Look Behind You (29 page)

Sheila looks up at me.

‘My hair was different,’ I say. ‘Long and dark and wavy.’

A light of recognition sparks in her face. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, I do remember. Your name’s Chloe?’

‘Yes, how did you remember that?’

‘My daughter’s name is Chloe. It’s hard to forget.’ She smiles. ‘Did you want to go and look at it again?’

‘What did I look at?’

Sheila’s colleague sits behind her desk again and watches me with interest. ‘This lady’s had an accident and lost her memory. She doesn’t remember what happened,’ she tells her with a gossipy glint in her eye.

‘Oh, that’s awful,’ Sheila gasps. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ I say quickly. No time for small talk. ‘So what happened? Did you show me somewhere?’

‘I did. Hang on a sec, let me get the details.’ She walks to a metal filing cabinet behind her desk and pulls open a drawer, sliding folders along until she finds the one she wants. She puts it on her desk then flicks through and hands me a sheet of paper with details of a flat on it. There’s a picture of the outside of the building at the top of the page, along with internal photos, room specifications, and an inventory of exactly what’s included in the rental underneath. ‘This one.’ She taps the paper.

I pick it up to see if it looks familiar. It doesn’t. Inside it’s clean and bright but colourless and bland. A blank canvas. I would want to add warmth. Some bright throws over the sofa, patterned cushions, contrasting bedding, Mediterranean colours.

‘You wanted a small place. Most of what we have at the moment are for executive rentals, but this one came on our books a couple of days before you walked in. It’s a two-bedroom flat on the top floor in quite a nice area. There’s communal parking and a security intercom system. I seem to remember you wanted somewhere with intercom that wasn’t on the ground floor.’

‘And you took me to view it?’

‘Yes, the place is empty at the moment, so we went straight there. You really liked it. It was only partially furnished and you wanted fully furnished, but the price is good because the owner wants it rented quick, and it’s in a great location. You said you didn’t expect to find somewhere so quickly, so you hadn’t brought any money with you for the first month’s rental. We also require a security deposit and some ID, you see, so you were going to come back with it all later that day, but you never did. I just assumed you’d had second thoughts or found somewhere else.’

‘You took her to view the flat in your car, or did you walk there?’ Jordan asks.

‘We went in my car. And then I dropped you back here. You said you were going to do some window shopping for some new things for the flat on your way home. You seemed really excited about it all; that’s why I was a little surprised when you didn’t come in again.’

‘Where did you see her last?’ Jordan asks.

‘We parked in the council car park behind, and you walked with me back here then said goodbye outside. I didn’t see where you went afterwards.’

My mind whirrs with questions she can’t answer. Which shops did I go in? Was I looking for furniture or knick-knacks? Did I talk to anyone? Encounter anyone strange on the way back to Sara’s?

‘What time was that?’ I ask.

‘Er…probably about five-ish.’

I stand up and give her a smile, but my facial muscles don’t seem to be connected to my brain anymore, and it quivers on my face. ‘Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.’

‘You’re welcome. It’s still available if you want it. Just let me know.’

We exit the estate agent, and I stand with my back to the doorway, scanning the shops up and down the street. I could’ve gone in any of them or none of them. I could’ve walked back to Sara’s with a happy smile on my face and a spring in my step. I could’ve gone to the moon for all I knew.

‘Your purse was still at Sara’s, wasn’t it?’ Jordan asks.

‘Yes.’

‘And you were intending to go back and get it then pay for the rental. That means it’s likely you never made it back there at all.’

‘So whatever happened next happened between here and Sara’s.’

My bones feel hollow, as if they won’t hold me up for much longer. My legs tremble.

‘I’m here, Chloe.’ Jordan grips my hand tighter, and I lean against him. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’

31

I’ve come this far, and it feels like I’m so close now to finding out what happened. I want to know the answer, but at the same time, I’m scared to death. Maybe there’s something in what Dr Drew said about the human brain blocking traumatic memories with amnesia. Some things are just too awful to remember. And if I know, if I
really
know what happened, then I’ll have to think about it. Relive it. See that horrific underground tomb. Feel the terror again first hand.

But I have no alternative. I can’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder all the time, wondering who might be coming to get me. No, I have to know.

‘You look really pale. Shall we find a café and have something to eat first before you keel over?’ Jordan says.

‘Yes. Maybe that’s a good idea.’

Jordan leads me down the street, his hand on my elbow, gently guiding me along through all the people. I wonder what their nightmares are. What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to them all? What’s the most they can take before they crack and fall apart? I pick out the men in the crowd, scrutinizing their faces for something I recognize. Perhaps it was it one of them. The old man in the anorak. The skinny young guy with long hair and tattoos up his arms. The geeky-looking guy with glasses. The man in a business suit chatting on his mobile phone. The man cycling in and out of cars with a fluorescent jacket on.

It could be anybody. When you start looking for it, everyone seems sinister or weird. He could be watching me right this second and I’d never know. How many men were there in the UK? Thirty million? More? How do you find one in thirty million? There could even be more than one of them. Two men working as a team. I vaguely remember reading about two male serial killers once who worked together. I can’t remember their names.

I’m barely breathing by the time we arrive at the café, and I grip Jordan’s arm tightly.

‘Here, you sit, and I’ll get you something to eat.’ Jordan points to an empty table on the little terrace in front of the building that overlooks the street. Two young women at the table next to me are chatting noisily about the latest celebrity gossip. A lone man on the other side is tucking into a toasted sandwich and typing away on his laptop. None of them looks at me as I sit down.

‘What would you like?’

I’m not hungry in the slightest. My tongue feels too big for my mouth. My teeth feel like they don’t belong in my jaw. I glance at what the man’s eating. ‘Something like that, maybe?’

‘OK. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He disappears into the shop and leaves me scanning faces in the crowd.

Ten minutes later, he returns with two golden-brown cheese toasties, a mug of tea, and a frothy cappuccino on a tray. ‘I forgot to ask if you wanted tea or coffee, so I got both.’

There it is again, the thoughtfulness that is just Jordan. Despite the worry and fear, a jolt of happiness spears my heart like an electric shock. I smile at him with appreciation.

‘Do you know what you would’ve been window-shopping for?’ Jordan sets everything on the table and puts the tray on the empty seat next to him.

‘I wouldn’t have wanted to take anything with me from home. I don’t want to be reminded of everything. Liam can have the lot.’ I think about the sparsely decorated flat in the photo. What would I need immediately, and what could wait? What would make me feel more comfortable in my new home? It had the basic kitchen supplies, but I could probably do with things like a decent potato peeler and knives. I wouldn’t have worried about pots and pans because a couple of each was listed on the details, and it would only be me now. ‘Maybe some kitchen utensils. A bit of furniture, too, probably. Just a bedside table and maybe a lamp. Nothing expensive or fussy.’ I glance up and down the street at the shops. ‘I like wooden stuff. You know, like your kitchen table. I love Sara’s furniture, too. I always wanted a lot of wood in the house, but Liam went for the modern, polished stuff—glass, chrome. Everything with no character.’

‘The only shop that sells wooden stuff is Nightingale’s.’ He tilts his head to the other side of the street. ‘And Kitchen Dreams would do the kitchen stuff.’ He glances at his watch. ‘We could try them first before they close then do the rest of the shops if we have time. What do you think?’

‘I love the stuff in Nightingale’s. I haven’t been in there much in the last few years because Liam doesn’t like it, but, yes, that’s probably where I would’ve gone.’

So that’s what we do. We finish our lunch and walk across the street to Nightingale’s. It’s set on two floors with lots of Indonesian furniture, oak, mahogany, and reclaimed wood that’s been made into all sorts. The door is propped open with a tree trunk that’s now a plant holder.

It’s wood heaven. Things crammed everywhere so you have to wind yourself round the furniture. It’s also very expensive. Much more than I would be able to afford on my own.

The middle-aged salesman is dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. He wears a red and blue checked bowtie and reminds me of an old country gentleman. He’s chatting with a woman about teak oil, his well-spoken accent drifting towards me. We wander up and down the shop, my hands touching objects as I go by—a candleholder made of driftwood, a wooden photo frame, a carved salad bowl.

As I turn to look at a reclaimed wooden mirror, my reflection stares back and a spark of memory hits me like a surging pain in between my eyes. I stop and put my hand on a nearby table to stop the room spinning around me.

‘What is it?’ Jordan whispers in my ear, sliding his arm round my waist for support. ‘Do you remember something?’

‘I…I’ve been here recently.’

Jordan’s gaze meets mine in the mirror.

‘I remember. I
did
come in here after going to the estate agents. I had a look around and…’ I glance over at the salesman. ‘I spoke to him. I said I was looking for something a bit cheaper, and he told me about a place. Something…’ I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember it all. ‘He told me about somewhere nearby that makes cheap pine furniture. I don’t remember where, though, and I don’t remember what happened after.’

‘OK.’ He holds me close but not too tightly. ‘That’s helpful, then.’

The salesman is still chatting with the customer, talking about distressing wood now. I want to storm over there and scream at the woman to shut up. I want to grab the salesperson by his shirt and demand to know what he told me. Where he sent me. Hysteria is just a breath away. Jordan takes my hand and leads me towards him. We hover, waiting for him to finish. I shift from foot to foot, twisting my earring round and round. I’m so close to unlocking the answer I can taste the adrenaline in the back of my throat.

The salesman catches my eye then gives the woman a patient smile. ‘Well, if you need any more help, just ask. Feel free to browse some more. Looking doesn’t cost anything.’ He chuckles, as if he uses this line frequently. The woman wanders up the other end of the shop, leaving me free to question him.

‘Hi, do you remember I came in here nine days ago?’ I blurt out, fighting to quell the tremor in my voice.

‘What were you looking for?’ He gives me the same practised, polite smile he used on the woman.

‘Furniture. My hair was different then. Long and dark. I said you had some lovely pieces, but I was looking for something a bit cheaper and you recommended a place locally that made pine furniture.’

He raises a finger in the air. ‘Ah, yes, that’s right. I do remember. You know, our wood is very high quality, and only made from sustainable sources or reclaimed materials, but our prices are still competitive.’

‘Yes, it all looks amazing,’ I say quickly. ‘But you told me about somewhere else. The place that sells pine. Where is it?’

He nods a little, resigned to the fact he’s lost a sale. ‘He’s an excellent carpenter, but he works with the cheaper cuts, not the kind of discerning craftsmanship we have here.’

‘Can you tell us where it is?’ Jordan asks firmly. I have the feeling we could be here all day with the salesperson trying to talk to us.

‘My boss will kill me if he knew I’m telling you this, so please keep it a secret.’ He turns around to an antique wooden desk used as a counter and opens one of the drawers. He plucks out a card and hands it to me. ‘This is the place. Tom’s Wood Shack. It’s not really a shop, more of a workshop, really, but he makes things to order, too.’

‘Thank you.’ I practically pull Jordan out of the shop.

32

It’s a forty-five minute walk to the address. The town tapers out here into fields and lanes with views of open countryside all around. After the last house on the road, a dirt track runs along the side of it with a carved wooden sign on a fencepost that says
Tom’s Wood Shack.
An arrow points us down the track, so that’s where we head. About fifty metres along it, I can see a couple of old barns that must be his workshop and some ramshackle outhouses. In the distance behind the barns, a dog barks. A car whizzes along the main road.