by Tim O'Rourke
“Let’s not stand out here in the rain,” Tom said, fishing a set of keys from his coat pockets.
“This is your parents’ house, right?” I asked.
Tom pushed open one side of the wide front door and ushered me inside out of the rain and wind. “Yes,” he said, crossing a large circular hallway to an alarm panel on the wall. It had started to omit a chorus of high-pitched bleeps. Tom punched a series of numbers with his thumb and the noise stopped. He turned to face me. I looked past him at the broad staircase that led up into the dark. Tom switched on a lamp that stood on an ornate wooden stand.
“I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,” Tom said, taking off his coat and hanging it on a nearby coat and hat stand. He came across the hall and took mine from me.
“Your parents have a beautiful home,” I breathed, looking around at the oil paintings that hung from the walls, the china vases, and deeply piled rugs. “Was this where you lived as a boy?”
“Some of the time,” he said, leading me across the hall to another set of doors.
“Only some of the time?” I asked.
“Spent most of my time away at boarding school,” Tom said with a tinge of regret. “Only ever came home when the school broke for holidays.”
The door opened onto a sprawling kitchen. I could have fitted my poky flat into it ten times over. Everywhere I looked there were gleaming work surfaces, appliances, sinks, taps, tables, and chairs. It all looked too new, like none of it had ever been touched. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that if anything ever got the slightest scratch it was replaced at once. It was hard to believe that a single meal had ever been cooked here. The kitchen looked like something from a showroom.
“Does anyone ever cook in here?” I asked.
“Sure,” he smiled back at me. “My parents have a cleaner, but my mum cleans before the cleaner arrives. Says she doesn’t want the place looking untidy for when the cleaner turns up. My mother says it gives the wrong impression.”
“So what’s the point in hiring a cleaner?” I smiled back.
“Beats the shit out of me,” he grinned. “Would you like some tea?”
I glanced down at my watch. It was nearly half past one in the morning. I was tired and cold. Even though, I said, “Okay that will be nice.”
Tom filled a kettle that looked as if it had just been taken out of its box. I sat at the long wooden kitchen table and watched him as he prepared our drinks.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder at me. “I could make some cheese on toast or…”
“No, I’m fine,” I said with a shake of my head. I got the feeling that Tom was trying to make conversation – idle chit-chat to fill the silences that fell between us.
“Tom, is everything okay?” I asked him.
“Yeah,” he said without looking back at me, splashing milk into the steaming cups of tea. “Why shouldn’t it be?”
“You haven’t been the same since we left that picnic area,” I said. “Since you threw away that waitress’s number. Why didn’t you keep it? I thought you liked her…”
“I didn’t like her,” Tom cut in, placing the cup of tea he made for me down onto the table. I placed my hands around the cup to warm them. “What I mean is, I didn’t like her the way you think I liked her.”
“Oh,” I said, taking a sip of my tea. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I know you didn’t,” he said, stirring his tea with a small silver spoon. I watched Tom from over the rim of my cup and couldn’t help but think he was on the verge of blurting something out but couldn’t quite find the right words. He looked at me, then away again, down at his tea.
Then guessing I knew what was wrong, I said, “Tom, you know I wouldn’t have minded you calling that girl. I wouldn’t have got jealous or anything. I know we’ve spent a lot of time together recently, but I just think of you as a good friend. You don’t have to worry, it’s not as if I’ve got the hots for you or anything. It was kind of you to think of my feelings though.” I knew deep down that part of what I said was a lie. My feelings for Tom did run deeper than purely friendship, but I could never tell him that. I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of letting him know that perhaps my feelings were changing the more time I spent with him, when he thought of me as just his friend. So I buried those feelings deep and the little pang of jealously I suspected I would have felt if he had kept that waitress’s number.
“Just friends then?” Tom said, looking at me and I couldn’t help but think his smile was forced somehow.
“Just friends,” I smiled back, taking another sip of my tea.
“Good,” he whispered and looked away.
Tom
Just friends wasn’t what I wanted to hear Kiera say, but at least I knew how she felt about me. It saved me from spilling my guts to her only to end up looking like a complete and utter jerk. My stomach knotted like I’d been punched as I heard her say those words, and I had to look away. I couldn’t meet her stare. I knew Kiera saw a lot and I didn’t want her to see how suddenly crushed I felt knowing that there would never be anything more than just friendship between us. But that was good, right? At least we were friends. Friends stayed friends forever. Maybe if something more had developed between me and Kiera, and it had all gone wrong at some future point, then the chances are that we would have lost our friendship too. But what if things had worked out between us? I pushed that thought away. There was little point in torturing myself.
“I don’t know about you,” I said, pouring the dregs of my tea into the sink and washing them away, “but I think I’ll go to bed. I’m whipped.” All I really wanted to do was bury my head beneath my pillow.
“Sure,” Kiera said, pushing her chair back from the table. “Where should I sleep?”
With me! Stop it, Tom, I told myself and bit my tongue. “There are plenty of spare rooms,” I said instead, leading Kiera from the kitchen.
She picked up her case from where she had left it by the front door and followed me upstairs. I switched on lights as we went. At the top of the stairs I led Kiera along the landing, stopping outside the door of one of the spare rooms.
“You’ll find everything you need inside,” I said, looking at her. “There is an Ensuite bathroom and shower, fresh towels… and… if there is anything else that I haven’t thought of then I’m right next door.”
“Thanks,” Kiera said, pushing open the door to the spare bedroom. She glanced inside then back at me.
I looked back into her bright hazel eyes that were framed with long black lashes. On tiptoe, Kiera suddenly lent forward and kissed me softly on the cheek. “Goodnight, Tom,” she said, stepping into the room, closing the door and leaving me alone on the landing.
With a smile of happiness – or perhaps it was regret – I went to my room, closing the door behind me.
Kiera
I woke and at first I had that horrible feeling of disorientation that you get when you wake to find yourself in unfamiliar surroundings. Remembering that I was at Tom’s parents’ house, I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes against the bright sunlight that poured through the large windows into my room. The huge bed had been so soft I couldn’t even remember falling asleep the night before. With my eyes shut tight, all I could remember was saying goodnight to Tom and closing the door behind me. Opening one eye, I glanced at my wrist watch that I must have taken off and placed on small nest of drawers next to the bed. It had gone eleven and I’d slept most of the morning away. I stretched, wriggling my toes beneath the sheets. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I went to the bathroom. From below I could hear the sound of pots and pans rattling in the kitchen and music playing. After showering and dressing in jeans and a sweater, I left my room and headed downstairs. I crossed the large hallway and went into the kitchen. Tom was cooking scrambled eggs. The kitchen smelt of toast.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up,” Tom smiled, piling a mound of scrambled eggs onto two slices of
buttered toast.
“Have you been awake long?” I asked, taking a seat at the table and pouring myself a cup of tea from the pot.
“Long enough to take a five mile run, shower, and cook you breakfast,” he said, placing a plate on the table.
The eggs looked light and fluffy on the toast.
“You haven’t been for a five mile run, you liar,” I teased him, sprinkling pepper onto the eggs.
“Okay, two miles,” he laughed, sitting across the table from me and watching me eat. “But it’s still further than you’ve run this morning.”
“I was so tired,” I said, starting to eat my breakfast. Tom was back to his bright and confident self. Whatever the problem had been last night, it had obviously passed. I guessed he had just been tired like me.
“So what do you fancy doing today?” he asked.
“What is there to do around here?” I asked, looking out of one of the many kitchen windows at the acres of fields. “It looks pretty remote around here.”
“It is,” Tom smiled. “Why do you think I always try and avoid coming back? I thought that perhaps we could test each other for our next police exam and this evening we could go and see Derren Splitfoot.”
“Who’s Derren Splitfoot?” I asked around a mouthful of toast.
“He’s a medium,” Tom said.
“Like a psychic?”
“I guess,” Tom shrugged.
“I didn’t know you believed in that kind of stuff?” I asked, surprised by his suggestion.
“I don’t,” Tom said, with a shrug. “But this guy comes once or twice a year to the local pub and holds a séance. Usually it’s full of old ladies wanting to make a connection with their dead husbands, that sort of thing. But he’s meant to be like really good. Some lady my mother knows went to one of his séances and she was really freaked out by it.”
“Why?” I asked, my interest in this Mr. Splitfoot growing.
“Well, all these psychics are meant to have some kind of spirit guide, like a Red Indian or something” Tom started to explain. “Anyway, this Derren Splitfoot’s spirit guide is meant to be some young girl. Apparently when he gets going, you can hear this girl talking. Some even claim to have seen her.”
“It has to be some kind of an illusion,” I said.
“Exactly,” Tom beamed. “But no one has ever been able to figure out how this Splitfoot guy does it. Until tonight that is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
Tom pushed a copy of the local newspaper across the table at me. “See, this Derren Splitfoot, is holding a séance tonight and you’re going to figure out how he tricks people into believing they can hear and see this dead girl.”
“Now hang on a minute…” I started, raising my hands.
“Go on, Kiera, it will be fun,” Tom beamed, that sparkle back in his eyes. “It will be fun trying to figure it out. Besides, this guy is nothing more than a conman. He’s got to be. After all, there are no such things as ghosts.”
I looked at him across the table, a grin stretched right across his face. It was the first time I had seen him truly smile since throwing away that waitress’s phone number. Rolling my eyes and sighing, I said, “Okay, I’ll go with you. But if we do figure out how this guy Splitfoot is conjuring up this dead girl’s voice – spirit – whatever you want to call it, we keep it to ourselves. A lot of people believe in this stuff. It brings some people a lot of comfort.”
“Okay, okay,” Tom said, springing up from his chair. “You can help me make a cake.”
“Cake?” I frowned. “I thought we were going to revise for our police exams.”
“We can do that while we bake,” Tom said, rubbing his hands together with glee.
“Why do we need to bake a cake?” I asked.
“Everyone who attends the séance has to take a treat along for the little girl…” Tom started to explain.
“What? The freaking ghost?” I tried not to laugh.
“Yeah, I know, sounds crazy, right?” Tom chuckled. “But this Mr. Splitfoot reckons that the more sweets and treats that are brought the more likely his spirit guide – this dead girl – will come through. She must have had a real sweet tooth when she was alive.”
“Either that, or Mr. Splitfoot owns a sweetshop,” I said. “So the cake is instead of payment?”
“No, you have to buy a ticket as well as taking along sweets and cake,” Tom said.
“How much are the tickets?” I asked.
“Twenty pounds each,” Tom said.
“Twenty pounds!” I cried.
“I told you he was a conman,” Tom said.
“And I guess you want me to pay for you, too?” I asked, knowing that he was skint.
“No, I can pay for myself,” Tom said, reaching into a nearby cookie jar. He pulled out a bunch of notes. “My mother’s emergency stash – pay the window cleaner, that sort of thing.”
“I’m beginning to suspect this Mr. Splitfoot isn’t the only conman around here,” I said, prodding Tom in the ribs with my finger.
Tom
While I baked the cake, Kiera sat with the textbooks open in her lap and asked me questions about police evidence and procedure. In the background the radio played. When a particular song came on that we both liked, Kiera would put the textbook to one side and we would either sing raucously together or I would chase her about the kitchen table with my flour covered hands. I had never had so much fun studying – if that’s what we were really doing. With James Blunt singing Heart to Heart blasting from the radio, I managed to ensnare Kiera in my arms. With her giggling and trying to push me away, I flicked flour from my fingers at her. Kiera yelped with delight as I chased after her again, arms out before me like one of those zombies I enjoyed shooting so much in video games.
Trapped in the corner of the kitchen and her hands to her face, I looked at her, and smiling said, “Come here.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head of long black hair. “You’ll put flour on me again.”
Reaching for a nearby tea towel, I wiped the flour and cake mix from my fingers. “All gone,” I said, raining my hands in the air.
“What do you want?” she half-smiled, stepping away from the corner toward me.
When she was within touching distance, I pulled her close. “You’ve got flour on your nose,” I said, brushing it gently away with my thumb.
Giggling at my touch, she looked up into my eyes. “Has it all gone?”
“Nope,” I said. “There’s a smudge here.” I brushed flour from her cheek.
“Anywhere else?” she said, no longer laughing but looking at me.
“Here,” I said, one arm about her waist as I lightly brushed white dust from her chin.
“Is that the last of it?” Kiera said, her eyes never leaving mine.
“And here,” I said, daring to brush the tip my thumb over her lower lip.
She didn’t flinch or move away at my touch, and if I were ever to kiss Kiera Hudson, that was the moment. But that moment became two, three, then four. And the longer it lasted, the weaker the spell that had suddenly fallen over us grew, then faded altogether. The music stopped and the silence became deafening.
“Perhaps I should go and clean up properly,” Kiera whispered, easing herself from my arms and heading for the kitchen door.
“Okay, sure,” I said, my heart racing. I turned back to the cake I’d been making.
Kiera
With my skin still tingling from where Tom had touched me, I raced across the hall. I climbed the stairs two at a time. I headed down the hall and back to my room. Pushing open the door, I darted inside. With my heart racing, I pressed my back against the door and waited for my breathing to level out. What was happening to me? What was I thinking? I needed to get a grip of myself. I had been a heartbeat away from kissing Tom and making a complete fool of myself. I dropped onto the bed.
I felt my cheeks flush hot at the thought of what might have happened if I had actually lost my
mind and kissed him. I would’ve never been able to look him in the eye again out of complete embarrassment. And what would have poor Tom thought? He would have been embarrassed too. I could have ruined everything. I could have ruined our friendship. I sat up on the edge of the bed and felt angry with myself for being so foolish. I usually had more sense. I still had ten weeks or more of training school to get through with Tom. Did I really want to spend those next ten weeks trying to keep out of Tom’s way because I’d embarrassed the both of us? Why risk the amazing friendship I had found with Tom, all for a kiss? I must be losing my mind.
I touched my cheek where Tom had wiped the flour away. I slowly let my hand drop back into my lap. And however much I told myself to not be so stupid and to get my feelings in check, I couldn’t scrub away how good it felt to be held in his arms, to have our faces just inches apart while he looked down into my eyes, his hands soft against my face. I had never been held like that before. I had never felt feelings like that before.
Kiera, stop it! I told myself, springing up from the edge of the bed. I went to the bathroom where I ran myself a cool shower. Stripping off my clothes I stepped beneath the water. I washed the flour from my hair and the feeling of Tom’s touch against my skin.
Even though I had long since climbed from the shower and put on a clean top and jeans, I stayed in my room. I sat by the window just like I spent so much of my time doing in my rented rooms back in Havensfield. I looked out across the fields. My intention was to stay in my room until the time came for us to leave for the séance. I hoped that by then, Tom would have forgotten all about what had happened in the kitchen. Tom wasn’t stupid and he would’ve known I was hoping that he would have kissed me. If we were ever going to kiss, that would have been the moment. And the fact that Tom didn’t kiss me proved that I was right in my suspicions that he saw me as nothing more than a friend. I know, because I see everything!
