“Sounds good,” I say. But I’m too uptight to even think about food. I grabbed a piece of bread and cheese in the middle of the afternoon, and that was out of sheer necessity, rather than pleasure.
“It looks different in here,” I say when I step into the living-room before her. It doesn’t – it looks much the same as when I was last in here, snooping around. My gaze falls upon the coffee table, which is laden down with two opened bottles of wine, two glasses and plates of various nibbles. “Oh, this looks lovely. You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
She sets my bottle of wine down on the coffee-table with the other bottles and turns around to smile at me. “Please, sit,” she says, gesturing to the long leather sofa directly behind the long, glass coffee-table.
I perch awkwardly on one end of it, the unwelcome image of her and Mark snuggling on this sofa that first night I officially met her slamming unbidden into my mind.
She hovers over me, and proceeds to pour out two glasses of wine. “It’s a good vintage, I hope you like it. My ex-husband was a wine connoisseur, he taught me a lot on the subject.”
This is the first time she’s mentioned her dead ex so casually – around me, at any rate. I glance at my bottle of Merlot and immediately feel inadequate. It’s nothing fancy, just my favourite cheapy from Bargain Booze.
I accept the glass with a murmured thanks and she sits down next to me.
I want to get her talking about Jasper, seeing as she was the one to mention him just now, but it feels too intrusive, too nosey. Instead, I make a point of looking around the room.
“It really does look different in here. Are those your paintings? And the rug too. Oh, and there’s new furniture in here, too.”
God, I am such a fraud. Also, I feel my face heating when I remember the way she had caught me staring out the window when they had been unloading the van.
“Yes. I rescued my favourite pieces from the house in Belgravia. My husband loved those paintings.”
I follow her gaze to those two horrible oil paintings of hunting scenes and that weird, rotting bowl of silver-tinged fruit against the dark background.
“They’re certainly striking. They look like they’re worth a small fortune.” That came out disrespectful and materialistic “Are they very old?” I add to soften my rudeness. “They look like they’re nineteenth century, at the latest.”
“Yes, that’s spot on. They’re by a little-known artist from the 1880s whom Jasper was very fond of.” She looks at me knowingly. “My husband was not a poor man, by any means.”
I shift uncomfortably on the sofa. “You speak very fondly of your ex. It must have been such a blow for you, losing him like that.”
“It was. I loved him very much. It’s okay, I know what you think of me, and I don’t blame you.”
Now my cheeks are a raging fire. “I don’t think anything,” I say defensively.
“Yeah, you do. A rich old guy and the young glamour model? I mean, it’s textbook, isn’t it? The truth is, I adored him and I was devastated when he died. I was broken. But then I met Mark, and I fell in love for the second time in my life. People are lucky if they experience true love once in their lifetime; I got to have it twice.”
This has got very deep, very quickly, and I need a lot more wine for this. But it isn’t anything I haven’t already heard – I almost feel like she is reading from a script.
But this is what Holly does, I realise. She dazzles you, makes you unable to think straight.
“I guess so,” I say noncommittedly. “So, you said earlier that you’ve been busy writing. What are you working on?”
“Just another Sam West novella. This one is about Satanism, and I’m having to do a lot of research on the subject.”
I think of the two books I found in her wardrobe – or Mark’s wardrobe, rather. Because this isn’t her house. It’s Mark’s house.
“Oh? That sounds heavy. Don’t you ever struggle writing all that dark and heavy, extreme horror stuff?” I ask with what I hope is casual nonchalance.
She laughs. “Sometimes. Did Mark tell you that my father was Simon Langdon? You know, as in the infamous horror writer, Simon Langdon.”
I am completely caught off guard by this admission, by her sudden honestly, and for a second, I stumble.
“No, Mark didn’t tell me,” I manage to say when I gather myself together. It’s the truth; Mark didn’t tell me. But I didn’t say that I didn’t know.
I can’t help by wonder why she is opening up to me like this, what kind of game she is playing.
“Well, he was. It’s not really something that I’m ever comfortable talking about, but I trust you, Claire. Mark thinks a lot of you, and I trust his judgement.”
Was that a dig or a compliment? I really can’t tell. I can’t get my head straight, to manage to shake off that dazed feeling.
“That’s good to hear,” I say lamely. “Were you close to your father?”
“No, not at all. He died of a heart attack when I was very young. And he walked out on me and my mum when I was even younger than that. My mum died when I was fourteen. Cancer.” She laughs humourlessly, then shudders. “It’s the same thing Mark’s parents died of, isn’t it? Cancer is just evil. Didn’t it take your mum, too?” she asks, acting like she cares.
“No, it was Pneumonia. I mean, she had Emphysema of the lungs, but she died in hospital of Pneumonia. And I’m sorry about your parents,” I say, remembering that Mark has already told me this, even if he didn’t tell me the exact age she had been when she was orphaned. “That must have been tough, losing your mother so young.”
“Your loss is more recent than mine,” she counteracts. “And I’m sorry for that.”
I barely hear her offer of condolences; my mind is working overtime. So, she lost her mother to cancer almost the same age as Bill lost his to the same. Surely losing their respective mothers at such a difficult age was something that they bonded over? They must have understood each other’s pain. Shared their feelings. Started an affair…
Stop, I tell myself sternly.
“And you’re right, it wasn’t easy,” she continues, “I guess I went off the rails for a little while. I went to live with an elderly aunt and uncle on my mother’s side. They both died before I turned twenty. I wasn’t close to them, though – I think they were pleased to see the back of me when I moved out at sixteen.”
“My dad walked out on me and my mum when I was very young, too,” I say. “I don’t even remember him. It’s weird, I mean, you can’t miss a parent who was never there to begin with, but his absence almost became this physical thing in the house, growing up. Like there was a big, empty hole in my life.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling her this; it’s intensely personal. But I’m speaking the truth.
“I get that,” she says solemnly. “I mean, I met Jasper in my mid-twenties, and I fell hard for him. But that scared me, you know? I doubted the validity of my feelings for a while, as he was so much older than me. I thought that maybe I had daddy-issues, that Jasper was this replacement father-figure. But it wasn’t that at all. It was true love.”
Why are you telling me this? I think. Is it to repeatedly drive home the fact that you are a good, authentic person and not an exploitive opportunist, and therefore your intentions with Mark are honourable?
I raise my glass. “To absent fathers.”
“To absent fathers,” she repeats.
She clinks her glass against mine, and we drink, falling silent for a moment, both of us staring into the open fire in the hearth.
“People don’t understand do they, the lasting legacy of an absent parent,” she says, after an almost uncomfortable length of time has elapsed. “The effect it has on us in adulthood. Like, when you asked me just now if I ever struggle writing the stuff I write, because mostly, no, I don’t. I mean, horror, when done properly, should be fun. It’s not to everyone’s taste, sure, but it’s the diff
erence between watching a snuff film and watching Nightmare On Elm Street. But the research I’m doing on this particular book, it’s getting under my skin. It’s making me think about my dad. You’re going along in life, quite happy, then you do something that makes you think of them, and you can’t shake it. The darkness creeps up on you.”
“It was true then?” I ask, trying to pick my words carefully. “Your dad was a Satanist?”
“Yeah. My mum told me about it when I got older. After he left her, he got into that stuff really heavily. He always had an interest it when he was with her, but apparently it got significantly darker and nastier, after I was born. She says she would’ve ended up leaving him, anyway.”
“Sounds rough. I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “Don’t be. It is what it is. No one ever really gets over their childhood, do they? I’m nothing special.”
“Why do you like Broadgate so much, if you have such a troubled relationship with your father? He was born here, wasn’t he? Doesn’t being here stir up bad feelings for you?”
I feel comfortable enough asking that, sensing that she wants to talk about it.
She lets out a harsh, humourless bark of laughter. “Maybe, in some ways. And relationship? What relationship?”
“You know what I mean. Your relationship to his memory. Or lack of, I suppose.”
“I’m not sure why I’m so fond of this place, to be entirely honest. It makes me feel closer to my dad, as he was born here. I know my dad got into some pretty dark stuff in his later years, but there was a time he was a normal guy. It’s not like I sought out Mark because of where he lived, but the fact he came from Broadgate felt like serendipity. Don’t get me wrong, I would’ve fallen for him no matter where he came from, but it was fate he came from here. Plus, Broadgate is a really cool, creepy little town.”
“Yeah. If you say so.”
“Why do you hang around then, if you’re so down on the place?”
Because I am in love with your boyfriend, I think sadly. And it’s the truth. I might get crushes on other guys, and Bill is the biggest crush yet, but all roads eventually lead back to Mark.
“Because I’ve only ever lived here. It’s all I’ve ever known; it feels safe. Plus, my business is doing well.”
Those reasons – those half-truths – sound feeble. The fact I stay because I am in love with Mark sounds feebler still. Suddenly, I feel quite depressed.
“You have no family here, and you don’t seem to have much of social circle. No offense,” she hastily adds. “You have Mark, of course. And that woman from the dress shop. Haven’t you ever thought of just selling up? You have no mortgage, and property prices here are healthy. You could sell up, go anywhere, do anything.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, now?”
“No, of course not.”
We fall silent for a moment, and I stare at the crackling fire. As far as Holly goes, a distant part of my mind is adamant that I’m being fed half-truths and lies, yet at the same time, another part of me believes that she is speaking with emotional honesty.
The fire is so soothing, lulling me into a sense of security and dulling my thoughts, making me feel lethargic, my eyelids growing heavier by the second.
“I love fires,” Holly sighs next to me. “They’re so primal, aren’t they? So cosy. Brings out the inner caveman in us.”
I raise my glass to my lips, only then realising that I have drained it. Holly leans forward to grab the bottle, topping us both up. I struggle to clear my mind, to remember that Holly isn’t all that she seems, that she’s using Mark, for reasons that I haven’t yet fathomed.
Maybe you haven’t fathomed them yet, because there are no reasons to fathom, says a smug little voice in my mind. Maybe you just need to let all of this go. To let Mark go…
Holly settle back on the sofa, tucking her long legs beneath her.
“You’re probably wondering who that guy was who dropped me back here with a few more boxes of my stuff the other night,” she says, her voice light and friendly. “He said he saw you looking at us out the living-room window.”
Inwardly, I cringe, too embarrassed to meet her eye. Instead, I continue to stare at the fire.
“I may have glanced out the window when I heard a car pull up,” I say, deciding that it is pointless to lie. “But it’s none of my business.”
She laughs at that. “Oh, Claire, you’re so funny. It’s okay to be curious, to want to know more about the woman your oldest friend has gone and moved into his house. The man you saw is Vince, and he’s a photographer I used to work with a lot, back in the day. Actually, he’s one of the most amazing photographers working at the moment, he’s really hit the big time since he was doing the glamour stuff. I mean, you must have noticed his car, he’s made a fortune. He’s also gay, in case you think I’m cheating on Mark.”
I believe her. At least, I think I do.
“You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“I don’t have to; I want to, that’s all.” She sighs heavily. “God, I miss Mark, I hope he comes back sooner than later. I will just die if he misses the housewarming party at the end of the month.”
“Have you invited many people?”
“Oh, a few.”
A look that I can only describe as a cold hardness flits across her face, and the strangest feeling settles over me, that her mask has momentarily slipped.
As quick as it came, it is gone again and charming Holly is back.
“You’re not eating,” she says, pouting playfully at me. She hands me a small plate, gesturing to the assortment of party snacks laid out like sacrificial offerings on the coffee-table.
“Right, yes. Thanks.”
She chats on brightly about the food she’s made as we fill our plates, but I can’t shake the idea that this is all an act.
I have the distinct feeling that I’m being played.
THIRTY-NINE
MOON PHASE: FIRST QUARTER
On this day, the Moon will be in First Quarter phase. This phase occurs roughly 7 days after the New Moon is one quarter of the way through its orbit around the earth. Exactly half the Moon will be illuminated and half dark. On the day of the first quarter phase, the Moon is high overhead at sunset and is visible until midnight when it sets in the west. The First Quarter phase is a one-day event. In the following days, the Moon enters a Waxing Gibbous phase and will become more illuminated until the Full Moon.
23rd October
Mark is on top of me on my bed, my thighs clamped around his waist, driving him in deeper.
I gasp in pleasure, one hand entwined in his silky hair, the other clawing at his back.
I cling to him for dear life, never wanting this dream to end. Because it is ending, I can feel the self-awareness creeping in, the way I am floating ever upwards, towards consciousness.
My bed is feeling more substantial beneath my back, and Mark less so above me. I am waking up.
My body is heavy as lead as sleep steals away from me and Mark fades.
Just a dream, I think. Always just a beautiful, impossible dream.
Mark is gone, but I am still here. Lying unmoving on my back in my bed in the darkened room. There is a ringing in my ears, growing steadily ever louder, like a swarm of wasps have lodged in my skull. My limbs are tingling, yet I cannot move them. It is the most horrible, yet darkly familiar sensation. The buzzing in my brain is thrumming through my body, my nerve endings jangling in my paralysed limbs.
I am not awake, and I am not asleep.
I hover in this twilight zone, this grey area where the conscious mind meets the subconscious, like waves lapping at the shore of a beach.
Panic grips me. I can’t move my head; I can’t even close my eyes. The night-time shadows swarm in the peripheries of my vision, shifting and swirling in a manner that shadows have no business doing.
I go to open my mouth to scream, but nothing happens; not so much as a gasp escapes my lips. The buzzing in my brain and the
constant thrumming in my body like electricity reaches crescendo level, and I sense, rather than directly see, the shadows in the corner of the room solidifying, dancing just out of sight.
A fresh surge of panic squeezes my heart, an invisible fist forcing the blood to pump hard and fast, surging on a tide of adrenalin.
I stare up at the ceiling, head buzzing, limbs heavy and humming. The shadows in the dark room are coming together. Collecting. I watch, unable to do anything else. This process is now happening directly in my line of vision above my head, the shadows swarming together like a colony of insects, taking shape, gaining substance, shrinking dramatically until it is roughly the composition and size of an adult man. This shadowy figure is utterly featureless – no face, no details anywhere on its black, semi-transparent body.
My gaze is transfixed on the empty face. It is lying on the ceiling, its body parallel to mine.
And then it floats downwards until the nightmare-form is mere inches above mine. I go to scream, to twist away, but nothing happens. The buzzing in my head is now nearer that of screaming as I stare into that black void of the featureless face.
But it isn’t featureless anymore. It is shifting before my eyes, gaining increasing solidity until the last vestiges of transparency have dissipated.
Now it is a real, honest-to-God face.
Worse than that, it is Mark’s face, below which I have the impression of his bare, sinewy shoulders. Even in the darkened room, I can see that his eyes are wide and shining in fear, his lips a startled ‘O’ of terror. Also, now there is no mistaking it – there is full-on screaming in my head.
Mark’s lips part further, his mouth widening in a silent scream…
Except it isn’t silent, for his scream is lodged inside my head.
His mouth continues to widen, going far beyond the point of what might be deemed its natural capacity.
Because there is nothing natural about Mark in his current state. That horrible, impossible mouth continues to widen until the gaping blackhole is bigger than his head. The scream trapped in my skull grows louder still. The madness is tangible, twisting in my skull; I am quite sure that I am close to losing my mind completely.
Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Page 21