You need me, p.1
You Need Me, page 1
You Need Me
Sharon Bairden
Contents
1. Morag
2. Ronnie
3. Susan
4. Alan
5. Jess
6. Morag
7. Morag
8. Susan
9. Jess
10. Ronnie
11. Jess
12. Morag
13. Susan
14. Ronnie
15. Jess
16. Ronnie
17. Susan
18. Morag
19. Jess
20. Morag
21. Susan
22. Jess
23. Ronnie
24. Morag
25. Jess
26. Morag
27. Ronnie
28. Jess
29. Morag
30. Jess
31. Morag
32. Jess
33. Susan
34. Jess
35. Susan
36. Jess
37. Morag
38. Susan
39. Susan
40. Jess
41. Morag – Then
42. Morag – Then
43. Morag – Then
44. Morag – Then
45. Morag – Then
46. Morag – Then
47. Morag – Then
48. Morag – Then
49. Morag
50. Jess
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Published by RED DOG PRESS 2021
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Copyright © Sharon Bairden 2021
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Sharon Bairden has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
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First Edition
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Hardback ISBN 978-1-914480-24-9
Paperback ISBN 978-1-914480-22-5
Ebook ISBN 978-1-914480-23-2
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www.reddogpress.co.uk
To Mum, Dad, Anthony, Ashleigh, Logan, Jess, Lynn, Iain, David, Louise and Lacie, you are my world. Always.
Dad, I wish you were here to see this.
* * *
Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.
1
Morag
Morag McLaughlin pushed open the heavy doors, anxious to be in out of the biting November chill. She punched in the code on the alarm pad to shut off the beeping, and flicked a switch. As the lights in the lobby sputtered into life, the spines of a thousand authors stared silently back at her, their presence giving her reassurance. The lights fizzled, the sound of flickering electricity jarred on her nerves, like nails scraping down a chalkboard.
She sucked her teeth and made a note to call maintenance herself to have the bulbs replaced. Her previous complaints to her manager about the faulty lighting had achieved nothing. “It’s hardly priority in the current economic climate,” he had tutted. Morag supposed this was true, services were being cut all over the place and she should really be thankful that they hadn’t affected her yet.
Redundancy terrified Morag, the idea of no longer being needed, of being surplus to requirements. Life had already made her redundant and without her job she would have nothing, she’d have nobody. No, she couldn’t imagine her life without it, without them. The thought brought a smile to her lips. They needed her.
Everything is working out the way you wanted it to, it’s going to be all right. Morag repeated the mantra to herself, ignoring the twitch in her eye and the fingers of uncertainty tiptoeing up her spine.
She allowed a contented sigh to escape as she pocketed the keys in her oversized Gladstone handbag. She listened to the keys settle down, amongst the clutter. The bag had seen better days. The garnet leather was cracked and dry with age, the floral scent of lavender lingered in the lining. Filled to the brim with the remnants of her life, the stitching showed the strain of the memories and burdens that lay inside. Just like me, thought Morag, memories are pulling us both apart at the seams.
The handbag had been her mother’s, and that, and her memories, were all Morag had left of her. Looking at the bag, Morag snorted, as a vision of her mother flashed before her eyes. Dear departed Mother. She sneered—memories of her mother were anything but dear.
“Thank God she has departed,” whispered Morag.
I should clear the damn bag out, she thought, well aware she would not. She hated throwing things away. She liked to keep her memories close, and this bag held her most special memories. Morag’s lips twisted into a smile, nobody would ever guess the life hidden inside her bag—her life.
Morag knew others passed her by without a second glance. Nobody would ever guess her secrets. She was invisible to them—a lonely middle-aged woman with nothing to offer but a bag full of clutter. The clutter of a woman old before her time. If only they knew the truth. Clutter to some, memories to Morag. Each piece told its own story, and combined they told Morag’s secrets. Secrets nobody must ever find out.
Morag closed the door behind her breathed in the atmosphere. The sound of silence filled her ears, while the crisp, clean smell of new books mixed with the sweet but musky smell of the old tickled her nose. She inhaled it, savouring the scent. Nobody would ever understand the pleasure she took from being here, alone with her books, her tellers of stories. They belonged to her, they would never leave her, and nobody could ever take them away from her. The stillness of the building brought a calm to her inner chaos—it soothed her.
She looked around, grateful her library had escaped modernisation—the cuts had saved them from that. Other libraries had been converted into ‘hubs’ or ‘one-stop shops’, doubling up as council services—impersonal, soulless shells with their bloody awful machines used to check books in and out. Little human interaction required. She shuddered at the thought. Her library remained as a library should be in her eyes—a place of sanctuary, a place of quiet. A place to be.
As she made her way over to the desk, she ran her fingers along the spines on the shelves, each book with its own stories to tell. The story created by the writer but also the stories of the homes they had been in, the lives they had touched and the memories they had inspired.
The ticking clock reminded her where she was. She looked up. Nine-thirty. Half an hour before opening time. Reaching the counter, Morag switched on the main lights and squinted as the harsh strip lighting lit up the library. Morag would have preferred to replace the lights with old-fashioned reading lamps, little reading nooks and some soft furnishings—things to draw people in and make them feel at home. “But, it’s not up to you Morag, is it? You’re only the librarian, here to do your job,” she parroted her boss. Morag huffed, nobody could stop her dreaming.
Switching on the library management system, Morag reminisced about the old days of library cards and the satisfying thunk of the manual stamps checking the books out. But times had moved on, she knew, and she had been forced to move with them. She smiled as the system whirred into life, her library was coming alive, and soon they would be here.
She hurried over to the staff room. Tucked away behind the divider, between the main desk and the admin section, the room was more of a cupboard than a staff room—none of the staff used it to eat their lunch or take their breaks. The small table and chairs provided were laden down with unprocessed books and paperwork and the musty smell of sweat and over ripened food meant nobody ever hung around long. Morag fished a padlock out of her bag, and stuffed the bag into one of the free lockers, locking it and pocketing the key.
Catching her reflection in the mirror on the wall, she stopped and looked at herself. Her critical eye told her that compared to other women her age, she looked frumpy. Her mousy brown hair cut in a no-nonsense bob, her cheeks ruddy from the fresh air. She could not remember the last time she had ever worn make-up, she didn’t even own any make up. Make up wouldn’t make any difference to you. Ugly little trollop. She bit her lip and took in her appearance—her sensible beige polo neck jumper and A-line navy skirt hid her shapely figure, a figure she wished she had the confidence to show off. A figure her mother had taught her to despise. The woman who stared back at her looked at least a decade older than her fifty-five years. Even her emerald green eyes, her one outstanding feature, were dull this morning. They had lost their sparkle. She patted down a stray hair before turning away and hanging up her coat.
Back out at the counter, Morag tutted at the sight of the stack of books lying on the counter. She fumed, none of the Saturday staff had bothered to process them. Probably too busy sitting around gossiping about nights out or some ridiculous celebrity reality show to do the job they were paid to do. Happy enough to leave me to pick up after them. None of them cared—about the books, the customers or the library. Not like her. Morag cared.
As she lifted the book from the top of the pile on the counter, the corners of her mouth turned up. A Suitable Lie by Michael J. Malone. She could hear her mother now, a lovely man, a right gentleman, always well turned out. Always
had lovely shoes, so he did. It was probably the kindest thing her mother had ever said about anyone. She had been right as well—he wasn’t bad looking at all. Morag had been to a couple of book events in Glasgow where he was speaking and she had to admit she had developed a bit of a soft spot for him. As if he would be interested in someone like you, her mother’s voice spat in her ear.
Morag’s shoulders slumped. She could not escape the sharp end of her mother’s tongue, not even when she was long dead and buried.
“Bitch in life, and bitch in death,” she muttered under her breath.
Irritated now, she grabbed the book a little more roughly than she had intended. The pages fluttered and something caught her eye as it fell to the floor.
Stooping down, she reached for the sheet of paper. Probably a shopping list. She loved to read other people’s shopping lists, salivating as she imagined extravagant meals created with the items she read there—the dinner parties with the clink of the glasses and chatter of the guests… or she would pity at the meagre lists where the meat scraps from the butcher's counter were for the non-existent cat. Morag loved to submerge herself in the lives of others. Escaping from her own existence brought her a pleasure nobody else could ever understand.
She turned the piece of paper over in her hand, ready to launch herself into somebody else’s life for the next few moments. She soon wished she hadn’t. She read the words twice before the meaning sunk in.
* * *
Your secret didn’t die with me.
2
Ronnie
Ronnie Whiteside scratched at the bristles on his face. It felt dirty, grubby—the stubble rough under his calloused fingers. He rocked on his feet as goose bumps crept up his arms. Mother didn’t like boys who didn’t shave. Mother didn’t like stubble. Mother thought it was dirty. Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.
He paced round the tiny kitchen, his feet treading an already well-worn path on the filthy lino. He studied the clock. Seven fifty-five. Ronnie nodded, satisfied. He trusted the clock. It was about all he could trust in this house. It had to be on time. He had to be on time. For Mother. Never be late Ronnie, he could hear her bark. Mummy doesn’t like to be kept waiting.
He screwed up his face and, in a soft whisper, imitated his mother’s nasal twang, sniggering at his nerve before quickly clasping his hand over his mouth, smothering out any noise he might make. Can’t have mother hearing me. What are you laughing at Ronnie? What the fuck do you have to laugh about, you little freak? He could hear her, her voice raspy after years of chain smoking, thick in his ear even though she was upstairs in her bed. Mummy always sees you Ronnie.
He checked the clock again. Only eight a.m. Another two hours before the library opened. He had plenty of time. Should he shave? Did he have time to shave and have something to eat? What about mother? She would want her breakfast soon. She always had breakfast at eight forty-five. On the dot. ON THE DOT, RONNIE.
He didn’t have time to shave. He shuffled his way out of the kitchen, stopping at the bottom of the stairs to listen for any movement from his mother’s room. Silence. Thankfully. He edged his way back through the piles of papers and boxes lining the narrow passage of the hallway leading to the kitchen. He had just enough room to squeeze by, but he had to be careful, he couldn’t dislodge any of them. Everything in its place and a place for everything. Methodically he checked the piles four times to make sure. The tension drained from his shoulders when he saw nothing had moved.
Back in the kitchen, Ronnie pulled the fridge door open. He didn’t notice the rancid smell of bacon, well past its use by date. Nor did he see the mould ingrained into the shelves. All he cared about was getting his mother’s breakfast ready. Exactly as she demanded. Every single day. Two eggs scrambled with one slice of toast, no butter. As Ronnie cracked the eggs into the bowl, he sniggered imagining the fragile eggshells to be his mother’s skull, cracking open, wide open, her brain scrambled inside. He snorted.
The clock ticked. Eight fifteen. It was too early to scramble the eggs and eight forty-five seemed a lifetime away. He set the bowl down next to the microwave and stopped. Listening. The house remained silent. But Ronnie could sense something, his head cocked to one side he held his breath and strained his ears. Something was outside—he could hear it. Something shuffling or was it someone? It’s following you Ronnie. It knows you’re here. Can’t hide from it, Ronnie.
He shook his head roughly, trying to free the building pressure, the feeling his world had started to close in on him. Ever since he had met… SHHH Ronnie, he told himself—the fear that his thoughts could be overhead was so real.
Creeping over to the back door, Ronnie rattled the handle, relieved to find it locked. He lifted the slat of the kitchen blind, oblivious to the thick layer of grease left behind on his fingers. He peered out. Ronnie did not see the planks of wood falling away from the rotten fence, or the small patch of grass, now knee high, the broken plant pots or the rusted bike. His eyes zeroed in on a black shape over in the corner of the garden. He drew in a sharp breath. Something was out there, a dark shadow crouching in the corner. Not something. Someone. Watching him. Shit, shit! It’s here.
Wringing his hands, he continued to pace the kitchen. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. He stopped and lifted the slat again. The figure hadn’t moved. With one hand holding the slat open, he picked up the kitchen knife from the sink. He lifted it upwards and stabbed it into his hand. Ronnie didn’t even flinch. He stabbed again, ignoring the trickle of blood running down his wrist and dripping onto the floor. The figure still didn’t move. It’s come for me. It’s found me. I’m done for now.
Ronnie gripped the knife tighter. He stood, his free hand clawing his face, leaving bloody smears. Ronnie scrambled for the door handle and with shaking hands managed to unlock the door. He hurtled outside, screaming: “Leave me alone. Leave me the fuck alone.” He rushed at the figure, his arms outstretched, screaming incoherent threats.
He did not notice the woman next door shake her head as she dropped the net curtain back. Ronnie was fixated on the figure before him.
He rushed towards it fuelled by fury and threw himself on top of it. Eyes closed, he sunk the knife in deep, repeatedly not caring what damage he caused. When the figure didn’t retaliate, Ronnie’s body sagged as the stench flew up to meet his nostrils. He gagged and opened his eyes. The black bin bag was ripped to shreds, the rotten food spewing out onto the ground. He curled into a ball and began to sob.
“RONNIE…”
His mother’s voice reverberated around his head as he crawled back into the house.
Eight thirty-five. He tried to ignore the avalanche of thoughts hurtling through his brain and the anxiety stabbing at his gut, as he as he threw the bowl of eggs into the microwave and a slice of bread into the toaster. He stuck his hands under the tap in an attempt to wash the blood away. He would need a bandage on that he told himself. Stupid boy. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Each word matched with the dull thump of his head against the kitchen cupboard.
