No one stands on the grass, staring up at her house. She steps a little closer and can see the railing that edges her small front garden. The flower beds come into view and then, finally, by pressing her face against the cool glass, she can see the whole of the front of her property. There is no one in her garden, which means the voice she heard could only have come from inside the house.
Heart thumping, she searches the living room and finds a soapstone statue of a polar bear, smooth and very heavy. The bear’s head and neck fit perfectly into her right hand and its body becomes a weapon. She makes her way into the only other room on this floor: the spare bedroom that doubles as a study. It too is empty.
Back downstairs again, the front door is locked and bolted. There is no one in her bathroom and the sense of being watched is fading. For some reason, though, she is still reluctant to open the last door into the kitchen. She has a sudden vision of someone crouched on the central island, waiting to spring, or hanging above the door frame like a bat.
With a burst of courage, she pushes open the door, reaches for the light and the room is revealed in all its clean white lines. Exactly as it should be. Except for the muddy footprints leading from the patio doors. Knowing the worst now, she enters the room. She avoids the mud as she steps to the door. Locked and bolted.
The prints are indistinct and incomplete, but she can see traces of a pattern from the underside of a large trainer. She runs to the cupboard by the back door where she keeps her outdoor shoes. Dreading what she will see, she lifts the right foot of her running shoe. It’s spotless. So is the left foot. She has not made these prints and she doesn’t know whether that is a good thing or the worst possible.
She backs away until her shoulders are pressing up against the cool of her back door, knowing that she cannot stay in this house a moment longer. She does not believe in ghosts, in the supernatural of any kind, but there are things happening to her that she can’t begin to explain and she is more afraid than she ever imagined possible. She has to get out.
She has nowhere to go.
From a short distance away a church bell begins to chime the hour. Four o’clock in the morning. She doesn’t go back to bed. Instead, she opens the door of the cupboard under the stairs. This is a cupboard she uses frequently, unlike its twin in the basement, at which she never looks and certainly never opens.
She keeps this cupboard neat and there is a square of carpet on the concrete floor. A single duvet is rolled neatly in the corner around an old pillow.
Felicity crawls into the cupboard and wraps the duvet around her as she settles herself into the corner. She balances the pillow against the wall and goes to sleep. And finally, like the last trace of a dream, she remembers what the voice in her ear said to her:
He’s coming.
25
Felicity
‘So, how have you been, Felicity?’
‘Good, thank you. It’s good to be back at work.’
It is early evening, a week after her first appointment, and all the windows are open in Joe’s consulting room. Felicity can smell the traffic fumes and food cooking in nearby restaurants. Occasionally, though, a waft of summer flowers steals inside.
She has a plan for her second session with Joe. She will be cheerful, upbeat and chatty. She will enthuse about her work, and the fact that she feels fit enough to go running again. She will show him her diary, a week full of recorded activity.
‘Your face looks a lot better,’ he says.
Her hand goes up to her right cheek, the worst of the grazes. ‘I heal fast,’ she says.
‘Given your line of work, that’s probably a good thing.’
‘Actually, I spend relatively little time on glaciers. They’re expensive trips. Most of the time I’m behind a desk.’
He asks, ‘Do you have a trip coming up?’
She thinks, this is going well. She just has to keep the small talk going.
‘Actually, there is talk of a trip that would be great. Possibly the best thing I’ve ever done. I think I mentioned it last week.’
‘Oh?’
‘We have a base on South Georgia. Mainly it’s about studying the wildlife, which is remarkable, but there are over a hundred glaciers there, and we know very little about them.’
‘South Georgia? The southern United States?’
She forces a laugh. ‘No, sorry. I’m talking about the island in the South Atlantic. Between the Antarctic and the Falkland Islands. It’s a British protectorate, and one of the most remote places on Earth. No resident population, just a couple of government officials and our scientists. And tourists in the summer. In the winter, though, practically no one.’
He makes a deeply puzzled face. ‘And this is somewhere you want to live? For how long?’
‘I’d love it. It would make my career. And it would be a two-year assignment.’
‘But to be allowed to go, you have to be fit? They’ll expect a medical report and that will include a psychiatric assessment.’
And, with that, she knows he’s seen her game. Of course, the Survey will never send her to South Georgia without a clean bill of health. Physically, she’s absolutely fine. It all depends on Joe.
‘When would you leave?’ he asks.
‘The last week in August. When the worst of the southern hemisphere winter is over.’
‘Just over two months then.’
‘Is it enough time? To get me better. To sort me out. If I agree to two whole months of therapy, will you be satisfied?’
His eyebrows bounce.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I know you’re trying to help.’
‘I’ll answer your question,’ he says. ‘Because I think it’s fair. Two months may be enough time. But I won’t be able to say with any level of confidence until you start to trust me.’
She stares back at him.
‘I think there’s much you’re not telling me,’ he says. ‘And that’s OK. We move at a pace you’re comfortable with.’
She’s been a fool, to imagine she can keep these sessions under control.
‘And I think you’ve been trying to steer the conversation today so that I won’t ask you anything difficult.’
‘So, ask me something difficult,’ she says.
Smiling, he shakes his head. ‘That’s not how it works. I’m not here to make you uncomfortable. What do your friends think about your South Georgia plans?’
The question throws her. ‘My friends?’ she repeats, playing for time.
‘You’ve yet to mention friends,’ he says. ‘But those closest to us can be instrumental to our emotional wellbeing. Is there a significant other in your life? Someone who might, understandably, feel left behind by your plans to move to the other side of the globe?’
‘My memory’s playing tricks on me,’ she says, before she can stop herself.
Joe’s eyes narrow.
‘The day I first came here, this time last week, I did a big supermarket shop after work. When I got home, I found I’d done exactly the same thing a couple of days earlier and forgotten all about it. And I’d bought things I’d never eat.’
Joe makes a note in his pad. ‘You’ve been under some stress,’ he says. ‘It’s understandable things will slip your mind.’