The Housemate

by Pattison C. L.

  38

  The school nurse looks at the little glass stick in her hand. ‘Well, your temperature’s normal, lovie, which is a very good sign.’

  I make my eyes go big and round. ‘But I don’t feel well.’

  The nurse sits down next to me on the hard sick bay bed. ‘So tell me again, where does it hurt?’ she says, with one of those tooth-achey looks that adults get when they think you’re lying.

  I wrap my arms around my body. ‘All over.’

  She puts her hand on the back of my head, moving it all the way down the slippery slope of my hair to my shoulders. I want to smile because it feels nice, but I know I mustn’t.

  She thinks about it for a couple of seconds. Then she says, ‘Do you know what I think would be a really good idea?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘I think you should go back to the class and join in with whatever the others are doing. That’ll help take your mind off it and then you’ll feel better.’

  As she goes to stand up, I grab the bottom of her cardigan. ‘Please don’t make me go back to Miss Pickering’s class. I’m scared something bad will happen.’

  The nurse gives a little laugh. ‘Don’t be silly, Miss Pickering won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.’

  Very gently she lifts my hand from her cardigan and goes to put the temperature thingy on the side. I wait, just long enough. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. ‘Oh yes, she will,’ I say, almost under my breath, but not quite.

  The nurse turns round and gives me a laser beam look. She’s worried now. Excellent!

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asks me.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, then I give a little sigh and stare at the floor.

  ‘Has Miss Pickering made you do things you didn’t want to before?’

  I don’t answer and carry on staring at the floor. I wonder if I’ll be able to squeeze out a few tears. Not this time, worst luck.

  The nurse sits down next to me again. She smells of washing powder mixed with antiseptic. ‘It’s OK, lovie,’ she says. ‘Whatever it is you can tell me.’

  ‘I can’t. Miss Pickering said something bad would happen to me if I told.’

  She looks VERY worried now! ‘An adult should never ask a child to keep a secret,’ she says, putting her arm around me. It feels so lovely, the soft wool of her cardigan tickling the back of my neck, that I almost melt into a puddle, right there on the sick bay floor.

  ‘But Miss Pickering said . . .’

  ‘Don’t you worry about Miss Pickering, nothing bad is going to happen to you, I promise.’

  I feel sad for real then, knowing this is a promise she can’t keep. I wipe some pretend snot away from my nose.

  ‘Miss Pickering makes me come in early in the morning, before the bell. She says it’s so we can spend time together.’ I stop and count to five again in my head. ‘Alone.’

  ‘And what do you do with Miss Pickering when you come in early?’

  ‘We talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘All sorts of things, but mainly books. Miss Pickering likes reading as much as I do.’

  The nurse doesn’t look quite as bothered as I hoped she would at this point, so I add, ‘And when we talk, Miss Pickering likes me to sit on her knee. But I don’t like it, it makes me feel funny.’

  The nurse’s hand goes up to her cheek. ‘Does Miss Pickering do anything else that makes you feel funny?’

  ‘She takes pictures of me with her camera – and she gave me the money to go on the school trip out of her own purse. She made me lie to the school secretary and say that my parents had given it to me.’

  The nurse’s eyes have gone all googly, as if she can’t believe what’s she’s hearing, but I don’t stop. Instead, I play my trump card. ‘And she gave me this. She said I have to kiss it every night before I go to bed and think of her.’ I reach into the pocket of my skirt and pull out the hankie Miss Pickering lent me ages ago, the one that I’ve been keeping in my box of treasures. ‘See, it’s even got her initials in the corner: Harriet Jane Pickering.’

  The nurse looks as if she might be about to puke. ‘I’m going to have to tell Mr Finch about this. You do understand why, don’t you?’

  I nod my head and blink back make-believe tears. What a brave girl I am.

  39

  Megan

  It’s an awful thing to feel uncomfortable in your own home. Whenever I was in the house with Sammi, especially when it was just the two of us, my nerves were stretched so tightly that my toes clenched in my shoes. I did my best to keep out of her way, but sometimes our paths crossed unavoidably – outside the bathroom, or in the kitchen at meal times. She was always nice as pie; it amazed me how she could do that – act as if nothing had happened. ‘Good morning, Megan,’ she would say, or ‘Hope you had a fun day at work.’ But every time she spoke to me, it was with a smirking defiance.

  Something else that struck me as unusual was the fact there was barely a trace of Sammi on the internet. I’d searched and searched – not just on social media, but everywhere – and there was nothing beyond her LinkedIn profile, a few references to some women’s magazine articles she’d written and a couple of photos taken at a charity gala two years ago. It just wasn’t normal for someone of our age, especially a journo.

  I hadn’t said anything to Chloe; I didn’t want to worry her. She was fragile enough, what with all the problems at work and being forced to take time off, which she wasn’t very happy about. The last thing she needed was me adding to her stress levels. I wished Tom were here, instead of hundreds of miles away in Newcastle. Just like me, he’d do anything in his power to protect Chloe from harm, and I knew he’d be horrified to see the state she was in right now.

  I thought Chloe’s innate kindness was probably what had made her vulnerable to a predatory individual like Sammi. Right from the start, Sammi seemed to sense that Chloe was a softer and more pliable personality than me, and she homed in on that, almost as if she had a kind of feral instinct, a nose for weakness. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Sammi had hidden motives, befriending Chloe in the ruthlessly efficient way she had. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what her end game was and that was what worried me the most.

  I needed to work out my next move. I knew one thing: I couldn’t go on living in this toxic environment, wondering what Sammi was going to do next, forever casting furtive glances at her, the way you might try to catch a glimpse of a grisly car accident while you were trying to keep your eyes on the road. Reluctant as I was, I figured I should probably start looking for another place to live, because Sammi had made it quite clear that she was going nowhere. I just hoped I would be able to convince Chloe to come with me, because there was no way I was leaving her alone in the house with that woman.

  Whatever was fuelling Sammi’s behaviour – be it loneliness, spite, or some sort of personality disorder – it all added up to one thing: she had power, and power could be dangerous. I had a cold, sick feeling deep down inside. I felt as if something bad was about to happen. I didn’t want it to, but I wasn’t sure I would be able to stop it.

  40

  Chloe

  I was glad that my enforced sick leave was nearly over. Just one more day to go and then I’d be back at the theatre, the place where I felt most at home. Richard phoned me yesterday to see how I was doing. I found his concern hugely reassuring; when I saw his number on my phone, I thought for one terrible moment he was calling to sack me. Jess had been in touch too. She sent a sweet email on Thursday, saying how much she missed me and letting me know that the first day of dress rehearsals had gone smoothly.

  I did wonder if I’d ever be able to trust Jess again, having convinced myself that she was the back-stabber who’d told Richard about my error with the mirror. After which she’d gaily offered to take my place at dress rehearsals, intent on proving that she could do my job just as well – if not better – than me. But, thanks to Megan, I saw things a bit differently now.
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  Megan, it must be said, was well acquainted with me and my trust issues, which had their roots in my childhood and my parents’ ugly divorce. Consequently, she knew just how to handle me whenever I got a bit paranoid. Gently and tactfully, she reminded me there was no evidence that Jess was the one who told Richard about my fuck-up, pointing out that it could just as easily have been a member of the props department, who had worked on the replacement mirror frame. It was a possibility I hadn’t considered, even though it was a really rather obvious one. I did that sometimes when I was stressed – made assumptions, failed to see what was right under my nose. Megan, by contrast, had always been good at seeing situations from multiple perspectives – analysing the data, working out the likely probabilities – no matter how much pressure she was under.

  It was also Megan who suggested that, by agreeing to oversee the Neurosis dress rehearsals in my stead, Jess wasn’t undermining me; rather she was protecting my interests, ensuring that the stage design achieved my vision and met the high standards she knew I’d set. Once I’d talked things through with Megan, I felt bad that I’d jumped to conclusions so quickly and when I got back on Monday, I was going to take Jess out to lunch and properly clear the air between us. We’d had a brilliant working relationship thus far and I didn’t want misunderstandings or petty jealousies to spoil that.

  Adding to my more positive frame of mind was the fact that Tom would be home in a few days’ time. It felt like he’d been gone for ages and I’d missed him more than I thought I would. We’d been in touch every day since he’d been gone and I got the impression he was missing me too. I was touched that he had reached out to Sammi to discuss his concerns about me and I hoped that when he returned, he would be able to see that I was almost back to my normal self.

  My sleep, meanwhile, was much improved. I’d discovered that taking two tablets before I went to bed, instead of just one, propelled me into a deep and dreamless state of unconsciousness. On the down side, I always woke up feeling rather muzzy and disoriented – sometimes even a little nauseous – but all in all, it seemed like a small price to pay.

  Megan was quite cross when she found out I’d been experimenting with the dosage, but in the end she acknowledged that, if two tablets worked better for me than one, there was no harm in continuing with it. She was also mollified by the fact I had finally booked an appointment to see my GP. It wasn’t for another couple of weeks, however, and I just hoped I would be able to eke out the remaining tablets until then.

  For the first time in weeks, I actually looked forward to going to bed and, as I slipped between the sheets that night, I had no sense of foreboding. I opened my book and started to read, but I only managed four pages before my eyelids began to droop.

  I woke with a start and knew immediately that something was out of kilter. I’d slept well enough, but my vision was slightly blurred, as if I’d turned my head too quickly and the room hadn’t quite settled into place. The white light filtering through the curtains told me it was morning, but there was an eerie quiet in the air. I lifted my head to see the time on my alarm clock: five-thirty, far too early to get up, especially on a Sunday. My head was halfway back to the pillow when I noticed that the top edge of the pale duvet cover was streaked with dark stains. Thinking it must be a trick of the light, or something to do with my hazy vision, I clicked on the bedside lamp. As its soft glow illuminated the bed, I felt a shuddering sensation in my chest, something breaking open inside me. The duvet cover was covered in blood.

  It was like leaning against an electric fence. A jolt went through me, knocking me back against the padded headboard. Gasping in horror, I kicked the duvet cover away from my body. With my arms now exposed, I noticed something else: both my hands were covered in blood. It was dark and gummy, coating my palms and filling my nail beds.

  For a few seconds, all I could do was stare at my hands, holding them up to the light, just to be sure I wasn’t mistaken. It didn’t make any sense. I remembered nothing about the night’s events, but I had a growing sense of trepidation, a feeling of having been overpowered, engulfed by something savage and shaming. I glanced at the door, which was shut, just as it had been when I went to sleep. I jumped out of bed and tore off my nightie, convinced I must have sustained some injury in the night without realising. I stood in front of the dressing table mirror, twisting and turning as I scrutinised every inch of my body, stopping only once I was satisfied that the blood definitely wasn’t mine. The big question then was: whose blood was it?

  I pulled on my dressing gown and cautiously opened the bedroom door. As I stepped out on to the landing, I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn’t the chain of bloody handprints that extended the full length of the banister. My heart was thudding as I followed the handprints down the stairs. I felt like the girl in the fairy tale, following a trail of breadcrumbs, not knowing what I would find when they ran out.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw that there was another bloody imprint on the back of the front door, close to the latch. I hesitated, wondering if I should wake Megan up, but then thought better of it. There was a pair of Sammi’s trainers by the door and I shoved my feet into them, not bothering to do up the laces. The pressure on my skull felt immense, as if my brow might explode at any minute. I didn’t want to open the door, but I needed to know what lay beyond it.

  Outside, the air was cold and fragile. I walked down the garden path and stood on the pavement, looking up and down the deserted street. It had rained in the night and pungent spirals of scent were rising from the gardens. A sudden gust of wind caught some sheets of newspaper lying in the road. But then another movement caught my eye. A fur stole was draped over the next-door neighbour’s picket fence, the fur stirring as the breeze snatched at it. Then I realised with a cold, hard shock that it wasn’t a stole, but an animal, a tortoiseshell cat. I gripped my dressing gown tightly around my throat and moved a few steps closer. The cat’s head was a caved-in mess, sticky and oozing, filling the air with a sickening ferrous smell. Its two front legs were spread wide and wedged in the gaps between the pickets, so it hung in a bizarre crucifixion pose, the matted, blood-stained fur of its belly exposed.

  My stomach seized and I gagged violently. The houses opposite were swaying alarmingly and I knew I was hyperventilating, so I took a few deep gulps of fresh air. The houses lurched back into position and the blood surged to my head, and with it, a sense of utter revulsion.

  I turned my head to the side and squeezed my eyes tight shut, but still the questions pressed in, closing my nostrils, filling my mouth. Inside my head, fear and embarrassment were swelling, leaving no room for anything else. I knew that it was me; there was no doubt in my mind about it. What I didn’t understand was how I could have done something so appalling, so perverted, without remembering a thing about it. As I stood there, dry-retching over a drain cover, I felt a small but insistent voice calling from the furthest corners of my consciousness, warning me in a whisper so faint that I couldn’t make out the words.

  Shaking my head briskly, I walked back to the house. There was no time to stand there, agonising over how my unconscious mind had allowed this to happen; I had work to do. First, I had to get rid of the poor creature before anyone else saw it, then I had to clean the bloody handprints from the house before the others woke up. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out about this; they’d think I was sick in the head – and they’d probably be correct in that assumption.

  As I marched up the garden path, one more gruesome surprise awaited me, something I’d failed to notice earlier: a blood-stained brick lying in the earth around one of the rose bushes. I didn’t know where it had come from, but I could guess what it had been used for. I bent down and picked it up, holding it gingerly at one end, as if I were a scenes-of-crime officer, and tossed it with a shudder into our wheelie bin.

  I had thought I was getting better, but that had been naïve. My life was a china teacup, already well on its way from my
delicate grip to a marble floor.

  41

  When I woke up on my seventh birthday, I had no idea that from that moment on, there would be a before and an after, a was and a will be. And that I would never again be quite the same girl I was before.

  If I close my eyes now, I can still see the pale blue morning sky on the insides of my eyelids and smell the big lavender bush that took up most of the flowerbed in our front garden. It was the last day of school before we broke up for the summer holidays. Dad had already left and Mum was going to drop Emmie and me off on her way to work, just like she usually did – me at St Swithun’s, Emmie at nursery. I’d already opened two of my presents – a Tamagotchi and some face paints – and Mum had promised there would be others when I got home. I never did get those presents and I don’t know where they went. After what happened later, it didn’t seem a very good idea to ask.

  Even though it was a long time ago, I can remember exactly what my little sister was wearing that day: pink dungarees and her favourite purple shoes with the cut-out flower shapes on the toes. She liked to wear her hair a different way every single day, and that day she’d asked Mum to put it in two bunches, tied with bright yellow ribbons. Emmie was much prettier than me, with her blond hair and freckles and her smile that was like the sun popping out from behind a cloud. She was Mum’s favourite, I knew that from the beginning, but I didn’t mind and that’s the God’s honest truth.

  It was just me and Emmie in the house because Mum had gone to get the car out of the garage. She always did that because it was easier to strap Emmie into her booster seat once the car was on the drive. We were a bit late that morning because I’d been opening my presents and Mum was in a rush, worried that she’d be late for work. When she went out to the garage, she left the front door open and told me to look after Emmie, who was three and a half at the time.