Page 2 of The World Outside My Window

I haven’t been outside since.

PARTI

LOST

1

17 SEPTEMBER 1992

Laura Parks hasn’t left her home for more than eighteen months. Neither has she spoken to another soul apart from her husband, Jim, and best friend, Debbie, in all that time. She’s only aware of the passing of the seasons thanks to occasional snapshots of the outside world through gauzy net curtains, and slices of life glimpsed through narrow gaps between blinds.

And now, Laura has been abandoned. At least, it’s beginning to look that way.

Because Jim hasn’t come home.

Here she is, hovering by the window, squinting into the cul-de-sac, making deals with herself. Perhaps, she reasons, if she stands here for ten more seconds, he’ll appear.

Ten seconds pass. Another thirty seconds, then. That should be enough.

She feels her heart skitter inside her chest as she peers through the blinds, angling herself so that she won’t miss her husband’s familiar figure the second he rounds the corner, while avoiding revealing the whole street at once. Her gaze flicks to the clock above the fireplace and back again. He’s now an hour late. He’s never an hour late.

She inches closer to the glass until her nose lightly touches one of the vinyl slats. Dust shoots up her nostrils, making her want to sneeze, and as she breathes out, the glass behind the blind mists, clears, then mists over again. It’s getting darker now, spaces between the houses opposite rapidly turning grey, smudged with shadows. An early evening breeze tickles the treetops, making the leaves dance, and a few float to the ground, zigzagging through the air before brushing the earth with barely a murmur. It’s peaceful outside now, everyone finished with their lawn mowing, hedge cutting, car washing. Lights are being switched on in living rooms, smoke rises from chimneys. There isn’t even the usual bored teenager doing keepy-uppies by the kerb to disturb the peace.

She starts suddenly, her pulse quickstepping as a movement catches the corner of her eye by next door’s hedge. But when she looks more closely, it’s gone. A fox, probably, or next door’s cat.

She pulls back, angry with herself, and picks up a glass from the coffee table. There’s less than an inch of clear liquid left in the bottom, so she tips it down her throat and stalks into the kitchen to top it up, the vodka splashing onto the worktop as she pours with shaking hands. She takes another gulp and closes her eyes, leaning against the counter for support, and listens to the drum of her pulse in her chest, her temple, her limbs. She feels weak with worry.

The sudden peal of the telephone breaks into her thoughts and she almost screams with fright.

‘Jim?’ Her voice fires out like a bullet, hope flaring in her chest as she smacks the plastic receiver against her ear, the twisted wire swinging forlornly.

‘It’s me.’

Her shoulders sag, stomach dropping with disappointment.

‘Oh, hi, Debs.’

‘Don’t sound too pleased to hear from me.’ She hears her best friend swallow and pictures her sipping the cup of tea she always has on the go. There’s a rumble of the TV in the background and she imagines Debbie’s kids stretched across the carpet on their bellies watchingBlue PeterorPingu, their favourite.

‘Sorry. I just—’ The words stick in her throat.

‘Has something happened?’ The concern in Debbie’s voice is clear now, and she feels a stab of guilt that she always puts her best friend through so much worry when she has such a lot on her plate already.

‘It’s Jim,’ she croaks. ‘He’s missing.’

A second of silence, then: ‘What do you mean, missing?’

A pulse beats in her temple, and she swallows. ‘He’s not home yet.’ Saying the words out loud make it feel all too real and she starts to shake.

‘Do you want me to come over when Steve gets home?’

She hates that she’s so needy, that Debbie even has to ask this question. She’s thirty-three years old, she should be more than capable of looking after herself. But she’s always had someone there as a crutch – Mum, Dad before he disappeared like a wisp of smoke; Debbie and, for the last seven years, Jim. The thought of being alone makes her feel as though she’s been hollowed out, or lost a limb.

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. You stay with the kids.’ She takes a sip of her vodka and realises the glass is already empty. ‘Jim will be home soon, I’m just being silly.’

‘You’re not being silly, darling, you never are.’ Laura can hear the concern in her friend’s voice. ‘But I do think you’re right. I’m sure Jim will be home soon.’

Laura swallows down a sob at her kindness and whispers, ‘Thank you.’

---