by Daisy Pearce
I turn the taps off and open the window to let the steam out. The tiled floor is glossy, the walls damp. The water has been running for some time. I try to remember if I’d left the taps on and I can’t. It’s like a switch has been thrown, a circuit which can’t be completed. A mirrored cabinet hangs over the sink, and I swing it open and take out the bottle of pills. I hold the brown glass bottle up to the light and shake it. Inside, the little grey pills rattle like shaman bones, runes. I take two more from the bottle, grinding them between my teeth. The taste is chemical and astringent. I wipe the condensation away from the mirror and study myself. As I do so I catch a sudden movement behind me. Something moving towards the open door. I gasp and just for a moment fancy that I see the ivory oval of a face hanging in the mist, framed by curtains of dark hair. But when I turn there is nothing there. Just shapes in the fogged-up bathroom, grey and indistinct. Nothing except the lip of the bath and the laundry basket in the corner. Nothing except the black-and-white tiles and the towel rail with a solitary pink towel folded over it.
I’m losing my mind, I think. I’m losing my fucking mind here.
I make my way downstairs, hand clutching the banister so hard that my knuckles whiten. The kitchen is very dark, the wind a thin, fluting howl in the old soot-blackened chimney breast. A cold clutch of fear threatens to topple me. The sink. The taps are running down here too.
This time I turn them off so sharply that my wrist bristles with pain. My heart is a drum, my fear a rapid percussion, slowly building. I walk about the house distractedly, not really sure what I am looking for, what I expect to find. In each room I turn on the lights and run my hands over the window locks. After that I check the front and back doors. I peer beneath the bed and in the airing cupboard. I look in the old stone pantry full of cobwebs. I find nothing, of course, except the fossilised corpses of woodlice and balls of lint.
I make tea and sit in bed and the pills lift me, turning the night into something uncomplicated and dreamy. I fall asleep with the lights on, just as the sky is brightening, clouds turning the pearly colour of oyster shells. I fall asleep and there are no dreams. But even in my sleep I am listening, and I feel my fear growing like mushrooms in the dark. I need to heal. I need to feel as though I am scar tissue, being repaired from the inside.
There are just three names in the address book of my phone – Marco, Doctor Wilson and Alice. I wonder if Aunt Jackie is worried about me. Marco has contacted her, he tells me, to reassure her that I am getting better.
‘I think she saw it coming, love,’ he’d said to me solemnly. ‘You’ve been unwell a long time.’
‘I need her number,’ I’d told him, and he’d said sure and he’d written it down on a piece of paper, folding it smaller and smaller and pressing it into my palm. ‘Here you are.’
And of course I’d lost it. I must try to remember to ask him for it again. I must try to remember.
Marco calls me while I am washing dishes in the cold morning.
‘Hello?’ he says. ‘Stella? How are you?’
‘I’m all right. Tired. When will you get here?’
‘Honey, you know what? I’m going to have to give it another couple of days. Chances are I may have to go to Zürich for a while. I need to work on the Tybourne account.’
‘What?’
‘It’s my business, honey. It’s not as easy as checking people into a hotel. I can’t just abandon it.’
‘There was more to my job than that.’ I’m automatically defensive. ‘And you can’t just abandon me!’
‘Is that what you think I’ve done?’
I don’t know how to answer that so I ask instead, ‘Have you heard from Carmel?’
‘I think you need to face facts, Stella, she’s not going to want to speak to you again. Not after what happened.’
My stomach sinks. I know this, of course, but I am hopeful. Optimistic. My mother had called me ‘starry-eyed’. She would say it in a sour way, her lips twisted. The seagulls are shrieking and it’s making my head hurt.
‘Can you call Jackie for me? Give her my number?’
‘Sure, I’ll do it this afternoon. Can you email her?’
‘No, I – I can’t get into my emails. I’m not sure of my password. It’s been changed. I must have done it; I just don’t remember.’
I haven’t been able to access anything since I arrived at Chy an Mor. I can remember a rainy afternoon as a teenager watching old films with my dad. The 39 Steps, The Great Escape, Some Like It Hot. He’d been slumped in his armchair, the one which always smelled of tobacco and hair wax, and his eyes were unfocused and far away. In one of them, something black-and-white and slow-moving, a war general in the trenches turns to his officer and says, ‘All lines of communication are down. We are out here on our own now’, and over their heads the thunder of artillery.
‘I love you, Stella, you know that, don’t you?’
I tell him yes. I tell him fine. I tell him not to worry. He reminds me to keep taking the pills, to look after myself. ‘Stay out of trouble,’ he says as he hangs up. Next, I call Frankie, dialling from the note he left me on the fridge. He doesn’t pick up. The message I leave is brief with only the slightest tremble in my voice. I tell him about the taps and ask him to come and have a look at them. At the root of my words are all the things I don’t say: Please can you come over; please can you help; I am afraid.
All lines of communication are down. We are out here on our own now.
Chapter 13
I tell myself I have to pull it together. I’m meant to be getting married next year and I can’t even remember the last time I showered. Two days ago? More? When my naked legs rub together I can feel the burrs of the hairs growing there like a dark pelt. My hair extensions are falling out in cobwebby strands. When I take off my top in front of the mirror I find clumps of wiry hair like spiders’ legs beneath my arms. It is soft and springy to the touch. I’ve gone to seed, as my mother would say, as though talking about a rundown house, derelict, in need of demolition. I take two pills and head downstairs.
I try to imagine planning a wedding without Martha and Carmel. What was it Marco had told me? You lost them. What did that mean? Would they even come to the wedding if I invited them? The thought of their absence makes me cold. I wish I could remember what happened. I’m distracted and burn the porridge I’m cooking to the bottom of the pan. The kitchen fills with smoke and I open the back door to let the worst of it out. Outside the rain has passed and the sun is high in an enamel-blue sky. Thistles are growing along the old stone path, furred with moss and treacherous in the rain. The garden has been left to grow wild with bramble and nettles beneath the stunted palms which stand sentry by the house. I sit on the little stone seat speckled with lichen, my foggy mind turning over and over.
The first time I’d met Doctor Wilson, he had taken my outstretched hand and instead of shaking it had turned it over to look at my palm.
‘Your lifeline is very strong,’ he’d said, as his fingers had caressed the soft pillow of flesh at the base of my thumb, ‘and this, this is called your Mount of Venus. It symbolises romance and sensuality. Are you very romantic, Stella?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Yes’ – he’d nodded – ‘yes, I see that you are.’
Later, he had given me a prayer scroll hidden inside a silver charm.
‘It’s a Tibetan Gau,’ he had told me, ‘it’s Buddhist.’ Except he pronounced it the American way, ‘Boo-dist’. Then he had leaned closer so that I could faintly smell aniseed on his breath: ‘Alcohol is a demon, Stella.’
I’d looked around the room, unsure if he was joking. It had a lazy, tropical feel to it – almost colonial – with Indian tiles and soaring ceilings and overgrown, luscious plants. A large rug covered most of the polished wooden floor, depicting jungle vines intertwining with one another. The wall space between bookshelves was hung with fabrics in maroon and gold. I could hear the fans whirring overhead.
He’d leaned closer
, lowering his voice. ‘But like all demons, it can be exorcised.’
I’d thought him mad, of course. Told Marco I thought he ought to be struck off.
‘I honestly can’t believe he’s legit. What is he, some sort of shaman?’
But he had given me the pills, a whole bottle of them, just for me, all for me. I put them straight into my bag. Mine. I tried to ignore what he had told me about my drinking; those words which had sounded so much like a concealed warning. ‘You drink to forget, and soon all your memories will be lost.’
In the garden the sun is growing hotter, the clouds of that morning burning away. As I walk slowly back inside the cottage I can hear a tapping noise, like skeletal fingers on glass. The old pipes rattle noisily beneath the sink. I freeze when I hear the knock at the front door. I’ve only had one visitor since I arrived at Chy an Mor a week or so ago. The courier, bringing me my forgotten luggage. I answer the door and find Frankie, holding his phone.
‘I was just calling you.’
He is wearing an old T-shirt, the picture long faded, the words ‘Moose Creek ’89’ barely legible. He is bigger than I remember, and broader in the stomach. Bulky, like a badly wrapped package.
He grins at me. ‘Are you all right? You look pale.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. Why are you here?’
‘You left me a message, remember? Something about the taps.’
Had I? I suppose I must have done. Otherwise how would he know?
‘Yeah, sure,’ I say. ‘Come on in.’
Frankie doesn’t though. He continues to stand on the porch. He tilts his head backwards, looking up at the vast expanse of sky, now deepening to a periwinkle blue.
‘The air up here is amazing. It’s so clean it’s almost clinical. Did you know the Victorians would send their sick children to convalescent homes on the coast? They claimed the bracing sea air had health benefits.’
I wait, smiling patiently, one hand on the door.
‘They were right as well. It does. Negative ions in the air or something. It improves your sleep, gives clarity to your brain, helps with depression—’
‘Well, this bracing sea air is bloody freezing. Hurry up and come inside.’
Frankie accepts the offer of a cup of tea and stands at the windows admiring the view while I tell him how the taps have been running of their own accord. I mention the rattling pipes, the brownish, foul-smelling water I have found pooled in strange places; in the cupboard, beneath the coffee table, on the windowsill. I do not tell him about the strange chill in the bathroom or the way the shadows can sometimes look like they are creeping along the walls because I don’t want him to think badly of me, that I am mad. He nods solemnly, occasionally interjecting with a question before falling silent, stroking his beard.
‘Okay, just one thing. You contradicted yourself before. You said “the taps in the house had been switched on”, then you said they were “running by themselves”. So which is it? Have they been switched on or were they running by themselves?’
For a moment I simply stare at him, uncomprehending.
‘What I mean is, and I’m not trying to scare you, but if what you’re saying is that they are coming on by themselves, well, then we can call out a plumber and sort this. If what you’re saying is that someone is switching them on and that person is not you, then we have a bigger problem.’ He sips his tea, looking at me levelly. ‘Do you think someone has been breaking into this house?’
I shake my head.
‘Okay. Okay. Thing is, Stella, I’m not a plumber. I’m happy to look for you, but I think you’d be better off with a mate of mine who can fix this properly. Do you want me to give him your name, see what he says?’
‘No, not my name. Give him Marco’s name. Marco Nilsen.’
‘Ah, the boyfriend,’ Frankie says, and while that brilliant smile is still in place his voice has taken on a sing-song lilt.
‘That’s him.’
‘You been together a long time, you and Marco?’
‘Just over a year.’
‘That sounds serious.’
‘It is. We’re engaged.’
‘Congratulations.’
I look down at the ring on my finger. The Tudors believed that a vein ran from the fourth finger of the left hand directly to the heart. The thought of it makes me uneasy.
‘He’s a good man, and he works hard. I owe him a lot.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Frankie says. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take you into town for breakfast and then we can drop in to that friend of mine. I’m sure he’ll know about the gremlins in your pipes. Deal?’
‘I’ve already had my breakfast . . .’ I say.
‘So have another breakfast.’
‘And town is so far away.’
‘It’s five minutes in the van.’ He looks at me with mischief and good humour. ‘Come on, for goodness’ sake. It’s only breakfast, not a witch burning. It’ll do you good to get outside for a bit. Change of scenery and all that.’
‘All right,’ I surprise myself by saying, ‘but just give me a second to get ready. I warn you, I am deranged through lack of sleep.’
‘Well,’ Frankie tells me over his shoulder, ‘sounds like you need some bracing sea air.’
Upstairs I pull a brush through my hair and rub blusher into my cheeks with the tips of my fingers. It stands out in vivid circles against my pale skin like a sickness. I change my jumper for a T-shirt and cardigan and go to the bathroom. I feel surprisingly happy. I take the pills from the cupboard, tipping two into my hand. I put them on the windowsill while I brush my teeth.
Walking down the landing I notice for the first time the loft hatch at the end of the hallway. It is set into the ceiling, a little to the left of the door to the spare room. There is a bulky-looking silver padlock on it, looped through the catch. I stand beneath it with my head tilted back, wondering if there are rats up there. Squirrels perhaps. It would explain the scratching sounds I’ve been hearing, pattering like footsteps. It makes me think of a child running the length of the hallway in a nightgown, hands trailing along the thick cottage walls. I make up my mind to ask Frankie to go up there and see. When I spit my toothpaste into the sink there is a little blood, a pinkish hue. I pull down my lip and study my gums. They are pale, fleshy. There’s a knock at the door and I turn, surprised.
‘Are you coming, Stella?’
Frankie has a large white van, slightly dirty and smelling of dog and engine oil. The front seat is covered with a violently colourful blanket. (‘It’s from Mexico,’ Frankie explains when he sees my doubtful face, ‘and I suppose some would call it a bit garish.’) The back is full of tools and coils of wire and ladders which rattle around as it jolts along the country road. I lean my head against the glass. Frankie asks if I am comfortable and points out the distant shape of the tin mine and the naked trees like stitches embroidered against the landscape.
‘See that beacon over there?’ he asks. ‘There’s a legend that a giant called Bolster could stand with a foot on that beacon and his other foot on Carn Brea six miles away. They said he ate sheep and cattle and sometimes children. He died, of course, in the legend. Died because of love. Bled out into a bottomless hole.’
‘Yikes.’
‘Yup, legends are gory as hell most of the time. The good ones, that is.’
He pulls up in the deserted seafront car park, opposite a café. The wind charges the waves to shore, sending spray and foam crashing over the rocks. There is a scatter of dog walkers on the sand, which is as dark and glossy as treacle. Lifeguard flags flutter in the high wind, black-and-white like a chessboard.
‘What do the flags mean?’
‘Surfing, but no swimming. There are nasty rip tides along this coast, could pull you out a good way. Know what to do if you get caught in a rip tide, Stella?’
I tell him no as I climb from the van.
‘Swim at
an angle towards the shore. Don’t try to swim against it. If all else fails float on your back and go with it. We’ve had a lot of tourists get into trouble because you can’t see the rip. It’s under the surface, sneaking up on you. Know what I mean?’
I stare at him pulling on his hoodie in the wintry sunshine. I can’t help feeling that he is teasing me. When he emerges he grins, his eyes glittering.
‘You want to go in the water, you come to me first. I’ve got a wetsuit that’ll fit you. The cold will kill you quicker than anything else.’
Sand, blown in from the beach, scratches underfoot as we cross the road.
‘What’s the deal with all your tattoos?’ I ask. ‘Do they have some sort of significance?’
‘Uh,’ Frankie says, his face hidden beneath his hood, ‘I actually got them in prison. An inmate called Tito from Guadalajara did them for me as a mark of how much time I served.’ He winks at me as he opens the café door. ‘But don’t worry. Those old people I killed were going to die soon anyway.’
I hang back, just for a second.
He grins. ‘Stella, come on. I’m joking. As if I’d kill old people.’ He leans closer, almost whispering. ‘Just those two hitchhikers but that was it, I swear.’
We pass through the café doorway, and I smile weakly to show I can take a joke. Overhead the bell jangles. Frankie raises his hand to a man reading a paper who nods back. As we reach the counter side by side Frankie says, ‘You know I’m kidding, right? You know that. I’ve never hurt anyone. Never killed anyone. I haven’t even had a parking fine.’
‘Frankie!’ The woman behind the counter leans across and hugs him, making a noise like a slow puncture, a high-pitched wheeeeee.
I stare at her red hair, the colour of a freshly painted pillar box, twisted up in an elaborate roll. She has a ring through her nose and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks, one of which has a deep scar running across it. It puckers when she smiles. A crease in the skin like she has been hacked at.
