Читать книгу Copycat - Alex Lake - Страница 15

Sarah lay in bed, eyes open. She had got back from Jean’s house at eleven and had struggled to fall asleep. Now, after not much more than four hours of fitful sleep, she was awake.

Wide awake. Too much wine had given her a headache and, although the ibuprofen she had taken had dulled the pain, it was not much use in calming the other problem with her head, namely the questions rolling around and around in a futile search for answers. She wanted to know who was behind this, and why.

And she wanted to know if it was dangerous. Because it certainly felt like it could be. Whoever had done this had been at her daughter’s pre-school. In a restaurant with her and Ben.

They had been in her house.

She felt her chest tighten and she inhaled deeply, held her breath, then slowly exhaled.

Not this, she thought. Please, not this.

It had been a few years since her last anxiety attack, since the last time her mind had run away with itself and sent her fight-or-flight reflex haywire, leaving her short of breath, dizzy, heart racing and gripped by a powerful nausea. It had felt like she was having a heart attack, or, on occasion even worse: she’d felt like she was dying.

And, at times, she’d caught herself thinking maybe she would be better off dead. The panic could start at any time. In the car, in the supermarket, at work. She lived in a debilitating fear, and she wasn’t sure she could go on.

She had always been anxious, but what made the panic attacks even harder to bear was that they had started in earnest when Miles was born, and so she associated them with him. This in turn made her feel guilty, which triggered the panic.

Ben had been very worried – this in itself was a big deal, which made her even more anxious – and had spoken to some of the other doctors about possible solutions. In the end, Sarah had seen a colleague who had given her some coping strategies – deep breaths, positive thinking, exercise, and, initially, medication. She had, mercifully, managed to avoid them since.

But the threat of their return had been in the background; they were gone, but there was always the lurking thought: only for now.

And, right on cue, here they were. Hands shaking, heart skipping out of control, she sat up, her head against the cool wall. Next to her, Ben snored gently.

There was no point trying to go to sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and went downstairs.

She was watching the local news when the door to the living room opened. It was Ben, hair tousled, in his boxer shorts.

‘You’re up early,’ he said.

‘You too,’ she replied. ‘You should go back to bed.’

‘I can’t sleep when I know you’re down here.’ He sat beside her and took a swig from her coffee, then began to massage her shoulders. ‘You OK?’

‘I guess. But this Facebook thing has freaked me out. I can’t stop thinking about it. I felt like I was going to have a panic attack. You know, like I used to.’

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Not good.’

The pressure from his fingers intensified. It felt wonderful, and she leaned against him. His left hand slid forward, over her shoulder and on to her breast.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I thought this was a back rub?’

‘I never said so,’ he replied. ‘And I think you need to take your mind off all this Facebook nonsense.’

‘A back rub would do the trick,’ Sarah said. She leaned back and kissed him. ‘But maybe something else would be good, too.’

The sex distracted her, but as she sat and ate breakfast with Miles, Faye and Kim – Ben had gone to work – the questions came back: Who was it? Why? And with them, the anxiety. It was awful; she had an all-pervading sensation of impending doom which occupied most of her attention. For everything else, she was going through the motions, almost mechanically. She felt disengaged from her kids, her home, everything.

Work helped, a little. When she was with the patients, she was focused on them, but whenever she looked at her phone she got a kind of low-grade jolt of worry, a shot of fear that there would be a message, another friend request, or some new, unwelcome contact from the other Sarah Havenant.

But there was nothing.

At eleven forty-five she saw her last patient before lunch.

She looked at the schedule: Derek Davies. His last visit to her office had been less than a month ago; he had been complaining of back pain, but she had been unable to find anything wrong. She opened the door to the examining room and walked in.

‘Mr Davies,’ she said. ‘How are you?’ She logged on to the computer and brought up his notes. It was the fourth time he’d been in the last few months, each time with a different complaint, and each time she had found nothing to be concerned about. ‘Is it your back again?’

He shook his head. He was in his mid-fifties, and drifting toward obesity. He was wearing a crumpled shirt with grease stains on the collar. ‘It’s my leg,’ he said. ‘I get a pain all down it.’ He pressed the side of his left buttock. ‘It starts there.’

Sarah nodded. ‘How long’s it been bothering you?’

‘Two weeks. It’s very painful. I called for an appointment but there weren’t any.’

‘Really? Normally we can fit someone in at shorter notice.’

‘I wanted to see you. And you had no availability.’ He smiled at her, his teeth a little yellow. ‘You’re very popular, it seems!’

‘Well, that’s nice to hear,’ Sarah said. ‘But all the doctors here are equally as capable as me. You should see one of them if there’s a hurry.’

‘I like to see you. I don’t like change.’

‘So,’ Sarah said. ‘The pain. Is it worse at certain times of the day? Or during certain activities?’

‘When I’m driving,’ he said. ‘Or sitting for long periods.’

‘Do you sit for long periods?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Do you work, Mr Davies?’

‘Derek,’ he said. ‘Call me Derek. And I used to work. I was a finance clerk, but I lost my job at Christmas.’ He shook his head. ‘Can you believe it? They fired me at Christmas. I’ve not been able to find a new job since. No one wants someone my age, not these days. They want kids.’

It was, she thought, an explanation for his numerous visits to the doctor’s office. He had too much time on his hands and needed something to do. She glanced at his hand; no wedding ring. Perhaps he also needed company.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It sounds like sciatic pain. The sciatic nerve runs down your leg and it can become irritated if the muscles in your hip and leg get too stiff. I’m going to suggest some physical therapy. The PT will give you some stretches, which should help. Do you get much exercise, Mr D— Derek?’

He shook his head.

‘Do you have hobbies?’

‘Computer stuff, mainly. I like some of the games. You know Minecraft?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Sarah said, even though she hadn’t. ‘But I’m not familiar with it.’

‘You build worlds,’ Mr Davies said. ‘Which you control.’

‘Sounds fascinating. Do you spend a lot of time playing it?’

‘You don’t really play it. It’s about the world you create. You’re like a puppet master.’

Sarah had an image of him staring at his computer in the dark, his face illuminated by the glow from the screen as he built and managed his imaginary world.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘You might want to limit the time you spend sitting down. Maybe take a walk every day for thirty minutes, or even two walks.’

He frowned. ‘Is that all?’ he said. ‘You don’t want to take a look?’

‘I’m not sure what I would see,’ she replied, and smiled. ‘The receptionist will make your PT appointment.’

At lunchtime she drove to the pet store. The man behind the counter led her to a large tank filled with hundreds of goldfish.

‘Fifty cents apiece,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a tank and some food, as well as a bottle of the anti-chlorine stuff. Tap water has chlorine in it; it needs to be neutralized or it’ll kill the fish. We can drink the stuff but a fish can’t.’ He shrugged. ‘Go figure.’

In total it was nearly twenty dollars. A fifty-cent fish with a nineteen-dollar tank. The man laughed when she pointed it out.

‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘but if the fish dies, it’s only another half-dollar to replace it.’

‘And they all look the same,’ Sarah said. ‘So the kids will never know it’s a new one.’

The man gave her a strange smile. ‘You’d think so,’ he said. ‘But it turns out kids always know. In my experience they pay attention to the details much more than we do. They can tell the difference between one fish and another pretty darn good. Best to come clean, tell ’em the fish died, and let ’em pick another.’

‘Well,’ Sarah said. ‘Either way, it’s still only fifty cents.’

‘That, ma’am, is the truth,’ the man said. ‘Now enjoy your fish.’

On the way out, the man had told her to fill the tank, then put the fish – keeping it in the plastic bag full of water he had put it in – in the tank, so the water in the bag and the water in the tank could come to the same temperature. Then, after a few hours, she could pour the fish into its new home.

She didn’t want to do this at work, so she stopped at home and followed his instructions. On the way out, she waved to the fish. It already felt like one of the family. The kids were going to love it.

That evening, as she was leaving work, she got a notification on her phone informing her she had been tagged in a post. She tapped on the link.

It was in a post from Sarah Havenant. The Fake Sarah. No photo this time; just her name, as part of a new post.

A post which read:

Got my goldfish! She’s a beauty!

Sarah stopped at the front door of the medical center. Her head spun and she felt close to passing out. She sat on one of the benches by the door. Before smoking was entirely banned on the premises it was where smokers had sat, and it still had faint traces of the acrid smell of cigarettes.

June, one of the nurses, tapped her on the shoulder.

‘Are you OK, Dr Havenant?’

Sarah nodded. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. I didn’t have lunch. Low blood sugar.’

The nurse walked into the medical center. When she came out she was holding one of the lollipops they gave to kids.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘Have this.’

Sarah sat in the car. She was cold, her mind blank.

There was no doubt now. Whoever this was, they were doing it to get her attention.

They were fucking with her. They were deliberately trying to mess with her head.

And it was working.

Worse, they knew she had been to the pet store. They had been there and seen her walk out with a goldfish in a bag.

Whoever was doing this was watching her.

Hands shaking, legs weak, she started the car. She had to get home, and she had to get there immediately.