Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  “No, Holly is an only child, and an orphan, just like us. Both her parents died when she was young.”

  “They did? How?”

  “Her dad died of a heart attack, her mum cancer, just like mine did. I mean, how weird is that? She says that their deaths were partly the reason why she fell into modelling, as she didn’t have a moral yardstick anymore. There was no one there to tell her right from wrong. Not that what she did was wrong,” he hastily counteracts, “just, you know, something she may not have fallen into, had her parents still been alive.”

  And then she met Jasper, her meal ticket out of the smut-life. “As long as you’re happy, Mark, that’s all that matters to me.”

  And I do mean it. Mostly.

  Next to my feet, Bertie whimpers and sighs heavily – a reminder that he’s overdue his walk. I can’t say that I overly fancy it, but, duty calls. Mark laughs, leaning down to peer under the table at him.

  “He must be desperate for walkies.”

  “Yeah.”

  My stomach flips – is Mark trying to get rid of me again? Trying to hurry me out the door? I don’t want to go. There is so much more that I want to ask him about Holly. It occurs to me that maybe he is fed up with me, that he feels as if I am grilling him on the subject. He may well think that this is less a conversation and more The Spanish Inquisition.

  Perhaps I should stop banging on about Holly for all of five seconds. I suddenly remember something that he said upstairs about having nightmares.

  “I’ve also been having the strangest nightmares, too,” I blurt out, like we’re in the middle of a conversation on the subject, rather than me just that second mentioning it.

  His coffee mug pauses midway to his mouth, hovering before his chest.

  “You have? What about?”

  “Just the moon, mainly.” And your girlfriend, all evil and naked, I silently add. I clear my throat. “I mean, the kind of banal stuff I’m dreaming always has a big moon behind it, so everything becomes spooky.” Now I’m saying this out loud, it sounds unbelievably lame. “Well, it’s not completely banal, I suppose; there was a tsunami on Bradgate Sands. It’s just, your painting of the factory with the moon in it reminded me of my nightmares…”

  My voice trails off when I notice that he has gone quite white, his cup of coffee held out in front of him, his lips slightly parted, as if in surprise. Then his mobile rings – the muffled opening bars of Sandstorm by Darude – making us both jump. His phone jolts him out of whatever trance he has fallen into and now he is a blur of motion, slamming down the mug on the table, jumping to his feet and pawing at the pocket of his jeans.

  “Hey baby,” he says when he takes the call. “Have you made a start already?” He laughs silkily at something she says and another bout of sick jealousy twists in my guts. Mark paces over to the sink, laughing, and saying things like really, and my God, and you didn’t…

  I don’t think that I can stand sitting here, listening to him simpering at his horrible girlfriend, so I nosily scrape back my chair to get his attention, jumping to my feet. It makes Bertie spring into action at any rate, even if Mark is much slower to turn around.

  “I’m going to go,” I say when Mark does eventually bother looking at me.

  “One moment, baby,” he says, lowering the phone. He doesn’t try to stop me. In fact, he looks relieved. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

  “Sure.”

  But he isn’t even looking at me anymore. The phone is back against his ear, entranced by whatever it is that she is saying to him on the other end of the line.

  His casual dismissal slices into the very core of me. Just as I turn to leave, I become aware of the song playing on the radio. I had entirely zoned it out up until this point, but now I am all ears. Yet again, my heart is slamming hard against my sternum and icy fear prickles the back of my neck, then trickles down my spine.

  …and I could write a song, a hundred miles long…

  It’s a Coldplay song, and Bill’s handsome face slams unbidden into my mind, remembering him playing last night. It’s not a song that I’m especially familiar with, and in that split-second I pray that I’ve got my songs muddled, that the chorus isn’t going to what I think it’s going to be.

  Alas, it is…

  …get lost and then get found, or swallowed in the sea…

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath, all too-vividly remembering the monster wave that swallowed Mark and I in my nightmare last night.

  I have to get away from that song playing – it is disturbing me on a deep level that I can’t even begin to articulate, and I hurry from the kitchen with Bertie hot on my heels, not even affording Mark a second glance.

  TWENTY-TWO

  More coffee, two slices of marmite on toast and a quick shower later, I feel something approaching human. I shackle up an excited, impatient Bertie, and head for the outside world.

  Blythe isn’t in the shop. I stand on the pavement in disbelief, the wind whipping up my hair. She is never closed – not without valid reason. And I have no clue as to what that reason might be. Even if she is only sick, she would normally text me to moan about it, panicking that she wouldn’t be able to open the shop. Yes, it is strange that she’s closed, and even stranger that she hasn’t told me why.

  I cup my hands around my face and press against the small glass panel in the upper portion of the door, peering into the gloom. There is no sign of Blythe, just row upon row of forlorn-looking clothes, sitting in the dark.

  “Where are you, Blythe?” I murmur, genuinely worried now. What if she’s had an accident? What if she’s lying in a pool of blood in her flat, having slipped on a slippery bathroom floor, a puddle of blood fanning outwards from her cracked skull?

  I shake my head to dispel the grisly – not to mention quite ridiculous – image. There’s no point in me loitering on the pavement outside Blythe’s shop, so I turn away – but not without first casting a furtive glance at the shop next door, I Can’t Believe It’s True.

  I shudder at the macabre window display, featuring the waxwork model of The Broadgate Butcher, with his axe slung jauntily over one shoulder and his oversized, white apron thoroughly blood splattered. I hate that stupid waxwork model, with its wry smile that is nearer a sneer on its uncannily realistic face. But what I hate even more is how the owner of this godforsaken tourist attraction changes out his window display every few weeks with various waxwork models, most of them of the Broadgate Butcher.

  I turn away in disgust and head for Broadgate Sands on the other side of the main road.

  *

  It is a blustery, cold day today, and the sun has yet to make an appearance. The sea and sky blend seamlessly together, cocooning Broadgate in a blanket of dimensionless, miserable grey. The wind whips up the sand the colour of wet concrete so that it swirls around my feet like ground fog. I am constantly shoving my hair out of my eyes and pulling strands from my lips that stick to the coating of lip balm.

  I hate the wind; it drives me crazy. As I watch Bertie playing in the equally-grey surf, crouching before it then springing backwards, trying to bite it like the crazy dog he is, my thoughts stray to the story of the settlement in America from many centuries ago, the exact date of which eludes me. The inhabitants hung themselves because the constant howling of the wind drove them insane; all eighty of them, found swinging from the rafters of the barn.

  I shudder. I can relate to that story a little too well. I huddle further into my black coat, standing in the middle of the beach, lost in my own thoughts, when I get that distinct, creepy-crawly, skin-prickling sensation of being watched.

  I spin around on the spot, my gaze sweeping the promenade that runs parallel to the main road for the possible culprit. Broadgate has that desolate, out-of-season vibe, that air of melancholy, where there is hardly anyone on the streets. The lack of bodies on-foot is disproportionate to the number of cars on the road. I can never understand the sheer volume of traffic in the winter, as it isn’t like Broadgat
e is a through road for the M25, and there can’t be that many people who live here.

  I scan the sparse crowd on the prom, taking in the elderly couple walking a large black poodle on a lead, the three teenaged boys on skateboards making a general nuisance of themselves, and the handful of lone individuals – possibly middle-aged although it is hard to tell – who hurry along the prom, hunkered down into their coats against the bracing wind.

  But it is ultimately the solitary figure of a man, leaning against the metal railing that lines the prom who catches my eye. His elbows are resting on the horizontal bar, his hands dangling casually over the short drop to the beach, gazing out to sea. He has that non-look of a man in his late thirties or early forties. Slim, average height, darkish, short hair, plain dark clothes, no distinguishing features.

  It isn’t the man who gave me the chills last night, yet he gives me the exact same, strangely abstract feeling. I feel as if he is pretending to gaze out to sea, that he is studiously ignoring me, that he is looking anywhere but me, purely because I am the sole focus of his attention.

  “Bertie,” I cry, “come here boy.”

  Bertie ignores me, busy snapping his teeth at the surf.

  Oh, for goodness sake…

  “Bertie!” I yell that much louder.

  I would whistle, but that is one of life’s talents that elude me. Bertie twists his head around to look at me. His tongue is lolling and it looks as if he is grinning. His ears are two perky triangles and his stringy tail sticks out in a perfect straight line, extending from his spine.

  “Come on,” I say in a singsong voice, turning to my right and beginning to walk. “The tide’s out, we can take the beach all the way home.”

  I throw a casual look behind me as I walk backwards a few paces, pretending that my attention is focussed solely on the dog. The man is still there, leaning on the rail, staring out to sea.

  I decide that he isn’t paying the blindest bit of attention to me, and I swivel around whilst walking, leaving the man behind me. The prickling sensation at the back of my neck gradually fades the further up the beach I go and he disappears from view.

  *

  I am not one of those who obsessively checks their phone one-thousand times a day, keeping an eye on their texts, various social media accounts and emails. But I am only human, and a shamelessly nosey one at that. I can’t resist picking up my phone every hour or so, when the mood takes me.

  The first thing I do after the vaguely unsettling walk is stride through to the kitchen where I have left my phone charging by the kettle. My intention is to drop Blythe a text to check that she’s okay. Or that’s what I tell myself anyway, when I stare at the brightly-lit screen. I also have certain men constantly simmering at the back of my mind. Specifically, I am wondering – or hoping, more like – that Mark has texted an apology for being so dismissive with me earlier. Perhaps he has even extended an offer my way to pop round for a drink later.

  I am also wondering whether I should send Bill a message over his fan page on Facebook. And if so, what it is that I should say.

  There is nothing from Mark, but I have an email notification. I open it, not expecting anything remotely interesting, and to my surprise I see that it is from billsubcon@hotmail.com.

  My heart instantly starts pounding in my chest and a small gasp escapes my lips. The heading of the email reads The Lady Vanishes and it is with a shaking finger that I swipe the screen…

  Hello Claire Wilson of ‘The Atlantic View’. I hope that you don’t find me emailing you like this too stalker-esque, but hey, in my defence, you were the one who gave me your business card…

  I was kind of sad to see you disappear like that so early in the evening. I heard that the stupid little fangirls were giving you a hard time – I’m genuinely sorry to hear that. You should’ve told someone. Steroid dude on the door would’ve turfed them out on their ear.

  Anyway, Claire Wilson of The Atlantic View, you’ve got me intrigued. It’s seventy miles from Broadgate to London, and I presume there are a thousand and one boozers between here and there, yet you chose The Red Lion… Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine…

  Why did you want to see me? I got the distinct impression it wasn’t because I am so astonishingly hot. Please believe me when I say I don’t normally do this kind of thing.

  The thing is, Claire Wilson, as fate would have it, I have to come to Broadgate in a few days to see a man about a dog. Or, rather, a landlord about an upcoming gig for Subcon. So I was wondering, would you like to go for a meal with me on Thursday the 15th? I hear that there’s a fancy fish restaurant on the seafront from that obnoxious celebrity chef… So I called them and booked a table for eight under ‘Bill Butler’.

  Forgive me for making the reservation, I don’t mean to pressure you into going out with me, but I’d be really annoyed if you did want to and then the restaurant went and got booked up…

  Anyway, I’ll be so happy if you respond, and let me know either way. I hope I get to see you again, Claire Wilson. All the best.

  Bill.

  I continue to stare incredulously at my phone, long after I’ve finished reading. The last thing in the world I was expecting was an essay from this man – I just can’t believe that he’s fallen into my lap so easily.

  Too easily. Because maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he’s the spider, and I’m the fly.

  Stop it, I tell myself. All these theories I’ve constructed about Holly are clearly making me paranoid. I mean, is it really so inconceivable that he took a shine to me? That maybe he did so because I didn’t throw myself at him in a sexual way? He more than likely doesn’t know a single thing about me, least of all my tenuous connection to his dad. Why would he?

  I am overthinking things, constructing barmy conspiracy theories in my mind. I’ve succeeded in securing an actual date with him, I should be thrilled.

  Oh God, I think, in a fresh surge of horror. Is that what this is? A date? Now I really don’t know what to do or what to think. I feel vaguely guilty, like I’m leading him on.

  No. This is a good thing. Sitting down to a meal with him means that I will have his undivided attention. It means that I can take things easier, lead up the things that I want to ask more gently. I’d be a fool to pass up this golden opportunity.

  Stealing myself, collecting my thoughts, I hit reply:

  Hello Bill Butler.

  Thank you so much for your email and your kind invitation for dinner. I would be delighted to take you up on that offer…

  So I guess I’ll see you at eight on Thursday. I’m really looking forward to it.

  All the best,

  Claire Wilson of The Atlantic View.

  I pause, re-reading it several times, my finger hovering over the send button.

  I’m not sure if the stab at levity has come off as intended. Do I sound witty, or just like a sad case? And maybe the whole thing is too curt, too short. He did directly ask me, why do you want to see me? and I have sidestepped the question. I don’t want to scare him off before we’ve even started. I’ve got this far; I can’t risk it.

  Just do it. Send the damn thing.

  So I do, and I regret it the second the arrow pings upwards.

  Too late now. The deed is done.

  After emailing Bill, I text Blythe:

  Where are you? What’s the matter? Are you OK?

  She replies almost immediately:

  Sick. Stomach bug. Problem with both ends. All quite foul.

  I grimace. Nice. I text back my condolences, wishing her a speedy recovery. I decide not to pay her a visit in case it’s contagious – shitting through the eye of a needle doesn’t exactly correspond with my hot date plans. Besides, she lives in a tiny, one-bed flat and doesn’t like having people there at the best of times.

  Thoughtfully, I rub the edge of the phone against my chin. I’m still reeling at how easy it was arranging a date with the sexy lead singer of the up and coming indie band. Things
like this don’t normally happen to me. I can count the men I’ve slept with on one hand, and I’ve never even lived with anyone. I always back out when a relationship gets too serious, probably because I’ve been in love with Mark since forever, and no one has – or ever will – measure up.

  And, thinking of which, I really need to bang on his door again, seeing as I didn’t get the opportunity earlier to ask if he wanted to come around for dinner tonight. I only have two more nights of Mark before she comes back. After that, it won’t be long before he swans off to Germany and then God only knows when I might catch him on his own again. If ever.

  There is no time like the present, and, as I haven’t even taken off my coat and boots, now is the perfect time to ask without looking too keen or desperate.

  “Back in a minute, boy, you can wait here,” I say to Bertie, before heading two doors down.

  *

  “Sorry, Claire, I really shouldn’t, I’ve got a ton of stuff I need to be getting on with, and I’m in the middle of a painting that I’d really like to take to Berlin with me.”

  I am trying my best not to look crestfallen, but God, it is difficult. I swallow down the lump in my throat.

  “Are you sure?” I ask brightly. “I took a shank of lamb out the freezer last night, I couldn’t possibly eat that all by myself.”

  “Sorry, I really can’t. But maybe the three of us can get together when Holly’s back?”

  I want to cry. “Sure. Let me know if you change your mind.”

  It only then occurs to me that maybe he doesn’t want to be alone with me, that maybe Holly has said something about our friendship making her uncomfortable.

  There is yet more awkwardness when he doesn’t invite me inside. To add insult to injury, it is starting to rain.

  “Well, best be off,” I say cheerily. As if I have any choice in the matter.