Don’t Turn Around: A heart-stopping gripping domestic suspense. Amanda Brooke

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       5

      Jen

      The automatic lights that react to movement have switched themselves off in all but one section of the office above the helpline pods. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour but the only person I’ve spoken to since the helpline opened has been Charlie. It’s his turn to cook dinner and he wants me to pick up some sour cream on my way home. It’s chilli night.

      With one ear trained on the silent phone, I look out of the window and watch the shadows lengthen. I always cover the Wednesday shift and it doesn’t bother me working alone. The office is secure enough, with electronic passes to control access to each floor, barriers on the ground level and security guards who replace the concierge staff on the front desk until the last person leaves. Tonight, that will be me when the helpline closes at eight, by which point the September sun will have set.

      So if I’m not bothered, why does my stomach twist at the thought of leaving?

      It’s the same reason I regret not telling Ruth about Lewis being back in Liverpool. We all need to be on our guard and I was going to warn her on Monday, but then she mentioned Geoff’s push for retirement. If he knew Lewis was back, he’d use it as another argument to ‘walk away’. Ruth’s made it clear she’s not going to do that, in which case, does she really need to be looking over her shoulder every time she steps out the door? It’s not like she’d bump into him on the way to work since she drives in with Geoff. My silence on the matter is saving her from unnecessary worry, I tell myself.

      With a smile, I realise that was precisely what Charlie had been doing for me. I shouldn’t have been so angry with him. He knew how stressed I’d been over the relaunch.

      My insides twist again. It’s the future of the helpline I should be worrying about. The spike in calls we were hoping for after last week’s publicity is yet to materialise – discounting all the put-down calls Gill had on Monday. As I wait in vain for the phone to ring and hope sinks, my thoughts return to Lewis.

      At the moment, he knows more about me than I do about him and I need to redress that balance – to hell with Charlie’s mantra of live and let live. I turn from the window and retreat inside the cocoon of the helpline pod. It’s essentially one of two workstations that face each other with a privacy screen in the middle and two more on each side to prevent conversations from carrying. It’s not particularly effective at cancelling out noise when both pods are in use, but that hasn’t been a problem since we cut back to just one volunteer per shift.

      Closing the call log on my screen, I open up Facebook and check to see if any of my friends list Lewis as one of theirs. There are only a handful of people I’ve remained in touch with who would have known him and I’m pleased, if not a little frustrated, that none have been gullible enough to reconnect with him, and that includes Charlie.

      With no other choice, I set aside my dignity and send friend requests to Jay and Meathead. I haven’t seen either of them in years but, from their profile pictures, they don’t appear to have matured with age. I hope they don’t think I’m trying to hit on them but I’ll be more offended if they refuse my requests.

      Next, I turn my attention to Google. My first search of Lewis Rimmer produces global results so I add Newcastle to the search bar, my body tensing as I press the enter key. The screen updates and halfway down the page a selection of photos appear. Most are close ups of men I don’t recognise and group photos too small to discern one face from another. The photo that raises my hackles is on the right-hand edge of the screen. I stab the cursor over Lewis’s face and a new page opens.

      It’s an old student union press release heralding a twenty-year-old Lewis as their star rugby player, on track for a first class honours sports degree. In the post-match photo, his straw-blond hair is scraped back from his sweaty brow and his cheeks are ruddy. His steel-blue eyes are all the more piercing without the wire-rimmed glasses he used to wear. Unlike Charlie, Lewis made eyewear look seductive but I suppose contact lenses would be more practical for someone with such an active life.

      I haven’t seen that face for ten years and I’m struck by how normal Lewis looks. It would be nice to think that remorse changed him for the better, but Ruth isn’t the only one who can imagine history repeating itself. More determined than ever, I return to my original search and change the city from Newcastle to Liverpool. There’s nothing new and that bothers me. If Lewis is freelancing as a personal trainer, why isn’t he advertising himself more prominently?

      I’m wondering what he’s hiding when the phone rings, and I let out a yelp as if he’s caught me spying. The helpline doesn’t use caller display so I have no clue who is ringing and from where, which can be frustrating at times, but it’s a matter of trust. Ruth was very clear about how the helpline should operate and all volunteers are trained to listen and encourage, not to dictate how someone should live their life. We don’t record any information that the caller doesn’t want to give willingly.