by Jason Arnopp
Darkness.
All I see is darkness, punctured only by those dim, green emergency lights on the ceiling. How can this be?
The sensor lights must have clicked back off. They do that after a while, remember? That’s all this is.
Still, the idea of someone motionless outside the door, unconcerned by the darkness… Why don’t they wave their hand around to re-trigger the lights?
My horrendous toothpaste throat forces me to croak. “Hello?”
Someone speaks outside. Someone who clearly isn’t Scott, what with having the voice of an older woman. “Oh. Who’s that?”
I cough, then spit a blob of toothpaste into the corner beside the door so that I’m better able to speak. Classy.
Out through the spyhole, there’s still nothing, but irrational fear triggers my sass. “That’s not how this works. You’ve come to my door, so you’re the one who has to announce who you are.”
The reply comes loaded with indignance. “Your door, is it? All right, well, this is Maureen.” Before I can run the name Maureen through my own personal search engine, to check if I’ve ever known a single Maureen in my life, she adds, “Scott’s mother.”
Shit.
My sass morphs into panic and ingrained British politeness. “Ah yes, of course! Sorry, Maureen, give me a second.”
“It’s really quite dark out here.”
“Try waving an arm around and the lights should come back on.” In the time it takes to yell this, I’ve covered the hallway back to the bathroom. Spinning the sink tap, I take a big mouthful of water, swoosh it around, spit it out, wipe my mouth and check myself in the mirror.
I resemble death itself. A minty-fresh Grim Reaper.
Think, think. What should I tell Maureen about this whole situation? What might she already know? Since I already responded as if I recognised her name, it’s too late to pretend I’m a brand-new tenant who just moved in. And yet if I tell her the truth, she might demand that I sod off and cram my boxes into the nearest hostel. So let’s play this safe, whatever that means.
“Coming!” I call out, like some swish party hostess. Three lit candles remain in the living room, so I grab one. Deep breath, big smile, open up.
My candlelight bathes the face of a plump woman who might be at the tail-end of her sixties. No more than five-feet tall, she’d be a good few inches higher if it wasn’t for the stoop in her posture. Maureen looks like someone who constantly feels life’s weight, but she’s doing her best to muster a warm, if cautious, smile.
Stretching my fluoride grin from ear to ear, I say, “Sorry for my terrible rudeness. You just took me by surprise.”
Her accent differs from Scott’s London, with a Cornish tinge. “Oh no, dear, I’m sorry. I expected only Scott to be here, you see. Someone let me in downstairs, as they were coming out.”
Sensing her preoccupation with my candle, I tell her, “I’m afraid we’ve got a power cut in here at the moment.” Then I quickly add, “Must be affecting the corridor lights too.”
“I see,” says Maureen. “So… is Scott in?”
“He’s actually not, but do come in anyway! Sorry in advance for the cold.”
What the hell is this great British tradition of feeling obnoxious when you don’t invite someone into your private living space? Do I really want her to come in? I don’t know, but it’s too late now and there’s hot wax dripping down my hand.
Maureen hesitates, like a mistreated dog reluctant to step inside its new home. Shuffling past me into the hall, she says, “Um, so… you must be… uh…”
Shall we take this opportunity to count Maureen’s legs? Contrary to her son’s email claim that she’d had one amputated, I’m counting two, and I’d know a prosthetic on sight.
Just another lie for the growing dossier.
I follow her through the arch into the living room, where she takes in the sight of my boxes, presumably while trying to remember who I am. Chances are, she didn’t know I was moving in. Why would Scott have even told her my name when he wasn’t planning to hang around?
This is excruciating, but there may yet be an upside. If anyone can shed light on the real Scott Palmer, it must be his dear old mum.
“I’m Kate,” I say, extending my hand for a shake which Maureen withholds. Hard to be sure if she even noticed my offered hand in this gloom, but she’s palpably relieved to have learnt my name.
“That’s it! Kate. You know, my memory isn’t what it once was. So you’re… you are obviously… Scott’s…’
Her gaze flicks back across the boxes, then all around the room. Her hands fidget. Once again, here’s that acute embarrassment. The bemused disorientation of a mother left out of the loop.
Flitting from one candle to the next, I relight each wick. What should I tell Maureen I am to Scott? My mouth makes the call before my brain gets to offer an opinion. “I’m Scott’s girlfriend, yes! It’s so exciting to have moved in. Shame you missed him, though – he’s away for a couple of nights.”
“Oh,” she says with surprise, as if Scott never goes away. Which is interesting, given that he presented himself as quite the business traveller. “Where’s he gone?”
Well now, Maureen. That’s the ten-million-dollar question, and no mistake.
“Leeds. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Oh… I thought you had no electricity?”
Or milk, or tea bags, Kate, you flustered fuck.
“Of course! How silly of me.”
Maureen surveys the lack of sofa, proper furniture, TV or anything you’d normally find in a living area. These conspicuous absences form the elephant in this room, trumpeting louder and louder. Feeling like the star of a farcical sitcom, I dash over to grab the garden chair, picking Scott’s phone up from the seat and jamming it into my pocket with a bad magician move. Did Maureen see me do this? I think she did, but there’s no way she’d recognise Scott’s phone in candlelight.
“Scott really wants to redecorate, you see, so all our things are either in the… bedroom, or… uh… in these boxes,” I blather. Ferrying the chair over to Maureen, I wince at myself. “I really need to shift these boxes into another room.”
Maureen actually settles down in the chair. If it collapses, I’ll know for sure that I’m in some kind of virtual sitcom simulation.
She eyes the pristine and perfectly well-decorated walls with a frown. Why, it’s almost as if something about my hastily-cobbled story doesn’t hang together. “Hope you’re not paying for this place to be done up, though. All of that should be covered by the landlord.”
Whoosh. The word landlord sends me hurtling back through time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
12 July
When I ask Scott how long he’s lived in his flat, he and I are walking hand in hand along the seafront promenade, like a real couple. We haven’t explicitly agreed that we’re a couple yet, but I hope one of us has the balls to broach the topic soon, because we already seem so comfortable with each other. I know I’m racing ahead here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Scott and I turn out to be something special.
My third Brighton visit has already been a winner. Following some divine morning snugglefuckery and wonderfully carefree afternoon wandering, we’re on our way back from Hove. The late evening is full of that gorgeously vivid twilight you get when the sun’s on the wane.
Somewhere around the base of the i360 Tower, we pass a fluffy Pomeranian sitting on the sea wall. Even I, a cat person, can see that this dog is super-cute. Several passers-by have whipped out their phones to photograph and video the hound, as the proud owner laps up all this attention.
Can’t help noticing that no one ruffles or even touches the Pomeranian. They simply focus on their upload. As the dog watches them walk away, I swear its eyes go dim through lack of physical attention. This tempers my buzz for a while.
As the distant Palace Pier, zip-wire tower and Van Spencer building edge into view, Scott squeezes my hand. “You okay? Almost home.”
“Such an impressive place to live,” I say, liking how he’s used the word home as if we live together. Daren’t explain my sadness about the dog, in case he thinks me weird. “How long have you been there?”
“Let’s see,” says Scott. “I bought this flat at least a year ago. Really couldn’t resist the location.”
Raising my voice to be heard over the fairground music of the nearby carousel ride, I say, “I can see why. Must be a fair old mortgage, though…”
Scott stops walking and groans. Shit, have I been too nosey?
“Indigestion,” he says, planting one hand on his chest. “Happens sometimes. I’ll pop a Gaviscon when we get back. But I actually bought the flat outright. Works out a lot cheaper in the long run.”
Wow. Does IT really pay that well? Glad he felt able to tell me, though. Hopefully means he doesn’t see me as the gold-digging type.
Either that, or he doesn’t believe you’ll be around long enough to dig any gold.
Dear brain: why can’t you just let me be happy? Now you’ve made me want to test our relationship. But dare I?
“Hey, here’s a question,” I say out of the blue, stopping him in his tracks. “Look… I mean, we are an actual couple, right?” These last six words barrel out of me so hard, they sound like a threat.
Scott hits me with that unreadable gaze, peppering me with the same uncertainty as when I first saw him in the Welsh glade, except now to the power of ten billion.
Horrifying nanoseconds ooze by.
When he finally grins and wraps his arms around me, only then does my whole body unclench itself.
“I’m ashamed you had to ask first,” he says, then he kisses me until I forget all about the Pomeranian.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
4 October
Maureen’s looking at me funny. I must’ve zoned out for a second or two. Flashbacks will do that to a person.
“Oh goodness, yes,” I say, suddenly talking like a vicar. “The landlord’s paying for everything. He seems like a good sort.”
How long will Maureen stay, now she knows Scott isn’t here? How much does she intend to quiz her prospective daughter-in-law? But more to the point, how can I use this situation to find out more about Scott? Best to get in there first, before she can open fire with queries of her own.
I perch myself on a box and try to style it out. “So, Scott talks about you all the time…’
Literally not once in four months, Maureen. You might as well be thermonuclear physics.
“… and now I’ve finally got to meet you, I’d love to know what he was like as a boy.”
No real idea of what I’m gunning for with this line of enquiry. I’d flailed around for any question that wasn’t, So who the fuck is your mad bastard son, really? Still, a little childhood colour might helpfully contribute to the profile I’m building of my dear departed lover.
Maureen chuckles and visibly loosens up. “Oh! Well, I can’t lie, he was a real wild one at school. Had me tearing my hair out at times.”
I mirror her laughter, as if my inquisition really is only small-talk fun. “Ah, really? What sort of capers did he get up to?”
Did I say capers? Pretty sure that happened. I normally only say that word when ordering pizza.
“He’ll kill me for saying this, but he did get into fights.”
A real wild one… fights… I try to square this with the placid, laid-back Scott I thought I knew, then remember the brooding wolf behind those eyes.
“He always told me it was self-defence,” Maureen quickly adds. “From bullies, you know. His brother always told me a different story. He said Scotty was sometimes the bully, but you know what brothers can be like. One-upmanship and all that silliness.”
Brother? New information alert.
“Oh yes, of course, his brother,” I say, then grimace and click my fingers a few times. “What’s his name again?”
“Raymond. He’s such a good boy.” How old is this guy – five? “But I have to admit, Scotty’s done quite well for himself too.”
She smiles fondly, in the exact same way my own mother never smiles about me. “And now,” she adds, slapping both hands down on her thighs. “Scotty’s settled down! That’s lovely.”
I nod and force a grin. Maureen said settled down with such happy incredulity that it was basically code for finally picked one girl.
Another slice of evidence for my fat dossier.
Before I can ask how often schoolboy Scott kissed the girls and made them cry, Maureen whacks the ball back into my court. “So how did the pair of you meet? Scotty did mention it, of course, but you know…” One hand darts to her temple, by way of explanation, or excuse. Christ, and I thought I was a transparent liar.
Well, Mrs Palmer, I first saw Scott on the hook-up app Tinder and Super-Liked him, but he didn’t even Like me back.
“We met at a business seminar,” I say with a professional smile. “Our eyes met over canapes, and then we were courting for quite a while.”
Capers. Canapes. Courting. What ridiculous word beginning with “C” will my brain magic up next?
“Oh, what business are you in?” What’s that glint I see in Maureen’s eye: is she testing me? Her bullshit detector may be more advanced than I’ve given her credit for.
Here we are, at another crossroads. Do I lie about my job? No, why should I? It’s a good one. And why am I even trying to impress the mother of a man who’s abandoned me?
“I’m a senior paramedic,” I tell her. “But, you know, there’s lots of business involved.” Think, think fast, for an example. “So many protocols we have to deal with.” Protocols, yes! Brilliantly oblique and dull. Nobody ever wants to hear more information on protocols.
Maureen nods, studying her clasped hands. There follows an eternal silence, during which neither of us knows what to say next. “Well,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t come anywhere near her eyes, “I suppose I’d better be getting on. Such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say, springing up from my box to help her out of the chair. She waves me off, determined to help herself. “Maureen, I’m so sorry I couldn’t offer more hospitality. Next time you come, this flat will be a palace.”
No, it won’t. Either my boxes and I will have gone somewhere else, or only a few will have been unpacked and I’ll feed you some crap about how the decorators have delayed the job.
“Have you seen Scott lately?” I ask, light as a feather, as I guide her towards the door.
“Not for a few weeks.” She sounds sad about this. “I don’t like to bother him on the phone: I always think I’m interrupting work. I wonder if you could ask him to call me, or even pay me a visit?”
“Of course. Do you live nearby, then?”
“Oh, I’m only up in Seven Dials.”
“Ah, yes, Scott did say. That is nice and close. Lovely.” I have no idea where Seven Dials is. “Well, I’ll certainly badger him to get in touch, Maureen, don’t you worry.”
As we walk to the door, Maureen scrawls something on a ratty little piece of paper, then hands it over. “That’s my home number, just in case you need me.”
What’s an appropriate farewell, now that we’ve been introduced? Maureen doesn’t strike me as the huggy type. I consider going for the handshake again, but after a quick Goodbye, dear she’s out the door so fast that the darkness swallows her in one clean gulp.
“Oh, heavens,” she says, from somewhere off along the corridor, her voice shrill. “Can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
“Careful, Maureen! Would you like to take one of my candles?” The fire door thumps shut, placing her out of earshot.
So. I’ve met Maureen Palmer. What an odd woman. No doubt she’s thinking exactly the same thing about me.
Now that I’m by myself once again, her son’s phone calls my name. I’ve barely scratched the surface with this thing, but I’m already awake far later than I should be. Chances are, if I behold evidence of more o
f Scott’s lies tonight, it’ll only rile me up and make sleep even more elusive. Besides, simply meeting Maureen has already given me evidence of bonus lies from Scott. Oh, happy day.
Tonight, I will devote more effort to the sleeping arrangements. Having hauled my bedding out of a box, I dump it on my designated spot. My Nokia goes ping a couple of times, no doubt because lovely Izzy wants to know how everything went on my first day, but she’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I could almost shed a tear of gratitude for the soft familiarity of my trusty old pillow.
Incredibly, all six candles are still burning. The wind must’ve changed direction. Should I mute Scott’s phone, in case another weirdo calls in the middle of the night? No. While I still have access to this handset, I may as well leave myself open to every scrap of information that comes my way. Bring it on, creeps.
There. Done. Let’s doze.
Using a technique I remember from a How To Sleep CD, I make my inner voice all slow and drowsy, then count down from three hundred.
Two hundred and ninety-nine…
Two hundred and ninety-eight…
Two hundred and ninety-seven…
Two hundred and ninety… can’t remember where I was. Back to three hundred…
Two hundred and ninety-nine…
What’s this strange taste in your mouth?
Don’t know, don’t care. Two hundred and ninety-eight…
I think you do care. Tastes like metal. Copper. Could this be blood?
Two hundred and ninety-blood… oh God, what is this taste?
I stick two fingers in my mouth then check them for blood, but it’s way too dark to tell.
Oh. Why is it dark all of a sudden?
Jesus, the candles have died. Every single one. Smoke drifts up from their wicks.
This weird taste grows stronger and my teeth hurt.
Are you feeling what I’m feeling?
No, brain, I’m not. Let’s just breathe and—
There’s something new in the flat. Some kind of presence.
Keen to rule out blood in my mouth, I reach over for Scott’s phone to use the torch.
