And then I was outside, giggling as relief surged through me.
I had the photographs I needed. Blackmail was a new direction for me. A killer and a blackmailer – my criminal curriculum vitae was expanding.
33
If I got off the bus at the stop I normally used in Bathford, I had to walk past Lily Cottage before I could get to my apartment, so I stayed sitting till the next stop. It was only a ten-minute walk back, and I was able to sneak inside without being seen from the house.
I kept the TV off. If Theo came to my door, he’d be met with silence. If he knocked, I’d simply ignore it. I don’t know why I was being so stupid about the situation. I could go around, explain what had happened, we’d have a laugh about it, and I’d get my bracelet back.
Except, the way he stared at me made the breath catch in my throat.
Why did I stay? I’d asked myself that several times since I’d moved in. The answer was simple. I loved my cosy little apartment. Loved that it was separate, isolated, that I had my own front door and didn’t have to make polite conversation with other apartment dwellers I passed on the stairways or met in the lift. Dealing with people all day, it was a relief not to have to bother being polite when I got home.
Weighing up the advantages, the chill he gave me was almost easily dismissed. Almost. That I couldn’t rid myself of it completely should have prevented me from going anywhere near his house. It should have prevented me from worrying whether he was alive or dead, and certainly should have stopped me sticking my damn hand in his blasted letter box.
I shook my head at the stupidity of it all and regretted the loss of my mother’s silver bracelet. It had been the only pretty thing I’d had. Or had been anyway. I looked at the silver frame I’d taken during that first visit to the Wallace home, then reached for the book where I’d put the photograph I’d taken from it. Out of focus as the black and white shot was, the young Mr Wallace was still clearly identifiable. The woman by his side might have been his first wife, it could have been anyone.
I put it safely back between the pages of the book.
Usually, I’d have music blaring. Country and western songs telling a sad story, or Carrie Underwood singing about making men pay for their crimes. If the beat of my music crossed the narrow gap between my garage apartment and the house, Theo never complained.
So usually, I was free to blast out my music and keep the silence at bay. Because even at night, unless I was trying to sleep, silence unnerved me. In it, no matter how many years had passed, unwelcome thoughts of the lives I’d ended took the opportunity to slip in with sharp and vicious barbs, determined to cause me pain. But if I played music, Theo would know I was home. He’d knock on my door, maybe keep knocking until I answered. The biggest downfall to my apartment, and one I was certain was illegal, was there was no second exit. If he stayed at my door, I was trapped.
I’d been there before, by Jemma’s bullying, by Olivia’s detrimental hold on our finances, and it had led me to kill. I wasn’t going to kill Theo merely because he stared at me. Anyway, killing him would lead to complications. Who knew what would happen to his house afterwards, and to mine.
I put Theo from my head with difficulty and thought instead about my visit to the Wallace’s that morning. I wondered if Mr Wallace was still drawing breath or if he had finally let go his feeble grip on life.
From the dying man, my thought went to the nurse, Jolene. It was such a shame I couldn’t do something about her, but all I could do was to hope for his sake, that she wouldn’t be returning. Perhaps in time, I’d have forgotten about her, if she hadn’t appeared in the Bartholomew Care Home.
In charge of my mother’s welfare.
34
I tried to visit Mother every two to three days. If I was off, I’d spend most of the day in the home, helping her to shower and dress, to have her meals, and I’d sit with her beside a window in the lounge or take her for a walk in the grounds in her wheelchair. Only the changing seasons outside marked any difference to the routine – a summer hat or a warm coat. If I was working a run of nights, I’d sleep for a few hours after the final night, then visit in the afternoon.
After my fourth shift in a row, I arrived to find Mother in her bedroom watching TV. I say watching but there was nothing so dynamic about what she was doing. She was sitting facing the TV and it was switched to a property programme. Escape to somewhere or other. It could have been anything, there was no indication she cared.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said, bending to plant a kiss on her cheek. I frowned. Someone had been heavy-handed with her make-up. ‘Wait till I fix you up a little, then I’ll take you for a walk in the sunshine.’ I pulled a handful of paper tissues from a box and brushed them over the circles of rouge on her cheeks, blending them upward and out. She was still such a pretty woman. Her hair was washed and blow-dried every Monday into the same style she’d worn since I was a child.
I used the same tissues to pat the colour on her lips, then stood back. Better. I ran my fingers through her hair to fluff it up and smiled. Much better. All through my ministrations, she stared straight ahead, through me, as if I wasn’t there.
Years before, I’d have kept up a running monologue, asking her questions, answering them appropriately, sometimes putting on a different voice. It amused me if nothing else. Over the years the amusement had waned and now, mostly, we sat in silence. There was a time too, when I’d told her about my life, hoping for a glimmer of interest: when I went to university, when I qualified as a nurse and was offered that position in the Bath United. Sometimes I still told her things – my move to the apartment in Bathford and the irony of being back in the village where I’d grown up.
I found a wide-brimmed straw hat on a top shelf of the small built-in wardrobe. The crown was squashed almost flat, and it took some careful manipulation to push the material out without breaking it. ‘Here you go,’ I said once it was made presentable. I pressed it down over her hair and tilted it slightly. ‘Perfect.’
A wheelchair leaned against the wall. I unfolded it and fixed the seat cushion in place. ‘Right, Mum,’ I said, putting a hand on her elbow and tugging gently. She rose without argument. It was all she would do. Now and then, usually when a new nurse started full of energy and optimism, they’d try to get her to walk, to put one foot in front of the other. I’d seen the more enthusiastic ones down on their hands and knees, actively moving one foot at a time, sliding each forward an inch while other staff supported Mother with a hand under each elbow. I let them at it, didn’t bother to say we’d tried for a long time, spent a ridiculous amount of money on physiotherapists and a variety of walking aids, all to no avail. It wasn’t that Mother couldn’t walk, after all, it was that she didn’t want to.
I manoeuvred the wheelchair behind her and put on the brakes. ‘Okay, Mum.’ I placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed gently. ‘Down you sit.’ Usually she would respond immediately, dropping to whatever was placed behind her with a childish certainty that there would indeed be something there. But now and then, for no reason that was obvious to anyone, she’d refuse to respond to the signals. ‘Mum, sit down and we’ll go outside for some fresh air. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’