Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

by J. A. Baker

  The shower is thankfully hot and once he’s shaved and changed, he enters the restaurant feeling half human, his body still trying to catch up with the time he lost while slumbering.

  He is seated at a table near the window away from the large party of pensioners and the family with the screeching kids. He watches, both fascinated and mildly disgusted, as the two grimy-looking children gorge themselves with chicken nuggets and slurp at large glasses of bright blue juice that have a radio-active glow to them. The parents are oblivious to the noise and act is if they are the only two people in the room, refilling their glasses and chatting and laughing while their offspring fire food at one another and spill drinks on the starched white tablecloth.

  Gareth orders a craft beer and chooses the calamari starter followed by the surf ’n’ turf with an extra portion of chips. The beer arrives almost immediately and he takes a long swig, smacking his lips together appreciatively. He finds himself smiling at the taste of it, something he hasn’t done for some time. He was beginning to think he’d forgotten how to be happy. It feels good, as if he has somehow grown a couple of inches or is floating on air. Looking at the carnage on the other table with the noisy kids, he’s delighted he isn’t a father, especially to those two little bruisers.

  Turning to catch the barman’s eye, he orders another beer. The waiter is standing in the corner of the room speaking to a lady and pointing to the menu. She nods as he talks, thanks him and walks in Gareth’s direction. Gareth watches as she strides over and seats herself directly next to his table, then turns around, sees him and smiles.

  He is unsure how to react. He came here for food and a quiet beer. Of all the vacant tables in the place, she decides to sit right next to him? He returns the smile and watches as her face colours; a flush creeping up her neck and spreading over her face in a pink web. On a whim, he stands up and changes his chair, moving closer to her as he leans forward and holds out his hand.

  ‘Hi, I’m Gareth. Tell me to leave you alone if I’m bothering you. I know this sounds like the worst chat up line ever, but have we met somewhere before?’

  This is very unlike him. He is usually reserved to the point of being aloof but something about her has grabbed his attention. And she did smile at him. Technically she made the first move. He has no idea how she’ll respond to his words but continues to smile at her with his hand still outstretched. What’s the worst that can happen? She could ignore him, turn her back on him, in which case he will finish his beer and eat his meal then go to up to his room where he will watch some TV and post on social media about how drunk he is and how cold it is in the north. He will then drink some more beer and watch more rubbish TV before falling asleep, probably fully clothed.

  She doesn’t ignore him. She leans forward, shakes his hand in return and speaks in a soft voice that is so quiet he has to tune out the clatter of crockery behind him to hear what she is saying.

  ‘Perhaps. Actually not perhaps. We have met before. I owe you an apology for bumping into you earlier in the hotel lobby. I’m Celia, by the way.’

  There is an awkward silence as they watch one other, his eyes travelling the length of her slim frame, his gaze admiring her legs that seem to go on and on. He can’t help staring at them, locked provocatively together as she sits tilted to one side slightly away from him. He should have noticed the copper coloured hair; the same shade on the figure that knocked him sideways earlier. There is something about her that pulls at him; something deeply familiar even though he knows for sure they’ve never met before.

  ‘Do you want to pull up a chair here?’ she says, catching Gareth off guard. He had planned on eating on his own tonight but sitting with her suddenly seems very appealing. Infinitely preferable to dining alone and besides, sitting with her will help distract him from the appalling display from the monster children and their neglectful parents.

  ‘I’ve got some food coming. Do you want to join me here instead?’ he says, gesturing towards his table that’s set for only one.

  Her hesitancy is a momentary flicker and he’s relieved when she nods and picks up her bag to join him.

  It’s her hair; the way it shines dark auburn under the low lights. That’s what makes her seem so familiar.

  She orders a gammon steak and a glass of Chardonnay and they eat heartily, making small talk about the music festival taking place at the weekend and which is superior, the Steampunk phenomenon or the Goths currently roaming around the town.

  ‘You’re not from round here then?’ Gareth says casually as he pours himself a glass of wine from the bottle he ordered once the beers became too filling.

  ‘Not Whitby, no, but not too far away. I live in York,’ Celia replies dreamily.

  He watches the wine take hold; increasing the flush on her neck and slurring her speech slightly.

  ‘Ah. I knew you were a Yorkshire lass by your accent. A lovely city. What brings you here? The festival?’

  She laughs and shakes her head. ‘God no. Although I did get chatting to a couple of lovely young girls on the train journey who were going. I’ve come to visit a friend. What brings you here?’

  ‘My mother lives locally. I’ve come for a fleeting visit.’ Gareth feels his body tense up at the mention of his family.

  ‘And yet you’re staying at a hotel?’ She brings her hand up to her mouth and reaches out to touch his arm briefly. ‘Sorry, none of my business. Sometimes, I just open my mouth and out it comes!’

  He feels the electricity course through his body at her touch and smiles. ‘It’s absolutely fine. I prefer my own space and my mother’s choice of decor is stuck firmly in the 1970s. The rooms here are just fine for me.’

  She nods and removes her hand. He wants to tell her to leave it where it is. He wants to ask her to press her mouth onto his and to go up to his room with him. Instead he refills her glass and they talk some more about the weather and what a lovely city York is and lots of mundane topics until their wine is gone and they have nothing left to say to one another. The conversation may have dried up but his desire hasn’t.

  ‘Would you like another one in the bar?’ He expects to receive a firm ‘no’ but to his surprise and pleasure she agrees and they head off, her arm so close to his it makes it skin tingle with anticipation.

  ‘Why don’t we take them up to your room?’ Celia is standing facing him, her eyes alluring pools of warmth and seduction.

  By the time they reach the first floor, his hands are firmly placed around the back of her head, pulling her closer to him and his tongue is sliding between her teeth. They stumble along to the door at the far end of the corridor, impervious to the stares of the couple leaving their room next door.

  Gareth stops and fumbles with the handle; he feels her breath close to his, escaping in short bursts as they fall in through the open doorframe, a tangle of arms and legs locked firmly together, their glasses clinking, wine spilling in small spots on the carpet.

  His sweater is pulled roughly over his head and her hands pull at his belt. He stops her by sliding his hand under her blouse and unhooking her bra. She pushes him back and unbuttons her blouse, letting it fall to the floor in a tantalising silken heap.

  They are both undressed within seconds and slump onto the bed, Gareth on top of her, her legs wrapped tightly around his. Her hair is fanned out over the pillow and she lets out a soft moan as he presses himself into her.

  It’s over barely before it has begun, and Gareth rolls off her and hooks his arm under her neck, pulling her into his chest where she lays, her fingers softly stroking his stomach, circling his navel with her long painted fingernails. He had no idea such a simple action could be so erotic.

  ‘You remind me of someone,’ he says quietly. ‘I get the feeling we’ve met before. I know we haven’t, but you are the absolute double of my—’ He has no idea why he says it and as soon as the words are out of his mouth he wishes them back in again. Too late. He feels her entire body stiffen beside him. Her soft curves are suddenly s
harp and unwelcoming.

  He tries to stave off her obvious departure by running his fingers through her long auburn hair and kissing her neck and shoulders but the damage is done. Her defences are up.

  ‘I really should get going,’ she says, her tone still soft and gentle, a stark contrast against her body which is now pointed and tense.

  ‘Stay,’ he says, ‘please. You don’t need to dash off.’

  He thinks he’s persuaded her as she lets out a barely audible sigh and shifts slightly beside him, but before he can protest, she is up off the bed and striding into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  He waits, hoping she comes out and slides back in beside him but when the door finally opens again, she emerges with wet hair and is wrapped in a towel.

  ‘I took a quick shower. Hope you don’t mind.’

  He shakes his head and murmurs that it’s fine, wishing she would drop the towel so he can see her naked just one more time.

  She perches on the edge of the bed and leans forward as she slips into her clothes, and pushes her feet into her suede boots.

  ‘So who was it then?’ she asks as she turns to watch him. Gareth sits up, feeling vulnerable and slightly ill at ease at being the only one who is now nude.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, knowing exactly what it is she is about to ask, ‘who was what?’

  ‘Who was it I remind you of? That’s what you said a few moments ago, wasn’t it? That I remind you of somebody. I was just wondering who it was. Not an ex-girlfriend, I hope!’

  She lets out a forced giggle and tries to look composed but Gareth can see that she is rattled by his words. He has no idea why as they barely know each other but he regrets saying them all the same. It was crass and thoughtless but there’s no taking them back now.

  ‘Just a friend of a friend from a few years back,’ he says, hoping it’s enough to appease her. If there’s one thing that pisses him off, it’s women who throw tantrums at the mention of another female. It’s childish and puerile, and if women could understand men and how they think, they would know that it’s unnecessary because despite what women think and what the media would have them believe, not all men want to leer at any passing female and haul them into bed. They want to commit to relationships as well. Why do women think they have the monopoly on feelings and sentimentality? He loved Eva and look what she did to him; what she told him. That bitch broke his fucking heart.

  ‘Right,’ she replies sounding unconvinced, ‘well anyway, must dash. It’s been great, Gareth. I’m here for a couple more days, if you fancy a meet-up?’

  He nods, unsure if he really wants that now. Just a few seconds ago he would have given his right arm to see her naked again and now he is working out ways in which he can avoid bumping into her in the hotel. How quickly things can change. A few subtle movements, a couple of throwaway comments and before you know it, everything changes beyond recognition.

  He listens to her pad off down the hallway and lies back on the pillow, thinking that yet again, without him even realising it, Eva has penetrated his thoughts and caused another fucking great rip in his life. He opened his mouth and the first thing that came out was Eva related. It’s as if she has crawled right under his skin and is fucking well controlling everything he says and does. She is an itch that refuses to be scratched; a gaping, festering sore that simply will not heal.

  Tomorrow he will finally get the answers he craves and put an end to all of this and then maybe, just maybe, he won’t have to creep around the hotel hoping to avoid Celia. Perhaps once he sorts it, he can be on the next train back to London and settle into the original rhythm of his former life. A life before Eva. A life when he was content.

  He flicks the light off and turns on his side, the soporific effects of sex already taking effect. The last thing he sees before sleep takes him is the face of Celia slowly morphing into Eva’s, her long hair knotting together in an unruly, red mess, her teeth bared in anger, screaming his name and clawing at her face until her features are a pulpy mass of bloody, raw flesh.

  When he wakes a few hours later, the silence is all pervading. After a series of horrific nightmares, his body is coated in sweat, and he feels grubby and greasy, but his mind is clear, his thoughts ordered and precise. He knows then what it is he must do. It’s all so obvious; embedded in his brain like a permanent fixture.

  He craves a drink, the need for it so great it obliterates everything.

  He crawls out of bed – his limbs heavy with sleep, his anger at an all-time high – and pulls on his underwear and jeans and a warm sweater he bought as a windcheater while he is here. He leans into the mini bar and grabs at a miniature bottle of wine, twisting open the cap and glugging from it greedily. He stops and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, the acrid aftertaste flooding his mouth with a slightly acidic kick.

  He finishes it and opens another one, drinking it like it’s water until it is all gone. At the back of the tiny fridge he spots a bottle of Bacardi and a can of Coke. A smile spreads over his face as he lifts them out and cracks them both open. He pours them into a plastic cup that is sitting on the dressing table and drinks it in one whole gulp, the alcohol taking effect almost immediately.

  He smiles. This is all he needs for what he’s about to do. This and the white hot fury that is eating away inside him. It will help see him through his next task. And then he will pay a visit to his mother’s house to tell her exactly what he thinks of her. After that he will board the train and never return here.

  Draining the rest of the cup, he slams it down on the walnut top and zips up the sweater to his neck. No time to waste.

  He grabs his key, shoves it in his back pocket, closes the hotel door behind him and heads out into the night.

  19

  Celia

  She is furious, her heart pumping against her ribcage as she makes her way back to her room. What’s wrong with these people? Why can they not just accept her for who she actually is? First Eva accuses her of lying and emulating her looks and then this Gareth guy has the gall to fuck her while he was obviously thinking of somebody else. Celia did her best to remain calm, to not appear flustered or perturbed in any way by his words, but it was so damn hard. What he said hurt her. It was stupid and insensitive and yet again, she was the one who had to mask her real feelings, to plaster a smile on her face and be pleasant, when what she actually wanted to do was walk right over to him and shove something sharp deep into his ribs and twist it till he curled up and cried and shrieked like an animal stuck in a trap.

  Celia pads along the corridor and lets herself into her room, shame and anger consuming her. Is this what happens to decent people who spend their lives looking out for others? Because that is all she is doing; being a concerned friend and always trying to keep the peace. The decent folk, it would appear, get trodden underfoot by the egotistical and thoughtless people of the world who don’t seem to care about anybody but themselves. They have no idea how their selfish actions squeeze every last drop of energy out of those around them. If she could only be one of those people, then perhaps her life would have been a whole lot easier and she definitely wouldn’t spend her days worrying about somebody who obviously doesn’t give a shit about her.

  Pulling off her clothes she climbs into bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso, her skin still tingling from the hot shower in his room where she did her best to rid herself of the scent of him. She felt dirty, contaminated by his touch and scrubbed herself until every last trace of his DNA had been removed from her body.

  She should have known better really. He was too upfront, too charming by far. Men like Gareth always have a hidden agenda. They prowl and pounce, unconcerned about how others feel. Predators; that’s what they are. Her last boyfriend was the same – slick, smooth talking, keen to get her into bed. Her feelings mean nothing to them. She is just another notch on their bedposts.

  She rests her head back against the wrought iron bedstead, her eyes sore and gritty, a solid lump lod
ged in her throat, and assesses her life. She is in her mid-thirties, single, living in a rented flat above a bakery and has only one real friend worth speaking of. Or at least had only one real friend. After today it seems that even Eva has turned her back on her, accusing her of some terrible things, shouting at her that she has made up all sorts of tall tales. It’s not true. It’s Eva who is the deceitful one, the one who acts as if she doesn’t have a care in the world when they both know she is nothing but a conniving, dreadful liar.

  A lone tear spills out of Celia’s eye and rolls down her cheek. She leaves it there, not bothering to wipe it away. What’s the point? She had travelled here in the hope of helping somebody and in return has been used and abused. A small howl escapes from the back of her throat; raw and feral. What is the fucking point of it all?

  Celia sniffs and fiddles with a long strand of hair, twirling it around her finger, trying to decide what she should do next. She can’t leave without seeing Eva again. It’s out of the question, not when she has put in all this effort and travelled this far. And anyway, Celia is the civilised one; the courteous companion who does actually give a shit, and she will not leave until she sees Eva one last time. If nothing else, she at least has to make sure her weak and vulnerable friend is happy and safe, but at the same time Celia cannot risk another re-run of today. She has to find another way, a more subtle way of accessing her without being denied entry into her life. The one thing she still does have is her dignity, although even that is slowly but surely being stripped away bit by bit by bit; an erosion of her decorum until she is a husk of her former self.