by Lauren Dawes
Indi had never questioned him like this before. He didn’t know what to say to her. She’d been hurt by every single person who’d said that they’d cared about her. No wonder she was so angry with him. He thought carefully about how to word his answer for a moment before saying, ‘Sometimes you have to love someone enough that you’re willing to give yourself to them completely, and trust that they’ll take care of your heart for you.’
She laughed darkly. ‘That’s worked out a treat for you, hasn’t it?’
Her words stung. ‘Not really, but where would I be if I hadn’t at least tried?’
‘Jer, I get it, but for me, I can’t afford to let anybody have a sliver of me. You are the only person I truly love and trust, and even that sometimes is too much for me to take.’ Jerry’s heart fluttered at the admission. She’d never said that out loud before. He’d always thought that she was just hanging onto him because he had never hurt her—never would hurt her—almost as if she was using him. But now he knew. Indi continued, ‘I don’t want to think what I would do if something ever happened to you. It could have been me getting the phone call at work, you know?’
He pulled her tighter against his chest. ‘What’s going to happen to me Indi? I’ll always be here for you.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘Indi, I promise that I’ll never leave you, kick you out, fire you, or anything else. I love you.’ He kissed her on the head and held her close as she started to tremble under his hands. Indi had cried in his arms plenty of times before, but it had never been over him. He felt responsible somehow, but didn’t want her to stop at the same time. He knew in that moment that the love between them was mutual—not one-sided as he had always suspected or feared.
*
They were both sound asleep on the couch until Jerry stirred with the afternoon sun streaming weakly through her dirt-caked windows. Jerry had curled his body around Indi’s, protecting her even in sleep. The movie they’d been watching had turned into a soap opera, the theme music rousing Indi from her sleep too.
‘How long have we been out?’ she asked groggily.
‘I’m not sure. I’d say an hour, maybe two.’
Indi yawned. ‘How have you been holding up at work without me?’
‘I haven’t been in the last couple of days.’
‘Really?’ Indi asked, surprised. It wasn’t often he caught her off her guard.
‘I’ve not been in any state of mind to deal with customers. It’s better this way.’
‘Who’s been looking after the café then?’
‘I closed it. I don’t trust anyone else to run it when I’m not there.’
‘Can you afford to do that?’ she asked, but suddenly bit her tongue. His stomach dropped. It may have been a slip of the tongue, but she’d started an avalanche on that slippery slope. She added hastily, ‘What about Rhett? He could have handled it by himself.’
He smiled despite his sombre mood. ‘Money doesn’t matter. All that mattered was you coming through alright. And don’t worry about Rhett. He volunteered to take unpaid leave until you were back on your feet again.’
‘Hey, are you hungry?’ she asked suddenly.
Jerry thought about the last time he’d eaten and couldn’t remember when that was. It must have been around the last time he’d showered and shaved though. ‘Are you cooking?’ he asked warily.
‘Nope. Kraft Easy Mac is cooking.’ A soft shadow of a smile brushed his lips before he nodded. ‘And while I’m making it, you can take a shower and shave,’ she added as if she’d read his mind.
Indi got up and started banging around in her pokey kitchen for everything she needed to make them something to eat. Jerry lifted himself off the couch and went into the bathroom. His head nearly brushed the roof in there, which made taking a shower particularly difficult. He stripped off his clothes gingerly and dumped them on top of the pile of washing Indi had left behind the door from before she was in hospital. It looked like a uniform, but there was a faint metallic smell to them. He picked up the black pants and dropped them straight away. The fabric was stiff. He bent down to inspect them a little more closely, and that was when he recognised what it was. The knees of her pants and below were soaked in blood.
Looking at the bathroom door like he could see through it, he wanted to march out there and ask her about it, to see if she’s got into trouble recently. He wanted to help her, but he didn’t dare. With Indi it was always best to let her say something first rather than the other way around, so he left them where they were, covering up her laundry with his and stepped into the shower.
The hot water felt good on his skin. He could feel it lifting off the thick layer of sweat he hadn’t been bothered to wash off in the last couple of days. He washed his hair and rubbed soap onto every inch of his body until he couldn’t smell that awful stench that had been following him around. When he was done, he stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist.
The mirror was all fogged up from the hot water. Jerry lifted his palm to the glass and swiped it away. He had large, dark circles under his eyes and he looked like death warmed up. His strawberry-blond stubble had turned into a small beard without him even noticing. After poking around Indi’s drawers and cupboards, he found the spare razor and shaving foam he left at her place and placed them on the counter. He also found some scissors—luckily—because he had to trim some of that growth away before he could use a razor on it.
When he emerged from the bathroom, he was washed, freshly-shaven and in clean clothes, and he really did feel like a new man. Talking to Indi certainly had helped him to clear his head and realise that his life wasn’t over. He might not have had Mark anymore, but he had Indi and that was all that mattered to him.
‘Are you ready Jer?’ Indi called from over the other side of the bookshelf that divided the room.
‘Yeah, I’m ready.’
Indi came out from the kitchen with two bowls just as Jerry sank onto the couch again. They ate together in front of the TV as if Indi hadn’t ever been in hospital and Jerry hadn’t just had his heart broken all over again. Jerry didn’t realise how hungry he was until he put his bowl down next to Indi’s still full bowl on the table only ten minutes later.
‘Not hungry Indi?’ Jerry asked, nudging the fork that was stuck in her bowl of Mac and cheese.
She answered without looking at him. ‘No. I thought I was, but the thought of eating that made me want to puke.’
‘It could just be your cooking?’ he suggested. In response, she knocked her foot against his and snuggled more deeply under his arm.
Eventually the golden light coming through the windows muted to black. Jerry’s eyes had lingered on the darkened windows for a long time before he started lifting himself off the couch. He didn’t want to leave her, but she probably wanted some time to herself.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked sleepily.
‘I’d better go Ind. You need to get some rest.’
‘Jerry?’ she asked softly.
‘Yeah?’
‘You wouldn’t want to stay over tonight, would you?’
His face softened. ‘Like old times?’
‘Yeah. We can rent some Orlando Bloom movies, microwave some popcorn and stay up all night. What do you think?’
He smiled. ‘Sure. That’d be great.’
Chapter 22
James woke when he heard a voice calling his name from outside. Rolling off the sofa bed, he shuffled over to the window, pulled the thin curtain back and peered out into the winter night. The ground was white with fresh snow, blanketing the tops of cars and the footpaths. James looked beyond the flakes to see a man down on the footpath standing in front of a basin and mirror.
The guy leaned closer to the mirror like he was getting a better look at something on his face. A glint reflected off something else, catching James’ eye. When he looked down, he saw the man was holding a straight razor in his hand. The man turned on the water, waiti
ng until steam fogged up the mirror before he slid the blade under the stream of hot water. He turned off the tap with a sharp metallic squeak, but the spout was still dripping slowly in time with James’ pulse.
James exhaled—a cold cloud of white breath coming out of his mouth in front of him. When the fog cleared, he looked down. He was standing in a small snowdrift; his bare feet ankle-deep in fresh snow, the bottom of his sweats soaked through. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself to conserve as much heat as he could.
The sound of dripping intensified, mimicking the beat of James’ heart. Licking his dry lips, he looked back down at the tap and his heart kicked in his chest. It wasn’t water coming out of it, but blood. His eyes went back to the shaving man, except he wasn’t shaving at all. His eyes were cast down at the sink, his face clean of soap and beads of blood. James forced his legs to move out of the snow and onto the footpath. He took a few tentative steps until he was standing closer to the man.
The man turned suddenly. James looked into his eyes, recognition flooding him. He knew this man. The guy smiled malevolently at James then looked back down again. A feeling of weightlessness took over James’ body. His head swam with dizziness until finally his whole body jolted violently. He let out a shaky breath and dropped whatever was in his hand. It clanged metallically into the porcelain. Through slitted eyes all he could see was red: blood. There was blood everywhere. Taking in a deep breath through his mouth, he focussed again on the tap and found it dripping clean, clear water again.
He looked at the back of his hands, holding them close to his face before flipping them over. Blood coated his fingers and palms, covering them like a thick blanket of red. Rubbing his fingers together, he inspected his hands carefully, looking for a cut or a nick from the razor. James was afraid to look any higher, afraid to find out where the blood was coming from. He knew there was too much of it to have just come from a scratch. He swallowed down thickly and took a deep breath to steady himself.
Light-headed and shaky, his eyes climbed the final inches up to the three, huge wounds in his forearm. The straight razor that had fallen into the sink was shiny with blood––his blood. He heard laughing, and when he looked up, the reflection in the mirror had an evil smile stretched across his lips.
‘W-w-why?’ he asked the reflection.
The man in the mirror’s face was darker, more brooding and smiling back maliciously. ‘I did this,’ he replied smoothly.
‘W-w-why?’ James stuttered again.
The reflection’s wide shoulders shrugged, his lips contorting into a malevolent smirk. ‘Because you’re a disgusting, dirty boy,’ he growled in a low voice that sent chills skittering up James’ spine.
James shot up off the sofa bed, gulping for air. Sweat had broken out on his brow and upper lip—the shirt he was wearing damp. A dream. It was only a dream. Relief washed over him in cool waves as his breathing slowed and his heart stopped pounding against his ribs.
Throwing the sheet from his body, James sat on the edge of the sofa bed with his head in his hands. It had felt so real. On an impulse, he looked down at his forearms––as if his eyes needed to catch up with his brain. But when he saw three, deep gouges taken out of not only his right forearm, but his left as well, his heart rate picked up again.
Running his fingers along the wounds, he sucked in a hissing breath; the sting telling him they were barely a few hours old. But where had they come from? Pinching the bridge of his nose, a very fine tremor shook his hand. What the hell had he been doing? His blackouts had been getting worse, more frequent––scarier. Out of desperation, he got up and ransacked his apartment for his diary, hoping to God that there were some clues he may have scribbled down at some point.
He’d been seeing a shrink for the last few months for his blackouts. She’d suggested writing things down when he felt like he was spinning out of control. They were her words, not his: spinning out of control. Those words sounded loaded, volatile. But he had done as he was asked and kept a diary.
Knocking over his style-jumbled music collection, he searched behind the stacks and came up empty. He tried the same with his collection of DVDs, but came up with the same result; although he did find a couple of movies he didn’t remember buying. He didn’t remember having so many movies when he’d moved into his apartment six months ago.
Slumping down onto the side of the sofa bed, he rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Where had he put it? And why did having this diary mean so much to his sanity? It was as if he could truly know he wasn’t losing the plot if he had that book.
Then he remembered the last place he’d seen it. James got up and searched through his black, leather briefcase. He found the diary crammed into one of the pockets. Flattening it out again against his chest, he flipped the diary open to a random page. It was dated from just over a month ago.
I bought the newspaper today. The headlining story was about a girl aged twenty who had been raped in Hell. The police have no leads and hope it’s an isolated case. I hope he’s caught soon …
I think I might have a burger for dinner.
Impatient with the lack of information, James slipped to another page. This entry was dated from just over a week ago.
When I came home last night, I felt … dirty. I don’t know how else to explain it. I’d taken off my shirt when I saw there was some blood on it. I think it was mine, but I’m not sure. I went into the bathroom to check for any scrapes and I had a busted lip. I had no idea how that had happened though. I checked the rest of my body to make sure I hadn’t been beaten, but my lip was my only injury. It reminds me of when I was twelve years old again.
I stripped off the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower. When I looked down, I had lipstick on my penis. I stopped the shower straight away and checked the pockets of my jeans, finding a cocktail napkin with a girl’s number on it. She said her name was Candy. I don’t remember meeting anyone named Candy … I feel like I’m going crazy.
Turning the page, there was another entry dated exactly one week ago.
I read the newspaper this morning. The front page story was about the rapist doing the rounds in Buxton. They’re saying that he’s using a knife in his attacks and they’re scared that he’ll start getting more violent. I worry about my neighbour across the hall. She’s all alone in this apartment block. I’m worried that one night she just won’t come back. I try to help her out when I can. I offered to walk her to work this morning, but like always she said she would be alright. I hope she’s right.
I seem to be losing more and more time. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
James leafed through another couple of blank pages, figuring that that had to have been his last entry. Just as he was about to close the diary, he noticed some heavy handwriting through the page. Turning over the blank page, he opened up the diary so the double page entry was clear. In different handwriting––almost primitive looking––was written: You are not crazy. I am here to help you … to protect you. James’ fingers traced over the letters that had been written in capitals with a black marker. He hadn’t written this, but when he stared at the letters, he remembered being there to see it done. James felt his throat close up a little; tears threatening to choke the sound from his throat. He couldn’t figure out why someone would read his diary, or even how they could have read it when he wrote in it and kept it only in his apartment.
He knew the neighbourhood was bad, but it was all he could afford until he started doing better in his job. Maybe someone had broken in, read his journal and left it right where he kept it.
Leaning back into the couch cushion, he thought about just how insane that idea was. Who would break into an apartment just to read a diary that was hidden away? And why wasn’t anything else missing? If anything, he had more things than before. No, it couldn’t have been that.
He picked up his diary and took it to the sofa bed, laying it in his lap. He recalled seeing a story about a wom
an on TV, a psychic, who went into a trance. When she was entranced, she did something called automatic writing where she subconsciously wrote things down. Maybe that was what was happening to him. It might explain the blackouts.
Picking up a pen, James wrote: Who are you??? He didn’t understand why. He didn’t think there was an answer to that question. He wrote it to stop himself from screaming and breaking everything in his apartment. He didn’t expect an answer either, but when the hand clutching the pen changed its grip, he felt himself slip away for a moment.
When he came back, he looked down at the page. Under his question was written:
IT’S ME. YOUR BUDDY.
Chapter 23
‘Are you sure you want to come back so soon after getting out of hospital?’ Jerry asked her for the umpteenth time as they drove to work the next morning.
‘What else would I be doing if I weren’t at work?’
‘I don’t know. Resting?’ Jerry replied, parking his car in the secure parking space behind the café.
She laughed. ‘I can sleep when I’m dead.’ Indi stepped out of the car and shivered. Winter was definitely here now. Jerry slung an arm over her shoulder as they walked around the building to the front of the café.
Indi was staring at the snow at their feet when Jerry whispered, ‘Oh my God.’
She looked up. ‘Oh my God,’ Indi repeated. ‘Barb?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Indigo,’ she purred. ‘When did you get out of hospital?’
Indi glanced at Jerry from the corner of her eye. He was still standing there, which was a good sign, but she wasn’t sure if he was still breathing. She turned back to Barb. Begrudgingly, she gave her answer. ‘Yesterday.’ Indi hadn’t wasted good manners on Barb since the clusterfuck with Jerry’s dad.