Kate! Kate’s here.
Deacon goes to greet her and they disappear into the house.
Oh, this is stupid!
I get out of the car and walk up to the house. I stand at the door, my hand poised to knock, when their voices float out to me through the open kitchen window.
Oh god, they’re talking about me, aren’t they?
I can hear their conversation quite clearly,
“What if,” Kate murmurs. “What if there is something in what Isabel says? What if Alicia really is trying to set her up? She seems so convinced.”
Yes! Yes!
I silently punch the air. Kate is on my side. Maybe she can talk some sense into him.
“It isn’t Alicia who’s acting strangely though, is it?” Deacon reasons. “I’ve heard of cases like this before, where the patient grows gradually more deluded, creating increasingly elaborate stories.”
“But what about her cat going missing?” Kate persists. “Seems a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Deacon sighs. “The sad thing is, Fluffy’s disappearance is probably her own doing.”
What?
His words hit me with a force.
How could he even suggest I would hurt Fluffy?
I will never forgive him, never!
“But she loves that cat!”
“I know, I know. But she isn’t herself right now. If we really want to help her find Fluffy, we need to persuade her to get help.”
How could he? I seethe with unadulterated rage.
I thought he knew me.
I turn and run. Once back in the car, I sit and stare blankly at the controls, as if I’ve just boarded an alien spacecraft. I’ve lost him. Alicia has won. Reluctantly, I start the engine. I let my anger take the wheel – I speed up at every bump in the road, aim straight for every muddy puddle. I take a masochistic delight in every thud that bumps the car, a sick pleasure at every muddy shower.
Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy after all? Who knows?
I stare up at the ceiling for hours that night, my body rigid at every crack or creak. If only there was someone I could talk to. Someone who’d be on my side, for a change. Someone like Holly.
I haven’t heard from my brother’s fiancée since she checked Alicia’s records, but I know she’ll take me seriously, even if no one else will, and if anyone can help me, surely it’s a private detective? I just have to get her to dig a little deeper.
It’s ironic, I think, as I dial her number. Holly was a stranger to me just a couple of weeks ago. Now she and Julio are my only allies.
I wait anxiously as the phone rings and rings.
Oh, why doesn’t she pick up?
Finally, there is a click on the other end.
“Holly!” My heart floods with relief.
“This is Julio,” a sleepy voice answers. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Oh - sorry,” I gulp. “I just really need to speak to Holly. Things are getting so crazy here.”
My brother sounds extremely irritable.
“I’ll get her to ring you in the morning, Isabel. Now get some sleep. Before you start losing your grip.”
“But…”
It’s no use arguing with him. He’s already gone.
*
I sleep fitfully, but the house seems cold and empty without Fluffy. A couple of times, I jolt awake, convinced I can hear his cries. But there is nothing there but the darkness.
It is some time later that the sound of birds twittering seeps through my consciousness. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the light.
What time is it?
I reach for my phone, which is lying on the pillow beside me. It’s gone nine. Why didn’t the alarm wake me?
Probably because I didn’t set it.
I get up and pull on my dressing gown. I’m halfway to the shower when something stops me. I can’t go in. I can’t face her.
I ring Sonya.
“You’re not coming in, are you?”
“I’m sorry. My migraine’s still really bad. I haven’t had a wink of sleep.”
Well, that part’s true, at least.
Sonya sighs. “You will be in tomorrow, won’t you? We’re really struggling without you.”
“Yeah, I’ll be in tomorrow.” I assure her. “Of course I will. I just need a bit more rest.”
How easily the words trickle from my lips.
I throw on some clothes and head out into the street, armed with a wad of posters and a reel of sticky tape. Someone must have seen Fluffy. Someone must know where he is.
That’s strange, I think, as I pass a lamppost close to my house, I thought I put a poster there yesterday.
I grab another one from my bundle and tape it up where people will see it. But as I pass the bus shelter, I notice that poster’s gone too. And the one on the newsagent’s noticeboard. I feel a tightness in my chest.
Someone’s been taking down my posters!
For the rest of the day, I stomp around, plastering posters to every conceivable surface and pressing them into the hands of bemused passersby. I work with an energy I didn’t know I possessed. People look at me strangely, fearfully, even. But I don’t care. I’ll do whatever it takes to find Fluffy
Time starts to lose all significance. Day blends into night and night blends into day. Drained by lack of sleep, the word ‘FRY’ reverberates around in my head like a marble. It is the last thing I see before I close my eyes at night and the first thing I see when I open them in the morning.
I ring Holly incessantly. Probably make quite a pest of myself, begging her for updates. I offer to pay her anything she wants. She refuses to take a fee and patiently warns me – yet again that the business of a private detective can be slow and that it might be a while before she finds anything.
People look at me strangely in the street. Some with sympathy, others with suspicion. I don’t know if it’s just my tired appearance, or if word has got round that I’m losing it, but I’m definitely not imagining it. The man who owns the garage where Julio did his apprenticeship gives me a wink as I pass him in the street. I keep getting free coffees from Mustafa’s and the manager of the beauty salon comes out of her shop to offer me a free haircut, even though she’s known for being a tightwad.
I have probably been off work for a week or more, when I find myself curled up on the sofa one night, the remote in one hand, and a glass of cheap red wine in the other. I flick from one music channel to another, but each song in turn annoys me. I switch over to the style channel instead and start to watch a programme about military-inspired hats.
This is really boring. Maybe I should just go up to bed?
I switch off the TV and sit in silence for a moment, unable to will myself off the sofa. There is a slow, creaking sound as my letterbox starts to open.
I freeze.
What’s happening?
A pair of eyes peer through.
Alicia?
My heart in my mouth, I dive behind the sofa, and hunch there, quaking.
What does she want from me? Why doesn’t she leave me alone?
It seems like an eternity before her voice floats out to me.
“Coo-ey! Isabel? Are you there?”
It’s just Kate!
Wiping the sweat from my forehead, I get up and go to the door.
“What are you doing here at this time of night?” I ask as I start to unbolt the door. But I leave it on the latch while I peer behind her to check that Alicia’s not lurking in the shadows.
“Night? It’s half past seven in the morning, Isabel! I’m on my way to work and so should you be.”
“Did Deacon ask you to come round?”
“He’s worried about you and can you blame him? You have to admit you’ve been acting rather strangely lately.”
“If I’m acting strangely,” I snarl, “It’s because fires start wherever I go! My cat’s been kidnapped, and Alicia’s out to get me, only none of you bloody well believe me!”
> “Calm down!” she says. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Well, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. She’s destroying my life.”
Kate shakes her head.
“Look, are you going to let me or what? It’s freaking freezing out here.”
“Yes, of course, come in.”
I take the chain off the latch and pull her inside, taking care to lock and bolt the door after her.
“Now, first things first,” she says, taking her coat off and hanging it up in an orderly fashion. “Let’s get some light in here.”
She goes to the window and pulls back the curtains, letting in a stream of daylight. Then goes into the kitchen and puts on the kettle.
“I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.”
“Are you sure you have time? I don’t want to make you late for work.”
Kate smiles. “What are friends for?”
I give an involuntary shudder. I’m sure she means it nicely, but that sounds exactly like something Alicia would say.
While Kate is in the kitchen, I clear a space on the coffee table, which has become cluttered with the wine glasses, coffee cups and cigarette packets that have become the mainstay of my diet. She returns a minute later with two strong cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate biscuits, which she must have brought with her, because there were none in the cupboards.
“You’re out of milk so I made coffee instead.”
“Thanks.”
I eye the biscuits.
“Go on, help yourself.”
I devour one after another.
“Hungry?” she says, sounding concerned. “No offence, Isabel – but if you can’t remember to feed yourself, isn’t it possible you forgot to feed Fluffy, too? Maybe he’s wandered off somewhere to find food.”
“I never forget to feed Fluffy.” I say, through a mouthful of biscuit. “Just go and look in his food bowl, if you don’t believe me. It’s full to the brim.”
“But that’s what Deacon thinks too, isn’t it?” I say, after I’ve wiped the crumbs from my mouth. “That I neglected Fluffy, and that’s why he disappeared.”
“He’s just worried about you. We all are.”
“Well, it’s him and Rhett you should be worried about. They’re the ones living under the same roof as that psycho.”
Kate frowns, as though she can’t quite comprehend this argument. “You know - maybe you should go and see that psychiatrist,” she says, softly. “If only to put everyone’s minds at rest.”
“You think I’m crazy!”
“I didn’t say that, I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
I am about to argue when a strange thought pops into my head:
Maybe this psychiatrist guy could help me. Maybe if I go and see him, he can help me convince them all that I’m not crazy. Then they’ll have to believe me.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I say slowly. ”Maybe I will go and see him, after all.”
“Good!” Kate hugs me in relief. “Good for you!”
Queensbeach Medical Practice - 1 PM
This whole thing is totally cringe worthy, I think to myself as I sit in the waiting room later that day. I half expect Deacon to come out and check I’m really here, but he doesn’t. I suppose he must be tied up with his own patients.
“Isabel Anderson?” The receptionist calls my name in such a soft voice that I almost miss it.
Setting aside my magazine, I walk up to Jim’s office and knock tentatively.
“Hi,” I say sheepishly, remembering the way I acted the last time we met.
To my relief, he acts as though nothing happened.
“Come in, Isabel. Take a seat.”
“Where?” I ask, looking around at the mismatched assortment of chairs.
“Wherever you like.”
I plump myself down in a big comfy armchair. The chair is very relaxing, and as he rattles off his preliminary spiel, I feel my eyes start to droop.
“Isabel?”
“Yes!” I sit up sharply and force myself to pay attention.
“How are you sleeping, Isabel?”
“Not very well,” I admit.
How can I, with all this hanging over my head?
He nods. “You know, sleep deprivation can play terrible tricks on the mind.”
“That isn’t the problem.”
“Why don’t you tell me about it, then?”
So I spill the whole story. His frown grows deeper and deeper, the longer I talk. I suppose I can understand that. It sounds crazier every time I tell it. When I‘ve finished, I lean over and peer at his notes. He looks a little taken aback, but does not attempt to hide them. My nostrils flare with indignation as I see what he’s written: “Has a morbid fascination with fire”.
“I do not have a morbid fascination with fire!”
“What’s that in your hand, Isabel?”
I glance down. “My lighter.”
I hadn’t even realised I was holding it. It must be a subconscious thing.
“Look,” I tell him. “If I’m obsessed with fire, it’s because she’s made me that way.”
He does not argue.
“So you believe me?”
“I can see that you believe that that’s what’s going on.”
“That’s not what I asked!” I say angrily. “I want to know what you think.”
But he won’t give me an answer.
I let myself out, seventy pounds out of pocket, and no closer to the answer.
As I stand outside the office, smoking a cigarette, I sense him watching me from the window. When I turn to look, he has his head buried in his notebook. I can just imagine what he’s writing: “Exhibits smoking behaviour”.
This was clearly a very bad idea.
I return home to find Mum’s left me a voicemail on my landline. She doesn’t like calling me on my mobile, in case I’m driving or something. I think she’s getting worried though, because I haven’t been in touch. She even left me a private message on Facebook last week. I’d better send her a quick reply, just to stop her worrying. I’ll tell her that I’m swamped with work or something.
I open up my laptop and log in. After replying to mum, I notice someone has invited me to join the Robertson’s Facebook group. I didn’t even know Robertson’s had a Facebook group.
Hang on, if Robertson’s is on here…
Almost before my brain has a chance to register, my fingers have typed in the words ‘Camp Windylake’. There’s a hit. I scroll through the page. How do I know this is my Camp Windylake and not one in Canada or somewhere? No, this is definitely mine. I recognise a couple of the members. I skim through a potted history of the camp. According to the site, it closed down nine years ago, just after I was there.
Oh look, group photos!
I flick excitedly through the album till I come to summer 2003. There are a few of me and Kate and a couple of other people I recognise, dancing like idiots at the disco on the last night of camp. And who’s that? As I click to enlarge the picture, a chill runs through me.
But it can’t be…
Standing next to us, a tight scowl on her lovely face, is Alicia. Not the sweet little ten-year-old Alicia from Kate’s photos, but a mature, grown-up Alicia. And she looks about the same age as Kate and I.
Chapter Sixteen
OK, think rationally, Isabel. This cannot be Alicia. And yet…I click to enlarge the picture. Just look at that curly black hair, the dark piercing eyes. It looks so much like her. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at that picture, completely unable to grasp what’s going on. It seems quite some time before the penny finally drops:
There are two of them. That’s how she does it!
The realisation jars my body. Alicia has a double, a doppelganger. Probably an older sister or cousin. It seems like a bit of a crazy conclusion to come to, but I feel in my gut that it’s right. I can’t understand why one person would have such a grudge against me, let alone two but it all seem
s to fit. Whoever it is, they are working together to spy on me and make my life a misery.
My mind flicks back to the day I was with Deacon at the concert. I saw Alicia in the crowd. At least, I thought I did. And yet she was there on the end of the phone when I rang the Beach House. If there are two of them, then it is entirely possible that Alicia’s double started the fire at the caravan park while Alicia herself was still at the party. And that could have been her I saw in the rear mirror, following me home from Julio’s on Christmas Day. She could have even followed me into the cafe and written on the toilet walls that day, making me think I was going mad.
I bet she’s out there right now, watching, waiting.
Perturbed, I go to the window and look out, but there is no way of knowing if anyone is out there in the darkness. I shudder. We’re not just talking about Alicia skulking about in the shadows anymore. It’s much, much more sinister if there are really two of them. And if I’m right, her double, whoever she is, has a car.
Why are they doing this to me?
In the picture, she is standing right next to me. I might have known her once, must at least have met her. I try desperately to remember, but the memories don’t come. Judging from the age of this girl, she’s much too old to have been a camper. Most likely, she was a fellow play leader. I wish I could ask Kate – she was there too, after all. But I daren’t in case it gets back to Alicia.
I need something to calm my nerves.
I go into the kitchen and twist the top off a bottle of wine. I’m about to pour a glass when I think better of it. No, I mustn’t drink. Not now. Not when I need to keep a clear head. My mind is whirling. Who sets the fires? Alicia or her double? And why, just to frame me? It seems such a reckless crime. People could get hurt. People could die.
Are they equal partners in all this, the two of them, or is one of them in charge? I think of the word ‘FRY’, branded into Alicia’s back. I can’t imagine anyone choosing to have such a thing done. Could it be that Alicia’s not the one in the driving seat? Even though she seems so very, very creepy. Has she been tutored, coerced? It’s impossible to say.
More than ever, I yearn to know the true meaning of FRY. What is it? And what does it have to do with me? I sit back down at the computer and go through the rest of the Camp Windylake album, examining each picture in turn, but none of the others show anything out of the ordinary.
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