciated every single minute, cherished it, because it’s all so fleeting.
Nearly eighteen years of my life gone, just like that.
I wish I’d been more patient, less stressed, more grateful for the little moments, the moments that had felt insignificant, but now, under the magnifying-glass of passing time and regret, mean everything.
‘Oh, hi, aren’t you supposed to be in college?’ I say, my voice thick. I fetch a glass from the cupboard and pour myself some water. Pull yourself together, Lena, for crying out loud.
‘Lecturer is sick, so we have the afternoon off,’ Rufus says, without looking up from his guitar as he plucks the strings with a plectrum.
‘Hi, Mrs Fletcher.’ Kit smiles kindly and, from his expression, I can tell he’s noticed that I’m a bit wobbly. He runs a hand through his boy-band hair and there is something instantly recognizable about the way he does it. Again I get the feeling I’ve seen him somewhere before.
‘Please, call me Lena. Can I get you a drink? I doubt Rufus has offered you one!’
‘We were just finishing,’ says Rufus. ‘I’m trying to get this riff …’
‘It’s good,’ I say. ‘Is that “Seven Nation Army”?’
Rufus turns his face to me, eyes alight. ‘Yes!’
‘I’d love some water, please,’ says Kit, getting out of his seat and coming towards me.
I reach for another glass and turn on the tap. ‘I’m sorry it’s not very cold,’ I say, handing it to him. ‘I wish I had one of those fridge water-dispenser things.’
Kit takes the glass with thanks. He has a pleasant face, I think.
Smiley. ‘I don’t mind it room temperature,’ he says, and takes a glug.
He sits down again, placing his glass on the table, then slides his guitar into its case, which is plastered with stickers: WWF, Barnardo’s, Amnesty International, as well as bands like Muse, Kings of Leon and Led Zeppelin. Rufus is still strumming.
‘Are you in a band, Kit?’ I ask.
‘Yes, just me and some uni mates. We do a few local gigs, but we’re not like Moderation or anything.’ He sounds impressed by Charlie’s band. ‘To get a record deal would be the dream …’ He shrugs, his cheeks pinkening. ‘I know it’s a long shot.’
‘It’s great to have dreams,’ I say.
‘Do you, Mrs … I mean, Lena?’
I jolt in surprise at the personal question. Kit’s watching me carefully and I can’t tell if he’s just being polite or if he’s really interested in knowing the answer. ‘Well, I’m a bit long in the tooth for all that now,’ I say, waving a hand dismissively.
‘Nonsense. You’re still young. Rufus told me you used to be a nurse.’
‘Well, not quite. I was a student midwife and then … I realized it wasn’t for me.’ A whoosh of heat travels up my body when I remember everything that happened at the hospital where I did my training.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. Do you ever regret leaving?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’ It was a knee-jerk reaction. I’d lost faith in the hospital and the people I was working with. ‘You know what they say about a few bad apples spoiling the pie, or whatever it is.’ I laugh.
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Anyway, things happen for a reason. If I’d stayed I might not have met Charlie or had Rufus, so …’ I lift my shoulders.
He grins and playfully punches Rufus’s shoulder. ‘With a bit more practice he’ll be great.’
Rufus looks up eagerly, flushing with pride. ‘Really?’
‘Totally. You’ve got talent, mate. You’ll pick it up in no time.’ He lugs his guitar case onto his shoulder. ‘Anyway, see you on Friday, Rufus.’ He heads for the door.
I nudge Rufus and whisper under my breath, ‘Go and show him out.’
Rufus hands me his guitar and leaps up. I can hear them talking by the front door.
When five minutes pass and Rufus doesn’t return, I go into the hallway.
He’s left the door open but he’s not in the front garden.
I pop my head out, glancing up and down the street.
Henry is back to washing his car and Rufus is standing beside him, admiring the Jag.
I shrink back into the hallway, but only enough so that I can still observe them without being seen.
There’s no getting around it. Whatever the truth, I don’t trust Henry. And I don’t like him being friendly to my son.
‘Thanks, Henry,’ I hear Rufus saying. ‘I’ll take you up on that. Bye.’ He strides back towards the house and I dart into the kitchen and start unloading the dishwasher. I hear the front door slam and Rufus reappears.
‘I was just talking to Henry,’ he says affably, sticking his hands into his pockets. ‘He’s got a cool car and said he’d take me out for a drive in it.’
I blanch. Over my dead body, I think, but I don’t say as much to Rufus.
‘But it reminds me,’ he continues. ‘The sounds you recorded for me the other day, well … I listened to the tapes at college earlier and I heard voices. Was it them next door?’
I’d forgotten to erase that part of the tape before I gave it back to Rufus. I explain how I’d accidentally picked up their conversation. ‘But I stopped recording as soon as I discovered it.’
‘I was in a rush to get my assignment completed so couldn’t make it all out, but what were they on about? It sounded a bit odd.’
I reach for my phone. ‘I can play it to you again – I recorded it from your tape. It’s not great, as I only managed to get it by placing my phone next to the sound system’s speaker.’
‘Okay. Sure.’
I play it and shudder as their voices ring out, sounding tinny.
‘… I don’t know, Mari …’
‘You promised me you’d take her. I’ve got everything ready. The room …’
‘I know … but … after what happened before … should we really try again?’
A long pause. Rustling. ‘… we have no choice …’
I press stop on my phone and look at Rufus. He’s staring at me questioningly.
He sits back in the chair and rests his ankle on the opposite knee. He’s still got his trainers on.
‘Don’t tell me you think they’re, like, spies or something?
I agree it’s a bit odd, but this isn’t Arlington Road.
’ He chuckles at his own joke. We’d watched the film together a few months ago; it’s about a college lecturer who specializes in terrorism and his growing paranoia that his neighbours are about to bomb a government building.
‘All right. I know. I’m not saying that.’
‘They could be talking about taking a relative somewhere.’ He frowns.
‘But what about the other stuff I heard? I didn’t record it, but they talked about a plan and it being too risky and that they were worried about getting caught. That’s not talking about a relative coming to stay, Ruf.’
‘Shame you didn’t record that bit,’ he says, standing up, his attention already waning, his fingers no doubt itching to get back on his phone or strum the guitar.
He goes to the fridge and grabs a carton of orange juice.
‘Real life is more boring than the movies.’ There’s a mournful tone to his voice.
‘Is everything okay?’
He turns to me, carton in hand. ‘What? Apart from the fact we could have a couple of psychos living next door?’ He grins. ‘I’m just saying life isn’t as exciting as a movie, that’s all.’
Later Freddie calls for Rufus and the two of them head out to the cinema to watch some arthouse film recommended by one of their lecturers.
He promises not to be back late. I try Jo again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I know it’s a busy time for her at work, but I’m desperate to seek her advice about the Morgans and to fill her in on everything that’s happened since I last spoke to her on Sunday.
I’ll also feel a lot better once Paul has installed the camera in the back garden.
The gate, thankfully, has remained bolted.
As I sit down with some tea and toast I feel a stab to my thigh and realize I’ve still got the key I found in the pocket of my dress.
I fish it out, staring at the little knitted bear with toothmarks in its foot, thanks to Phoenix, then open the kitchen drawer and dump it in there, along with a ball of elastic bands, an empty lighter, a box of matches, a pen, a couple of blue candles and two Argos pencils.
I’m just about to close it when I see a metal keyring in the shape of a poppy.
Joan’s spare key. She gave it to me when she lived next door in case she ever locked herself out.
It’s cold between my fingers as I grasp it.
The developers kept the original front door, but they might have changed the lock.
My heart pounds as a plan takes hold. Could I …
No, that’s totally unethical. I can’t just sneak into their house.
What if they caught me? But if I did, I might find out what the Morgans are planning.
There may be something inside their house that holds a clue as to what they’re up to and whether they do know about Sarah-Jane’s disappearance.
No. I can’t. I absolutely can’t. It’s wrong. It’s trespassing. What if someone saw me? How would I ever explain it?
I drop Joan’s key back among the rest of the paraphernalia and slam the drawer shut.
But for the rest of the day I can’t stop thinking about that key.