The Roommates

by Rachel Sargeant

  They watch as Riku, still looking at a group of girls by the main door, goes up the stairs to the balcony.

  “Creep,” Tegan mutters. Then she plumps her hair, making it look even thicker. “I’m off to find the sports societies.”

  Before Phoenix can follow, she once again realizes someone is watching. Turning around quickly, she sees a girl with striking blue eyes looking at them. She feels herself blush.

  “She’s got sweets. Come on,” Imo says, noticing the girl and apparently forgetting her concern for Amber.

  When the girl presses wristbands and lollies into their hands, Phoenix’s wristband slips to the floor. She sees the inscription as she bends down to pick it up: Abbey LGBTQ. Her face on fire, she stands up and finds that Imo has moved on.

  “I’ve got to … my friend’s over there,” Phoenix tells the girl, not catching her headlamp eyes. She hurries away.

  Imo is near the Parents’ Group stall, the last one in the aisle. A dark-haired woman – at early thirties, probably the oldest person in the room bar the creepy man in the hoodie – is talking to a young couple in front of her desk. A little girl with a curly mop of auburn hair sits under it, engrossed in a sticker book.

  “We can advise on antenatal classes and, thinking ahead, there’s a crèche for when the little one is six months old,” one woman says.

  The man nods and puts an arm across his pregnant partner’s shoulder.

  “Do come along to our barbecue on Saturday. Let me get you a leaflet.” As the older woman reaches behind her, the little girl clamps her arms round her legs. The woman scoops her up and presses a leaflet into the pregnant woman’s hands. “You’re about to take the most magical and precious journey of your life.”

  Phoenix smirks at Imo. The woman sounds like one of those middle-class earth mothers they interview on Radio 4 when someone’s been banned from breastfeeding in a Jacuzzi.

  “Don’t think this stall’s for me,” Imo whispers, turning away. “I have enough trouble looking after myself. I’d never cope with a kid as well.”

  The final aisle is given over to sports societies. Two guys, muscling through their T-shirts, home in on Imo’s pert backside. Tegan’s at the far end, sauntering towards them. She flicks her hair, obviously loving her own slice of attention.

  After Phoenix has signed up for archery and Tegan’s taken a leaflet for tennis, they work their way to the exit through the crowds of freshers still arriving. Phoenix wonders which ailment Amber will greet them with when they find her outside.

  The steps and forecourt in front of the Great Hall are busy with students, but Amber isn’t one of them.

  “She could have waited,” Tegan says, setting off for the flat.

  “Hang on,” Imo calls. “Let’s check round the back. There might be benches.”

  Tegan follows Imo and Phoenix. “Doubt Amber will be on one. Bound to be allergic to wood.”

  There’s only a small car park on the far side of the Great Hall. With her phone to her ear, Imo spends ages walking back and forth and peering in car windows. When she seems satisfied Amber hasn’t taken refuge there, she strides back to the forecourt. Phoenix and Tegan rush to keep up.

  Shaking her head, Imo puts her phone away. “She’s switched off her mobile.”

  “Don’t sound so worried,” Tegan says. “We don’t need sniffer dogs just yet.”

  Imo wheels round, eyes narrow. “Don’t joke about something like that,” she snarls.

  Tegan backs away.

  “They have search dogs for a reason.” Imo’s voice is tight and preachy. “Some families rely on them …”

  “Okay, I get it,” Tegan says, still moving backwards. “Lighten up.” Her sandal catches something on the tarmac that makes a metallic jingle.

  “What’s that?” Imo asks, squatting by Tegan’s feet, her sudden anger apparently forgotten. “A bangle.” She holds up a silver bracelet. “Amber’s, for sure. I remember her wearing it.”

  “Come on, Imogen. How can you tell?” Tegan says.

  Imo shrugs and pockets the bangle. “I’ll keep it until we see her.” Her voice tails off and she looks nervously around the crowd. Her hands clench into fists.

  Chapter 11

  Imogen

  Why did Amber run off like that? Did something trigger a panic attack? Imo swallows. That was one of the what-if scenarios Inspector Hare suggested for Sophia: panic leading to amnesia.

  Her phone rings. Freddie. She snatches it off her bedside locker, heart thumping. He never rings. Never. It must be news.

  But that’s not why he’s called.

  “Don’t forget the audition is on Thursday.”

  “I’m not going,” she says as her pulse returns to normal.

  “You promised.”

  “I’m already behind and it’s only the first week.” She tries to keep her unhappiness out of her voice. “The computers don’t work so I can’t do my German. How can I keep up with everyone else if I’m in a show?”

  “Do what you do best.”

  A stone settles in her stomach. What is her best? The same as his. Trying to hold everything together. Their parents don’t need more distress.

  “Are you still there?” There’s an intake of breath down the phone. Is he thinking the same thing? “I meant flirting and dancing. You’re good at them.” He chuckles. Imo can tell it’s forced; he’s trying to laugh away other thoughts.

  “How’s flirting going to help me with German post-war politics?” She plays along with a forced chuckle of her own.

  “You’ll find a way.”

  After he rings off she scans the notes she made in the lecture. All she copied down was the first link and one article title before the crow girl told her to stop writing. She won’t make that mistake again, she’ll write the bloody lot down. But that won’t help her with tomorrow’s seminar.

  Do what you do best. There is something she could try. It’s crazy, but maybe. She opens her Tinder app.

  ***

  Finally climbing into bed at 3 a.m., she hopes she’s done enough to keep Dr Wyatt happy. The responses have been coming in dribs and drabs. She’s spent the evening and half the night learning them. They might be garbage – useless for Wyatt’s seminar – but what choice does she have?

  It’s darker in the room tonight despite the broken curtain. But images of the day flood her mind. After the German lecture from hell in the morning, the fair was fun. Until Amber stormed off.

  It was nice of Phoenix to call for her but she can’t help feeling she was just being polite. Phoenix and Tegan are both out of her league. There’s something old soul about Phoenix, and Tegan acts more like thirty than twenty. Is that down to having a gap year? Imo thought rich kids got wrapped in cotton wool and knew nothing of the real world. Where does Tegan get her streetwise cynicism?

  Amber’s more on her wavelength. She forgot to ask if she’ll be auditioning on Thursday. Maybe if she can get Amber to go, she’ll go too.

  It could be her usual fatigue, but for some reason she feels calm. A difficult day is over and she’s made a friend in Amber. Now she welcomes rest.

  Sometime later, in her dream, she registers Amber sitting on her bed.

  “You will come to get me, won’t you?” Amber whispers.

  Imo stumbles through her slumbering mind. Get her for what? She says she will, then the dream fades.

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday 28 September

  Imogen

  When the alarm doesn’t go off, it’s a miracle Imo manages to wake at all. Half an hour late and touch and go whether she’ll make the German seminar. Her hoodie and jeans are by the bed. Yesterday’s knickers will do, save on the handwashing.

  She goes to the bathroom. After she pees, she washes her hands, pushes a flannel under her armpits and makes a monumental effort to brush her teeth. She doesn’t plan on talking to anyone today; it’s almost pointless caring about fresh breath.

  Suddenly, remembering her dream about Amber, a prick
le of doubt crosses her shoulders and she shivers. But there’s no time to call on her flatmate, even though she hasn’t seen her since the Freshers’ Fair. She tells herself the dream meant nothing. Thinks again about her usual cellar nightmare. A what-if that even Inspector Hare doesn’t like to mention.

  After swigging from the cup by her bed, she leaves the flat and heads to the modern languages block. It’s a sunny day – seaside bright and warm, maybe twenty degrees. More people are about than she’d hoped. In pairs and groups, confident, smiling, fitting in. Dr Wyatt’s not the only evil academic who calls lectures in Freshers’ Week. She sinks further into her hoodie and remembers she hasn’t combed her hair. Who cares?

  She tries to run but has to stop, coughing harshly. Out of her eye corner, she sees a man standing across the road at the end of the pathway. The memory of the tall man smoking under the tree on arrivals day makes her sprint-walk past a group of boys. Her eyes fix on the ground – dark tarmac, bare earth at the side. A gardener must have dug up the beds overnight. They were full of marigolds yesterday. University policy? Root out those about to fade? How long until they come for her?

  The seminar room on the first floor has seating for twenty and she takes a seat round the horseshoe of desks. The chairs soon fill up and the crow girl from yesterday’s lecture is forced to sit next to her. Is that a smile? No, she’s sniffing. She can beggar off if she thinks Imo smells. Should have got here earlier and selected another seat.

  Dr Wyatt comes in and launches into her bullet-fast German. Imo surprises herself by getting the gist.

  “Let’s have someone we didn’t hear from yesterday.” Dr Wyatt’s eyes settle on Imo.

  Her acne glows inside her hoodie and she desperately scrolls on her phone screen, looking for her notes, such as they are.

  “Stand up,” Wyatt says in German. “You don’t need your phone.”

  From every angle of the room, eyes are on Imo. The lump in her throat is concrete. David gives her a thumbs-up. She takes a breath and launches into German.

  ***

  “That was enlightening, wouldn’t you say?” Dr Wyatt paces inside the horseshoe of desks at the end of the seminar, the flat soles of her boots slapping the floor. “Some of you did the reading I set, most of you didn’t. But, I have to say, one or two of you went the extra mile.” She looks at Imo. “Keep it up.”

  Imo is ten feet tall. As good as anyone. She’s got her brother Freddie to thank for his throwaway comment. Do what you do best. Maybe he’s right about the audition too.

  “Fancy a coffee?” the crow girl asks as they leave. “There’s a Starbucks downstairs.”

  Imo’s cough starts hacking again, but she’s too surprised to decline. She follows the girl’s black cape to the ground-floor café.

  They buy refreshments and perch on bar stools in the window. It’s not Imo’s preferred location – people walking past outside can see her – but it’s doable; none of them know her family, know their story. As a kid she hated her common surname, now she’s grateful for being Smith. At least she can remain anonymous despite everything that’s been on TV.

  The girl’s name is Lauren. She tears apart her chocolate cookie. “Where did you get that stuff from? When the intranet came on last night, I read all the articles in the links Dr Wyatt gave us. Took me hours on Google Translate, but I don’t remember half of what you said. Are you German?”

  The tiny flame that’s flickered inside Imo since the seminar glows brighter. “Do you really want to know?” She leans forward, the compliment having made her talkative. “I messaged all the German guys I’ve matched with on Tinder and asked their opinion. Then I learnt what they said by heart.”

  Lauren chokes on her biscuit. “How many guys was that?”

  “I changed my Tinder Bio to: ‘I’m looking for a guy who loves post-war German politics’. To be honest, not many knew what I was on about. Viktor and Markus were useful, though. They were strongly opinionated in different ways.” She coughs again. It wrecks her chest.

  The drink warms her. She can do normal things after all. Coffee with another student. Like everyone else. Even draw on the flirty Imogen from before to help her out with coursework. Sometimes. It’s not like she’s trying to be that person again.

  Lauren puts down her cup. “What have you tried on your skin? I’ve gone through the over-the-counter potions. I wanted to go hard core but I couldn’t while I was …” She pauses and goes red. Imo notices her hand has started to shake. “I mean … when my mum wouldn’t let me. She can’t stop me now I’m here. Have you tried it?”

  Imo wonders what Lauren almost let slip. She shakes her head. So it’s got round to her acne. It’s all anyone sees when they look at her. She glances at Lauren’s face. Spots round her nose and chin. No big deal. Imo’s had months of inflamed pustules on her cheeks, a face she hates and getting worse.

  Lauren stares at her, waiting for an answer. Imo has no wish to prolong the conversation. What’s the point? She’s not going to be friends with this girl. Too much effort. Amber’s the only person she’s met at Abbeythorpe with whom she feels remotely comfortable. Amber does all the talking and has even more neuroses than she does. She thinks of the bangle lying abandoned on the tarmac, of the look of terror in Amber’s eyes as she left the fair, and wants to check she’s okay. She decides to call in at the canteen in case she’s gone there.

  “I said I’d meet a friend for lunch,” she says and finishes her coffee.

  Lauren looks at her phone. “A bit late, isn’t it?”

  Imo stands up and sends Amber a text.

  “Enjoy your research,” Lauren calls out as Imo leaves. She must think she’s looking at Tinder.

  ***

  Amber doesn’t reply to Imo’s text and she’s not in the canteen or her room. When Imo follows the sound of Radio 1 to the kitchen, she finds Phoenix and Tegan tucking into beans on toast.

  “Have you seen Amber?”

  Phoenix looks up. “She might’ve gone back to the Freshers’ Fair. It’s on all week.” She returns her attention to her plate. “Probably bending that drama rep’s ear.”

  “But you haven’t actually seen her?”

  Tegan waves her fork. “You know you’re not her mummy.”

  Imo wants to ignore the insult but feels her face reddening. “I had this weird dream about her,” she blurts out.

  Tegan opens her mouth but Phoenix knocks her wrist to silence her.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” she says kindly.

  Tegan puts her finished plate in the sink. “Is it just me or are you finding Amber a bit odd?”

  Phoenix joins her at the sink. “She’s all right most of the time, but I can’t keep up with everything that’s wrong with her.”

  A Nicki Minaj song comes on the radio and Tegan turns it up high. She sways in time to the beat, watching Phoenix wash up.

  Their new flatmate suddenly appears in the doorway and makes them all jump.

  “Hi, Riku,” Imo says, when she’s caught her breath. “Have you seen Amber?”

  Face dark and thunderous, he heads past her to the radio. A moment later the music volume drops. Tegan’s eyes carve daggers into his head, but he doesn’t notice. Returns to his room, without uttering a word.

  “You only had to ask if you wanted it turned down,” she calls out.

  Phoenix dries her hands on a tea towel. “Let it go, Tegan. It was a bit loud.”

  “Maybe you should have offered him some food,” Imo says. “Make more of an effort to be friendly.”

  “I tried offering him coffee,” Phoenix says, “but he didn’t answer the door.”

  Imo heads into the hallway. “Maybe that’s what Amber’s doing: not answering. I need to knock louder.”

  Phoenix follows and grabs her shoulders, steers her back into the kitchen. “Relax, Imo, I knocked on her door and listened at it for ages. She’s not there. Let me make the three of us a coffee.”

  “Not there?” Imo feels a tickle of unease, a
familiar feeling of loss. A sense that someone is missing. “But she has to be.”

  Chapter 13

  Tegan

  Tegan lays out her stock samples on the kitchen table. She knows they won’t survive a night’s clubbing – theft or beer spillage will get them – but she might get some advance sales before that happens. A cough seizes her throat and she covers her mouth. They’ve all got coughs. When Amber reappears, she’s bound to claim she’s dying of consumption.

  She watches Phoenix dry the mugs on the draining board and put them in a cupboard. Tegan can’t work her out. The girl has the looks and briskness of a tomboy so where does the regimented domesticity come from? Not boarding school – she lacks the polish of any of Tegan’s school friends; it’s more like she grew up in the army.

  They hear a knock somewhere down the hall and find Imo trying Amber’s door again.

  “This can’t be right.” Imo’s words sound slurred, and it’s not just because of her cold; she’s already holding a WKD. “Where is she? Why hasn’t she answered my texts?” She knocks again and wobbles on her heels. After another minute, she totters back to her room.

  Phoenix says she’ll get a fresh tea towel from hers. Alone in the kitchen, Tegan hears a sound behind her.

  “Christ!” She jumps. Riku’s in the doorway. “You shouldn’t creep up on people. What do you want?” she snaps.

  He stares, cocking his head.

  “Well, say something,” she demands and immediately knows she’s conceded the high ground. If someone threatens by not speaking, you have to give them silent menace back. Shout and you’ve lost. Her dad’s dictum. She tries to recover her position with a face-off, her brown eyes into his.

  Eyes still locked on hers, Riku backs out of the kitchen. For a moment Tegan’s insides quake. She curses herself for feeling rattled.

  Imo comes back a few minutes later, holding out her mobile. “I’ve called Hamid. He’ll be here in a tick to take us into town.” Her mouth seems to struggle to work as she explains Hamid is the taxi driver Amber got to know when he took them to the all-night garage. “She got us a good rate.”