I snatch up a hair elastic from the coffee table and tie my hair back. What’s wrong with me? I’m feeling less and less like myself. And I can’t stop thinking about Mel and Tamsin getting all buddy-buddy. I know Tamsin is doing it to upset me. It’s like she’s stuck at age fifteen or something. Why can’t she just leave me alone? If I voiced these thoughts I would sound so unreasonable and paranoid – she has as much right to be friends with Mel as I do. It’s just that I know she’s not doing it for the friendship. She’s doing it to mess with my happiness, through some twisted sense of revenge or jealousy. And if I’m honest, I’m disappointed in Mel. I’d have thought she’d have understood my feelings more. If someone had slept with one of Mel’s boyfriends, I wouldn’t be inviting them over for coffee.
It’s funny, this morning at school I had a brief glimpse of my old confidence and humour. I was the Kirstie that everyone knows, until I got back home again. Everything is shifting around me, and it feels like I can’t trust even those closest to me. Nothing seems solid and real any more. How can everything change so much in such a short space of time? And how can I get back to being me?
* * *
I lie on the futon, aware of every lump and bump beneath me. Whose idea was it to sew buttons onto the mattress? One of them has come loose and keeps digging into my hip. I have to shift over to the edge to get more comfortable. I’ve checked the locks twice tonight. That’s an improvement on last night, but even the thought of it makes me want to get up and check them again. I will myself to stay where I am, to not give in to the temptation. I squeeze my fists so tightly that my nails dig painfully into my palms. The doors are locked, the windows are closed. I know they are, so why am I torturing myself imagining they’ve somehow popped open again?
Martin wouldn’t try to break in, would he? Not while Dominic’s here. I should try to think about something else, something nice and non-threatening. Daisy, think about Daisy. I picture her chubby cheeks and gummy smile, her mop of dark hair and dark eyes. But the problem with thinking about my daughter is that all my thoughts inevitably turn to her safety. To the fact that someone out there wants to take her. And it is a fact, I’m sure of it. I don’t care that there’s no hard evidence. Don’t they say that a mother’s intuition is always right? Well my intuition has gone into overdrive. I know something is wrong.
The random thought comes to me that it’s bin-collection day tomorrow. I wonder if Dom remembered to put them out. The bins are full to the brim, so we can’t afford to miss a collection. Especially not in this heat. Ugh, I’m going to have to get up and check. I inhale and sit up, a beat of relief in my chest – checking on the bins will give me a legitimate excuse to check the locks again.
First, I lean over the cot and check on Daisy. She’s sleeping peacefully. I could so easily watch her all night, but I manage to tear my gaze away before tiptoeing down the stairs. In the lounge, I head over to the windows, cup my hands around my face and peer out through the glass. I’m relieved to see that both bins are sitting out there at the end of the driveway under the flickering streetlamp. Dom remembered to do it. Now that worry is out of the way, I begin testing the window handles, tugging each one down several times before moving onto the next. As I head into the hall to check the front door, I pause mid-step as an idea comes to me. Something that could possibly get me the proof against Martin that I’m looking for.
I realise I’m only wearing thin cotton shorts and a vest top, so I toy with the idea of going upstairs to get my dressing gown, but I won’t be out there for long. Before I can talk myself out of it, I unlock the front door and step out into the silent night, the fresh air cool against my bare arms and legs, the road quiet and still, just the faint hum of the streetlamps and the whisper of a breeze. I shiver and pick my way, barefoot, down the pathway, wincing as I step on a sharp piece of gravel.
Going out in the early hours of the morning seems to have become something of a habit. Before last week, I had never had problems sleeping and I would never dream of going outside at this time of night. But if I’m going to keep my family safe, these are the things I must do. Nevertheless, my blood zings through my body, all my nerve endings buzzing with energy, my muscles taut, senses alert.
I turn left out of our drive and stay close to Martin’s hedge, fairly confident he wouldn’t be able to catch sight of me if he were looking out of any of his windows. I keep tossing surreptitious glances up to his house, the top strips of his dark windows like blank-eyed stares. The only other residents who would be able to see me from this angle would be Mel or the Cliffords. Hopefully they’re tucked up in their beds.
Martin’s wheelie bins stand at a perfect right angle to his driveway, lined up against the kerb like soldiers for inspection, handles facing outwards to make it easy for the refuse collectors. The plastic receptacles gleam like new beneath the street light. One of them is for everyday rubbish, the other is for recycling. I’m going to have a quick peek inside. Perhaps I’ll find something incriminating.
The only problem is that once I step over to the bins, I’ll be in full view of Martin’s windows. I’ll need to be quiet and I’ll need to be quick. I glance all around me and creep over to his recycling bin first. Maybe I’ll find packaging for nappies or milk formula. I should have brought my phone with me so I could photograph any evidence. But as soon as I spot something fishy, I’ll have cause to call the police and then they can deal with him.
I ease up the lid and gently fold it back. The bin is only half full, not like ours, which is overflowing every week. I have to lean over to get a good look inside. The streetlight is on, but I could have seen the contents much better if I’d thought to bring a torch. So far, all I can make out are newspapers and flattened packs of ready-made custard. I gingerly delve a bit further, wrinkling my nose in distaste. Beneath the newspapers are empty tin cans lined up on their sides – tomato soup, apricot halves, prunes, condensed milk, chilli con carne—
‘Hello, Kirstie.’
I go cold at the sound of Martin’s voice.
Twenty
I grip the side of the black plastic bin, a hot ball of panic in my chest. We’re outside and we’re alone. The smell of newspapers and rotting food wafts into my nostrils, making me gag. I clamp my lips together, hold my breath and turn around.
Martin is standing at the end of his driveway wearing a checked dressing gown and matching slippers, his hair sticking up at odd angles.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he asks, his expression stern, the light from the streetlamp casting a strange shadow across his face.
My mind races with possible excuses before settling on the most plausible. ‘Hi, Martin. I was just… checking that everyone is recycling properly. Sorry, it’s a bugbear of mine. I’ll go.’ I release my grip on Martin’s recycling bin, and flip the lid closed with a loud clatter, wondering if I’m going to have to make a run for it. If I scream, will the neighbours hear? Will I be loud enough to wake Dom? Would he get down here in time to save me?
‘Very commendable, Kirstie,’ Martin says. ‘But you won’t find anything amiss in my bins. I’m extremely fastidious about recycling. Not like some other people I could mention. I would lay bets on young Melinda and the Cliffords not bothering to sort their general waste from their recyclable materials.’
‘Okay, well, that’s great. G’night.’ I start backing away, almost tripping over in my haste to get home.
‘You shouldn’t come out here with bare feet,’ Martin admonishes. ‘There could be broken glass or bits of builder’s rubble. You could hurt yourself. In fact, you shouldn’t be out here alone. You might think this is a lovely little close, but it’s not safe to be out at night. You’re a young woman all alone. Anyone could be out here.’
‘Thanks. I’m fine,’ I mutter as I stumble away, wondering if that was some kind of veiled threat.
I hear soft footfalls behind me and give a startled yelp as his voice sounds almost in my ear. ‘I’m impressed that you care about looking after the planet, Kirstie. We need more people like you in the world.’