Ripple effect, p.17
Ripple Effect, page 17
I get up, leaving the sun to break the horizon unobserved, and toss my coffee into the sink. My mouth feels dry and my throat tight; I know I’ve been sleeping tense, my body poised and ready for fight or flight. The increased state of anxiety is taking its toll on me physically. I grip the sink and take some deep breaths, slowing my thoughts and my natural tendency to constantly move.
I feel as though I’m on the verge of a panic attack – at the tipping point between holding on and letting go. I focus on the mug I have placed in the sink, taking in every colour, every different shade and scratch, the contours and the smooth curve of the handle. I focus on the tiny details, the mundane particulars, flooding my mind with useless information that cannot harm me.
When I first started having the attacks, before I’d even acknowledged that what I was experiencing was anxiety, I thought I was dying; heart palpitations, dizziness, vomiting. I couldn’t breathe. I was certain in that moment that I was going to die. It wasn’t until it began happening more frequently that I realised I wasn’t having a heart attack, and that a panic attack – although utterly terrifying – couldn’t kill me. That knowledge didn’t help in the middle of the night though, when I would be catapulted from sleep with numb limbs and a wildly beating heart, a sense of impending doom at the forefront of my sleepy mind. I dreaded the loss of control, worried about the spontaneous nature of them, and all that worry and dread only served to fuel further episodes.
I let go of the sink, composing myself and allowing the light-headedness to pass before I turn and head upstairs to shower. I need to get out of the house, escape the place that should make me feel safe. It feels bigger than ever, full of hiding places and entry points I’d never considered before, a sense of danger lurking around every corner. The crux of the problem is: I have no idea what to do to make any of this any better.
When I’m showered and dressed I go outside and begin walking into town, taking my phone out of my bag to check for messages – nothing. I had half expected a message from John and half hoped for a message from Nick. The sun has crept above the horizon – the beginning of a new day. The clouds block its path from time to time, the wind carrying them along and intermittently casting shadows on the world.
I arrive in town a little before nine and find that the Christmas spirit has arrived on the cobbled streets overnight, the other shop owners catching up with the eager few who’d struck out early. Lights adorn the shop windows, Christmas trees stand amongst festive displays, and ‘Merry Christmas’ hangs in multicoloured lights from the town hall. I shake my head; it’s not even December yet. I pass the library which is still sat in darkness and walk further down the street and into Mimi’s. She’s kept her decorations minimal – a small, white pre-lit Christmas tree on the counter and some fairy lights hung around the window. The breakfast crowd are sat huddled around the tables cradling mugs of coffee and bacon sandwiches. The smell wafts through the air and makes my stomach rumble.
“Morning, Erin. How are you?” Mimi chirps, handing some change to the man in front.
“Morning, I’m good thank you, how are you?”
“Good, darling, good. You look much better.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
“What can I get for you?”
“I’ll have a coffee and a toasted teacake, please.”
She presses some buttons on the till and I pay, noticing a queue forming behind me. “I’ll bring it over, honey,” she says.
I take one of the remaining seats at a small round table by the back of the room. A few minutes later, Mimi comes walking over with a tray, dodging in and out of the other customers. She puts the tray down on the table and I notice a small white envelope resting against my coffee. On the front, my name is scrawled in capital letters. My stomach sinks.
“This came for you.” She picks the envelope up off of the tray and grins, oblivious.
Questions race through my mind, too thick and fast to pick them apart. Eventually, I manage to take the envelope from her. “Who from?”
“I don’t know, it was here when I opened up this morning. Could it be from your friend?” She puts a particular emphasis on the word friend and raises her eyebrows, as though we share a secret she’s eager to explore. I don’t respond. She must be able to see the panic on my face because her expression changes, suddenly concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“Just… it’s… nothing, nothing’s wrong.” I’m staring at the envelope, trying to slow my thoughts, to think logically.
Mimi hovers next to me. “You don’t think it’s from your friend?” I don’t know how to answer. “Why don’t you open the letter and see?”
“I will,” I say, putting it into my bag.
She lowers her voice and bends closer. “You must talk to me if you’re in trouble.”
“No trouble, just a bit confused.”
She lingers by the table, concerned but resigned to being kept in the dark. “Okay, but like I said before, our door is always open to you.”
“I know, thanks, Mimi.”
She walks back to the counter to serve a middle-aged man in a suit, a brown briefcase in one hand and his mobile in the other. He orders while still holding the phone to his ear, between shouting commands at the unfortunate person on the other end. Mimi smiles politely, forever gracious.
I sip my coffee and take a few bites of my food, the hunger from moments ago gone, replaced with the familiar nausea, the twisting and turning of my insides. I can see the street from where I sit, snippets of the life outside going by. The morning rush has arrived, the cobbled streets full of people in a hurry. Among the crowd I spot a familiar face – though I can’t place where I know him from. He’s in his twenties, tall and dark-haired. He walks alone, sipping on a takeaway coffee.
As I watch him walk past, twisting on my chair and craning my neck, it comes to me – it’s the young man I saw Ian with a few days ago. My mind drifts briefly to Trish and Ian, their relationship and his supposed affair, the conversation we had at the party, but it’s only a brief reprieve from my own life. I take a last sip of my coffee before getting up to leave. As I grab my bag I realise it feels heavier somehow – the letter inside an almost unbearable weight.
41
Now
I leave Mimi’s under a new cloud of dread. It’s as though the man’s invading every part of my life, every place where I’ve grown to feel familiar and safe. I look up and down the street, in all the shop windows, scanning the faces in the crowds. I don’t know what I’m looking for, it’s not a logical thought process but an intrinsic need to scan my surroundings, to check the places I had once wandered so freely.
As I turn right towards the library – one of my last remaining places of solace – I feel a hand brush my elbow, grasping for my attention. It makes me jump.
Lucy, Graham’s wife, stands smiling, pulling her long red coat closed against the cold. “Erin, hi! What are you doing here?”
I want to walk away, to pretend I haven’t seen or heard her, but her hand still lingers at my arm, holding me in her grip.
“Hi, I was just leaving actually…”
I can’t stop and chat, I can’t pretend as though everything is normal with the thought of the letter and what it may hold churning in my mind, stopping all other coherent thoughts.
“Where are you off to?” she asks.
“Home. I’ve been running a few errands.”
“Same,” she says, holding up her shopping bags as evidence. “I’m supposed to be meeting Graham actually but he must be running late.”
She laughs uneasily and I can’t work out whether it’s due to the awkward conversation or the mention of Graham.
“Well, I’d better be going.” I move away from her, a forced smile frozen on my face.
“Of course, of course. We should organise a girls’ night out some time, it would be fun!”
She speaks with so much enthusiasm that it’s hard to respond, to match her spirit no matter how forced. I wonder what she’s trying to make up for or whether she genuinely wants to organise a night out. I can’t help thinking it’s just an easy way for her to piss off her husband, and I can’t blame her.
“Sure,” I say. “Speak soon.”
I walk away towards the library but as I get into my stride I notice someone watching me, his back against the wall – he isn’t trying to hide, he’s just standing there, watching, his red hair standing out against the black of his suit. I refuse to be intimidated by him. As I pass I smile brightly.
“Hi, Graham.”
He smirks, walking in the opposite direction towards his wife.
I come to the library and enter through the double doors at the front, heavy and stiff on their hinges, and through the second set of doors which lead into the maze of books in which I immerse myself. The coldness seems to accentuate the darkness, the high windows intermingled with the stained glass ones, not letting in nearly enough light for such a large building. The librarian smiles as I come into her view, but she doesn’t speak – another reason I like it here; words are not wasted.
My eyes scan the spines of the books as I browse – the new and the old, the ones I have visited countless times and the ones I have yet to encounter. I end up with a copy of Moby Dick, carrying it with me to the back of the room where I’m pleased to find it empty, the three large armchairs in the corner all deserted. I opt for the one directly under a patchwork of light filtering in through the stained glass window, slipping my trainers off and tucking my legs underneath me.
I flick through the book, reading about Ahab’s pursuit for revenge; I wonder if the man sending the letters feels the same way. The thought sends a chill down my spine and I find myself looking around the library, checking I haven’t been followed.
I open my bag and take out the envelope, looking over the familiar handwriting on the front; no address, just my name written in capitals. I take a deep breath, readying myself for something I know I don’t want to see but nonetheless feel compelled to read. I open it and slowly remove the contents – a single A5 piece of paper. On it, written messily in black ink: You killed them all.
I swallow hard, shoving the paper back into the envelope and zipping both inside my bag, out of sight but not out of mind. I feel unable to think clearly. What if the two events are entirely unconnected; the attack and the letters? Have I been reading this all wrong? I put my head in my hands and rub my eyes. I’ve never believed in coincidences. I get out my phone and send a text to Nick, overriding my better judgement.
Are you free?
I sit back and wait for a reply. I don’t have to wait long.
I can be in ten?
I press reply.
I’ll come to you.
I return Moby Dick to its place on the shelves and leave.
Ten minutes later I’m at Nick’s. He’s sat at a desk typing away on a computer. He doesn’t see me at first, engrossed in whatever he’s doing, and I suddenly feel guilty for disturbing him. I watch as he works, occasionally moving the mouse around and then returning to his typing. He’s dressed smartly again, a light-blue shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers, and he’s trimmed his beard back so his jawline seems more defined. He looks younger. I knock lightly and he turns and smiles, waving me in. He stays seated and a moment later the printer whirrs to life.
“Sorry,” he says. “I just needed to get this printed off then I’m free.” He collects some paper from the printer and inserts it into a folder. “You okay?”
“I got another letter,” I blurt out. I need to tell him before I decide it’s a bad idea, another thing to keep to myself, hidden amongst the other doubts and fears.
“What does it say?”
I sit down on the sofa and he turns on his chair to look at me.
“He knows things about me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just wish this wasn’t happening.”
“Erin, what do you mean he knows things about you? What things?”
“He knows what happened when I was younger.”
“The man who got into trouble?”
I nod and Nick runs his fingers through his stubble, thinking.
“Could it be him? Could he be sending the letters?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s not him.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s dead.”
“Jesus. Okay, what about his family? Anyone else who might hold a grudge?”
I try to think but I can’t. Tears begin to fall, fear taking hold as the magnitude of the situation is finally spoken out loud. Without saying anything he moves his chair closer so our knees are almost touching. He takes my hand in his and holds it. Our eyes meet and I have to fight the urge to move closer.
I want to kiss him, to become lost in him, to temporarily feel something other than terrified. The power of lust; its ability to remove everything else from your mind – all sense and logic, all foresight and reason – and render you at the mercy of the moment.
I stand, letting go of his hand. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
He pushes back on his chair, making space for me to leave. “You know, it’s not always easier to leave. It might feel it at the time but in the long run…” He throws his arms out to the side, deflated.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t run off every time we get close.” He stands up and steps towards me, edging nearer. “I know you’re married, I’m not asking for more than you can give. But don’t you want to see if this is real? I feel something I haven’t felt in a really long time.”
So do I. I feel it with a force I haven’t felt in fifteen years. A force that’s wild and exciting but so terrifying that at times it feels paralysing. I don’t know how to respond, how to tell him how I feel without revealing the things that will put an end to it all.
At a loss for words that will never come I reach out and take his hand. He responds, pulling me into him and holding me close, his arms a barrier between us and the world. My cheek rests against his chest and I become lost in the steady beat of his heart.
42
Fifteen Years Ago
I spend a week going through the motions with Dad, trying desperately to show him I’ve put myself back together, repaired the shattered pieces so well you can hardly see the cracks. After a few days, I begin to notice he’s happier, content in the face of my obvious recovery. At times I feel bad, knowing full well that I’m manipulating him, intent on only one thing: I want him to feel comfortable enough to return to work, or at least leave me alone for long enough that I can go. The house has become a prison, a fortress with my own personal protector. I can’t take it much longer.
At the end of the week I cook for us – a roast dinner with all the trimmings. It’s barely edible but he eats it happily, appreciating the effort that’s gone into it. When we’re finished, I broach the subject casually while tidying away the plates, scraping the remnants into the bin.
“You know, Dad, I’ve been thinking: maybe you should consider going back to work?”
He stops what he’s doing and watches me closely. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, I know how much you love your job. And I don’t need you here anymore, I’m getting the school work sent every week and I’m ahead with it all.”
“I don’t know, Erin, I think it’s too soon.”
“Dad, I want things to go back to normal. Or at least as normal as they can be. I’m trying to move forward.” He sighs heavily. “I need this, Dad.”
He looks down at the floor, avoiding my gaze. I can see he’s thinking it through so I don’t push him. I set about washing the pots, busying myself while he considers my proposal. Eventually, he grabs a tea towel and begins drying the plates that I’ve stacked on the draining board.
“Okay,” he says simply.
“Okay?”
“Okay. We’ll give it a go. I’ll go back tomorrow, just for half a day. Then we’ll take it from there.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
He leaves early, checking on me before he goes. I pretend to be asleep and that seems to satisfy him. He closes the door softly and I hear him creep down the stairs and out the front door, locking it behind him. I wait until I hear the sound of his engine before I get up. I’m already dressed – I was up before the sun, eager to start the day. I brush my hair and clean my teeth then head downstairs. There’s a note on the kitchen table. I’ll be home for lunch. Dad. I grab my coat, unlock the door and leave, hoping to get ahead of the morning rush.
The sun is rising, glorious shades of golden yellows, oranges and reds streaming from the horizon. It’s a cold morning, winter is well and truly on its way, autumn almost a memory – one I’d rather forget. I ache for the summer, to relive the long warm nights with secret meetings in the forest. My eyes prickle at the memory.
I cut through the outskirts of the woodland, avoiding town and the early morning crowds, the familiar faces and judgemental whispers. It takes me just over half an hour. I’m careful – checking around corners and along the streets and lanes until I’m sure I won’t bump into anyone.
When I get to his street, I wait on the corner. I can see his house – number twenty-three – stood back from the road, two cars parked on the driveway in front. I watch for a while, waiting, unsure what I’m hoping or expecting to see. A neighbouring family leaves in a flurry – first the mum hurrying three children into a car, then the dad five minutes later who leaves on a pushbike. I wait until they’re all out of sight then I quickly cross over and slip down the side of the neighbouring property – the ones I have just watched leave.
