by West, Sam
It’s only a storm, what the hell is with me?
“It hurt,” he moaned. I could’ve broken it.”
She wiggled out of his grip to peer down at his bare feet. “You could’ve done. But you didn’t.”
“I love you for your sympathetic nature…”
His words were cut dead by a fork of lightning that lit up the room, a deep rumble of thunder following two seconds later. A banging noise made them both jump and reach for each other.
“What the hell is that?” Flick said.
Tom laughed, but it sounded forced and unnatural.
He’s as spooked as I am.
“It’s just the shutters banging against the wall, the wind has really picked up.”
He untangled himself from her grip and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she called after him.
“To shut the shutters or they’ll just keep on banging against the window.”
“But it’s only six, and we have no electricity. It’ll be as dark as a dog’s guts in here if we shut them and it’s not going to get dark until ten.”
“Have you seen the sky? It might as well be night. But yeah, okay, there should be shutter hinges so we can secure them to the walls next to the window.”
Just as he spoke, the heavens opened. Torrential rain fell in unforgiving, hard sheets diagonally against the window.
Flick wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the sudden drop in temperature.
“Well, won’t you just look at that,” Tom murmured. “It’s like a British Summer.”
She trailed after him, watching him from the relative dryness of the front-door. In the two seconds he was outside and had managed to secure the shutters, he was drenched through.
“Jesus, look at that sky. It’s like a giant fucking bruise.”
“For Christ’s sake, will you just get inside already?” she said, staring in dismay at her husband as he just stood there in the downpour, face upturned to the heavens.
As he brushed past her, giving her a good soaking on his way, a streak of red across the way caught her eye. It was the old woman, still wearing her red headscarf. She stood there motionless in her front-garden, apparently oblivious to the downpour.
And she was staring right at her.
“Why is she just standing there?”
“Huh?” Tom asked, already halfway up the stairs and twisting round to look at her.
She turned to look up at her soaked husband, aware that she was frowning. “The old woman in the house opposite. She’s just standing there in the rain staring at us…”
Except when she went to look again, the woman was gone.
“She was right there,” she said, turning to look at Tom in dismay.
He shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone. I’m pissed wet through, I have to get out of these clothes,” he said as he trudged up the stairs.
Flick didn’t reply and just stood there in the open doorway for a moment, starting at the spot where the woman had just been. She was so sure that she had seen her.
Another flash of lightning lit up the sky and she shuddered, slamming the door shut just as more thunder rumbled ominously above.
On shaky legs, she made her way into the kitchen, alarmed at how dark it was. Digging out the candles that Felicity had given her, she then fished out from the bin last night’s empty wine bottle, and stuck one of the long, red candles in its neck. She had a few brass candlestick holders somewhere, but she hadn’t come across them yet and was buggered if she knew where they were.
Just as she was searching the cutlery drawer for matches, because she was sure that earlier she had shoved a box of them in the teaspoon compartment, Tom came up behind her, grabbing her waist.
“Boo!”
She screamed, her heart hammering.
“You bastard, that’s not funny.” She swatted him away, genuinely put out. “You almost gave me a heart-attack.”
“Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Just don’t, okay? I’m not in the mood.”
Her hand curled around the matches and she let out a small sigh of relief.
“You looking for the candlestick holders? I think I saw them upstairs in one of the boxes in the bedroom. I’ll go and look.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
Maybe it was wrong of her to be irritated at him, but she couldn’t help it. She sat down at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, listening to the rain giving the French-doors behind her a good pelting as Tom went upstairs in search of the candlestick holders.
“Hey. I’m sorry, okay? I was only playing, but it was in bad taste. I shouldn’t have made you jump like that.”
She hadn’t heard him come back, and bloody again, his voice made her start. This time, she had the good sense not to snap at him – it wasn’t like he had done it on purpose.
He handed her the candlestick holders. “Friends?”
She managed a small smile for him. “Yeah. Friends.”
A clap of thunder seemed to cement their new deal, and together they lit the candles.
“Looks like sandwiches for dinner,” Tom said.
“Yeah, I guess it does.”
After they had consumed their candlelit dinner of stale bread, cheese and red wine at the kitchen table, they had retired to the sofa, bringing the bottle of wine with them. They had managed to dig out a DVD from their scant collection that had been chucked in with the boxes of books, and as there was still a few hours of life left on the laptop, they had played the film. The film was Alien, part God-knows-what, and both of them had repeatedly nodded off with the laptop propped up on an upturned box before them.
It was kind of cosy, with the rain lashing against the window and the storm raging outside. The familiarity of the film, yet its strangeness too, because she didn’t remember much of anything from this particular instalment, added to the feeling of ‘home-but-not’. She was too tired to properly formulate the thought, but she felt as if she belonged in this house, but didn’t, all at the same time. Like she had never lived here, but had always lived here.
On screen, Ripley was fighting the aliens with gusto, and her eyelids felt like lead. Tom – on whose arm she was using as a cushion – wiggled his shoulder.
She groaned in protest.
“You falling asleep again?” he said.
“You’re a fine one to talk.”
“I haven’t slept once.”
“Bollocks,” she replied sleepily.
“How would you know? You’ve been asleep the entire time.”
“Have not.”
He kept shimmying his shoulder in the most annoying fashion and groaning, she sat up.
“You wouldn’t fall asleep if Gary Oldman was in it.”
“And neither would you if it was some shit film from the nineties with Kim Basinger.”
Her words were light, but a moment of insecurity assailed her. It was silly and not something that she would ever admit to, but she was intimidated by his schoolboy crush on the younger Kim Basinger. The Hollywood actress could not look more different from her in every single possible way. Flick was short, petite, and decidedly non-buxom. Flick’s features were the polar opposite of Kim’s. The actress’s pillowy lips, flowing blonde hair, petite nose, strong jawline and small, deep-set blue eyes were in stark contrast to her thin lips, sleek brown bob, wide-set, huge blue eyes, strong nose and delicate, elfin face.
Tom smirked, and for a second, her stomach twisted into a jealous knot.
I know he thinks about other women.
The bitter thought was most unlike her, and she pushed it back down where it belonged.
“That’s true,” he said thoughtfully. “But then, who needs Kim when I have you? Even though I know for a fact you’d trade me in for Oldman, given half the chance.”
She squealed in pretend indignation when he pushed her down on the sofa, pinning her down by her upper-arms.
Yes, it was true that her actor crush was Gary Old
man, and she quite enjoyed winding Tom up over this fact because the two men could not look more different. Despite his University education and brains, Tom was as about as far removed from ‘nerdy’ looking as it was possible to get; he was way too conventionally handsome. Maybe, on a subconscious level, her teasing of him was her way of reminding him that good-looks weren’t everything – that his looks weren’t what drew her to him. Not that he was cocky, or anything, but she figured that it never hurt to keep his head from getting too big.
But I don’t really fancy Gary Oldman, unlike him and Kim.
Again, the jealous thought caught her off-guard, leaving her feeling uneasy.
Still pinning her in place on the sofa, his mouth descended on hers. She closed her eyes, loosing herself in the moment, forcing all thoughts of ‘crushes’ out of her mind. His grip tightened on her arms, and her eyes snapped open.
“Ow, you’re hurting me,” she complained, as his lips moved to her neck, trailing kisses down to her collarbone.
He moaned softly in reply, his mouth open and wet on her skin. It wasn’t so much soft kisses anymore, but full-on slobbering. His tongue was wet and firm, trailing down her chest to the low neckline of her flimsy, Summer dress.
She squirmed beneath him, but not in arousal. “Tom,” she gasped, “let up.”
He didn’t, his hot mouth now on the neckline of her dress, his teeth tugging it down over one small breast. His grip was relentless on her arms, his lips forming an airtight seal around her nipple, sucking hard.
“Tom,” she gasped, trying to twist to the side but unable to move. “Tom! Stop!”
Her heart slammed in her chest when he didn’t. She felt teeth graze the tip of her nipple and her body stiffened in terror, for a horrible moment utterly convinced that he was going to bite.
The black thought was preposterous, traitorous, pure fucking evil.
Just as she opened her mouth to scream at him to get the fuck off her, pain exploded in her left tit, swiftly followed by hot wetness that soaked through the front of her dress. The reality of what he had done was so despicable it left her stunned and uncomprehending.
Suddenly, there was cool air where his mouth had just been and the pressure on her arms lifted. She was free. She sat up, stunned, clutching her ruined breast. Blood seeped and pumped through her splayed hand.
Incredulously, she stared down at herself, not daring to remove her trembling hand to inspect the damage. Her breath came in ragged little gasps, her ability to form words deserting her.
She looked over at Tom, her state of mind hovering somewhere between shock and total disbelief.
Tom was sitting upright, too, watching the film like nothing had happened. She stared at the side of his head incredulously, her mind a big, fat blank. Blood dripped from his mouth, running down his neck, turning the top of his white t-shirt red. His expression was passive, his hands resting meekly in his lap.
He turned to look at her and she felt her insides shrivel. His gazed fixed upon her, as emotionless as a reptile’s. When the corners of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile, she finally found her voice. A piercing scream left her lips, as the blood from his mouth continued to drip…
Flick lurched upright, her heart hammering. On the laptop screen, a woman was screaming, her stomach bulging and rippling as she clawed at it helplessly. With a gasp she clutched her breast. It took her a moment to realise that there was no pain there, and neither was it wet through with blood.
Tom was looking at her with concern. There was no blood dripping from his lips.
“Are you okay?”
She looked at him blankly, irritated by the woman caterwauling on the screen. Leaning forward to slam down the lid, she swivelled around to face him, still subconsciously clutching her breast. The strangest saying sprung into her mind, and she didn’t realise that she had voiced it until she had said it:
“I never go to sleep. But I keep waking up.”
“You what, now?” he said, frowning slightly at the oddity of her words.
“I just had a nightmare.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
For some reason, her flesh creeped. “What were you dreaming about when I brought you coffee in bed?”
His expression shut down, his face now as blank as it had been in her nightmare. She shuddered.
“I don’t remember.”
You’re lying.
Part of her wanted to pursue her line of questioning, but something in her warned her to back off. Shakily, she got to her feet, heading in the direction of the kitchen.
“Do you want anything?” she called over her shoulder. “I’m having coffee.”
The door to the living-room banged shut, making her jump.
“Jesus,” she muttered, clutching her pounding heart and glaring at the door.
The rain was still lashing down and the wind was howling, but that didn’t explain the banging door.
That was not a draft.
“Must be a draft,” Tom said.
Flick’s stomach twisted into a tight ball of anxiety, the sandwich she had eaten earlier threatening to make a reappearance.
“Yeah.”
Another bang, coming from upstairs this time, made her gasp aloud.
“That was the shutter in the bedroom; it must’ve come lose and is banging against the window.”
Flick’s heart was in her mouth when she replied: “Sounded like a door to me.”
Sure enough, the banging noise came again, and there was no denying that it was coming from inside the house, not outside.
“Well, then there’s just a through-draft somewhere.”
The note of irritation that had crept into his words was not lost on her.
He’s as spooked as me, he just doesn’t want to admit it.
Her thoughts involuntarily turned to earlier, to the look in his eye when he had scalded her with the coffee.
What were you dreaming about, Tom?
She realised there and then that she didn’t want to know.
CHAPTER SIX
After Flick had woken from her nightmare and after the incident with the banging doors, the evening had lost its lustre.
Flick had consumed her coffee, and then announced that she was going to bed. Tom, who had suddenly fallen monosyllabic and morose after complaining of a headache, barely even looked at her as he replied.
“Sure. I’m just waiting for the paracetamol to kick in and then I’ll be up.”
And now, lying awake in the dark bedroom on the blow-up, waiting for Tom to come up, that bad feeling intensified until she thought she might throw-up. Her stomach clenched and griped, like she had eaten something bad, and her head throbbed. She felt anxious, on-edge, her thoughts tumbling this way and that, unclear and unfocussed, lurching from one thing to another with the no rhyme or reason. One second she was stressing about all the things they had to do and all the things they had to buy, the next she was worrying about all they had left behind in England.
Then she was thinking about children. Or, more precisely, their lack of. It just hadn’t happened for them, and at thirty-eight, she certainly wasn’t getting any younger. They had been trying for the past six months, but she had never burned with the need for kids, not like other women she had known.
Will it ever happen for us?
Sighing heavily, she rolled over onto her side and yanked the duvet up to her chin, doing her best to push aside all the discordant thoughts.
Jesus, was this storm never going to end?
Tom’s ‘minute’ had long come and gone with still no sign of him. She thought about going downstairs to chase him to bed, but immediately dismissed the idea. She knew already that when he did eventually come up, she was going to pretend to be asleep.
What the hell was he doing down there anyway? There was no internet, and the battery was so low on the pc it wasn’t like he could start watching a film.
What are you doing, Tom?
That strangely abstract feeling of fear int
ensified, and she rolled over onto her other side so that she was facing the door. Despite the shutters being open, it was so dark up here that she could barely make out the hallway beyond the shadowy doorframe.
A flash of lightning lit up the gloom, and only then did she realise that Tom was standing in the opened doorway.
“Jesus Christ, Tom, you scared the shit out of me.”
Her words were punctuated by the low rumble of thunder that seemed to resonate in her very bones.
There goes the whole, I’m asleep charade…
She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest. Despite the relative warmth of the night, she was wearing her pink flannel pyjamas. Usually, she reserved these for the depths of winter, or for when sex was most definitely not on the cards.
Like tonight.
She strained her eyes in the dark, staring at the black silhouette that was her husband.
Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong with Tom…
Her heart was now hammering so hard in her chest that it hurt, and a strangled sob escaped her lips. Not taking her eyes off the silhouette of her husband, she fumbled under her pillow for her mobile-phone. The contract had been severed a few days ago but the phone still served nicely as a mini-computer, and, more importantly right now, a nightlight. She switched it on and the screen lit up, temporarily dazzling her. Twisting it round so that the light was shining on Tom, a stir of irritation cut through her fear.
“What the hell are you doing just standing there?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t even move.
“Tom? This isn’t funny.”
But Tom wasn’t laughing. In fact, he was frowning. Shadows licked his face, caressing the contours of his knotted together brow and the stern set of his lips.
He looked downright evil and very pissed off.
Flick clutched the duvet more tightly to her thumping heart. Why wasn’t he moving? Why was he just staring at her like that?
Then he smiled, and it felt as if her stomach and heart were trying to swap places. The phone slipped from her trembling fingers, landing on top of the duvet in her lap.
Another brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the room, and she saw that Tom was running towards her. Not walking, but running. In less than a second, he covered the short distance and dived on top of her.