Page 39 of The World Outside My Window

As we set off through the streets of north London, I let my eyes close and my body relax. Jim might have given me a fright, but I was actually touched by his concern. His voice beside me made me jump.

‘Sorry, what?’ I said, rubbing my eyes. Jim was smiling at me.

‘I said I changed our phone number today.’ He looked pleased with himself.

‘What? Why?’ I said, properly awake now.

‘I thought it was wise, given the phone calls you’ve been receiving.’

‘Oh.’ I wasn’t sure what to say. I knew Jim had only done it to be kind, but I couldn’t help thinking it would make me even more isolated. I didn’t hear from people much as it was, but when I did, the phone was my lifeline.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘I am. I was just – I didn’t know you were going to do it, that’s all.’

‘Well, no. That’s because I didn’t tell you. But listen, Laura, someone has to look out for you, make sure you’re safe, because you’re not doing a very good job of it yourself.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean like parking in dark, secluded car parks late at night, like chasing after people you think are following you, like not telling me you were receiving worrying phone calls.’ I watched him as he concentrated, his brow furrowed as a van cut him up and he swore under his breath. He glanced at me quickly then back at the road. His hand landed on my thigh, the warmth radiating through my trousers. ‘I just want you to be safe, love.’

I pressed my palm against the back of his hand and threaded his fingers through mine. ‘Thank you,’ I said, my voice a whisper.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey, and I let my eyes close and my mind drift off and tried to forget about everything that had happened and allow myself to feel safe. Because I was, wasn’t I? I had Jim to look after me.

15

NOW – 6 OCTOBER 1992

Number six Willow Crescent

Jane Hardwick and children, Abbie and Archie

The morning dawns bright and sunny, warmer than it has been for most of the summer, with fluffy white clouds in a blue sky and the branches of the willow tree swaying in a gentle breeze. Laura stands at her bedroom window watching the world go by. Her neighbours’ routines have become almost as familiar to her as her own. Ben goes out for a run most mornings and is gone for around forty-five minutes, then comes home and takes his dog for a walk; Jane slams the door behind her about half an hour before her kids leave for school and returns about four o’clock, often with arms full of carrier bags from the local Safeway. Sonja from over the road is always out of the house early, and Laura usually only ever sees her return, while her husband, Simon, is out at irregular times, pushing a buggy or bundling their daughter into her car seat. Marjorie opposite, like her, never leaves the house unless her daughter, Faye, is pushing her in her wheelchair, while Carol and Arthur next door are always pottering about in the garden, or knocking on neighbours’ doors – at least Carol is. Arthur occasionally has a chat with someone by the garden wall, and every Friday night he leaves the house at exactly 7.25 p.m., dressed in his flat cap and tweed jacket, presumably to meet friends for a pint in the pub a few streets away. He’s usually gone a good three hours before he returns, weaving up the front path, a crooked grin on his face. It's comforting for Laura, to see that people’s lives are carrying on as normal.

Today, Simon is standing outside his front door smoking a surreptitious fag, blowing smoke into the warm air in puffs. He leans against the porch, his arms folded. She wonders if he can see her. He looks deep in thought. Jane’s driveway is already empty and Archie is outside, playing keepie-uppies with his football as he always does before school. The tap, tap, tap of the ball against his foot, occasionally bouncing on the tarmac, is rhythmic.

She remembers a few years ago, when she and Jim were still living in the flat in London, when she started seeing the figure outside their flat, watching her; remembers the silent phone calls that had scared her so much, and for the first time she feels grateful to be here dealing with Jim’s disappearance, in the safety of this cul de sac, rather than there, where she’d spent so much time feeling watched, exposed.

She steps away from the window and studies herself in the mirror above the dressing table, where her make-up sits gathering dust. Her skin is pale from lack of sunshine, her curly hair flattened against her head like a crumpled wig. She leans forwards, runs her fingers along her lips. They’re dry, and her skin appears flaky and grey under the harsh sunlight pouring in through the window. Her eyes are tired-looking, a dark rim beneath them, the lines around them deeper than usual. Hardly surprising given she drank her way through most of a bottle of vodka last night. Her medicine, even though she knows it’s killing her. She really needs to start wearing make-up again; the make-up was a mask, before, gave her confidence. Now, though, she sees that without any at all she looks pale and ill.

She goes to lie down on her bed and stares up at the patterns dancing on the ceiling, a fly buzzing lazily around the window frame. Her vision blurs slightly and she closes her eyes tight, screwing them up and pressing the palms of her hands into them until lights dance in her vision. If she lies here, completely still, perhaps she’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. Perhaps everything that has happened in the last eighteen months will turn out to be a horrible nightmare, and she and Jim will be happy again.

But she knows it’s hopeless and, before she can stop it, the one thing she’s been trying not to think about since Ben’s phone call slams back into her mind without warning. The name Ben struggled to remember; the name Jim had drunkenly referred to her as by accident one night a few weeks before. She thinks about the conversation now, replaying it over in her mind.

When the phone rang her heart leapt with hope, the way it always did, as she wondered whether it was Jim, or news of Jim. The only other person who would be calling this number was Debbie, so when she picked up the phone and heard Ben’s voice on the other end she was surprised, and a little bit pleased. He sounded nervous, and when he explained what he’d remembered, about the name Jim had used for her – Cheryl, or Kerry, or something like that – she didn’t think much of it. She simply added it to her list of potential clues and hoped that, eventually, something would leap out at her, something to really give her a push towards working out what had happened to her husband.

But the more she thought about it afterwards, the more she wondered whether itwassignificant. It wasn’t as though the name were anything like hers, and she began torturing herself with thoughts of who this mystery Cheryl or Kerry might be. Could Jim have a hidden past that she knows nothing about? Or is she over-dramatising, making more of this than is actually there? She just can’t imagine Jim hiding something like that from her. Besides, why would he?

Her thoughts are interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. After a frantic search she finds the handset lying on the bed.

‘Hello?’

‘Is this Mrs Parks?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘My name is Jonathon. I’m your police liaison officer.’

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