by Kate Johnson
I stood looking around for quite a while before I realised I was completely naked.
Oh. Hope he didn’t have any flatmates.
As far as I could tell, there was only one bedroom, simply the smaller half of the loft, with a bathroom attached. I hobbled back through, looked at the bed which was streaked with dust and crusts of dried blood—eurgh—and at myself.
Huh. No wonder the bed was a mess. No wonder Luke told me to have a shower.
Briefly, I wondered where he’d slept. On the chesterfield? That leather probably wasn’t too comfy. And there were no spare sheets or anything lying around. In the bed with me? That figured. I finally have sex with someone as delicious as Luke, and I’m concussed; I get into bed with him, and I’m unconscious.
Ha.
I hauled myself into the bathroom and looked longingly at the shower. Then an idea struck me and I found myself in the kitchen, wrapping cling-film around my shoulder. Genius.
I spent hours in the shower, half wishing it was a long, hot bath with scented bubbles, but it felt good to pummel my skin with the jets of water. When I moved into my flat my nannan had had one of those scary hose attachments on the bath, no proper shower. That was the first thing I bought. A big, throbbing power shower. Yeah.
I washed my hair, which left khaki streaks all over the bath, and soaped myself all over several times. When I eventually stepped out, I peeled off the cling-film—the dressing was slightly damp but okay—and carefully washed the skin there. I nicked Luke’s razor and made myself presentable. I even found some Molton Brown moisturiser and slapped it on, making a mental note to tease Luke about it later.
I looked utterly dreadful, bruised and perplexingly pasty, like a battered wife. My dark hair made me look white and frightening. I couldn’t believe nothing was broken and all I’d needed was a few stitches on my shoulder. There was a big bruise on my cheek and the back of my head had hurt when I washed my hair, in fact there was not very much of me that didn’t hurt, but under the circumstances I reckoned I’d got off pretty well.
Next I started looking for clothes. Mine appeared to have run away—oh, Christ, her Ladyboat’s dress!—so I borrowed some of Luke’s, feeling very kinky in his underwear. I wrapped up my poor abused feet in layers of plasters and thick sports socks and cuddled into joggers, T-shirt and a hooded sweater. I had no bra—first time for everything—but that was the least of my problems. I looked like a homeless person as it was.
He’d said something about a video on the coffee table, and when I went out looking for it, half hoping for something cool about special agent training, I found a tape labelled SOPHIE—Buffy, and was more touched than I think I’ve ever been.
I used his phone to call home and check my messages. There was one: “Sophie, you’d better be listening to this from my house. It’s not safe for you to go home. Three fingers and one bullet do not a happy house make. Stay in my flat and don’t go outside until I get back, okay? I’ll be back in the afternoon.”
Git.
I looked at the clock on the state-of-the-art sound system (living with someone like Chalker you get to recognise quality audio equipment). It was just after ten.
Which gave me a couple of hours to look for a spare gun, figure out how to use it, get my bearings and—somehow—get home.
I know, I know. How stupid was I? There were so many things wrong with that plan. But I was on severe painkillers, in some kind of shock, tired and hurt and in a very confused state about Luke, and I really had to go and check that Ted and the flat were okay.
I was so glad Tammy was at my parents’ house. When this was all over, she was getting a whole tin of tuna to herself. No, stuff that, a whole actual tuna.
And then I caught myself. This might never be over. I had to get used to the fact that Tammy was never going to be safe. That people might try to kill me all the time. And I had to get used to the fact that I might never figure out who they were.
Too fuzzy to try and think of anything sensible about who it might have been, I started looking around the living room. The bedroom I’d searched quite comprehensively when I was looking for clothes. I found Top Gear magazines, ski goggles, condoms and a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo (in English, thank God—I don’t think I could have coped if he was smart enough to read it in French) by his bed, but no gun and no bullets. He had to keep that box of .40 Smith & Wesson rounds somewhere.
He had CDs and DVDs and videos in oak furniture by the TV and under the coffee table. He had books in large quantity and great variety on shelves that covered the wall by the bedroom. He had fairly decent taste—I mean, there had to be some horribly embarrassing Christmas singles or self-help books somewhere, but he’d hidden them well. There were skis and a bike and walking boots and what looked like diving equipment in a large walk-in cupboard by the kitchen, but no bullets.
And then I saw it, almost hidden in the panelling of the wall behind the big TV. A secret cupboard. I’d found some keys in the kitchen—not very well hidden, Luke—and one of them fit.
Hey presto, who da man?
I da man.
Well, you know.
I opened the cupboard, almost afraid of what I’d find, and stared for quite a while at the things I saw. An ancient, scruffy teddy bear, shoe boxes full of photos, an RAF cap, and lots and lots of guns.
Hello.
I felt like I’d opened the Pandora’s box of Luke’s personality. I itched to look through the photos, but after one or two I realised they weren’t going to mean anything to me. Family, maybe. Friends. Comrades, even. All strangers. Although there were a few of Luke in RAF uniform, looking completely one hundred percent edible, that I thought I might like copies of. And one, very old and rather faded, of a man and woman with seventies hair. She was sitting up in bed, holding a tiny baby, and he was beaming like the top of his head was going to fall off. She was gorgeous, blonde model good looks, and he was the spit of Luke, with darker hair.
His parents. Tears pricked my eyes, and I blamed the medication for my unstable emotional state. They looked so proud with their baby. Was it him, or did he have a brother or sister? I couldn’t tell. There were no more photos of anyone with a baby, although there were a few of a very cute little blond boy messing with paddling pools and a black Labrador. Damn Luke, he’d been irresistible even then.
The family photos stopped when the little boy was about five or six. No more pictures of his parents—not even a graduation photo. Surely being in the RAF involved some sort of graduation, ceremony—something?
I frowned, and carefully put the photos back in their box, in the order I’d found them, and turned my attention to the other things in the cupboard. A few trophies and badges, all rather dusty. Hmm, a military medal, although I didn’t know what it was for or even if it was Luke’s. It might have been his dad’s or something.
The RAF cap with its little silver wings was cool. The teddy bear was downright adorable. The guns…
Oh, baby. The guns.
The thing was, I had no idea what ammo went with what piece. There were boxes and boxes of bullets, all labelled, but the labels meant nothing to me. What did .40 Smith & Wesson mean, anyway?
Eventually I opened up the magazine of a revolver and found five little bullets nestling in place. The sixth, a dredged-up memory told me, was a safety chamber.
I found a shoulder holster and eventually figured out how to strap myself into it (I was on really strong painkillers, okay?), slotted the pistol in, and felt very, very cool.
I zipped up the hoody, concealing the gun completely, and felt even cooler.
As well as pretty scared. Knowing me I’d probably manage to shoot myself.
Two more pairs of socks made walking more bearable and also meant I fitted into Luke’s trainers. I found a spare key taped inside a kitchen drawer—slack, Luke, really not good at all—and locked up after myself.
The door opened straight onto the outside world, on a metal staircase climbing the outside of what looked
like a barn. There were vans and things parked in the concrete yard and piles of roof tiles all over the place.
Curiouser and curiouser. I ventured across the yard to the driveway and the main road, saw a sign announcing Pearce Roofing, and laughed out loud. I’d driven by this place pretty much every day on my way to my parents’ house. It was maybe half a mile from where I lived. I didn’t have to worry about dodging train fares or hitching lifts or anything.
Fantastic.
On my way back home, feeling much lighter than I had all morning, I passed the village cobbler’s. It was completely irresistible. The cobbler was slightly surprised to be presented with a credit card by means of payment for one key copy, but I had no cash on me.
I found my flat, my lovely flat, intact at least from the outside, with Ted standing guard and a pile of rubble on the other side of the car park.
Actually, you could hardly tell it was rubble. Building sites sort of all look the same, don’t they?
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Boy, I have a lot of stories.
I was slightly nervous when I walked in, especially since I’d had to climb over a large box outside that had apparently been delivered in my absence. I’d open it later, when I knew my flat was okay. I dreaded to think what was inside. Internal organs?
The flat was as I’d left it—chaotic, with clothes and make-up all over the place. It looked better to my eyes than it ever ever had. I only wished Tammy was here with me.
Yesterday’s post was still on the floor and I didn’t need to look inside the bulkiest envelope to know I’d got another finger. The freezer drawer with the other two fingers was full of ice cream, so I put the new arrival on its own with the chips. It was well wrapped. I hadn’t even opened it.
There was a voice mail on my Siemens phone. “Hey, Soph, it’s Angel. Says in the book you’ve got flu, poor baby! I’ll try and drop round on my way in—I’m on nine-five overtime…”
That girl was mad.
“…don’t worry if you can’t get to the door, flu sucks. Drink lots of water and have some chicken soup. Damn, I mean golden veg or something. See you!”
Ahh. Lovely, lovely Angel. And lovely Luke, too, for coming up with a plausible excuse. Not that I’d never used the flu one before. Ahem.
I got a knife from the kitchen and stood in my doorway, feeling cold, staring at the cardboard box. It was all taped up and my name had been scrawled on it. It couldn’t be a delivery, I thought, there was no address or invoice. Besides, I hadn’t ordered anything.
Feeling slightly sick, I crouched down and slit the tape, expecting something vile to leap out at me. Nothing did. Instead, I found myself looking at seven gorgeous boxed sets of Buffy DVDs.
For a moment I couldn’t speak. Darling sweet Angel, who shares my obsession. These are her prized possessions! If her house was on fire this would be all she’d save. This and her father’s guitar, which is worth millions. And has sentimental value, of course.
I dragged the box inside, heated up some soup, grabbed a bottle of water, and curled up with my duvet on the sofa to watch endless hours of Californian vampires.
Several hours later, I’d watched the entire first series of Buffy, complete with commentaries and featurettes, six episodes of Sex and the City, last night’s Friends and twenty minutes of Alias. And I’d cried endlessly. I cried when Buffy and her friends had to kill that vamped mate of Xander’s in the first episode. I cried when Carrie cheated on Aidan. I cried when Monica thought Chandler didn’t want to have a baby with her. I cried because Michael Vartan is gorgeous.
I don’t know what was wrong with me. I must have really been in shock. How could Luke let me come home on my own like that? Why didn’t he lock me in? I felt so unsafe, and unloved—because it was dark already and he hadn’t called or come by or anything. Not even a text. I even went online to see if he’d somehow got my e-mail address and messaged me that way, but no. There was nothing.
Maybe Maria was right. Maybe he totally separated sex from emotion. Maybe I truly meant absolutely nothing to him. My memories of the night before were hazy, to say the least—especially after all my painkillers—but I couldn’t remember any cuddling or nice, sweet words.
The bastard used me. I was concussed and he seduced me. He’s an arsehole!
Eventually, at about eight-thirty, the phone rang, and I ignored it. I hardly ever pick up anyway—that’s what the answer phone is for. And I was supposed to have flu, which, as I remember, traps you in bed for a week with a body that feels like a building has fallen down on it.
Hmm.
The message rang out, clear and pissed off. “Sophie Green, you had better not be sitting there listening to this. I thought someone had fucking kidnapped you. I’m going to try your mobile and so help me, if you don’t answer in thirty seconds, I’ll blow your bloody apartment up myself.”
Uh-oh. Did I forget to lock the door or something? Had he found out about the gun?
Quickly—well, as quickly as my crippled body would allow—I ran to the bedroom and shoved the revolver under the mattress. Then I hobbled back into the living room and picked up the Nokia, which was shrieking madly.
Is it my imagination, or does it sound more frantic when the call is important?
“Where the hell are you?” Luke snarled.
“At home.”
“Why the hell are you at home?”
I recoiled from the phone. I sure was glad Luke was on my side.
“I—I didn’t feel safe at your house. I like my flat.”
“My house is significantly bloody safer than yours! Jesus, Sophie, whoever it is that’s been sending you those fingers knows where you live. They were there yesterday. They’ll probably be back tonight. They will probably try to kill you. And I for one am half inclined to let them.”
I glared at the phone. “What did I do?”
“How did you even get home?”
“I walked. It’s not far.”
“How did you—”
“I’ve lived in this bloody village since I was two, Luke, I know where things are.”
He was silent for a few seconds, but I could hear him fuming.
“I’m sending Maria over to keep an eye on you. I have things to do,” he said eventually, and then clicked off before I could reply.
I stared at the phone in my hand. What was all that about? He’d have mentioned the gun if he knew that was missing. Why was he so mad?
Maria turned up ten minutes later, looking as perfect as always, dressed down in gym clothes, her hair shiny and perky. I shuffled back to let her in, feeling like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
“Bloody hell—” she shook her head at me, “—he wasn’t kidding.”
“What?”
“You look like shit,” she said frankly. “Sorry, but you do.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just bruised. I’ll be fine. Really, you don’t need to be here.”
“Either me or Macbeth,” she said, slinging her bag off her shoulder, “take your pick.”
Maria was looking like the better option. Nothing against Macbeth, but he didn’t look like he’d appreciate Ben & Jerry’s and angry girl music.
“Do you know why Luke’s in such a bad mood with me?” I ventured as she kicked off her sparkling trainers.
She shrugged. “I guess because he’s worried about you. He’s been at the office all day looking up stuff on Wright and some American guy, bugging the hell out of his FBI contacts and all. He said he was going back there later. I’m surprised he didn’t come here himself…”
I was beginning to get the feeling Luke hadn’t come in person because he didn’t want to have to fill in all the paperwork that would follow killing me.
“Hey,” Maria said. “I like your hair like that.”
I touched it, remembering that it was dark. “Disguise,” I mumbled. “You want to watch some TV?”
She nodded and looked over the mess of videos and DVDs on the floor. “Whatever you want.”
As always in times of emotional insecurity, I turned to Buffy. Series four, that glorious episode where you get Angel and Riley and Spike all in one juicy bunch. Man, I want to live in Sunnydale, land of fit men and perfect hair.
“So…” Maria said after a while, digging into the ice cream with her spoon, “this is after Angel’s left, right?”
“Yeah. But he comes back for a visit.”
“Right. And Spike’s been chipped…?”
“Yes. And Buffy’s sleeping with Riley.”
“Which one do you prefer?”
I considered it. “Well, Buffy’s really not my type. Too short.”
Maria laughed. “I think I’d go for Riley.”
“Really?” He reminded me of Harvey, all shiny hair and nice teeth. Oh God, Harvey. I’d forgotten about that part of last night. “I’d have to go with Spike. I need a certain amount of sarcasm in my life.”
Maria went after a cow-shaped chunk of chocolate. “Hmm. Bad accent. If we’re talking sharp teeth, I’d go for Angel. I like ’em dark and brooding.”
“Well, I’m not saying I’d kick him out of bed—” I took the ice cream from her and chased a white chocolate cow, “—but I like blonds. Even peroxide blonds.”
“He does have good cheekbones,” Maria conceded, licking her spoon.
“Mmm.”
We watched Spike strut around in some caves, all black leather and sexy sneer.
“He looks sort of like Luke,” Maria said after a while.
I said nothing.
“Don’t you think? With the cheekbones and the smirk?”
Luke looked better. “I guess,” I shrugged.
Maria took the ice cream off me and gave me a sly look. “Sophie, what are you not telling me?”
I stared at the screen. “Nothing.”
“Why is Luke so concerned about you? What happened last night?”
“Someone fired a shot at me and the building site collapsed on me. He probably just doesn’t want to find another partner.”
She had her head on one side and was considering me carefully. “Sophie,” she said seriously, and I looked up at her guiltily. “When we were talking about Luke on Wednesday and you said he’d made a pass at you, that’s all, right? He hasn’t been trying it on since then?”