In my experience, it starts because you want to be a better you.
You start out by striving to be someone else – the perfect version of you – and then, before you know it, you’re acting like someone else altogether.
If you do a really good job, it’s amazing how the people around you will start believing in the person who isn’t really you.
Once the process has started, it’s difficult to back out. It’s so much harder to hold your hands up and tell the truth than to just let it play out and see where things go.
After all, you’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just trying to make a better life for yourself… and who can blame you for that?
So, it starts with an opportunity. Meeting the right person is crucial.
I’m lucky. I’m the kind of person who learns from my mistakes.
Sadly, I know only too well where the pitfalls are… I have to live with them every day.
I think I have a pretty good handle on how to meet the right sort of person now, and that’s why I chose her.
I started by just watching. And listening. It was innocent enough, at least in the beginning.
Yet things that start well can sometimes start to slide, very slowly, and before you know it, you’re out of control. So you must take it easy.
It takes time to build that momentum. Sometimes, you hardly notice it’s happening.
You think everything is going well, and then by the time you realise, it’s too late. The damage is done.
If people just do what they say they’ll do, everything can turn out fine.
But of course, most people do what they want to do.
Always selfish. Always far more interested in their own lives.
And before long, the person you’ve tried to do your best for, put all your trust in… that person will betray you. Just like all the others.
Then you’ve no choice but to stop them in any way you can.
That’s what happened last time, you see. So I made a promise to myself, which I fully intend to keep.
This time, I’ll do things differently.
This time, no matter what it costs, I’ll do it right.
Mr Brown at number 11 is in his front garden again.
This is something of an anomaly for a Tuesday morning, when a) he would usually be at work, and b) he mowed the lawn just two days ago.
I reach for my Rolodex rotary file system. It’s an original, a vintage model that I purchased from eBay for a considerable sum. Like my fountain pens and wax seals, it has that certain something that new technology simply lacks. Spreadsheets and databases can’t compare with the pungent permanence of real ink or the assurance of thick, textured paper under one’s fingertips.
I pull the Rolodex across the table towards me and open it at one of the three yellowed cards I’ve filed under the letter B.
I select my green fountain pen and make a note that Mr Brown has purchased a new orange Flymo lawnmower. It’s one of the less expensive models, the sort that doesn’t pick up after itself by collecting the cut grass, but that isn’t really surprising. When I scan my earlier entries, I’m reminded that last summer, Mr Brown got rid of his failing fancy gas barbecue and bought a bog-standard coals version.
Also, the rusting wrought-iron bench on the small patio has been replaced with a cheap plastic version. Mrs Brown often sits out there alone and in all weathers, staring for long minutes at the dark cracked concrete under her bare feet.
I completely missed the signs last time, but I don’t intend to make the same mistake again.
My attention is brought back to the window.
Mr Brown tugs the mower this way and that, employing a most unsatisfactory method that I feel sure will only serve to churn up the lawn and possibly cause irreparable damage.
I imagine exchanging my slippers for shoes and popping over there to warn him, but as usual, it is only a brief digression. I’m better off staying here, in the safety of my bedroom.
Mr Brown will most likely not appreciate my proffered advice one bit, and besides, how can I tell him I’ve been observing him from my bedroom window?
A quick viewing through the multi-zooms that Mother gifted me last Christmas – they arrived in a box with the tagline The World’s Most Powerful Binoculars – confirms Mr Brown’s furrowed brow and set jaw. He certainly doesn’t look in the best of moods; he looks rather like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
No surprise there.
I replace the cap on the green pen and pick up the red, the colour I’ve designated to signify an ongoing query in my notes.
MONEY PROBLEMS?
I print the letters neatly, underlining the query for good measure.
I’ll need to continue to keep a close eye on Mr Brown for obvious reasons. When people become worried about money, I know only too well how they can swiftly turn to desperate measures.
‘David!’ Mother calls from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Do you want sliced tomatoes in your ham and cheese sandwich, love?’
‘Please, Mum.’
I’m about to add that I quite fancy a bag of cheese and onion crisps too, but movement to the bottom left of the window distracts me.
It’s Mrs Barrett at number 7, bent almost double and sweeping her back doorstep. Our house, number 9, sits on the curve of the crescent, so when I look down to the left, I’m afforded a view of the whole of Mrs Barrett’s yard, including the back door, as I am number 11, the Browns’ residence, and a few houses either side.
The house is far too big for her now and must be rather a handful to manage. I thought she might sell up when Mr Barrett died; in fact, I’d already begun to fret who might come to live there if she moved on.
‘People react differently when a loved one dies, David,’ Mother remarked. ‘Some are compelled to escape the memories as soon as they can, while others can’t imagine ever leaving them behind.’
It seems Mrs Barrett has turned out to be one of those sorts of people who just stay put until it’s their turn to go.
I tap lightly on the glass but she doesn’t look up.
Over the last two years, I’ve done various odd jobs around the house for her, simple things like carrying heavy items upstairs or weeding the borders. I was just about able to manage that, despite the effort it took to leave my room. To her credit, Mrs Barrett has always been so very grateful.
When I started to feel a little better, I got my part-time job and finally plucked up the courage to take the bus every day. Sadly, I found it nigh-on impossible to visit Mrs Barrett several times a week like before, due to time constraints.
I make a mental note to pop next door again sometime soon. Yet as soon as the thought forms in my mind, my breathing turns shallow.
I expect it’s because I’ve had a difficult few weeks. There’s no particular reason for me feeling so unsettled, nothing specific I’m able to put my finger on, but then again, there rarely is. It’s just the usual stuff, emotions rising up inside and trying to spill out… just when I feel sure I’ve buried them good and deep.
Mother tries everything to bring me round.
Fancy a walk to the shops with me, David?
Would you mind just taking the bins out?
She means well, of course, but nothing she says can ever get through the impenetrable wall of fear that has installed itself in the forefront of my mind. Just when I think I’m over what happened, it seems to appear again, with a vengeance.
I cope OK with going to work, providing I’m able to follow all the necessary steps in the order I need to. It’s the unexpected and the out-of-the-ordinary that brings me out in a cold sweat, and that’s what I must strive to avoid.
This is why I know it’s so much better to stay home and adhere to my routine, rather than try and offer advice to Mr Brown about his mowing method.
To put things into perspective, I turned forty years old three months ago. I weigh just over fourteen stone and stand a shade above six foot tall.
That considered, it figures that it doesn’t look too good to others when you are a strapping man but are afraid of the dark. It doesn’t feel good when you dare not venture out alone at night.
I learned from my father’s fists quite young that real men don’t quake, don’t cry, don’t shake at the thought of leaving the house.
Real men aren’t kept awake in the early hours by a raft of terrible memories; they give themselves a shake and simply learn to get over whatever troubles them.
I try my best to keep busy. I try to keep the people around me safe, so they’ll never have to feel the fear. And most importantly, I try very hard to stay in the shadows and make sure that nobody else can spot my failings.
It’s a life of sorts, but I often wonder if I’ll ever move on from here. Living with my mother, doing the same thing day after day. I wonder if anything will ever change.
I don’t honestly see how it can.
I don’t think anything of the banging noise downstairs until I get down and see that Brian Buckley is sitting in my armchair.
Brian is Mother’s friend. At least that’s what she likes to call him.
He calls out when I appear in the living room doorway.
‘Raise the flags, Pat. Dave’s out of his bedroom,’ he roars, in his broad Barnsley accent.
I ignore him and sit down on the sofa. It’s the seat nearest the window and, therefore, the furthest I can physically get away from Brian.
‘Here are your sandwiches, love,’ Mother says. I’m pleased to see she has given me crisps.
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I take the tray and check that the crisps aren’t touching the bread. I try to imagine that Brian isn’t here and take a sip of tea, placing it down on the coaster by my foot.
‘Now then.’ Brian’s mouth is full of masticated bread. ‘What’s happening in Dave’s world?’
‘He’s been working all morning, haven’t you, love?’ Mum chips in.
‘Working, eh?’ Brian chuckles to himself. ‘Working on what, exactly?’
I pop a crisp into my mouth and chew it thoughtfully without replying.
‘David?’ Mum gives me a nudge.
‘I’ve been collating information.’
‘Collating, you say?’ Brian shakes his head. ‘He needs a proper job, Pat. I’ve told you, I made a lot of contacts in the building trade. Could hardly fail to with forty-five years under my belt, out on site.’
Mother nods. ‘You were always such a hard worker, Brian.’
She’s known him since school. She was friends with his wife, Carol, before she died two years ago. Mother and I went to the funeral, and when the coffin finally glided through the curtains, Brian threw himself dramatically to the floor, sobbing into the dusty pews.
His grief didn’t stop him asking Mother out a week later, though.
‘What I’m trying to say, David…’ Brian pauses for so long, I’m forced to look up from my plate, ‘is that I could probably find you a job on a decent building site, not too far from home.’
Mother blinks.
‘That’s kind of you, Brian, but… well, I’m not entirely sure our David would do well in that kind of environment.’
‘What kind of environment? You mean long hours, fresh air and plenty of good strong builder’s tea? It might even put some hairs on his chest.’ Brian scowls. ‘Have you thought about that?’
I stare at my plate. I watched a television programme only last week about the new breed of modern man. Apparently he plucks his eyebrows, sticks to a skin-care regime and even waxes his chest hairs. But I decide not to mention this to Brian.
‘So.’ Brian pushes away his plate. ‘Are you going to tell him, Pat, or shall I?’
Mother coughs. She seems to be steeling herself to say something. ‘David… Brian and I, we wanted to have a word with you, love.’
I swallow a piece of half-chewed sandwich and watch as her face visibly pales. She looks at Brian, whose own fat cheeks are ruddy with pleasure, and he nods in apparent encouragement.
‘The thing is… Brian, well he’s…’
‘I’m moving in,’ Brian says bluntly.
My mouth starts up its chewing action again. With no actual food in there, it feels odd and only serves to increase the fluttering sensation in my chest.
Mother shifts closer to me.
‘You know that me and Brian have known each other for a long time now; many years, in fact. I mean, it’s not as if we’ve just met.’
‘No need to justify our decision, Pat.’ Brian frowns.
But Mother babbles on. ‘I mean, obviously we both used to be with someone else, but sadly… Well, it’s our time now. And as you know, Brian already spends a lot of time here.’
Too much time.
‘No sense at all in paying two lots of rent and council tax,’ Brian adds. ‘And all the other bills as well.’
If Brian is giving up his one-bedroom rented council flat, then so far as I can tell, he’ll be the one largely benefiting from the savings.
I stand up and my plate slides off my knees onto the floor. The remaining bit of uneaten sandwich flops onto the carpet and the crisps flutter down like dry autumn leaves. I feel sick and I can’t bring myself to pick them up.
‘David? I hope you’re not going to take this badly.’
I don’t answer her and I don’t look at Brian. I just keep walking until I reach the bottom of the stairs.
‘David!’ I hear Mother plead. ‘Can’t you at least be a little bit happy for us?’
‘Leave him be, Pat,’ Brian says as I begin to climb the stairs. ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks. He’s had it far too easy for far too long, and now I’m here, he’d better look sharp. Things are about to get a bit tougher for Mummy’s boy.’
Back in my room, I perch on the edge of the bed and rest my head in my hands.
Brian… living here with me and Mother? This is surely all my nightmares rolled into one. I can’t really imagine it. Can’t bear to even think about it.
Yet there is nothing I can do to actually stop it.
I feel a sharp twist inside, as if a thin serrated blade has lodged itself underneath my ribcage. It’s twisting and turning, hollowing out my innards.
I wish I had the courage to leave home and get my own place.
A column of blazing heat tunnels its way up through the middle of my torso. But this time it’s not because Brian is moving in.
I spend a lot of hours lying on this bed, dreaming of a future I’m sure I’ll never touch.
I often imagine myself on some sort of adventure. Walking the Great Wall of China with like-minded people, or perhaps taking photographs of New York from the very top of the Empire State Building. Maybe the odd selfie or two with someone special.
Of course they are just dreams, and afterwards they always seem too adventurous and completely out of my grasp. Yet these are not fantasy worlds; they are places that ordinary people successfully visit all the time. That tells me it can be done.
Other times, I think about getting a different job. Perhaps in a busy office in Nottingham city centre. I enjoy my current part-time job, but this would make more use of my organisational skills and my natural aptitude with numbers.
I’d spend my lunch hour chatting with colleagues or taking a brisk walk around Market Square for the fresh air. Then, at the end of the working day, I’d make my way home on the tram to my nice neat little flat in a leafy suburb. My very own calm oasis, just outside the city.
Lots of people have this kind of life. They’re always complaining about it, too; I’ve heard customers at the shop, people on the bus… nobody seems happy with their lot.
Brian moving in wouldn’t matter if I had my own place.
I know only too well that if I was to seriously formulate any real plans, well, that’s when my heart would start up like a frenzied jackhammer, and before long I’d get that awful feeling… like I’m about to throw up at any second.
I’m a prisoner in my own head. Worse still, on days like today, it feels like nothing will ever change and I’ll be trapped here forever.
The heat inside is for myself. Sometimes I wish I could just self-combust.
Mother shakes me out of my melancholy.
‘Fancy a cup of tea and a biscuit, love?’ Her voice floats upstairs.
I don’t answer. If I stay quiet, she’ll go away; she always does.
At that moment, I hear a scraping noise outside. I move over to the window and press my face close to the glass to get the right angle.
I can see a young woman down there. In Mrs Barrett’s yard.
She potters around, staying close to the back door, which makes it quite difficult to see her from my current position. I twist the handle and push the side window slightly ajar.
I take a step back, in case she suddenly looks up at the glass, but then relax a little when I see she seems fully absorbed in her task. She’s stuffing clothes, or something similar, into a large black garbage bag.
Mother and I have lived adjacent to Mrs Barrett for more years than I care to mention. To my knowledge, she doesn’t have any adult children, and in all the years I’ve known her, she has never so much as had guests to stay over for a night or two.
Keeping slightly back from the glass, I focus in on the visitor. I am pleasantly surprised.
It is unusual, these days, to find a young woman with a preference for plain, modest clothing and minimal make-up. She is of slim build, with shoulder-length brown hair, and seems purposeful, with a pleasing economy of movement. I can’t help noticing she has dainty hands, which appear to like keeping busy.
At least that’s the impression she gives as I watch her through my binoculars.
So far, I’ve only seen her from behind and in profile. It proves difficult to study all her features in detail when her hair keeps falling over her face like a dark caramel-coloured curtain.
Something about her reminds me of someone.
Quite unexpectedly, she straightens up, pushes flat palms into the bottom of her back and shakes the hair from her face. A pert nose, full lips and astonishingly dark eyes and brows reveal themselves.
Using the back of her hand, she briskly wipes her forehead and looks down the long, narrow yard. She sighs, her small breasts rising and falling beneath a silky biscuit-coloured blouse.
I swallow hard and lower the binoculars, stepping back into the room until I’m well away from the window.
I take a couple of deep breaths and close my eyes.
I don’t have to feel bad about this, I tell myself calmly. I’m doing absolutely nothing wrong.
I lay down the binoculars and walk slowly downstairs.
Strains of a televised football match emanate from the lounge as I enter the kitchen. Mother stands washing dishes at the sink.
‘Ah, there you are, David.’ She lifts out her sud-covered fingers for a moment or two and looks at me, her sharp, avian eyes narrowing at my expression. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say faintly.
‘I called up earlier and asked if you’d like a cup of tea. I’ve bought your favourite arrowroot biscuits from—’
‘Have you spoken to Mrs Barrett lately?’ I cut in.
‘Mrs Barrett? I’m afraid not.’ She turns back to the sink. ‘I really ought to pop round there at some point. Perhaps you might come with me, David.’ And then her hands stop moving in the sink and she turns round again to face me. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘It looks like she might have a visitor. She hasn’t got any grown-up children, has she?’
To avoid Mother’s incisive glare I pick up Brian’s tabloid newspaper from the counter and stare blindly at the front page.
Mother coughs.
‘No. No, she hasn’t got any family, though I don’t think it was through choice. She once told me it was a regret of hers but something she had just learned to accept.’
‘It might be her niece, then,’ I offer.
‘The visitor is a girl?’
‘A young woman.’ I nod. ‘Quite a bit younger than me by the looks of it.’
‘I see.’ Mother swallows hard. ‘There’s… not going to be a problem, is there, David?’
I feel a rush of heat in my face but I say nothing.
‘It wouldn’t do for her to think you’ve been…’
‘I was looking out of my window and she came outside, into the yard,’ I say quickly. ‘I was already looking. I didn’t…’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Mother is relieved. She pulls her hands out of the sink and flicks off the soapy bubbles. ‘Well, perhaps Mrs Barrett’s taken in a lodger. That house is far too much for her to manage now.’
‘Yes. Perhaps that’s it.’ I step back into the gloom of the hallway. ‘I thought I might go round there now and ask Mrs Barrett if she needs any help… ask her if there are any odd jobs that need doing. It’s been a while.’
Mother opens her mouth as if to comment, but then closes it again.
In the event, I don’t go to Mrs Barrett’s house. Instead, I go back up to my bedroom and stand at the edge of the window.
It’s important to consider the situation logically.
I don’t know who this person, this visitor of Mrs Barrett’s, might be. I can hardly go blustering round there offering my help. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.
Besides, I’m wearing my old checked slippers and my comfy cardie with the worn cuffs and missing buttons.
First impressions are very important; everyone knows that.
The young woman is no longer in the yard, but the bag full of clothing is still out there, gaping open like an abandoned coal sack. I hope this means she’ll be coming outside again before too long. Wind and rain are forecast for this evening, so if she leaves it there, the contents will doubtless get wet and scattered all over the yard.
While I wait for her to reappear, I pluck out a blank card from the Rolodex and fiddle with the settings on my camera.
About ten minutes later, my patience is rewarded when the young woman appears and proceeds to tie up the bag, before walking halfway down the yard to the bin and dumping it in there.
She’s wearing a brown wool cardigan now, which she pulls closed across her body as she returns to the house. She doesn’t pause, doesn’t look around, and within seconds, she is back inside. I hear the door close behind her.
Although I’m a little disappointed, it doesn’t matter. I have what I wanted.
Using my powerful zoom lens, I’ve managed to get some nicely detailed images with the camera.
I flip out the small memory card and pop it into the side of my laptop. While it loads, I pull out the old grey suitcase from under my bed and begin to search through the photographs.
Holly Newman stood at the window of Mrs Barrett’s kitchen and filled the kettle for the umpteenth time since she’d arrived.
It felt so strange, being in the area again. Especially since nothing seemed to have changed around here at all in over ten years.
Take this very crescent, for instance. The mostly detached houses, built in the sixties, stood proudly on their modest plots. Small front gardens led to longer, narrow yards at the back.
Aside from the odd neat porch, and the ostentatious white Grecian pillars that the people at the end had added, the facades were unchanged.
Holly used to pass by here on her way home from school when she travelled to college each day. The third house in still had a front garden full of gaudy and, Holly had always thought, rather sinister-looking gnomes.
National newspaper headlines constantly screamed of local co. . .
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