Tom gave a hollow laugh. ‘Please don’t tell me you think I had any sort of ulterior motive in meeting up with Sammi.’
‘I don’t know what to think any more, Tom. You’re supposed to be on my side, but instead you’re treating me and Megan like a pair of silly schoolgirls picking on someone in the playground.’
‘Well, that’s exactly what you sound like,’ Tom grunted.
Chloe’s expression darkened. ‘If that’s the way you feel, you may as well leave right now, because Megan and I are going to look for that scrapbook and I’d hate for you to be party to anything that made you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Fine with me,’ Tom said, picking up his rucksack. ‘Give me a call when you come to your senses.’
Chloe didn’t say a word as Tom stalked out of the room. A moment later, we heard the front door slam shut.
‘Don’t you think you should go after him?’ I asked her.
‘Absolutely not,’ she said. She walked towards the door, stopping at the threshold to look over her shoulder. ‘Are you coming, then? Sammi’s at the gym, she won’t be back for at least half an hour – plenty of time to search her room.’
Sammi’s room was just as spartan as I remembered. I felt bad about going through her things, but if we were going to work out the best way to deal with the situation, we needed information.
‘Try not to move anything or she’ll know we’ve been in here,’ I said, as I got down on my hands and knees to look under the bed.
‘Can you see anything?’ Chloe asked, brushing her fingers along the spines of Sammi’s magazine collection.
I sat back on my heels. ‘Nope, but this was where it was before, so she’s obviously found a better hiding place. It’s pretty big, so there aren’t many places it could be.’
I went to the chest of drawers and pulled out the first drawer. It contained a collection of silky underwear – most of it designer by the look of it – and I found myself wondering how Sammi could afford stuff like that on a freelance journalist’s salary. The second drawer held gym wear, all of it painstakingly folded – leggings on one side, tops on the other. The third drawer yielded something altogether more interesting: a bottle of what looked like prescription medication, nestling beside a pile of pyjamas. Having made a mental note of its exact position, I picked it up for a closer look. The label bore Sammi’s name, alongside that of a chain of chemists; it wasn’t a local branch, I observed – the address was all the way over in Fulham.
‘What is it?’ Chloe asked, coming up behind me.
‘Lurasipine,’ I said slowly, as my brain began to compute. ‘It works by blocking the receptors for various neurotransmitters.’
‘What are neurotransmitters when they’re at home?’
‘Chemicals that nerves use to communicate with each other.’
‘It must be what Sammi takes for her anxiety attacks,’ Chloe said.
‘It is sometimes used to treat anxiety disorders but only in extreme cases. The side effects can be quite significant – drowsiness, dizziness, memory loss, visual disturbances. That’s why doctors usually only prescribe it for anxiety where other drug treatments have failed. It is quite commonly used to treat another condition, however.’
‘What condition’s that?’
I scratched the side of my face. There was no way to break it to Chloe gently. ‘It’s an anti-psychotic; it’s usually prescribed to schizophrenics.’
‘My God!’ Chloe shrieked. ‘Are you trying to tell me we’re living with someone psychotic?’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ I said. I was trying to sound calm, but I could feel a vein throbbing at my temple. ‘I know Sammi’s an oddball, but it’s a big leap from that to schizophrenia – and as I said, if her anxiety’s severe enough, her GP might well have prescribed this.’
‘I don’t like this one little bit,’ Chloe said, going over to the wardrobe and wrenching open the door. ‘We’ve got to find that photo album. I need to know what she’s hiding from us.’
She reached up and began patting the shelf above the hanging rail, dislodging a stack of towels in the process.
‘Be careful, Chloe. We can’t leave any sign that we’ve been here, we need to leave everything exactly as we found it.’
She made an impatient noise as she pushed the towels back into position. ‘The scrapbook has to be here somewhere; it’s the only place we haven’t looked.’
‘Hey, what’s that?’ I said, pointing to a large metal box nestling among the shoeboxes under the hanging rail. It definitely hadn’t been there the last time I looked in Sammi’s wardrobe.
Chloe looked down. ‘Looks like one of those cash boxes.’ She nudged it with her toe, before bending down for a closer examination. ‘It is a cash box – look, it’s got a keyhole.’ She tried the lid. ‘Fuck it, she’s locked it.’ She lifted it up and gave it a little shake. There was a dull rattling sound. ‘There’s definitely something in there and, whatever it is, it’s quite heavy.’ She put the box back and looked up at me, her face split in a wide, deranged smile that made the tendons in her throat stand out. ‘It has to be the album, doesn’t it?’ Her eyes began frantically casting around the room. ‘Where do you think Sammi might have hidden the key? Come on, Megan, don’t just stand there – think!’
I didn’t have time to offer a suggestion, because just then I heard a noise from downstairs, a kind of dragging sound like a chair leg scraping across a floor. I frowned at Chloe. ‘Did you hear the front door open?’
‘No,’ she mouthed silently.
‘Hey, guys, are you up there?’ Sammi’s voice called out from somewhere downstairs. ‘I’m making a cup of tea, does anyone want one?’
Chloe closed the wardrobe door softly and lunged for the door. I was one step behind her.
43
I can’t remember what brought me down here, to the scrubby patch of woodland on the edge of the Common. Was it the way the light was trickling so prettily through the trees, or was it the sound of laughing? It doesn’t much matter either way. The point is I’m here now.
I went round to Anouk’s house earlier on. Although she hadn’t invited me, I thought it would be a nice surprise for her – but when Lucy answered my call on the intercom, she told me Anouk was out.
‘Out where?’ I asked.
‘She’s not available, all right?’ Lucy said. Then the intercom went dead and the electric gates stayed shut. I think I must have done something to upset her, but I don’t know what it is.
Afterwards, I went down to the allotments, but there were too many people around, all beavering away on their scabby little plots of earth. At least the old man with the walking stick wasn’t there. I’m pretty sure he got Barney out of the leaf burner after me and Anouk ran away that time, because I saw Barney the other day, out for a walk with his owner. He growled as I walked by, so I guess he recognised me. I’m going to come back later, when it’s quiet, and pull up that old man’s stupid cabbages. That’ll show him.
When I left the allotments, I still wasn’t ready to go home. I didn’t fancy the library, so I decided to head to the Common, just for a change. The Common isn’t that exciting; it’s a triangle of grass in between the shops and the rec, where people go to play football and walk their dogs. The woods are OK, though; you can find some interesting stuff in there, like old pram wheels and pages from mucky magazines. I once found a nest of baby mice, all curled up together, so tiny and weak. Their mummy wasn’t there; I think she must have run away and left them, so I decided to put them out of their misery. The way I saw it, I was doing them a favour.
As I get closer to the woods, I can hear voices and giggling. That’s annoying, because I like it best when I have the woods to myself. I don’t want them to know I’m here, so I hide behind a big tree and look around. That’s when I see them: Anouk and that fat pig Eleanor Hardy. They’re sitting on the fallen tree trunk where I like to sit sometimes.
I’m really confused; I don’t understand what they’re
doing here, together, when they’re not even friends. As I watch them, my thoughts are like fluffy dandelion clocks, coming apart in the wind; I can’t seem to catch them. Why is Anouk plaiting Eleanor’s hair? It’s horrid hair, thin and stringy, like rats’ tails. And: Why isn’t Anouk wearing the friendship bracelet I made her when she said she was never going to take it off?
They’re talking to each other, but I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying. Very slowly and quietly I tiptoe over to the next tree. Then the next one. And then one more. Now I can hear them.
‘What are you going to wear to Tara’s party?’ Eleanor says.
Tara’s having a party? Nobody told me.
‘Probably something new,’ Anouk answers. ‘I’m going shopping with Mum next weekend.’
I can’t believe Anouk’s going shopping again. She’s already got enough party dresses to fill my entire bedroom. I wish she’d bung a few of her old dresses my way!
Anouk has finished plaiting Eleanor’s hair now. I think she’s pleased with how it’s turned out because she’s smiling as she ties a scrunchy around the end. Then her smile melts away. ‘She hasn’t been invited to Tara’s party, has she?’ she says suddenly.
‘Don’t be silly, Noukie,’ Eleanor says. ‘Nobody wants her at their party, she’d stink the whole house out for one thing.’ She pinches the end of her nose and gives a catty little laugh. ‘Seriously, I don’t know how you put up with the smell for so long; I don’t think her mum even knows what a washing machine is.’
Anouk shivers. ‘The smell wasn’t the worst thing.’
‘So what was, then?’ Eleanor says, pulling the plait over her shoulder and stroking the end like it was some sort of pet.
‘Her personality; she’s a complete psycho.’
Eleanor claps her hands together like Anouk’s just said the funniest thing she’s ever heard. ‘Love it, Noukie! That’s what I’m going to call her from now on: psycho girl.’
Something drops deep inside of me, as if a plug has been pulled and all my dreams have drained away. It’s me; I’m psycho girl. They’ve been talking about me.
At first, I want to run – very fast and very far, to get away from their stuck-up smiles and their stupid snarky comments. But then I feel rage, like a wave, begin deep behind my ribcage and grow, filling every artery and vein, until my eyeballs swell with it. I want to plunge my fingernails into her face, to pull open the seams of her pretty smile and cut angry, crescent-shaped lines into her cheeks. I want her to scream, to writhe, to bleed. I want her pain to last forever.
44
Chloe
Megan was working a late shift and wouldn’t be home for several hours. In the meantime, I was on my own with Sammi. I could feel the malevolence quivering and turning in the air of the old house, the way dust turns in a beam of sunlight.
It was forty-eight hours since our failed attempt to find the photo album. I was desperate to get my hands on it, convinced it held the answers to the many questions we had about our enigmatic housemate. So many things about Sammi didn’t add up – the lack of social media presence, the dearth of friends and family, the way she kept trying to ingratiate herself with me, while simultaneously shutting Megan out.
And what about the fact that practically everything she wore was designer? She was clearly earning good money, so why would she rent a room the size of a shoebox, in a shared house that was miles from the nearest Tube station?
Then there was that creepy business with my missing door keys and the work that had mysteriously vanished from my laptop. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that Sammi, who would, after all, have had ample opportunity, had done those things to mess with my head. She had succeeded too – and what’s more, I was convinced that her behaviour had contributed to my night terrors, making them more frequent and terrifying than any I’d experienced before.
Megan and I both loved living at Bellevue Rise and, after just a few months, it already felt more like home than any place I’d lived since leaving university. Neither of us were willing to let it go without a fight; one way or another, we were going to get rid of her. After discussing the various options, Megan and I had decided against any direct confrontation. Instead, we would freeze Sammi out, in the hope that she would leave the house of her own accord. This meant keeping contact with her to a bare minimum and generally making life at Number 46 as uncomfortable for her as possible. Megan felt that the success, or otherwise, of this tactic would be largely down to me. It was her belief that once Sammi realised she hadn’t got her hooks into me after all, she would admit defeat, pack her bags and go. Not wanting to let my best friend down, I was determined to play my part. With any luck, Sammi would get the message sooner rather than later – and if she didn’t, we would just have to come up with a Plan B.
I’d been giving Sammi the cold shoulder for the past two days, addressing her only when strictly necessary and brushing off her attempts to engage me in conversation. Earlier that evening, I’d been watching TV in the sitting room when she returned home, slamming the front door noisily behind her. I don’t know where she’d been, but I assumed it was to some work-related event. As she sat down next to me on the sofa, I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath.
‘What are you watching?’ she asked me.
‘Nothing very interesting,’ I replied. ‘Actually, I was just about to go up to my room.’
I stood up abruptly and thrust the remote control into her hands.
She gave a little laugh. ‘Was it something I said?’
‘I’m just tired, that’s all,’ I said, studiously avoiding any eye contact.
Before heading upstairs, I went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of hot chocolate. As I threw the empty milk container in the bin, I made a horrible discovery – the missing photo of my sister and me, now viciously torn in half and placed on top of the trash in plain sight. It felt as if a rock was lodged in my throat as I picked up the two pieces and tucked them in the pocket of my dress. Sammi really was a nasty piece of work. What sort of sick person did a thing like that and didn’t even try to hide their cruel handiwork? The sooner that woman was out of our lives, the better.
I’d spent the rest of the evening in my bedroom, reading a book – or at least trying to read. Intrusive thoughts kept popping into my head. Megan had assured me that Sammi was unlikely to pose a physical threat – but, even with her superior medical knowledge, how could she, how could anyone, know what our housemate was really capable of?
A little while ago, I heard Sammi making her way upstairs. I listened in a state of hyper alertness as she prepared for bed, brushing her teeth, flushing the loo, clicking off the light switch on the landing.
‘Sleep well, Chloe,’ she said in a soft voice that was almost a whisper as she passed my bedroom door. I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response.
It was probably time I turned in too. I had a busy day at work tomorrow and I needed a good night’s sleep. I reached instinctively for the amber pill bottle on my bedside table. As I unscrewed the cap, my mind began turning over, assembling various scraps of information, the pieces cohering slowly at first. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a dangling fragment was on the point of meeting its target, and then . . . bullseye! I knew what Sammi had done: swapped her own medication for mine.
It all made perfect sense. The tablets had certainly improved my quality of sleep but, ever since I’d started taking them, I’d also experienced episodes of dizziness, blurred vision and memory blanks – all side effects of the anti-psychotic, whose name I couldn’t remember, that Sammi had been prescribed.
The realisation came as something of a relief . . . that was why I’d murdered the poor cat, whose remains now lay inside a bin bag in a skip two streets away. I wasn’t a monster; I’d simply been experiencing one of my night terrors. However, the drugs in my system had made me act out of character, which was why I’d responded to a perceived threat, i.e. the cat, with unnatural violence. It didn’t mak
e what I’d done all right – God knows, I’d spent hours wondering what sort of agonies the creature’s poor owners were going through after it failed to return home – but at least now there was an explanation for my behaviour.
It would have been easy enough for Sammi to make the switch, when Megan asked her to leave the tablets outside my bedroom door. The only question that remained was why? What possible motivation could she have for drugging me? To make me more compliant, more in need of support, more dependent on her, perhaps? I could only hazard a guess about what went on inside that twisted mind of hers.
The thought of what she’d done made me feel quite sick. How could I ever have considered this person – this interloper – a friend? I shuddered involuntarily and made a mental note to speak to Megan in the morning and ask her what, if any, permanent ill effects I might have suffered from ingesting the anti-psychotic. I’d only been taking them for a couple of weeks, so hopefully once they were out of my system, I’d be back to my normal self.
I got up and went over to the door, still clutching the pill bottle. Outside, the landing lay in darkness and there was no glimmer of light under Sammi’s bedroom door. As I flushed the tablets down the toilet and embarked on my own night-time rituals, a single question revolved in my head. Who was Samantha Charlesworth (if that was even her real name) and what did she want?
It was dark and I was cold, colder than I’d ever been before. In the distance, a bell was tolling, its peals deep and resonant. I knew instantly that it was a signal, a warning of imminent danger. I had to get as far away from here as possible, even if it meant crossing frozen wastelands and negotiating treacherous ravines. I knew my life was in grievous danger, but my legs felt heavy, as if they were encased in armour; just putting one foot in front of the other took a huge effort.
The Housemate Page 21