Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  “I don’t know what you mean.” I reach for my glass of red. I really shouldn’t drink after last night – my liver is screaming out in protest, but goddammit, I need a drink tonight.

  “You really like him, don’t you?” Mark presses. “But why are you being so coy about him? Is there something wrong with him? Is he married, or a convicted criminal or something?”

  “A convicted criminal?” I shoot back. “As opposed to the regular kind? Because clearly, that would be so much worse.”

  “Yes. Clearly. If he’s stupid enough to get caught, then there is something wrong with him.”

  “Right. Glad you cleared that up.”

  “So, he’s married then, and you’re secret Sue, the mistress.”

  I burst out laughing. “Secret Sue? What kind of lame-arse name is that? No, he’s not married.”

  “Great. Then what in the hell is wrong with him? You haven’t even told me his name.”

  The laughter dies on my lips. “You haven’t asked.”

  “And you’re being deliberately pedantic. What is it with this guy?”

  My mood has shifted firmly back into the realms of on edge because I don’t know how I am going to explain to him about Bill when the time – hopefully – comes. And that time, I decide, is most definitely not now.

  Holly returns to the table in a flurry of self-righteous productivity, saving me from replying.

  “Dinner will be a while. The salad is done, and the homemade chips are in the oven, but they haven’t even started cooking yet. And we’re having steaks, so you’ll have to tell me how you like yours done, Claire, nearer the time.”

  She wraps a territorial arm around Mark’s shoulder as she sits down. For the first time I wonder if she is intimidated by me. If she is jealous of me. It’s like, she hurried back over to interrupt our easy banter, as if it bothered her.

  Or maybe that is too much of a reach. Maybe I am imagining it. The idea that she might actually be jealous of me doesn’t give me a nice warm glow as I suspect it ordinarily would have done, if I weren’t so preoccupied tonight. I just can’t stop thinking about Bill.

  Conversation drifts onto more mundane topics while we wait for Holly’s chips to cook – politics, mainly, and how crap the Tories are. Once again, I have the distinct impression that she is playing Mark, because not for a second do I believe that she is as left wing as she claims to be. A ruthless, money-orientated woman like her who married a city banker – the archetype of the stinking-rich, raging capitalist – simply cannot be capable of voting Labour.

  Everything is a game to her. Mark is a game.

  “I was thinking, baby,” Holly is saying, “that maybe I could hitch a lift with you back up to London on Sunday?”

  A look of surprise passes over Mark’s face, his eyebrows shooting upwards into the flopping fringe of his dark brown hair.

  “Sure. But you never mentioned this before.”

  She shrugs her slender shoulders. “I’m mentioning it now. I didn’t feel the need to go back to London until today. It’ll only be for a night. Don’t worry, I’ll stay in Belgravia, I won’t get under your feet while you’re getting ready to go to Germany.”

  He looks at her quizzically. “What’s changed? Why the sudden need to go back?”

  “Nothing catastrophic or anything. There’s still a few more things I need to sort out, and I was thinking of bringing some more stuff down on Monday. If that’s okay with you,” she adds hastily. “It’s not much, no big pieces of furniture or anything like that. Just a few small bits and pieces that I only now thought of.”

  “Sure, baby, you can do anything you want. But if it’s not much stuff, can’t it wait until I get back from Germany? We can do a carload then.”

  “It could wait, I suppose. But I’d like to do it sooner, rather than later, and a friend said they’d give me a lift, so I just figured, why not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Mark agrees, although, I fancy he sounds a little dazed. “Why not, indeed.”

  Holly gets to her feet. “Excuse me. Bathroom break,” she says, leaving Mark and I alone in the kitchen.

  “So, come on, spill,” Mark says as soon as she is out of earshot. “What’s his name?”

  I have no intention of telling him that, and neither do I want to lie.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I say in reply, partly because I’m desperate to get off the subject of Bill and partly because I also really want to know this.

  “Tell you what?”

  “That Holly’s father was Simon Langdon – world-renowned horror writer and Satanist.”

  It could just be the effects of the wine, but there is the faintest pink tinge to his cheeks. For a horrible second, I panic that Mark doesn’t know this, and I’ve gone and shoved my size sixes thoroughly in it.

  “I didn’t think it was such a big deal,” Mark says, after an uncomfortably long pause. “And I didn’t want you making a big deal of it. Besides, it’s kind of personal. If Holly wants you knowing about her father, then she’ll tell you about her father. It wasn’t my place to say – I just figured that she’d tell you when your relationship naturally went to the next level.”

  There’s more chance of Hell freezing over than of me and Holly becoming friends, I think, but have the good sense not to say.

  “Why would you think I’d make a big deal about it?”

  “You already are, aren’t you? How did you find out, anyway?”

  “Just online,” I lie.

  “Really? The name of Langdon’s only child isn’t public knowledge. No one even knows that he had a daughter.”

  “Everything is online if you look in the right places,” I say.

  “Right.”

  Mark doesn’t believe me, I can see that he doesn’t. His expression is cynical, and because he also looks so tired, he is watching me like he dislikes me. My heart lurches in my chest, and I suddenly feel like crying. I contemplate telling him everything, blurting out the whole lot, right down to the fact I’ve been in love with him my entire life.

  But I refrain, instead taking a large gulp of wine.

  Holly comes back into the kitchen in a flurry of movement, smiling brightly at us. It makes me realise how still Mark and I have fallen, how sombre we suddenly are, how awkward.

  “So, how do you like your steak, Claire?” she calls breezily over to me from the other side of the kitchen where she is busy preparing dinner.

  The faintest aroma of cooking potatoes permeates the air, and for the first time I am grateful that she interrupted me and Mark.

  *

  I make sure that I do not outstay my welcome this evening.

  After Holly has served pudding – a very mediocre sponge cake which she baked herself and I feel obliged to rave over – I make my excuses and leave.

  I politely decline Mark’s offer of cheese and port in the living-room, citing a headache and exhaustion. This is all true – last night really knocked it out of me.

  But it’s more than that; I just feel weird being around Mark. I want to be alone to get my head together.

  The pair of them get to their feet when I do.

  “Oh, please don’t get up,” I say. “And thank you so much for a lovely night. It was a beautiful meal and cake,” I say to Holly.

  It wasn’t. The homemade chips were as basic and bland as it got.

  “You’re welcome,” Holly replies.

  The three of us hover awkwardly around the table for a moment, and I dither, wondering whether to hug them goodbye.

  I decide against it.

  “Good luck with your exhibition, Mark. I’m sure you’ll nail it and sell a ton.”

  “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “Right. Yes.”

  He’s not going until the day after tomorrow, but he clearly has absolutely no intention of seeing me again before he leaves. The most unnerving feeling washes over me, that I am never going to see him again. It makes the breath catch in my throat, and the kit
chen tilts around me.

  Don’t go to Germany, is absurdly on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to swallow it down.

  “Goodbye, then,” I say. “Have a safe journey.”

  I see myself out, aware of their eyes boring into my back as I walk the length of the kitchen. Out in the hallway, I allow myself to give into the trembling.

  I am just so sure that I will never see Mark again.

  THIRTY-THREE

  I awake the following morning with a start and a gasp, lurching upright in my pull-out bed, clutching my frantically thumping heart through the flimsy material of my t-shirt.

  My God, what is it with these damn nightmares? Remnants of the half-remembered dreams cling queasily to me, bathing me in a cold sweat. I remember how brightly the full moon had burned, painting my dreams in a sickly white glow. How the ever-naked Holly had reminded me that time was ticking. That it was almost time.

  Time for what, Holly? I think, the very same question that I had screamed at her in my nightmare.

  Groaning, I fumble for my phone on the coffee-table, peering bleary-eyed at the glowing screen. It is just gone half eight. I look up when Bertie comes into the room, pushing the door fully open with his long nose, tail wagging.

  “You need a wee, huh boy? You and me both.”

  He whimpers and pants in agreement. Sighing, on automatic pilot, I set about mine and Bertie’s morning routine.

  *

  I didn’t text Blythe yesterday, so preoccupied was I with my own dramas.

  Now, as I shackle up Bertie in preparation for our walk, I have every intention of stopping by the shop. She hasn’t replied to my text that I sent earlier this morning, and I’m starting to grow concerned. Granted, I didn’t spare her a second thought yesterday, but now I am making up for it. If she isn’t at work today, I’m going to pop round to her flat.

  That decided, wrapped up warm against the cold in my green parka and a pair of skinny blue jeans tucked into warm, flat boots, I brave the outside world.

  *

  Blythe isn’t in the shop. Just as I did a couple of days ago, I cup my palms to my face and press against the window. Blythe’s Boutique is well and truly deserted. The place has an air of desolation, of abandonment. I don’t know for sure, but I’m pretty certain that not one single item of clothing has moved so much as an inch since the last I looked.

  I pull out my phone from a deep pocket of my jacket and bring up the keyboard. I begin to type:

  Where are you? Are you still sick? I’m coming round.

  Sighing heavily, I pocket the phone and glance up at the window display of the next-door tourist attraction, I Can’t Believe It’s True. The waxwork figure of The Broadgate Butcher is leering at me, his axe slung over one shoulder, his white apron splattered with blood.

  “What are you staring at?” I mutter, turning away.

  *

  Deciding that there is no time like the present, I have walked the two-and-a-bit miles to Blythe’s place on the edge of town.

  She lives on the opposite side of Broadgate to me, far away from the seafront. I dislike this part of Broadgate because it feels like neither one thing nor the other. It doesn’t have a village or small community vibe, despite its smattering of pubs, takeaway joints and mini supermarkets. Neither does it feel like it is part of Broadgate or the next nearest town, which is Cliftonville. It seems to exist in its own little twilight world of endless sprawling council estates and residential streets.

  Blythe lives on one of the nicer streets, certainly architecturally. She isn’t on one of those estates that are nothing more than endless mazes of conjoined, two-and-a-half bed houses that all look identical. At least her street is comprised of period homes in a mishmash of architectural styles that is so typical of Broadgate. She lives in a house not dissimilar to mine, except this house is larger and detached. It is divided up into four flats, with Blythe’s place being on the ground floor.

  Her car – a light green Mini Countryman, which is practical for her carting bundles of clothes to and from the shop – is nowhere to be seen. As with my place, she has no access to off-road parking, and her car is usually parked in front of the house, or thereabouts. I scan the street, but it is definitely not here.

  The worst feeling crawls in my guts – surely she would’ve told me if she was going anywhere? If she’s not in the shop, and the car isn’t outside her home, then where the hell is she? She is supposed to be sick.

  I ring the bottom doorbell in the line of four – Blythe’s doorbell. But she doesn’t respond.

  “Come on,” I mutter, shifting my weight impatiently from one foot to the other.

  It is cold, and my legs are aching after the long walk. I am beginning to regret walking this far now – perhaps I should have gone home first, dumped Bertie, then got a taxi here. Bertie is getting restless, too. He only has on his thin, red coat, his human-like fur no protection against the average British winter, and he whimpers and quivers at my feet, his tail curved between his legs.

  The large Victorian house stands in its own patch of disproportionately small land. Casting a furtive glance around myself, Bertie and I hop over onto the grass lawn. I then cup my hands to the side pane of glass of her bay window.

  I can’t see a damn thing because she has three sets of slatted, wooden blinds tilted upwards on each pane of glass, effectively obscuring my view of the living room and kitchenette at the far end of the room. Around the left-hand side of the house is a narrow alleyway which leads to the small back garden. The largest of the two bedrooms – Blythe’s bedroom – overlooks this small patch of green.

  Once more, I check to make sure that no one is looking, for I have that horrible, creepy-crawly, tight sensation at the nape of my neck of being watched. But I can’t see any possible culprit. Cars past sporadically – traffic isn’t that heavy here. A young woman pushing a pram along the pavement is the only person passing at this precise moment, and she isn’t paying me the blindest bit of attention.

  I am being paranoid. No one is watching.

  Feeling like a criminal, or at the very least a Peeping Tom, I make my way down the alleyway, flanked by the high hedgerow, where I come to the gate that leads onto the tiny patch of lawn. Technically, all four flats have access to this patch of land, but it is only Blythe that uses it, probably because the other inhabitants of this house would feel uncomfortable being on top of her bedroom window. Blythe mainly only uses it to hang out her washing in the summer.

  I push open the creaky, wooden gate and enter the garden, going straight over to the bay window that is identical to the front living-room window, and mash my face against the glass. Again, I see nothing thanks to the blinds, and I want to howl in frustration. I bang my fists once against the windowpane, terrified right then that she’s lying on her bed, slipping in and out of a coma with a violent fever, on death’s door. Logically, I know that her car isn’t here, so therefore she isn’t here, but it doesn’t stop the bad thoughts from creeping in.

  Maybe she is already dead, I tell myself. Maybe she choked on her own vomit, or simply died from dehydration, too weak to get up for a glass of water…

  Stop. Just stop it.

  What the hell am I supposed to do now? Do I bang like a mad woman on the windows, screaming to get in? Should I break in? Should I call the police?

  I decide that my best course of action should be to try the three other doorbells above Blythe’s – maybe one of her neighbours could shed more light on this. I know that Blythe was always moaning about the old woman on the third floor – I forget her name – who apparently spends her life looking out of the window, spying on the neighbours. Maybe she saw something. Maybe she saw Blythe leaving. Maybe Blythe told her that she was leaving.

  Just as I make a move back into the alleyway, the phone beeps in my jacket pocket. I fish it out with shaking hands to read the text. My heart flips in anguish when I see that it is from Blythe:

  Hey, I’ve just seen your texts and missed calls. I ha
d a really nasty bug, and now I’m better I decided to take myself off for a little while. So now I’m on holiday. I’ll see you when I get back. Hug Bertie for me. B. xx

  I stare at the text, utterly incredulous, not believing what I am reading. She decided to take herself off for a little while? How long, exactly, is a little while? And where the hell is she?

  “What the hell, Blythe?” I mutter under my breath.

  With shaking fingers, I scroll through my contacts, locate Blythe on the small list and press call. It goes straight to answerphone, just like it did the past few times I tried.

  I punch out a quick text, asking where she is and how long she’ll be, then I suck down a deep breath, trying not to cry. I can’t stop my eyes from burning hot and prickly, my emotions teetering between confusion and betrayal. How could she just piss off like this on holiday without telling me? It doesn’t make sense; it is out of character. And that’s where the confusion kicks in because it’s just so weird. Blythe simply wouldn’t disappear like this – she has her business to run, which she loves doing. I just can’t imagine her abandoning the shop like that.

  And yet.

  It is offseason, so what better time is there than to slope away for a break? Blythe has always been the entirely independent sort, not scared to run her own life to please herself. Not scared of being alone and perfectly happy not to be dependent on anyone else.

  But this is out of character.

  Stop, I tell myself. I’m going round and round in tiny circles, driving myself mad. Groaning, I slump against the wall next to the window. Fleetingly, I contemplate going to the police, but I suspect all that would achieve would be to make myself look hysterical.

  She says she’s gone away for a little while. Her car is gone.

  It is what is.

  I make my way back down the alleyway, and stand on the porch once more, ringing each of the doorbells in turn. No one answers. Typical, I think. I guess I can come back another time and do my detective bit.