Finding Eva: a thrilling psychological suspense

by J. A. Baker

  The idea doesn’t come to her straightaway but when it does, she all but shrieks out loud into the surrounding silence. Of course. It’s suddenly all so clear. She can’t believe she didn’t think of it earlier. After all the effort she has put in, all the planning and scheming, this is an obvious move. She knows exactly where Eva’s parents live. She could turn up there and enlighten them, tell them what their estranged daughter is really like, let them know what Eva is truly capable of. She will be their protector. She will stop the worst from happening and in the long run, they will all thank her for it, Eva included. She needs Celia to look out for her before she does something stupid, something permanent. Something that once done, cannot be taken back.

  Excitement balloons in her belly, warming her through. She presses her face into the pillow to stifle her near hysterical laughter. At least now she will be able to sleep knowing she is back in control. Fuck Eva and her denials and lies and downright selfish behaviour. Fuck Gareth and his careless words and the way he used Celia for sex and then discarded her like a worn out piece of old rag. She will show Eva just how clever she is and how her friend cannot possibly function without her. Celia has her own schemes and plans, her own way of getting out of this stalemate situation that she has suddenly found herself in.

  She lets out a contented sigh and stretches, wiping away the tears and running her hands through her hair in a smooth rhythmic fashion. This is better. This is how it was always supposed to be. Everything is settling back into place, and pretty soon it will be damn near perfect. She will have the only person she has ever truly loved or cared about back in her life. Eva will soon be hers again. They will spend time together and become even closer than they were before Eva left for London. Eva will look up to her and respect her and be the friend Celia has always wanted her to be. And that is all she has ever wanted.

  20

  Eva

  I consider leaving the chair there overnight but then years of health and safety training taps at my brain, telling me it’s dangerous to be locked in. What if there’s a fire and I’m trapped upstairs and the door is jammed solid downstairs? I visualise the fire service struggling to force their way into the only entrance into the flat while smoke and fumes fill my lungs on the upper floor. I would be dead before they could break the door down and rescue me. Reluctantly, I remove the chair, the only barrier between my safety and Celia and her ever-growing displays of insanity and fling it to one side.

  Telling myself she would have come back by now if she was going to do anything untoward, I trudge back upstairs, engulfed by fatigue. Today hasn’t been the best of days – far from it – and I’m in desperate need of my bed.

  I wander around the flat, checking the windows are shut properly and curtains and blinds are closed. The last thing I want is to wake in the middle of the night and wander into the bathroom for a pee while Gareth or Celia are downstairs staring in at me.

  My stomach plummets at the thought of Gareth. Never seeing Celia again is something I can definitely handle, in fact I would welcome it, but the idea that I will never see Gareth again causes me actual physical pain. Look at what my life has already become without him by my side. The thought of going another thirty or forty years without having him around makes me go cold. That’s not to say I don’t feel utter shame at what I did. Of course I do. I’m not a monster. I never meant to hurt him. I simply got carried away and my outpouring of love for him was so great I crossed a line and I don’t blame him one little bit for hating me. Every time I think of it, I hate myself.

  It’s after 11pm by the time I feel settled enough to get into bed. A headache is already setting in behind my eyes and I am dizzy with exhaustion.

  I slide down between the sheets and soon feel myself sinking into oblivion, a comfortable blackness so deep I couldn’t claw my way out of it even if I wanted to. The air around me is light, all the noise from outside slowly dissipating leaving me cocooned in a cloud of nothingness.

  I dream of being weightless. I am flying through a vast cloudless sky, my body soaring above the ground. I look down to see people below me milling about and wonder if they can see me flying above them like a bird, swooping and diving, my body streamlined into a graceful arc.

  I slow and, for a minute, I fear I might fall from the sky, but I only have to kick my legs to speed up again, moving swiftly over the hills and the sea, watching as the waves below thrash around and crash into the rocks with a bang, beating into the cliff face before retreating again. There is no breeze, no chill factor at all, just warmth and movement, smooth and effortless.

  I fly away from the water and move back over the land. In the distance I hear the sound of the chatter from below, the banging and clattering of movements from the people down there. There is the slamming of a car door beneath me as I fly overhead. I smile. I’m as invisible as the wind. A ghostly being spying on the world below me.

  It’s an amazing sensation. It feels fabulous; relaxing, soothing. I don’t want it to end.

  But it does.

  Suddenly everything changes. I’m heavy and feel myself sinking into the darkness, my body weight returning to normal. My head throbs and terror slithers over my flesh. I know what this is; I know all too well what is coming next. I try to stop it but I’m too tired to put up any sort of resistance.

  Everything closes in on me. I am no longer free as a bird. I’m trapped in a confined space and I feel a pressing sensation on my limbs, a slow pressure that locks me into position. A familiar fear creeps in as I try to move, my entire body rocking with the force of attempting to free myself out of the paralysis that now has me in its grip. My breath catches in my throat and my skull pounds, blood roaring through my ears as the heavy feeling on my chest and abdomen increases.

  I tell myself to relax, to just go with it, be carried along with it until my body is able to free itself, but the usual all consuming feelings of terror at being trapped always win over any rational thought, and in no time at all I am panting and gasping for breath as the paralysis grows. I feel as if I can hardly breathe. A gurgling noise fills my head and I want to scream out but I am powerless, everywhere solid and immobile. My face burns, and from somewhere nearby I hear a grunting noise. It sounds as if it’s coming from over my head and yet I know there is nobody here but me.

  Again, I try to move my head, but there is such an enormous pressure bearing down on me, I feel sure I’ll never be able to free myself. The rattling, gurgling sound is there again and my mouth and tongue feel swollen, my thoughts distorted as I struggle for breath.

  This is it. This is the time that sleep paralysis will win. I will never wake up and will be stuck forever in a terrifying limbo, a hellish nightmare where I can’t move or breathe. Left in the darkness forever more.

  The weight on my entire upper body grows heavier and heavier until my face and neck feel as if they are about to burst. I gasp and judder, a thick pulse hammering away in my neck.

  That’s when I realise. Something has changed. This is all wrong; different. It doesn’t feel like the other times. The heaviness on me is greater and my head is pounding like my skull is about to crack open.

  I push all my force into my left hand and feel my fingers form into a claw. My upper arm feels as if it’s made out of iron as I try to lift it up to alleviate the horrible intense pressure on my ribs and throat. I want to scream, my mouth slowly forming an O shape. Nothing comes out; just a rush of hot air that circles in front of me, pungent and acrid.

  I can no longer stand this. I have to free myself. I give one last mighty push and suddenly snap awake.

  The nightmare, however, continues. I can’t move or breathe. A shadow looms over me, hot and heavy, its breath sickly and stale. The reek of alcohol wafts into my mouth. I retch and gasp and scratch at the shadow. Except it’s not a shadow. My hand hits something firm as I flail about, striking fabric with solidity underneath it. I want to let out a terrified shriek but something is pressing on my throat. Constricting, squeezing. Crushi
ng the very life out of me.

  I feel my eyes bulge. My heart thrashes out a horrible erratic thud and I just know that if I don’t do something to shake this presence off and do it soon, to free myself of this thing, then I will die.

  I bring my legs up and thrash them about, wriggling my backside and hips in the process. Something shifts, only slightly, an almost imperceptible reallocation of weight, releasing the pressure and pain on my throat. Not too much, but enough to allow me a couple of seconds to gather some more strength – strength I didn’t know I possessed – where I rock to one side and throw the shadow away from me. It’s short lived.

  In no time at all, they are back on top of me, their hands scrabbling about for purchase, pushing my head back, trying to grab at my throat. I roll and buck about making myself as slippery and unmanageable as possible, gasping and choking, trying to suck as much air into my oxygen-deprived lungs as I can.

  I claw, spit, gasp, kick my legs around, thrash my exhausted body about in the hope of dislodging the entity that is on top of me, pinning me down, trying to kill me.

  Once again, hot heavy fingers find my throat and clasp around my windpipe but I am fast to respond. I feel skin close to my face and without a moment to spare I crane my head slightly and sink my teeth into the warm flesh, deep and hard, ripping and tearing, clenching my teeth together around the skin, pulling, grinding, doing all I can to save myself. I feel a layer of flesh come away slightly, and gag as fresh warm blood soaks into my mouth.

  There is a roar of pain and a light smack to the side of my face. But more than that, there is a release of pressure from my chest and throat. I can breathe again. I am free.

  Still thrashing about to defend myself against any incoming blows, I roll off the bed and land on the floor in an inelegant heap, my bones rattled by the sheer force of the fall onto the floorboards. No matter. Not enough time to nurse any possible broken bones or bruises or swellings. I need to get away, to call the police, to save my life.

  I crawl away, my hands clasped at my neck, my throat burning, my lungs still struggling to get enough air in. I need to breathe properly. I have to get some oxygen into my bloodstream if I’m to do this, if I am to get away from this person who wants me dead.

  I manage to haul myself up to a crawling position, spitting out flecks of skin and blood, gagging and gasping for air. My neck feels as if it could snap at any moment and my tongue is too big for my mouth. I have no time for nursing my ailments. Creeping along the floor, my hands pad up the side of the bedside cabinet. My phone. I need to locate my phone.

  Out of the darkness, hot fingers grab at my ankle, pulling me hard onto the floor with a thump, my chin hitting the wooden slats as I land. My teeth crack together and there is an explosion of pain behind my eyes. All I can think about is the gap that will be where my two front teeth should be and worry that they have flown out of my mouth and are scattered all over the floor. No time to check. I bring my free foot back and kick out as hard as I can. There is a satisfying crack as I connect with something. I feel skin and bone beneath my heel and a shriek ensues.

  The hand gripping my ankle goes slack and I scramble up off the floor, running my tongue clumsily over my teeth. All present and correct. I would smile but everything is too painful, my tongue thick and heavy, my mouth too swollen and sore.

  I stagger to the far wall and switch on the light, ready to grab the heavy lamp that’s sitting on the chest of drawers next to me. I may be injured but I have enough strength to swing it hard and connect with bone; to do enough damage to save my own skin. My fingers are trembling and slick with sweat and my legs so weak they feel as if they are made of liquid but I will do what is required to save myself; to stay alive and find out who it is that is doing this thing to me.

  I don’t notice the blood dripping from my chin onto the beige rug, nor do I care about the ripped bed sheets that are slowly staining crimson, a dark hue spreading and blooming over the entire mattress. I don’t even register the pain any more that is ripping through my body.

  Because all I can focus on is him.

  Gareth.

  He is curled up there on the floor, nursing a bleeding arm and what appears to be a broken nose. His uninjured arm is held up to his face and his hand is cupped around it, catching the blood as it runs from his nostrils in thick snotty lumps.

  I let out a ragged breath, my thoughts racing, trying to process it all. I attempt to speak but words fail me. Gareth. I know he hates me but never thought him capable of this. He has tried to kill me. A pain shoots over my head making me woozy and nauseous.

  I stare at the shrivelled figure before me and shake my head. I am hurt, upset, terrified. This person, this mess curled up on the floor, has just tried to murder me. I can’t quite believe it. How far reaching is his loathing for me? I knew he was angry. There was no denying that, but this? When I thought him capable of hurting me I didn’t actually think he would go through with it. I visualised him following me, making idle threats, crying even. But not this.

  ‘Why?’ I manage to say weakly, my tongue feeling as if it has been hit with a mallet.

  He doesn’t answer, just sits there moaning and rocking back and forth, blood spilling from his hands and running through his fingers, a pool of red slowly spreading around him.

  ‘Why?’ I shout, more force in my tone than I thought possible given how battered and sore I feel.

  ‘Because I’m so fucking angry with you! That’s why!’ he splutters, snot and spit and blood mixing and merging in a frothing, sticky mess on his face. ‘I am just so fucking furious with you that I wanted to kill you with my bare hands!’

  ‘Kill me?’ I half howl. ’Kill me?’

  ‘Yes!’ he roars from behind his wet, bloodied palm. ‘Yes, I wanted to kill you. I’ve thought about nothing else since that night!’

  I slump on the edge of the bed; a trickle of blood on the satin quilt snakes its way through a bundle of bunched up fabric and heads towards my leg. I don’t move. I should feel repulsed and squirm about to escape it but I don’t. I just sit there. My heart is still thudding and a line of static curls over my skull, threatening to split it in two. I close my eyes and rub at my forehead.

  ‘But you can’t kill me,’ I say with more conviction than I feel.

  ‘Why?’ he moans, his voice guttural and charged with menace. ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take a knife and plunge it into your fucking neck!’

  ‘One good reason?’ I wail at him. ‘I’ll give you one very good reason why you shouldn’t kill me. Because I’m your sister!’ I scream, tears streaming, snot bubbling. I drag a hand across my face to wipe it away. ‘I’m your sister,’ I repeat, my words a whisper in the near silence of the room.

  It takes him a few seconds to reply. His voice is stone and laced with such coldness it makes me shudder.

  ‘That’s exactly why I want to kill you. What kind of a sick fuck are you? For God’s sake, Eva, we slept together. Have you any idea how fucking wrong this all is?’ His eyes are blazing and the stream of blood from his nose has now thinned out to a small line. It trails out of his nose and merges with the sticky rapidly coagulating blood on his face.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ If Gareth can get in then so can Celia. For all I know there could be a line of people outside my door waiting to hurt me. After tonight, anything seems possible.

  ‘You think an ancient old lock can’t be picked, Eva?’ he replies from behind his hand.

  I shrug and stare helplessly at the floor, words deserting me when I need them the most. I genuinely don’t know what else to say, how to make any of this any better. Deep down I should have known how angry he was, but never in a million years did I think he was capable of this. Then again, a few years back I wouldn’t have thought myself capable of incest but it happened, didn’t it? I wish I could pinpoint the time when my feelings changed towards him. It was a slow process of connection. I had gone to live in London to be near him after finding out he existed.
Keeping tabs on my family was all I could focus on once I was adult enough to know how. Gareth had been born after I was taken into care. In fact, if my dates are correct, our mother was probably pregnant with him when the only family photograph I have of me with my parents was taken; me sitting with them, Gareth safely lodged in her uterus, away from all the harm and distress. I don’t mind admitting that after I discovered he was out there I became obsessed with him. Who wouldn’t develop the same feelings after spending their entire life thinking they were an only child? Apart from Nancy, who brought me up after I was removed and helped me through the worst of times when the contact for my parents set up by social services failed to materialise, and Greta, who stepped in when Nancy became too old and ill to continue, I had nobody else.

  Time after time my parents had let me down, not turning up to see me or giving feeble excuses, until in the end it was decided that no contact at all was better for my well-being rather than sporadic half-hearted attempts from parents who couldn’t care less about their daughter. I was alone in the world. Greta was amazing and I loved her, but she wasn’t my family – not my biological family. I crave being wanted; it’s all I think about day in, day out.

  It had been decided by a team of social workers that Gareth’s existence should be kept secret from me. My mother had refused to have me back, and as for my father – as far as I am aware – he was too drunk or too absent to care. I was nobody’s child. They felt that a clean break would be better for all concerned. And just look what it’s done to me. I am a needy, grasping individual who will stoop to any level to feel wanted and loved. Even sleeping with my own brother.

  My relationship with Gareth didn’t start that way. It’s not as if I sought him out with the sole intention of making him my boyfriend. I may be damaged but I’m not a complete psychopath. Once I was aware of his existence, I tracked him down and visited him with some cock and bull story about setting up my own business and needing software advice. We spent a couple of weeks messaging each other, my excitement at discovering I had a sibling at an all-time high.