by R. P. Bolton
Mia gave a tired smile. ‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’
‘How about a bit of toast? You can’t go out on an empty stomach …’
‘I don’t think I’ll make it in today,’ she said with a grimace.
Behind her, the bed was unmade. Clothes littered the floor and spilled out of the half-open drawers. The curtains were closed and the air was stale.
‘You can’t miss your induction,’ Ellie said, stepping forward. ‘Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll tidy up?’
Mia blocked the doorway, fiddling with the black cord around her neck. ‘Thanks but I just need to be on my own.’
‘Well, at least let me make you a cup of tea.’
Mia rubbed her eye sockets. Flakes of old mascara sprinkled across her cheekbones. ‘Jesus, Ellie,’ she said. ‘I want to be on my own. Can’t you take a hint?’
Ellie swayed as she clung to the yellow pole on the tram, her emotions pinballing from anger to humiliation and back again. Her feet followed the well-worn path to her usual seat in the lecture hall. She took her coat off and placed her notebook and pen on the desk, ready for the induction session. But white noise came from the lecturer’s mouth, a meaningless backdrop to the anger bubbling inside her like a boiling kettle.
How dare Mia speak to her like that?
It had been a week since the revelation at the Union. For the first two days, Ellie burned with anger and humiliation. Stupid cliché. Her best friend and her boyfriend going behind her back.
But gradually, she’d reasoned herself into something approaching forgiveness. On a practical level, the contract tied the pair of them together until next summer and nine months in a toxic flat-share did not appeal. Plus there was no faking Mia’s hollow-eyed contrition. Any fool could see she was genuinely mortified. Then there was Tom. Ellie ached with misery at the idea of not seeing him again. Was it worth throwing everything away over one error of judgement? One mistake.
With a jolt, she realised the lecturer had taken her glasses off and was packing books into her bag. Rustling and chatter filled the hall. The girl next to her yawned extravagantly. What had the induction even been about? Ellie looked at the spiky doodles covering the page and flipped her notebook shut. That was Mia’s fault. Making her lose focus.
Can’t you take the hint? After all she had done. All she’d forgiven.
By the time she got off the tram and turned for home, black clouds were massed above her head. A storm was brewing outside and inside, her pinballing emotions had landed on fury.
63. Now
The sparkling mirror over the fireplace reflected a woman who had managed to shower and blow-dry her hair. Her top was only very slightly wrinkled and even her socks matched.
Ellie tested her happy face. Convincing enough. This is a woman in control, her reflection said. This is a woman who would never reject or harm her baby.
The key clicked in the lock and Tom said loudly, ‘Something smells good.’
‘In the kitchen,’ she called.
A pan of chilli simmered on the hob. Trinity radiated cuteness while Ellie tried to radiate normality.
‘I’ve missed you so much today.’ Tom lifted the baby up and buried his nose in her neck. Then turned to plant a smacking kiss on Ellie’s lips. ‘And I’ve missed you today as well. How was Dad?’
‘Great, really helpful. I did ask if he wanted to stay for dinner, but he had a darts match lined up.’ She tapped the wooden spoon against the pan and scraped a cluster of mince against the side. ‘How was your day?’
‘Oh you know.’ He kicked his trainers off. ‘Damage limitation. Have I got time for a quick shower?’
‘Five minutes.’
He kissed Ellie again. ‘You look beautiful. House looks great. You’ve been busy.’
While Tom went to change, she cut the top off a rice pouch and stuck it in the microwave. Next, she warmed two plates in the oven. When the microwave pinged, she shook out the rice and spooned chilli from the pan. The chilli bubbled like lava; steam rose off the heaped meat and glistening sauce. Steam fogged the kitchen windows. Everything was under control.
Tom had changed into saggy joggers and a retro Manchester City top. He roughly scrubbed his hair then combed it back with his fingers and stuffed the wet towel in the machine.
‘Bloody hell, I am starving. Mmm.’ He gave a chef’s kiss and smiled at Trinity in her bouncer. ‘Daddy is a lucky guy.’
‘Hurry up before it gets cold,’ Ellie said passing him a cold beer and the bottle opener.
The baby gurgled contentedly in the bouncer.
‘I could get used to this,’ Tom said.
Ellie flashed her perfect 1950s housewife smile and sat down. ‘Have you sorted the problem at work?’ she said.
While Tom rambled on about Interpol and the CPS and the dark web, she pretended to listen intently, even managing to chip in occasionally, until both plates were empty and he began to clear away.
Despite the superficial easiness, something simmered under the surface and she saw them both suddenly as actors on a stage spouting dialogue written by someone else. But that was fine. The longer she could keep them both playing their parts, the longer she could put off the inevitable questions and explanations that would keep spiralling because the only explanation was Mary Brennan.
A door slammed outside and her body instantly tensed. Was it Diane? Asha?
‘Major Tom to mother ship? Come in, mother ship.’
With a wan smile, she focused her eyes on his. ‘Sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?’
As he spoke, he clattered the cutlery into the sink. ‘Dad said you weren’t yourself today and’ – he switched the hot tap on – ‘I know we’re both knackered, but we really need to talk about what happened last night with the nursery and the cot.’
‘Oh that.’ She flapped her hand dismissively. ‘I meant to tell you, I made a mistake.’
As he turned she fixed a silly-me smile in place.
‘I know, ridiculous,’ she continued, rolling her eyes. ‘What happened was I was going to move the stuff, then I got distracted and forgot. But I really thought I had done it. Sorry. Blame it on the baby brain!’
From the look he gave her, Ellie knew the feeble lie hadn’t fooled him for a second, but before he could respond, the doorbell interrupted.
Cortisol kicked through her system, rattling her heart in her ribcage.
‘Don’t answer it,’ she blurted out. ‘Please.’
He narrowed his eyes and watched her carefully.
The doorbell rang a second time.
‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
The wind rushed down the hall and into the kitchen. Something in the garden toppled over, landing with a noisy thud on the concrete.
‘Hi, Diane,’ she heard Tom say. ‘Come in.’
64. Then
Mia perched on the edge of the sofa with her jacket folded over her rucksack. On the coffee table, several coffee mugs and an overflowing ashtray jostled for space with piles of paper. The air reeked of charcoal dust and stale smoke.
Ellie pointedly opened the balcony doors, letting the rising wind roar in to scatter Mia’s sketches on the floor.
‘Hi,’ Mia said. ‘How was your day?’ She smiled, and the smile conveyed so much: apology, sadness, affection.
‘I was a bitch before,’ Mia went on, gathering up the fallen paintings and putting her phone on top. ‘Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind and I don’t feel too good.’
‘Well, don’t smoke then,’ Ellie snapped. ‘Seriously, you promised you wouldn’t smoke in here. All my stuff’s going to stink.’
Mia didn’t answer. She wilted rather than sat on the sofa and pulled her knees up to her chin. Her skin was so drained that Ellie could see spidery veins on her eyelids and dark circles that had nothing to do with mascara. Angry-looking spots clustered along her jawline. Even her lips seemed bloodless. In that unflattering black dress and with hair tied in a messy updo, she was almost unrecognisable.
‘By the way, Tom asked if you wanted anything bringing back from the restaurant,’ Mia said.
Ellie turned slowly. ‘When did you speak to Tom?’
Mia flapped vaguely at the biker jacket slung over the rucksack. ‘He dropped my coat round on his way to work.’
‘Why didn’t Danny bring it?’
Her eyes glittered. ‘He doesn’t want to see me.’
Tom was here? Alone, with Mia?
Ellie undid her laces and, with shaking hands, set her shoes neatly against the skirting board. She dug her hands deep into the pockets of her jeans.
‘Anyway, I’m going out for a bit. I need to talk to Danny.’ She picked up her jacket and walked to the door. ‘I just wanted to catch you to apologise about earlier.’
She slid her key in the lock. Hesitated, then dug her black-varnished thumbnail into the textured wallpaper. ‘Sorry.’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘It’s just that—’
When she didn’t continue, Ellie’s heart thudded painfully. Tom and Mia. Tom and Mia.
‘Just what?’ she said sharply.
Turning, Mia hung her head until all Ellie could see was the scruffy topknot and the bumps of her spine through the shapeless black dress.
‘I need to speak to Danny first.’
Dig, dig, dig went the thumbnail.
Something nasty caught in Ellie’s throat and she pulled at the neck of her jumper. ‘Is this about Tom?’
Shouldering her bag, Mia sighed. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry so many times and I really, really am.’
But a surge of panic made Ellie grab Mia’s arm. ‘It is Tom, isn’t it? That’s why he was here.’
‘I really can’t deal with this today,’ Mia said irritably shaking her off. ‘Stop being paranoid. Not everything is about you.’
As soon as the flat door slammed shut, Ellie burst into tears. Horrible, racking tears that streamed relentlessly down her cheeks. She couldn’t shake the misery all evening. And even though she put her happy face on when Tom arrived with a paper bag of goodies, he wasn’t fooled.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Why?’
He used the side of his fork to bisect a spring roll. ‘Danny’s been funny with me all day. Now I come to yours, and you’re the same.’
Lightning flashed white through the balcony doors, followed by a deep growl of thunder. Ellie got up and closed the windows as the first fat drops of rain fell.
The rain poured for the rest of that evening. Wind rattled the balcony and scraped tendrils of ivy across the glass while they watched a movie involving a bank robbery. Or maybe a jewel heist. By the end of it, Ellie was none the wiser. But, thanks to the empty bottles lined like skittles on the kitchen worktop, she was significantly drunker.
Paranoid?
Tom was soon snoring, but Ellie queasily watched the angled corners of her attic bedroom tilt and swim. How could she be expected to trust either of them? She’d checked her phone about a hundred times and Mia hadn’t called or texted to apologise. Consumed by anger, she lay listening to creaks and groans as the storm shook the old building to its foundations.
65. Now
To be fair, Diane had been sympathetic, apologetic even, using phrases like ‘I’d hate you to think I am a nosy neighbour’ and ‘acting with the best of intentions’. And at least she’d spoken to them rather than telling tales to social services.
Not that it made much difference to Tom, who was currently leaning against the worktop staring at Ellie as though he barely recognised her.
‘It wasn’t as bad as she made out,’ Ellie said, focusing on the leftover congealed chilli in the pan. Her head had begun to ache. ‘I went for a walk, that’s all.’
Anxiety lined Tom’s features and saturated his voice. ‘Asha found you asleep in the woods, Els. She said you were completely out of it. Didn’t know where you were or how you got there. There is a line and leaving the baby on her own with the back door wide open crosses that line. I promise you I’m not blaming you, but we can’t go on like this. Talk to me.’
The memory of finding Trinity, alone and screaming in the house made her flinch like a physical pain. No matter how outlandish the truth sounded, she couldn’t let Tom think she’d abandoned their daughter deliberately.
‘It’s not what you think,’ she began slowly. ‘I’m going to tell you something and it’s going to sound really, really weird but I need you to hear me out. No comments, no judgement till I’ve finished.’
He pulled out a chair and braced his hands against his knees. ‘Go on.’
‘Do you remember how we said no more secrets?’ she said. ‘You have to trust me. There’s something wrong with this house.’ She held up a warning finger as Tom opened his mouth. ‘Hear me out.’
Nodding mutely, he tapped his thighs like he was typing a report on an invisible keyboard.
‘A lot of things have happened since we moved in. Things I can’t explain. And I know you’re going to say it’s all in my head and I’m tired or it’s the medication or Mia or whatever, but I swear it’s not.’
Slow down. Ellie heard herself gabbling, as though the lid had come off a shaken bottle releasing an unstoppable fountain of words.
‘The keys. I know I had them that day at the park. I know it. And when the lightbulbs exploded, there was a woman singing upstairs. I’ve heard a baby crying that wasn’t there. And I haven’t sleepwalked for years, have I? Even when I did, I only walked, I didn’t go through cupboards or end up sitting under a tree.’ She paused to draw a panting breath, reluctant to disrupt the energetic rush. ‘And I thought maybe it was me: I was a nutjob. But then the cot moved.’
‘But you just told me you’d made a mistake, remember?’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘That you got confused.’
‘I was lying!’ she said, her tight throat forcing out a near squeak. ‘I just wanted to get you off my back. There is no logical explanation for furniture moving by itself.’
Tom neutralised his expression. ‘OK. But for argument’s sake, if you can imagine keys moving, how do you know you didn’t imagine the cot?’
She stifled a sigh. That was the trouble with Tom. His job had siphoned off his imagination, taking with it the ability to understand that between black and white, right and wrong, there were things that couldn’t be investigated, solved and filed.
Her sleeve rode up as she thrust her arm at him. ‘Because I cut my hand. Remember? That’s proof that I didn’t imagine it.’
Brown in the middle and burgundy around the edges, a scab had begun to form over where the screwdriver had slipped.
There was a pause while Tom interlocked his fingers on the table’s scarred wooden surface. Watching the scepticism radiate from him sapped her energy. She could see his mind ticking, assimilating what she was saying, sifting through it, trying to convert the unpalatable truth into a logical explanation.
‘OK, today. Why Moss Pond?’ she continued. ‘I’ll tell you. Because it’s where William Brennan hanged himself. Mary’s father. And I don’t know why any of this is happening to me. To us. But I do know it’s all tied up with Mary Brennan. She’s trying to tell me something.’
‘No,’ Tom said gently. ‘All this about missing keys, a woman in the garden. Sleepwalking.’ He stopped for a beat. ‘Cutting yourself, Ellie. You must see it’s about Mia.’
She shook her head violently. ‘No.’
‘Mary Brennan is dead,’ he said.
The shout swelled up from the ground, reverberating through her body before it exploded from her.
‘So is Mia!’
66. Then
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Tom said.
She almost laughed.
Weeks had passed since Mia died and Ellie was still very far from OK. She rested her forearms on the tabletop, cold Formica chilling her skin. The tell-tale zigzag lines of an impending migraine flickered at the sides of her vision. If only she could drop her forehead on the table and sleep and sleep.
Steam rose fr
om damp clothes, while outside the late October skies drizzled. Around them, the uni canteen heaved with students chatting, laughing, living. Between them, a cardboard packet contained a sandwich of limp rocket and plasticky sliced cheese. Tom nudged it towards her.
‘At least eat something.’
Obediently, she peeled back the plastic film. A process began: salivary glands activated, chew, swallow the bolus of food. The bread tasted of nothing. The slimy lump sliding down her throat repulsed her and she gagged.
‘You’ve got to eat something.’
Over the past few weeks, it seemed every time he spoke to her, his voice held that note of anguish. She should care. On some level she actually wanted to care.
But she didn’t.
A glass shell shielded her from the rest of the world. It developed another layer, transparent and shatterproof every morning. It protected her during the police interviews. It had got her through Anita and David helping to sort the flat. It had got her through the horror of Mia’s funeral yesterday.
‘A celebration of a life lived to the full’ – that’s how Anita and David painted the service. Colourful clothes, please. No lilies. Roses were Mia’s favourite flower. Donations to a local dog shelter she’d volunteered at would be welcome. The music was upbeat, the walls decorated with her artwork and the eulogy punctuated with hilarious anecdotes and video clips of Mia. Just twenty years to make so many friends. To do so many things. How was that possible?
The wake, held in a marquee in the garden, rocked with laughter rather than sobbing and it was, as everyone felt the need to observe, exactly what Mia would have wanted. Safe inside her glass bubble, Ellie didn’t have to listen or care. Or to point out that what Mia would really have wanted was not to be dead.
And now, here she was back in Manchester with Tom. Sitting in the canteen with normal students and being expected to drop back into her old life as though nothing had happened. A girl on the table next to her turned, her eyes boring into Ellie. Suddenly, the whole canteen was looking at her, whispering, judging. You know the dead girl? That’s her flatmate. The one who was there.