by Jaye Ford
Carly tipped her head from side to side. ‘I suppose.’
Elizabeth gave her another glare over her glasses.
‘Okay, yes, I was doing them well.’
‘And what were these activities?’
‘Tennis, hockey, cricket,’ she shrugged. ‘My friends and I used to ride horses and dirt bikes, go waterskiing.’ She paused. ‘And canyoning. I wasn’t an expert at anything but I picked things up quickly.’
Elizabeth uncovered a plate of bite-sized cakes. ‘And school, did you do well there?’
‘I was a good student.’ A’s and B’s, no problem qualifying for uni.
‘You capitalised on your talents, I hope.’
An unfinished degree, divorced twice, no job, plagued by anxiety. ‘It hasn’t really worked out that way.’ She folded her arms, preferring to keep to the history of her name. ‘Anyway, Carl became Carly and it stuck.’
Carly poured a third round from the silver teapot. She was sitting on the sofa beside Elizabeth, the elegant, carved-legged coffee table in front of them littered now with items from the shelves. Elizabeth had pointed and Carly had fetched.
‘Dreadfully hot but the ruins, the history, more than made up for it.’ Elizabeth was back in Turkey after describing the ramshackle shop where she’d bought the tea set. ‘Clifford loved all that as much as I did so we hunted down as many archaeological sites as we could find.’
Clifford was her husband, gone ten years but clearly still present in Elizabeth’s thoughts. He’d been in the diplomatic service and, with Elizabeth, had spent years at a time living in different countries. She spoke French, passable Spanish and a smattering of Japanese. Carly felt like a pumpkin in comparison.
‘I’d love to travel,’ Carly told her eventually. ‘Actually, I’d be happy to leave the country and come back just to say I’d done it.’
Elizabeth made a tut-tutting sound. ‘You need to dream bigger than that if you’re going to get there.’
‘I think it’s likely I won’t.’
‘And why not?’
Carly shrugged. ‘It’s taken me years to get here.’
‘And tell me, Carly,’ Elizabeth placed her tea cup on the table and eyed her critically, ‘are you planning to die before you’re forty?’
There was reprimand in her voice, the tone of an older, wiser woman instructing the younger generation. It made heat creep to Carly’s cheeks – she’d wanted to die more than once, she almost didn’t make thirty-three.
Elizabeth patted Carly’s leg. ‘I do hope you’re not one of these young people who thinks they have to achieve their life’s dreams before middle age.’
Carly huffed. ‘I’ve left my run too late for that.’
‘I see so many young people in such a hurry to get everything done, but life is a long time, Carly.’ Elizabeth clasped her hands on her lap, her story-time pose. ‘I had a disastrous love affair when I was at university. Shocking to others and almost ruinous to me. I spent twenty years as a history teacher at a private girls’ school in the country, relegated, I assumed – and I expect to the assumption of most others who knew me – to spinsterhood. I met Clifford when I was forty-two. I skied on snow for the first time at forty-five, went whitewater rafting in Africa at fifty. I celebrated my sixtieth birthday on the Camino de Santiago in Spain and I was still at archaeological digs in my early seventies.’ She reached out, gave Carly’s leg a firm rap this time. ‘It doesn’t matter how slowly you start, Carly. Life is a long time. Remember that.’
Elizabeth’s pale, watery irises hung on Carly’s face for a moment, as though making sure her message had been received. Carly nodded, something warm seeping into her chest and threatening to fill her eyes.
‘And now,’ Elizabeth said, clapping her hands together, subject finished, ‘perhaps you can carry the tray to the kitchen for me.’
Carly did more than that, stacking the dishwasher, wrapping the four little cakes they hadn’t eaten, returning bits and pieces to shelves. Carly expected Elizabeth to complain about the assistance, but instead she leaned on her walking stick and gave instructions, her back still straight but her limp more pronounced. She pushed the leftovers into Carly’s hand as she was leaving.
‘I have to watch my weight with this hip,’ Elizabeth told her.
‘Are you in much pain?’
She made a scoffing sound. ‘The doctor has increased my medication but I’m refusing to take it until I need to.’
Opening the door, Carly turned back. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ The refusal on Elizabeth’s face made her add, ‘You know, a bit of shopping, if something crops up. I’m in and out every day.’
Her face softened. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Thank you for afternoon tea. I really enjoyed it.’
‘And I.’
‘Take care, Elizabeth,’ Carly said, torn between giving her a hug and scampering off before she got detention.
‘You also, my dear.’ She reached for Carly’s hand and gave it a resolute squeeze before she went back in.
Carly stood for a moment outside Elizabeth’s apartment, her throat growing thick. Along the corridor and up the stairs, the smell of Elizabeth’s powdery perfume seemed to come with her, the sensation of the older woman’s bony hand on hers lingering as though she hadn’t quite let go.
Letting herself in, checking the lock and chain, Carly thought about lessons-in-life conversations she’d had with her mother and the edge of impatience in Marilyn’s words: Why can’t you be grateful you didn’t die too? It’s time you thought about something else. You might never have children, you need to come to terms with that.
Carly set the little package of cakes on the kitchen counter and burst into tears. It surprised her. The whole afternoon-tea episode had surprised her. Possibly Elizabeth was like that with everyone, telling any newcomer she could hold in her apartment about her shocking love affair and whitewater rafting and life being a long time. Maybe the other members of the book club had heard it a hundred times and were quietly chuckling among themselves that it was Carly’s turn. But it didn’t feel like that. It felt like Elizabeth Jennings had looked at her and understood. She hadn’t asked why Carly didn’t capitalise on her talents, hadn’t told her what she should be doing with her life. She’d just gripped her hand, closing the distance of years and experiences, and passed a message of hope.
Carly went to the loft, pulled a cardboard box from the wardrobe, shuffled through its contents until she found the photo she’d kept safe but out of sight for years. She took it downstairs, glanced around for somewhere to prop it, eventually sticking it to the fridge with a magnet and standing back to look at it.
Four smiling faces, young and eager, dishevelled, with a touch of sunburn. It was before mobile phones and selfies, someone from the Rural Fire Service snapping it after a training session.
The sight of it made Carly’s heart thump and her eyes burn. That day had been the best. Fun and funny, hot and sweaty and dirty. Damn hard work that’d filled Carly with satisfaction and achievement, made her feel part of a community, let her think she had something to offer in return. She’d been frightened to remember the four of them like that because of how it made her feel. Because of how she felt now, grief and shame welling hot in her limbs. But there was something else there, too. Happiness. The memory of it. Feeling the essence of that moment without being dragged down by everything that followed. Without her heart reminding her that six months later, Debs, Jenna and Adam were dead and Carly had become Charlotte: alone, anxious and lost.
20
Carly’s arms and legs are spread wide. She is the Vitruvian Man and he is her mirror image, pressing her into the mattress.
His breath is on her cheeks, her lips. Deep and rough, as though it’s being forced from his throat, as though he is trying to suck the air from her lungs and take it into his own.
There is a voice coming from inside her. His face is close. But she doesn’t want to see. The darkness b
ehind her lids is a comfort, a shield, a space he can’t invade.
He moves. Something touches her cheek. It’s warm, soft, gentle. The voice inside her shrieks.
His whisper is hot and moist against the shell of her ear. Slow and amused. ‘Do you like it when I visit?’
Carly’s mouth was wide open with the effort to fill her chest with air. Legs kicking at the covers, running before her feet touched the ground.
Her phone was by her bed but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t calling the police. They wouldn’t believe her. They’d come and charge her. Maybe they wouldn’t come at all. She didn’t know which would be worse.
Breath heaving, heart pounding, she found the safety chain in the darkness, the brass links a slack curve from the jamb to the door. She stared at it. She couldn’t take her eyes from it. Could only feel the burn on her ear from the touch of his lips, the warmth of his breath on her face, the pressure of his hand at her throat.
‘Carly?’ Soft male voice, little more than a rumble. On the other side of the door.
She scurried backwards a few steps along the hall. Out of reach, nowhere to run.
A knock. ‘Carly? It’s Nate. Are you all right?’
Her silence was filled with the hiss of blood in her ears.
‘I heard noises from your apartment.’ A pause. ‘You okay?’ Two more seconds. ‘Carly? Is that you behind the door?’ His voice this time was firm, demanding, slightly muffled as though he was talking into the hinges.
She thought of the mouth on her ear, the breath on her face. Didn’t answer.
‘Carly, if it’s you, you need to say something or I’m breaking in the door.’
She swallowed at the sticky dryness coating her mouth, wiped the tears from her face, her voice high and tight. ‘I’m okay.’
There was a shushing along the timber grain. Nate’s voice when he spoke again came from lower down. ‘Carly, what happened?’
She imagined him on his haunches, maybe his forehead resting on the door. She clenched her eyes shut. What the fuck could she tell him? A crazy guy is getting through my locked doors.
‘Are you alone?’
She glanced at the darkness behind her, not sure. Not really. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you hurt?’
Bruises were throbbing. There was a tender bump on the top of her head. ‘No.’
‘Did someone get in?’
Her sob was a long, shuddering gasp.
‘If you’re scared, I can help.’
She was scared. Terrified. Of the man who’d been here. Of the locked door and what it meant. ‘You should go.’
Nate was silent for so long she wondered if he’d left. Then, ‘I could sleep on your sofa. Or you could sleep on mine.’
Nate would inspect her locks and ask her what happened and she didn’t know. She shuffled a little further down the hallway as another thought flickered. He might know, it might be him. ‘No. Please, you should go.’
‘Carly …’
‘Nate, just go.’ It came out harsher than she’d planned but it was still the message she’d intended.
It had the right effect. There was another shushing on the other side of the timber, a footstep in the corridor. His voice again. ‘I’m going to write my number down and slide it under your door. I’m ten steps away if you need anything. Just call me.’
Carly listened to his footsteps fade, wondered if his feet were bare. Hers were and they were freezing. Her whole body was frozen. It felt like the marrow in her bones had turned to ice. Maybe she’d shatter if she moved. Maybe something inside her already had. She had to get up, though. She had to check.
Hobbling through the apartment, bruises burning, she stopped in front of the French windows. There was enough glow from the nightlight on the other side of the room to show her they were locked. Top and bottom, both doors, the way she’d left them when she went to bed. She tested them, sliding each bolt out of its casing and back. She pulled on the handle, yanked and rattled it, tried and failed to loosen the hold of the bolts.
Then she jumped away from them, as though the doorway was a ledge that had started to crumble. Stood and stared. Understanding at last. She hadn’t re-locked the balcony doors in her panic. They were never opened.
‘Fuck.’ She pushed hands into her hair, agitation beating in her blood.
Okay. All right. So he didn’t come in through the balcony doors. She hustled back through the living room, picking up her keys from the counter on her way to the front door, flicking on the hall light, squinting in the glare, a moment of alarm when she saw the slip of paper on the floor. Nate’s phone number. She left it where it was, more interested in what the door would tell her, eyes shifting from the chain to its hasp, the deadlock to the jamb. The chain held when she tugged it. The knob didn’t move when she tried it. Inserting the key, she opened the door as far as it would go, pulled against the chain. Did it again, harder, and then with a solid yank. She thought of Nate and his warning about breaking in the door. How hard would that be?
Did it matter? The man in her room hadn’t got in that way.
Had he unlatched the chain? Was that possible?
She opened the door again, slipped fingers into the gap. There was enough room to get a hand through, but …
Trembling, she typed in a Google search, found YouTube demonstrations on how to unlatch a security chain with a piece of string. Was that it? Simple and quiet. Followed by a stealthy path up to the loft, amusement at Carly’s expense, then … no, no, the deadlock had been set and the chain engaged. How could he manage that?
She closed her eyes, felt the heat of his breath, the brush of lips. It had happened. It had.
Hadn’t it?
She lifted a hand to her throat, under the hinge of her jaw where his fingers had been. Eyed the wall at her back, the one that ran from the front door to the French windows. Got up and gave it a shove. Pushed some more, all the way along the hallway and back up the other side into the living room. Then the other walls around the lower level of the apartment, knocking and flattening her hands on the paint. High, low. Then in the half bath, and standing on the toilet seat, reaching higher, then heaving at the ceiling and …
She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Hair a mess, face tear-stained. Dark-ringed, pale, wild-eyed. And she spun away, the image burned onto her retinas.
Distraught, panicked, confused. She looked like Charlotte. No, worse than that.
She looked crazy.
‘It’s Charlotte Townsend. I need to speak to Dr Randolf.’
She’d paced and cleaned for three hours, not letting herself think about it. Not yet. Now the tremble in her hand made the mobile feel like it was vibrating.
‘How are you, Charlotte?’ Liam’s voice was friendly, casual, as though she’d rung for a chat. ‘I’ve been wondering how you were getting on.’
‘Hey. Hi. Good and …’ She sat on the sofa, elbows on her knees to hold them still. ‘Not so good.’ She rolled her lips together, fighting the rush of words, wanting to take it slowly. For his assessment of her. ‘The apartment is great. Close to everything I need, including kilometres of walkway around the harbour.’
‘Are you using it?’
‘Every morning. Once a day at a moderate pace.’
‘Nice to hear. And the not so good?’
‘You said we could still talk. Professionally.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not anything we’ve discussed before.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘It’s not the anxiety. It’s there but it’s not that.’
‘Okay.’
She was stalling. They both knew it. He was giving his short answers, designed to make her fill the silence. Well, she’d phoned him.
‘It’s something … weird. I’m not sure what it is. Whether it’s even … I just …’ She pushed two fingers into the crease between her brows.
‘Why don’t you try to explain it to me.’
Pulling her knees to her chest
, she found a place to start. ‘A couple of days after I moved in, I woke up and saw a man standing over my bed.’ She told him about the police, the forensics, the detectives; the replay a week and a half later when the man touched her face. Then the third time and not remembering how she got to the front door, Dean Quentin’s You’ll be facing a charge. The detective finding her mental health record, telling her there were no fingerprints. And last night – the man on top of her, the locks engaged. And the anxiety and memories that were making it worse.
As always, Liam was silent until she was done.
‘So here’s the thing,’ she said, finally getting to the point. ‘If there’s no sign anyone has been here, if there’s no way in or out, is it possible that everything that’s happened, everything I’ve carried around with me, has broken something? That there’s something screwed up and …’ She pulled in a shaky breath. ‘Am I losing my mind now?’
‘Do you think you’re losing you mind?’ Liam asked.
‘I guess if you’re asking it’s a good thing. If you thought I was crazy, you wouldn’t, right?’
‘Maybe.’
Oh. Great. She rubbed at the pain starting in the base of her skull. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Can you tell me more about what happens when you see the man?’
‘I wake up and he’s there. I’m terrified, so scared I don’t move. Or can’t. I’m not sure but I don’t. I can’t see him properly in the dark but I can feel him. On the bed, around me, touching me. On top of me. I just grit my teeth and close my eyes and wait for him to do whatever the hell he’s going to do.’
‘So you feel awake but you’re not fully functioning?’
‘No, look. I know my dreams are intense, if that’s where you’re going. This is different. I’m aware of him, I know there’s someone in the room and he’s on top of me. My dreams, when I wake up, I remember them, everything about them. I might try to squeeze Adam’s hand or check to see if I’m bleeding when I first open my eyes, but once I’m awake, I don’t actually think I’m on a cliff or I’ve lost another baby. I don’t ring for an ambulance.’
