by Sant, Sharon
‘That’s what my gran used to say.’
‘So that makes it sensible advice then?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, looking up at him, ‘I suppose it does.’
We turn the corner of my street and I pull my keys from my bag.
‘What’s that pinned up on your front door?’ Dante asks as we draw nearer.
I yank the piece of paper down. It’s covered in squares and letters cut out of newspapers and magazines, like you see in some corny TV thriller. The content is anything but corny, though. Dante leans over to read it with me.
I’ve seen you looking for me. Next time you will find what you seek. Then the dead girl walking will walk no more.
‘What does that mean?’ Dante asks, staring at me.
I want to speak but nothing will come out. My brain processes the possibilities faster than I can keep up with. He’s been to my house. There is no denying now that he knows what I’m doing. Where else has he been? How long has he been following me? How much does he know? Suddenly, I don’t know who is hunting whom anymore.
‘What’s going on?’ Dante says, pulling me to face him. The page is in my numb fingers. I shake my head, unable to form the words that would explain it to me, let alone him. He takes the paper from me and turns it over. ‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘that’s the whole message. Who would leave something like that for you?’
There’s a moment of silence. ‘Some sicko,’ I finally manage to say. ‘Someone round here who thinks it’s funny to pick on the freak.’
His expression softens and he takes my keys from me to open the front door. Leading me down the passage, he sits me on a chair in the kitchen and runs a glass of water for me.
‘You’re ok?’ he asks as he gives me the glass. I wave it away and he puts it on the table in front of me. ‘You look terrible,’ he says.
‘I don’t feel well.’
‘Are you going to hurl? You need a bucket or something?’ he asks, glancing around the kitchen with a helpless expression. He doesn’t seem like he knows what to do with me. I wouldn’t know what to do with me either.
‘Dante…’ I begin slowly, my head spinning, my words feeling as though they’re not really forming in my mouth, ‘Marmalade… I think… I think she was killed.’
‘Killed? Someone killed her? That makes no sense. Why would someone do that?’
‘To get to me. Someone is playing sick games with me, trying to hurt me…’ I stop mid-sentence, the spinning of my head now a speed-of-sound blur. Dante. He’s taken Marmalade and I have nobody now but Dante. ‘You’re not safe here!’ I cry.
He shakes his head, his expression clouded by confusion. ‘You’re freaking me out now. You want me to call that policeman?’ He picks up the note and reads it again. ‘I’m calling him, this is sick and he needs to check it out.’
‘No,’ I whisper before my head goes down, forehead on the cold wood veneer. I can’t think straight. The killer is going to come after Dante; I have to make him see that he’s not safe. I try to lift my head but it’s like stone and the flashbacks come through, stronger, more terrifying than ever before…
I’m in a car, blood in my mouth, in my vision, screaming.
I’m on waste ground, back pressed into grit and broken glass and he’s on top of me, in me, in places where he shouldn’t be.
I’m hemmed in by the corpses of old cars, dirty diesel fumes and the smell of cleaning alcohol in my throat and I can see a tattoo and now I see his eyes and they look like eyes that I know…
When I come to Dante sits watching me carefully. I’m on the sofa and it seems he’s done his best to keep me warm with the blankets from my bed but I still shiver beneath them. My joints are stiff and unresponsive so I lie still and look up at the ceiling while I try to reconstruct what happened.
‘You fainted,’ Dante says; something like reproach in his voice. ‘I didn’t know what to do with you.’
‘It’s a thing I do,’ I say, aware of how dry my mouth is. ‘Is that water to hand?’
He offers the glass and I push myself up just enough to take it. ‘How long have I been out?’
‘Not long,’ he says. ‘Ten minutes tops.’
‘I’m getting better at it then,’ I reply.
‘What happened?’
‘A flashback. They’re not usually that bad, though.’
He pauses. ‘Is that what happened when your police friend called me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You get them a lot?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The car accident?’
‘Yes. Sometimes other things too.’
‘What other things?’
I take a sip of water and hand back the glass. ‘I can’t talk about it… I’m, sorry but I promised someone.’
‘Seems a bit mean to expect you to keep that promise if they know it affects you like this.’
‘They don’t. And there’s more to it than that, much more.’
His gaze drops to the floor. ‘Do you want me to stay?’
‘Do you want to stay?’
‘Yeah,’ he says.
His eyes are on me again, that mournful darkness that wants to swallow me whole. He’s my safe place and I want him to stay, more than anything. But the fear comes back to grip me and I’m not sure that he should. I don’t think I could survive losing another person.
‘If it’s about what you were saying earlier, I already know that it’s not safe being around you…’ he smiles slightly. ‘But I also decided that I don’t care. So tell me to stay.’
I think about what he’s said and I’m struck by one overriding notion. The guy who is out to get me already knows about Dante, just like he knew about Marmalade. Dante is already in danger and maybe the best way I can keep him safe is to take my stalker out before he can get to us. Once I’ve processed this thought, my mind is made up. ‘I want you to,’ I say.
His expression lightens. ‘Great. Do you want some more water?’
‘No. Maybe we should get something a bit stronger.’
‘What… you want to drink?’
I push myself up. ‘Why not?’
He looks doubtful. ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘Why don’t we get takeaway, get slaughtered and shag each other senseless?’
He grins. ‘Is that what passes for foreplay in these parts?’
I nod.
‘Then I like England better every day.’
I let myself fall back on the sofa again. ‘Give me half an hour, though?’
‘Cassie, if you’re not well we don’t have to –’
‘I’ll be fine.’
I stare at the ceiling. I need something to block out the memories, something to keep the ghosts at bay. I need oblivion, wherever it comes from, something to dull the sharp edges of my fear.
‘What are we eating? Chinese? Indian? Pizza?’ Dante’s voice breaks through my clouded thoughts. ‘I’ll let you choose.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘C’mon, you must have some preference.’
‘Really, I’m easy.’
‘There are so many replies I could give to that statement. Have you got any menus?’ he asks, getting up to rifle through the magazine rack. ‘This is nice,’ he says, leaning back to take a look.
‘It’s rosewood,’ I reply, my voice dull. ‘Mum’s friend brought it back from India for her.’
‘Sorry…’
I wave the apology away. ‘The house is full of their stuff. You can’t pretend it’s not here just because they aren’t.’
‘Why don’t you move?’ he asks, crossing his long legs to sit on the floor with a pile of leaflets.
‘Because it feels like I’m denying everything that happened if I do.’
‘So, you’re punishing yourself?’
‘Not exactly. I have to remember, though.’
He pauses for a moment. ‘Is this what they’d want for you? Do you think they’d want you to mope for them?�
��
‘It’s not moping,’ I snap, instantly regretting my tone. ‘But they’re not here so I’ll never know.’
‘Ok, so we have a pretty lush looking Chinese menu here,’ he says ignoring my rebuke. ‘Is this place nice?’
I glance over at the leaflet he’s holding up. ‘It’s nice; Dad used to order from there.’
‘Cool,’ he says uncertainly. He turns it over and reads for a moment. ‘They deliver. How about a meal for two? That way we get loads of goodies.’
‘I have money in a pot on the shelf,’ I say, gesturing up to the mantelpiece.
‘My treat,’ he says. ‘Do you have alcohol?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Dad might have some old whisky somewhere and Mum will have the Christmas sherry.’
‘Not big drinkers, then?’
‘Not really.’
‘Want me to fetch some beer? There’s an off-licence in the next street, isn’t there?’
‘No,’ I almost shout it. He’s stunned into silence for a moment and I feel his questioning gaze. I turn to him, trying to temper the panic building inside me. ‘Dad’s whisky is fine. It needs to be used anyway; no point in leaving it to rot.’
‘You got something to mix it with?’ he asks carefully.
‘There’s water in the tap, you big wuss,’ I say, forcing a casual air. ‘I thought you Irish could hold your drink.’
‘Ah, a common misconception,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how to break this to you, but leprechauns don’t exist either.’
I push myself up. ‘Ha ha,’ I say, throwing a cushion at him. He catches it with a quick grin. ‘Put the fire on, Paddy, then you can go and phone for the takeaway.’
Dante fiddles around with the ignition and eventually gets the gas fire going before leaving to use the phone in the hallway. I swing myself off the sofa, up onto unsteady legs, and cross to the window. I prise apart the slats of the blind to peer out at the street. The town is in darkness now, the orange of the streetlights glowing back at me from the bonnets of the cars parked along the kerbs in uniform rows.
I can definitely see what looks like the figure of man standing in the shadows across the road. I strain to see beyond the darkness. The more I look, the more uncertain I am that there is anything there at all. Dante’s voice makes me spin around.
‘Everything ok?’ he asks as I step hastily back from the window.
‘Yeah, just checking for snow.’
‘We’re expecting some?’
‘Dunno, whenever it felt this cold, Gran said snow would come. And it always did.’
‘They said half an hour for the food to be delivered. What do you want to do while we wait?’ He throws me a shy smile.
‘Easy, tiger,’ I say. ‘I’ll go and find that whisky.’
Dante spreads cushions on the floor while I blow the dust off the whisky bottle. It took a while, but I finally found it with the cleaning products under the sink. Dad was always weird about hiding alcohol, even when Tish and I were old enough for it not to matter any more. Dante settles on a cushion and holds out his glass. I pour a generous slug for him and one for me and then I join him. He takes a sip and grimaces.
‘Feck! What’s this – liquid fire?’
‘Funnily enough, that’s what it says on the bottle,’ I laugh. I take a sip of my own and all I can taste is heat, but I try not to pull a face. ‘If it’s too much for you to handle, I can always look for the sherry.’
‘You might have to,’ he says. ‘This will annihilate my tastebuds if I drink too much.’
‘You’re such a drama queen.’
‘Seriously, though, don’t you have any lemonade or something to mix it with?’
‘Nope. Just neck it, then you won’t feel the next one.’
‘I won’t be feeling anything at this rate.’
‘You big baby.’
He takes a bigger sip this time, his face contorting into a look of disgust. ‘Give me a lager any day. How do people drink this all the time?’
There’s a smart rap at the front door that echoes through the house. My glass stops, mid-way to my lips and I stare at him as the blood drains from my face.
‘That’ll be the food,’ he says, pushing himself up from the floor.
I start to breathe again. Stupid, stupid me. Of course it will be the food.
I go to the kitchen for plates as Dante goes to the door.
As I wipe the dust from a couple of dinner plates, I half-listen to the conversation with the delivery guy. Neither of them seems to have enough change to sort out the bill and there’s some convoluted theory about how to work it out that would wrap a knot in Einstein’s brain. I can’t help but smile. I hear the door slam to signal that they’ve finally come to some agreement.
I glance at the window and the plates slip from my grasp.
‘Dante!’ I scream, turning to look for him.
I hear him run down the hall but when I turn back to the window, the face has gone.
‘What happened?’ he asks, looking at me and then at the smashed crockery at my feet. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he says.
I look down. Blood oozes from a gash on my bare foot.
‘I dropped the plates,’ I say, staring at him.
‘You cut yourself. What were you doing? Not that pissed already?’
I look back at the black square of the kitchen window. The only face in it now is my own, reflected back at me. What I saw a moment ago… I can’t even be sure it was real. But it feels like he’s closing in.
Dante puts the takeaway bag to one side and soaks a teacloth.
‘Sit down,’ he says. I comply and he holds the cloth to my foot. ‘You’re not going to faint again, are you?’
I shake my head. ‘I dropped the plates; that’s all.’
He presses my hand to the cloth. ‘Hold this while I clean up.’
I watch as he opens cupboards. Then he turns to me. ‘A little help here?’
‘Dustpan?’
He nods.
‘Corner cupboard, bottom shelf.’
I pull away the cloth to inspect my wound as he clears up. The bleeding has almost stopped now and there doesn’t seem to be any debris in it. He glances over.
‘It wasn’t that bad then.’
‘I don’t think so. Just in a funny place.’
‘Like you,’ he says. ‘You’re still not right after passing out earlier, I knew it.’
‘I’m fine, stop fussing.’
He stows the full dustpan under the table. ‘Where are your plates?’
‘Next cupboard along.’ I need to look at the window again, but I keep my gaze firmly fixed on him as he produces two more plates. Please don’t be there, please don’t be there… I force myself to look at the window. All that’s there now is a ghosted mirror image of the kitchen reflected back.
‘They put chopsticks in!’ Dante says, peering into the takeaway bag. ‘How cool is that?’ He pulls out a plastic wrapped set with a soppy grin. ‘Shall we use these?’
‘I don’t know how.’
‘I do. At least, clumsily.’
‘If you want to do anything other than watch me spear individual grains of rice all night in an attempt to eat them, I suggest you get me a fork,’ I say.
We lie, face to face, on the cushions in front of the fire, our bellies full and warmed by good food and alcohol. In the half-light his eyes look like black pools of sorrow and I find myself mesmerised as we contemplate each other in silence. He runs his fingertips up and down the length of my arm in a slow, gentle movement. The action sends lazy ripples of desire through me. This is what I need, this will make me forget my fear and make me strong enough to protect him, to do what must be done to keep him safe. I lean in to kiss him. He returns it, willing and eager, and everything that is or was fades into this moment.
Fourteen: Hunting the Hunter
I run the tap as cold as I can and splash my face. Someone stares back at me in the bathroom mirror, but I don’t recognise her. I catch ano
ther handful of water, trying to contain my disordered thoughts as the room spins. The sourness of whisky taints my mouth and I rinse it in a bid to stop the nausea. I woke crying, I know that much. Thankfully, Dante is still sleeping, so maybe the sensation of my breath being squeezed from me halted my screams. This last dream was every horrific memory melded into one monster. The end is coming, I can feel it. And if this is to be my end, the reason I came back, then I have to shut out this fear and welcome it. I have to be strong: for Gran, for Tish, for Mum and Dad, for a Polish girl who came to find a new life and found only death, for a teenager who never stopped praying that her dad would come, for girls whose names I may yet know for all the wrong reasons, for a beautiful Irish boy who doesn’t even know he is relying on me to keep him safe. This man is hunting me, but I’m hunting him too and I have so many more reasons to win than he has.
I go to the bedroom window and peer around the curtains. From across the street, he looks up at the house. I can make out no more than a dim outline in the gloom, but I can picture his slow smile. I know he sees me. He starts to walk, slowly, away towards town. He knows I’ll follow as certainly as I do.
Downstairs, Dante still sleeps on the cushions in front of the fire. The whisky bottle lies drained on its side a few feet away, next to the empty foil cartons. He looks peaceful now, that mournful stare replaced by something sweet and content. I concentrate on every dark lash, on every wisp of hair framing his face, on every line and contour, on the way the fire throws warm flickers of light over his bare chest. I want to store the memories of this moment and take them with me, wherever it is I’m destined to go. I realise, with a wrench, that I’ll probably never see him again. But if this is my calling, the reason I was spared by death, a temporary reprieve with a price attached, then now is the time to pay that debt and I’m ready to go. I just want to make sure I take that bastard killer with me when I do.
I almost lean to kiss Dante for the final time, but if I wake him then the moment is gone and I know that this moment must happen, no matter what else does. So I take one last look and I quietly close the door behind me.
Frost bites through my sweatshirt and I try not to tremble. I need to be cold, I need to be alert and banish the last dregs of alcohol from my system. He glances back and quickens his stride. I follow, matching it so that we’re almost walking in step, divided by the hundred yards or so between us. The dull slap of my trainers echoes the thud of his boots on the pavement. The knife is tucked in my sleeve, ice-cold against my forearm. I keep it straight so that I don’t cut myself, but I feel the tip of the blade nibble at my skin as I walk. I have nothing else with me save my phone to call Karl if I do manage to kill and not get killed. He veers into a side-street and we’re heading out of the terraced rows and into the part of town where the neat homes will soon give way to faded shop fronts and crumbling industrial units. I glance up at the windows of the houses, almost every one in darkness. The town is hushed in sleep, the roads flanked by the gloomy puddles of streetlights that reflect in the glittering frost forming on the rows of silent cars. My breath unfurls into white plumes that float away on the night air, a reminder of my borrowed time in a living body, a body that was sent back for a purpose that I now finally understand.