I clutch a crying Grace and stare through the window, unable to tear my eyes from Tom and Neil, even to comfort my daughter. Then the figure reaches the van and yanks the door open.
Tom has overtaken Neil and my heart pounds as if I’m running with him. I can picture exactly what the crowbar will look like embedded in his temple.
Before Tom can get closer, the van’s door slams, and it peels away.
Neil and Tom run pointlessly after it for a few seconds, slowing to jogging speed, as it turns the corner. Then they turn back.
Neil is hobbling. Tom half carries him in. He leaves a trail of bloody footprints in the hall.
‘Oh my God, Neil, your feet!’ I rush down the remaining stairs. ‘What do I do? Where’s your medical stuff?’
Sam appears at the top of the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’
Neil spreads his hands. ‘Some fucker just vandalised Fidget’s car.’
‘Oh no!’ Sam is mortified. ‘It’s not like that around here, Bridget, honestly! We’ve never had this happen before. Never!’
I know she hasn’t. I know the person who did this isn’t local. This wasn’t a random attack or some thug hoping to find an iPhone left on a car seat. But what do I say? Sorry, Sam, Neil, I led these kidnappers to your home.
And what if I tell them that I’ve been followed by the van? Tom might not believe me; Neil would go mental; Sam would insist I tell the police. I cling tighter to Grace. The whole idea exhausts me. Briefly, I consider speaking to Naomi Shaw, but there’s no evidence that this was anything other than a motiveless piece of vandalism.
And what if I have to tell her my movements and Tom finds out where I’ve been?
I know it makes sense to tell Neil and Sam; I feel like a fool for deciding otherwise, but the words are stuck in my teeth like toffee. I can only nod as Sam insists that Clitheroe has a low crime rate, that these things don’t happen, even as she uses tweezers to remove a shard of glass from the ball of Neil’s bleeding foot.
‘We’ll have to speak to the police,’ Tom says, taking Grace.
‘What?’ I stare at him, wild-eyed.
‘Don’t look so freaked, Bridge. We’ll need a crime number for the insurance.’ Tom groans. ‘I’ll take some photos, then we’ll tape a bin bag over the window for tonight in case it rains. I’ll call into the station in the morning. I passed it when I went to see the recruitment agent. I’m just annoyed we didn’t get the number plate – you didn’t, did you Neil?’
Neil shakes his head. ‘Sorry, mate.’
‘It’s fine. The van was probably nicked anyway.’ He kisses Grace’s tears away then looks back at me. ‘I’ll take Grace’s car seat for the drive home, she shouldn’t be in a car without a window.’
I nod.
‘I’ll get Autoglass to come out when we’re back.’
‘What if it wasn’t random?’ I finally whisper.
Neil’s head jerks up and Tom looks at me levelly. ‘It was random, Bridge. Just joy-riding dickheads having a party. Truth or dare or some shit. Don’t start spiralling.’
Truth or dare. It could almost be true. I feel around the edges of the idea as it takes shape.
‘It wasn’t a teenager,’ I mutter.
Neil is pulling on a sock now. ‘Adults can be dickheads too, Fidget,’ he says.
I look at the Fluoxetine, rolling the pills between my fingers. I’m meant to be coming off them gradually, halving the dose, but I can’t dream tonight; I just can’t. In one swift movement, I toss the pills into Sam’s toilet. They sink to the bottom and lie on the white ceramic, little green and yellow bullets turning amorphous as they dissolve in the water. I flush and watch them whirl away.
Tom is in bed waiting for me. He looks at my face. ‘All right?’
I climb into bed beside him and twine my fingers with his. His hand is larger than mine. I love his big hands. I close my eyes.
I don’t dream of the little girl this time. Instead, I am simply on a swing kicking my legs, leaning back and watching the clouds as the sky whips past, one way, then the other.
There are shapes in the clouds, broken up by the line that is the top of the swing and occasionally by my own feet when I swing too high and my heart thuds with the fear that I might go all the way over. Sometimes the whole swing wobbles, the legs moving in the soft earth and I think I might accidentally fling myself all the way over the wall. The thrill doesn’t make me stop swinging. Up and down, up and down, up and down …
We drive home in our separate cars. As agreed, Tom takes Grace, leaving me to follow them as closely as I can, with the wind fluttering the duct-taped bin bag making a sound like a gunfire.
I didn’t tell Tom that I was terrified to get going, or that I was certain a white van was going to appear in my mirror and stay there all the way home. That I thought someone might try to run me off the road or pull over and drag me out of the broken window.
I stay close to his Yaris, or I try to, but before long there’s an impatient driver who shoves his way between us at a junction. Then another who separates us still further at a roundabout. Tom’s car is faster than my Micra and soon he is gone.
There’s nothing I can do but drive, with my heart pumping and my mouth dry and the sound of gunshots in my ears. Each time I see a van, my car wobbles, as if wanting to change lane. My breathing only comes easier when I see a logo, or the van speeds off ahead, uninterestedly.
My shoulders ache and my head pounds. I rub my head and eyes over and over again.
There’s another problem too. I feel sick. I’m lightheaded and dizzy and my stomach is in knots. I recognise the symptoms for what they are: withdrawal. I didn’t take my tablets last night and my body is letting me know it needs them. This must be why I was told to come off them slowly. I consider stopping in a lay-by, finding my tablets in the boot and taking at least one just to feel better, but I’m afraid to stop and get out of the car. It will leave me vulnerable.
By the time I get home, I’m a wreck. I stumble through the front door and into Tom’s arms with a sob.
‘Bridget?’ Alarm sharpens his tone.
‘I’m fine. I just need to sit down.’ I push past him and into the living room. The small living room, with its gas fire and low ceiling and Grace in her bouncer focused on Paw Patrol. It doesn’t feel like home anymore.
‘You’re not okay.’ Tom rubs my hands. ‘Did something happen?’
‘No.’ I force a smile but I’m still shaking. I grope for the right story; this lying thing is getting easier each time. ‘A near miss at a roundabout, that’s all.’
Tom shuffles back onto his heels. ‘You have to be more careful, Bridge.’
I wrap my arms around myself. ‘I know.’
‘Hey.’ He sits beside me. ‘I made a couple of calls. Autoglass will be here tomorrow.’
‘Great.’ I muster a smile.
‘And I managed to get hold of the estate agent who sold us the flat. She’s coming over on Tuesday, first thing, to give us a valuation for the bank.’
‘That’s good.’ My hands won’t stop shaking.
Tom frowns. ‘Did something else happen?’
I wrap my arms around my stomach. ‘Honestly? I feel sick. I think it’s the withdrawal. I didn’t take my pills last night.’
‘Shit.’ Tom looks quickly at Grace, but she hasn’t heard him. ‘How long will that go on for?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, I’ve only been on them a few months.’
‘Go for a lie-down, I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ Tom pulls me to my feet and propels me towards the stairs.
‘Okay.’ I head upwards, my feet heavy, my body already leaning towards sleep.
I take my shoes off but leave my clothes on; then I lie on the bed, listening to the kettle boil and Tom murmuring to Grace. My eyes close but my mind stays open, racing.
Happy with what you have.
Betsie, why’d you do it?
Polly wants a cracker … let me take a ride, don’t cut yourself
And then I fall asleep.
I wake up, automatically seeking the remains of the nightmare I’m certain must have visited, but I feel no vestiges of terror.
There are no lingering images, no dark claws in the back of my mind, no feeling of claustrophobia or vertigo. Is it possible that I didn’t have a nightmare? That I haven’t woken sweaty because I was afraid, but because I left all my clothes on?
For once, it isn’t terror that wakes me but the sound of Tom and Grace laughing uproariously downstairs.
I sit up, fragile and groggy, as though a swift movement might shake a nightmare loose. But there’s nothing. I probe my memory like a patient might touch a rotten tooth with their tongue, carefully, anticipating pain, but unable to stop. I’ve slept without dreams. I don’t feel refreshed though, more like I’ve been woken from the start of a long slumber. I’m barely alert. There’s a cold cup of tea on the bedside table beside me, congealing milk a white swirl on top of the brown. I look at the clock and frown. It says 10 o’clock, but then why is Grace up?
I tiptoe downstairs, almost as if I’m still in the dream I feared, worrying that a loud noise might bring monsters from the living room. Instead Tom appears. ‘You’re awake! Sorry, was it us?’
It’s light outside, sunlight filters in through the hall window and I rub my head, confused. ‘I–I think so. What time is it?’ I peer past him. Grace is lying on the floor surrounded by a whole phalanx of cuddly toys. There appears to have been a battle.
Tom checks his watch. ‘It’s just after ten, you’ve been out for over twelve hours. I thought about taking your clothes off, but honestly, I didn’t dare move you. Luckily, there was enough milk in the freezer for Grace.’
‘I’m so sorry, Tom.’
‘It’s fine. You obviously needed it. Do you feel a bit better?’
Automatically, I nod.
‘The Autoglass guy just left. You’ve got a new window.’
‘Okay.’ I smile at Grace, feeling oddly detached.
‘And your mum rang while we were away, she left a message on the house phone. You’ve got an appointment with Gillian at 1.30 p.m. Are you feeling up to it?’
I nod my head. ‘I just slept without nightmares. Whatever she did, it’s working.’
Gillian looks at me with her bird-like expression as I grope for the chair before sitting down. I’m afraid I might miss the seat and fall. Everything feels lopsided today, as if I’m leaning sideways, or everything else is. Mum is a little late and, honestly, I’m relieved. I didn’t think I was going to talk about it but there’s something in Gillian’s face and I can’t stop myself. ‘I saw Dad.’
Gillian glances at the door, then calls the receptionist. ‘Milo, give Mrs Monahan a cup of tea in the waiting room when she arrives.’ She sits back down but doesn’t pick up her notebook. ‘You mean you thought about your dad. Remembered something?’
I nod. My head feels too heavy for my shoulders. ‘I don’t have many memories of him, and I never think about that … God, I sound awful.’ I knot my fingers together, twisting them on my lap.
‘You don’t.’ Gillian tilts her head at me. ‘Finding your dad the way you did would have been a shock for anyone. You dealt with it – and I helped you deal with it – by forgetting.’
I peer at my reddening hands, nausea swirling, and I don’t know if it’s the Fluoxetine withdrawal or the fact that I’m talking about him. ‘I hadn’t really considered it before, but that must have been hard for Mum.’
‘She agreed that I should help you block the whole thing from your mind.’
I look up at Gillian, quickly. ‘Did you see her last week? After the session on Thursday, I mean. Was she all right?’
‘You know your mum.’ Gillian picks up the notebook. ‘What triggered the memory, do you think?’
I consider telling her about Grant, about the fight. But I can’t. ‘I saw someone who reminded me of him.’
‘And in combination with the anniversary …’ Gillian nods. ‘What was the memory?’
I flush, as if I’m admitting to wrongdoing. ‘The day I found him. What he looked like.’
Gillian glances away as if she can’t bear to meet my eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Bridget,’ she says eventually. ‘That must have been awful.’ She looks back up. ‘I’ll make an amendment to today’s hypnotherapy session; I’ll make sure you don’t have to think about that ag—’
A beep sounds from the speaker on her desk. ‘Dr Thornhill, Mrs Monahan is here and doesn’t want any tea. She’d like to know if she can come in.’
Gillian toys with her pen. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, Bridget, before I let Alison through?’
I twist my hands tighter.
Yes, I want to say. Yes. I’m terrified of alienating Grace or losing Tom. I don’t know how to help the little girl I saw. I don’t know whether to take the map to the police, or not. I want to move, but I’m frightened of upsetting Mum. I’m being followed by a white van and I don’t know how to make it stop. I feel sick and out of sync with the whole world.
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m okay.’
‘All right then,’ Gillian rises and goes to her desk. ‘Send her in, please.’