This is the equivalent of when somebody starts a sentence with, ‘We need to talk’. The truth is that people never need to make a formal announcement about having to talk. If they need a chat, they get on with it. Pre-proclamations mean trouble – and so does the missing Tigger pot.
Everyone who sees it assumes I’m a fan of Winnie The Pooh, but it’s nothing to do with it. When I bought it for £5, I was with David and he thought it might be worth more than the price. There was no way I could have known that such a seemingly insignificant piece of clay would change my life. It’s probably the reason I glued it back together after it was broken – I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It’s why it sits on my counter, housing my keys. The last thing I see before I leave the flat and the first thing I see when I return.
But now it’s gone.
I check the photo on my phone once more, zooming in on David’s face. I’m filled with the same feeling I get when I wonder if I’ve remembered to lock the front door. I suspect everyone has it at some point. I’ll leave as normal and set off on my journey and then, ten minutes later, for seemingly no reason, a thought will worm its way into my mind that I forgot to lock the door. Even if I remember specifically putting my key in the lock, the voice will continue to insist that I did that yesterday. That I definitely forgot to secure things today.
And now I’m wondering if David can be alive.
I know I killed him. I saw his lifeless eyes. I got rid of the body.
Yet, not only is he in the back of a photo of what most would assume is my proudest moment; but the object that will forever bind our fates has disappeared.
I scratch away the chills that ripple along my arms and then find myself rubbing the scar on my neck before catching myself. I decide that it can only be me who gets a grip on this madness.
I search along both sides of the counter, wondering if I might have knocked it off and somehow not noticed.
Nothing.
I then check the drawers and cupboards, wondering if I moved it and somehow forgot. I look in the oven and the fridge and then move into the living room. I try underneath the sofa cushions and then underneath the sofa itself. After that, I flick through the racks of CDs and then try the cabinet underneath the television.
Nothing.
I look in the bathroom and the spare room. I try my own bedroom, checking the wardrobe and then going through my drawers. I have my head under the bed when I’m sure I hear a creak from the living room. I hurry to the doorway and stare across to the sofa and then the kitchenette on the other side of the room.
There’s nobody there.
‘Hello?’
There is silence except for the echo of my own voice, which I realise could be in my imagination, too.
I find myself staring at the tissue box on the coffee table, wondering if it was on its side when I left. Then there’s my shoes next to the bed. Weren’t they straight, rather than askew? I can’t remember.
The Tigger pot is nowhere to be seen, but, not only that, there is no sign of anyone breaking in. The door was locked; the windows are closed and secure.
It’s almost half past five in the morning and nearly an entire day since I last slept. Yawn is building upon yawn, with tears of exhaustion running down my cheeks.
I can’t bring myself to unpack my night bag, though there is one final thing to check. I go through my top drawer next to the bed, pushing aside the obligatory underwear until I find my passport at the back. I flick through the pages, looking at the stamps and then settling on my own face. Nobody takes a good passport photo. The range of expressions go from ‘a bit like a corpse’, to ‘potentially deranged’. Mine was renewed a little after I got married. It was less than three years back, though it feels like an age. I was so different then. Perhaps others can’t see it, but I can. There was an optimism and hope about me during our wedding. It was the marriage itself that took that from me.
Underneath the passport is a little over £100 in cash, which is exactly what I remember having there.
I’ve been out of the apartment for less than a day. Could David have been in, taken the clay pot, and then driven to the conference, milled around, and then… what? Anyone could, I suppose. The timings are possible if someone could get themselves in and out – however unlikely that seems.
I tell myself that things will figure themselves out in the morning. Later in the morning. The pot will show up in an obvious place and I’ll not be able to believe I missed it. David’s mysterious twin will turn out to be some hotel worker who was caught at the perfect angle in the perfect light that makes him look like my former husband. I’m tired, that’s all.
I’m undressed and in bed when I poke my head out and check underneath for a final bit of reassurance. There is nothing there except shoes and empty boxes which once contained things like my phone.
As soon as I’ve laid down, the digits from the clock burn bright through the darkness. I’m transported back to the hotel room, knowing I won’t be able to sleep.
When I was younger, I’d always rest on my left side, facing the outside of the bed. After David moved in, we figured out that he did the same. I told him he could have that side of the bed and subsequently taught myself to sleep on my right arm. It now feels strange to sleep facing any other way.
I close my eyes, cuddling the pillow into my ear and, the next thing I know, the digits on the clock are telling me that it’s a few minutes after eight. It takes a groggy few seconds for me to realise that I’ve slept for two and a half hours. It’s hardly a good night’s sleep, but it will do for now.
It takes a few seconds more for me to notice the trophy on my side table and then everything that happened last night comes bubbling back to the surface like a dodgy kebab. I’m not supposed to be home; I’m supposed to be in a hotel. There was the phone photo of David, the missing pot from my kitchen.
I pull myself out of bed and amble bare-footed into the living room. I glance towards the kitchen, but my keys still sit on the bare counter. I’ve not pulled the curtains and light is spilling across the living room. I head to the window and stand, staring out to where the sky is blue. It’s going to be another cold, clear day. I turn to face the room but instantly spin back. Something feels wrong, though I can’t quite figure out what. There’s a partially collapsed wall to the side of my apartment, with a pile of bricks on the ground. I’m not sure why, but it started to fall down a couple of years back. I find myself staring at it, wondering what feels wrong. It’s like seeing a pensioner in skinny jeans.
I can’t come up with anything, so turn back to the room and head to the fridge, where I pour a glass of water from the filter. It’s cold and smooth and I can feel it clearing my thoughts. I can hardly call the police to report a missing pot – especially not when there’s no sign of anyone having broken in. I finish the first glass, so pour another, enjoying the fuzziness clearing. I’m going to go to the gym and run off a bit of the anxiety. I have some of my best ideas when my body is occupied and my mind is allowed to wander.
My gym bag is at the bottom of my wardrobe, so I grab that, slip into a tracksuit and then grab my house and car keys from the counter.
It’s when I get outside that I realise what’s wrong. It should have been obvious when I was looking through the window. The problem wasn’t the collapsed wall; it was what’s supposed to be in front of it. My car should be parked outside my door – except that it isn’t.
At some point since I arrived home from the hotel three hours ago, it has disappeared.