The Roommates

by Rachel Sargeant

  ***

  There’s no memory of what happened next, but she knows in her aching, hungry gut that she told no one. She holds a half-drunk bottle to her lips, but she’s shaking so much that water dribbles down her chin and wets the front of her kimono, already stink-damp with sweat and blood.

  Chapter 38

  Imogen

  The nearer they get to Cardiff, the more Tegan’s body seems to tighten over the steering wheel. It makes Imo nervous and she keeps needing the loo. But asking Tegan to stop at every other service station doesn’t help the mood. Imo feels like she’s done something wrong, even though the decision to drive this way was entirely Tegan’s.

  Is she still angry that Imo dragged her to Chadcombe Bridge, a world she usually tiptoes past? Imo was the same until Sophia.

  Her dad went to London on his own the first time. He planned to stay a week but lasted two days. He looked sheepish when he got home. “Sorry, love, I couldn’t … so many homeless, just kids. I’ll go back, I promise.” He cried. Mum hugged him. Her turn to be strong.

  He did go back and Imo and Freddie went with him. Put up posters at Paddington, Euston, King’s Cross and Waterloo, and wandered through the royal parks. Imo saw a world that hadn’t been there on previous visits to the capital. The world of sleeping-bag mounds, parkas tied with string, quiet dogs and vacant eyes. Imo soon realized it had been there all along, just not visible to her. They took helpline cards with them, sensing deep down they wouldn’t find Sophia but, if just one homeless kid took their card and phoned, their trip wouldn’t be pointless. Imo still carries the cards in case she sees a duvet in a shop doorway. The gaunt face is never Sophia’s, but she moves on a card lighter.

  After the Severn Bridge and several motorway junctions round Newport, the sat nav delivers them onto a B road. Tegan ignores the signs for a bird sanctuary and the Severn Estuary, turns left and stops in front of a tall, wrought iron gate with a lodge cottage beside it.

  An elderly woman comes out and greets Tegan over her garden wall. Imo doesn’t understand a word but the tone sounds friendly on both sides. Tegan reads her phone screen and taps a code into a panel on the gatepost. The gates swing open, she waves to the woman and gets back in the car. The gravel crunches under the wheels as they sweep up a long drive.

  “I didn’t know you spoke Welsh,” Imo says.

  “You’re not the only linguist.” Tegan grins. “I was brought up with Welsh and English.”

  The house at the end of the drive comes into view. Imo’s mum and dad would love it. It’s a gorgeous sandstone colour like Cotswold cottages, although there’s nothing cottage-sized about this place. The drive splits into a crescent around a lawn that’s in better shape than Imo’s lounge carpet. The house must be one of those listed manor houses that have been converted to posh flats. Each leaseholder pays a packet for the upkeep of the grounds.

  The gravelled area extends on the far left into the distance to a huge block-shaped building. Through the glass-folding doors, Imo can see a fleet of gleaming motors.

  Tegan points at them as they crawl up the drive. “Ancient woodland and a wildflower meadow got bulldozed for that … that dick palace,” she splutters and glares at the building. “Wish I’d joined Conservation Volunteers sooner. We could have challenged it. He shouldn’t have it all his own way.” She parks in the crescent and gets out. “Come on.”

  Imo picks her way over the gravel. A flowerbed runs the width of the house. Miniature roses – gold-coloured blooms – not a weed in sight.

  The large oak door at the centre of the building opens and a man in a bottle-green suit and matching tie steps forward. “Miss Parry,” he says, “welcome back.”

  “Mr Rogers.” Tegan goes inside without looking at him.

  Imo smiles and follows Tegan into a … what the hell is it? Stone pillars in the middle of the floor, wood-panelled walls, a roaring fire in a large, ornate fireplace that’s already making her sweat. A modern art print on one wall, the copy of an old master on another, a parquet floor.

  “I’ll tell Mrs Parry you’re here and make some tea.” Mr Rogers goes through a door on the right, presumably to his apartment – even though, to Imo, he’s acting more like a housekeeper than a resident.

  “Tacky, isn’t it?” Tegan says when she catches her looking at a mock medieval tapestry beside a leopard skin on the back wall.

  “Well …” Imo hesitates, picking her words. Tegan’s family must occupy some part of the building. “Communal areas have to cater for so many tastes.”

  “Three people live in this house. One is a former maid from Thailand, another is two years old.”

  “Whose house?”

  “My father’s.” Tegan’s voice is glacial.

  Chapter 39

  Imogen

  “Welcome, welcome, so kind of you.” A tiny woman with a sing-song voice comes into the hall through the door Rogers used. Her dark hair’s scooped into a ponytail and she’s not wearing make-up. Although her face is line-free, there are dark shadows under her eyes.

  The woman flings her arms around Tegan, who visibly stiffens.

  “Hello, Kanya,” she says tightly.

  The woman releases her and turns to Imo. “You Tegan friend?”

  Before Imo can answer, the woman’s arms are around her. She smells of summer flowers. Tegan seems to have gone mute so Imo introduces herself.

  “Imogen.” Kanya repeats the name, pronouncing the last syllable as “gin”. It makes Imo smile even though Tegan rolls her eyes.

  Rogers comes back with a tea tray and they follow him into the lounge. Cherubs on the ceiling, crystal light pendants, another tapestry, more old masters. Rogers leaves the tray on a coffee table in front of a two-seater sofa covered by a patchwork throw. A little, dark-haired boy sits on a rug with a Mega Blok tower, his eyes on a plasma screen TV. Fireman Sam in Welsh.

  Kanya invites them to sit on the sofa and pours the tea. After she’s handed out the cups, she sits beside her son on the carpet and turns the TV down to a murmur. The child frowns but Kanya gets his attention on the building blocks.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she says again. “You’re always welcome here.”

  Imo looks at Tegan, willing her to say something nice.

  Tegan takes the hint. “How is he?”

  Kanya glances up. A cloud falls over her smile. “In London until tomorrow. I can text him. Maybe he come back early.”

  “I meant him.” Tegan points at the boy. “Dylan.” Her brother’s name sounds uncomfortable in her mouth, as if she’s never said it before. “I wasn’t asking about my father.”

  The bitter tone seems lost on Kanya and she moves the coffee table to the side. “See for yourself. Play with him.”

  When Tegan doesn’t move, Imo puts down her cup and slides onto the floor beside the boy. Reluctantly Tegan kneels next to her, but Dylan buries his face in his mother’s shoulder.

  “He’s not usually shy.” Kanya’s eyes are anxious, apologetic.

  Imo looks at Tegan again: Say something else nice.

  “Shall we build a house?” Tegan, using the tone she reserves for pitching her jackets, forms a square with some spare plastic bricks.

  Dylan peers out from Kanya’s chest and puts a brick on top of one of Tegan’s.

  “You have to put it like this.” Tegan moves his brick so it straddles two of hers. “Your house will fall down otherwise.” She passes him another brick. “You try.”

  He puts the new brick next to his first one.

  “I suppose Dylan must speak Thai as well as Welsh and English,” Imo says. “How clever.”

  Kanya places the child on her lap and kisses his head. Her eyes look heavy. “No Thai. My husband say, ‘Don’t confuse him.’”

  Dylan wriggles off her knee to put another block on Tegan’s house. While they build, Imo tells Kanya about university. She seems genuinely interested in Imo’s course.

  “What you like for dinner?” she asks eventually. “You can stay
the night.” Her voice goes up an octave to the excited tone she greeted them with when they first arrived. Imo thinks it must be lonely with only the efficient Rogers for adult company.

  Tegan stands up. “We’ve got to get back. I’ve got a course meeting in the morning.”

  “Sad that Dylan cannot play with his sister for longer.” Kanya looks forlorn as she stands up too.

  “Actually,” Tegan says, rubbing her chin. “I’ve just had an idea. How about you and Dylan come back with us?” She touches her chin again. To Imo, she’s a lousy actress, but manipulative. Kanya has no way of knowing they came here with the sole intention of borrowing the boy.

  “There’s a family barbecue on campus tomorrow. I’d love to show off the little man.” Tegan sounds like a children’s TV presenter, but even less sincere.

  “What about your father?” Kanya bites her lip.

  The fake jollity drops from Tegan’s face. “I thought you said he was in London. He won’t want to visit me.”

  “He come back tomorrow. I should be here.”

  Recovering, Tegan tips her head to the side. “Oh, that’s a shame. I’ve already bought your tickets for the barbecue.”

  Imo stares at her. Bought tickets? When she’s just claimed the invitation to Abbeythorpe was a spontaneous idea.

  But Kanya doesn’t seem to notice the lie. “So sorry,” she says in a small voice.

  “I’m sorry too.” Tegan’s voice is loud in contrast. “Dad will be disappointed that I can’t spend time with Dylan. He’s always asking me to show an interest.”

  The two women are small, about the same height, and yet Kanya seems to shrink as she faces Tegan.

  “Never mind,” Imo says, trying to smooth the situation. “I’m sure there’ll be other times.”

  “You could always let me look after Dylan for the weekend.” Tegan’s voice still dominates the room. “That way you can be here when Dad comes back. The two of you can spend some quality time together.”

  Kanya wraps her arms around her body and rocks. “But …”

  Tegan squats down beside Dylan and pats his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it to start with. Dad will be pleased I’m looking after my little brother.”

  Dylan ducks away and clasps his mother’s legs.

  “I don’t know,” she says, picking him up.

  “If you get a bag of Dylan’s things, we can get off before the tea-time traffic.” Tegan doesn’t look at Kanya as she speaks. It’s the same haughty way she addressed Rogers. Imo feels a moment of guilt. It’s her interest in the woman at the Parents’ Group at uni that’s making them take Dylan away from his lovely, lonely mother.

  “I take it you have a travel cot we can borrow,” Tegan says.

  “Yes but he’s in a bed now he’s two and half.” Kanya looks close to tears.

  “Just for the weekend.”

  “He’s never been away from me.” Kanya hugs the boy to her face.

  “So the first time should be with his sister. Dad will be thrilled. It’s great when Dad’s happy, isn’t it?”

  Kanya hesitates. Lost in a thought. Finally she gives a sigh. “If your father want it. You ring me when you arrive?”

  “Of course,” Imo says, putting her arms around Kanya. She wishes they could take her too, away from this draughty mausoleum, and, she suspects, an even colder marriage.

  By the time they’ve fitted the car seat that Kanya’s given them into the back of the Mini and loaded the boot with other child paraphernalia, Dylan’s nodded off in Kanya’s arms. She tries to wake him to say goodbye. His eyes open and close again, deep in slumber. She kisses his cheek and fastens him in the car.

  Imo touches her arm. “We’ll take good care of him. I promise.”

  He sleeps the entire journey to Abbeythorpe, even when they stop at services and take turns to grab a coffee and use the loo.

  “It’s hardly rocket salad, this parenthood lark,” Tegan says as she looks in her rear-view mirror at her sleeping brother. “A doddle.”

  Chapter 40

  Phoenix

  Her flatmates get back from Ealing at about 8 p.m. just as Phoenix is washing up at the kitchen sink. She hears the screams on the stairwell before they reach the flat and goes into the corridor to see what’s happened. They come in, Tegan grappling suitcase and travel cot, Imo holding shrieking child at arm’s length.

  “He’s pissed himself,” is Tegan’s greeting. She dumps the luggage, goes past Phoenix into the kitchen and rushes out with the bowl of washing-up water.

  “I don’t think the wee leaked through to the upholstery,” Imo calls after her. Phoenix follows her into the kitchen.

  Still holding the screaming boy, Imo fetches milk out of the fridge. Fighting the boy’s wails with her version of “Rockabye Baby”, she pours out a full mug. Before Phoenix can stop her, she presses the drink into his tiny fist. He lets go before he’s even taken hold, still screeching. Milk splashes onto his already wet trousers. The mug lands on its side and sprays milk in a wide arc across the lino. For a moment it looks as if Imo might start bawling too.

  Phoenix takes the child and places him on an easy chair. She finds pyjamas in the suitcase and instructs Imo to mop up the milk while she washes his sore, red legs. But even wiped clean of wee and milk, he still cries. Who can blame him? According to Imo, Tegan has hardly seen him since he was born. As far as he’s concerned, he’s woken up in the company of complete strangers.

  Imo goes back to the fridge and this time retrieves a loaf of bread. “I’ll make him some toast.”

  “I’ll do it,” Phoenix snaps. There isn’t time to wait for Imo to faff with the oven. She was bad enough when the toaster worked.

  Imo leaves the bread on the kitchen counter and stalks off to her room with her hood up. Phoenix grills the bread, vowing to apologize to Imo when the current child crisis has passed.

  But even with Phoenix’s expertly buttered toast in front of him, it turns out that Dylan can eat and scream at the same time. The wailing brings Riku into the kitchen, but he does a one-eighty when he sees the baby. Crumbs slither down the boy’s chin in a cascade of tears and saliva, but at least Riku’s brief appearance gives Phoenix an idea. She thinks of what she saw hanging on his wall and remembers what she brought to uni. When the child has mutilated as much toast as he wants, she takes him to her room.

  Her juggling balls do the trick. The crying stops suddenly as if she’s pulled a plug. He sits on her bed open-mouthed as she throws the three sand-filled balls with two hands, one, two, high, then low.

  Tegan comes in. Has she waited until the noise stopped? She goes past the child and inspects Phoenix’s wall of posters. “This one’s sexy,” she says, not worrying about her choice of adjective in front of a two-year-old.

  Sonny, bare-chested, rolling fire across his forearm. Cloud in front of him, bent backwards almost into crab in her shimmering midnight-blue leotard, a flame swirling from her scarlet mouth.

  Phoenix shrugs. Her parents, but she says nothing.

  When the child’s eyelids begin to droop, she switches to the calmer game of Three Cup Shuffle. She puts her trick beakers on the bed beside him. Head nodding with fatigue, he keeps his eyes on the moving cups but never spots where she’s hidden the two-pound coin. Sleep gets the better of him and he curls up. They don’t dare lift him into the travel cot, but manage to get him under her duvet without waking him. Phoenix volunteers to stay with him. Tegan brings her a sleeping bag she got from the Conservation Volunteers, before retreating to the child-free refuge of her own room.

  Chapter 41

  Saturday 8 October

  Phoenix

  The crying starts, and Phoenix wills her senses to hold onto sleep. But she’s awake and the child in her bed is howling.

  “Ma … ma.” He’s still lying down, but putting all his energy into his lungs.

  Her joints creak and lock as she gets up from the sleeping bag on the floor. She starts in a soothing voice. “You’re a
ll right, Dylan. You’ll see Mama tomorrow. One more sleep.” But, remembering his arrival last night, she senses urgency. “Let’s get you to the toilet.”

  Propped in front of the toilet bowl he wees, on and on, bladder the size of an air balloon. She wants the loo herself but the boy keeps on going. When he’s finished, she washes their hands and takes him to the kitchen. Pacifies him with a drink of milk. Thank God his mother packed his special leak-proof beaker.

  She puts bread under the grill and boils the kettle, shaking her head. She pads her hand over the child’s car seat which Tegan rinsed and left propped on the kitchen top. Still damp.

  Dylan has finished his milk and his chunters grow louder, threatening to reach their previous pitch. Working quickly, Phoenix pours boiling water into a pan and adds an egg. At the back of a cupboard, she finds a wooden egg cup, gives it a wash because there’s no telling how long it’s been there, and, after three minutes, pops in the egg. The child stops crying and watches her.

  Tegan steps into the kitchen in designer jeans and a purple check shirt. Phoenix aches in her onesie after her cat nap on a cold floor. To her annoyance, Dylan smiles and holds out his arms to Tegan for a cuddle. Tegan doesn’t reciprocate but at least she cuts the toast into soldiers to dip in his egg.

  “Sleep well?” Phoenix asks sarcastically.

  Tegan pats her shoulder. “Thanks for everything. I couldn’t have managed him without you.”

  Charmer, Phoenix thinks, but she smiles.

  “Can you get him dressed?” Tegan asks, hoisting the child onto her hip. “I’ve got a Business Studies meeting.”

  Phoenix sighs. Of course, first charm, then ask for the favour. “I’ll show you what to do, but you can dress him; he’s your brother. Where’s his stuff?”