Mesmeris

by K E Coles

  It was so lovely. It even smelled expensive. I pulled it over my head and it fell like a waterfall over me. I half-hoped it would look awful. It didn’t. It fitted perfectly. It made my eyes bluer than usual, my pale skin healthier, even made me look as if I had some curves.

  I didn’t hesitate. Five minutes later, it was safely hidden in my bag, carefully wrapped in tissue paper inside a little cardboard box tied with blue ribbon.

  As I left the till, I saw a girl reflected in the full-length mirror. She was looking through a rail of nightdresses behind me. There was something familiar about her short, spiky black hair, her tiny waist, the way she moved. She had her back to me but I knew. Lill. I slid around the mirror and forced myself to breathe. I took my phone out of my bag. A gaggle of thirty-something overweight women cackled as they admired the stand of red and black, tacky sleazewear. I moved around them, tried to keep them between Lill and me. I rang Jack.

  ‘Lill’s here,’ I said, as soon as he answered.

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Pope’s – in the lingerie section.’

  ‘Has she seen you?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ My voice went up an octave. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Don’t panic. You’ll be fine. I’ll be there in five minutes, okay? Just stay where there are people.’

  ‘Okay.’ I shut my phone.

  ‘Pearl?’

  ‘Mum!’

  She stared at me. ‘What’re you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?’

  ‘I . . .’

  Mum moved into my eye line. ‘What’re you looking at?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I tried to see around her. The gaggle of middle-aged women blocked my view.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Mum said.

  ‘I . . .’ I looked back at the rail of nightdresses. Lill had gone. I looked all around but couldn’t see her. ‘Shit!’

  ‘Pardon?’ Mum said.

  ‘Sorry, Mum – sorry. Um . . .’ I couldn’t think of anything at all to say because my brain was fully occupied looking for Lill. Then I saw her. She stood by the window and smiled at me with those toxic eyes. Jack’s face appeared behind her, just for a moment. Then her head smacked into the window and she dropped to the floor with a thud. Someone screamed.

  ‘What on earth? Oh my!’ Mum rushed over to help. ‘Get an ambulance,’ she shouted back at me.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Jack said, in my ear.

  I went to run. He stopped me. ‘Walk, okay? Look at the clothes.’ He took a pair of red and black frilly knickers from the rail and tilted his head.

  ‘No,’ I said, looking around for security guards, terrified someone would stop us.

  Jack grinned and put the knickers back. Grinned, like he was having fun. If it was an act, it was a damned good one. My nerves were jangling. Every now and then, on the way to the escalator, Jack would hold out the most disgusting underwear possible and smile at me, eyebrows raised. I stared back at him, not understanding. He laughed, then leaned towards me and whispered in my ear. ‘You want to get out of here, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then make an effort.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I licked my lips, tried a wobbly smile, pretended to look at the stuff he held up.

  Two paramedics rushed past us. If they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have looked to my right. And if I hadn’t looked to my right, I wouldn’t have seen through the open door to the store room and I would never have seen Dan – dangling from the ventilation shaft, eyes staring, mouth open in a silent scream, as blood dripped onto the floor beneath.

  ‘Don’t look.’ Jack took my arm, a fixed smile on his face. ‘And don’t scream. Please don’t scream.’

  We made it out of the shop somehow, stood in the street and waited. Then we heard the screams. And we walked away, arm in arm, as though everything was fine.

  ‘Papa must have put an order out,’ Jack said. ‘That means we have to leave tonight, before the others come looking.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Go home. Pack a bag, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘The lads are going out about six. Come to the flat then. Don’t say anything – to anyone.’ He kissed me. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll find somewhere safe.’

  Somewhere safe – as if there was any such place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The house was empty when I got back, eerily quiet. I paused inside the door – blessed silence. Fear left me incapable of functioning properly. I packed, unpacked, re-packed my bag at least ten times before I was satisfied it contained everything I’d need. What if they knew where I lived? I peered out at the street – no one. Jack said it would take them days to find us, by which time we’d be gone – and he should know.

  Ten times, I unzipped the side pocket to check it still held my passport. More than ten times, I went to the loo. In between, I paced back and forth in my room. Each time I reached the mirror, I stared at my reflection and asked if it was really going to do this. It said yes. It smiled, the sort of smile that made my jaw ache, that reached my ears. Each time I came to the window, I checked there was no one lurking in the garden. Everything would be all right soon. Jack said so. It would be just me and him and we’d forget all the bad stuff and be happy.

  Four hours left. How to fill them. I turned the radio on and sat on the bed. I tapped my feet to the music, bit my nails, and turned the radio off. I found a photo of me, Lydia, Mum and Dad on holiday in Cornwall - my favourite because we were all happy, all laughing at something Lydia said. I tucked it into my bag, next to the passport.

  I went downstairs and made a cup of tea, spilt the milk all over the worktop. Two sugars – for energy – in a crisis – like this one. Three and a half hours to go.

  I poked my head out of the bedroom door. Still no sign of anybody. I ran a bath, washed my hair, somehow managed to get shampoo in my eye. It stung like bloody hell. I dried my hair, straightened it, burned my hand, the top of my ear, dropped the straighteners and burned my leg.

  I put on make-up. Too much. Panda eyes reminded me of something – something sickly. I washed it off, started again. Then I checked my passport and shoved my bag under the bed.

  Maybe more tea. I poked my head around the door, stepped onto the landing as the front door opened. Male laughter, polite voices, one my father’s, the other . . . I peered over the bannisters. Shit! Andrew – the priest from Brighton. I shot back into my room and paced the floor. Why would Andrew be here? Then I remembered. Dad said someone was coming to help him – a young priest. But why did it have to be Andrew, of all people?

  I checked the mirror. Hair – still straight. Make-up – still there. Eyes – still manic.

  The doorbell rang. My whole body leapt. I heard Dad’s voice, then Jess’s voice, then bang, bang, bang as she ran up the stairs, two at a time. She bounded into my room without knocking, like she always did.

  ‘Wow! Have you seen that guy with your dad?’ she said. ‘Yummy!’

  I stared at her. ‘Yummy? Do you mean Andrew?’

  ‘Yes, him, Andrew. Ah . . .’ She sighed. ‘What a lovely name.’

  I don’t know what my face was doing.

  ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?’

  It seemed so weird to be talking normally, about ordinary things and I couldn’t get my head to work. ‘He’s – all right, I suppose. He’s a priest.’

  ‘Well, I know that. The bloody dog collar’s a bit of a give-away. What’s wrong with you? Are you ill? Why weren’t you in school?’

  ‘School?’

  ‘School, you know? Where we go every day?’

  I couldn’t think, wondering what would happen when Andrew recognised me.

  Jess rolled her eyes. ‘The red brick building with the sadistic tyrants they call teachers,’ she said, ‘and the even more sadistic tyrants they call pupils. Remember that?’

  I tried to laugh and turned away. ‘I – er . . .’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘back to the important t
hing – Andrew. How old do you reckon he is?’

  ‘Um – I don’t know - twenty-four, maybe?’ I saw my face in the mirror, tried to force it into a normal expression.

  ‘Ooh! I like older men.’

  ‘Yeah? Since when?’

  ‘Since two minutes ago.’ She flung herself onto my bed. ‘Think I’m in love.’

  I did my best to laugh while listening out for any noises from downstairs. I wondered how I was going to get rid of her by six o’clock.

  ‘Can we go downstairs and talk to him?’ She sat up.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not?’

  I couldn’t think of a decent reason but no way was I going downstairs. ‘We’ll see him later, okay?’ I said. Act normally. Act like a rational human being. ‘Look, Jess, I’m seeing Jack tonight so . . .’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well, you can’t go like that.’ Her nose wrinkled as she took in my jeans and sweatshirt. ‘We’ll find you something super cool. Let’s have a look.’ She opened my wardrobe. ‘Well, put some music on,’ she said.

  She sang along as she pulled all my clothes out of the wardrobe and flung them on the bed. She sorted them into ‘possible’, ‘maybe’, and ‘not on God’s earth’ piles. There were only two things in the possible pile – a satin top I’d forgotten I had, and a dark teal green dress that Mum bought me in a sale and I’d never even tried on.

  I stared at the clothes and thought how bizarre it was to be talking about clothes, listening to music, when the world was disintegrating around me.

  ‘It’ll look better on, trust me,’ she said, holding the dress up. ‘Go on. Try it on.’ She shoved it into my hand. ‘I’m going to make you look mega awesome. He won’t know what’s hit him.’ She lay back on the bed and read a CD cover.

  There was no choice. I got changed and began to feel a bit better. The music helped. So did listening to Jess nattering on, just like always.

  The dress fitted me perfectly. At least, the bit I could see in the dressing table mirror, the bit above the waist. When I turned around, Jess was staring at me. She put the CD cover down in slow motion.

  ‘Is it too short?’ I pulled at the hem.

  ‘How . . .?’ She pointed at my legs. ‘How the hell did you get those bruises?’

  I opened my mouth, said nothing. I’d forgotten all about them.

  She jumped off the bed. ‘I knew it!’ she said. ‘What a shit. I knew there was something going on. What a bastard. I’m going to tell your Dad.’

  I ran and pushed my back to the door. ‘No, Jess - listen.’

  ‘If you don’t move,’ she said, looking angrier than I’d ever seen her, ‘I’ll scream the place down. I mean it.’

  ‘Jess, listen.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s sorry and he’ll never do it again. My dad always says that to my mum. Been saying it all my fucking life.’

  ‘Jess, please. Just listen, then you can do what you like - please.’

  She didn’t sit down, but stood, head on one side, arms folded. ‘There’s only one way you get bruises there, Pearl, so don’t even think of defending him.’

  ‘It wasn’t Jack.’

  She snorted derisively. ‘Oh, right. Who was it, then?’

  I couldn’t leave the door in case she made a dash for it. ‘Sit down, Jess. Please.’

  She shook her head, mouth pursed, but seemed to be listening.

  I risked it and left the door. When she made no move to leave, I sat on the bed and looked at my legs. They were pretty violent – black, brown and yellow. ‘It was Tipper.’ I closed my eyes.

  ‘Oh, my God.’ She slumped down on the bed next to me.

  I told her everything that had happened in Southwark.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said. ‘I thought we were friends.’

  ‘I wanted to, Jess, but I’d have dropped Jack right in it.’

  ‘What? You mean . . .?’ She whistled. ‘So he’s a bit tougher than he looks, then.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘God! You poor thing.’

  I was terrified she’d hug me - afraid I’d cry and everything would spill out of my mouth – the torture, the murders, the truth. I stood up.

  She jumped up too and hugged me anyway.

  I resisted the urge to push her away. ‘It’s fine.’ I said, my body rigid. ‘I’m over it.’ I disentangled myself from her arms. All that stuff had to stay buried deep, where I could forget about it – forget it ever happened.

  She nodded, uncertain. ‘D’you think you should, you know – talk about it? I mean, there are helplines.’

  ‘I told you,’ I breathed, tried to unclench my jaw, ‘I’m fine.’ I dragged my lips into a smile. ‘Really – I’m really fine.’

  ‘I thought it was Jack,’ she said.

  ‘Can we . . .’ I clenched my fists. ‘Jess – please – forget about it. I have. Does this look okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you’d better wear opaque tights, though.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And heels.’

  ‘Right.’

  Twenty to six and she was still there. Jack texted. ‘Change of plan. Meet at Goat. Upstairs.’

  ‘Jess,’ I said. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Oh, right. Do I get to meet Andrew now?’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you go down and see him? I’ll have to run, though. Going to be late.’

  ‘I’m not going on my own,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Right.’ Damn! That meant we’d have to come back for the bag before we left - somehow.

  I went out on to the landing and listened. Muffled voices drifted up from the living room. The door was closed. We almost reached the front door before Jess shouted, ‘Bye, Mr Miller. We’re off now.’

  I could have slapped her.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to your dad?’

  ‘No.’ I couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice. ‘And it’s a girls’ night, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ She didn’t look happy about it.

  The living room door opened. ‘Girls,’ Dad said. ‘Come and meet Andrew.’

  Jess was through the door like a ferret. Andrew jumped to his feet, spilled his tea into his saucer. ‘Er . . .hello, hello.’ His face turned a funny shade of pink. He looked at his hands as if not sure what to do, then held one out to Jess. ‘How do you . . .’

  She clutched his hand and kissed his cheek. The funny shade of pink turned darker.

  I stood waiting, dreading.

  ‘I see you’ve met the lovely Jess.’ Dad said. ‘And this is Pearl, my daughter.’ He gave me a gentle shove in the back.

  Andrew’s smile froze. For a moment, we stood like surprised statues. Andrew recovered first and held out his hand. I shook it automatically.

  ‘Oh,’ Dad said. ‘Have you two . . .?’

  ‘We’ve met,’ Andrew said.

  Dad looked at me, raised his eyebrows.

  ‘In . . .’ my tongue shrank from the word, ‘. . . Brighton.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Dad said. ‘I see. Well – perhaps you’d help me make some tea, Pearl.’

  ‘We’re about to go, Dad.’

  ‘Please. It won’t take a minute.’

  Jess grinned and sat on the edge of the sofa, her eyes fixed on Andrew’s mouth. I followed Dad into the kitchen, shut the door behind me and waited while he put the kettle on.

  He stood with his back to the kettle, arms folded. ‘Mum said she saw you this morning, in town.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that you left without saying goodbye.’

  ‘She was busy. I had school.’

  ‘Right.’ He turned, filled the kettle. ‘So, Andrew knows – about . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  He took two mugs from the cupboard. ‘I checked out Jack’s details today.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing under his name, so I checked the address. Just one police record –
a domestic disturbance.’ He put some Rich Tea biscuits on a plate.

  Domestic disturbance? ‘But they were killed, Dad – both of them – both his parents.’

  ‘I know.’ He poured boiling water into the tea pot, stirred it. ‘When I couldn’t find any record at the station, I checked with old Mog, the undertaker. He remembered it - murder and suicide.’ He turned to face me. ‘The mother went insane, shot her husband, then herself.’

  I stared at him. ‘She hit the back of her head. How could she shoot herself?’

  ‘Autopsy results are missing. In fact, all the records are missing, which . . .’ He pursed his lips, ‘supports your theory – but doesn’t make him any less dangerous. ’ He turned, poured tea into the mugs. ‘You’re going out, did you say?’

  ‘Only to Jess’s, Dad.’ I lowered my eyes. ‘I may stay over.’

  His eyes took in the dress, the heels. ‘You look as if you’re going out out.’

  ‘Abbi’s coming over too. We’re going to have a girlie night – watch a movie, have some popcorn.’

  ‘Right, and you’re not seeing him?’

  ‘No.’ There it was - the big, fat lie. I brushed an imaginary speck off my dress to avoid looking at him.

  ‘Did you talk to him?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Dad – and he’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ For the first time since I’d told him about Jack, that worry line disappeared. ‘Oh, thank God!’ His shoulders relaxed. ‘Thank God.’ He stirred sugar into one mug.

  I stared at his back. ‘Dad, will you promise me you’ll help Jack?’

  ‘I said I would, didn’t I? I can’t promise it’ll be successful.’

  ‘I know that, I mean . . .’ Promise you’ll go ahead, even if I get run over by a bus - or murdered by Mesmeris - or by Leo.

  ‘Mean what? He turned to me, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Nothing.’ I opened the door for him.

  He paused as he passed me. ‘Pearly, don’t go out – not tonight.’

  ‘I’ve promised Jess, Dad.’

  ‘Then do me a favour – phone me when you want to come home, will you? I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’