The Roommates

by Rachel Sargeant

“Sorry, mate,” Ivor slurs, and gawps at his beer puddling on the floor.

  But the man has gone.

  Chapter 5

  Monday 26 September

  Imogen

  An explosion in her sleep illuminates one of her what-if nightmares: mouldy walls, a shrivelled body hunched over bent knees, cold floor. Imo thrashes against her sheets, curls foetal, trying not to hear the tortured whimpers in her dream. Fighting for breath. Pressure on her chest, crushing, crushing …

  She sits upright in bed, skin clammy, pillow damp. Blood pounding in her trembling limbs. It takes several moments to register she’s awake. Unsteady on her feet, she reaches the bathroom and vomits into the toilet.

  She returns to bed, still feeling dreadful, only vaguely aware that someone is walking beside her, holding her arm. Their grip firm.

  ***

  Light burns through her eyelids and her head throbs. The pain gets worse when she flicks open her eyes. Sun streams in through the gap in the curtain where it’s hanging off the rail. Her mother tried to fix it and told Imo to report the fault. She won’t, though; the idea of maintenance people coming into her room ties her in knots.

  When she turns over, she sees her arm, still in the lacy top she wore the previous evening. There’s a white, bobbly mark smeared on the sleeve. A flash of recollection: Amber dabbing it with wet loo paper. Imo sniffs the tissue residue and retches. It still stinks of puke.

  She recalls handing her room key to Phoenix when she couldn’t get it in the lock. Phoenix led her in and laid her on the bed. A plastic bowl appeared from somewhere.

  Imo checks the floor. The bowl’s still there, mercifully empty. But the motion of leaning over makes her guts squirm and she coughs bile into it. A long slither of creamy saliva hangs from her mouth and she rubs her face on the pillow.

  Never again.

  But it was a good night. Normal. The Imo from before. She pads her hand over her bedside locker and finds her phone. Yep, five friend requests, all from boys. As she deletes them, there’s a flutter of panic in her chest. What if she bumps into them on campus? It’s not like Tinder where she can flirt and forget – thirty-two Super Likes and no intention of meeting any of them. These requests are from boys nearby. They mustn’t find out her Facebook profile is empty. She unfriended everyone except her sister, Sophia.

  Still she did all right last night, didn’t she? Talked, cracked jokes, faked the odd laugh? Another wave of nausea rolls through her gullet and she spits more bile into the bowl. A flashback: she puked in the night. After a nightmare. She can’t remember the dream now but it was probably the recurring one about the cellar. The slime-covered walls, the shape on the floor with its bone-thin limbs. She shivers despite the sweaty cocoon of her duvet.

  Amber must have cleaned the bowl. No, Phoenix took her to the loo. That’s right, isn’t it? Both have short blonde hair, but Amber’s has a temporary look that doesn’t quite work with her skin tone, and Phoenix stands a good few inches taller. Yes, Phoenix sorted out her puking. Then sometime later Amber told Phoenix she’d take over.

  Amber: “Imo and I are good friends.”

  Phoenix: “You’ve just met.”

  Amber: “In this life, maybe.”

  Imo can’t remember Phoenix’s reply. After she’d gone, Amber kept talking.

  “I never sleep well … It’s not just Dad; I can’t see Leo.” Sitting on the end of Imo’s bed. “What if …?” Pacing the room. “I should be there …” Tugging the curtain that won’t shut. “Why can’t I put things right …?”

  Imo sits up. Everything rocks. She’s never had a head fug like this before. So bad her memories of Amber’s words must be hallucinations. Her own disturbing dreams have got bound up with the drunken ramblings of her new flatmate. It must be the booze. If she stays sober, it won’t happen again. A price worth paying. University is supposed to be a new start, without the nightmares.

  She peels off her top and supposes it will have to go in the bin as she doesn’t know how to work the washing machines. A mild panic hits her: when did she take her skirt off? Hopes to hell she wasn’t so drunk she did a striptease.

  The phone pings with another text from her mum. How many is that? Since February, she’s averaged ten a day, but now that Imo’s away from home, her mother has upped her anxious bombardment. She doesn’t read it. If she thinks of home, she’ll buckle.

  Mercifully, the skirt is a dead leopard on the floor in front of the loo. Her throat craves water. Head swimming, she turns on the taps, but the cold water runs tepid. She can’t drink it like that.

  She sends a new text: Loving it here. I’ll call later. In some ways it would be easier if Mum phoned her, but, by some unmentioned pact, they agreed months ago that Mum would only ring if there was a sighting. Or worse.

  Phoenix

  Phoenix is in the kitchen, making a coffee.

  “Want one?” she asks when Imo creeps in looking like death in a dressing gown.

  Imo shakes her head, takes a mug off the draining board and fills it with tap water. When she leans against the sink, Phoenix is pretty sure it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Not surprising after the skinful she sank and brought up again. Does Imo remember her bad dream? Phoenix hopes not. She remembers listening to Imo’s moans. How Imo thrashed under the covers, twisting and yelling. She’d wanted to stay with her, but Amber insisted on doing her shift. Hopefully Imo’s also forgotten Amber’s creepy words of comfort. Phoenix shivers as she remembers the desperate look in Amber’s eyes. God knows what else she said after Phoenix left.

  She moves a hot-water bottle off an easy chair in the dining area and suggests Imo sits down. The vinyl upholstery makes a fut sound when Imo lands.

  “What’s that?” She points to the drink on the coffee table, flinching at the smell.

  “Hangover remedy,” Phoenix explains. “Amber left it there for me. Tastes like candle wax.” She’s never tasted candle wax, but she knows it would be like this.

  “Where is Amber?” Imo yawns.

  “Must have gone back to bed, said her leg was hurting.”

  When Phoenix got up, she’d been surprised to find Amber stretched across a chair and the coffee table, hugging a hot-water bottle. When she saw Phoenix, she pressed it against her knee. Phoenix offered to make an ice pack for her leg, but Amber declined.

  Imo leans over to the table and sniffs the waxy drink. “Have you even got a hangover? I didn’t see you drinking.”

  “Cider. My mouth’s like a Portaloo.”

  Imo holds her head. “I’m going to lie down.”

  “Haven’t you got a library induction session?” Phoenix asks. She passed Tegan on her way out, looking fine in designer jeans and another broderie anglaise top. “Tegan mentioned a library talk for Business students.”

  “I’m totally dead.” Imo puts down her cup and lurches out of the kitchen.

  Chapter 6

  Tegan

  Tegan’s app directs her from her parking space in front of the geography tower to the university library. It looks like a giant greenhouse, several storeys of tinted glass. She makes small talk with other Business students who are waiting for the doors to open. It’s an investment; no time to pitch to them now, but her saleswoman’s instinct tells her to schmooze.

  Amber, one of her three blonde flatmates, walks past with a group of weird-looking students – duffle coats, combats, tie-dyed scarves that look as if they’ve been in an autopsy. Tegan waves. It might pay to be neighbourly. But Amber looks away, ignoring her. Bloody cheek. Tegan catches the tail end of a story she’s telling the gaggle around her.

  “… Cumberbatch is great to work with.”

  Tegan looks at the ground and shakes her head.

  After a few minutes, a man in an un-ironed shirt, with a beard to match, appears inside the library entrance and releases the glass doors. He holds up his hands. “If you’re expecting an induction, it’s in Lecture Room 2.”

  “Are you sure, mate – library inducti
on?” one of the boys asks.

  But the man goes back indoors. No one knows where the lecture room is and they drift off in different directions. Tegan and a few others search but find only Lecture Room 1 in the Business Studies block, with no sign of another lecture theatre.

  “Stuff it,” Tegan mutters and returns to her car. She’s not that bothered anyway about using the library. When her business takes off, she’ll pay someone to do her research. She opens the roof of the car and gazes up at the geography tower. All the parking spaces are designated disabled but hers is the only car here. Where to now? The first Business Studies lecture isn’t until tomorrow. There’s time for a drive around the town centre to see if any of the independent shops will stock her jackets.

  Her fists clench as a thought makes her shiver. She’ll show him. People make it big in business all the time through hard graft and a good idea. She’ll be a success without her father’s tainted help.

  Something glints at a third-floor window. The glare from the sun is too bright for her to see what it is. Maybe someone’s looking out, and so what if they are? They’re hardly going to slap her with a parking fine from up there.

  Light glimmers again. It’s bloody binoculars. Some doddery old perv of a geography professor is spying on the campus, gawping at fresher totty from his ivory tower. Her fingers form a V. She points them at the window, making clear she’s eyeballed him. The figure steps out of sight but is too fleet of foot for an ancient academic. Tegan grows cold and notices that her hands are shaking on the steering wheel.

  Suddenly her passenger door opens and Amber gets in, disturbing the air with cheap, fruity scent. “Take me to the flat.”

  “Try asking nicely before you scare the crap out of me.” Tegan’s heart races, thoughts of the watcher still rattling.

  Tears streak Amber’s face and clumps of mascara look set to dive off her lashes. “Social anxiety,” she gasps. “Sometimes crowds get too much for me and my leg’s hurting.” She pants, rhythmically, as if she’s going to hyperventilate.

  “That must make it hard during a show.” Tegan’s heartbeat has calmed, and settled on sarcasm.

  The panting stops and Amber stares at her. “Show?”

  “On stage, with you being a drama student. Acting all the time.” Acting right now, if Tegan’s any judge.

  Amber breathes out. “I’m more of a director, behind the scenes. I have to keep my anxieties under control.”

  Tegan starts the engine. Cumberbatch my eye.

  As she pulls away she glances up at the tower once more. And catches a glimpse of a tall shadow at the window. A face stares down at her. And her hands shake again.

  Chapter 7

  Amber

  The fragrance in the car is subtle but expensive. Half like its wearer – Tegan’s definitely on the pricey side but there’s nothing subtle about her silent disapproval. The more Amber sees of her, the more she resembles her sister, Jade. Not only her dark hair and freckles, but also her stance. Straight back, manicured nails on the steering wheel, hard eyes.

  No doubt the last thing Tegan wants is Amber occupying her passenger seat, but Amber had no choice. Couldn’t walk another step after the shock she’s just had. It was only the trick of the light, but she had turned and fled, barged people out of her way, panic rising in her throat, stomach crippling in pain.

  Why doesn’t she just tell Tegan a version of the truth instead of faking the stuff with her knee? She told Imo when they were drunk – sort of told her – so why not Tegan? Or Phoenix? She seems okay so far, better than expected. Not a deep thinker, into engineering and … Amber leans on the window as she scrolls her memory. What else does Phoenix do? Something sporty if her physique is anything to go by.

  Amber bites the inside of her cheek. Maybe she should ask her flatmates questions and listen to the answers, instead of masking her secrets with babble. Instead of play-acting the part of an intellectual liberal so others will feel too intimidated to enquire about her background. A stupid role to pick as she only scraped into this university with a plea of extenuating circumstances. All lies. There were reasons for her poor A level results, but not the ones she gave.

  Taking a deep breath, she continues with the disguise she’s been perfecting since she arrived. “Shall we go to the canteen?” she asks enthusiastically. “We can have a proper chat.”

  “What, now?” Tegan glances at the clock on her dashboard.

  “Early lunch. Please, I’d like to.”

  Silence and Amber thinks she sounded too pleading. That’s always been her downfall. Begging gets you nowhere. On her knees, clinging, sobbing, screeching …

  “If you’re paying,” Tegan says. She pulls into the kerb and reverses up a side road. They turn around and park in the loading bay behind the kitchens.

  “Shouldn’t you …?” Amber starts, but changes her mind. She hates it when people run her life; she won’t tell Tegan where to park.

  The canteen queue moves slowly. Students everywhere. Remembering who she thought she saw, her belly tugs, as if she’s being pummelled from the inside, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder. Suddenly she’s back there, in the moment. In the hours. Hurting. As a substitute for doubling over, she rubs her knee. Channels her ache into her leg. No one must see the truth. She straightens up, ignoring the funny look Tegan gives her.

  As they wait, most people gaze at the TV monitors around the walls with Lady Gaga videos on repeat. Tegan uses the time to check her sales figures on her phone.

  “It’s like Hogwarts.” Amber scans the busy dining hall. Tables the length of railway lines. “Where are we going to sit?”

  “With Slytherin,” Tegan sneers.

  After they’ve loaded their plates and poured a couple of coffees, Tegan leads the way to the clean end of a table beyond a group of older students gathered round a tablet. Postgrads probably.

  Amber makes another attempt at conversation. “Are you going to the Freshers’ Fair? I’d like to join the drama club, if they have one, and maybe take up a new hobby of some kind. University is a chance for new beginnings.”

  Tegan rolls her eyes. “Next you’ll be saying we’re on a journey.”

  “Sorry.” Amber blushes into her salad and chips.

  Tegan sighs. “I suppose I could look for a business enterprise group.”

  Amber can’t think how to reply and feels uncomfortable again. Nothing in common with this girl. She shivers. Nothing in common with anyone. Her gullet heaves at the memory of what she did.

  She puts down her fork and tells another lie. “I can’t eat this. I’m allergic to tomatoes. It’s the alpha solanine.”

  Tegan rolls her eyes again. “Is alpha whatsit not present in upside-down pizza then?” She waits for Amber to look at her. “Remember the party in Flat 7? You tucked in good and proper.”

  Amber hunches her shoulders and returns to picking tomato slices out of her salad. Found out again.

  “By the way,” she says eventually, in another try at faking it. “I forgot to mention they’ve moved into the last room in our flat.”

  “They?” Tegan asks. “Is it a couple?”

  Amber shakes her head, puts on her persona. “One individual. I designate all humans as they; gender is a social construct.”

  “Okay,” Tegan says slowly. “For those of us who are less enlightened, can you give me a clue which bits of they’s anatomy dangle?”

  Amber struggles to keep a straight face. “The less enlightened would call them male.”

  “A guy?” Tegan says, laughing.

  “I think he, they, is from Thailand,” Amber says between chuckles.

  Tegan’s laughter freezes. “Thailand?” Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the table.

  “They don’t speak English so I couldn’t find out their name. Don’t suppose you speak any Thai?”

  “No.”

  The force of the word silences Amber. The good-humoured conversation has evaporated as inexplicably as it materialized. S
he burns her mouth as she hurries to finish her drink.

  “Thanks for the lift.” She stands up and heads out of the hall. Trying to befriend Tegan was a mistake. Imo is a better friend – and Lauren, the girl she bumped into on arrivals day. That’s a friendship Amber hopes to cultivate.

  Chapter 8

  Tuesday 27 September

  Imogen

  Moonlight finds the gap in Imo’s curtain, but the room passes for dark. No thudding bass invading through the floor from another flat, no doors slamming, no traffic outside. But it’s the quiet of dread not peace. When she lies awake at home, every car she hears is the police with news, or Sophia coming home without her keys. In this silent space, her brain won’t switch off, spooling through the what-if scenarios of what might have happened and the white-hot anger of why it happened to them.

  Still feeling rough from the Sunday night’s drinking, her throat’s killing her. The soreness in her mouth will be a cough by morning. Getting sick can be added to her other failure: so hungover she turned up late to the library and couldn’t find the induction talk. She walked past rolling stacks of journals, bays of textbooks, miles of computer screens. No one to ask. Sweat beading on her brow, she forced herself to take the lift to the upper library floors. Tried not to think about the broken body, how it must have fallen through the air, how it must have landed. No sign of a talk when she peered in, although she didn’t complete a full sweep; too scared of seeing the drop out of a window.

  Pulling the duvet up, she turns over. Tomorrow will be no better. The Business Studies introduction clashes with the German welcome talk. Two lectures will be missed in as many days. She’s unravelling, not good enough for uni, can’t manage like the others. Maybe it’s too soon. But would another year make her stop seeing kidnappers behind every parked car? Stalkers under the trees outside her window? Will the familiar face she seeks have become so much less familiar that she’ll no longer search? And will that what-if nightmare of the dark and the cellar have faded?