Renée Knight - Disclaimer

It was the mother who opened the door. It was teatime, but she had the chain across. It wasn’t midnight, for goodness sake, it was teatime. It was broad daylight. And I was smiling at her. I wouldn’t be smiling if I meant them any harm.

“Good afternoon, I’m so sorry to bother you.” Pause for emphasis. To demonstrate I really was sorry. “I’m trying to get in touch with an old friend. Catherine Ravenscroft. She used to live here, I believe…” Blink. Refresh smile. “I popped a birthday present through the door a few weeks ago but haven’t heard anything and… well, that’s not like her.”

“They moved,” she said. Not returning my smile even slightly.

“Aah, that explains it. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her and the family. I wonder…” Pause again. Don’t want to appear pushy. “Do you have an address for her?” Another blink. I am old, frail. And it’s cold out here. Be kind to me.

She shook her head.

“No,” and then she began to close the door. The bloody cheek of it. Quick as a flash my foot went in.

“Please,” I said. “I don’t want to be a pest, but it is important I get in touch with her.”

The three little pigs were now twitching behind their mother.

“Get your foot out of my house,” she said. And she meant it. Cold as you like. Of course I withdrew my foot immediately. And apologised. And she slammed the door on me. I really hadn’t meant to frighten her — that was the last thing I intended. Frankly, it was counterproductive. But I couldn’t just leave it there, I needed to know whether she had forwarded my package. So I settled down on her doorstep, on my aching knees, and pushed my fingers through her letter box.

“Please. At least tell me whether you sent on my gift.” And then a stroke of genius. “I’m her godfather, you see. I’d hate her to think I hadn’t remembered her birthday.”

“Muuuuuum,” came an appeal from one of the piglets. Actually, I’ve always been very fond of pigs. Intelligent, loyal creatures. Mummy wasn’t being very kind to this old man.

“Yes, I sent on a package. Now go away. They asked us not to give out their address. Now go away or I’ll call the police.”

Up I got again. A creak, an ache, but all was not lost.

“Thank you so much,” I murmured as I moved back up past the letter box. I’d got the wrong house, and my little missile had taken a more circuitous route than I would have liked, but it sounded as if it might have gone off after all.

I continued to check for reviews, but still nothing; I kept track of her with the help of my laptop. I’d become addicted, needing an “online” fix every few hours. Occasionally I was rewarded with something new. Moving pictures with sound. A talkie. Goody goody. There she was with her husband. What a comfortable-looking man. They were all dressed up on a night out. Clever girl. She’d won an award: “Catherine Ravenscroft’s brave documentary exposing the grooming of young girls…” Oh the delicious irony. I couldn’t wait to hear her voice. I closed my eyes and let the sound wash over me: “I would like to thank the brave children who spoke out, who trusted me, because without their courage, without their willingness to tell the truth about what happened to them…” God, she was convincing. Yes, those children were brave indeed. She would have sacrificed them without hesitation, for her own glorification. They really had no idea what she was like, did they, those people who’d rewarded her. I wanted to silence her, I couldn’t bear to hear her voice. I would make her disappear. A cross in a red box. Click. Exit. Now you see her, now you don’t. Simple.

Buried beneath the earth, deep underground, at least thirty feet between her and natural light. Catherine isn’t alone: there are scores of others just like her. But are they just like her? Is he here? Is she here? She clutches her bag to her stomach and snatches a look behind her, to her right, to her left. Eyes meet hers then flick away.

… she felt a gentle stroke across her back and turned around. A sea of faces met hers, but she wasn’t interested in any of them. She glanced up at the arrivals screen and saw the train would be arriving in three minutes — what she didn’t know was that it was also announcing how long she had left to live…

She begins to panic. This was a mistake. A foot treads on her. Someone trying to trip her? She pulls hers away and glares at the owner of the trainer but he mumbles an apology and stares ahead, eyes on the prize, wanting to beat her onto the train, not to push her under it. Breath on her neck, the smell of aftershave to her left, she holds her breath, can’t breathe in that nauseating smell. Steals a look. A man, taller than her, leers down. Shit. She should have taken the bus, but fuck it, when she’d left the house she’d been determined not to let that book cripple her and the bus meant three changes, too long to get to work. Too difficult. Catherine the brave, that’s who she is, not a whimpering coward. She is trying to be Robert’s Catherine. Since her late-night book burning he has started to believe in her again. He has been so careful around her, so considerate. She kept her promise and made an appointment with the doctor and Robert has seen the small yellow pills that sit beside her bed. They help her sleep a little, and help him believe she is getting back to her old self.

They are pushing her and she cannot allow herself to be pushed closer to the oncoming train. She has inched forward each time a train has passed, moving a little closer, ready for the next one, but not too close. She has discovered a new respect for the yellow line. Her body twitches with the fear that a psychopath will pick her out at random and push her onto the track. It has happened to people before, and now she believes it could happen to her too. Except it wouldn’t be random. She would be chosen. It would look like an accident and Catherine knows how easy it is for accidents to happen.

She fixes her eyes on the track, and sees parts of herself splattered onto it. The train arrives, she stands her ground and pushes forward. Her turn to go over the top. She makes it. The doors close. No seat, but for once she is grateful for the bodies pressed around her, keeping her upright. Eight stops and she will be there.

Eight stops and she gets off and up out into the street. She keeps walking, doesn’t look back. Onward to work, onward to the desk which she needs to get behind. The closer she gets to it the safer she feels and she almost forgets that, a short while before, she had suspected perfect strangers of watching her, waiting to push her. Not now though. Now she is safe. She swipes her pass, goes through security, and joins the few already waiting for the lift. They know her here. And she knows them.

“Hey, how was the move?”

Catherine smiles back at Kim, lovely Kim, lovely, young, and vibrant Kim. She dumps her bag on the desk with a thump and takes out the ugly metal lump she’d won and holds it up in self-mocking triumph, placing it on the shelf behind her. It’s open plan here too, just like home.

“Went well,” she says and settles into her chair. This is a place where she is in control, where she can manage things, start them, stop them even, if she wants.

“Isn’t it hideous?” Catherine says, looking at her award.

“Useful blunt instrument though. We’ll be glad of it when Simon comes in,” Kim quips.

“Yes, and so easy to clean off the blood with one of these handy wipes,” and Catherine whips out a screen cloth and cleans the dust from her computer, surprised at how easy it has been to join in with Kim’s murderous banter.

“Coffee?” asks Kim.