by Amanda Fleet
Finn shifted comfortably next to me and I smiled. He was the only man who had ever made me feel safe, valued, important. Even in his sleep he was protective, his arms coiled around me, his legs knotting with mine. I hoped that Stephen wasn’t stupid enough to come back here, not even to stand and stare at the place, never mind batter his way in. I closed my eyes, trying to erase images from the backs of my eyelids, glad that the room wasn’t pitch dark.
***
At work, only a few hours later, part of me was thankful it was busy because my brain was in overdrive. What the hell was that thing outside last night? However much I wanted to believe I’d imagined it, I hadn’t.
Finn and I were both on early, finishing at two, and I’d taken my designs in, hoping to do snatches of work on them in quiet moments. But Saturdays were always busy, with a near constant flow of clients stopping to chat on their way in or out. The reception desk had a chest-high section facing outwards, with a desk area behind it. Separating the main entrance from the members-only area was a turnstile, right next to reception. Members and staff only needed to blip their card to go through, but invariably, someone would have left their card in their kit before washing it and need to get a replacement from me, which was a pain to sort out.
Eventually, I abandoned the design and tucked it back into my bag. I’d finalise it all in the afternoon, once we were back home and Finn was watching the footie. It was almost right. I hoped.
At just before noon, Finn sauntered up to the counter. “Lunch?”
“Yeah. Once Stacey arrives.”
Finn leaned his forearms on the desk and dipped his head down to speak privately to me. “Has that guy been bothering you?”
“Which guy?”
“Behind me. Black t-shirt. Black jeans. Every time I’ve come past, he’s been staring at you.”
My gaze flicked over Finn’s shoulder and back. “Yeah, right enough, he’s still staring at me, but no, he’s not bothered me and I hadn’t noticed him until you pointed him out.”
“Okay. Call me if he does anything? I don’t like the look of him.”
I smiled. I was six feet tall with black spiky hair, multiple piercings, tattoos and heavy black eyeliner. In comparison, the staring guy could be a caricature of a maths teacher. I didn’t like the fact he was just sitting staring at me though.
“Your charm’s glowing,” said Finn. “That’s weird. Or is it like those mood rings in the crystal shop that change colour with temperature?”
I glanced down. The charm was bright blue like a gas flame. I looked at the man and felt ice inch through me as a slow smile crept across his face.
Blue for danger.
My breath caught shakily and Finn’s attention snapped to me. “What?”
“Nothing. Just had one of those funny feelings.”
“Someone walked over your grave?”
“Er. Yeah. Something like that.”
Finn looked at his watch and pulled his phone out.
“Who are you texting?” I asked.
“Stacey. Telling her to get her arse over here. She’s late. As usual.”
We only had forty-five minutes for lunch and it wasn’t flexible. Finn put his phone away and turned to face the staring man.
“Problem, mate?”
Staring-man shook his head, still smiling enigmatically. I moved so that Finn’s body blocked the man’s view of me, my skin prickling. Finn glared at him, but he didn’t look away.
Finally, Stacey bounded up. “Hi guys! Sorry I’m late!”
She flashed a million megawatt beam at Finn, all teeth and tits. I rolled my eyes, slid from behind the desk and tucked my arm around Finn.
“Okay, we’re off for lunch. See you in a while.” I leaned on Finn to ease him away.
We had to pass the man to reach the food service area of the cafe. He maintained eye contact with me until I was level with him and then looked down at a newspaper on the table. I could feel Finn bristling next to me.
“Finn, leave it. We only have an hour and a bit to go after lunch and then we’re out of here. He’s just staring.”
Who was I reassuring? Me or Finn?
***
As we turned on to our lane, my feet stumbled to a halt. Parked opposite our house was a police car.
“Finn.”
He flashed me a quick look.
The door to the car clicked open and I nodded at the officer climbing out.
Finn’s eyes widened. We made our way past Ösk and Lena’s, and as we drew level with Mike and Polly’s place, I saw why the police were here. Our front door hung from its hinges, the wood splintered to matchsticks. I bunched my hands, my short nails digging into my palms, a tremor that I couldn’t fight working its way through my body.
“Shh. I’m here,” murmured Finn. “And anyway, there’s a dirty great copper here.”
“Are you Finn Cullen and Reagan Bennett?” asked the policeman, meeting us outside Mike and Polly’s. He wasn’t dirty, or great. He didn’t look much older than me and Finn, and barely reached Finn’s shoulder. He was in uniform, though.
“Yes,” said Finn. “Did Stephen do this?”
“Stephen?” The officer raised his brows.
“Stephen Gray.”
The policeman flipped through his notebook to a clean page and wrote the name down. “Why do you think it’s him?”
Finn’s arm tightened around my waist. “Because he’s just been released from prison after serving a conviction for breaking the door down and assaulting Reagan. And because he threatened Reagan as soon as he was released. And because he was hanging around here last night, drunk, staring at the cottage. We did report it.”
More scribbling in the notebook. My gaze drifted to the door. The landlord had replaced the last one with a decently sturdy one after Stephen had kicked it in. Not sturdy enough, obviously.
We followed the policeman inside, tiptoeing past the splintered wood, the cottage freezing now it was open to the elements. Nothing was missing, as far as we could tell, though we barely had anything worth stealing. I wondered if we could get the door fixed that day or if we’d have to go and camp out at Rick’s or someone’s. The police had finished up – the forensics team had been and gone and the house was covered in fingerprint powder – so maybe we could make the house secure today. I didn’t like the thought of it open to the world overnight.
A sledgehammer had been found on the strip of garden next to the cottage and had been bagged up and taken away. So the officer said. He also said it looked new. Bought specifically to smash our door in, then. I tried not to be sick.
“Did any of the neighbours see anything?” asked Finn, perching on the sofa next to me.
The policeman sat on the chair, leaning forward, his notebook on his knee. “The chap next door called us when he heard something, but he didn’t see who it was.”
Finn rolled his eyes, and I almost joined him. How very Mike. He probably hid when it was happening. At least he called the police.
The officer – PC Harrison – asked more about Stephen, made more notes and eventually left us to the remnants of our afternoon.
As soon as he left, Finn hugged me hard. “Hey, don’t cry. Come on.”
But his face was tight and his body taut, and my sanctuary couldn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, be described as a sanctuary any longer. Snot bubbled out of my nose as I tried to stifle my sobs.
“Oh, nice!” Finn laughed, handing me a tissue. “Look on the bright side. Stephen’s just broken the conditions of his parole. He’ll go back inside.”
“I hope so.”
“Come on. Chin up. I need to get this door fixed. Help me measure up.”
Finn was always better keeping busy. We measured what size door we needed, and he called Rick and Billy, who both left their work to come over. After a flurry of hugs that managed to make me feel worse, Rick went with Finn to get a new door leaving Billy with me. Despite Billy’s assertions that violence wasn’t the solution to prob
lems, he brought a baseball bat with him. Finn’s shoulders relaxed for the first time when he saw it. So did mine.
While Finn and Rick were out getting the new door, someone banged on the door-frame at the front. Billy scrambled to his feet, reaching for the baseball bat.
“It’s okay. It’s only Mike. I saw him pass the window,” I said, staying his hand.
Billy headed out to the hall, returning a moment later with a shame-faced Mike.
“Oh, Reagan, I’m so sorry.” Mike stood, wringing his hands, his floppy dark hair almost in his eyes. “I heard all the banging and smashing and looked out to see what was happening and saw a guy swinging a hammer at your door, so I called the police.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, my throat tight.
Mike took a seat, wiping his palms on his ironed jeans. “I didn’t really see. Tallish. Not as tall as Finn though.”
He dried up. Billy narrowed his eyes, his lips a hard line.
“I didn’t see!” said Mike, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears.
“Did he come into the house?” I asked. There’d been no evidence he had – nothing was missing and there weren’t even any muddy footprints in the hall.
“I don’t think so. The noise stopped and then he ran past the house. I didn’t see his face. He had a black hoodie on with the hood up. Was there any damage inside?”
“No. Just the door.”
Mike nodded, then met my eye defiantly. “I tried to call you.”
My brows shot up, and I yanked my phone out of my pocket. Dead.
“Oh. The battery’s gone.” I slid the phone on to the table. “Did you try Finn?”
“I don’t know his number.”
To be honest, I was surprised he knew mine.
Mike jiggled his foot. “I’m really sorry I didn’t see anything. Maybe Ösk and Lena did?”
I shook my head. “They’re away today.” Would Mike still have hidden if I’d been in when the door was broken down. I’d like to think that even Mike would have tried to stop Stephen from killing me. Ösk and Lena certainly would.
“Oh,” said Mike. “Do you think it was your brother?”
I couldn’t be bothered to correct him over the total lack of relationship. “Probably. Hopefully the police found some evidence.”
He got to his feet. “I should leave you to it. I just wanted to pop over and say how sorry I was. Tell Finn I came by?”
“Will do. Thanks for calling the police.”
Billy showed him out, stiff-backed and unimpressed. About ten minutes later, Finn and Rick’s voices floated through the window, and I peered out to see the two of them carrying a door down the lane between them. They had it balanced on their heads, their hands steadying it from the sides, and I smiled despite everything.
By early evening, after much banging, swearing and mess, we had a brand-new door with fresh locks, a chain and two sturdy bolts. Rick had paid for it all, but both Finn and I were sure the landlord would pay him back. If not, we’d need more than the toaster-fund to cover it. Finn had added a chain and a bolt to the back door too.
“You two need an evening out,” said Rick, sweeping up the last bits of crap from replacing the door. “Flicks or ten-pin bowling?”
“What’s on?” I asked, preferring the cinema.
Rick listed a couple of things, neither of which would have been my choice, but they were better than staying in and fretting.
“Which is the least chick-flicky?” said Finn, threading his new keys on to his keyring.
We settled on a thriller that started in just under an hour. Rick gave the front door a final check while Finn fastened both the bolts and the chain on the back door, and we set off, the three men making an enclave around me.
As we all walked down the lane together, I hoped to God that we’d made the cottage impregnable. And not just from Stephen.
10
Sunday morning. The good news was that we got back from the cinema the night before to find the house intact. The bad news was that Finn was on early again, we’d both slept in, and were now trying to grab a hasty bite in the staff-room, at stupid o’clock. Well, Finn was grabbing a hasty bite. I wasn’t working, so had all the time in the world. I was only there because Finn didn’t want me in the cottage on my own. In fairness, I had no great desire to be in the cottage either, given everything that had happened over the last week.
I sat at one of the tables, the aroma of coffee displacing the gym’s usual smell of perspiration and body spray. I had a bowl of some kind of healthy cereal in front of me that tasted of cardboard. Finn shovelled microwave-porridge down as fast as he could in between slurps of coffee.
He had a bug up his backside about something. Despite only having five minutes to eat his breakfast in, he was eyeing me as he chewed, clearly weighing up his words, and I knew him too well to think that what he wanted to say was something I wanted to hear.
“Just spit it out, Finn. What’s up?”
He gulped down his last mouthful of porridge and bit his lip. “I’m worried about you. The dreams. All the nightmares. Do you think you should go to the GP? Maybe go back to counselling?”
His Irish accent was bursting through thickly. Was he worried about me or more worried how I would take his suggestion?
“I’m fine.”
He blinked hard, his breath hissing, before looking at me, the blue of his eyes startlingly bright. “You’re not fine. You’re getting nightmares almost every night and even the nice dreams you used to have are now violent.”
I opened my mouth to argue, and he glared at me. “Think about it? I’m only saying it because I love you and because I’m worried about you.”
I swallowed my words. He reached across to hold my hand, his thumb rubbing my knuckles.
“Yeah okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Thanks. When are you meeting Lena?”
“Eleven.”
She was coming over to help me choose my outfit for the interview. My nerves were shot to pieces and I could barely concentrate on what I needed to do for the interview, but I was also determined not to let Stephen spoil anything else if I could help it.
“Okay.”
I ran my fingertip down the kink in my nose. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you awake at night.”
He sighed, shaking his head. “That’s not why I want you to go to the GP!”
I finally looked at him properly, taking in the tension in his jaw and shoulders and the bruised look under his eyes, and regretted being snappish. “I know. But I’m still sorry.”
His posture softened. “You taking the bike back?”
I shook my head. “You have it. When are we meeting your mum?”
“Half two. At the Farmers’ Market.”
He downed the last of his coffee, flinching at the temperature, scruffed my hair up, and kissed the top of my head.
“See you at home. Call me if anything happens.”
As soon as he’d gone, I pulled out the weird book, a pen and my notebook. It was too early for anyone sane to be here on a Sunday unless they were working so I had a couple of hours to myself to try to read some more. I made myself another coffee, poked at the soggy cereal in my bowl and opened the book.
After the parts that I’d already managed to translate, was a shortish chapter with no illustrations. Further on in the book were the pictures of me, my ‘husband’ and the man who’d assaulted me in my recent nightmares. I fingered my brow. The headache that had made my head scream each time I’d read the book was already poking at my brain. I leaned my chin on my knuckles, wishing I had some aspirin in my locker. I needed to know why there was a picture of me in the book; why there were pictures of the other people from my dreams. One similarity I could write off as a coincidence, but not all of this. Nausea poisoned my guts and I pushed the cereal away. How the fuck were my dreams in a book, written in runes? And how had it appeared on our kitchen table?
I turned to a new page in my notebook and studied the
runes, waiting for the words to make sense, then read the next few pages.
Anarchy
Aegyir continued to kill, ripping the vitality out of those he came across and laying waste to the people. The Elders tried to reason with him but he would not listen. He had listened to their lies for too long, he said. He could have been powerful for millennia but instead had followed their rules and been nothing more than a weak slave, bound to do their bidding with no reward.
He told other Guides that the Elders had been misleading them for centuries and that they could stop being ethereal mist and be solid and powerful, if only they began breaking the code of the Guides that had been forced on them by the Elders. Aegyir showed the Guides how to take vitality and so become corporeal. Many of the Guides followed him, though many more stayed true. Those that followed were insatiable, killing anyone they came across, tearing the vitality from them. People fled, able to see the Guides now that they had form. The corrupt Guides needed to find a way to disguise their true identity.
One of the Guides found that if they sacrificed some of the vitality, they could adopt a different form and resemble the people. At first, they chose to resemble those still alive, but soon they began to hide the bodies of those they had killed and mimic their form. Now they could walk abroad in disguise, it became easier for them to form a weak link with the spirit of their victims and gain their vitality slowly. Many of the population were killed in this way and those that remained did not have the knowledge or the strength to defeat them. The people blamed plague and pestilence for the deaths.
I leaned back in my seat, chewing the end of the biro. How did you defeat a thing that looked like your neighbour and who could kill you by doing nothing more than placing a hand over your heart? How easy would that be? You would run away from something that looked like a monster – you’d be pretty wary of something like that – but your neighbour or a family member? I shuddered as I realised the implications. I took a big gulp of cold coffee to wash down the sick feeling I had.