Chapter 59 Kier

59

Kier

Devon, July 2018

Three days since Zeph left and someone's out there, watching me.

It's worse, in a way, knowing that it can't be Zeph. It means that whoever it is … is an unknown. A stranger.

Every time I go outside, I sense eyes on me: as I walk Woody to the shops, the beach.

Even here, inside the van, I feel it. It's worse at this time of night, just before dusk, when the shadows start to appear, pockets of darkness that my imagination fills with lurid pictures of its own.

I've been trying to take my mind off it with working on Ramon and Luis's commission, but my concentration's shot. I alternate between telling myself that I'm stressed, to overthinking it, to picturing the worst. Imagining someone letting themselves in when I'm out or asleep.

Woody's no comfort. He'd be more likely to smother an intruder in kisses than protect me. I look at him, lying on the bed, legs akimbo, and can't help but smile.

My gaze inches upwards, to the window looking out over the fire pit. The patch of grass it's sitting on is empty, but it's hard to see beyond that, the cliff face casting whole swathes of ground into shadow.

It's enough to send my thoughts spiralling. Someone could be there, right now, looking in at me. They'd done it before. Who's to say it won't happen again?

Breathing slowly in and out, I distract myself by pulling Woody's food from the cupboard, emptying some into his bowl. The stale, meaty smell turns my stomach, and I reach over to open one of the windows. It gets rid of the odour, but it also means that I can hear every sound outside.

The wind. Waves crashing to shore. Music ebbing and flowing in the distance.

I clamber onto the bed, pick up my sketchpad again, but a few minutes in, there's a shout from outside, the smash of a bottle breaking.

I stiffen.

When you're with someone in a van, you barely notice those kinds of noises, but now, alone at night, even without the suspicion that someone's watching, I feel vulnerable.

I grab my phone and scroll, my finger hovering over Penn's number. His offer to stay there is playing on my mind, but I can't quite bring myself to broach the subject.

He's consumed by the wedding, hasn't even responded to my last few messages. It would be easy enough to go over to theirs, ask him in person, but I know just what impact that will have. A dampening effect on what should be the happiest few weeks of their lives.

Only four days until the wedding , that's the mantra I keep repeating to myself.

But right now, four days seems an interminably long amount of time to be alone, holding all these thoughts in my head.

Thoughts in my head.

The phrase stirs something, something my father used to say about my mother.

She gets these thoughts in her head .

A memory surfaces.

The night when the policeman came to the door, after one of their arguments. A big one, one that Mum turned into a migraine afterwards, her go-to excuse for taking to her bed the following day.

I remember the policeman craning his head through the gap in the door, his voice soft, insistent. I was wondering if everything was okay.

My father listened, nodding in that way he did, head slightly inclined to one side, then saying seriously: Just an argument. My wife, she gets these thoughts in her head. You know how it is, I'm sure. When she gets like that, I need to talk her down, but sometimes, it can get heated.

I remember standing behind my father, staring hard at the policeman's face, trying to tell him with my eyes that he needed to come in and talk to Mum herself.

That if he did, he might hear a different story, a story where my father, after complaining that the plate she'd given him was dirty, made her get down on her knees and lick the plate clean like a dog, while he called her a filthy fucking whore. A filthy fucking whore who can never get anything right.

But it didn't work.

The policeman didn't pick up on what I was trying to tell him, and after listening to my father, said something like well, I'll be on my way then , and as he said goodbye, he smiled at me, but it was sad at the edges.

Shaking the thought free, I get ready for bed.

It takes a while to drift off, tossing and turning for what seems like hours. I don't know how long I'm asleep for before my eyes snap open, a gust of wind shaking the van. Rattling against the windows, doors.

As the gust subsides, I stiffen. I can hear it: the slightest of movements on the door handle, a barely perceptible jiggle of metal.

Woody whimpers.

Flicking on the side light, I sit up, the bed frame loudly creaking with the sudden motion. But before I can even swing my legs out of bed, I see a movement at the opposite window. As my eyes adjust, the shadowy shape becomes more distinct .

A face. Someone out there, looking in at the van.

I freeze. Woody's whimper ratchets up an octave.

The light I've got on is casting a reflection of the van back at me in the glass so I can't see any features, but my mind jumps to fill in the blanks.

It can't be. It can't be.

I close my eyes, count to twenty in my head.

When I look up, the face is gone.

Though the wind has dropped, the van feels like it's moving. I clutch on to the duvet, to Woody, like I'm on a boat in a storm, clinging to the rails.

Thoughts are flashing through my mind so fast, I can't get a grip on them.

I take a deep, slow breath. It doesn't help. It feels like my mind isn't my own, that I'm teetering precariously on the brink of something.

I can't do this any more. Not alone. I need help. If not from Penn, then someone else.

As my pulse slows, I remember a calm voice, kind eyes. Someone reaching out, offering help.

Picking up my phone, I search for the contact.

Elin Warner.

I quickly tap out a message. Is it ok if I give you a call tomorrow? There's something I need your advice on.