by Emily James
“Dad, we have something in common.” Until now I wondered if we’re even related. We look, talk and act differently. “I can’t cook. I’m rubbish at it.” I’m happy something so ridiculous enables me to relate to my father.
“Well would you look at that, my daughter, just like her old man. We must be destined for greater things,” he chuckles. “I could go out for food. You like pizza?”
“Pepperoni?”
“Ha, I’m surprised your mother lets you eat that. Is she still vegetarian? Ha. She’s the only vegetarian I know with a nut allergy.” Dad’s face creases with distaste, speaking about Mum, forgetting she died.
I freeze. It takes me a while to find my words.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I say. I don’t tell him I sometimes pretend she’s still here, that I’ve even held conversations with people who didn’t know, telling them that, yes, Paris was wonderful and no, she didn’t try the snails, never even mentioning she's no longer here.
Dad still looks sad and I want to ease his hurt. “I never told her I ate pepperoni. She’d be horrified,” I tell him.
“I’m so proud of you,” he replies.
“I know, Dad. Pepperoni’s important, right?”
Dad smiles tenderly and puts on his coat.
“I’ll just be awhile. There’s mail for you on the counter,” he says and the door slams shut behind him.
* * *
Somehow the small, white envelope appears sinister, taunting me from the counter.
I’d already mentioned to Dad I wanted a clean break from Tommy. That I’d prefer he didn’t know where I was. I lied and said he could contact me on social media if he needed to get in touch. I deactivated my accounts months ago.
Dad told me he hadn’t given Tommy my contact details. Sue had Dad’s email address as she’d agreed to keep an eye on the estate, for a fee. Dad had arranged a regular bank transfer and I said that I'd reimburse him once my accounts were straight. I actually meant when I found a job. It was Dad that assumed I meant when I redirected my accounts to American banks. This bought me time in which to figure out how I was going to get by.
For now, I had more immediate problems.
I tell myself this, repeating it like a mantra: The letter is not from him, stay calm.
I continue my mantra as I switch on the kettle and pull out the box of English Breakfast Tea Dad bought me, knowing it was my favourite.
The smell of the tea, as it steeps in the mug, reminds me of my mum and better times. We did nothing without a cup of tea first. I’m calmer as I’m reminded of our old, oak kitchen table and the smell of the Aga Oven warming the kitchen. I add the milk and sweetener as I will myself calm.
It’s probably just junk mail, I tell myself.
Decidedly braver I approach the counter.
A hand-written letter addressed to: Amber Boland–Scott.
I recognise the acerbic, sharp scrawl and freeze. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my heart thumps.
He’s found me. He’s had plenty of time; I’ve been in the hospital for four months. As if after everything he’d just let me walk away. I should have known he wasn’t finished with me yet. I’m reminded of the first time I tried to end it.
* * *
The first few days that I didn’t hear from Tommy, I hoped he’d moved on, until the texts started. They oscillated from friendly and cute—suggesting a drink; to hurtful and vile—when I declined.
Our friends were Tommy’s friends. Stacey latched onto me when Tommy showed an interest in me. I guess it was my newly founded popular status.
It was Stacey’s birthday. She’d been texting and guilt tripping me about not making time to see her so I agreed to meet her at our regular pub. She had promised Tommy wouldn’t be there.
When I arrived, I went straight over to see Stacey, hoping to give her the present and leave. There was a big crowd, most of whom I was at least familiar.
Tim, Stacey’s boyfriend, wasn’t pleased to see me. I assumed that he chose Tommy’s side in the break-up. He nudged Stacey, said something in her ear and then she turned to me smiling. I leaned in to hug her, to say Happy Birthday, but her face hardened and she leaned away.
“What are you doing here, slut!”’ she shouted, over the beat of the jukebox.
Stacey’s other friends backed away, giving us space but continuing to watch.
My face reddened, I wasn’t expecting her to be rude, we had only been texting that morning.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“What, you think it’s okay to screw other guys behind Tommy’s back? You bitch. You really think you’re something special, don’t you?”
She was causing a scene and the surrounding crowd was getting bigger.
“What? I haven’t,” I stuttered, tears prickling in my eyes.
Stacey sniggered as she looked down to my side. I follow her smirk to my leg; the denim on my leg was darkening and began to feel disgustingly warm. I wondered for a moment if someone had tossed their drink at me, but when I turned around, Tim was standing behind me, urinating on my leg.
The crowd watched like it was a car crash, unable to look away.
A few guys to the side of me started laughing. One had his phone out recording my humiliation.
Stacey smiled on smugly.
I wasn’t oblivious to Stacey’s nasty side; I’d just never been on the receiving end of it before. Disgusted with Stacey and with myself for falling for it, I turned to leave, pushing the crowd out of my way as I stormed out.
“That’s it, run off—Skank!” Stacey called after me.
The crowd laughed and whistled as I ran out of the pub. Realisation hit me like a wall. I had no Tommy, no friends, and I couldn’t go to the hospice to visit Mum reeking of urine and sobbing my heart out; I couldn’t dissolve my mother’s remaining strength by telling her what just happened.
My clothes were off my body by the time I hit the last stair. I couldn’t wait for the water in the shower to warm so I stood under the cold jet, scrubbing myself raw. The hurt and humiliation wouldn’t wash away. The echoes of their sneers played on repeat in my mind.
When I finished in the shower, I walked into my room, switching on the lights and dressing fast. Not bothering to dry my hair, I went downstairs and picked up my phone. I needed to call Mum, to tell her I was running late. My phone had seventy-eight notifications—the guy at the bar must have uploaded his video.
Any strength I had evaporated, I was completely out of courage.
* * *
“Did you change your mind yet?” Tommy stood leaning against the front door, blocking my exit.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in the house?” Tommy gave me back the key when I broke up with him.
“Amber, what’s wrong? You’re a state.” Tommy said, making his way toward me.
I hadn’t stopped crying since I left the bar, but I knew his cronies would have told him by now.
“What did you tell Stacey? What did you tell Tim to do?” I yelled. It all made sense now. He told me no one else would want me and he’d proved it. I no longer had friends I could trust, everyone’s convinced I’m a complete whore and now I’m a laughing stock.
“Hey. They drew their own conclusions. I didn’t force anyone to say or do anything.” A familiar cold stare glares back at me. A million miles away from the cheeky, popular boy who flirted his way into my heart.
“Don’t lie, you either planted the idea or encouraged it. They all hang off your every word.”
“It didn’t take a lot to convince them, why is that I wonder? If you didn’t act like such a slut, if you didn’t think you were better than everyone else, perhaps there might have been someone ready to leap to your defence. I take it you’ve showered off now?” Tommy said, his face twisting into a smug smile.
It wasn’t the first time his words had stung. I’d been more and more isolated since meeting Tommy, even more so since Mum got sick. Tommy had a sick sense of tapping into yo
ur weak spots.
“I want you out of my house and out of my life.” I brushed past him, having every intention of storming out of the house.
Tommy grabbed me by the throat, lifting me up and slamming my back against the wall.
“Why do you make things hard on yourself, Amber? I said I was sorry about Matilda, but you had to hold a grudge. The girl with the big house too fucking stuck up for Tommy Stone.” His eyes were just inches from mine, my feet barely skimming the floor.
I tried to say, “Please don’t,” but only strangled half noises came out. His grip was too firm.
He must have let go when I passed out because I remember when I woke; it was the first time I knew beyond a doubt he was capable of murder.
* * *
A dog barking pulls me back to the here and now, and I rush to the window. If he’s come all this way he could be outside waiting for his opportunity. It’s dark outside, the moonlight highlights fresh snow. I scan for footprints, but the snow’s falling too fast to see if there are any.
I'm not used to being alone anymore, I realise. It makes me feel even more vulnerable.
The clock above the stove ticks in slow motion.
Dad's barely been gone five minutes. The front door is the kind that locks automatically. I pull on the handle to assure myself that it will only open from the inside unless forced.
I check the backdoor. The key is sticking out from the lock. I twist it and pull on the handle. I wish it had a deadbolt and chain. Tommy doesn’t wait to be invited inside.
Once I’ve started checking, I can’t stop and I think of all the ways he might get to me.
The landline is a wireless handset, which is good. Pulling my mobile phone from my pocket, I notice four signal bars. I put one phone in each pocket, just in case.
I find knives in a block on the kitchen counter and move them to the back of the cupboard under the island. Keeping one, I run upstairs and place it under my pillow, just in case.
The windows have curtains thick enough to hide the inside light from the outside darkness. I close each one, making sure the light can’t escape. There’s a chance Tommy won’t notice the guest house, so long as it’s not lit up like Disney!
Locating a small flashlight on a hook next to the back door, I switch it on and turn off the main lights. I listen to the normal sounds of an empty house: the humming of the refrigerator, the sound of a heater upstairs clicking.
I’ve been on hyper alert for quite some time now. Tommy would call it paranoia. I shudder, hoping he is far away. With this contemplation, my mind whirls.
They are just intrusive thoughts, I tell myself. I am in a new, unfamiliar environment. The letter triggered my anxiety—that’s all. My mind goes ‘round in circles.
I go to the kitchen and pull out the letter. My hands shake as I try to hold the torch and tear at the envelope.
Dear Amber,
I hope you are better by the time this letter reaches you.
I wanted to reassure you that Sue has given me the keys to the house. I’m going to take good care of it for you until you come back to me.
Don’t take too long.
Loving you always, until I die.
Tommy
PS – Read your emails. I’ll be in touch.
I reread the letter, but I only see the words that he's underlined on the page: Until. You. Die.
Nausea bubbles through my stomach and I run to the sink to vomit. I can’t take this letter to the police, it’s worded too sweetly. They’d laugh in my face if I tried to paint underlined words as a threat.
I walk back into the kitchen without switching on any of the lights. I need something to help calm me. Pulling apart the contents of my bag, I look for my pills. It takes me a while to tell the bottles apart. In my haste, I drop the torch and it takes a few attempts to stop my hands from shaking enough to pick it up. Then I swallow two pills down without the need for water and I tell myself Dad will be home soon.
To reassure myself, I take the torch and check the doors again, they’re still locked. I listen, a dog still barks, the refrigerator still hums, and the heater still clicks.
The pills will kick in soon.
I go back upstairs to check – top to bottom this time – the windows, under the beds, the knife is still under my pillow, all by torchlight.
I creep downstairs and recheck the window. It is pitch black outside now, the moon is hidden beneath clouds. I re-close the curtains and go through to the kitchen, to the backdoor and fumble for the key, only there is no key.
I twist the handle without pulling it toward me, it’s unlocked. There was a key when I checked it earlier. Wasn't there? I begin to panic. I'm certain there was a key.
I spin around but no one’s there.
My heart thumps in my ears.
There’s no evidence of pizza. Dad would have called out to announce he was back, wouldn’t he?
The kitchen is as empty as when I left it, but something is different. The key to the backdoor is now on the top of the island, where the knife block was.
Someone is here.
Chapter 6
Amber
I stand rigidly in the kitchen, holding the door handle as if it has the answers. The darkness makes me feel invisible; it also makes it difficult to see if anyone else is there. Coiled too tightly, my muscles scream with tension.
I can’t fight him. I’m as thin as a rake and as strong as a gnat.
I hear movement in the lounge—footsteps. My heart hammers in my chest, he’s coming this way. I’m out of time. If I run he’ll catch me, if I stay he’ll kill me. The nearest house is too far, they won’t hear my screams; I’m not even sure if I can scream.
I tip toe across the frigid tiles and crouch behind the island. The knives I hid earlier are still inside the cupboard in front of me. As I open the cupboard, I close my eyes and whisper thanks when the hinges stay relaxed, more than I can say for myself.
My hands tremble as I try to quietly release a knife from the block. As I do, a chunky chopping board thumps onto its side and knives spew and clatter across the floor.
Shit!
My eyes squeeze shut for a moment as I bollock myself for being so clumsy.
If he didn’t already know I was here, he does now.
Out of options, I rise to face my intruder. The back door is still unlocked, so I pocket the key. If I get a chance to run—I can try to lock the door behind me.
I hold out the knife to steel my resolve; determined to fake confidence, bravery even. Maybe I've changed from before. Maybe now I am brave. It might work if I can stop my shaking hands.
The overhead light announces his arrival. I hear it power on as I’m temporarily blinded. My heart thumps, moving in time with his footsteps. My vision returns to focus and piercing blue eyes stare coldly back at me. Time stills as we face one another.
“Do you want to put that paring knife down before you peel someone to death?” The gruff masculine voice takes me by surprise.
Not the one I’m expecting, but alarming, none the less.
I examine the knife, for God’s sake—a paring knife? I focus on the floor where at least five other longer, sharper knives lay, taunting me.
“Don’t bother; you’re more likely to injure yourself,” he says smirking.
He towers above me, well over six foot and built. I swallow hard. Tommy was bigger than me, athletic even, but this guy’s biceps are the size of my thighs. My vulnerability washes over me and I steel myself to be brave. I pull the phone out of my pocket and hold it to my ear.
“You’d better leave, I’ve got the cops on the line and they’re on their way right now.” I do this in my best American accent, pretending I’m someone who possesses courage.
He pins me to the spot with his eyes and raises a brow. “Well then, I guess I’d better go if the cops are on their way. What address did you tell them?”
I hadn’t paid even the slightest attention to the address. His question startles me and a
quiver of panic creeps down my spine.
“You had better go, right now. They’ll be here any minute,” I stammer, searching for the words that will make him leave. He stands the other side of the island, assessing me with narrowed eyes.
“Well, since the cops are ‘on the line’ perhaps you’d better hold the phone up—the correct way.”
I hold the phone away from my ear and check. He looks sickeningly smug. My temper flares and I want to jam the paring knife into his pompous face.
“Just get out of my house, you weirdo!” As my frustration vents, my accent returns to English. I curse as he throws me a hard grin, my amateur theatrics pissing him off and amusing him in what appears to be equal measures.
“I would, except, this isn’t your house, is it? This is my neighbour’s house. You mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
“This is my father’s house. Who do YOU think you are letting yourself in? I should call the police.” He blinks twice at this information. Good, let him fester on that.
“You’re Amber?”
“How do you know my name?”
“The elusive Amber; back from her travels. Patrick told me all about you,” he says, removing his jacket and taking a seat at the counter. He pulls a tube of papers out of his inside jacket pocket and gives me a cocky smirk. It makes me wonder, if he knows about me, does he know about my recent trip to crazy town.
“I’d pick up those knives if I were you, don’t want to cut your feet.”
“Not when there are other things I’d prefer to cut,” I concur indignantly. “How did you even get in here?”
“Patrick gave me a key so I can keep an eye on the place while he’s out of town.”
“Then I’ll take it back since I’m going to be living here now.” I hold out my hand for the key.
“No can do, babe,” he says with a sexy little smile still playing on his lips.
“No can do, babe,” I repeat. “Stop being rude and give it to me.” He looks pissed.
“I’m rude? You’re running all across the country staying in spas and fancy hotels, not bothering to visit your father, and I’m rude? Do you even realise he’s been grieving? I come by to see Patrick and you’re waving a knife around like a hyperactive toddler. Please, explain in your best American accent how all this makes me rude?”
