Sleepwalkers (18 page)

‘You remember doing that before?’ he asks. I don’t reply. I try it again and I do it just the same. Well drilled. I look at him.

‘You keep ammo in the house?’

He stammers a reply. ‘Yes, yes. Upstairs.’

I point the gun past him – behind him, down the corridor. A blink, a shot and I smash the door handle at the far end. It’s a good shot. Not amazing, not incredible, but better than any amateur would manage. Neither of us speaks. I can feel the heat fading. My head falls, I hand back the gun to him. He takes it and walks out. He comes back some time later. I assume he’s hidden it.

‘You scared me.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You ever been like that before, while you’ve been in here?’

‘No. Not like that.’

‘How about outside?’

I look up at him and he knows I am ashamed. He puts a tentative hand on my shoulder.

‘Ben. I’ve done things that I, that are, you know. We all have.’

But I don’t remember doing anything bad, not until I got away from that van. I rack my brains as I think back on my time with Carrie and the kids and I only remember good times. No affairs, no drunken fumbles, no fights, no theft, nothing to be ashamed of. I’d assumed this was normal, dull, a safe man’s life. I’d imagined that all of this bad behaviour belonged to the newspapers and television, that it was another world’s fiction. But I am the fairytale. And I am the lie.

*

Emma is climbing. Her face is a picture as she grunts and scrambles up the ropes to reach the top of the ladder. Go on girl. Eventually she gets there, to the top of the mast of a purpose-built kids’ pirate ship in the middle of a children’s
adventure playground. She turns, thrilled with herself and calls down.

‘Mummy! Mummy!’

Carrie’s below, but she’s distracted, trying to see where Joe has got to. He comes whizzing down a slide, trying to look cool. Calmer, she looks up at her daughter and waves, cheers.

‘Look at you!’ she calls back. But when she looks down I see how tired she is. She rubs her hand over her face. If you didn’t know her you’d see a pretty, tidy woman in her forties enjoying a day out with her kids. But if you did, if you were her husband, you’d know that there’s no energy in the way she trails after them. You’d know that smile because she used to give it to you when you came home late and she was tired and worried about something. You’d know – I know, that she’s miserable.

Joe has made friends with two other kids in matching football kits – they’re daring each other to go higher and faster. Carrie’s glad that he’s got people to keep him happy, but I want to warn him: they’re older than he is and he’ll hurt himself if he tries too hard to keep up.

But I can only watch. I’m hidden away, lying on my stomach about five hundred yards away, clutching a pair of high-powered binoculars. I’m spying on the people I love but don’t trust.

Emma slips and hurts herself as she tries to climb down. She’s got a leg stuck and she’s crying and panicking, and Carrie, too big to climb up herself, has to get as close as she can and talk her down, soothe her, be her mum.

She needs her dad. But I’m lying in the dirt like a fucking thief. All I can do is stare as Emma finally makes it to the bottom and runs to her mum, who scoops her into her arms and covers her in kisses.

I let the binoculars fall and the lenses hit the dirt. I don’t care, I can’t look again. I thought coming here would give me some answers. I thought maybe I’d see Carrie with another man or with different kids or something. Something. No, I’m lying. I came here because I couldn’t resist. It’s torture, but I have to see them. I thought it would be wonderful, I’ve missed them so badly. But this isn’t anything like that. It’s not sad or melancholy or poignant or whatever the words are. It hurts. It cuts, it stings. I hate it.

My little girl. My proud boy. My beautiful love. I miss you all so much. And there you all are. Laughing, crying, kissing. There you are.

Anna knew that she was not allowed to ask when Toby would return to school. She knew she had to wait to be told and that the information was kept from her by Mr Benton as a punishment. Terry had stopped returning her calls, but he had a habit of vanishing when it suited him and she wasn’t worried. She continued to teach by day and mark homework by night, ignoring the imprints that the broken television had left on her carpet. The fear had subsided for now.

One night, as she was writing an encouraging note in one of her pupil’s books, she was startled by the doorbell. She didn’t get many visitors, so she brushed imaginary crumbs from her skirt and went tentatively to the door. She peeked out through the spy-hole and recognised the ageing man who stared glumly at the corridor outside. Her heart sank.

‘Dad … Hi.’

‘Anna.’ He smiled. His voice was rich and deep – tuned by long nights in oak-panelled rooms with cigars and brandy. Neither moved. ‘Won’t you invite me in?’

Anna looked at her father. He wore his age well, she thought. He was in his usual dark, well-tailored suit with the requisite
shirt and tie. His greying hair was cut just as she always remembered it. His shoes were recently polished. He made her feel small. She gestured for him to enter without enthusiasm and he followed her inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. He removed his heavy coat, but then held it in his hands, unsure where to place it. His eyes took in the small apartment and Anna could see the disappointment in his expression. She resented it and folded her arms, standing between him and the sitting room, barring him entrance.

‘You can hang it on the back of the door.’ He hung his coat on top of her mac because there was only one hook. She waited for him to speak, to explain his visit. He never came, not any more.

‘I’d love a drink.’

‘I don’t have any whisky.’

‘Wine, then.’

She shook her head.

‘Water, if you can manage it.’

‘I’ll have to wash up a glass.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you. You’re always so tidy.’ Somehow he’d managed to say ‘tidy’ as a barb and his face flickered with annoyance. He pulled at his sleeves and Anna noticed the expensive cufflinks.

‘Are you really going to make me stand here, by the door?’

‘What do you want, Daddy?’

‘Is it so odd that a father would want to see his daughter?’

‘Here I am.’

‘And you look lovely. Anna, please.’

She sighed. ‘Come on, then. God.’ She turned and walked away from him. He followed her into the sitting room as she
went through into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. She shook her head at him – don’t say a word – and his small laugh in return broke the ice. He took the bottle from her and poured two big glasses.

‘How’s school?’

‘Same as ever.’

He looked down at her marking, picked up an essay, but she pulled it off him.

‘Don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s private.’

‘It’s homework.’

‘They give it to me, not you.’

He looked away, gazed about the room. Anna saw him stare at the empty corner where the television had been.

‘What happened?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your television.’ They stared together at space.

‘Oh. Nothing. Just, I – I don’t need a telly. There’s nothing on these days. Nothing any good.’

‘Well, that’s true.’ He looked at her and she realised she was blushing.

‘And it broke.’ She drank the wine to stop herself from talking.

‘Are televisions expensive?’

‘You’ve got one. You’ve got a whole room set up.’

‘Yes, I meant a normal one. Not as indulgent as mine.’

‘You mean, can a teacher afford a TV?’

‘That was the gist of it, yes.’

‘Can my job, which you hate, allow me basic creature comforts?’

‘I don’t hate teaching,’ he said. ‘How can anyone hate teaching?’

‘You think it’s beneath me.’

‘It is. You have a brain the size of a planet and you insist on throwing it away on charitable causes.’

‘You think—’

‘Can we not …? Can we not argue every time we see each other? We used to laugh all the time.’

Somewhere deep in her mind, hidden under many layers, Anna remembered herself curled up on his lap, laughing. They both drank again.

‘Are you happy?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You seem …’ he trailed off, trying to find the right word. It came so much later that it almost felt detached from the previous sentence. ‘Alone.’

‘Well, I’m not.’ She said it quietly, without defiance. And as she said it, she wondered if it were true. She wondered about Toby and Terry and that hateful policeman who had scared her so. She considered telling her father about these things, but when she looked into those well-informed, well-educated, well-heeled eyes, something inside her snapped shut. ‘I am happy.’

‘Good. It’s all I want. You know they say a father is only as happy as his unhappiest child. So we’re index-linked. That’s meant to be a joke, but I don’t really get it either.’ His hands fiddled with the stem of the wine glass. ‘I suppose it’s a chemical thing, but I worry about you when I don’t see you. I’m willing to accept that our relationship has changed, I can accept that. But I can’t carry on with my stuffy life if you’re … if
there’s anything that … I …’ He put out a hand onto the table. ‘You’re my little girl.’

‘I’m not little. Not any more.’

‘No.’ His hand stretched across the table and he ran a tentative finger over the back of her hand. Slowly, she pulled away from his reach. His hand remained on the table.

‘I’ll go.’ He walked out stiffly, collecting his coat. She heard the front door click shut, then she put the kettle on and got back to her marking.

Each day that she parked her battered old car, she wondered if it would be the day that Toby returned. At first she considered the idea with butterflies in her stomach, but after a while she wondered about it idly; ready for him when he did come back, but less expectant. As she turned off the engine, she made a mental note to check on whether they were planning on moving him again. But by the time she was locking the doors, her mind had already slipped forward to how she could persuade Shontayne and Marika to read the balcony scene in
Romeo and Juliet
without causing a riot.

She nearly tripped over Paul Robertson, a spindly lad, who stood in front of her, eager for attention.

‘Not now, Paul.’

‘I got a message, Miss.’

‘Take it to reception.’

‘Can’t. Terry said I have to say it to your face.’

‘Who?’

‘Terry. He said I was to say it when no one could hear. It’s a bit weird too, like. But I’ve got to say it word for word or I don’t get the money.’

‘Alright, I’m listening.’

Paul frowned, concentrating hard. ‘Okay, here goes. Dear Miss. Do not call me. I’ll find you. Your boy is a fuck-load of trouble. Seriously. Seriously. Seriously. Seriously.’ He smiled, embarrassed. ‘He said I had to say “seriously” four times or you wouldn’t get it. And sorry about the swearing, but he said that was important too.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited.

‘Am I supposed to give you some sort of message back?’

‘Dunno. Don’t think so.’ He was bored already. ‘See ya, Miss.’ He wandered off. Anna watched him saunter down the corridor. He winked at a girl who shouted angrily at him in return. Anna felt sick.

The nausea faded over the day but rose again when she got home and opened one of her pupil’s books for marking, only for a note to fall into her lap. On it was a postcode, a time (the middle of the night) and the letter T. All typed. She wanted to feel excited, as though she were on an adventure, but she just felt stressed. Stressed and deeply inadequate.

She left the flat later and went cautiously to her car, typed the postcode into the satnav, then drove for nearly an hour. She parked near a narrow footbridge which crossed a motorway. Trucks and cars roared past beneath. There were no street lamps. The bridge appeared deserted as she walked towards it and she assumed that Terry hadn’t got there yet. But then a lorry growled beneath her and its headlamps picked the lad out, his hooded top pulled over his head at the far end of the bridge. He was just a shadow and once the truck passed, he was almost invisible again. Anna pulled her coat around her and went over to him.

‘Agent T, I presume.’ He didn’t reply, so she felt compelled to talk. ‘Licensed to drag me to the back of beyond.’

‘Someone’s trying to trace me,’ Terry said sharply. ‘I do some digging on your boy like you asked and now they’re after me.’

‘Who is?’

‘Oddly, I’m not planning to get close enough to them to find out. If I wasn’t so fucking clever I’d be somewhere between Guantanamo and Diego Garcia right now, and I don’t look good in an orange jumpsuit, you know.’

‘Oh come on!’

‘No, shut up!’ She was shocked by the outburst. ‘They know we’re meeting now. They’ll have something in your satnav; they’ll be watching. They might have something stitched into your clothes or in your shoes, but the cars, that noise is screwing that up. Now you’re easy for them. They can have you whenever they want. But they’re not having me.’

Anna couldn’t help but smile. ‘It’s nerves,’ she insisted.

‘You need to take this a shit-load more seriously.’

‘It’s nerves! I’m not really smiling.’

‘If you thought the same as me, then you wouldn’t smile at all, however nervous you were. These people, they don’t stop because you’re a nice little teacher.’

Anna looked down and nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Have you thought about why that boy is covered in scars? What they’re doing to him?’

‘You’ve found something, haven’t you?’

‘The little guy never beats the system, Anna. Never.’

‘Terry—’

‘If you stop now, let them know you’re spooked and want to look the other way, then maybe they’ll ignore you.’

‘Terry.’

He paused, looked away from her, down at the cars which zoomed past below. It was a while before he spoke again.

‘I’m going through it again like you asked, one last time and I find this article in the paper. Totally normal, and cos it’s totally normal I’m about to skip over it, but there’s one thing that stops me, that’s odd – the photos are missing. Article’s there, I found it on three different sites, but the photos have been removed each time. Why do that? Cos the photos are of a three-year-old boy. Called Toby.’