Mark’s terrifyingly mouth is blasting me with his screaming insanity, except the insanity is blasting me from the inside out. Just when I grow certain that I can’t take anymore, that my brain will implode with the strain it is under, the sound stops.
I can now twist my face to the side, and for the first time properly suck down air into my lungs with a noisy gasp.
My mind lurches – a physical thing that I feel deep within the cortex of my brain – and my paralysis lifts.
I blink – just for a split-second – but it is enough to dislodge the hallucination of Mark. I jerk bolt upright in the bed, disorientated, terrified out of my wits, not sure if I am awake or if this is still part of the nightmare.
But Mark is gone. The shadows have stopped swirling. Have stopped solidifying into human form, into Mark.
My mouth hangs open in that same, silent scream, but my vocal cords are no longer paralysed, for I can hear the way my breath catches in ragged gasps in my throat.
I am bathed in a cold sweat, frantically looking around myself at my living-room-come-bedroom, seeking comfort from its familiarity.
But this doesn’t work because the room had been perfectly familiar when Mark had materialised from the shadows. When I had been crippled by that infernal paralysis and buzzing.
“God,” I gasp, drawing comfort from the sound of my own voice. The normality of it.
I fumble for my phone under my pillow, swiping on the screen. The time reads 3.07.
It was just a nightmare, I tell myself. A hellish episode of sleep paralysis.
But it’s okay, now. I’m okay. I’m awake. It’s over.
But I’m still shaking.
And I’m still terrified.
But I’m not terrified for me, I realise with a jolt. Because I’m convinced that Mark wasn’t trying to scare me.
He was trying to warn me.
FORTY
I am trying not to obsess over Holly, Mark, Bill, Blythe, and the goings-on two doors down.
But it’s exceedingly difficult, especially as I am caught in some banal Groundhog Day, with no one to talk to and no escape from my own thoughts.
I miss Mark and Blythe. I didn’t realise how much I have come to rely on Blythe. Holly was right; I don’t have any friends. Now that the busyness of the summer months has ended, I feel unsettled, and alone.
I did try going to Blythe’s place twice more in the past few days, but none of the neighbours had seen or heard anything from her, so I gave up. Blythe fancied going away for a little while, and there’s nothing I can do about it. We’re not related, and, when it comes down to it, I’ve only been friends with her for three years. Let’s face it, she owes me nothing. She can do whatever the hell she wants.
I stare at the pastel-blue wall of the second bedroom I am re-painting. The yellow room is finished, the furniture sparkling white, giving the space the vibe of beachy and Scandinavian. Which was just the look I was going for. It is just coincidence that I am on the third and uppermost floor, and the room I’m painting overlooks the street, as did the yellow room. It’s not like I’m purposely spying on Holly…
Except I am, of course. She has been getting a lot of deliveries lately – at least one a day – since that night I was there for drinks and nibbles five nights ago. All of those deliveries have been from big companies – DVL, and the like.
All of them, that is, except for this particular van which arrived yesterday when I just happened to be looking out of the window, paintbrush dripping pastel blue in hand.
This ordinary-looking Ford Transit had made me stop and stare. Aside from the fact it didn’t have any slogan plastered on the side, it just looked old, strange, and faintly creepy. It wasn’t glossy like the other vans – not dirty, per se, just decrepit.
And the man who stepped out of it gave me pause. Unshaven, fat, wearing jeans with a matching, denim waistcoat that I fancied I could smell three floors up through the glass of the window. He had passed Holly a package, around the size of a medium bag of groceries. She had accepted the brown parcel, disappeared inside, then that had been that.
This had occurred yesterday afternoon, and I haven’t seen her since.
I squint at the wall, realising that it is starting to get dark outside. I only like painting by natural light, so it’s high time I started to pack up for the day.
Instinctively, not even noticing that I am doing so until I am there, I wander over to the window overlooking the main street and gaze out at the choppy, grey ocean.
A great sadness descends over me, and it’s nothing I can quite pinpoint. I miss Mark and Blythe, as well as being upset that Bill hasn’t called. But it’s more than that.
I used to swim in that ocean, I think, a sad little smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
My mum used to take me sometimes in the summer holidays, and we’d splash around together, then have a picnic on Broadgate Sands. It wasn’t often, mind, because Mum was always waiting around for some guest or other, or just busy with B and B chores. But I have a few happy memories of beach days with Mum.
I miss my mother, I realise. More than I gave myself credit for. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think about her all that much, as callous as that sounds. But at this precise moment, I miss her with a hollow, aching sadness that rips right through the core of me.
I miss my mum and I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to be a mother. Because it was always supposed to be Mark that I spent the rest of my life with. Mark whose children I would bear.
That’s never going to happen.
I feel so tired all of a sudden. Still clutching the paintbrush, I rest my forehead against the windowpane, hating how morose I am, staring sightlessly at the churning, murky sea. My current mood would certainly explain that horrific, sleep paralysis incident the other night, I decide. God, I haven’t had an episode like that since I was a teenager. How strange that it should come back now.
No. it isn’t strange, I think. Because I’ve lost Mark emotionally. And Bill, the man whom I dared to tentatively let myself like, has effectively ghosted me. I am wallowing so deeply in this flood of misery, that I don’t immediately notice Mark’s car pull up outside his house.
When I do, I jerk away from the window like a marionette with pulled taut strings. It’s like a switch has been flicked in my mind and I am now a different woman – a woman who is firing on all cylinders, who is more awake and more alive that she has been for days…
Bertie, who has been lying in the hallway just outside the door, let’s out a funny-sounding huffing woof and scurries into the room, his little feet scrabbling excitedly on the floorboards, as if he has sensed the sudden change in me.
I watch the driver’s door open into the road, and out steps Mark during a small break in the traffic. My heart leaps on seeing him again, the adrenalin washing through me, leaving me euphoric and giddy.
Quickly, he strides around the car to avoid the traffic, pausing when he reaches the pavement.
I watch him, my breath coming in ragged little gasps, and my body trembling.
What’s he doing?
He’s just standing there, not moving, staring at his house.
The most curious sensation overtakes me, one that Mark is hesitating because he doesn’t want to go inside. I can’t make out his facial expression, being as far away as I am, but he appears troubled. His shoulders are tense in the beat-up leather jacket he wears, and he’s standing so still, as if composing himself.
Then he disappears into the house, leaving me staring at the empty spot on the pavement he has just vacated, wondering if I had imagined his reluctance to go home to Holly.
I put the incident down to wishful thinking on my part and turn away from the window. Already, the high from seeing him is beginning to wear off. Weariness is setting in again, replacing the rush.
He’s here, I think, but he may as well not be.
For the first time, I give serious consideration to the seed Holly planted in my brain the other
night. Except, perhaps it is wrong to say that she planted the seed, as I think it has always been there. All she did was help it to blossom.
Because maybe she’s right. Maybe I should move away from Broadgate. Sell The Atlantic View and start a new life, somewhere else. I’ve always fancied Cornwall. I could use the proceeds from this place to enrol myself in college. I could study Interior Design, with the goal of eventually becoming a freelance Interior Designer. It’s not that farfetched; I’m still young, and if I sold this place I’d be well-off, by most people’s standards.
As fond as I am of Broadgate, it’s pretty much a hellhole. Maybe it’s time for a change…
Sighing, I go about putting lids back on paints and clearing up the room for the night. Since Mum died seven years ago, a part of me has been tempted to leave, but fear has always kept me in place.
And I want Mark to love me, but it’s not going to happen, I do know that. It’s time for me to let go of the dream.
I am ready, I realise. I am ready for change.
I can’t carry on the way I am forever.
FORTY-ONE
WAXING GIBBOUS
The Moon today is in a Waxing Gibbous phase. This phase is when the Moon is more than 50% illuminated but not yet a Full Moon. The phase lasts round 7 days with the Moon becoming more illuminated each day until the Full Moon. During a Waxing Gibbous phase, the Moon will rise in the east mid-afternoon and will be high in the eastern sky at sunset. The word ‘Gibbous’ first appeared in the 14th century and has its roots in the Latin word, ‘gibbosus’, meaning ‘humpbacked’.
30th October
As I expected, Mark doesn’t knock on my door the day after he touches down back in Broadgate. It is two days later, on Friday, when I get The Knock. I gave up painting this morning, unable to focus, and have even made myself look semi-respectable, just in case I were to see Mark.
“Christ, Mark, you look awful,” I say by way of greeting when he does eventually turn up on my doorstep this wet and blustery afternoon.
“Hey, Claire, it’s good to see you, too.”
I smirk at the dig, pleased to see a glimmer of the Mark I used to know and love, who used to engage in a healthy dose of swiping banter with me. But the smirk dies on my lips almost as soon as it arrived.
“I mean it, Mark, you look like death. How did the exhibition go? I tried calling a few times, but your phone was always switched off. And I’m pretty sure I saw a tumbleweed rolling past on your Facebook.”
“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy with the exhibition stuff, I put all my calls to voicemail. I’ve just had a lot to deal with…” He clears his throat. “And it went well, thanks. The gallery shifted a fair few.”
You managed to call Holly, I think bitterly, then catch myself. Of course he would call her – she’s his girlfriend, for pity’s sake.
“I’m glad it went well,” I say.
I watch him straighten up from petting Bertie, and I think how he doesn’t look at all right.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Because he does look awful. Not that Mark could ever look awful in the truest sense of the word, but he looks more dishevelled than ever. He is unshaven and he has the darkest rings under his pale-blue eyes.
There is something going on with him, for sure.
He throws a glance over his shoulder before speaking.
“Can I come in a sec?”
“Of course,” I say, immediately retreating inside.
He follows me into the hallway, shutting the door behind himself.
“I smell paint,” he says, sniffing the air.
“I’ve been redecorating a couple of the guestrooms,” I singsong over my shoulder on the way to the kitchen. Because I’m selling, I finish in my mind.
The thought completely catches me off-guard, my body visibly flinching as I walk. If Mark notices, he doesn’t say anything, and follows me into the kitchen where I go straight to the kettle and flick it on.
“So, what’s up?” I ask, spinning around and resting my rump against the countertop and smiling brightly at him.
Mark doesn’t return my smile. In fact, he looks haunted, for want of a better word.
“I can talk to you, can’t I Claire? I mean, how long have we known each other?”
“Since forever,” I murmur automatically.
“Yes,” he says gravely. “Since forever.”
He falls silent, wandering over to my white-painted kitchen table and chairs, where he sits down without uttering a word. He looks like a lost little boy, and I am transported back to when he was just that. When his parents shunted him off to boarding school for most of his teenaged years, possibly because they lacked the basic maternal and paternal instincts that a child ultimately thrives upon.
“And I can tell you anything, can’t I?” He falls silent for a moment, and I half expect him to say, and you won’t tell on me, will you? “I mean, I’ve always trusted you,” he says instead. “I’ve always felt able to tell you anything. It’s not easy for me to open up. I mean, you know what my parents were like, and I found boarding school hard. Plus, the people I’m surrounded with in the art world, they’re not real friends, you know? You have always been the rock in my life.”
I am absurdly touched by his words – it is the first bit of affection I’ve had from him in so long that I can feel myself choking up. Rapidly, I blink, swallowing the lump in my throat.
Now is not the time to stat blubbing.
“Thanks, Mark, that means a lot.”
“You know, I was going to ask Holly to marry me.”
That cures my moment of sentimentality, although I can’t say that I am surprised. I think, deep down, I have been waiting for this bombshell since that first moment he mentioned her, earlier this month.
I force myself to remain outwardly neutral – I seem to have got this down to fine art around Mark.
“You say was. You mean, you’ve changed your mind and you’re not going to, anymore?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“Do you still love her?”
“More than life itself.”
My heart sinks. “Then what’s happened? What did she do? Stop talking in riddles.”
He cradles his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says, removing his face from his hands and staring beseechingly over at me. “I love her so much. But I found some stuff yesterday, while she was in the shower, and I don’t know, I guess I’m spooked.” He lets out a shaky little laugh. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have looked, but it is my house, and that is my old bedroom. It’s like, she didn’t seem so keen for me to go into her workspace, so of course, that is exactly what I went and did the second her back was turned.”
I think back to what I found, when I broke in over a week ago. In many ways, I feel dutybound to share with him what I discovered in her shoebox of goodies. Maybe he’s talking about the same things I saw.
Yet still I can’t bring myself to. I can’t admit that I let myself into his house, as that is a complete breech of his trust. It would open up a whole new can of worms, like the fact I’m crazy in love with him, or worse, just flat out crazy. He would think me a stalker.
“What did you find?” I ask in a small voice, my heart slamming hard in my chest.
Because it could be anything. I looked through ‘her office’ over a week ago – there is so much more of Holly that has been added to the house since then…
I am trembling. Whatever he tells me, I will play it by ear. If it feels like the right thing to do, I may even tell him what I did yet. And I mean everything, including sleeping with Bill.
Ignoring the task of making coffee, I go over to join him at the table, pulling up a seat next to him.
“It’s probably nothing,” he says, staring down at his fiddling hands resting on the tabletop. “I mean, she’s a horror writer, right? It’s her job to do weird research, and have weird books, and s
tuff.”
I shrivel inside at the mention of books.
“What do you mean, weird books?”
“Books on Satanism, like, full-on, off-the-charts weird, Devil worship shit. She even has books in Latin on the subject. They look more like bibles, except, you know, Satanic bibles.”
I am shivering now and I wedge my hands between my jean-clad thighs, lest he should see the way I’m trembling.
“Well,” I say carefully, “she is a horror writer, and she told me the other night when I went round for drinks that she’s writing a book on Satanism.”
He nods his head enthusiastically. “Right, yes. Again, you’re right, I know she is. And she told me that you were round.”
Stop standing up for her! a voice bellows in my mind. What is wrong with you?
“Okay,” I say, trying not to let my feelings for him cloud my judgment, and therefore push me into damning her or defending her. I need to help him look at things clearly. “So you know that she’s writing a book on Satanism.” I pause, also not wanting to give myself away; I can’t let him know that I’ve seen the books he speaks of. “How many books were there? And did you find them excessive? Like, surely an in-depth Google search on her part would be enough to throw up all the information she needs, right?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Mark nods, still staring at his hands. “I mean, what would she want seven, fat, hardbacked books on Satanism for?”
The kitchen lurches around me, as if I am on a deck of a ship.
“Seven?” I whisper. My God, that is five more since I was there.
“Yeah, seven. Three were in Latin, the other four were in English. Some were like Satanic bibles, or something, and the others were more like textbooks. And they looked rare, that’s what troubling me, more than anything.”
“That is excessive,” I say, hearing the way my voice is trembling.
Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Page 22