The Housemate

by Pattison C. L.

  The next moment, the thing was lunging at me, grabbing me by the neck and slamming me against the William Morris wallpaper. I could see vile fumes rising like wood smoke from its body, curling in the air to insinuate themselves into my mouth and through the jelly of my eyes. Then its lips were pressing against mine and one of its scaly hands was snaking under my nightdress. A wave of revulsion washed over me. Is this how my life is going to end? I thought as my eyes burned with tears.

  When I woke up, hauled into consciousness by the accusatory bleating of my alarm clock, I was, thankfully, none the worse for wear – physically, at least. Only the violet smudges under my eyes gave any hint of the night’s harrowing events. As I stared at the reflection in my dressing table mirror, I knew I needed to talk to someone. Certainly not Tom. Our relationship was in its infancy; he’d be totally freaked out and I couldn’t risk driving him away. There was only one person who would understand what I was going through. After all, she and I had been through this before.

  13

  Megan

  I gazed at him as he re-entered the room after using the loo. There was a lightness in my head, a dizzy blend of disbelief and elation in the face of my own recklessness. His chest was broad and carpeted in whorls of mahogany hair, his thighs were strong and muscular from his daily cycle commute, and to top it all, he was great in the sack.

  Believe me, when I got up this morning, having sex with Pete Chambers had been the furthest thing from my mind. Despite giving him my number, I hadn’t heard a peep from him since our evening at the pub, nine days earlier, and I’d only glimpsed him once at work, striding down a corridor, issuing terse instructions to the harried-looking theatre nurse jogging at his side. Then, this morning, he’d phoned out of the blue to see if I was free for brunch in Clapham in an hour’s time. It was a Sunday and I’d planned to spend the day catching up on household chores – mowing the back lawn, which had now reached ankle height, tidying my bedroom and doing a couple of loads of laundry – tedious, but long overdue tasks. Plus, it was very short notice – barely enough time to wash and blow-dry my hair. Still, I told myself, it would be lovely to see him again.

  Just like that night in the pub, the conversation between us was so easy, so natural. At the same time, I noticed that my breaths were shallower than usual and kept catching in my throat when I spoke. I was normally fairly circumspect with people I didn’t know very well, especially men I was romantically interested in. It was a kind of self-protection mechanism, I suppose. But with Pete, I felt as if I had shed a layer of skin, as if all my normal reserve and inhibition had been stripped away. We talked about anything and everything – my trip to Australia last year to see my family, and my long-held ambition to volunteer for Médecins Sans Frontières; his passion for red wine and the plans he was making to cycle across America. When I brought up the subject of his wife, he told me about the divorce lawyer he had consulted, assuring me it was only a matter of time until the decree nisi came through. I must admit that part of me didn’t want to know anything about Fiona – the woman who’d owned him for the past God knows how many years; but the other part had to know because, as I said before, I don’t get involved with married men.

  When we left the café two hours later, I think we both knew what was on the cards. I just hadn’t expected it to happen right there and then. Almost before I knew what was happening, Pete’s hands were either side of my head and his fingers were in my hair. I wrapped my arms wantonly around his neck, inviting him to kiss me – and he did. His mouth was soft and full and he teased the underside of my top lip with the point of his tongue, a gesture I found almost unbearably erotic. And the fact we were kissing in the middle of the street, in broad daylight, with people milling all around us, made it all the more thrilling.

  After a little while, Pete stopped kissing me, stepped back and looked at me with a hunger and a giddy slide of his eyes, before suggesting that we ‘continue this somewhere more private’. I didn’t need much persuading. It had to be my place, of course – we could hardly go back to his with Fiona there. Luckily, I had Number 46 all to myself. Chloe was spending the weekend at Tom’s and Sammi was in France, doing research for an article she was writing for one of the Sunday supplements about daily life in a Paris atelier.

  Now, as Pete sank wordlessly into bed beside me, I was looking forward to talking some more, but he fell asleep almost immediately. With a satisfied sigh, I slotted my head into his collarbone and stared at his right hand which was resting on my hip, wondering how many lives those long, strangely delicate fingers had saved. After a little while, I tilted my head upwards, admiring the unobtrusive strength of his chin and the freckles that extended, in a russet constellation, across the bridge of his nose. We’d been lying, entwined in this way, for less than twenty minutes when he suddenly jerked awake. ‘What time is it?’ he asked in a thick voice.

  I reached for my mobile on the bedside table and held it up over both our faces. ‘Two-thirty . . . shit,’ he muttered, as he rolled out of bed and began foraging for his underwear, which had been kicked under the bed in the throes of our passion.

  I sat up. ‘Do you really have to go right this instant?’

  He flung me a grimace of apology. ‘I hate rushing off like this, but I’ve arranged to meet a friend at three. Sorry, Megan, I should’ve mentioned it earlier.’

  I felt a lurch of disappointment; I had assumed we would be spending the rest of the day together. ‘Can’t you phone him and cancel?’

  ‘Not really, we’ve had this in the diary for ages. He’s an old mate; I can’t let him down.’ He pulled on his boxer shorts, then leaned over the bed and ran his finger along the curve of my cheekbone. ‘We’ll have to do this again.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘I don’t just mean the sex. Perhaps I could take you for dinner next time.’

  I smiled back. ‘Sounds great.’

  He turned away from me and I watched as he rescued his jeans from the back of a chair and pulled them on hastily. ‘No need to get up,’ he said, walking towards the door, T-shirt in hand. ‘I can see myself out.’

  I lay back down and listened to him bounding down the stairs. It was followed by the click of the latch on the front door and then I was on my own.

  14

  It wasn’t always this way. We used to be a normal family: Mum, Dad and me. The house was clean and tidy and everything I wore smelled of fabric conditioner. We had home-cooked meals for tea and went camping in Spain in the summer holidays. Dad always had a twinkle in his eye, instead of the sad look he wears now, like someone’s just given him a Chinese burn – and Mum . . . well, Mum was the way mums are supposed to be: soft, kind, smiley. But then The Bad Thing happened and everything fell apart.

  I was as shocked as anyone. I had to have time off school and everything. Dad even took me to see a counsellor. I thought it would be fun talking about myself, but after a while I got the feeling the counsellor was trying to trip me up. So in the end, instead of telling the truth, I told her what I thought she wanted to hear. That way, I figured, she would say I didn’t need to keep coming to see her. And guess what . . . it worked! That was the moment I realised that I’m a lot smarter than people think I am. Sometimes now, I look at myself in the mirror and I wonder why they don’t see what I am; I guess most people are pretty stupid, though.

  I understand why Mum and Dad went a bit crazy afterwards; anyone would if it happened to them. But I really thought that after a little while – maybe six months or so – things would get back to normal. They didn’t. In fact, they just kept getting worse.

  The first time Mum hit me, I couldn’t believe it. Before The Bad Thing, I’d never even got a smack across the legs – not even when I pulled up all Mum’s geraniums because I wanted to make my own perfume out of the petals. But now I get slaps, shoves, scratches . . . one time Mum even pulled a big clump of my hair out. And don’t get me started on the names . . . Mum calls me names I’ve never even heard of; I don’t know how she manages to come up with so m
any different ones! Dad pretends not to see what’s going on, but he knows all right. How could he live in the house with us and not know?

  I’ve learned all sorts of tricks to make things not quite so bad. At home, I make myself as small and quiet as possible; that way Mum might forget I’m there. Sometimes I even hold my breath, hoping I’ll be able to disappear into one of the cracks in the wall. I get up really early too, so I can get to school before Mum wakes up. This morning I arrived before the caretaker had even unlocked the gate! I’m in the classroom now and no one else is here yet, so it’s just Miss Pickering and me . . . bliss! Miss Pickering calls me her Special Little Helper and today I’m helping her put out the paint pots for art class.

  ‘How are you getting on with Anouk?’ she asks as she sets up an easel.

  ‘Oh, Miss, Anouk’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,’ I say. ‘We’re best friends.’

  Miss Pickering gives me a smile that is as bright as a falling star. ‘That’s wonderful news; I knew I could rely on my Special Little Helper to make the new girl feel at home. Are you looking forward to the field trip next week? I really think you’re going to enjoy our visit to the seaside. We’ll be looking round the castle first and then we’ll have a picnic on the beach.’ She scratches the side of her face as if she’s about to say something she doesn’t really want to. ‘Which reminds me, I don’t think your parents have paid for the trip yet, have they? It’s not very much, we wanted to make sure everybody in the class would be able to come.’

  ‘I did take the letter home, Miss. Dad said I could go; I don’t know why he hasn’t given me the money.’ My bottom lip starts trembling then and something in my chest pulls tight as a stitch. Quick as a flash, sweet Miss Pickering is at my side.

  ‘There’s no need to get upset,’ she says, putting her hand gently on the side of my head and pulling me towards her. I take a deep breath in, inhaling the air around her. She smells of strawberries and cream and felt-tip pen. ‘If they still haven’t given you the money to bring in by Tuesday, I’ll pay for you, but you mustn’t tell anyone or I’ll get into trouble – all right?’

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ I say. ‘And don’t worry, you can trust me. I’m ever so good at keeping secrets.’

  15

  Chloe

  ‘Why are you in such a filthy mood, Chloe? You’ve spent most of the evening staring into space and when you do speak to me, it’s only to bite my head off.’

  I blinked hard. ‘I’ve already told you; I’ve had a very stressful day at work.’

  ‘So have I, but do you see me taking it out on you?’

  Tom was right. It had been a mistake to meet in the pub after work when my nerves were jangling and I was ready to lash out at the nearest person who, unfortunately on this occasion, just happened to be my boyfriend. I was shattered after another terrible night’s sleep and Bryan had been on my case all day because I’d gone over budget on the props for a contemporary dance production we were staging in the New Year. On top of that, Tom’s relentless perkiness, and the way he kept picking at the label on his beer bottle and scattering the bits all over the table, was starting to get on my nerves.

  He leaned forward and fixed me with his blue-grey gaze. ‘So listen, here’s an idea – why don’t we cut our losses and go back to mine? Maybe you’ll cheer up once we get naked.’

  I knew he was only trying to lighten the mood, but I could barely raise a smile. The plan had been for me to stay over at Tom’s, but it probably wasn’t a good idea. My sleep patterns were all over the place and there was no point keeping Tom up half the night.

  I pushed my lime and soda to one side. ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go home.’

  Tom’s face clouded with disappointment, making me feel even worse than I already did.

  ‘Please don’t take it personally, it’s just that I really need a good night’s sleep.’ I gave an apologetic grimace. ‘And I’m sorry for being such a bitch all evening; I don’t know why you put up with me.’

  He leaned forward and kissed the tip of my nose. ‘Because I care about you, that’s why.’ Then his eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  I nodded. ‘Just tired, that’s all, and I always sleep much better in my own bed.’

  ‘Fair enough, but make sure you get out of the right side of bed tomorrow morning, OK?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Tom lifted his beer bottle and drained the last mouthful. ‘Come on then, I’ll walk you to the station.’

  I felt impossibly weary on the train journey home – not just physically tired, but shut down, like an overheated appliance. I didn’t even have enough energy to read the newspaper that someone had left on the seat next to mine. Instead, I sat slumped in the seat with my head resting against the window, counting down the stations until it was time to get off.

  It was Megan’s week of day shifts and I had assumed she’d be at home, but all I found was Sammi, tapping away at her laptop on the kitchen table.

  ‘Hey there,’ she called out cheerily, as I dumped my bag in the hallway. ‘I thought you were staying at Tom’s tonight.’

  ‘Last-minute change of plan,’ I replied, walking into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen Megan this evening?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, pushing her laptop away. ‘But I know she was planning to go out straight from work . . . a retirement do for one of the anaesthetists, I think.’

  ‘Really?’ I said in surprise. Megan usually let me know if she had plans for the evening. Maybe she had and it had slipped my mind, although it wasn’t like me to forget. The news felt like a kick in the teeth; I’d been relying on Meg to be there for me. And then, all at once, I couldn’t see properly because the tears in my eyes were making the room wobble and shimmer.

  ‘Chloe?’ I heard Sammi say. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ It was a struggle to keep my voice from quavering.

  Then came the sound of chair legs scraping on the slate floor, followed a few seconds later by the gentle pressure of Sammi’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Why don’t you come and sit down? I’ll make us some camomile tea; I was about to put the kettle on anyway.’

  I let Sammi steer me to a chair and tried to compose myself as she busied herself with the tea things. She peered at me anxiously as she handed me a mug. ‘If you want to talk, I’m happy to listen, but if you’d rather be left alone, that’s fine too; I can always finish my work upstairs.’

  The trouble was, I didn’t know what I wanted. Half of me recoiled at the thought of unburdening myself to a person I barely knew; the other half was desperate to talk to somebody. In Megan’s absence, Sammi was probably as good as anyone because, if I didn’t offload soon, I was surely only one bad night away from total meltdown. Clearing my clotted throat, I began to talk.

  ‘When I was a kid, I started having these horrible nightmares – except that they were more than just nightmares.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Sammi asked, looking at me curiously.

  I gripped the mug of camomile tea in both hands, drawing comfort from its warmth. ‘I’d physically act out whatever my mind thought was happening to me. My eyes would be open and anyone looking at me would think I was awake, but I wasn’t. My mum would hear me shouting in the middle of the night and she’d come into my bedroom to find me fighting off an invisible intruder, or crawling on the floor trying to escape a poison gas attack . . . all kinds of bizarre scenarios.

  ‘Sometimes, when I woke up I’d remember everything that had happened, but usually I’d only have a hazy memory. I’d see the after-effects, though – a smashed mirror, books knocked off shelves; once I even sprained my wrist after I tried to punch a hole in the wall.’ I glanced at Sammi, who was staring at me open-mouthed. ‘I know, it sounds crazy; laughable even, but I can assure you there’s nothing in the least bit funny about it when it’s happening to you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Sammi said quickly. ‘I think it sounds quite h
orrific. Did you ever talk to anyone about it – a doctor, I mean, or some sort of therapist?’

  ‘After it had happened a few times, my mum took me to the family GP. He called them “night terrors”; that was the first time I’d ever heard the expression. They typically occur when you’re coming out of a deep sleep and your fight-or-flight response is triggered. You’re not fully asleep, but you’re not awake either. There’s no cure as such and my GP said the best thing I could do was try not to worry too much and eventually I’d grow out of them.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘After a year or so, they did get less frequent, but they’ve never gone away completely.’

  Sammi gave me a startled look. ‘So you still get them now?’

  ‘I haven’t had one for ages. The last time was nearly ten years ago when I was at uni, in the run up to Finals. I did my best to hide it from everyone, even my closest friends; I thought I could handle it on my own. But then the matter was taken out of my hands.’ I paused and sipped my tea. ‘Back then, Megan and I were both living in halls. One night, I accidentally locked myself out of my room and ended up having to crash on Megan’s floor. She woke up in the middle of the night to find me gone and the door to the room wide open. She eventually tracked me down to the communal kitchen. I’d climbed into a broom cupboard and I was lying on the floor, curled in a foetal position, trembling and moaning. I’ve no idea what threat I thought I was under; I couldn’t remember any of it the next morning. Luckily, Megan realised I wasn’t properly awake, even though my eyes were open.’

  ‘That was smart of her,’ Sammi said in an undertone.

  ‘She was three years into a pharmacology degree, so she had more medical knowledge than most people – and anyway, Megan’s always been a very intuitive person. Luckily, she had the good sense not to try and wake me up, which apparently is just about the worst thing you can do. Instead, she got me to my feet, took me back to her room and watched over me all night, just in case I tried to do something else stupid. I can’t tell you how embarrassed I felt in the morning when Meg told me what had happened. She wasn’t the least bit judgemental though, and when I told her it had been happening since I was a kid, she took it upon herself to try and help me manage my condition. She did loads of research and found out what some of the most common triggers were – stress, exhaustion, alcohol, sleeping in unfamiliar surroundings. All through my exams, she made sure I ate properly, took regular breaks from revision, went to bed early, avoided booze. It seemed to work; I really thought I’d kicked them into touch.’ I heaved a great sigh. ‘Until now.’