In Her Image Page 7

  20

  I fumble with my key in the lock as I try to open my front door. My hands are numb with the cold and my body is still trembling from the adrenaline surge a few moments ago.

  Finally, I get the door open and I step inside, feeling the instant enveloping warmth of the central heating. I kick my shoes off and make my way through to the kitchen, where I left Gavin Armitage’s business card, pinned to the fridge by a magnet I bought on a weekend away with Kieran.

  As soon as I step into the kitchen, something feels wrong. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I get the sense that my mind is telling me things might not be quite as they seem. Almost as if it’s preparing me for the inevitable; something it already knows is about to happen.

  My heart catches in my throat as I look at the fridge. I walk over to it and run my hands across the white vertical surface, just to make sure. Just in case my eyes are playing tricks on me. I see the fridge magnet as clear as day, the well-endowed cartoon figure of the early 20th-century blonde busty seaside-going woman winking at me, the message Get me back to Blackpool! emblazoned on the small chalkboard she’s holding. Kieran and I both joked about how tacky it looked at the time. So tacky, I had to get it.

  And now, it’s all I can see. The rest of my vision is fuzzy and clouded. It’s almost as if I don’t need to see anything else. I can see the magnet, and I can see what it’s not holding to the fridge.

  I look down at the floor, hoping that I’ll see it there, but knowing in my heart of hearts that I won’t.

  It was definitely there. I don’t know when, but it was. Was it this morning? Possibly. I can’t say for sure. But it was definitely here. I have no doubt about that. I know I wasn’t imagining it.

  I get down on my hands and knees and look under the fridge. I slide my fingers under, but all I find is crumbs and a couple of defrosted peas. I wipe my hand on my jeans and stand up again.

  I can feel my heartbeat starting to race, and my breathing is quickening. I need to try and regain control, but I know that’s going to be difficult. Right now, all I can think is the worst.

  Maybe I took it off the fridge and put it somewhere. I don’t think I did, but how can I be sure? What if I did it straight after I got back from the studio? I don’t really remember getting home, so how would I know? It makes sense that I might have come back home and gone straight for the business card, particularly if I’d been doubting myself.

  I go over to my microwave and take the stack of papers off the top of it. Kieran was always on at me about not keeping paper on top of the microwave, saying it was a fire hazard. When he left, it was one of the first things I reinstated. One of my first acts of regaining control.

  I start to work my way through the pile, riffling through the papers before going back and removing one sheet at a time, convinced that I’m going to find the business card here. I turn over a letter from the optician, inviting me to book my next eye test. Then a credit card statement. Then a piece of junk mail I kept for no good reason. I keep going, turning each sheet, expecting that each one will be the last one. But as I get further and further through the pile, I begin to realise it’s futile.

  I open each of the kitchen cupboards and drawers in turn, searching through for any sign of it — any flash of white card — but there’s nothing.

  In the living room I take the cushions and throws from the sofas, I lift ornaments, I search under furniture. The longer I go on, the more certain I am that I’m not going to find it, the more agitated and anxious I get. I can hear myself sobbing as I search. I don’t know how long I’ve been making that noise for, but I’ve only just become aware of it.

  I know it’s here somewhere. It has to be. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

  I head into the kitchen and grab my laptop off the side. I open the lid and will the machine to load faster. Eventually, it does, and I open a browser window and start typing Gavin’s name into the address bar. The browser remembers his website and autocompletes the address for me. I hit Enter, and wait a second for the site to load.

  All I get is a grey screen with a message saying Safari Can’t Find the Server. In a panic, I type ‘Gavin Armitage photography’ into the search bar, and hit Enter. The Google search results load quickly, but I immediately see exactly what I feared might be the case. There is no Google search result for Gavin Armitage’s photography studio. It isn’t there.

  21

  It’s not often that you hope to God you’re going mad. And I really, really do. At least that way it means this is all in my mind. It’s a far better thought than the alternative — that I’m being stalked by a man who’ll never be caught, a man who’s retreated into the darkness, a man who’s been in my house and tampered with my stuff.

  By now I’m fairly certain I’ll end up losing my job. As it stands I’ve got two options: I can either keep taking days off — as I have again today — and end up being fired, or I can go back into work and do something stupid that ends the same way anyway. I can’t even trust myself right now, so I don’t see how anyone else will be able to.

  I spent the rest of yesterday and most of the night swinging dangerously between emotions. At first there was sheer frustration and helplessness. Then came the feeling of being completely and utterly petrified that I was losing my mind. I managed to talk myself round, tell myself there was a logical explanation. But the only explanation was that someone else had moved it. That nudged me towards anger and feeling violated. The truth of the matter, though, is that no-one has a key to my house except me. Kieran did have one, but he gave it back before he left. I hesitate to say ‘moved out’, because he never properly ‘moved in’. Not on paper, anyway.

  I had to ring PC Day back and explain that I couldn’t find the business card. I’m not sure what he made of it, but I figured it was better than having the police come out and me tell them they’d made a wasted journey.

  I started to realise that I don’t feel fully safe here. I don’t know whether that’s because I feel insecure in the house or because I’m more worried about myself. Earlier this morning I decided I needed to at least do something to put my mind at rest. I summoned up the courage to call a locksmith.

  It sounds daft saying I had to summon up the courage, but it’s true. Every time I reached for my phone I felt fear. I didn’t want to speak to anyone, didn’t want to risk the confrontation. What confrontation could there be from a locksmith? None. But try telling my brain that.

  He arrived two hours later and replaced the locks on my front and back door. I told him I’d got rid of a nuisance housemate and wanted to make sure he didn’t have access. I was amazed at how quickly it was all done. Within three or four minutes he’d replaced both locks and wanted seventy quid for the privilege. I reasoned that it was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

  I still can’t shake the feeling, though. And that’s what makes me think it might be coming from within me, rather than an external force. I can feel myself on the edge, and I know I need to step back. I need some sense of routine, of normality, of sheer, downright ordinariness.

  As if on cue, my phone rings. It’s Kieran.

  For the first time in a long time I see his name on the screen and don’t feel complete and utter dread. As long as he’s not ringing to beg me to get back with him, I don’t mind. He might take my mind off things for a while.

  ‘Hi,’ I say as I answer the phone.

  ‘Hi Alice.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m alright,’ I lie. ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m good.’ There’s an awkward silence — the sort of awkward silence he only does when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. ‘I saw you yesterday. You were walking up Pearl Street. I was in the car, so I couldn’t say hi, but you looked really... stressed.’

  Yeah, that’s what it is. Stress.

  ‘Oh. I’m fine. Just had a bad day.’

  I hear Kieran swallow. ‘You looked like you were panicking over something.
’

  ‘I’m fine. Honestly. Just a bad day.’

  ‘At work?’ he asks, the words laden with hidden meaning.

  ‘No. I wasn’t at work.’ There’s no use in lying. He saw me out in town during work hours. ‘I was off sick.’

  ‘And today too?’

  ‘Yes. And today too.’

  ‘Oh right. Hope it’s nothing too serious.’

  I close my eyes. ‘I’ll be fine, I’m sure. Just need a couple of days off.’

  There are another few moments of silence as Kieran tries to work out what to say. I can tell what he wants to say, but he’s doing his usual thing of trying to do it with tact. I also know he’ll fail miserably.

  ‘You know I’m here for you, don’t you? That if you need to... I dunno, talk or something... I’m here. As a friend. As whatever. It doesn’t matter. I just... I don’t like seeing you like this. You’re a great person, Alice, and I want you to be happy. If I can help in any way, or do anything, just shout. Alright?’

  I feel my eyes misting up, and I swallow.

  ‘Yeah. Alright.’

  22

  I know Kieran’s call yesterday was meant to comfort me. I know he means well. But all it did was cement in my mind that I must be going mad. It’s one thing worrying about myself, but the constant stream of people telling me they’re worried about me isn’t doing me any favours. Mandy, Mum, Kieran. I don’t have anyone else in my life. Not really. Other than the kickboxing class. And if I don’t turn up to that this week, there might not be a class left. It might even be a good way to take my mind off things for a couple of hours, release some pent-up energy and frustration. But energy isn’t something I’ve got in plentiful supply right now.

  I went back to work today. I guess part of me worried that I wouldn’t be able to get away with constantly taking time off, that sooner or later I’d need a doctor’s note, at which point they’d either find out there was nothing wrong with me or it’d be put down to depression or some bollocks. I can’t see that going down too well. Besides which, it’ll probably do me good. I know that sitting around the house and moping isn’t going to help things.

  Losing myself in work enabled me to forget everything for a few hours. I stuck to the admin side of things, replying to all the emails I’d missed, processing performance review reports and crunching some data. I even offered to do the admin for the rest of the team. They were more than happy to oblige, particularly as everyone hates doing admin. If there’d been any doubt in their mind about me going mad, that would have put paid to it. But today, it was perfect for me. It didn’t need any great mental exertion, nor did I have to deal with people. I just got my head down, went through the paperwork and ticked off the hours on the clock.

  By the time I came to leave, I was feeling much calmer. Not that I was particularly agitated before, but my mind was much more relaxed; not skipping from thought to thought, worry to worry. It’s not like me to fixate on a particular thing like that. Usually, I bury my head in the sand and try to get away from whatever it is that’s worrying me. But this isn’t quite so easy.

  The cold crisp air on the walk home is helping to clear my mind, too. I would, perhaps, even go so far as to say I’m starting to feel a little more positive about life. If I can put the whole episode with Gavin and the photos behind me, and trust that the police are on the case — perhaps have even scared him off — I’ll be much happier.

  I decide I’m going to enjoy my evening. I’m going to have some me time, and I’m going to try and ensure that doesn’t involve alcohol. I might even go for a run or do some exercise in the house. The endorphin rush will make me feel even better and I’ll feel a little less guilty about missing the kickboxing class last week.

  I step inside my house and close the door, the reassuring and familiar smells coming to me instantly. I walk into the kitchen and switch the kettle on. I get milk from the fridge, pausing for a moment to look at the magnet from Blackpool. I smile and shake my head. Learning to laugh at myself will help. I mislaid something. So what? People do it all the time. Acceptance means I can start to think clearly.

  Once I’ve made my tea, I walk through to the living room and sit down on the sofa, feeling the cushions envelope me as the mug warms my hands. I think about lighting the fire tonight. Maybe after I’ve gone for a run I’ll get some logs from the wood chest and cosy up.

  And that’s when I look up at the mantelpiece. On it are three photo frames. I know the images like the back of my hand. One, on the left, has a picture of me and Mandy, a shot taken in a nightclub almost ten years ago, but still one of my favourite pictures of us. The frame on the right is a picture of Milo, the family dog when I was younger. He died a few months before I moved out. The photo in the centre is a portrait frame, whereas the others are landscape. It’s a photo of me in my university gown, having just received my degree.

  But that’s not the photo that’s in the centre right now.

  The picture that’s in the centre right now is one of the photos Gavin took at his studio last Saturday.

  One of the photos I’ve only ever viewed on a screen.

  One of the photos I’ve never printed out.

  In a frame I’ve never changed.

  He’s been in my house.

  23

  You intrigue me.

  Who changes their locks but doesn’t worry about how secure they are? If you’re going to swap one Kwikset deadbolt lock for another, don’t bother. You’d be better off replacing it with a handle. At least there’s a small chance your burglar might turn the handle the wrong way then give up.

  Having your lock at more or less waist height is a pretty stupid idea, too. Have you got any idea how easy it was for me to walk up to your door, ring the doorbell, use my body as a shield while I spend a few seconds picking and raking the lock, then step inside your now-unlocked door whilst greeting an imaginary you?

  The truth is, most people think their homes are secure. Most people are wrong. So you locked the door. Big fucking whoop. I’ve got a few pieces of metal in my pocket that’ll sort that out in well under a minute. Sometimes even less. Now, if you had an alarm system things might be different. But you don’t. I know you don’t, because I know more about the structural setup of your house than you do by now. You might want to get that back door sorted, too. It’s so bumpable it’s unreal.

  You’ve got a nice house. Just a shame you clearly don’t give a shit about it. Or maybe you don’t mind the idea of people coming and going. I hope you don’t, anyway. I’d hate to offend you.

  I wanted you to know I was here. Sure, I could have left you a note. I could’ve smashed a window, too, or bumped your back door. But that’d leave a definite, provable trace. After all, who’s to know you didn’t put that photo in the frame yourself? It’s a photo you have a copy of. I know. Because I sent it to you.

  No-one will believe you. You know that. And I know that. And that’s important. Because this isn’t about anyone else. This is about you and me. And I need you to see that. I need you to see that I’m everywhere. I’m the grey man. I’m everybody. I’m the people you pass in the street, the passengers on the bus who might as well be blobs of colour for all you see or care. Don’t you see that? Don’t you see that it’s your own ignorance and self-centred attitude that has become your downfall? Nothing has happened that you couldn’t see. If you wanted to see it, that is. But you didn’t.

  I love that I can watch you. I love that I can see you. I love that I know where you are at all times. You’re a creature of habit, Alice. Habits involve patterns. And patterns are predictable. You are predictable. You never know what you might love about me if you could see me, too. But I’m willing to bet you probably wouldn’t even recognise me again if you saw me in the street. How often do you even look? How much attention do you pay? Not much. I know that already. But I think it’s time to test those limits. I think it’s time for me to go further.

  Because you need to see me, Alice. You need to be able to enj
oy this too. And one day, sooner or later, you will realise your true calling. You’ll reject this life of habit and routine, this soulless existence you call living.

  And then you’ll discover what it really is to live.

  24

  I don’t know what to do, where to go. Home was the only place I felt vaguely safe, but that’s been destroyed, torn apart by the realisation that he’s been here.

  There’s no doubt in my mind. I didn’t swap that photo over. I’ve never had a physical copy of the picture; only a digital version in my email inbox, from when Gavin sent it. I don’t even own a printer; I do all my printing at work. Wait. No. I definitely didn’t print it out at work. Today’s the first day I’ve been back in. If I’d printed it when I was last at work and swapped it over in the interim, I would have spotted it before now.

  It’s strange how your mind plays these tricks on you. I’m lucid enough now to know that it’s only doing so to protect me. Because the alternative — that he’s been in my house and has done this purely to scare me — is too much to bear. It’s easier to assume I’m mad, right? That I somehow printed the photo out, put it in this frame and then forgot about it.

  My heart lurches as I remember the business card on the fridge. Is that how that disappeared, too? I tell myself that’s not possible. I’ve had the locks changed since then, and there’s no way in hell that photo was on the mantelpiece like that this morning, never mind any earlier.

  He’s been here today.

  The thought makes me feel sick. I run upstairs and check my cupboards and drawers, making sure nothing has been taken. I know in my heart of hearts he’s not a burglar — just a creep — but I still feel the need to check.

  The fact that he hasn’t taken anything doesn’t make me feel any better. It wouldn’t be the loss of material possessions that’d matter; it’s the feeling of complete violation, of someone having entered your safe place. That’s what gives me the sickest feeling in the pit of my stomach.