Flowers for the Dead (25 page)

She knows she ought to call her aunt, but bloody-mindedness prevents her. After everything that has happened to Laura in the last few years she needs to prove she can stand on her own two feet and cope with life alone. No matter what anyone else thinks, Laura is strong.

Before she goes to bed she goes around all the windows and doors making sure they are locked. Then she carries one of her dining chairs into the hallway to wedge against the front door, as she has seen in films, but realises that it will not work because there is no door handle, just a lock. With a harrumph she carries it back to its usual place, then returns with armfuls of books, which she piles against the front door. If they aren’t heavy enough to stop her intruder pushing the door open, they will make a noise toppling over and alert her so that she can dial 999.

Despite her fear, she actually sleeps soundly that night. One hand beneath her pillow, clutching the carving knife, and the other holding her phone ready to call for help. Nothing wakes her.

In the morning the books are still in place. Laura smiles in relief, and wanders into the lounge, throws herself onto the sofa and turns on the telly. A music channel comes on, scantily clad, gorgeous dancers shaking their things in time to the music.

“You know you want it…” sings a very ordinary-looking man.

“What a load of crap,” Laura sighs. Rousing herself, she wanders into the kitchen to grab breakfast.

That’s when she sees the croissant and fresh orange juice that Adam delivered during the night for her. She picks up the glass and hurls it across the kitchen in rage. It hits the wall and explodes, showering juice and glittering shards all over the floor.

***

Adam is driving at the time and has no idea the reception his gift has received. He had seen Laura’s DIY security measures and been impressed with her ingenuity. It made him feel better knowing she was taking her security more seriously than her relatives had. As a reward he had arranged her special breakfast, being careful to avoid the front door and instead use the large window at the side of the lounge to gain entry. Those window locks are really poor. He will be glad when Laura is out of the pokey flat and living safely with him instead, where he can protect her properly.

For the next couple of nights he contents himself with simply watching her on his tablet, even though he is staying nearby. He has noticed she is not sleeping properly, and does not want to risk disturbing her with his comings and goings.

***

Laura is exhausted from lack of sleep, has hardly slept a wink the last three days. Heavy limbs, heavy lids, heavy thoughts. Her nerves are constantly on edge, she jumps at the least thing, and finds herself eyeing everyone at work and in the street suspiciously. She cannot eat either, is living on adrenaline.

At the end of her shift at work, she tries to drag out the time before finally having to go home. She keeps thinking that she ought to give in, tell her aunt everything and ask if she can crash in the spare room for a while, until this person tires of shadowing her. Stubbornness stops her. Why should she be driven from her own home? Why, at the point where she was feeling stronger, should she be weakened again by someone? No, now is the time to dig deep; she has got over far worse than this.

Despite the pep talk she keeps tenaciously giving herself, she finds she is going slower the closer she gets to her flat. The fatigue that has made her sluggish all day has disappeared. Now she is jangling as if she has had the biggest caffeine hit in history. Her stomach roils and her heart is thumping hard enough to break through her ribcage as she slides the key into the door, one hand holding up a can of pepper spray she bought that lunchtime, ready to surprise her stalker.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

~ Marigold ~

Despair

Laura gives her front door a gentle shove and it swings open as she raises the pepper spray defensively in front of her.

It is the smell that hits her first. Roast beef?

Confused, she edges into the flat, looking wildly around her, even above her in case the weirdo has somehow turned into Spiderman and is lurking on the ceiling.

One step, two step, three…she reaches the lounge door. Her heart rate goes up another notch.

I’m going to have a heart attack,
she panics.

She swings the door open and gasps. Her table has been pulled away from the wall, into the centre of the room, and a candle has been lit on it. It is set for one person, and on the plate is a pie, nestled among a myriad vegetables and a pool of gravy.

It is one of the scariest things she has ever seen.

“Leave me alone!” she screams.

But there is no one there to answer her as she slides down to the floor and curls up in tears.

***

When Adam logs on to the website he is in time to see Laura scraping the whole meal, untouched, into the bin. He can only assume something has happened at work because she is incredibly upset. Shaking, in floods of tears. He wonders if he should go round and comfort her. Perhaps it is time to reveal himself. But no, it doesn’t feel right yet. Too soon. He has messed things up before, with other women, by coming out into the open too early. Women like mystery, have to have time to fall in love with the person doing all these things for them.

Besides, he is more than a bit annoyed about what Laura has done.

He has been worrying about how little she is eating lately. She is so tiny, and although he thinks she looks wonderful, he is concerned she not lose any more weight. She needs someone to look after her. So he had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to make her a good, home-cooked meal. It had taken him most of the day to make the pastry from scratch, do the steak and ale filling, the mix of roast and mashed potatoes, the sweetest organic peas and carrots, and roast parsnips, all cooked to perfection and steaming hot for her when she got home. He had only just left when she got in; it was only thanks to the app on her mobile phone, which lets him know her location at all times, that he had managed it.

All that effort for nothing.

Adam sits on the strange bed in a B&B in Clacton and feels totally rejected. He knows Laura is upset about something, but he cannot get over the way she threw his food away without so much as an apology. Honestly, he cannot help feeling a bit taken for granted.

There is a week to go until Christmas. The last thing he wants to do is be without Laura at this time of year, but he makes the heart-breaking decision to withdraw to Moseley for a few days to lick his wounds. Hopefully they can sort things out before the big day itself.

Adam walks out into the cold, dark night and jumps into his faithful old car, the one his parents bought him for his seventeenth birthday – their last together.  He likes to use it because it is more innocuous than the car he bought himself, a very comfortable Mercedes C-class. His Ford Fiesta attracts no attention because it is such a generic car, the most popular in the UK, he has read.

Even though he knows he is doing the right thing by leaving, Adam cannot resist taking a detour at the start of the three-hour journey, to drive past Laura’s house on his way to his own home. He slows slightly as he goes by, craning his neck, hoping against hope for a glimpse of tell-tale red hair in the darkness. Silly really, he knows she is inside, perhaps calmed down now and watching television in her pyjamas.

He gives a shaky laugh at his foolish heart, and is about to indicate for a left turn when he notices something in his rear view mirror. Blue lights flashing on top of a plain car.

A siren gives a little whoop that makes Adam’s heart jump painfully.

Oh God, no; it’s the police. They have finally caught up with him. What should he do?

***

The first festive season without Mags had passed in a haze of grief. Mike had pulled out all of the stops for his little girl, of course, and the day had been full of presents and forced cheer, but when he looks back on it he can’t remember it properly.

This second Christmas is a different thing entirely. Though easier in some ways, it is harder in others. The rawness of the loss has lessened, but that makes Mike sadder. It is a step away from his wife.

This was her favourite time of year. She had always wanted to get the decorations up the moment December hit, but Mike hadn’t liked them up until the week before Christmas - but he had always given in to her excitement. The look on her face as she had pulled out boxes and bin bags full of all kinds of seasonal glitz and glitter!

Each room had had a theme.

“I’m thinking Scandi-chic in this room,” she’d say. Laughing at his bemused expression, she would then hold up the red and white felt decorations – stars, reindeer, bells, snowflakes…

“Then multi-coloured for the lounge, glitter up the stairs; and lights, lots of lights - everywhere,” she would add. He used to come home to Santa’s grotto.

Last year he had managed to put the tree up and shove some baubles on it, but it had looked a sad affair. This year he owes it to both Mags and Daisy to try to make it as special as it used to be. He has already let things slide by being late putting the trimmings up; there is only a week until the big day, and Mike knows his wife would not approve.

But how can it be perfect without his other half?

Still, he forces a smile on his face as he and his little girl go through the decorations. Daisy coos over each piece of tinsel she finds, wrapping herself in a silver one as if it is a feather boa.

“Bend down, Daddy,” she orders.

“What are you up to?” he smiles, but obediently kneels, then bends his head down as instructed. Daisy concentrates as she ties some tinsel around his balding head.

“There!” she says, standing back to admire her work. “Now you look like an angel. Like Mummy, she’s an angel.”

His eyes are swimming. Embarrassed, he hugs his girl close and kisses the top of her head to hide his tears. The moment passes. With a playful roar, Mike surges up, still holding Daisy tight, and twirls her round until she is screaming and giggling all at once, and he rumbling and laughing with her.

“Come on, Daddy, let’s get on with it,” Daisy grins finally.

First they put up the little fibre optic tree which Mags always put beside the television; she had loved watching that tree slowly change colours, said it was hypnotic. She had a point: it is definitely relaxing to watch.

Daisy is all business though, no time for sitting around watching things. The next point of business is the real tree she picked out with her father than morning, and he has dragged into their dining room. She chooses baubles, examines them, and puts some on it while rejecting others as “not quite right”. Mike realises with bittersweet delight that she has inherited her mother’s eye for decorating.

The tree looks a dream when it is finished. There is just one more thing.

Mike picks Daisy up and holds her aloft as she puts the star on top of the tree. She reaches easily in his arms. Perfect.

Time for the lights. “Three…two…one…yay!” they cheer. The fairy lights flash at epilepsy-inducing speed. Mags would have loved it.

Daisy, exhausted from all the excitement of preparing for Christmas, goes to bed without fuss that night. After tucking her in and reading her a story, Mike walks into the lounge, goes to put on the telly, and stops, frowning.

The fibre optic tree is no longer lit up. That’s strange.

He checks it is switched on. It is. He feels a bit sick as he switches it off then on again. Nothing. He unplugs it, counts to ten, then plugs it in and tries again. Still nothing.

He can fix it, he tells himself. But he doesn’t know where to start. He sinks to the floor, cradling the useless lump of plastic, and sobs like a baby.

No matter how hard he tries to keep things the same, they are changing.

How much longer will Daisy believe in Father Christmas? What would Mags make of the job he is doing raising their child? With every year that passes, Daisy’s memory of her mother will fade. As she grows older he will have to make decisions about things that he always assumed would be done with Mags by his side; have to explain things that he had thought would be a mum’s job to tell a girl. He feels so lost without his wife to guide him.

Despite the fear eating at him, he knows there is no point worrying, knows all he can do is jump each hurdle as they appear. But still he is far from his usual glass half full outlook; he is more like a bear with a sore head as he pulls on his coat, ready for the night shift. When his babysitter arrives, he can barely grunt at her before he stomps to his car, fantasising of fags and crisps.

On the way to work his headlights pick up a car in front of him with a faded registration number at the rear. Normally he would not care, but Mike is in such a bad mood that he cannot help himself: he pulls the driver over. Blue lights flashing on top of his plain car, his siren gives a little whoop.

***

Adam stares in his rear view mirror as if sheer force of will is going to change what he sees.

It is the police. They have finally caught up with him.

He grips his steering wheel, trying to decide what to do. Perhaps he should just floor it? His car isn’t that fast, though.

His brain is whirring, synapses firing faster and faster. He only has moments to make a decision. The officer probably does not know who Adam is or what he has done in the past. So Adam should pull over. But if he decides to search Adam’s car, he will see all his locksmith equipment in the boot. If Adam himself is checked, the officer will come across the scalpel in his jacket inside pocket.

All he can rely on is luck. He indicates, pulls over, his hands suddenly slick with sweat on the steering wheel. A deep breath helps focus him, and he quickly slips the scalpel out of his pocket and slides it down beside his leg for quick access if needs be. Seconds later his window is tapped on by what must be a plain-clothes policeman.  Jesus, he’s tall!

Adam covertly wipes his clammy hands on his trousers. He reminds himself that he is a hunter; that he has nothing to fear because his quest is pure. The women he has killed gather together inside him, lending him strength.

“Hi, is something w-wrong, officer?” he asks calmly as he winds down the window. The scalpel’s presence beside his thigh is a comfort.