The Dead Ex(10)

Unless she knows something that the rest of us don’t.





15 February


When my eyes open the next morning, the sun is streaming in through the window. Gingerly, I do my usual checks. No obvious bruises. My muscles aren’t aching. No feeling that something ‘isn’t quite right’. So far, so good.

I ease myself slowly out of bed and pad across the beige carpet to the window. The water spreads out before me. Gentle today. Yesterday it had been furious, spitting pebbles up and onto the promenade. I’d had to walk round them, frightened of tripping.

How had I managed to live so long without being next to the sea? The colours alone are to die for. Sometimes turquoise. Or pale blue. Or grey. Red from the rocks. I marvel at the soothing regularity with which the tide goes in and out, day after day. Its emotions go up and down just like mine. The other day it capsized a kayak, and the lifeboat had to go out.

Missing. Hasn’t been seen for fifteen days.

The policeman’s voice comes back to me. Tossing me back to last night’s visit, which means it’s been sixteen days now. Despite my earlier resolution, I reach for the phone.

‘This is David. You know what to do …’

Don’t play that message again, I tell myself. Get out. Breathe in the air. It might be cold but it’s brisk. Good for you! You need to buy some nutty rye bread anyway. And pick up your prescription. Sort yourself out before the next client. When is she coming again? Check the diary. Not until tomorrow.

Since David, I’ve fallen into the habit of talking to myself. It makes life seem less lonely. The same goes for the radio. Most of the girls had gone for Radio 1, but the psychologist had introduced me to Classic FM. ‘Music makes such a difference to your state of mind,’ he would say.

I tune in now, but the reception isn’t great. Radio Cornwall is clearer. More intimate too. Makes me feel as though I belong here.

‘More delays expected on the Great Western route to Paddington after a week of heavy storms …’

Might this explain David’s disappearance? Could he have come down here – maybe to find me? No. Get real.

To have a break then? No to that too. ‘Can’t think of anywhere worse,’ he used to say, ‘than a cold British beach.’ Turned out too that he’d only been to Dartmoor once. In reality, he was a London man with holidays in the Caribbean, usually tied in with deals all over the world. That way, he could pass off ‘leisure’ spending as business expenses. Was that legal, I’d asked in the early days. He’d laughed that deep, rich laugh of his. Of course it was.

All these memories, I warn myself as I put on my bright-red waterproof jacket, are making my head hum. Or is it because I’m hungry? It’s reasonably early – only 7.30 a.m. – although the girls would have been up for some time by now. I pick up my bottle of tablets, think about it for a second, knock one back and then tie up my hair. They advised me to keep it short after it happened in case it proved a ‘hazard’. However, I needed to create a ‘new me’ in order to keep going.

But suddenly the idea of going out is scary. I feel safer inside. Old habits – however unpleasant at the time – die hard. So I stay in all day, blending my essences. By the time it’s dusk, I have cabin fever so I put my jacket on once more and open the door, flinching as the wind hits my face.

I walk along the promenade, concentrating on the fine line between the land and the sea to distract myself. Then a cracked paving stone makes me falter but – phew! – I manage to right myself just in time. After that I look straight ahead. It helps that we’re out of season, with few tourists to bump into.

I freeze. There’s a child walking towards me, carrying a yellow bucket and spade even though it’s not the weather for it. He seems the right age. His fringe is cut straight across. His eyes lift up as if he knows me.

‘Patrick,’ I whisper in my head. But the word escapes into the air for all to hear.

The woman next to him grabs his hand, gives me a strange look and skitters past.

Breathe deeply. Pretend it didn’t happen. Think of something else, like sea salt. Not just the smell but the taste on your tongue and the freshness in your nose. Until I moved down to the south-west, I hadn’t realized how different the air could be.

A man on a cherry-red disabled scooter is now approaching. I move to one side to allow him by. Would it be easier if my own problems were more obvious like his? Then others might not be so shocked when it happens. Past a woman in purple leggings playing a recorder, half-sitting on the sea wall. (I love the arty types in this part of the country.) The music is hauntingly beautiful, but experiences such as this need to be shared. Yet who would want to share my dark life? Not David, as it turned out.

The humming is back. A warning aura. That’s what they told me. Not everyone gets it. Sometimes it passes. Please. A small white dog goes by, sniffing curiously. Animals often have a sixth sense.

I reach into my pocket for the lavender oil again. I massage it into my pulse points fast before clutching the promenade railing with its chipped green paint for support. There’s a yapping noise behind me. I look back. Next to the dog and its owner is a pretty young woman, wrapped up against the cold. For a moment, my eyes lock with hers. Don’t I know her from somewhere? But then she turns round and walks off.

Now I can smell burning. This isn’t good. Experience has taught me that I have a few seconds left, if that.