Rock Paper Scissors

by Alice Feeney

  ‘I guess we really are in the middle of nowhere,’ I say.

  ‘I’m freezing,’ she replies through chattering teeth. ‘Poor Bob.’

  I take off my jacket and wrap it around her. ‘Come on, let’s go. We’ll light the fire when we get back, get warm, and come up with another plan. It will be easier going down.’

  I’m wrong about that.

  The ground seems even more slippery now than it did on the way up, and a combination of snow and ice makes our progress slow. The muddy sky turns a darker shade of grey, and although we both do a good job of pretending not to notice the first few drops of sleet, seconds later it is impossible to ignore. Our clothes are not designed to withstand extreme winter weather, and neither are we. The wind blows the sleet at us from all directions, and within minutes we are both soaked to the skin. Even I’m shivering now.

  Just when I think things can’t get any worse – weather-wise – the sleet turns to hail, raining down from the sky like bullets. I predict we will be covered in bruises when we get back. If we get back. Whenever I dare to look up, risking a face full of tiny ice pellets, I notice that we don’t seem to be getting any further down the hill. The chapel still looks tiny and very far away.

  The pelting from above eases off, and the hail turns into snow.

  ‘Let’s try and make a bit more progress while we can,’ I say, reaching out to help Amelia down from one part of the rocky path to another. But she doesn’t take my hand.

  ‘I can see someone,’ she says, staring into the distance.

  I shield my eyes, scan the valley below, but see nothing. ‘Where?’

  ‘Going into the chapel,’ Amelia whispers, as though they might hear her from what must still be over a mile away.

  Sure enough, I spot the shape of a person walking up the chapel steps.

  I feel for the giant key I locked the old wooden doors with before we left, and start to relax when I find it in my pocket. But my brief sense of comfort evaporates, as I watch the shadowy figure open the doors and disappear inside. I’m sure I must have imagined it – though it’s hard to be certain of anything from this distance – but it looked like they might have been wearing a red kimono. Just like the one my mother used to wear when she invited… friends to stay. I try to Control-Alt-Delete the thought, as always, but the keys in my mind get stuck. I might have imagined what they were wearing, but someone did just go into the chapel. Even if I ran down the hill, and managed not to slip on the ice or fall in the snow, I guess it would take at least twenty minutes to get back down there and confront whoever just let themselves in.

  ‘Tell me how we ended up staying at this place again,’ I say, in a shaky voice that sounds like a poor imitation of my own.

  ‘I already told you. I won the weekend away in the staff Christmas raffle.’

  ‘And you found out when you received an email?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the email was from…?’

  ‘The housekeeper. I told you already.’

  ‘Did anyone else you know at work win something similar?’

  ‘Nina got a box of Quality Street, but she bought twenty raffle tickets so was bound to win something.’

  ‘How many raffle tickets did you buy?’ I ask, already dreading the answer.

  ‘Only one.’

  Robin

  It doesn’t take Robin long to walk from the cottage to the chapel.

  Oscar looked very sorry for himself when she left him behind, his big white floppy ears seemed to droop even more than normal. Robin was in desperate need of some comfort and company when she first arrived in Blackwater, and Oscar seemed like a good name for the companion she found. Robin had always been rather fond of those solid bronze statues the film industry gave out once a year. Her only Oscar might be a rabbit, but she loves him.

  She spotted the visitors at the viewpoint on top of the hill in the distance, and knew she had at least half an hour to do everything she needed to do. They couldn’t get back in time to stop her even if they tried. Unlike them, she has proper winter weather gear. Even if her borrowed boots are too big, they’re still better than trendy trainers for trekking across snow-covered hills and fields.

  She stops outside the chapel briefly before going in, taking a moment to stare up at the stained-glass windows and the small white bell tower perched on top of the building. With the loch and mountains in the background, it’s like looking at a painting. She realises that she has been here too long in more ways than one; a person can become immune to beauty when exposed to it too often. As Robin lets herself inside, so does the wind, blowing a cloud of dust motes masquerading as snow into the air. It amuses her that the visitors think she is the housekeeper. That isn’t why she has a key.

  Robin removes her boots in the boot room – the place might be filthy, but there is no need to make things worse – then she walks through to the kitchen. Her socks have more holes than a pair of fishnets, but waste not, want not. The chapel is even colder than usual, and already smells different than it did before they arrived. Traces of the dog, along with the woman’s overpowering perfume now permeate the stale air.

  She hurries to the lounge, then pulls the glove off her right hand, and runs her fingers along the spines of the novels that line the shelves. She does this every time she comes here, the same way some people can’t resist touching tips of wheat in a field. She notices the faint smell of smoke, and sees that the visitors burned all the logs she left for them last night. Not that it matters now. At least, not to her. It might matter to them later.

  When she grips the banister of the spiral staircase, a million unwanted memories flood her mind, drowning her courage and clouding her concentration.

  Your focus determines your future.

  Robin is rather fond of inspirational mottos like these. She repeats the words to herself until her thoughts feel steady again, then makes her way up the creaky stairs, ignoring the missing faces among the framed photos on the wall.

  The bed where the visitors slept last night has not been made. It still feels strange to have let them sleep here. But it doesn’t take long for Robin to tuck in the sheets, straighten the duvet, and puff up the pillows. It’s the least she can do: if the visitors are still here tonight – and they will be – they will need their rest. Then she looks inside their bags, and studies their things, because she can and because she wants to.

  She starts in the bathroom. Robin finds the woman’s shampoo, then smells it before tipping the contents down the plughole. Seeing their pink and blue toothbrushes side by side provokes another wave of irritation, so she grabs them both and uses them to clean the toilet bowl. She scrubs so hard that the bristles look flattened. Then she puts everything back how she found it.

  The pots of face cream left on the windowsill look expensive, so Robin applies some to her own cheeks. It has been a while since her skin care routine consisted of anything more than a wet flannel once a day, and the moisturiser feels so good she decides to keep it, slipping the jar into her pocket. She returns to the bedroom then, and takes one last look around, noticing that the drawer to one of the bedside tables is slightly open. She takes a closer look, hoping something might have been left inside.

  The way some people blindly trust others has always baffled Robin. At least one of the visitors believed they were coming here for a weekend away, and that Blackwater Chapel was some kind of holiday rental. It’s not and never will be. At least not while she’s alive.

  When Robin thinks about the properties people pay vast amounts of money to stay in: hotels, Airbnbs, overpriced cottages by the sea, she can’t help thinking about all the other hundreds of strangers who have slept in the same bedsheets, drunk from the same cups, or shat in the same toilet before. All those people, using the same access codes every changeover day – different hands slipping the same keys into different pockets once a week. Locks are rarely changed, even when the keys to rental properties get lost, so who knows how many people might really have a copy.
Anyone who has ever stayed there could come back at any time and let themselves in.

  She finds a wallet in the drawer. It seems odd that the man would have left it behind, but animal owners do act strangely when worried about their pets. Robin can understand that. She slides the credit cards out of his wallet one by one, rubbing her thumb across the embossed name. Then she finds a crumpled paper shape between the leather folds. She holds it up to the light and sees that it is an origami crane. It’s a little burnt around the edges, but Robin knows that cranes are supposed to bring good luck, and the fact that he carries it around in his wallet makes her hate him a little less. She puts everything else back as she found it.

  There is an inhaler in the drawer on the other side of the bed. Robin puts it in her mouth and takes a puff, but it isn’t nearly as satisfying as her pipe. She expels the rest of its contents into the air, then takes the empty inhaler with her, along with the prescription sleeping pills she has found. After a quick trip to the tower to ring the chapel bell, Robin heads back inside to finish what they started.

  Amelia

  Adam starts to run down the hill towards the chapel, but I can’t keep up.

  He’s been somewhat preoccupied with his own health and fitness recently, and started taking vitamins and supplements, which is new. His obsession with jogging at least twice a week is finally paying off, and I tell him not to wait; the sooner one of us gets back the better. I keep having to stop to catch my breath. I forgot to bring my inhaler – foolishly leaving it next to the bed in my panic to find Bob – but I know I’ll be OK, so long as I take my time and try to stay calm.

  It sounds easier in my head than it is in reality.

  If we hadn’t both seen someone letting themselves into the chapel, I might have thought I imagined it. But it was real. Maybe it is the mysterious housekeeper? Come to check we are OK after the storm? I tell myself that whoever it is will be able to help us. And will want to. Because none of the other possibilities auditioning inside my mind are good. When I reach the snow-covered track at the bottom of the hill, I’m relieved to be on a flat surface again. Adam’s lead has increased. He isn’t far from the chapel now, so I hurry on as fast as I can, trying to catch up.

  I stop when the bell in the tower starts to ring.

  The snow pummels my face. I didn’t see Adam go inside but he must have, because when I look up – shielding my eyes from the relentless blizzard – he’s vanished. Did he ring the bell? I remember earlier, when Adam said that the main doors were the only way in, and out, of the chapel. I haven’t seen anyone leave, which means whoever we saw go inside is still there. Anything could be happening. The latest snowstorm seems to have turned the world black and white. I can barely see my own hand when I hold it in front of my face; I try to run faster but I keep slipping and my chest starts to hurt. My heart is beating too quickly, and my breaths are too shallow. My anxiety is made worse knowing that even in a medical emergency, we have no way of calling for help.

  When I finally reach the huge chapel doors, I don’t need to worry about knocking – they are wide open and the floor of the boot room is covered in snow. I spot a pair of large, unfamiliar wellington boots next to the old church bench, and notice that someone has drawn several smiley faces in the dust on its wooden surface now. I wonder if it means something and lift the lid, but it’s empty. When I look up, I catch sight of my reflection in the wall of tiny mirrors. I look wrecked.

  ‘Adam?’ I call, but am met with an eerie silence.

  The kitchen is empty, as is the lounge full of books. I hurry up the wooden spiral staircase to the first floor, wheezing, and gripping the banister like a cane. I ignore the DANGER KEEP OUT sign on the furthest door, and climb the steps to the bell tower. But there’s nobody there, and the bedroom is empty too. It doesn’t make sense. The pain in my chest isn’t getting any better, so I pull open the drawer beside the bed. My inhaler has gone. I’m sure that’s where I left it, and now panic starts to ripple through me.

  I need to find Adam. Back out on the landing I try the other doors, but they’re all still locked. He isn’t here, I’ve already searched every room. Then I remember the crypt.

  ‘Adam!’ I yell again.

  Silence.

  I run so fast that I almost fall down the creaking stairs.

  ‘I’m in here!’ he calls when I reach the lounge, but I can’t see him.

  ‘Where are you?’ I shout back.

  ‘Behind the bookcase on the back wall.’

  I hear his words but fail to make sense of them.

  I follow the sound of his voice, staring at the shelves lined with books from floor to ceiling. I don’t understand until I see the sliver of light revealing a secret door, covered in the spines of old books. I hesitate before pushing it open, once again feeling as though I might have fallen down the rabbit hole, or become trapped in one of the dark and disturbing novels my husband loves to adapt.

  The thin door squeaks open to reveal another room. It’s a study, but unlike any I have seen before. The long, narrow, dark space only has one stained-glass window for light. There is an antique desk at one end, and my husband is sitting at it.

  ‘Whoever was here has gone,’ Adam says without looking up. ‘I searched the whole place. The only thing that I noticed was different was that the door to this room was open.’

  ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘I think I’m starting to. I recognise this room.’

  He doesn’t seem to notice that I can barely breathe. There are no supplements for people who suffer from a sympathy deficit, and my husband has always been easily distracted by his own thoughts and feelings. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it before. I couldn’t think where at first and then I noticed this,’ he says, tapping the shiny wooden desktop. ‘I’ve seen a picture of this study in a magazine, albeit a few years ago. And I remember who the article was about. You say that you won a weekend away by chance, in a raffle, but that can’t be true. It’s all too much of a coincidence. I know who this property belongs to now.’

  Copper

  Word of the year:

  discombobulated adjective feeling confused and disconcerted.

  28th February 2015 – our seventh anniversary

  Dear Adam,

  It’s been a difficult year.

  October O’Brien was found dead in a London hotel a few months ago, and you were one of the last people to see her alive. Suspected suicide according to the newspapers. There was no note, but empty bottles of alcohol and pills were found by her bed. It was obviously devastating. And surprising; the woman always seemed so happy and positive, at least on the outside. Barely thirty years old and everything to live for. The two of you had become quite close – I was rather fond of her myself – but it also means that the filming of Rock Paper Scissors has been cancelled. You can’t make a TV series without the star of the show.

  The funeral was awful. You could tell that so many people there were merely acting out what they thought grief should be. Two-faced shysters. It seems that genuine friends are even harder to come by when you’re famous. I was surprised to discover that October’s real name was Rainbow O’Brien. Her parents were hippies, and nobody at the service wore black.

  ‘Thank goodness she used a stage name,’ you whispered.

  I nodded, but wasn’t sure whether I agreed. She was a bit like a rainbow: beautiful, captivating, colourful, and gone from our lives almost as soon as she appeared in them. I used to think a name was just a name. Now I’m not so sure. I had become quite friendly with October myself – occasional drinks, dog walks, and visits to art galleries – and I miss her too. It does feel like something, not just someone, is missing from both of our lives now that she is no longer in them.

  A trip to New York sounded like a great way to spend our seventh anniversary and take our minds off it all, until I realised that it coincided with the premiere of Henry Winter’s latest film, The Black House. You were so eager to please flattered when h
e told his agent and the studio that he would only attend if you did. You thought it was because he was pleased with the adaptation, and wanted you to get the credit you deserved for writing the screenplay. But that wasn’t why he wanted you there. Or why he suggested you invite your wife.

  You’ve been moody as hell a little distant recently, and I didn’t want to start another fight, but playing gooseberry to a pair of writers while they basked in the temporary warmth of Hollywood’s fickle sun didn’t appeal much. Neither did walking down the red carpet at the old movie theatre in Manhattan where the premiere was held. The Ziegfeld was my kind of place – an old-school cinema decorated in red and gold, with a sea of plush red velvet seats. But being photographed on the way in made me feel like a fraud. I hate having my picture taken at the best of times, and compared with all the beautiful creatures in attendance – with their tiny waists and big hair – I worried that I must be a disappointment to you. It’s hard to shine when surrounded by stars. The idea of just being normal seems to make you so unhappy, but it’s all I ever wanted us to be.

  The deal was that we would spend time alone together after the premiere, but then Henry wanted you to accompany him to a few more events the next day. I understand why you couldn’t say no, I just wish that you hadn’t wanted to say yes. I get that you’ve always been a huge fan of his, and I understand how grateful you are that he let you adapt his work. I know what it’s meant for your career, but haven’t I already paid the price for that? Wandering around a city on my own while you hold an author’s hand instead of mine is not my idea of a happy anniversary.

  You haven’t been yourself for a while. I know that you are grieving for October, I understand that she was more than just a colleague, and the dream of seeing your own work on screen stalling, again, must also be upsetting. But it still feels as if there is something else going on. Something you’re not telling me. There are residents in our lives, the ones who stay for years, and then there are the tourists just passing through. Sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference. We can’t, and don’t, and shouldn’t try to hold on to everyone that we meet, and I’ve met a lot of tourists in my life, people I should have kept at a safe distance. If you don’t let anyone get too close they can’t hurt you.