Liarholic

by Kingsley Ash

  Whatever this is, it snuck up on me. And now it’s here to stay, like a virus with no vaccine. Every once in a while I catch myself forming a new rule. Last week I found myself counting steps again, something I’ve not done for months. That’s certainly one I can do without. But I don’t seem to be able to control myself any more. I’m getting worse, not better.

  So, it’s Wednesday, and an odd-numbered day, and we’ve run out of teabags. The teabag issue is a big deal. Another rule to control chaos. If I don’t have cups of tea at eight, ten, four and eight o’clock, my mind will drown. It’s like running on the spot. I’ll exhaust myself without ever getting anywhere.

  I asked Rebecca if she minded going out and buying some. But she can’t go shopping until tomorrow. I look at the kitchen bin. My 8:00 AM teabag mocks me. For a spare moment, I consider fishing it out to reuse. I’m a bundle of nerves, riddled with fears.

  I pop a stick of bubble gum into my mouth. A distraction from twitchy fingers. It doesn’t work. I check my room on a constant loop, each time getting it wrong. The more times I do it, the more tired I become. Sometimes I get stuck like this.

  And a tiny, tiny voice of reason at the back of my head is screaming: Listen to Shepherd! This is not normal. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

  By a quarter to ten, I’m scrunched into a dark corner. A small tight knot on the edge of explosion. My mind a blight and disease on any chance of being an ordinary girl.

  And then I hear it.

  The sound of the front door being closed, properly, and heavy footsteps on the stairs.

  Before my brain ticks wrong, I see a way of escape. If I can’t get teabags from the kitchen, maybe I could get them from someplace else . . .

  The chink of boots pass my door and carry on upstairs to the top floor. I wait for a moment, rub my cheeks to hide the tears, then drag my fingers through my hair.

  I would rather pull my teeth out than ask him for a favour, yet . . . the alternative is a nightmare come true.

  There is no time to check the room. The front door isn’t on the latch. I heard him shut it, I definitely heard him shut it. I’ll have to just go.

  Taking my key, and locking the room just once, checking it just once, I trudge up the stairs, hesitating outside his door. There’s a window on the landing, a small sliver of moonlight, but no other light.

  I peer down the stairs. I can just about see my own door. I knock, and he doesn’t answer. I think the rock music is too loud and he hasn’t heard. I knock again. A little louder. A little more desperate. I need my tea before ten o’clock.

  The music turns off. I listen to the silence and then the footsteps on the other side. I stand awkwardly, like I’ve forgotten how to use my arms. It feels like my body is turning into a robot.

  He opens the door. I jump a little. Everything sounds so loud, sharp.

  His smile is the crookedest of them all. ‘Amylocks. Miss me?’

  My heartbeat flutters, stops, and kick-starts again.

  He barely has to touch me to light a fire in me. That look, that determined wild look he has in his eyes now, it’s enough to make my underwear damp.

  ‘No — I mean, I wondered if you have any teabags? That I could borrow. I mean, have. We’ve run out and I know you have your own.’

  He’s buttoning his black jeans. But he doesn’t have a shirt on. He looks pale like a vampire. His skin is white and smooth like marble. I can see every segment of muscle in his eight-pack middle. His arms look strong. I can see weights on his floor behind him.

  He looks so beautiful but I know his soul is ugly.

  I feel silly, all of a sudden. I’m wearing my pale yellow T-shirt and an old white ruffle skirt. I haven’t shaved my legs. I’m not wearing any lip gloss or eyeliner.

  The bubble gum is still in my mouth. The sugar coats my tongue but it’s bitter, the sweet all gone, like I’ve licked perfume.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ he says. ‘Come in.’

  I’m trying so hard to look like a normal happy-go-lucky girl. I fail miserably. I must be giving off desperation out of every pore.

  He holds the door open and retreats into his spacious room. It’s at least triple the size of my entire living space. I’m left standing by the doorway, watching his back. In normal circumstances, I’d rather die than follow a man into an enclosed space. But these aren’t normal circumstances. And really, Shepherd, isn’t just any man. He isn’t a stranger.

  I go into his room.

  ‘You must be desperate if you’re asking me,’ he says. ‘Would it really be the end of the world if you didn’t drink it tonight? Maybe I shouldn’t give you any.’

  Just give me the teabags. Please give me the teabags. And stop looking at me like that!

  ‘Please . . . ’

  My self-hate reaches rock bottom.

  ‘You know what,’ he says then, after a moment’s hesitation, ‘I’m suddenly in the mood for a brew. Put the kettle on while I put a shirt on.’

  My watch now shows three minutes until ten o’clock. I’m not going to get the tea in time unless I make it now. I don’t want Shepherd to see how fundamental this is to my survival.

  So I just do it. I find mismatched mugs on the worktop next to the sink, choosing two and rinsing them out under the tap. When I find milk in his fridge, I notice my hands are trembling. I make the tea, stirring and adding milk drop by drop until it’s exactly the right colour. I get to drink my first scalding sip of tea just as the second hand strikes twelve.

  My mind makes a mental sign of the cross.

  You did enough. You have enough. You’re okay.

  I shed a tear of solace even though I’m drinking it in Shepherd’s space — and I haven’t even left my own room secure.

  I plop his mug on a coaster, turning the handle exactly ninety degrees from the edge of the table. It takes me a few attempts before it looks right. He looks at me. And under his gaze, I’m being scrutinised.

  We sit at the table in awkward silence for a moment, sipping tea. Then he says, ‘This is getting out of hand, Amy. You can’t keep doing this. I won’t let you keep doing this. You looked ready to die at my door if you didn’t get your hands on a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’m fine —’

  ‘You keep saying that but it’s clear you’re not.’ He regards me for a minute. ‘This OCD bullshit is gonna stop. Panic attacks are gonna stop. You can’t live like this. You’re not living.’

  I start to say something, then stop myself.

  ‘Go on,’ he says.

  ‘It’s the door,’ I mumble.

  ‘The door?’

  ‘The front door. I worry about it being left on the latch. Sometimes people come and go, and leave the door open.’

  ‘Yeah, noticed the billion times you check it. Amy, I always make sure it’s locked.’

  ‘Especially at night,’ I say, with emphasis.

  I’m tired right down to the marrow of my bones. I want to sleep. I want to get away from him. I don’t want to get away from him.

  ‘Yeah, especially at night. I always make sure it’s locked. Every night.’

  It has the sound of a solemn vow. He says it without a smile, and I don’t know why but I believe him. Trust him, even. I don’t want to trust him, but I do.

  I feel myself starting to exhale. ‘Thank you,’ I blow out.

  ‘Amy, I had to take your key from you. You understand why, yeah?’

  We drink in silence, the tick tock of the wall clock harsh in the quiet, dark room.

  ‘Violet . . . ’ he says all of a sudden. ‘She was pretty.’

  I widen my eyes in surprise. He hasn’t mentioned his mother since I overheard his conversation with Diana. Despite my desires to stab him with a fork, most of the time, I’m happy Shepherd found his mother. He was like lost property in the children’s home. Dumped and left with nobody claiming him. Even though I’m petrified about what he’ll do if he ever finds out who his father is . . . I wish he could get the chance to be loved b
y a parent. Maybe, just maybe, his cold sadistic heart could be cured.

  ‘Do you have a photo of her?’

  ‘Yeah, a letter was left for me by her. A photo was kept inside.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  He goes into his bedroom and comes back with a black-and-white photograph in his hand. He gives it to me.

  ‘She was beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that baby you?’

  He nods his answer. It must be too painful for words.

  Baby Shepherd. Innocent and vulnerable. Nothing like the man he is now.

  I look closer at the photograph and feel a ghost walk by.

  ‘What is it?’ he says, noticing my face has turned pale.

  I feel another chill. ‘Nothing . . .’

  ‘It’s not nothing — what? Just say it.’

  ‘It just feels like I’ve seen her before.’

  ‘It’s the only photo of my mum to exist. You weren’t born when she was alive, Amy. How can you recognise my mum’s face?’

  I’m bricked up in darkness. The walls are old, covered in grime and slime, and a painful memory surfaces. I bury it down. Deep, deep down.

  It was just a nightmare. None of it was real.

  ‘Must be getting my wires crossed with somebody else. Maybe it’s because she looks like you . . .’

  ‘Must be.’

  I finish my tea and stand up. I’m suddenly aware again of my surroundings. So close to him. His body is a magnet I can’t repel. I’m keen to get back to my room before I do something stupid. Before my body does something stupid.

  Shepherd knows a million ways to turn my body on and he can be an arsehole about it. He knows that just running a tongue over his lips is enough to make my thighs squeeze tight. And combining that with a subtle shift of his hand to his hips, to his belt, to let me know that his mind has drifted to sex . . . it’s enough to know I need to leave while I still can.

  ‘I need to go,’ I say.

  ‘Wait.’

  He takes a roll of food bags from a drawer and uses the bag as a glove to pull out a handful of teabags from the box. He turns the bag inside out and twists it at the top.

  ‘I’m fi—’ I cut myself off with embarrassment, realising I do keep saying ‘I’m fine’ when I’m not even close to being fine.

  He shoves it in my hand. ‘Don’t fret — you can pay the favour someday. When I run out of sugar, I’ll know where to get some sweet.’

  He lets me walk several paces ahead of him to the door, not crowding me, and I let myself out of his room.

  ‘See you real soon,’ I hear him threaten as I scuttle down the stairs.

  And the most curious thing happens. I get back into my room, sit down in front of my laptop, and watch an hour of a film before I realise I haven’t even checked the room.

  21

  YOU

  THE NEXT DAY, there is a note waiting for me.

  It’s waiting outside my room, on the landing, just outside my door. I pick it up before I start checking the door, slip it into my pocket. I finally get to read it an hour and a half later, after my checks, when I sit down in my living room.

  Amy—

  Wear something pretty this Saturday night. I’m taking you out to a nightclub. Refuse and you know the consequences.

  —S

  He is something else.

  Is he honestly blackmailing me onto a date?

  Is it a date? Or is it therapy? I don’t know, anymore. It’s all a little confusing.

  I almost want to laugh. Me, going to a nightclub with Shepherd? Going on a date with a man who prides himself on being manipulative and sadistic?

  I can’t do it.

  This is everything I avoid like the black plague. Crowds. Loud noise. Dark rooms.

  I swallow the bile burning my throat. A spur of the moment thing would have been bad enough, but the fact he has put so much thought into it, makes me feel nauseous.

  I should send him a note, RSVP him NO.

  But I can’t, can I? It’s a done deal, I’ve already signed my fate. Refuse, and I seal Daisy and Max to a future of doom. I might as well throw them to the monsters myself.

  I decide it’s the perfect time to practice deep breathing. I learnt it from Shepherd, the night he rescued me from a panic attack. After checking the room, I plop down on the floor, shut my eyes and breathe.

  I make myself start by doing it for three minutes. I set the kitchen timer. At first it’s a struggle to keep my eyes closed for that long, every sound disturbs me. The first few times I do it, I fail. I either open my eyes before the timer goes off, or some noise from outside distracts me.

  I try again, but then fail again, and then go to check the room again three times to make up for my failure.

  This is all a bit crap, I think, and I find myself wondering whether letting Shepherd help me with my OCD is the best way forward? I’m doing alright, aren’t I? I’m still alive, aren’t I? But none of this line of thinking can go anywhere. Shepherd is forcing my hand. He has taken control of me. Like the Puppet Master and his little puppet. He’s pulling all the strings. If I don’t let him treat me, Daisy and Max will be forced to live in a rundown housing estate, with an uncle who abuses her. I don’t want Daisy to fall back into the grips of cocaine.

  I pull out my imaginary white flag and wave it. Shepherd pulls my strings and I must act like the perfect doll on stage.

  Truth is, I worry my OCD is always going to keep me from being the person I dreamed of becoming. A part of me, a grudging part of me, wishes upon a star that Shepherd will fix the fault in my head.

  I try breathing again. I close my eyes and Shepherd is here with me. His large hand holding mine, his eyes swirly marbles in the darkness . . . the smell of tobacco . . . his hard, muscular Superman body . . . Before I know it, the timer is going off, and I’ve managed three minutes without opening my eyes.

  I place Shepherd’s note on the floor in front of me, cross my legs. I spend a moment listening to the creaks and groans of the old estate. Then I shut my eyes and start.

  Picturing Shepherd with me is the only way it works, I decide. What the hell, if it works, it has to be a good thing, right? He never has to know I fantasise about him.

  So I take him away from the cold, draughty floor of my room. I go upstairs instead. Into his bedroom. He is naked. So am I. It’s sunny and warm, the sun streaming through the windows onto his sexy, vampish face. He’s brushing the hair from mine, and is saying the things he said to me before, and a few other things too . . .

  ‘I can make the pain go away . . . You were a little scared, but you wanted me to fuck you. No reason we can't get back to there . . .’

  Five minutes later, I pop one eye open and look across to the wall clock.

  I forgot to set the timer.

  At bedtime, I fall into sleep like Sleeping Beauty.

  22

  ME

  It’s Friday evening, the day before my date with Amy, and I catch her coming out of the broom cupboard underneath the staircase. She flits back inside. Probably toying with the idea of keeping the mice company. Anything to avoid me.

  Something gnaws away at me, wastes inside my head.

  I strut into the cupboard, shut the door, and prop the mop under the door handle. I turn over a bucket and sit down.

  Amy looks at me like I’m the King of Rats. Like she believes I’ve come in here just to eat her alive.

  I lick my lips as I enumerate that in my mind. And other things. The ones where she’s screaming. The ones where she can’t get breath to whimper. All the ones where she’s under me and begging, and I’m so drunk on lust that I’m not even capable of mercy. In the back of my mind, that stretching beast pricks up my ears and scents the air, thinking about the salty-sweet tang of her pussy, her honey.

  She stands still, like a little stone statue, her hands clasped together low.

  I smirk. ‘Come here often?’

  ‘Why did you follow me in here?’ she squeaks like a mouse.

  �
�Why are you hiding from me in the broom cupboard?’

  The past comes back to haunt. Happy memories of us turn sour in my heart.

  She rushes towards the door, then realises I’m blocking the way.

  I turn the light off, put her in darkness.

  Dead in the light, I wake up in the black.

  ‘Shepherd?’ Her voice is a whisper.

  She pushes to get past my dominating body.

  My heavy boot scrapes against her ankle. Amy jerks back. I catch her wrist and tug her against me, my hand a burn on her skin.

  The beast in me is pushing out in all directions. She’s sharp angles and tight skin. Defying me, and stinking with fear. Her resistance makes it so much better. Everything else falls away, until there’s just the need to get into her, consume her, with my teeth on her flesh, until I fuck her.

  It’s probably a good thing she isn’t obsessed with me as much as I am with her.

  ‘Put the light on,’ she pleads.

  ‘You really afraid of the dark?’ My other hand explores the neck of her dress.

  The way to get at your soul is through that body.

  ‘Thing is, you were never afraid of the dark when we used to hide in the cupboard.’

  ‘Please,’ she says. ‘Stop putting me in the dark.’

  I might’ve escaped Nazareth stronger, but the light still pains me. I’m a selfish bastard. I want her to stay in the dark with me.

  ‘Fine,’ I say.

  The dim yellow light kills the darkness.

  There is a tiny window, stained cracked glass. The dim light puts a hundred different colours of gold into the small, tight space. There’s a baby wooden crucifix hung on the wall, half broken. And there’s Amy in her white faded dress, golden in the light. She gazes up. All of her white and gold.

  When there’s light for her to see by, her gaze is beyond me.

  I am nothing.

  Amy wakes up my worst feelings, but they get me under her skin. Crawling. Slithering. Touching the secret little spots of her soul. Now I live for them.