I Know Who You Are(80)

The betting shop is still here, too, boarded up, but with a hand-painted sign above the door:

BRIC-A-BRAC & ANTIQUES

There is also a CLOSED sign, sellotaped behind the frosted window. I hold my hands up to the glass to block out the light and try to peer inside, but all I can see is black.

I knock. Twice.

There’s no answer, so I move to the door at the side of the shop, the one that leads to the flat. The paint has peeled and someone has sprayed the word LIAR on it in red. It always seemed so big when I was a little girl, but now I can see that it’s just a regular door. I knock again, but nobody answers.

I bend down and push the rusted letter box open. “Hello?” I peer through the tiny rectangle, but am unable to see anything more than a huge pile of unopened mail and takeaway flyers. I bend my neck a little lower and can see the bottom of the stairs, covered in the old red carpet and new dark stains.

“Hello?”

There’s still no reply.

Then I hear music start to play up in the flat.

I take out my phone.

I should call the police.

I should call someone.

But I don’t. Instead I put my mobile back in my bag, check that I still have the gun, and walk down the road and up the alley to the back of the shop.

The back gate has gone, and a lot of the fencing has fallen down. Once again, everything seems so much smaller than I remembered. A battered old white van is parked outside on the tarmac, nothing of note visible through its grimy windows. The door to the little back room is slightly ajar, but I’m too scared of what might be behind it to go in.

I knock on the peeling, splintered wood, but the chances of anyone hearing me seem fairly minimal, given the volume of the music now blaring inside. I recognize the song—“Fairytale of New York.” It seems strange to hear it when it isn’t Christmas. I take a step forward, the lyrics about stolen dreams already a little too loud inside my head.

The little room where I used to sit and read my Story Teller magazines and listen to tapes is still here, but everything about it is different. There is no desk, it’s just a room full of clutter. I walk through to what was once the shop, but it is more of a dusty storage space now. I press the sticky light switch and see that the place still has fluorescent lighting. It flickers to life, so that some squares in the ceiling are faintly illuminated. They give off an eerie glow, revealing pieces of antique furniture leaning against each other for support, all of it covered in dust and dirt. I make my way through the wardrobes, dressers, and stacks of chairs and eventually navigate a path to the side door, leading through to the flat. It’s open, but the light switch here doesn’t work at all.

“Hello, is anyone home?” I shout over the music, which sounds even louder than before. There’s no answer, but I can definitely see light at the top of the stairs. I start going up in the darkness, feeling my way, surprised to discover that after all this time the walls are still covered in cork tiles. Each step seems to creak and groan, and although the voice in my head is screaming at me to turn back, I can’t.

I need to know the truth.

When I’m halfway up the stairs, the music stops.

I hear a door open, some footsteps, then nothing.

The renewed silence swallows me, but I force my feet to keep going.

Then I hear a door up above slam closed.

When I reach the top, I see tealight candles flickering on the floor of the landing. They are the only source of light. I try a switch on the wall, but nothing happens, and I see the fixture on the ceiling has no lightbulb. The doors to the rooms are all closed, but everything looks the same. I follow the line of candles to what used to be the lounge, and my hand rests on the doorknob a little longer than necessary while I build up the courage to turn it.

The room looks nothing like it used to, and I feel nothing but relief. The old electric fireplace has been ripped out, and the original open fire haphazardly restored, with exposed bricks and a slightly wonky mantelpiece. The sight of the flames and the smell of the logs burning brings a peculiar sense of comfort. Everything is a little dated and dirty, but it’s just a normal-looking room. Somebody’s lounge with chairs and a table. No skeletons so far. No closet. The candles continue their path along the floor, stopping at an ornate-looking coffee table in front of the roaring open fire. There are candles on the table, too, surrounding a large red book. It’s a photo album.

I pick it up. It feels heavier than it looks, and when I open it, I see my own face staring out at me from an old newspaper interview. I turn the page and see another picture of me, another article. I keep turning the pages, and it appears as if every interview, profile piece, or review of my work that ever existed has been collected inside. A part of me knows that I should leave now, that this isn’t right or normal, but I just keep turning the pages, as though I’m in some kind of trance and can’t stop.

But then I do.

Stop.

The music starts again. The same song as before. I know I need to get out of here, but the final page of the album doesn’t contain a newspaper clipping. It’s a letter.

One that I remember writing almost twenty years ago.

Dear Eamonn,

You might not remember me, but I remember you.

A long time ago, I was your sister, but I ran away and a woman called Maggie kidnapped me and took me to England, though I did not understand that at the time, or for several years afterwards.