Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  Smiling, Bill pushes his chrome barstool towards me, gesturing for me to sit down, then goes to retrieve another stool further down the bar. I look around myself for a clock, but nothing immediately springs into view, and I don’t wear a watch.

  “I thought our table was booked for eight?”

  I sit down, and so does Bill. We are the only people at the bar, and the restaurant is perhaps just three quarters full.

  “I took the liberty of booking the table for a little after that. I thought it might be nice to enjoy a couple of drinks first.”

  At these prices? I want to splutter. I’m not poor by any means, but neither am I exactly loaded. A drink at this bar must cost at least five times more than in a typical pub.

  “Don’t worry, tonight is my treat,” he says, as if he has clearly read my expression. “I hear that the pubs in Broadgate are rough, and as I’m so pretty, I figured that we’d be better off in here.” He smiles, and I can’t tell if he is joking. “It’s me that asked you out tonight, so this is all on me.”

  A drink is placed before me on the bar and I murmur my thanks, unable to tear my gaze away from his dark, sparkling eyes. I find myself admiring the square jaw and full, shapely lips that look as though they have been carved from granite. I lower my gaze, overwhelmed by the combination of his devastating looks and my own subterfuge.

  “So,” he says. “Why did you want to see me?”

  “Aren’t we going to commence with the small talk first?” I ask lightly. Or at least until we’re seated at our table, I silently add, so there is less chance of you running off…

  “I’m not really one for small talk,” he smiles. “I like to cut straight to the chase.”

  Images from my dream-come-nightmare slam unbidden into my mind – I remember how Mark had changed into Bill on top of me, and, more to the point, how I didn’t mind. I picture him with his hair freed from his ponytail, and how, in my dream it had given him the appearance of a wild beast – a majestic lion about to savage me.

  A shiver of longing surges through me.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  Now I’m really embarrassed, because the way his dark eyes are glittering with suppressed mirth, it’s apparent that he knows perfectly well that I am not cold.

  “I’m fine,” I say, taking a large sip of my drink to steady my nerves. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “Begin at the beginning, that’s always a good place to start.”

  I watch him down most of the gin and tonic in one big gulp. These are doubles, and he’s had at least one more that I know of before this.

  “Did you drive down from London, or did you catch the train?” I ask, thinking that he’s already drunk way too much to get behind the wheel.

  “I drove.”

  “How are you getting back to London?”

  “I’m not. Not until tomorrow, anyway. I’m stopping here for the night.”

  He doesn’t just assume that he’s sharing my bed, does he? He must’ve read my expression, for he bursts out laughing.

  “Relax, I’m not that presumptuous. The guy who I was talking to about some upcoming gigs likes a drink. And as he owns a chain of boozers, I wanted to keep him sweet, so I had a few pints with him. Subcon is now booked up for seven weekends on the trot. And I am booked into a hotel for tonight.”

  I think I know who he is talking about – Morris Green, who owns Green Acres, which is a pub chain of at least twenty in the South East. Two of those pubs are here in Broadgate, and I understand that he has some in London, too.

  “That has to be good. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I guess so.”

  But he looks glum.

  “Aren’t you pleased to get so many bookings?”

  “I’m not ungrateful for it. It’s just, I’m thirty-seven. Me and the guys aren’t young anymore, so if the big times is going to happen, then it needs to happen soon.”

  “Well, you seem to have quite the following,” I say, thinking of those girls from the other night who were ready to rip out my eyes. “You have a lot of followers on Facebook,” I say instead.

  “We’re close to making it. Or, we were. But close isn’t good enough. We were on the verge of cutting a record deal last year.”

  “What happened?”

  “It fell through. The music industry is notoriously flighty and fickle. And talent only gets you so far.”

  “But you seem to be the package. You’re gorgeous, you have an astounding voice, and Subcon sound great.”

  He raises one thick, straight brow, his dark eyes twinkling. “How would you know? You left before we even got started.”

  “I heard enough to know,” I mumble, embarrassed at my gushing compliments. But I speak the truth; I wasn’t trying to be flattering, I was merely stating things as I see them.

  “Thanks anyway,” he adds.

  “And you’re not old, you’ve got plenty of time left to make it.”

  “If only that were true,” he sighs. “As far as the music industry goes, I’m positively geriatric. Anyway, why are we talking about me? You were supposed to be telling me why you dragged all the way to a dodgy pub in Bethnal Green all by yourself to listen to a band you’ve never heard of or care about.”

  I raise my glass to my lips, surprised to find that it is almost empty. How strange – I don’t recall taking more than one small sip.

  “It’s difficult,” I begin, searching for the best arrangement of words – I can’t remember a single one of them that I’ve practiced in my head for just this conversation. “I have a friend, and I’m worried for him. He’s seeing someone from your past, and I don’t trust this person. I wanted to find out more about her, and you are the perfect person to ask…”

  My voice trails off. I feel stupid and insulting. God, what must he think of me? I lose his attention for a second when he catches the waitress’s eye – a different one this time, not as young, not as pretty – and asks for two more doubles. His expression is unreadable when his dark gaze is back on me.

  “Please, stop talking in riddles, Claire. Just tell me who you’re talking about. Although, I think I have a fair idea.”

  He said himself that he was a straight-talking guy, I tell myself, and I make the conscious decision to stop beating around the bush.

  “Holly. The woman who was married to your father,” I add, quite unnecessarily, I’m sure. Still, at least I didn’t refer to her as his stepmother – that’s just laughable, considering that she is younger than him.

  “So, she ended up in Broadgate. That figures.”

  My ears prick up. “Why does that figure?”

  “More to the point, Claire, why are you so interested in Holly? Who is this friend that she’s got entangled with? Is he an ex you still hold a torch for? Or someone you’ve just got a crush on?”

  His tone has definitely taken on an icier edge since I have revealed my true motives. I must humour him, to soften this as best I can, for I fear that I am in danger of losing any ounce of cooperation altogether.

  “Neither. He’s an old friend – my next-door neighbour, actually. We’ve been neighbours forever, although, he spends more time in London nowadays than he does in Broadgate. We grew up together.”

  “And you’re in love with… What’s his name?”

  “Mark.”

  “And you’re in love with Mark?”

  “What? No, stop, nothing like that,” I say too quickly, the heat rising to my cheeks. “I love him dearly, as a friend. He’s been like a brother to me over the years.”

  He stares at me, so still, so watchful, and once again I am reminded of a tiger waiting to pounce, coiled tight, watching its prey from the side lines.

  “So dear, sweet Holly has got her well-manicured claws into your Mark,” he says softly.

  The way he says your Mark is not lost on me – it’s clear that he believes I have feelings for him. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the point. It irks me that he’s come to this conclusion withou
t even knowing me.

  “Yes, she has,” I reply, ignoring his insinuation. “But I just sense that there’s something not right about her. My friend is a successful artist; he owns the house in Broadgate that Holly is currently moving into and he’s quite well off.”

  “So is she, after the shedload she inherited from my father.”

  The bitterness in his voice is all too apparent. At some point – I know not when – two more drinks have been placed on the bar before us. I take a sip, a warm glow seeping through me from the inside out.

  “Didn’t your father leave you anything?” I ask.

  Not much, compared to his darling wife. Enough to clear a few debts, and get a mortgage, but I’m rapidly running out. I work in construction a few days a week, when I’m not busy pushing the band.” He sighs. “I should probably quit the band and get a fulltime, proper job, but I’m not giving up on my dreams just yet.”

  So his father all but cut out him out of the will. Things must have been bad between them. It is obviously a sensitive topic and I know that I need to tread carefully.

  “You should never give up on your dreams,” I say automatically, but the words sound hollow, even to my own ears. Also, I’m a fine one for dolling out advice – Mark has been my only dream for so long now. And look where that’s got me. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I add, remembering my manners, even if I am itching to unleash a barrage of questions upon him.

  Bill shrugs. “We weren’t close. But it many ways, perhaps that makes his passing harder.”

  “Maybe it does. I lost my mum relatively recently, as well. Seven years ago, to be exact. It’s never easy.”

  “Then I’m sorry for your loss, too,” he says. “Is your dad still in the picture?”

  I shake my head. “He died years before Mum did. And I don’t really remember him, anyway. He ran out on my mum when I was little.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve long made my peace with it.” Have I? I wonder. Does anyone ever, really and truly, get over their childhood? “What about your mother?” As soon as the words exit my mouth I cringe in embarrassment, remembering that Holly did tell me about Jasper’s ex-wife dying of cancer long before she came on the scene. “Shit, I’m sorry, I did hear from Holly that your mum passed away. I’m so sorry, forgive me.”

  “It’s okay, it’s all a long time ago, now. I was thirteen when the cancer took her. I think it messed me and Dad up royally, we never quite got our relationship together after that, it was just too much.”

  “God, I’m sorry, how awful.”

  “The endless conveyor belt of glamorous, younger women was the worst in my teenaged years. I’m amazed Holly got him to marry her, quite honestly. She was just one in long line of many.”

  “It must have been rough,” I say, and he nods gravely, a sardonic little smile tugging at the corner of his full mouth, like his past is a constant millstone around his neck. But I can’t let this degenerate into a pity party – I need answers for that which I seek. “Do you think Holly genuinely loved your dad?” I bravely – or stupidly – ask.

  “I couldn’t say. I only met her twice. The first time was when we were going through a phase of trying to patch things up. Didn’t work, needless to say. I thought she was nothing more than gold-digger, a washed-up glamour model looking for the next big paycheque. The second time I saw her it was at his funeral.”

  His bluntness is unnerving – I’m not sure how to handle it.

  “I’m sorry,” is all I can say. I mean it, too. “I didn’t mean to open up old wounds. I just wanted to find out more about Holly, for the sake of my friend.”

  “Yes. Your friend,” he says with a sly grin.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I reply, perhaps as shade too tartly. “My friend.”

  He raises his hands. “Hey, it’s none of my business. Although, I hope he is just a friend. Because, just so you know, there’s no way that I would’ve invited you out tonight if you weren’t so cute and enigmatic.”

  I laugh awkwardly, his compliment making me squirm in embarrassment. But the good kind of embarrassment, mostly.

  “I’m not, but thanks.”

  He shakes his head. “God, I never thought that I’d be out on a date with a woman who has a vested interest in my ex, wicked-stepmother.”

  Is this really a date? I wonder. Bill seems to think so. And is that really such a bad, scary thing?

  Yet I feel out of control, trapped on a speeding train with broken brakes.

  I am saved from answering when the polished-looking woman in the dark trouser suit and gleaming blonde chignon approaches us:

  “Sir? Madame? Your table is ready, if you are?”

  “Sure,” Bill smiles. “I’m starving.”

  I notice the way her face softens under Bill’s dark gaze – a far cry from her icy greeting towards me.

  “Please, let me show you to your table.”

  Clutching our drinks, we slide off our stools. Bill gets close to me and lightly grazes the middle of my back with the palm of his hand. His touch is electric, and I shiver. His nearness is a physical jolt and my head swims in a rush of pleasure.

  “Guess we’re making the place look untidy,” he whispers in my ear.

  On shaking legs, Bill and I follow the be-suited woman to our table in one of the dark wood alcoves.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Conversation turns to lighter, more pressing matters – what food to order, what wine to drink. We have both ordered the fish dish of the day, because this is supposed to be one of the best fish restaurants in the UK, and when in Rome. For a starter I am having the squid, and Bill is having spicy king prawn fishcakes.

  We also ordered a bottle of red – a fine Bergerac – which we sip whilst waiting for the food.

  “Guess this makes us a pair of philistines, drinking red wine with fish,” I say.

  Bill laughs. “Indeed. But white usually gives me a colossal hangover.”

  “Me too.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, drinking our wine, absorbing the ambience. A candle flickers on the table between us, its wax dripping down the side of a bottle that is coated with the wax of a hundred of its comrades before it. I feel protected in our little alcove, cocooned from the outside world. My guard is coming down, emboldened as I am by the alcohol and the fact he hasn’t bolted since my true motives have been revealed.

  “Am I right to be concerned about her?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  “We’re back on that subject, are we?”

  But I detect no malice in the hard lines of his handsome face, softened by the glow of the candle and the low lighting.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. Maybe this is weirdly cathartic for me, too. I haven’t talked about her and my dad in so long. But I’m not sure how I can help. I didn’t really know her.”

  “When you and your dad were trying to patch things up, did he ever talk about her? Did he tell you anything about her past?”

  “No. We were estranged; we didn’t share anything personal.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That must be the hundredth time you’ve said sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  He grins. “You’re like a dog with a bone with Holly, aren’t you?”

  “I guess. I’m just concerned.”

  “Yeah. I noticed.”

  Then I am reminded of the thing I was most keen to ask, “What did you mean just now, when you said it figures about her ending up in Broadgate?”

  “Her family is from here,” Bill replies. “I knew that much about her. Her dad, who’s been dead for years, was a famous horror writer from this neck of the woods.”

  My blood turns to ice in my veins. “Not Simon Langdon, by any chance?”

  “Yeah, that’s the guy. You a horror fan, then?”

  I feel sick. “Not really.”

  “I take it you know Holly is a horror writer, too, just like Daddy? She’s quite well known
, apparently, with her self-published stuff.”

  “Yeah, I’ve looked at Sam West. But I had no idea that Langdon was her father. And her surname was Turner growing up,” I say, remembering what she’d told me over the meal at Mark’s.

  “Turner was her mother’s name. I don’t think her father figured all that much in her life.”

  Does Mark know this? I wonder. And if so, why didn’t he tell me? Is it a big secret or something? Maybe Mark doesn’t even know. Maybe Holly doesn’t want Mark to know that about her father, in case he thinks that she’s a Satanist, too. Which gets me wondering – does Holly follow in her father’s footsteps, and not just with the horror writing? Could she be a Satanist? Or could she have been one, in the past?

  My mind is whirring at this new information – I never saw this one coming and it opens a whole new can of worms.

  “You look like I’ve just dropped the bombshell of the century.”

  I focus on Bill – he is scrutinising me, his dark gaze intense.

  “No, it’s just… I don’t know. Maybe you have. It would certainly explain why she’s so obsessed with Broadgate.” I take a deep breath. “You are aware that Simon Langdon was supposed to be a Satanist?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the rumours. Dad said that Holly barely knew her father.”

  “So Holly wasn’t into all that occult stuff?”

  “Not as far as I’m aware – I can’t imagine my dad getting involved with her if she was loony-tunes like that, but then, who knows. I just assumed it was all smoke and no fire, that it was mostly made up. Like, Langdon built up that dark and edgy reputation around himself to sell more books and plug the movie adaption.”

  “Maybe,” I say, thinking how his words make a lot of sense. I steal myself for my next question. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

  His eyes narrow at me, assessing me. “What, exactly, are you asking me here?”

  I meet his gaze head on, but I can’t quite bring myself to come out and say what’s on my mind. Just because he professes to hate Holly, it doesn’t give me the right to accuse her of murdering his dad. That is just wrong on so many levels.

  “You know what I’m asking,” I say slowly. Deliberately. “Do you think she is capable of hurting anyone?”