Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller (10 page)

BOOK: Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller
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A lot of incomers here now,” said the lady. “Oil people, like, ken?” She spat the last word as if it offended her, though I knew by now it was simply her way of speaking. “Used to hang the fish out the front. Now they hang out their washing, even on Sundays.”


Right,” I said, humouring her.


And tourists,” she said. “Come in like Peeping Toms. Japanese, Chinese, Americans.” She laughed. “Aye. They were here the other day. We should charge them to look in. A pound a peep.” She gave a brief laugh and stood up. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

I smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

And away she went, her feet planting themselves heavily and far apart, like a man’s. She disappeared into one of the low, narrow cottages I assumed was number three.

I sat for a moment before getting up and making my way back towards the top end of the beach. I tried not to look into the windows but it was difficult because the path ran so close. I saw a man in his kitchen, chopping a cucumber on a white board, images of what looked like a soap opera on someone’s television, a particularly lovely taupe-coloured throw over a sofa. But as I made to look closer at the beautiful fabric, a figure passed in shadow at the far end of the room. I backed away, ashamed. What the hell was I doing? I was like the old lady had said: a Peeping Tom. Staring in at someone else’s life.

 

Mikey called in the evening.


You always sound so clear on these lines,” I said, trying to somehow speak through a smile. “Still can’t believe I can’t hear the sea.”

He laughed. “We don’t stand on the deck for two weeks growing beards you know. We do have such a thing as an office.”


Any funnies?”


Trying to think. There’s an American here that’s good value. Texan guy. Tells the most sexist jokes I’ve ever heard.”


Oh yeah? Can’t wait to hear those.” I prayed he couldn’t hear the strain in my voice.


So,” he said. “What’ve you been up to?”


I went for a walk. Along the beach. Found a really cute place called Footdee. Sorry, Fittie. Actually I’m not sure which is right. Anyway, it was a cute wee place.” I waited for a moment but he didn’t reply. “Hello?”


Yeah, hi, sorry, somebody came in there. Do you mean the place at the beach?”


That’s what I said. It’s amazing. Dinky. Kind of boho, you know? We should go when you get back.”


Actually, I know that place. I mean, I’ve heard of it. They were talking about it the other day at work. They don’t like people going there. Apparently everyone goes round looking in their windows.”


I suppose so.” I remembered the figure darting out of sight, the old lady and her talk of Peeping Toms. “Maybe not then.”

He didn’t say anything in reply so I carried on chatting about nothing, trying to shake off what I can only describe as mild devastation, if that makes sense. I’d so wanted to tell him about that place, about my discovery of it. I’d wanted him to know I’d been out and about, not stuck at home with my chin on the floor. I’d wanted him to be proud of me for these small things. Would it always be like this when he was offshore? Would we no longer fit? This not fitting had something to do with only having one sense to work with, I thought. I wanted all five senses, all the time. Two weeks in four, we would have to manage with one sense alone. Two weeks in four, that was half the time. Half our lives.

 

That night, I’d got Isla to bed, I’d walked along the landing and switched on the bathroom light when, with a popping sound, the power failed. The cottage went black. I had never known darkness like it. No streetlights shone in through the windows; the orange halo that glowed over the city was miles away. In the country, the darkness is solid. It is tangible. But I stayed calm

maybe because actual catastrophe is better than the dread of the unnamed threat. I had made sure to find the fuse box before Mikey went away

it was under the stairs

I had to get to it without hurting myself. Easier said than done when you can’t see the hand in front of your face.

I knew there was a light on my phone. Where had I left it? Mikey had told me always to bring it with me, in case of emergencies, and so it would still be in my bag because I hadn’t taken it out since my trip to Fittie. My bag would be on one of the hooks by the door or over the end of the bannister. I figured the safest way to the top of the stairs, if I was going to avoid falling down them, was on my hands and knees.

I crawled, feeling for and finding the edge of the stairwell. I shifted myself onto my bottom and shuffled down the stairs one at a time. It was overly cautious, I know, especially for someone like me. I’d been a real handful in my youth. I lose count of the times I’ve woken up with no idea how I’d got home, all the dangerous situations I put myself in growing up

playing on railway tracks, hiding in the sidings eating Matchmakers we’d stolen from the corner shop, out in feral packs in the evenings with boys who sprayed their names on the precinct walls, who threw eggs at buses, bricks at street lamps. I had thrilled at the sound of breaking glass as much as the next teenager. But here was another thing that parenthood had changed in me. My own memories, which had once made me laugh, now made my blood run cold. I blanched at the thought of Isla doing what I had done. And if I looked after myself now, if I worked hard to make a home, shuffled at a snail’s pace down these stairs, it was because she needed me to do those things, to be this person, to stay safe.

I found my bag on the bannister and used the phone to find the fuse box. Sure enough, one of the fuses had tripped. One quick flick and the hum of electricity returned, the lamp in the living room lit up. The digital clock on the hallway window ledge flashed zeros. I would be better-prepared next time, I thought. I needed to think about what I’d do if the problem was not one I alone could fix

if the boiler packed up for example. I would buy more candles, I decided, and make oil lamps. Belt and braces.

 

On the Wednesday or Thursday, I think it was, my mum and dad came up for the day. They couldn’t believe the place.


Oh, Shona,” my mum kept saying. “I can’t believe it. It’s like something off the television.”

Dad helped fix the back door where it was sticking; Mum helped me unpack the rest of the upstairs. I wanted everything to be sorted for Mikey getting back on the Saturday. I wanted it all to be perfect.

On Friday, Valentina and I took the babies to the swimming baths. She was slimmer than me and I found myself carrying Isla strategically in front of my belly. In the water, we whirled our babies around while they gurned at the splashes in dopey delight.

I didn’t look at the other mothers that day. I didn’t notice them.

As we changed, Valentina called over the cubicle wall. “Hey, Shona. Wanna grab some lunch and take it back to your place?”

She loved that cottage, couldn’t get enough of it. She’d even driven out to pick me up in her old red Toyota, so while she hovered outside the store, I ran in to buy the smoked salmon and bagels she insisted on having. When I came back I could see she looked peeved.


Bloody policeman tried to give me a ticket for being on the double yellows,” she said as soon as I got in. “Bloody cheek.”


You should have moved on,” I said. “You could have texted, I’d have come and found you.”


Don’t worry, I sweet-talked him. He was putty in my hands.”


What? He let you off?”


I might have flirted a little. I might have said I’d meet him for a drink.” She started the engine. “I even took his number

check that for commitment, babe. You can have it if you want.”


Of course you did,” I said archly, not believing a word of it.

Only, when I got out of the car, a torn piece of white card floated into the footwell. I picked it up.
John Duggan
, with a mobile phone number below. I threw it down, pretended I hadn’t seen.

 

 

EIGHT

 

Back at the cottage, Valentina opened the fridge and pulled out the bottle of Sancerre I’d bought for Mikey’s homecoming.


This OK to drink?” she asked. But she was already screwing off the cap. And she had already taken off her coat and draped her raspberry-coloured scarf over the back of the chair as she had the first time. That was her: at home, right from the start.


Sure,” I said, not wishing to appear mean.

I dragged the travel cot from the stable and we set the babies up in there with some toys. She poured two large glasses, as if it were no more than plonk, and handed me one.


I could get used to this,” she said. “Up yours, sister.”

We chinked glasses.


I thought yoga teachers only drank water from mountain springs,” I said. “Ate mung beans, drank soya milk, that type of thing.”

She shook her head. “That’s bollocks. I’d smoke too if I could. Don’t suppose you have any dope, do you?”

I laughed. “Good grief, no. What do you think this is, a crack den?”

She smiled, pushed her thick auburn hair back from her face before shaking it out again. She took another long gulp of wine. “Listen, Shona, how would you feel about having Zac, just for an hour after lunch?”


Sure. No problem.”


I have this private yoga session booked with a client. I usually take Zac but he can be such a pain and I’ll be quicker if I go on my own. You don’t mind, do you?”


Of course not.”


I can have Isla another time, no worries,” she said. “But thanks, you’re a mate.”


To mates.” I held up my glass. “Or as we say, pals.”

As if pleasantly surprised, she smiled again, showing all those white sharkish teeth. She picked up her glass. “To pals.”

At half past one, she announced she was late, that she had to go. She pulled her bag from the chair, kissed Zac on the head and rushed out. She’d drunk two large glasses of wine to my one; the bottle was two thirds empty. I knew she’d be over the limit, naughty girl. And how the hell she was going to teach yoga, I could not fathom. She was made of steelier stuff than me.

Once she’d gone, I put Zac in Isla’s buggy and Isla in her pram and took them both into the garden. I spent a good fifteen minutes pushing both back and to, back and to, until I got them to sleep. Arms aching and back aching, I left the back door open and came inside to make a cup of tea. I was thirsty, fuzzy-headed after the lunchtime drink, already wishing I’d stuck to water.

The babies only slept for half an hour. When they awoke, I got a pit in my stomach wondering how I was going to keep them both calm. When I next looked at the clock I saw it was 2:30pm. Thank goodness. Valentina wouldn’t be long.

At three o’clock, I wondered about texting to see where she’d got to. I left it, worried about coming across as nagging or uncool. She was only half an hour late after all

I calculated that the session was probably an hour and, adding on journey time, it was no wonder it had got to this time. At half past three I picked up my phone and wrote:

 

Are you OK? S x

 

I read the text and deleted it. The Brig O’Dee could get quite snarled up with traffic at certain times of day. The babies were watching a DVD now and seemed calm enough. But for how long was anyone’s guess. I still had the pit in my stomach.

At four o’clock I rewrote the text:

 

Everything fine here don’t worry just wondering if you’re on your way back. S xxx

 

Less direct. Friendly but still waving a flag

help. I sent it.

Zac began to fret. I picked him up

Christ he was heavy, it was like lifting a pig! I lugged him onto my hip, which made Isla cry. I picked her up too and put her on the other hip and lurched around the house like Quasimodo after a night on the town. By now I was pissed off. Where the hell was she? I’d give her a piece of my mind when she got here.

Anger turned to worry. She’d had two large glasses of wine. She hadn’t replied to my text. What if she’d driven like she’d wanted me to the other day, tried to set the land speed record on the South Deeside Road and crashed? I didn’t know where she lived, what her home number was. I didn’t even know her last name. All I knew was that she was married to a man named Red who worked in a vintage record store.

Zac’s face changed from pale to dark pink, a look of terrible concentration. I knew that look. Oh, and I knew that smell.

I carried both babies upstairs and manoeuvred Zac onto the changing table but lost balance and cracked my shoulder against the wall. I righted myself, ripped open the nappy and gasped. Ditch-water brown spray ran down his thighs, legs, up his back, all over his vest, his trousers. I coughed, swore, held my breath. I stripped him, cleaned his body as best I could. He was so much bigger than Isla, legs like hams, gut like a fridge-freezer.

Sat on the floor, Isla got louder, a desperate, abandoned sound. My hair fell into my eyes, stuck to the sweat on my forehead. I couldn’t push it out of the way

my fingers were covered in shit. Still swearing like a sailor, I flattened one of Isla’s nappies on the table. With my elbow, I held the nappy down, plonked Zac on top and pulled the tabs across. They stopped just short of one another

the nappy was too bloody small. Zac stared up at me, his big brown eyes unblinking.


Where’s your mummy? Eh?” I said in a sing-song voice. “Where’s she gone? Where the bloody hell has your motherfucking bastard mother gone? Where? Eh?”

BOOK: Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller
8.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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