The Perfect Friend

by Lorna Dounaeva

  “Bird?”

  “Yeah! Or…or one of those toys you get with a Happy Meal. Or a Burger King Kids’ Meal. Or those free toys you used to get with the cereal packets. Why don’t they do those anymore?”

  I was cheered by his idiocy, but then the news bulletin came to an end, and I realised there had been no mention of my disappearance, and then I felt really glum. A heavy feeling came over me, as if someone had buried my legs in wet sand. Because If they weren’t talking about me on the local radio, then they weren’t talking about me at all.

  Relish

  “Nearly ready,” Dylan called.

  He was standing at the stove, wearing an old pink apron of Keeley’s that he had found in the kitchen drawer. The burgers spat at one another in the pan, like rival footballers egging each other on.

  “Now then, lads,” he said, pulling them apart with the spatula.

  Just at that moment, the smoke alarm went off, a loud, repetitive beeping noise that made him shake with rage.

  He found the broom and held it up in the air, poking at the alarm.

  “Careful,” Jock warned. “We might need that for when Robbie finally sets light to the place.”

  “I heard that,” Robbie said, “and you’re wrong. I won’t need the broom. I can reach.”

  Dylan rescued the burgers from the pan and plopped them into the buns he had set out on the table. The three of them busied themselves adding slices of cheese, onion and tomato.

  “Got any lettuce?” Dylan asked.

  Jock and Robbie laughed and carried on assembling their burgers.

  “What’s wrong with lettuce?”

  “Not allowed in this flat,” Jock explained. “House rules.”

  He reached for the ketchup and squeezed some onto his burger.

  “God, it’s runny!”

  He watched with dissatisfaction as the ketchup ran down the sides of the meat and pooled on the plate.

  Dylan leaned forward and sniffed.

  “Will you get your head out of my dinner?”

  “I don’t think you should eat that,” Dylan said. “I don’t think you should even touch it.”

  “What are you…oh!” he said, realisation dawning on him. Because Dylan was right. It wasn’t ketchup at all. It was blood.

  “Christ alive!”

  He jumped away in disgust.

  “That is a lot of blood,” Dylan said, eyeing the ketchup bottle. “I think someone must have access to a blood bank.”

  “Man! Do you think it’s some psycho nurse or something?”

  “Could be. I’ve met a few of those in my time.”

  “Call the police again,” Robbie urged. “Someone’s messing with the food. This is beyond a joke.”

  A short while later, the intercom buzzed.

  “That’ll be the police,” Jock said. “I’ll go down and let them in.”

  There was supposed to be a button that unlocked the front door, but it didn’t work. Nothing ever worked in this block. The heating had been on the blink for days, and the maintenance man wouldn’t even return his calls. Jock had tried knocking on his door, but he never got a reply. He wasn’t sure if the man was out or merely avoiding doing any work. In the meantime, he was forced to live with heating that only came on in the middle of the night, the one time when he liked it cold.

  He trudged downstairs to the front door, but instead of the police, he found a middle aged man on a bicycle. He was holding a large pizza box and the smell of molten cheese wafted up Jock’s nose, taunting his empty stomach.

  “Pizza for Flat Two?”

  “Yeah, come in.”

  The pizza man stepped inside, bringing his bike in with him. He propped it up against the wall while he went and knocked on the door of Flat Two.

  Jock was about to make his way back up the stairs, when he saw Yara standing outside her door, looking confused. He thought her eyes looked bloodshot, as if she had had a late night. Then he accidentally caught her eye, and her bottom lip trembled. For a horrible moment, he thought she was going to cry.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, backing towards the stairs.

  “I think someone’s been in my flat,” she said, grimly. “I locked it, I know I did. And now look!”

  The door was slightly ajar.

  “Where’s Kenneth?”

  “Gone to Dublin. I’m on my own all weekend. Do you think I should go inside? I don’t think anyone’s in there now, but I don’t want to go in by myself.”

  Jock looked pleadingly at the pizza man, but he picked up his bike and scarpered, the front door slamming behind him.

  Jock swallowed, and when he eventually spoke, his voice sounded as if it came from a tiny mouse and not a grown man with a literary career and stubble.

  “Maybe we should wait for the police?”

  She tugged at his sleeve. “Please Jock, I’ve been standing out here for ages. I’m sure it’s fine. I just need someone to go in with me.”

  He looked through the gap in the door. Inside, everything looked normal enough. Maybe it really was nothing. Maybe Yara was even more of a wuss than he was. If he did this for her, he could be in his neighbours’ good books for some time to come.

  “Oh, alright then.”

  It made a change to play the hero for once. Normally, he’d be the one cowering outside.

  He nudged the door open and they both peered inside. Everything looked as it should, the pictures hung neatly on their hooks, the ornaments neatly spaced on the shelves. Large, plump cushions were propped up on the sofa. Yara took a few more steps into the room.

  “Look!”

  He followed her gaze. On the floor behind the coffee table were a few books, scattered on the ground, and the one with the bright red and black cover was his.

  “The Red Satchel!” he said in amazement, stepping forward to pick it up. “I can’t believe you’ve got this. They only printed a few hundred copies.”

  “Of course I’ve got it!” Yara said. “I’ve got all your books, Jock. Everything you’ve ever written.”

  His first book had been published by a small press which had immediately folded. He had tried not to take it personally, but it had been a bit of a low point in his career. He had never made any money from that book, and even his biggest fans struggled to get copies.

  He turned the book over in his hands and saw that it was one of only a handful he had autographed.

  “Where did you find it?” he asked. “I’ve never even seen it on eBay.”

  Yara murmured something he didn’t understand. He saw too late that she was holding a large, heavy frying pan.

  “What…”

  He felt a shadow fall over him, and then the floor flew up towards his face. He tried to get up, but the floor hit him again, and he fell back, stunned. His head throbbed like it had its own heartbeat and he struggled to form a coherent thought. There was the sound of metal grating. He thought perhaps she had moved the bolt across the door, but he was too weak even to lift his head. He blinked rapidly. He ought to be unconscious. It seemed to be expected of him, but for some reason, he wasn’t. He just felt incredibly heavy, as if something was pinning him to the ground and he didn’t have the strength to fight back, so he did the only thing he could do. He closed his eyes and played dead.

  He felt her leaning over him, her small fingers stroking his arms and chest. He tried not to recoil as her cold hands cupped his face, and then moved down towards his neck. Her hands slid around his throat.

  She’s going to strangle me, he thought. But instead of squeezing, her fingers caressed him, as if measuring him for a collar.

  She laid a warm blanket over him, and he shivered in spite of its warmth.

  “That’s it, you get some sleep,” she said, in a soothing tone. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you when you wake up.”

  He never meant to fall asleep, but he had to rest in order to recover and, before he knew it, his eyelids drooped and he was listening to the sound of his own snores.

>   He felt like he had separated into two, and one version of himself stood over the other, jabbing him and telling him to wake up. Then he felt a shift, as if the entire room had been tipped ninety degrees, so that the floor he was lying on was now a wall. The part of him that was still upright kept falling down and getting up again.

  “Put it back,” he murmured, reaching out for the floor with his hands. And even though he was asleep, he was aware of Yara, standing over him, watching for him to come to.

  Cut

  The vile woman was back again. I smelled her cheap perfume as she walked towards the bed and I screamed through the gag, desperate to talk to her. My face must have looked a picture, my eyes wide and pleading, but my plight did not move her. She was interested only in her experiment or whatever it was she was doing.

  I moaned softly as she untied my arm and checked the dried blood with fascination. I had worried that I was going to bleed out, but it seemed that the bleeding had stopped after a while.

  “Now for the other arm,” she said, as if she were giving me a vaccination. She pulled the turquoise razor out of her pocket and walked around to my left side.

  I had no choice but to let her slash me again. Despite the fact that my right arm was now free, it was numb from being tied up and I could barely flex and stretch. My left arm tightened as she lifted it up, and I gritted my teeth in anticipation of the pain. She did not speak another word to me as she examined my veins, deciding where best to draw the blood. Since I was helpless to stop her, I concentrated instead on trying to recall all the Kings and Queens of England, in chronological order. I would not let her know how much she hurt me. I would not allow her the satisfaction.

  Kings: Egbert, Aethelwulf, Aethelbald, Ethelred The Unready. Had I missed one?

  I tried not to shudder as the razor nicked my skin. She made more cuts this time, six in all and once again tied my wrist to the jug so that the blood trickled inside. My wrist ached like crazy and I pressed my lips together to block out the pain. She’d cut me deeper than before and the blood flowed faster. I could see the level rising in the container. She looked pleased by that, that there were already a few inches of blood in the bottom of the jug. She smiled with her mouth closed, I noticed. Her bottom lip pressed over the top. It was a self-conscious smile, the smile of someone who didn’t feel comfortable revealing part of herself. Not even to the stranger she had kidnapped. She did not explain to me what she planned to do with all that blood, nor did she say when she would stop cutting me. She did not need to. The jug was not yet full.

  The Muse

  The curtains were drawn when Jock awoke, and cooking smells drifted into Yara’s flat. He felt in his pockets. His phone was gone. He rolled towards the sofa, and realised with a jolt that she was right there, watching him.

  “You’re awake!” she said, with glee, as if he were merely a houseguest who had fallen asleep after dinner.

  “What’s going on?” he murmured. His eyes travelled up to her lap, where she was clutching a heavy paperweight. Was she planning to whack him again?

  “Don’t worry,” she said, the friendly smile returning to her face. “I’m going to help you.”

  She was a lot smaller than him, and skinny with it. Under normal circumstances, this would give him the advantage, but he was still weak as she helped him up onto the sofa. She let him rest there for a while and he wondered what it was she planned to do to him. What she might have already done to him, while he was asleep.

  “I’m alright now,” he said after a bit. “I think I should probably go home.”

  She let him clamber shakily to his feet, but then, she took his hand in hers and led him over to her desk. He waited as she switched on the computer. It was the one Kenneth had bought in Portobello Market. They must have just set it up.

  “You’ll have to wait a moment,” she said, apologetically. “It works just fine, but it’s a bit slow to get going. Why don’t you take a seat?”

  His legs were quite shaky, so he was glad to sink into the heavy leather chair.

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?” she said.

  This was an understatement. It was the best writing chair he had ever sat in, large and luxurious, with big, comfortable armrests and levers to make it swivel or tilt. She pressed a button and he felt gentle vibrations, like bubbles working their way across his back. It was heated, too. His backside felt warm and toasty as he adjusted his position to rest his feet on the footrests. Under other circumstances, he would have been excited to try out this chair. Ridiculously excited. He probably would have raved about it on Twitter and used it as an excuse to put off writing for another fifteen minutes.

  “Do you like the colour?” she asked. “I thought you’d like deep mahogany.”

  He did like it, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. He tried to relax his body, gathering strength in preparation for a dash to the door.

  Too late; he noticed the leather straps she had fastened around his wrists. He tried to wriggle out of them, but they held tight.

  “What is this?” he demanded, twisting about. If he was feeling stronger, he might have been able to break out of them, but his body seemed to have wilted and he needed time to recover.

  “Don’t you see?” she said. “You don’t have to struggle anymore.”

  “I…”

  She pressed a finger to his mouth. It tasted bitter against his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m going to help you to write again. I can’t tell you how awful it’s been, seeing you struggle. You should have confided in me, Jock. I am the only one who can help you. You need me to lead you back to your dark place.”

  “You don’t have to do that!”

  “I want to.”

  “When’s Kenneth coming back?” he asked, with a side glance at the door.

  “Kenneth will be home in the morning, but don’t worry. You’ll be finished by then.”

  “Finished?”

  “Writing the book, of course. Come on, you can do it. I know you can. Especially with me here to inspire you.” She giggled to herself. “I’ll be your muse.”

  “That’s very…kind of you, I’m just not sure…”

  “Don’t fight it, Jock. Your next book is going to be sensational – your best yet. I’m giving you everything you need to accomplish that.”

  “What if I still can’t write?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Of course you can write. There’s always a next book with you, Jock. You’re like clockwork.”

  He felt like he had heard those words before. Hadn’t Dylan said something similar at the market? Had Yara been eavesdropping on their conversation?

  “But what if I’ve used up all my best ideas?”

  “No, don’t talk like that!”

  She leaned over him and opened up a Word document on the computer. “There,” she instructed. “Start writing.”

  “But what if I can’t?”

  Her smile changed from sweet to sinister.

  “Then when Kenneth gets home, he’ll blow your brains out. You must have noticed he’s the jealous type?”

  Waiting

  She had tied me up again so that I couldn’t move, not even to wipe a stray tear from my cheek. It tickled my neck as it dripped down my body. I wished I could redirect it to the jug. Dilute the blood a bit. Maybe then she would stop.

  Kings and Queens of England, I reminded myself. I was up to George III now but my memory of each monarch grew hazier as I went, which was odd because it was my specialist subject when I was on Mastermind. That had been half a lifetime ago now. I doubted anyone remembered it but me. It was funny how the very best moments of a person’s life could be theirs, and theirs alone.

  My arm tingled as I grappled with the Georges, trying to remember a fact about each one. Come on, I chided myself. I used to know this stuff backwards. I’d spent hours watching the History Channel. I didn’t much care for the battles they liked to show. I couldn’t relate to the soldiers or the politics at all. But the royals, I could watch them all day, b
ecause the royals were a family, much like any other family, fame and fortune aside.

  I conjured up a picture of George IV, but the picture disintegrated as I wrestled with the jumble of information in my head. Which one was he again? What was it he was known for? It was no use, the distraction wasn’t working anymore. I twisted about, desperate to change position. My arm had grown numb and I could no longer move my fingers. How much longer was I expected to go on like this, dying, drip by drip?

  An image of George III resurfaced, and I pictured him in all his madness. I loved a mad king - the more bizarre, the better. I had always had a soft spot for the eccentric. I’d been called eccentric myself, on occasion, but I didn’t think the term applied. I just knew my own mind, and refused to be told what to do. Was that why I had been chosen? Had I rubbed the vile woman up the wrong way? Slighted her without even knowing it? Had I beeped my horn for her to get out of the road, or taken the last packet of ginger snap biscuits at the supermarket? Or had she simply chosen me at random, through no fault of my own?

  Inspiration

  Jock didn’t know Kenneth well. On the few occasions they had met, Yara had been the one to do all the talking. He had assumed that he was one of those silent, brooding types. He barely looked at Jock if he happened to pass in the hallway. He had never seemed particularly friendly, and he took up more space than was reasonable, so that Jock was the one who had to turn to squeeze past him. Kenneth never made any effort to move out of his way.

  But would he really shoot him? It wouldn’t surprise him at all if he owned a gun. England’s gun laws were pretty tough, but a man like Kenneth would have his connections. He pictured him, spending his weekends fox hunting. Was he the type to hunt innocent animals? He couldn’t imagine Yara would stand for that. But then, Yara was not the girl he had taken her to be. Perhaps she wouldn’t care after all. Perhaps she liked the idea that her man was so tough.