The first half of the trip goes really well. The castle is amazing, even if half of it has crumbled away. Miss Pickering lets us explore on our own, so long as we stay in our twos. Just as Anouk and I are heading towards the moat, Elliott asks me if he and Sanjay can come with us. Imagine that . . . Elliott Parker wants to spend time with me! Before Anouk came, I don’t think he’d ever spoken a single word to me – not even a ‘Hi’ or a ‘Get out of my way’.
Once we’ve finished at the castle, Miss Pickering leads the way to the beach. I feel so proud as I walk along the seafront, holding Anouk’s hand. I know we look completely different, but no one can ignore the way we fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. But the proud feeling quickly turns to a sick feeling – probably because it’s a very warm day and I haven’t had any breakfast (I wanted to, but the milk in the fridge smelled funny). As we go down some stone steps on to the beach, there’s an odd feeling in my head, as if fingers are pushing and squeezing on my eyeballs. Then a blurry, dark shadow appears at the corner of my vision. I’m just wondering whether I ought to find somewhere to sit down when the world slips sideways.
When I wake up, the first person I see is Miss Pickering. She’s kneeling on the sand next to me and she’s fanning me with her straw hat. Right next to her is Anouk, her hair shining like a halo in the bright sunlight. Miss Pickering helps me sit up and gives me a drink of water from a plastic bottle. Over her shoulder, I see the others a bit further down the beach, playing rounders with Mr Wylie. Miss Pickering says I have to stay lying down until I feel better. She tells Anouk she can go and play rounders if she wants, but Anouk says no, she wants to be with me. I look at her and think, This is my best friend. Just saying those words in my head makes me feel so much better.
Later, after we’ve had our picnic, it’s time to go back to school. Eleanor Hardy is right behind me in the queue for the coach and she doesn’t even bother to whisper. ‘She’s such a drama queen,’ I hear her say. ‘I bet there’s nothing wrong with her; she probably just pretended to faint so she could be the centre of attention. And have you seen what she’s wearing? God knows where she got those horrible shorts; they look like charity shop rejects.’
As she speaks, a rush begins to well up behind my face like a sneeze; my eyes burn and my nose twitches. I can feel the pressure of my rage growing against my ribs; it tastes metallic and slightly burnt. I put my hands up to my head. I have to, otherwise I feel as if it might pop off. At the same time, Anouk tugs at my arm. ‘Just ignore her,’ she says in her soft, sing-song voice. ‘She doesn’t know anything about anything.’ And just like that I feel the rage sliding away.
After the coach drops us back at school, I’m ready to walk home like I always do, but because I fainted on the beach, the school secretary has phoned my mum and asked her to pick me up instead. I wish it was Dad coming, but that would mean he’d have to leave work early and Dad never leaves work early. I sometimes imagine him sitting in his office after everyone else has gone. He’s sharpening his pencils, or making chains out of paper clips, while the cleaner pushes her mop and bucket around him – anything to delay coming home to Mum and me. I bet he gets a bad feeling in his stomach as he climbs into his big silver car and starts driving home. I’ve got a bad feeling now, knowing Mum will be here any minute.
It’s only me and Miss Pickering left at school by the time Mum eventually shows up. She must have walked because her face is all red and she’s panting like a dog who’s been locked in a car with the windows shut.
This is the first time Miss Pickering and Mum have met. I hope she doesn’t notice the sweaty marks under Mum’s arms and the way her hair’s stuck to the side of her head from where she’s been lying down. Miss Pickering says that I’m all right now, but tells Mum she should keep an eye on me for the next twenty-four hours. Oh no, that’s the last thing I need!
Mum nods and says all the right things, but I know she’s angry by the way her mouth never slips out of its tight line. As we say goodbye to Miss Pickering and walk away, Mum’s hand is on my shoulder and she’s asking me if I’m OK to walk home, or if I’d rather get the bus. But I know it’s all an act; as soon as we turn the corner, her voice changes, like a sudden cold wind.
‘You selfish little cow,’ she hisses in my ear as we walk past the newsagent’s. ‘What sort of child makes her sick mother walk miles to pick her up from school when she’s perfectly capable of walking home herself?’
Sick? Drunk, more like! Underneath the peppermint stink of mouthwash, I can smell the wine on Mum’s breath. She thinks I don’t know about the drinking, but even a blind person could see it. No wonder she’s always needing to lie down. If she didn’t, she’d probably fall down.
‘It wasn’t me; it was the school secretary,’ I tell her. Bad move. A second later, my skull is pushed into the nearest lamp post and, for the second time today, I feel like I’m about to pass out.
18
Chloe
Bile and dread inched up in my throat. Where the hell was I? It was difficult to know; there was no light in the cage and my eyes were heavy and swollen. Several minutes dragged by, each folding and contracting, one into the other. Then, slowly, very slowly, my senses started to return. Touch came first as I realised I was sitting on something cold and very hard. Then sight – it wasn’t a cage after all, but some sort of wooden shelter with four supporting posts and windows all around. Gingerly, I felt the surface beneath me. Ah, so I was sitting on tiles; I could feel the mortar in the joins between them. As my eyes adapted to the darkness, something stirred the air around me, like a breeze on a hot day and then, just like that, I was wide awake. Now I knew where I was: in the kitchen at Number 46. Under the table in the kitchen, to be precise.
I gave a strangled laugh, a choke in the back of my throat; relief mixed with confusion. At least I was safe – but what on earth was I doing in the kitchen? As I crawled out from under the table, I wondered how long I’d been there. My feet were cold and my bottom felt numb from sitting on the slate floor, so I suspected it must have been some considerable time. I wrapped my arms around my body and looked around the kitchen – at the gas hob and the knives in the knife block and all the cleaning products lined up under the sink – all the things that could potentially harm me if I wasn’t fully cognizant. Shaking my head at the scariness of it all, I made my way back upstairs to bed.
A kind of panic scooted through me when I looked at the clock on my bedside table and saw how late it was. Then, remembering it was Saturday, I sank gratefully back on to the pillows. I lay there for several minutes, recalling the night’s disturbing events, shuddering with disgust as I wondered what phantasm, imaginary assailant, or improbable natural disaster I’d been fleeing from. Snapping myself back to the present, I threw off the duvet and went to retrieve my slippers, which were tucked under the dressing table. As I put them on, I looked into the mirror. The sight of my face nearly brought tears to my already bleary eyes. It was blotchy, lined, pixillated with stress, and my hair stood in a clown-like frizz around it. I looked like shit; I felt like shit too. Even though I’d just woken up I could already feel a dark, draining fatigue setting in, like a suction pump to the brain.
Then, in the reflection over my shoulder, I noticed something very odd. There was a small fireplace in my bedroom – now blocked up with a piece of white-painted MDF – and on the mantelpiece above it I kept two photographs in matching pewter frames. One was a selfie of Megan and me, on holiday in Ibiza. We’re sitting on the beach, watching the sun come up. I’ll never forget it; it was one of the best nights of my life. It was the other photo – a beautiful shot of my sister and me taken outside our house when we were little kids – that was the problem. And the problem was that the photo, frame and all, had gone.
I walked over to the mantelpiece and stared at the gap where the picture should have been. I could clearly see the shape of the frame in the light film of dust that coated the mantelpiece. I was flummoxed. I never moved those photographs; I
had no reason to, and I distinctly remembered seeing both pictures in their usual positions yesterday evening as I got ready for bed. It fleetingly occurred to me that I might have moved the picture of my sister and me at some point during the night, but I quickly rejected the idea. My night terrors always followed a similar theme, and physically picking up an item and moving it somewhere else didn’t fit my MO. Sure, I might have knocked it over as I grappled with a non-existent attacker – but if that had happened, it would be lying somewhere nearby. And it most definitely wasn’t.
As I looked around to see if anything else was out of place, I felt a strange, creeping sense of unease. It seemed as if a storm was brewing, right above my head. I gripped the edge of the mantelpiece. What was happening to me? Work, relationships, a decent night’s sleep . . . all of it slipping away like waves from the shore. My thoughts were snarled, but one idea kept coming back to me: had somebody been in my room during the night? I frowned and shook my head. The notion was ridiculous; there must be another explanation. I desperately needed to talk to my best friend. If anyone could make sense of this, it would be Megan, with her cool head and no-nonsense approach. Unfortunately, she was working the entire weekend. Still, at least I had Sammi. I knew she was at home; I could hear her moving around in the kitchen below me.
‘It’s happened again, hasn’t it?’ she said, as soon as she saw my face. ‘The night terrors.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Let’s just say you look as if you’ve had a rough night.’ Sammi pulled out one of the dining chairs and gestured for me to sit down. ‘Do you want some tea?’
‘Coffee, please – or a shot of adrenaline, whichever’s easiest.’
‘That bad, huh?’
‘Yup.’
Sammi flashed me a sympathetic smile. ‘Do you remember any of it – the nightmare, I mean?’
I ran a hand through my tousled hair, acutely aware that I must look hideous compared to Sammi, whose appearance, as always, was immaculate. ‘Only bits and pieces. I think I was hiding from something – or maybe it was someone; I don’t know. When I woke up, I was right here in the kitchen, under the table of all places.’
A look of horror flitted over Sammi’s face. ‘But you don’t remember coming downstairs?’
‘Nope.’
She shook her head in pity. ‘You poor thing, I wondered why one of the chairs was knocked over when I came down this morning.’
‘Was it?’ I said, wincing. ‘Sorry, I didn’t notice.’
‘There’s no need to apologise.’ Sammi began spooning instant coffee into a mug. ‘This whole thing must be ghastly for you and I can’t believe it’s been happening since you were a child. How did it start? Did something happen to set it off, or did it just come out of the blue? Do you remember?’
I gave a harsh laugh. ‘Oh yeah, I remember all right; it was my parents’ divorce. I doted on my dad and then, literally overnight, he was gone. I don’t think I’d ever felt so scared in my life. It didn’t help that I kept my feelings bottled up and didn’t talk to anyone about how I was feeling. I guess my brain had to find an outlet somewhere.’
Sammi had paused her coffee making and was looking at me intently. ‘And that fear manifested itself in your night terrors.’
‘I think so.’ I looked down at the table and absent-mindedly used the end of my finger to pick up some stray salt grains that had spilled from the grinder. ‘Are you close to your parents?’
She hesitated for a second and as I looked up I saw her expression change. Beneath the veneer of dewy foundation and neutral lip gloss, there was something else: longing, loneliness, loss . . . feelings that shifted like slides on a projector across the pale landscape of her face. ‘My mother’s dead and I don’t have any contact with my father,’ she said tonelessly.
‘That must be tough for you,’ I said, feeling bad that I’d asked her. ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’
‘No,’ she said, flipping the switch on the kettle. ‘I’m an only child.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I’m sorry. I’d rather not talk about my family if you don’t mind; it brings back painful memories.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I said quickly.
I got up from the table and walked over to the back door. The garden was looking particularly pretty that day. The begonias were at their blowsy best and I was pleased to see that someone had finally taken it upon themselves to mow the lawn. ‘You know, Sammi, I’d like to think we’re friends,’ I said, as the kettle started to boil.
Behind me, Sammi cleared her throat awkwardly. ‘Me too.’
‘I want to say thank you for being so supportive during this past couple of weeks. It’s really helped to have someone to talk to about the night terrors.’
‘It’s nothing, really. I just wish there was something concrete I could do to help.’
I turned around and looked her squarely in the eye. ‘I want you to know that you can talk to me too . . . if you ever feel the need, that is. It sounds as if we’ve both been through some tough times in the past.’
She started to say something as she picked up the kettle. As she began to pour, she was looking at me and not paying attention to what she was doing. The next moment, boiling water was spraying all over her left forearm. Shrieking in shock, she dropped the kettle on the worktop and clutched her arm.
‘Quickly, get it under the cold water,’ I said, rushing over to her. Tears glistened in her eyes as I turned on the cold tap and took her gently by the hand. She was wearing a linen blouse, the cuffs tight around her wrist. ‘Here, let me roll up your sleeve for you.’
Without warning, Sammi jerked her arm away forcefully. ‘There’s no need for that,’ she said, thrusting her arm, sleeve and all, under the running water. I watched as the thin fabric quickly became saturated and began to turn see-through. ‘Can you pass me a tea towel, please?’ she said. I turned away to pull a clean one from the drawer. By the time I turned back, Sammi’s wounded arm was drawn up against her chest in an odd, protective gesture.
‘How bad is it?’ I asked her. ‘Don’t you want to have a look?’
‘It’s fine,’ she said coldly. ‘It was only a splash, it doesn’t hurt that much.’
‘Well, if you’re sure.’ I placed the tea towel next to her on the draining board. ‘I’d leave it under the water a bit longer if I were you, then it’ll be less likely to blister.’
Sammi nodded and turned back to the sink. In that moment, I had the overwhelming sense that she wanted me to go. She was such a creature of contradictions – talkative one moment, reticent the next. Reaching past her, I picked up my half-filled coffee cup. ‘I’m going upstairs to get dressed. Give me a shout if you need anything. There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom if you’re looking for a plaster.’
She looked at me; her eyes were empty. ‘Thank you, Chloe, I will.’
As I climbed the stairs, I realised I hadn’t asked Sammi if she knew anything about the photo that was missing from my room. Never mind, it couldn’t have disappeared into thin air. It was sure to turn up sooner or later.
19
Megan
I smoothed the tips of Pete’s chest hair with a hand, so that I could just feel it tickling my palm. His eyes flickered open and he brushed his lips across the slope of my shoulder. I shivered and pressed my body against his, enjoying the feel of his hard torso against my own soft curves.
A couple of hours ago, I’d been in bed, enjoying a long lie-in after the previous night’s late shift. I had the day off and I’d been planning to spend it at home, catching up on some reading and generally relaxing. Then Pete had called unexpectedly: he happened to be in the area and did I fancy meeting up? This had been the template for all our encounters thus far: nothing planned in advance, no forewarning about where or when. Instead I’d get a call or a text, asking if I was free in half an hour – an hour, if I was lucky. Being one of life’s natural-born organisers, I did find it a tad frustrating – but also, I must adm
it, deeply exciting. By the time Pete arrived at Bellevue Rise, I was hungry for him, dragging him into the house like a desperate housewife seducing the window cleaner. And now, here we were in my vast bed, enveloped in a blissful, post-coital embrace.
I was just about to ask Pete if he wanted to stay for some food when I heard the sound of a key turning in the front door. I groaned into Pete’s left bicep. Chloe was at work and Sammi had left the house at the crack of dawn on another one of her fashionista assignments, so I’d assumed I would have the house to myself. I was already imagining Pete and me browsing the shelves at the deli down the road, before we assembled a light lunch at home, then returned to bed for a second – and possibly even a third – innings.
‘Who do you think that is?’ Pete asked sleepily, as he raked his hand through my hair.
‘Probably my housemate, Sammi,’ I replied. ‘I wasn’t expecting her back so soon.’
We heard the front door slam shut, then the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. ‘Shit,’ I muttered.
A moment later, there was a knock at the door. ‘Megan, are you in there?’ came Chloe’s voice.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, springing out of bed and reaching for my robe.
I opened the door a few inches and peered through the gap. It was a few days since I’d seen Chloe and it looked as if she’d lost weight; her face was all sharp angles, still and pale. ‘Hey, Chloe, how come you’re not at work?’
She stared at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘I wasn’t feeling that great, so I told Richard I’d be working from home for the rest of the day.’
The Housemate Page 9