No Place Like Home_a gripping psychological thriller Page 3

  ‘Can I have a quick word?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you. Your flatmate said you’d moved out.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, and wondered who Cathy had spoken to. When I’d told Kimberley and Sasha about my mum’s nurse, they’d agreed she sounded patronising. Condescending Cathy was what Sasha called her, and we’d all laughed and then, one day, I’d called the home and it almost slipped out.

  ‘Well, it makes things difficult for us if we have no contact information for you. In case of emergencies and so forth.’

  ‘I’m here almost every day,’ I said.

  She looked down her nose at me. ‘You haven’t been here for a week.’ She looked me up and down, and I wondered if she was noticing the last remaining bruises or if she was just being judgemental again.

  ‘I’ve moved house. You must know how stressful that is,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, and I know things have been…difficult for you recently. But you should’ve let us know if you changed your number, at the very least.’ She waved a sheet of paper in my direction with little boxes for my details. She handed me a pen, and I pressed the paper against the wall, trying to keep my writing inside the boxes. I had to get my new phone out to find the number, and Cathy sighed and pursed her lips. I wrote the numbers down carefully and handed over the pen and paper.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, clicking her pen off and sliding it into her pocket. ‘You might’ve noticed your mother was a little quiet today.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘She’s been doing so well lately,’ Cathy said, ‘but these past few days, she’s been very down, agitated, you know.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked, wondering if something had happened to make her bring up the fire again.

  Cathy shook her head. ‘I don’t know, that’s what I was wanting to ask you.’ She leaned in closer, and I could smell coffee on her breath. ‘I know you were…the last time you came, I know something had happened. I thought maybe it was that?’

  ‘Mum was out of it last time I was here,’ I said. ‘She didn’t even know I was here.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, nodding slowly. ‘She did keep calling for you, though. So, you can see how important it is for us to be able to get in touch?’

  ‘She seems okay,’ I said, eventually.

  Cathy looked past me to Mum’s door and gave a half smile. ‘Well, perhaps she just wanted to see you.’ Cathy turned to walk away.

  ‘Could she be having delusions again?’ I asked, and Cathy turned, a look of surprise on her face.

  ‘Has she said something to make you think that?’ she asked.

  I sighed. ‘I don’t know. She’s started talking about the fire again. I thought she was past that,’ I said and glanced back at Mum’s door.

  ‘But there was an incident at the house, wasn’t there? She’s not imagining that,’ Cathy said.

  ‘No, it’s just…it was the way she said it, as if…’ I shook my head, wondering if it was worth worrying about. ‘She was having weird thoughts and ideas when she was in the hospital. She was saying all kinds of things then. I just don’t want her to go back to that.’

  ‘I don’t recall seeing that in her records. She wasn’t treated for it, was she? Wasn’t on medication?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘They thought it wasn’t serious enough.’

  Cathy frowned. ‘Delusions after a stroke aren’t very common,’ she said. ‘And if a patient does experience them, they usually disappear quickly.’

  ‘But she could have them again, couldn’t she?’

  ‘Well, it’s not likely. And I’ve not witnessed any behaviour that’s concerned me.’ She put a flabby hand on my shoulder. ‘What is it that’s making you think she’s delusional?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I just thought you should be aware. You know her history, don’t you? You know she was having problems before the stroke.’

  ‘But she was never diagnosed, was she? With dementia?’

  ‘No. But only because they wouldn’t listen to me. She almost set the house on fire!’

  Cathy squeezed my shoulder. ‘Dementia is difficult to diagnose. But I’m sure if the doctors thought something was really wrong, they’d have done something.’ Cathy smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Polly. She’s making good progress. Her speech is improving day by day. She even wrote a little earlier in the week. She’ll be back to her old self in no time.’

  Someone shouted for Cathy from behind the desk, and she toddled off to answer a call. She held her finger up to me as she went, presumably wanting me to stay, to continue the conversation, but I needed to leave. I needed fresh air.

  Part of me wanted to go back, find out exactly what Mum had wanted to say. But I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. That it was all in the past.

  6

  The bus took forever to get me home, and when it finally pulled up on my street, I hurried off, knocking into some bloke’s bags of shopping as I did. I made my way to the house quickly, not looking back, not looking up, not wanting to see if anyone was around. So far, no one had spoken to me on the street, no neighbours had come round with a friendly hello, and I wondered if I should make more of an effort. I made sure I had my keys in my hand before I got to the door, not wanting to linger on the doorstep in full view for longer than necessary. The memory of the night before pulled into view, and I felt a shiver go through me. I could see him standing there, watching. Watching me.

  I got the key into the lock and breathed a sigh of relief. After visiting Mum, I’d had this terrible feeling that she was right in asking me How? That in reality I’d never get a place like this. That I’d come back and find the key wouldn’t work, that it’d all been some fantasy. But it slid in easily, and I opened the door. As I walked inside, I chanced a look back, up and down the street, across the road. There were plenty of people about, but no one watching me, no one paying attention at all. I closed the door, shut out the world, and realised I was being ridiculous.

  I dropped my bag onto the floor in the hallway and closed my eyes. No one was taking the house from me, no one was going to ruin it this time.

  I walked through to the living room, and as I passed the bottom of the stairs, I could smell the lingering odour of the air freshener I’d used that morning. It stuck in my throat, and I ran up the stairs to open the window again. The room was stuffy with the scent, and I pushed the window as far as it would go, even though it was chilly. I found the clean sheets and put them to one side, on top of the dressing table, ready to go once the smell had disappeared.

  Needing a cup of tea, I walked to the stairs, but suddenly stopped. Something caught my attention. A noise somewhere behind me. I went still. It was a tapping sound, insistent and loud. I could see the open bedroom window and let out a breath. Something was being blown against the pane. I went back in and looked around but found nothing.

  Coming back onto the landing, I could hear it again. Tap, tap, tap. What was it?

  I turned to the other bedroom, wondering if it was coming from there, trying to work out what it could possibly be. As I turned, something caught my eye in the other direction. A shadow. Something moving.

  My heart stopped. Was there someone in the house?

  I couldn’t move, my feet felt stuck to the deep pile carpet. But now I was facing the bathroom, I could hear it more clearly, I knew it was coming from in there.

  It stopped. I was imagining things. Scaring myself with stupid thoughts, just like I did when I was a kid. Telling myself vampires lurked outside the front door at night, and if I lingered too long, they’d get me.

  And then, I heard it again. This time, I moved forward. I looked around for something to grab, something I could use as a weapon, something to defend myself. There wasn’t much choice, and in the end, I picked up the can of air freshener.

  I edged forward, still listening to the noise, and pushed the bathroom door, gently at first, but when it didn’t budge, I shoved it hard, hoping to scare whoever was
in there. With the aerosol held up in front of me, I charged in.

  The room was empty. The door slammed into the wall behind it, making it clear no one was lurking behind there. My hand dropped to my side, and I finally noticed the window was open. It wasn’t on the latch, instead opening and closing with the wind, tapping in time. I felt ridiculous. Leaving the can on top of the cistern, I pulled the window shut.

  As I started to walk out, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I didn’t look my best – tired and pale. It’s the stress of the move. And maybe I wasn’t eating enough. As soon as I thought about food, my stomach started to rumble, and I knew it was time for something to eat.

  I’d forgotten to go to the shops, forgotten to stock up the fridge, so I decided to head back out. I got halfway down the stairs when it occurred to me that I hadn’t opened the bathroom window. I was sure I hadn’t. And even if I had, I never would’ve left it open when I went out. I never left the windows open.

  After turning back up the stairs, I looked around for things out of place. There was nothing obvious, nothing broken, nothing gone from what I could tell. But I felt a chill go through me.

  Standing on top of the toilet seat, I checked the window frame. Nothing looked broken there, either, it didn’t seem to have been forced. I jostled the latch, wondering if it was loose, if it could’ve come free by itself, if the wind could’ve caught it. But it didn’t seem likely.

  I stepped down and looked around once again, unable to shake the feeling that someone had been there. That someone had been inside my house while I was gone.

  7

  I walk up to the door, feeling the anger rattling around me, battling with the fear. I try to push it open but find it’s locked. Of course it is. He couldn’t have got in like that, he’d have to find another way.

  The keys jingle in my hand as I try to unlock the door and I drop them. After a fluster, I finally make my way through it. Once I’m in, I slam the door back hard, hoping it frightens him away.

  I stomp through to the living room, expecting to find him there, but the room is empty. I wonder if he’s gone, slipped out when he saw me coming. Maybe he was trying to scare me, trying to get in my head by moving things about when I’m not here. But I’ve caught him in the act.

  I pick up the cricket bat that stands in the corner of the room. It’d been in the house when I arrived, but I kept it because it reminded me of my father. I grip it tightly by my side. I walk quickly to the kitchen and find him there. He doesn’t seem shocked to see me, he obviously heard me come in. But he looks afraid, as if he only thought part of the way through his plan. As if he hadn’t thought of the consequences. He doesn’t know what to do.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I say, and he stands there, hands in pockets, eyes going somewhere beyond me. He looks rough. I can smell his clothes from where I stand, as if he hasn’t washed or changed in weeks. His nails are long and filthy, his hair is greasy and needs cutting. ‘What’re you doing?’ I say again, slower, and take a step closer to him. He pulls his hands from his pockets, and I stop.

  ‘Polly,’ he says, and his eyes dart about, never staying on me for more than a fraction of a second. I don’t like him using my name. It makes me sick. He sees the cricket bat and frowns. He reaches out for it, and I tighten my grip, raising it slightly as a warning.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ I ask, and he opens his mouth but says nothing, instead his eyes swivel to the window behind him. I notice for the first time it’s broken, fragments of glass are scattered all over the floor.

  I raise the cricket bat, and he ducks. ‘Please, don’t,’ he says.

  ‘You’re an idiot, Jacob,’ I say, pitying him. ‘Just get out now, and I won’t call the police.’

  ‘I just…’ Jacob says, mumbling, looking anywhere but at me.

  ‘Just what?’ I say, dropping the cricket bat onto the floor, knowing I don’t need it anymore.

  ‘I just want…’

  ‘Go away, Jacob,’ I say and grab his sleeve. He pulls away from me, but I hang on this time, grabbing his arm too. ‘Go now, and I won’t call the police. I promise.’

  He pulls away again, more violently this time, and I suddenly remember how he used to be. How he’d have his little outbursts, a few seconds usually, occasionally more, where someone would get hurt, and then, it’d be back to good old Jacob. Such a nice boy.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  I spin around before looking at him again. He seems more nervous now, and his eyes are on the floor. I look back to the hallway and see a shadow move, someone coming down the stairs.

  There’s someone else here. Jacob brought someone else into my house.

  The anger is taken over by fear. The certainty replaced by doubt. I thought I could beat him, thought I could handle this by myself. But he’s not alone.

  Jacob is not alone. I am.

  8

  Almost two weeks earlier

  I missed the good bus again, the one that drops me almost right outside my house. I’d have to wait another hour for the next one, so instead, I got the other bus – the one that drops me behind the house. It wasn’t so bad, it just meant walking around the block to get home or else cutting across the playing fields. For the first time in days, it wasn’t raining, so I decided to go the longer route around the block and stop at the shop on the way home.

  My feet were sore from the new shoes I’d bought myself as a moving in present, and I added plasters to the shopping list in my head. Plasters, tea bags, onions. I repeated it over and over, trying to keep it in my head. Plasters, tea bags, onions. I should’ve gone to see Mum, too, but I was tired and planning to cook from scratch, wanting to try out my new food mixer. There wasn’t time to do it all.

  I turned the corner and walked up the little street adjoining the two main roads, where the bus stopped and where I lived. I liked this street, it was mostly bungalows, mostly older people, but they were all pretty places with immaculate gardens with scatterings of gnomes. The kind of houses retired baby boomers moved to in order to spend some of their hefty pensions. The prices alone made sure there was no one under fifty living there, not unless they’d had the good fortune to be left the house in someone’s will. If things had been different, maybe Mum and Dad could’ve lived on this street, in one of these houses. But things weren’t different, so she was where she was, and I was in my own place. Of course, my place wasn’t as fancy as these bungalows, but it was more than I’d ever expected to get with my budget, more than any of my friends could get. Kimberley and Sasha had once talked about getting a mortgage together, but it seemed like madness to me. Sooner or later, somebody’s circumstances would change, and everyone’s dream would come crashing down. I guess I’d lucked out with my place.

  I quickened my pace at the soothing thought of getting home, getting out of my uncomfortable shoes and sitting down in my house. I smiled at the thought of it, the idea still exciting to me. After everything that’d happened, I almost couldn’t believe it was true.

  An image of him came to mind, those sad little eyes staring at me, unable to comprehend it was over. No. I shook my head. I wasn’t going to think about him. Not anymore. He was in the past. I had to think of myself now. Like Mum always said, you have to look out for yourself.

  I walked on, almost at the little shop that seemingly sold everything, forcing my brain to think plasters, tea bags, onions, instead of thoughts of him. I could see my house, almost. I could see the promise of my house anyway. And then, my eyes shifted across the street as a car honked its horn at someone taking too long to cross the road. And I saw him.

  Sitting on the wall across the street from my house, there he was again. Jacob.

  My breath caught in my throat, and I stopped. I tucked myself close to the wall, wondering if he could see me. But his eyes were firmly on the house. Maybe he thought I was in there. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t dare leave. That his little games would freak me out.

  After that night I’d seen him hanging
around, I didn’t see him for a couple days, but I’d felt his presence in every little noise, every shadow. The incident with the bathroom window had worried me, and for a little while, he almost won. I didn’t go back out that day, instead of getting something nice for my tea, I’d had to make do with beans on toast and whatever scraps I could find in the cupboards. But it didn’t last. I told myself not to let him scare me, not to let him dictate what I did. So, the next day, I went out – and the day after that. When I returned, sometimes the window was open again, but in the end, I told myself it was the wind and bought some nails, found a hammer, closed it for good.

  But yesterday, I saw him again. In the morning when I woke up and pulled back the curtains, there he was, lurking across the street, watching, waiting. I hid. And when I looked back, he was gone. I told myself it was nothing. He was just messing with my head. I had to give it to Jacob, I never thought he had it in him. Never thought he was clever enough for mind games. So, I readied myself for trouble, but he vanished again before I could take action.

  But now, he was back. And I was no longer behind the safety of my four walls. I looked around, wondering what to do.

  I hid.

  9

  I’d hung around in the little shop so long, I think they started suspecting me of shoplifting. There’s only so long you can look at tins of beans and weigh up the best value toilet rolls without looking odd. But I couldn’t go back out there if he was still waiting. I didn’t want the hassle of a confrontation, didn’t want my new neighbours to witness what would inevitably be a scene.

  I wondered what he wanted, or rather, what he thought he would get out of hanging around all the time, from seeing me. I just wished he’d leave me alone. It was over.