Читать книгу 11 Missed Calls: A gripping psychological thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat - Elisabeth Carpenter, Elisabeth Carpenter, Libby Carpenter - Страница 12

Debbie

We need to bin this digital alarm clock. Even when I close my eyes, I can still see the angry red numbers reminding me I’m not asleep. It’s one fifteen in the morning. If I go by her previous feeds, Annie’ll be waking again at three thirty. I could go and heat a bottle ready, in case she wakes early.

I keep checking she’s still breathing. She’s only a foot away, in her basket. What if I fall asleep too deeply, roll off the bed and crush her? No, no that couldn’t happen – I’ve not fallen out of bed since I was a child. But you never know. I shuffle away from the edge a bit.

I close my eyes, but my mind is busy with too much crap. My body’s exhausted – why won’t my brain listen to it? It’s no good. The memory of last Saturday keeps coming back to me. I wish I’d never gone with them to Lytham Club Day. There were too many people around – everyone stared at me. You shouldn’t be outside. I bet that’s what they were thinking.

I watched Bobby and Leo on the little rides, while Nathan, Monica and Peter went on the waltzers. It was too warm. The children’s rollercoaster went round and round and round, hundreds of times. I had to sit on the grass.

Peter and the others came over, swaying.

‘That was amazing,’ said Monica. ‘I haven’t been on one of those since I was a teenager.’

‘You have to go on something, Debs,’ said Peter.

I ended up climbing onto the lorry that had been converted into a two-storey ‘fun’ house with the boys. Bobby took me by the hand and pulled me up the stairs.

‘You’ll love it, Mummy,’ he said.

Halfway up the stairs, my legs started to shake. Why hadn’t I realised how high it would be up there? The eyes on the faces painted on the walls watched me. I tried to cover them with my hands as I walked past, but there were too many. Their gaze followed me until we reached the outside part of the upper level.

I held the rail opposite.

Peter and Monica stood waving at us; I couldn’t let go to wave back.

It was too high. I couldn’t breathe. A cold sweat covered my body.

Oh God, I thought. I’m going to die.

I kneeled on the metal floor. The ringing in my ears got louder.

‘Mummy? Mummy? Are you okay?’

Breathe, breathe.

I put my head close to my chest, closing my eyes.

I don’t know how many minutes passed before Bobby’s hand touched my shoulder.

‘Is it too high for you, Mummy?’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you down. I used to be like this when I was four.’

He reached down for my hand; I looked up at him.

My breathing gradually slowed.

‘I’m sorry, Bobby.’ I looked around, relieved I could get the words out of my mouth. The sound in my ears faded. ‘Come on, love. Let’s find something fun for you to go on next.’

I don’t know what happened to me that day.

Am I dying? I feel numb and my body doesn’t feel like mine any more. That day, I could barely breathe – there must be something wrong with me. My mind might be shutting down first.

1.23 a.m.

Oh God. I might go insane with tiredness. In an article in one of Mum’s magazines, it said if you can’t get to sleep, get up and make a milky drink, but I can’t find the energy.

After counting three hundred and fifty-six sheep, I turn onto my back and look up to the ceiling. This is torture. I bet Monica never had this.

I can’t believe I was trying to catch Nathan’s eye on Friday. What was I hoping to achieve? My face feels hot with the memory of it. He doesn’t even know how I feel – I don’t even know how I feel. Monica wouldn’t have noticed anyway. She was too busy being amazed by how great Peter is.

‘We should get a microwave too, Nath,’ she’d said. ‘We could have jacket potatoes every day, then.’

He’d rolled his eyes at her back, but frowned when he realised that I saw him.

Go away, Nathan, I’d thought to myself, fully aware that – as always – my feelings were as fickle as Preston sunshine. There’d been a smash of china in the kitchen, and Monica had jumped up immediately.

‘Are you all right, Peter?’

It was my turn to roll my eyes. I glanced at Nathan, but he was looking at the impression Monica had left on the settee. I wondered, then – as I do now, in the darkness – if he’d had the same thought that I did. That perhaps Monica was in love with my husband.

‘Get up! Get up!’

I sit up quickly.

‘I’m coming, Uncle Charlie,’ I say without thinking.

But there’s no one here. The bedroom is semi-lit by daylight filtering through the curtains. Annie’s basket is empty – so is Peter’s side of the bed.

Why did I call out for Uncle Charlie? My mum’s brother has been dead for years.

I battle with the cover, tangled in my legs, almost tripping out of bed.

Bobby’s duvet is made up as though he’s not slept in it.

‘Peter!’ I shout as I run down the stairs. I push open the living-room door, and there, sitting in the armchair holding Annie, is my mother.

Bobby’s sitting on the floor, eating dry Rice Krispies, and watching Picture Box on the telly. That’s not right – it can’t be after nine thirty.

‘Is this on tape?’ I ask Mum.

She looks to the heavens.

‘Course not, love. Since when have you seen me operating machinery? And shouldn’t your first question be why Bobby’s not at school?’ She doesn’t wait for me to reply. ‘He said he wasn’t feeling very well. The baby must’ve kept him up all night.’

‘What? No, that can’t be right. Where’s Peter?’ I’m still standing at the door in my nightie; she’ll tell me to get dressed any minute now. ‘Has he popped to the corner shop?’

‘He’s at work.’

‘Really? Has a week passed already? That went quickly.’

Mum’s eyes widen, and she shakes her head a little.

‘I do wonder about you sometimes,’ she says. ‘You have not been asleep for a whole week. He popped into work for an emergency – said he wanted you to catch up on your rest.’

She sits Annie up, rubbing her little back.

She knows I didn’t mean that, but she’s doing me a favour by being here, so I don’t argue with her. Part of me wishes I had slept for a week. 3.15–9.30 a.m. – that means I’ve had six hours and fifteen minutes’ sleep. A record. I haven’t slept that long since I was four months pregnant.

‘I was just joking about sleeping that long,’ I say.

I know she doesn’t believe me. She probably thinks I’m not coping. It’s family legend that the day after I was born, she was up and about doing housework, or sheafing wheat in the fields or whatever.

‘Do you know what’ll do you some good?’

I glance at the ceiling. ‘What?’

‘Getting a bit of exercise. I’ve been doing it every morning with what’s-her-name on TV-am.’

‘You mean Mad Lizzie? Have you heck been doing aerobics, Mum.’

‘Well, I watch her do it while I have a cup of tea. Her energy’s infectious.’

‘She’d make me feel worse,’ I whisper, turning to look at myself in the hall mirror. Before Mum has a chance to mention it, I say, ‘I’ll just have a quick wash and get dressed.’

As I put my foot on the first stair, she hollers, ‘Best run a bath, Deborah. You look like you could do with one.’

I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror until it becomes a boring collection of features that could belong to a stranger. My body has been hijacked for so long, it’s going to be months before I feel like it’s mine again.

Mum thought I believed I’d slept for a whole week. I have my moments, but I’m not that ditzy. She probably remembers the time I swallowed an apple seed when I was pregnant with Bobby. I telephoned her in a panic that it might harm him – everything scared me then.

‘What do you think will happen, Deborah? That an apple tree will grow inside you?’

I’ve since learned that apple seeds contain cyanide, so I’ll be sure to tell her that if she brings it up again.

The steam from the bath starts to blur the glass.

‘You know it’s not meant to be like this.’

A man’s voice. It sounded like Uncle Charlie again. But what if it’s not him – what if it’s God trying to speak to me?

I open the bathroom door.

‘Mum? Is that you?’

Silence.

There’s nobody upstairs. What’s happening to me?

I dress quickly, putting on whatever’s on the back of the chair in the bedroom.

Downstairs, Mum has dressed Bobby, and a sleeping Annie is in her pram under the window. Mum looks up at me as I loiter at the living-room door again, as though it’s not my house.

‘Are you all right?’ says Mum. ‘You look as though you’ve forgotten something.’

‘I’m fine.’

I walk straight to the kitchen without saying another word. After the sleeping for a week conversation, I can’t tell her what’s actually worrying me; she wouldn’t understand. The voice I heard sounded as though it was outside of my head, but there was no one there. I feel like someone’s watching me all the time.

I don’t know what’s real and what’s not any more.