by Grace Lowrie
Chapter Eleven
It was Friday night in the capital, in one of the most happening clubs in the world, and my colleagues and I were queens of the dance floor. Destiny (I didn’t know her real name) winked at me as yet another guy danced up close behind me, his hands on my hips. Rolling my eyes I firmly pushed the stranger’s hands away and sidestepped to reclaim my personal space without looking back. I wasn’t here because I wanted to pull, or because I particularly wanted to dance – my job provided enough opportunity for that – I was here to make friends.
I’d convinced myself to join the girls from The Electric Fox on a night out in a blatant attempt to ingratiate myself with them. Most of the other strippers were friendly up to a point, but I was the new girl and I sensed a general level of distrust amongst them, not least because I’d still not been brave enough to strip naked in front of the punters.
Admittedly, clubbing felt a little like a busman’s holiday, but on the plus side our dancing skills made us popular, and I’d not had to buy a drink all night. Such was the potent combined effect of our group on the men present. I was pleasantly drunk as I danced, the cocktails in my bloodstream enhancing the party atmosphere and effectively numbing my aching feet.
It was silly, really – this need to make friends – I shouldn’t need them. I’d achieved what I’d originally set out to do – left everyone behind, changed my life beyond all recognition, become a new person. Within days of being in London I’d crossed several long-held ambitions off my list: visiting the Royal Opera House, the London Eye, Kew Gardens and the Butterfly House at the National History Museum. But I hadn’t expected that experiencing all those things alone would feel so hollow.
I was proud of myself for earning money by dancing; it was an ambition I never expected to fulfil, even if I wasn’t yet exploiting my full potential. And now my days were free of obligation; imbued with quiet solitude in which to write.
Except that I wasn’t writing – had not written a single word, in fact; good, bad or otherwise. I couldn’t seem to get started. What should I write about? Nothing about my life was worth recording autobiographically, and I hadn’t yet had a decent idea for a fictional novel or even a short story.
It didn’t help that I was spending most of my daylight hours asleep. Somehow I’d slipped into a nocturnal habit. Returning home from work in the early hours of the morning I was too wired to sleep and would waste time watching movies, or baking biscuits. Then, just as the rest of the world was starting their working day, I would crash out, only waking again in time to get ready for another shift. My antisocial schedule had become so routine that it endured even on the nights I wasn’t working. And I was starting to feel cut off from the rest of the world; marooned in the top of a tower.
But making friends wasn’t proving easy. In clubs such as these, the music was too loud to permit anything other than non-verbal dialogue, and most people were too drunk to conduct a decent conversation anyway. I missed Marguerite terribly – missed her buoyant chatter, no-nonsense attitude and heartfelt hugs – but I was reluctant to call her. I told myself I didn’t return her calls because of our conflicting schedules, and because she was still in contact with Liam. But honestly I just couldn’t speak to her knowing I was hiding things from her – I was afraid I’d spill everything, give up London and crawl home with my tail between my legs. Instead I sent her apologetic text messages riddled with lame excuses and placating smiley emojis. The last person I’d had a real conversation with (if you could even call it that) was my truculent neighbour, Bay.
More than two weeks had passed since he’d bandaged my hands for me. My palms had healed nicely into calluses and, to my great relief, I’d found my own set of keys inside the flat, but had chickened out of returning the spares to Bay in person, leaving them in his mailbox instead. True to my word I’d stayed away from him. But he seemed to invade my thoughts every day.
He was an enigma; a bad-tempered but oddly-compelling guy, who owned an office block, right in the heart of London, and spent his nights painting eerily beautiful pictures. He treated me with obvious disdain – when he wasn’t being sarcastic, he was downright insulting – and yet, he had tended to my hands with such care…
I had taken that opportunity to check out his tattoos; what I could see of them without making it obvious, anyway. Trees seemed to be a theme for Bay because a black forest of skeleton branches stretched their way up from his left wrist to above his elbow as if straining towards the light. Above, adorning his left shoulder, sat a full, grey moon, complete with shadows and craters. This in turn was incorporated into an intricate monochrome pattern of skulls; most of which I hadn’t been able to see properly. And on his opposite shoulder sat a large, delicately-detailed moth, with what looked like another skull on its back. Death, it seemed, was also a theme.
Clearly Bay was hurting inside – a tortured soul – his excessive drinking alone pointed to that, if nothing else, and in the days since then I’d decided he was best avoided. But I was bored of dwelling on my own mistakes and mortality, and as obnoxious as Bay was, my guilty conscience nagged at me for turning my back on someone so clearly in pain. It was tempting to pry into his problems rather than ponder my own.
‘Get a life, Cally,’ I muttered under my breath, shaking my head in exasperation. Throwing my arms up in the air with fresh abandon I kept dancing as one of my favourite tunes, Joe Goddard’s ‘Gabriel’, flooded the air.
Chapter Twelve
Chain-smoking cigarettes I waited until almost midnight before letting myself into the flat next door. I knew full well that what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn’t help myself. In my mind I justified it by reminding myself that I owned the freehold; that Sidney only paid for the lease; and Cally, not even that. And I had a right to know who was residing in my building, who was living next door to me and sharing my wall. But in truth I was breaking and entering – snooping, plain and simple.
Over a fortnight had passed since I’d spoken to Cally. I’d seen her a few times through the peephole in my door as she came and went. I’d figured out her shift pattern and that’s how I could be confident she was out at work now. But it wasn’t enough; I wanted to know more.
The inside of the flat looked much as it usually did; not trashed or re-arranged; it wasn’t even messy. At a glance everything looked as clean, neat and tidy as Sidney kept it; there weren’t even any dirty dishes lying in the sink. As I moved further into the main room I noted that all his potted plants were flourishing and the fish tank looked immaculate – the water clear and the fish well-fed. Not that I could tell a well-fed fish from a hungry one, but it was a reasonable assumption given all other signs. I rapped my knuckles on the glass making them scatter.
‘You had a lucky escape, guys – if you’d been left in my care you’d all be flushed down the toilet by now.’ The fish ignored me.
Turning my attention to the laptop sitting on the dining table I flipped it open, but it was password protected, and after a couple of obvious attempts I gave up, closing the lid again and making my way to the bedrooms.
Cally had chosen to sleep in Sidney’s spare room over the master, despite its smaller proportions. The large stuffed bunny from the landing sat squarely in the middle of the bed, one ear held aloft and glass eyes staring, as if inviting me to speak. But I wasn’t off my face enough to do that, despite having recently addressed a tank full of tropical fish.
Two framed photographs on the dresser caught my eye and I picked them up to take a closer look. One was of a retirement-age, middle-class couple, sitting outside a villa somewhere Mediterranean and sunny. I could detect something of Cally’s features in the two faces when I squinted and assumed they were her parents, though I couldn’t be sure. The other photo showed a burly rugby player, clutching a muddy ball to his chest, mid match. He had a scowl of concentration on his face, his mouth-guard bared, and was about to be tackled from several directions; his body twisted in mid-flight. Was this her brother or her boyfriend? W
as this the type of guy Cally went for? Physically large and sporty? It was hard to surmise anything of his personality from such an image, but he had a sensible haircut and no visible tattoos…
But why should it matter to me? Whoever he was, he was on the dresser next to her parents rather than over by the bed – that had to be a good sign, surely?
The fitted wardrobe looked like it had been stocked by two different women. In one side hung a neat range of elegantly feminine clothes – mainly dresses and mainly in shades of cadmium red, carmine, crimson and vermilion. This fitted the classy Cally that I’d observed coming and going over the past month. But on the other side hung a daring array of scarlet lingerie – all skimpy lace, soft satin and criss-crossed ribbon. It was this side of Cally that confounded and intrigued me. No matter how long I spent thinking about it, and I’d clocked up a good many hours by now, I couldn’t reconcile Cally’s prim-and-proper demeanour with stripping. I’d seen enough exotic dancers in my time to recognise their empty eyes, resigned expressions and mechanical movements – that just wasn’t Cally. Part of the puzzle was missing and it was driving me nuts.
Like a true creep I rifled through her underwear drawer. Disappointingly it consisted of nothing more than simple sets of black bras and matching panties that were nowhere near as exotic as her stripping gear, and yet the mere sight of them got me hard. What was wrong with me? I considered stealing a pair of her knickers, but even I wasn’t that creepy.
Entering the bathroom I was further aroused by the scent of Cally’s toiletries. The clarity of the images they evoked in my mind surprised me: her hair falling in a curtain across one side of her face, the delicate veins beneath the skin of her wrist, the twitch of her mouth when I swore at her…
Despairing at my own insanity and disgusted with myself, I made my way back to the front door, switching off lights as I went. There were no answers for me here. Cally seemed to have few personal possessions, none of which explained why I was so interested in someone I didn’t even like.
A small pile of unopened post caught my eye as I was about to leave. It had been redirected from an address in Wildham; a small commuter town north of London. I had no idea what could have prompted Cally’s move to the city, but something inside me was strangely pleased to note that Calluna Drey was officially a ‘Miss’.
Returning to my flat, I headed straight to the kitchen, poured myself a stiff drink and speed-dialled my dealer. Sinking to new depths of depravity and becoming a virtual stalker definitely called for something stronger to see me through the night.
Chapter Thirteen
The Electric Fox ladies partied hard. It was gone eight o’clock on Saturday morning by the time I stumbled out of a cab in front of the office building I’d come to accept as my home. I was shattered – there was no way I would be able to go clubbing with any regularity.
A cute young delivery driver with a mop of blonde hair and a look of resignation was leaning into the buzzer at the door, a boxed parcel on the pavement at his feet. His face lifted at my approach, his down-turned mouth rising into an attractive smile.
‘You going up to flat one by any chance?’
‘No, sorry, I’m flat two; but I can take it up if you’d like?’
‘Great, thanks! Do you mind signing for it? Can I take your name?’
The courier surreptitiously looked me up and down as I signed his hand-held device. It was obvious I’d been out all night, but his gaze was flattering rather than sleazy, and prevented me from feeling like a dirty stop-out. I smiled gratefully at him as he walked away with a cheerful wave.
The parcel, from an art supply company and addressed to Mr B. Madderson, was not heavy, and now that I had a legitimate excuse, I was strangely excited at the prospect of seeing Bay again. Slipping off my heels I journeyed up in the lift barefoot, idly wondering if he would be out, or simply asleep. But as the doors slid open on the top floor I realised both assumptions were wrong. Absurdly loud and angry music roared from behind Bay’s front door, the bass vibrating right through my chest as if I was back in the club. My first instinct was to dump the parcel on the floor outside his door for him to trip over. But on second thought, there was no way I could sleep with such a racket going on, and Bay’s blatant disregard for my eardrums made me irritable.
I waited until a break between songs before rapping loudly on his door. As the next tune started up, just as aggressively as the last, I thought he hadn’t heard me and I was about to leave the parcel when the door swung open and I was engulfed in noise and smoke.
Bay looked awful – like he hadn’t washed, shaved, slept, or eaten in days. His skin looked deathly pale and shiny with sweat, his dilated pupils were black holes within shadowy sockets as he glowered at me.
‘What do you want?’ His voice was lost in the heavy metal, but I read his lips easily enough. Temporarily speechless, I gaped at him, but before I could recover a woman with bright purple hair and a short black skirt pushed passed us on her way to the lift. Despite heavy make-up, various metal studs in her ears, nose and mouth, and a pair of bulky leather boots, she was pretty. But the smug smile on her face matched her just-fucked hair and only increased my irritation.
Was she his girlfriend? Did it matter? Why should I care?
As the lift carried her away I returned my attention to Bay, but he shuddered and lurched off towards the bathroom.
Left alone in his open doorway once again, I dumped my handbag, my heels, and his parcel inside the door, slammed it shut and then stalked over to where a docked iPhone sat on a shelf alongside a battered-looking Mac Book. Abruptly I dialled the volume down from deafening to a murmur, and in the invading quiet I could clearly hear Bay vomiting.
Sighing, and allowing my anger to dissipate, I glanced around the vast, dimly-lit room, now even messier than I’d last seen it. The queen-sized bed in the centre of the room was in complete disarray, and there were more empty liquor bottles gathered on every surface. I should leave. Bay was ill. It was almost certainly self-inflicted – too much booze, too many drugs, or a combination of both – but even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t appreciate me hanging about to witness his suffering.
On my way back to the door a new canvas caught my attention – it was attached to the wall in a bright spotlight, vibrant with energy and potential – but as I deviated towards it I stubbed my toes on an ashtray that was seemingly carved out of granite and lurking like an iceberg in the shadows. Hopping about, I cursed my stupid neighbour under my breath. Right, that was it, I was getting out of here; this guy was nothing but trouble.
As the pain in my injured digits subsided, I carefully limped to the front door, determined to leave my neighbour to his miserable retching. But then I heard a sickening thump followed by a silence that made my scalp prickle. On instinct, but against my better judgement, I picked my way over to the bathroom where I found Bay slumped in a heap on the floor.
Wrinkling my nose against the smell, I knelt beside him on the cold tiles, patting his clammy cheek and calling his name. To my great relief he groaned, confirming that he wasn’t dead.
‘Bay, get up, come on.’ Reaching up I turned on the tap in the sink and flicked cold water at his face until he scowled and blinked, grumbling with irritation.
‘I’m fine, go away.’
‘You’re not fine – what have you taken?’
‘Nothing; just something I ate,’ he muttered unconvincingly, bracing one paint-stained hand on my thigh and the other on the side of the bath as he sat up.
‘Can I get you something? A glass of water? Or I could make coffee…?’
He shook his head but the action obviously hurt, and he stopped abruptly, taking his head in his hands. ‘Just leave me.’
Despite Bay’s attitude, body odour, and general unpleasantness, I was reluctant to leave him alone in such a sorry state; my conscience wouldn’t allow it. Being back in his bathroom reminded me of the care he had taken of my sore hands and, if nothing else, shouldn’t I return that fa
vour? ‘Tell me how I can help first.’
He groaned again. ‘Switch the shower on; let it run cold.’
I did as he requested, trying not to look as he leaned forwards and dragged his soiled T-shirt off over his head. To my amazement, a beautiful and disturbing rendering of the Grim Reaper was revealed, inked right down the centre of his back. The tattoo made me vibrate with anger. Why would anyone taunt death like that? Tempt fate, when life was so damn short already? Biting my lip I let Bay lean heavily against me as he struggled to his feet. With the unhooking of a button he let his paint-splattered combat trousers drop to the floor and I took a startled step back away from him – he wore no underwear – but he grabbed hold of my arm again to steady himself as he stepped into the shower. He gasped as the cold water hit him, his head falling back and his eyes closing.
In the face of Bay’s unexpected nakedness, my mouth went completely dry. I tried not to gawk as my eyes drank in every detail of his long, lean, tightly muscled body; so different to Liam’s; harder, meaner, no softness to spare. And, despite the onslaught of cold water, Bay’s tackle was impressive enough to explain, if not excuse, some of his arrogant swagger. The icy spray rebounded off his body, plastering my hair to my skin and trickling down inside my dress while I worked to get over the sight of him and mentally pull myself together.
After several minutes Bay began to shiver. Reaching past him without a word, I adjusted the temperature until the water provided a comforting heat. His eyes still shut, he collapsed back against the tiled wall, bent his knees and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. With my arm still anchored in his grasp, I sank to a crouch beside him, resigned to being soaked right through.
At last he released his grip, opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘I made you wet,’ he said with a smirk.
As heat rose to my cheeks I frowned at him, embarrassed and annoyed at myself for reacting. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’