C.L. Taylor - Sleep

I stifle a yawn as I close the laptop and stand up. The sun is coming up now and a sliver of bright light slips into the room where the curtains don’t meet in the middle. Below a blanket of grey cloud the sky is streaked orange and red and I can just make out the arc of a white sun peeping between the buildings opposite and—

Movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn my head. Someone just ducked down behind a car at the end of the road, on the opposite side of the street. I steady my hand on the glass and squint into the distance. There’s a piece of paper fluttering under the windscreen wiper of my car.

‘Alex?’ I whisper his name then cross the bedroom and step into the hall, pulling the door closed behind me. I turn on the hallway light, pull on my coat, slip my feet into my shoes and grab my keys. Less than two minutes later I’m down the communal stairs and opening the front door. I pause in the doorway and glance along the street. There’s no one else here, just me and a large tabby cat that stares indifferently at me from a low wall, several houses down. I put the door on the latch and dart out of the house. It only takes twelve frantic strides to get me from the front door to the car. I snatch the piece of white paper from beneath the windscreen wiper then speed back into the house. I shut the door behind me, release the latch and unfold the paper. There are three words printed in the centre.

YOU WILL SLEEP.

In Memoriam

Emily and Eva Gapper

Emily Gapper, devoted wife and mother. Passed away on 13.2.2015 to be with our darling daughter Eva Gapper. Knowing that the two of you are together is my only comfort. Forever in my thoughts, my beautiful girls. Love and miss you always …

I have always prided myself on my ability to read people; to interpret their body language, intonation and micro-expressions. It’s not so much a gift as a survival technique, an arsenal in my armour that was fashioned in my childhood – a necessity when faced with a mother as emotionally stunted as mine.

Take you for example, Anna Willis, sitting in the window, lit by the glow of your laptop, then sprinting along the pavement with your oversized cardigan wrapped around your body and belted by your arm gripping your waist. I might have been too far away this time to study your face but I’ve been nearer. I’ve been close enough to study your pale skin, wide unblinking pupils, the sweat prickling at your hairline, your repetitive throat clearing and the way you twist your hands. Your anxiety and your pain shine like a beacon but only to your nearest and dearest, sweet Anna. And, of course, to me.

I was going to retire. I was going to leave this life behind me and take up new pursuits. But he wants you gone and I couldn’t say no. I have never been able to say no to him.

I thought I’d want to hurry your passing, Anna, to get it over and done with quickly, but this will be the last time I ever do this, my final flourish so to speak, and I want it to be perfect. When the time is right I will help you sleep.

Alex walks into the kitchen, dressed in his suit and smelling of shampoo and aftershave. He holds out a hand. ‘Show me that note.’

I tried to wake him after I ran back up the stairs with the piece of paper I found under the windscreen wiper but he swatted me away and told me to go back to sleep. I tried again when his alarm went off at six thirty but he peered at it through bleary eyes, shook his head and said he needed the loo. I trailed him to the bathroom, note in hand, then retreated to the kitchen when I heard the shower start up.

‘Someone put it on my car,’ I tell him again.

Alex takes one look at the note, flips it over to look at the blank other side then crumples it up and throws it in the bin. ‘Sounds supportive to me. Maybe someone else on the street has noticed that you stay up all hours of the night.’

‘But they’ve underlined “will”. It makes it sound threatening.’

‘Maybe it’s the journalist that’s been hassling you for an interview. Give me an interview and you’ll sleep better , that sort of thing. Was there a business card with it?’

‘No, nothing.’ I pause. ‘I think it’s Steve Laing.’

Alex frowns. He doesn’t recognise the name.

‘Freddy’s dad. Remember what he said after the trial, that justice had only partially been done? I really think it’s him, Alex. First “sleep” written in the dirt, then the postcard, now this.’ I reach into the bin and pull out the crumpled ball of paper. ‘Maybe he thinks I fell asleep at the wheel too? Or that I feel too guilty to sleep.’

Alex reaches under the kitchen table for his shoes and eases his feet into them. ‘Anna, put the note back in the bin.’

‘But it’s evidence.’

‘Of what?’

‘That someone’s …’ I tail off. What was it evidence of exactly? That someone had noticed I was still awake at 5 a.m. and had left a sympathetic note on my car? It wasn’t illegal to write in the dirt on someone’s car either. If it were, hundreds of ‘clean me’ pranksters would be in jail for defacing grubby vans.

‘Has anything else happened that you haven’t told me about?’ Alex stands up and pulls on his coat. ‘Any weird phone calls or emails?’

‘No, just, you know, the feeling that someone’s been watching me.’

My boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, clamps his top teeth over his bottom lip and gazes down at me, his brow creasing as his eyes search mine. ‘The trial was covered in the paper, wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And they mentioned our address? The street, anyway.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Probably a member of the public then. Some weirdo who’s become obsessed with the case. Or not,’ he adds as he registers my startled expression. ‘It could be something to do with Steve Laing, like you say. Either way, you need to stop worrying about it. Whoever it is isn’t going to bother you at your parents’ house.’

It’s a reassuring thought but I’m fooling myself if I think I’ll be out of the flat today. I’ve got too much stuff. There are pots and pans, dishes and cutlery in the kitchen. Books, clothes, DVDs and music in the bedroom. Ornaments, photo frames and pictures in the living room. Then there’s all the furniture that belongs to me. It’s going to take me days to get everything packed up.

‘Alex.’ I reach out to touch him on the arm but my hand falls away before I make contact. We aren’t together any more. Lingering touches are no longer appropriate.

‘Yeah?’

I want to ask him not to go to work. To stay in the flat with me and watch a film and get drunk or play a board game and listen to music. I know if I stay in the flat alone I’ll flinch at every noise, peer out of the window, pace and worry and google real life stories about stalkers. But I can’t ask Alex not to go to work. Not least because he doesn’t have to protect or comfort me any more. I have to let him get on with his life.

‘Can I leave my furniture here?’ I ask instead. ‘Until I’m settled? And some boxes of stuff?’

He shrugs. ‘I guess, until I get a new place anyway.’

‘Thank you. I’ll arrange for a man with a van to pick them up. I’ll leave the car outside too. I’ll probably sell it. Unless you want it.’

‘You’re getting rid of your car?’

‘Yeah.’ I’m surprised at his reaction. He’s seen how difficult it is for me just to get into the passenger seat. There’s no way I can face driving again. Not for a long time. ‘I’ll get a train to Mum and Tony’s later, once I’m packed up.’

That’s assuming they’ll be okay with me staying. Ever since they’ve retired they’ve had a succession of long-lost relatives and old friends to visit. I might have to kip on the sofa.