by Naomi Joy
*
Rick walks fast as he leaves his house – about five minutes behind schedule – and my shins burn as I try to keep pace. I follow him all the way to his favourite spin studio – I know him so well – the main area of which is located on the fifth floor of a new-build structure overlooking the Thames. I look up at the glass then across at the near-identical developments on the other side of the river, futuristic homes interspersed with cranes and construction-sites, at the impossibly tall office buildings that dot the horizon in the distance.
Frosty studio windows catch my reflection as I scuttle by and remind me to book a hair appointment. I keep my ombre cut neat and tidy, chopped at my shoulders in one straight line, but I crave the ritual of bleach on my hair, so I go back every six weeks or so to have it topped up. I think it’s the smell of it, the fact that it’s so intensely clean that I feel my entire head is being cleansed every time it bites at my tresses.
I summon the courage to step into the glossy space, the front desk patrolled by muscular receptionists, air conditioning blasting me as I tiptoe towards them. Rick has already been waved through, handed a towel, so when I reach the front of the queue, I am determined to follow right behind him.
‘I’d like to set up a membership. Who do I speak to about that?’
I marvel at the size of the veins on the receptionist’s arms as he passes me a form to fill out. ‘Here are all the details, we’d love you to join our tribe!’
I half-smile, unsure how to react to marketing-speak in everyday situations, take the form to a quiet corner, and scribble through it. £200 upfront fee, one year minimum, two months’ notice. I agree to it all, the whole £1,200 I’ll end up spending on this place, then walk back to hand it back to the man behind the desk.
‘Right on,’ he encourages, and slips my details into his computer. ‘I hope we can help you on your fitness journey. Is this a New Year’s resolution thing? How much weight were you looking to lose exactly?’
How much? I think, my eyes betraying how affronted I am by this question. What do you want from me? Skin and bones?
‘Oh, it’s not really about weight for me, it’s more than that.’
‘Right on, right on,’ he repeats inanely. ‘Like a life overhaul thing?’
Why does it have to be about anything?
I mumble a non-committal agreement and wait to be let through.
‘I’ll put your membership through final checks and then, hey, soon as you know it, we’ll have you working out! Your card will come through the post once it’s all approved. Looking forward to welcoming you to the tribe!’
I blink at him, breathless, annoyed. ‘Can I take a class now? To try it out?’
‘Ah,’ he sounds, his expression changing. ‘Afraid that’s against our policy, it’s members only.’
‘I am a member.’
‘You’re nearly a member.’
‘Right, so what’s the difference?’ I lean over the desk slightly, put my elbow up on it, stare him down.
‘The difference is I need your card so I can swipe you in.’
A man from the queue, building steadily behind me, draws level at the desk, clearly irritated by our elongated exchange. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he bites. ‘Can I just grab a towel?’
As the receptionist pulls a towel from the stack next to him, I take a step back, shrinking. I wait until towel-man is at the turnstile, then use the cover of the next person in the queue to pounce, while the receptionist’s eyes are diverted.
I hurry through behind him, heady with adrenaline, stealing a glance over my shoulder, relieved to see that no one’s chasing after me. I take a moment to catch my breath – I am not used to this kind of risk-taking – but find, somewhat to my surprise, that part of me is enjoying it.
I step into the bright studio bouncing with well-groomed gym bunnies, their beautiful reflections splashed across the mirrors on the three walls that encase us, the peachy rear of a woman in the front row beamed at me from all angles as she begins her warm-up. The instructor, facing the class, wears a light-pink sports bra and skin-tight leggings, her hair sitting in a perfect plait that runs between her shoulder blades. I know immediately why she’s been hired for this role: she’s the aspiration, she’s who all these rich office-workers wish they could be, or be with. I spot Rick approaching, my eyes glued to his well-tuned form as he sidles up to a bike in the front row and latches a towel round the handlebars.
As it’s my first time at this class, the instructor pauses her own warm-up to introduce herself to me and to set my level to ‘easy’, which irritates the competitor in me. I can do this – same as everyone else – and I twist the dial to up the resistance.
I pump my way into the main portion of the workout, breathing heavily, sweating as the instructor demands we climb hill after hill, pedalling faster with each relentless incline. Rick’s sculpted physique perspires as he thumps on the pedals underfoot. I’m entranced. I can see what Tabby saw in him once – if you’re interested in gym-boys, he’s not awful to look at – but, as I study his reflection – the determined bite of his jaw and the dogged look in his blue eyes – I wonder why he looks so angry.
A tear of sweat lands on my chapped knuckles and soaks into my flaky skin. I grip the handlebars of the static bike tighter. I’ve tried countless home-remedies and over-the-counter lotions to soften the scaly backs of my hands but nothing seems to work. I know what would work: clean a little less, always wear gloves to do so, stop my obsessive handwashing at work, quit the anti-bac. But these rituals are too important to me, so I must rely on lotions and potions and exfoliating scrubs to bring my dead skin back to life.
I analyse the other people in the room to take my mind off the workout: there’s a serious Lycra-clad white guy at the front, a curvy brunette to his side, a lithe black girl barely breaking a sweat to my left. I am forced to park my observations just as the instructor takes us through a sprint series; my vision beginning to spin. Rick rides with increased intensity and I watch as his T-shirt darkens under his effort, puddles forming beneath the machine. His body rises and falls as his thick legs pedal, his focus straight ahead.
As the room heats up, perspiration covering the surfaces, my anxiety at being in this close-quartered, germ-ridden environment begins to flare. My heat and my effort and my shortness of breath don’t help – I used to be fine with this sort of thing – but, today, my anxiety worsens. Someone won’t have washed their hands, will have left infectious marks over the door handle, the water-dispenser. Someone else will be unwell but powering through it, spluttering and sweating their illness into the air surrounding me. My face reddens as I think about it: I’m pedalling in a bath of lurgy, a sea of filth. And then my head is loud with ringing, high-pitched, my vision disintegrating, my heart thudding, each burst echoing in my eardrums. Before I have a chance to slow my pace, to take a break, I can feel myself slipping, the world around me closing in. It swallows me and I drop to the floor, pedal cutting flesh, hand out to break my descent, the whirr of his bike in the distance.
*
I wake with a start, my vision filled with worried faces, concerned expressions, and agitated voices.
‘Are you OK?’
I try to sit up, panicking, remembering where I am, but a pair of hands grab my shoulders and push me back. ‘Woah there, take it easy, let’s get you some water first.’
A flimsy paper cup is thrust into my grip and I turn onto my side, sipping it gently. ‘Thank you,’ I manage to bleat. I wish people would stop breathing on me, everyone’s so close, the carbon dioxide from their exhalations gusting against me.
‘Space,’ I stutter.
Disgruntled noises follow; they’re probably annoyed I haven’t had a heart-attack – that would give them something to talk about at work – but, eventually, they disperse. The instructor stays by my side, pressure round my shoulder. She’s not going anywhere until she knows I won’t sue.
And him. He’s here. I can feel him, close. Though it
isn’t how I’d liked to have reintroduced myself to him again it’s certainly… memorable.
‘I’m fine,’ I say as I attempt to rise to seated again, a few dots splattering my line of sight as I move. Hand gripping head, pain percolating behind my eyes, I hear him. I know it’s him, I just–—
‘Annabella, are you OK?’ he asks.
I open my eyes then take him in. His cheekbones sit high, sharp lines cutting either side of his face. His hair is receding slightly but the colour is bold and brown. One of his eyebrows sits low, concerned, the other higher, alert. His legs are muscular and parted. His blue eyes are locked on mine. My heart shudders. I worry he’s about to ask why I’ve been following him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks. ‘I didn’t recognise you at first; it’s been years.’ The mirrors that encase the room reflect my new and improved features back at me. My cheeks are slightly swollen from a recent tear-trough procedure and yet I still appear ghoulish, somehow. I do not like to look at myself for too long; I always find something I need to improve. I’ve changed a lot since Rick knew me.
‘I’m fine,’ I insist, my lips in a line, knowing Rick would be suspicious if I appeared happy to see him.
‘Do you often faint when you exercise?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘I don’t often exercise.’
‘You should get it checked by a doctor,’ he presses, moving closer, so close that I can smell his deodorant. The instructor shifts to let him in.
I look up. ‘I don’t think it’s anything serious.’
He looks worried when I refuse, lips ajar. ‘I’m taking you to a doctor.’
‘I’m fine,’ I protest.
He moves to standing, holding his hand out for me to take. ‘Let’s get you up.’
I reach out, his skin on mine. It feels wrong. Dangerous. I’m letting this hand, this murdering, evil hand touch me, willingly letting it clamp me in its grip. I squirm as I feel him, his fingertips warm and clammy, his palm sticky. My anxiety rises again and I reel at what we’re sharing, the microparticles, the infections, the germs. My pulse quickens at the risk I’m taking letting him hold me like this, and I can feel my heart beating against his clutch.
‘Thanks,’ I croak, pulling my hand away as soon as I’m up, the rush dying as we part.
‘You’re OK, then?’ the instructor asks, abrupt.
I nod and she quickly forgets all about me, bouncing behind Rick as he goes to make a call, talking quietly to him so I can’t hear. I don’t know what they’re saying, but they stand close, her hands gesticulating towards his middle.
I don’t know for definite what she’s saying, but I can guess. ‘Who is she? You know her? Why do you care so much?’
*
Rick orders a car to take me to a walk-in centre not far from here. I have absolutely no intention of going but thank him profusely for his concern as we stand in the lobby of the gym, air conditioning fanning from above, flattening a pancake-round circle of hair on top of his head.
‘You have to let me know how you get on,’ he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. ‘Can I take your number, to check in later? I’ll be worrying all day otherwise.’
I watch him type his passcode into the screen – 303030. I briefly wonder what the significance is, then commit the number to memory. It could come in handy.
‘Sure,’ I say, taking his phone, thinking back to all the things Tabby once told me she’d found on here. Not that this will be the same device, but the comparison, the very thought, sends a ripple down my spine. Rick’s secrets are in my hands, right now, if I could just take it, I could examine them, find proof, find evidence…
‘Promise you’ll actually go.’
I nod, then pass his phone back to him.
‘It’s been great to see you again,’ he says, lingering awkwardly. ‘You know, I feel terrible about how we left things…’ He stops short of addressing why we fell out in the first place. I guess he’s right to, it would somewhat sour the atmosphere. ‘Would you like to get dinner next week?’ he asks, putting himself out there, waiting for me to answer. ‘I’d like the chance to clear the air between us,’ he adds, pausing. ‘Catch up.’
Catch up? I think instinctively. About what? The way you killed my best friend? I’m taking too long to answer, his eyes darting nervously to the floor, but I can’t help the way my heart thuds when I look at him. My thoughts turn to Mandy, too. Not only have I sent her to hospital, I’m about to book in a date with her boyfriend. I’m doing her a favour in the long run, I tell myself. This is for Mandy, this is for Tabby, this is for me.
‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘It’s been a long time.’
‘Five years,’ he chimes.
My eyes turn to water troughs in the beats that follow, my head full of Tabby, and how I’ve let her down. I colour, turning back to him. ‘Sorry,’ I splutter. ‘I’m a little dazed. I just wasn’t expecting to see you today. Hearing your voice, it’s just… all I can think about is her.’
‘You don’t need to apologise,’ he tells me, as he opens the car door for me. ‘I understand. I feel the same.’ His eyes look sad as I slip inside, drying my tears, pulling myself together. I clench my water bottle in one hand, the other shaking.
‘I’ll check in later,’ he says, then shuts the door, hitting the roof twice with a closed fist, sending me on my way like I’m in the back of a New York taxi.
I fix my eyes on his silhouette, his sculpted frame occupying the entire rear-view mirror, waiting to wake from the elongated dream I’m having. I feverishly rub anti-bacterial gel over my hands and arms, ridding myself of him, then sit back, letting my heartrate return to normal, touch my hand to my head, feeling a bump beneath.
I did it. Though it wasn’t planned, it had worked.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the driver, far enough from Rick to be safe. ‘Can you just drop me here?’
‘Here?’ he repeats, quizzically.
‘Yes,’ I confirm, reaching down to the rip in my leggings, the graze that lies bloody and oozing below. I need to get to work as soon as possible. This won’t clean with over-the-counter anti-bac, I’ll have to use the real stuff.
I pull my phone from my pocket, looking at the screen, wondering when he’ll text.
*
Kay’s voice fills my ears as I play the next instalment of The Cold Case of Tabitha Rice, listening as she feeds her hungry listeners with delicious morsels.
‘Today on the show I’ll be chatting to serial-killer-expert and friend of the show Dr Malcolm Reese about victim profiles. We’ll be discussing the fact that most male murderers select a “type” of woman, and that it usually extends to the relationships they have, too. We often see serial killers throughout history repeat this pattern. So why is Rick Priestley different? What does his new partner, Mandy, tell us about him?’
Rick
Fourteen Years Ago – 2006
I was assembling Happy Meals for a bunch of precocious nine-year-olds when my phone started ringing. I ignored it at first but picked up on the fourth call. No one calls that persistently unless it’s an emergency.
It was my college president. ‘There’s been a serious allegation brought against you, Rick. We need to talk immediately. Soon as you can.’
I free-wheeled back to the university, my wheels ricocheting over the cobbles. I took a short-cut that wasn’t designed for bikes, it was full of pedestrians, angry pedestrians, and I was jeered as I tore through them, brakes screeching to avoid a collision with a girl and her hula-hoop.
‘Watch where you’re going, idiot!’
I ignored the cries, pedalled faster, harder, let the blood rush to my head, my brain bumping my skull each time I hit a cobble at speed. Tabby had carved her name at the base of this bike – TR & RP 4EVA – a childish inscription that had irritated me at the time but didn’t so much now. She was my safety blanket, my security, my crutch. Thoughts of last night jumbled my consciousness as I sped, the way she’d jerked her body to get closer to min
e, the coy look on her face as we’d reignited our fire.
I’d promised I’d call her to work everything out. We needed to talk about what had happened between us, iron things out. Tabby deserved that much, even if last night only ended up being a one-off.
I crashed my bike against the wall and ran, sweat beading my hairline, splinters in my lungs as I tried to catch my breath. Three corridors along was the college president’s office and, just outside, a mirror. I groaned when I drew level, realising I was still in uniform. The president wouldn’t understand. I pushed my fringe back off my face, cursed at the stubble on my jaw, then took a moment to compose myself before heading in.
The next few minutes passed in a heart-stopping blur. ‘A girl has made an accusation of rape against you. The evidence is compelling enough to suspend you immediately. There will be an investigation. Please collect your things.’
‘Who?’ I managed to say and, though the president hadn’t spoken her name, I knew full well. Tabby.
Her revenge.
The memory of what she’d said, ‘I’m sorry too,’ played from the depths of my mind – but my brain was a fog and the way I’d felt about her – happy, loved, close – stuck to the bits in between. More than anything, I couldn’t believe it was happening. Tabby wasn’t raped. She was just angry.
It will blow over: that was my first thought. Tabby just wanted to let me know how much I hurt her, her lovesick, childish desire for a reaction from me, acting out to get her point across. But what if it doesn’t blow over? That was my second thought. The problem was, if I’d been an important student, the college would have defended me, would have battened down the hatches and figured out a way to prove my innocence. As it was, they were more than happy to feed me to the wolves, haul me up as proof that students from comprehensive schools shouldn’t be let into institutions like Oxford in greater numbers, that people like me were liabilities to have on campus.
I left the room sweatier than I arrived and pulled my phone from my pocket, calling her.