by J. A. Baker
‘Please, Celia,’ I whisper softly, ‘let me talk to my mother alone.’
She stares at me as I speak. I was hoping for a look of rejection, irritation perhaps, or even anger, but there is nothing. This is more unnerving than any of those sentiments. This is the calm before the storm.
‘I’m here to help you, Eva, you know that. You can’t manage on your own. You need me.’
A pain takes hold in my head; a thin streak of pressure against my temple that makes my eyes water. I see movement on the periphery of my vision and let out an uneven breath as my mother steps forward, a troubled look in her eyes. She has her arms crossed and seems to have grown a couple of inches in the last few minutes.
‘Look, lovey,’ she says in an impatient tone that I fear will only exacerbate Celia’s festering intent. ‘You said out there that you knew Eva. I’d like to know exactly why you’re here in my house?’
Celia acts as if my mother hasn’t even spoken, and continues talking to me like we are the only two people in the room.
‘Come with me, Eva. We can go back to how things were when we lived with Greta. They were good times, weren’t they? I can protect you from all of this.’ She turns and sweeps her hand around the room before leaning forward and clasping my hands in hers.
I attempt to move but she is stronger than she looks and her grip is like a vice around my wrists. My skin burns slightly as she increases the force, her fingers pressing against mine, making me dizzy with fear.
I have to find a way to get her to leave before this gets out of control, before she opens her mouth and a whole load of lies pour forth, Celia is the most fantastic liar. It’s her one defining feature. Given enough time I’m pretty sure she could even get my mother to believe her. She will convince her I’m a bad daughter. Rotten to the core. She will stop at nothing so she can have me all to herself. She did it when we were children; told others I was badly behaved, foul mouthed and not to be trusted. I lost more friends than I kept thanks to Celia.
‘I really do appreciate what you’re trying to do, Celia. I know I’ve not been the best friend just recently as I’ve had a lot on my plate but yes, you’re right, we can go back to how things were. All I want is few moments with my mum to sort things out. Once I’ve done that we can get together, you and I, and sort some plans out for our future. How does that sound?’
A twitch takes hold in my eye. I blink repeatedly to try to stop it. Nobody speaks. I stare into Celia’s eyes to try to see beyond the darkness that is in there, to try to reason with her.
‘Look, I’ve asked you a question and I’m still waiting for my answer,’ my mother says. Her hands are on her hips and a crimson hue is creeping into her skin, accentuating her broken veins and rosacea. ‘You can’t just march in here and ignore me like this!’
But that’s exactly what Celia does. It’s as if nobody has even spoken. She continues to stare at me as I wait for her to say something – anything at all to break this horrible silence. At last she speaks, her eyebrows raised in mild shock as my words eventually sink in.
‘Really? Do you mean that, Eva?’
I smile at her, relief flooding through me. I’ve got her. At last I’ve managed to break through to her. ‘Of course I mean it! Why would I say such a thing if I didn’t mean it? Look, why don’t you go and find us a cafe in town and when I’m done here we can—’
‘You fucking little liar!’ Her grip on my hand intensifies and her words bounce around the room, making me feel quite sick. Everything swims before my eyes. I press my legs into the edge off the chair to stop myself from falling forwards.
‘Hey!’ my mother cries, her voice deep and gravelly. ‘Sort yourself out, young woman! I don’t even know who the hell you are and yet you think you can come in here and—’
The sound of the slap reverberates around us. It rings in my ears, as Celia lets go of me and leaps up, bringing her hand into connect with the side of my mother’s face. Trish staggers back, her fingers clasped to her cheek. Time stands still while I wait for something to happen. The after effect of the hit doesn’t take long. Despite being a good twenty years older than her, my mother lurches forward and grabs a handful of Celia’s hair, wrapping it tightly around her fist, strands of red hair clutched between her fingers as she pulls hard enough to make Celia yelp out in pain. It is the cry of a feral animal.
I sit frozen, unable to intervene, my body stiff with shock and panic. I should do something, anything to stop this, but I can’t seem to think straight. Everything is happening so quickly and my mind is clogged up, full of cotton wool. Everything feels laboured, every movement a huge effort.
‘Get out!’ my mother screams as she drags Celia towards the door.
Celia’s head is bent forwards, her face contorted with the pain. She doesn’t realise that she has set herself up against a woman who is accustomed to dealing with violence and more than able to defend herself. They don’t get far, however. I watch as Celia brings her arm up and smashes it into my mother’s face with such force that bile rises into my throat.
In a heartbeat, I am up out of the chair and hurtling towards them. Strands of Celia’s hair are still knotted up in my mum’s fist, wrapped around each individual finger, as she falls onto the floor, dragging Celia down with her.
‘Get off her!’ I scream, and attempt to pull Celia off my mother who is trapped underneath her entire body. The pair of them are deadweight as I try to roll Celia sideways to separate their intertwined limbs. Long strands of hair come away in my mother’s still tightly clenched fist as I drag her away from Celia. A bruise is already forming above her eye where she was punched but I don’t have time to take in any more details as I feel my own hair being pulled so hard and tight, I am convinced it will come away from my scalp. Tears stream and snot runs as I am dragged across the living room and pushed down onto the sofa by a hand that has so much strength behind it, it feels as if it belongs to somebody twice Celia’s size.
‘Please!’ I gasp through gritted teeth as a wave of pain passes over my skull. ‘Just let me go, Celia, and we can talk about this. I promise we can sort everything out!’
She doesn’t respond, and instead hoists me to my feet and drags me into the kitchen. Behind me I can hear that my mother is rousing herself. I twist around to see her scrambling to her feet, her legs wobbly and weak. I try to mouth to her that she should run, but she clumsily follows us and even through my fear addled brain I can see this is a bad move. The worst move ever.
I hear the smooth swish of metal as a knife is dragged from its block and feel my stomach drop as something sharp is pressed into my back. A hard stone of terror sits there in my belly, solid and immobile. I can’t breathe or swallow, and the room spins and sways. All I can concentrate on is staying upright and not making any sharp or sudden movements.
This whole thing is insane. I have got to do something, to talk her round or we are all done for. I knew she had issues and her mind often teetered on the brink of what we call normality but I had no idea Celia was this bad. The time she did this as a teenager was years ago, when she threatened another girl with a knife. We’re adults now. She has a job, a home, everything to live for. Back then she was damaged; we both were, but we’ve moved on, or at least I have. Celia, it would appear, is still stuck in that negative rut of her life, the trauma of her childhood never leaving her.
‘Please, Celia,’ I squawk quietly, ‘I’m your friend. I want to help you. Please put the knife down.’
I feel it being pressed into my back with even greater intensity, and swallow down the vomit that rises. I’m wearing a thick sweater with a vest top underneath, a flimsy layer of protection against such a sharp weapon, but I hope it will stop the knife from going through to my skin. She is using just enough force to make sure I pay attention. She hasn’t hurt me yet, but I know she is unhinged and could easily do it without a second thought.
‘Shut up!’ she spits into my ear as she drags the knife up and down my spine for effect.
/> ‘Get off her or I’ll call the police.’ My mother’s voice is distorted as she wobbles her way into the kitchen behind us. She is holding the side of her face with one hand and in the other is a phone. She holds it aloft, brandishing it in front of us to show Celia that she means what she says.
‘You do that and I’ll drive this knife straight into her spine.’ She wiggles the blade about and lets out a haunting giggle. ‘If I lift it just a bit higher like this and push hard enough, it will go straight into her liver, and if I get lucky I’ll maybe even hit her aorta and she’ll bleed to death before anybody can get here to help her. Actually, even if they get here, she’ll die anyway. Or I may miss her liver and go deep into her stomach or intestines. She might not die from the wound but she could develop peritonitis and then she’ll take days to die. Your choice, Trish. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? Only with all the things I’ve heard about you over the years I feel as if I know you really well.’
I’m going to faint. I have to use all my strength to keep my legs from buckling and giving way under me. I can hear my mother’s deep gasp as she realises Celia has a knife pressed to my back. The sound of her breathing fills the room. I want to speak, to plead with Celia to think and act rationally but fear it’s all too late. It’s about damage limitation from here on in.
Despite feeling as if I am going to either throw up or pass out at any given moment, I have to draw on an inner strength I’m not even sure I have, in order to get through this. I don’t want to die. My only other option is talking her round, softening her up and persuading her to put the knife down.
I keep my tone neutral. I know she will pick up on a patronising inflection and will react badly. ‘Celia, I’m your best friend. I know you’re angry with me but this isn’t the answer. You don’t want to go to prison for hurting me, do you? Not after all the things we’ve been through. We’re old muckers, you and I, aren’t we?’
I can’t see her face and have no idea if she is responding to me or if she’s hell-bent on hurting me, and my words are pointless. I have to try. I can’t give up.
I feel her breath hot on my neck. She is so close. Could I try to give one huge push and escape, or would such a move be the trigger for something worse? I am too scared to exert any real strength, but my mother is here and she would help, or at least I hope she would. Her history doesn’t paint her as the most compassionate of people. I feel at a loss and hope that Celia sees sense at some point. All I have are words that I can use to win her round and possibly the added strength from the lady who gave birth to me and hopefully feels enough of a bond to save me. And if she doesn’t feel a bond or any sense of loyalty, I hope she has at least enough common decency to step in and help me if things turn particularly nasty.
‘Stop talking or I’ll slit your throat.’ Celia’s voice is husky. I barely recognise this woman. She is currently free-falling into madness. How am I going to reason with somebody who is this far gone? If I thought she was a virtual stranger before, she is now so far removed from me she may as well be an alien from outer space. Sweet talking her could be a waste of time. But it’s the only weapon I have, and my desire to live is strong. There is no way I will leave this world without a fight.
‘This is all my fault.’ My mother’s voice comes out of nowhere. She sounds different; softer, sweeter than just a few minutes earlier. ‘I’ve caused this so if you want to kill anyone, then kill me. I’ve got nothing left to live for anyway.’
I hear Celia draw in a breath. I don’t say or do anything.
‘My son, Gareth, told me earlier today that he never wants to see me again, and after this, neither will she.’ The phone has been put down and Trish is pointing at me with a shaking finger. Her mouth is trembling and she looks absolutely haggard, as if she is melting before my very eyes like hot candle wax.
‘Your son?’ For some bizarre reason, her words have struck a chord with Celia; brought her back to life and now she is speaking without the venom-laced tone she had adopted just a few minutes ago.
‘Gareth is your son?’ Celia’s voice is a near shriek. I feel the knife wobble on my back. It scrapes across my spine making me stiffen up with fear.
‘Gareth, you say? Fucking Gareth?’ She is panting hard. I have no idea what is going on but sweat prickles my armpits and the back of my neck, and saliva fills my mouth. There is something terribly wrong. There is some other connection going on that I know nothing about and I’m terrified by it. I have visions of her driving the knife deep into my back just because she has lost control. Or simply because she can.
‘Yes,’ my mother says softly. ‘His name is Gareth. What of it?’
Celia tugs at my hair some more and turns my head round until I am staring into her eyes. Pools of pure hatred glare back at me, sending a ripple of terror over my skin. I don’t have time to ask how she knows Gareth. She practically drools into my face as she speaks.
‘Oh my. How’s that for a coincidence, eh? You turn up here and so does your brother. Did you know you even had a brother?’
I try to reply but she pulls at my sweater, dragging me closer and pushing the knife even deeper into my back. I inhale sharply. I feel sure she must have pierced my clothes and drawn blood but am too petrified to move away. Her long red hair hangs in my face as she leans in close to me; so close I can smell her stale breath.
‘I’ve got a special secret, Eva. I’m going to tell you because you’re my best ever friend.’ She pulls her face away and giggles hysterically like a small child before leaning back in again, almost choking me with the warm, rotting air from her lungs. ‘Did you know I’ve fucked your brother?’
I try to cover the horror I feel as she speaks. I don’t want to give her any reason to hurt or maim me, or even worse. One slight movement, a facial tick, anything at all and I could be dead within seconds, my body split open by the knife she is holding. I would lie here on the cold floor like a piece of meat, my blood pumping out of me in great rhythmic pools until there was nothing left.
I run my tongue around my mouth and swallow. I need to work out whether or not she is lying. I won’t ask. I can’t. She is unravelling quickly and I cannot take any more risks. She would say anything to upset me and this is a way of doing just that. Celia thrives on keeping secrets. It’s her forte; her only redeeming feature.
I tip my head around as far as her grasp will allow me, to try to catch my mother’s eye. She is standing calmly, watching it all unfold. I hope to God she has some trick up her sleeve, some sort of plan that will save us from Celia’s madness because if she doesn’t, then we are both doomed.
‘Yes, he came here earlier,’ my mother says quietly. ‘I’m a bad person, you see. He came to tell me that he never wants to see me again. I take it you know him?’
I watch as my mother’s face softens. She is trying to gradually tone down Celia’s anger. I hope she succeeds; I really do, as I have no clue as to what we should do next. I am all out of ideas. I have known Celia for many years and therein lies the problem. I know how difficult and controlling she can be. I also know all too well how volatile and unpredictable she is. I know exactly what she is capable of.
Celia nods. ‘We’ve been staying at the same hotel.’
I listen attentively as she breathes hard. Her tone is less urgent, less angry. I could take a chance here; bring my elbow back into her body and knock the knife clean out of her hand. Then I could grab it and hold her still while my mother rings the police. But if I fail… I don’t want to think about the consequences of what would happen if I didn’t get it right first time and I’m not sure I have the strength to hold her down while the phone call is made. She would see through my phoney boldness and take back control, possibly using the knife to take her fury out on me for daring to overpower her.
‘Right,’ my mother says softly. ‘As I said, he no longer wants anything to do with me, and poor Eva here, I let her down years go. It’s what I’m good at – failing everyone – so if you want to use that k
nife on me, then go right ahead.’
Celia doesn’t move. I can tell that she doesn’t know how to respond. What Celia really likes, what she thrives on, is feeling powerful. Since we were kids, she has always done her best to be the superior one, claiming I need looking after, or telling people I am weak and vulnerable so they see her as my saviour; the person who stopped me from becoming some sort of society drop-out. It’s not true. As the current situation shows, it’s the other way around. Celia is deeply damaged, her mind still fixated on the past. I’ve got my issues and problems – I am the first to admit that – but I am not, and never have been, out of control. Celia is. She is very much out of control and it is me who has tried to stop her from carrying out many atrocious deeds. I am surprised she holds down such a decent job. She is a ticking time bomb and right now she is about to go off.
‘Come on, lovey. Do your worst. Take it all out on me. I can tell by the look on your face and the tone of your voice that you’re not keen on Gareth. What better way to get back at him than through me, eh? And if you’re not prepared to do that, then put the knife down and leave poor Eva alone. You’re supposed to be her friend, aren’t you? If you’re as good a friend as I think you are, then you’ll know that she’s already been through enough. Let her go.’
‘Been through enough?’ Celia screams, her voice shrill with unabated rage. ‘What about what I’ve been through? What about my tragedies and fucking awful upbringing? When is somebody going to care about me? All my life I’ve been cast aside and ignored while little Miss High and Mighty here has been hailed as the golden one, the one who always says and does the right thing. Yes Greta, no Greta, three bags fucking full, Greta!’ Foam gathers at the corner of Celia’s mouth as she speaks.
I wince and close my eyes. A storm of memories push their way into my head. Celia screaming at Greta that she hated her, Greta trying to placate her, telling her she needed to stop it and be calm; that she should appreciate things and not be so angry all the time. That she should be more like me. I close my eyes to stop more tears from flowing. So much hurt and hatred and destruction. I know what is coming next. It’s suddenly so obvious to me. She either wants to be me or kill me. There is no in between, no middle ground, no room for manoeuvre.