Your Closest Friend

by Karen Perry

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I whisper to her.

  I feel her sucking in her breath in a bid to check her emotions, get herself under control. I draw back and she swipes at her face and offers me a watery smile.

  ‘Leave the packing,’ I say gently. ‘Why don’t you pour us both a glass of wine while I get Mabel out of the bath? What do you say?’

  She nods, wipes a tear away with her index finger, and looks up. Her eyes flicker past me. The watery smile dies. The expression on her face is a complicated mixture of surprise and withdrawal. I turn to follow her gaze and my heart constricts in my chest.

  I am coming, the message said.

  Amy is standing in the doorway.

  27.

  Amy

  ‘Look who’s back,’ the girl says, a huff of scorn in her voice. Her china doll features are all glassy and strange beneath the severe fringe.

  I’m standing at the door staring at them, trying to make sense of it, my hands numb from the cold outside. The leap in me when I came into the apartment – all that hopeful momentum – is draining away. I’m confused by this scene: What is going on? What is that girl doing here? Why is Cara holding her? Angry questions are buzzing in my brain like a nest of wasps. And then I realize that the questions are not in my head – that I have actually said them out loud, for the girl turns angry.

  ‘It’s none of your business! This is my home. What the hell are you doing here?’ she says.

  I hate this girl. And I can make her pay, like I did before. Doesn’t she realize? Doesn’t she know that?

  ‘Amy,’ Cara says.

  Oh God, my name in her mouth. It lifts the sudden gloom that has descended on me, and I turn to her, feeling the foolish grin breaking out all over my face, for there is everything in her voice – all that promise, all that hopeful love – and I don’t care if the girl is watching. She will be gotten rid of and then there will be just the two of us, no more interruptions, no more misunderstandings.

  ‘How did you get in here?’

  The question confuses me, the hesitancy in her tone, like she’s nervous or something.

  I laugh, to put her at ease. ‘With a key, of course!’

  ‘But you left your keys.’

  ‘Oh, I had spare ones made. In case.’

  ‘In case what?’ A crease has appeared between her brows.

  It throws me a little. Why is she getting hung up on this?

  ‘For when you needed me. For when you gave me the sign.’

  I see her and the girl exchanging a glance, and the hopefulness inside me teeters.

  Cara takes a step towards me, her hand held out in front of her, and she says in a hard voice, ‘You need to give me those keys, Amy. And then you need to go.’

  ‘But you gave me the sign,’ I say, my voice faltering.

  The girl laughs. ‘You are barking,’ she tells me.

  Something mean and pinched inside me awakens. ‘Shut up,’ I tell her, keeping my voice low, controlled.

  ‘Amy, the keys,’ Cara says sharply, drawing my attention back to her.

  And even though a part of me is still thrilling to be back here with her, after our long separation, I’m confused by her approach. Her eyes have gone all small. She’s sending me a message, I know it, so that the girl won’t see, but the signals are all messed up and I can’t read it.

  ‘No,’ I say, clarity descending as I realize that it’s some kind of test. Pushing my resolve in front of Olivia, to see if I will cave. ‘No, I won’t give them to you.’

  I’m shaking my head determinedly, but I’ve broken away from her gaze. I don’t like the coldness of it, even if it’s only a front for the girl’s benefit, and later we’ll laugh about it, just the two of us. For now, I feel the ice-burn of it.

  ‘Get out of our fucking house, you freak,’ the girl says, her screeching voice scraping my brain.

  ‘Olivia,’ Cara says quietly, warning her.

  That settles my nerves a little, reassuring me that she’s on my side in all this. We are together.

  ‘I heard the sign,’ I tell her, and this time I smile up at her, a beam of love and joy, re-establishing the connection between us.

  ‘What sign? What do you mean?’ There’s a clipped note of impatience in her voice.

  My mind is fizzing all over the place. This look she’s giving me throws me off-balance. I’m still in my coat and it’s so hot in here. My gloveless hands are stinging as the heat draws blood back into them.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I tell her, but my voice falters. She’s harder to reach than usual, like this hard, shiny layer has sprung up around her.

  The girl is looking from one of us to the other, silent now, a grave expression on her face. But I’m not focused on her. I’m looking at Cara, scouring her reaction for something – anything – that will shore up my confidence. But everything seems rearranged in a fashion I don’t understand. This whole place – the boxes in the hall, the blank walls still shadowed by the outline of frames that no longer hang there, the shocked and aggrieved look on Cara’s face – all of it overwhelming me.

  ‘Go, Amy. Get out now, before I call the police.’

  I’m vaguely aware of the sharp turn of the girl’s head, but I’m still catching up with my thoughts.

  ‘But you gave me the sign …’ I hear the crack coming into my voice, confusion giving way to a surge of alarm at the mention of the police.

  And then the girl shoots past me into the hall, and all the panic in me rises to the surface, heat like a rash over my skin.

  She’s almost at the door when I catch up with her and I see at once what she’s going for – her bag on the hall table, the phone tucked inside it. She doesn’t even hear me approach, it’s the stark shout of her name from Cara that alerts her so she’s half-turning when I slam her against the wall. Her shock is momentary before she scrambles towards the door. I grab a swatch of her hair and yank it back, letting the hall table – a glass and iron affair, all angles and hard surfaces – break her fall.

  28.

  Cara

  For a moment, that’s all there is: the hard crack of Olivia’s head glancing off the sharp edge of the table. It shouts and reverberates through me, like a struck tuning fork blurring out of focus.

  And then clarity comes rushing in – Olivia on the floor, the blood, Amy advancing towards me, eyes black with fury. I back away towards the bedroom door, my mind skittering.

  ‘Give me your phone,’ she demands, and when I shake my head slightly, the terror clutching in my chest, she shouts it in my face. ‘Give me your phone!’

  It’s in the back pocket of my jeans. I have both hands splayed and held behind me against the door. Her eyes dart over me, landing on my hips, and then she lunges forward and I cry out, the two of us struggling against each other. The phone is somehow in my hand now, and she is trying to prise it from my fingers. I know I can’t let go of it. Olivia is slumped on the floor, unmoving, and behind me, Mabel is alone in the bath – I don’t know if Amy knows this or cares. She’s intent on her own dark purpose, and as she lowers her mouth and I feel her teeth sink into the flesh of my hand, the pain sears through me and I cry out in hurt and frustration, for I have dropped the phone.

  She moves quickly now. Back to the hall table where I see, with a measure of temporary relief, Olivia shrinking from her, curled into a ball by the table leg. But Amy is no longer interested in Olivia. At the front door, she turns the key in the mortise, double-locking it, slots the chain in place and slams the bolt. Then she draws my keys from the lock, takes Olivia’s bag from the table, and into it she throws my keys and my phone. I’m slack against the bathroom door, clutching my hand which is bleeding from the bite-mark, as she yanks the house phone from the wall and it too goes into the bag. Then she moves into the sitting room and I see too late what she intends.

  ‘No!’ I shout, rushing after her. But the window is already open, the bag flying through the air. With despair, I watch the arc of it before
it disappears into darkness, imagine the impact with the ground, its contents scattered.

  She slams the window shut and turns to me, her eyes lit up with triumph.

  ‘I had to do that,’ she explains, breathless and smiling, like she’s just run a race. ‘Don’t you see? It’s the only way we could talk.’ And then she lets out a happy sigh and raises her eyebrows, as if to say, How about that then?

  It’s all such a parody, a horrible farce, I can’t believe it is happening.

  ‘Amy, you have to let us go. Look at Olivia – she needs help.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be alright,’ she says breezily, turning from me and walking back through the hall – past Olivia, who lies prone, unmoving – and then into the kitchen.

  I can hear her in there banging cupboard doors, the clink of glassware. I hurry over to Olivia, crouch down beside her, whisper her name. Up close, I can see the seriousness of the head wound. Blood continues to rush from the gash in her temple, her eyelids fluttering closed.

  ‘You must try and stay awake,’ I hiss. ‘Do you hear me? It’s very important you stay awake.’ And then, as I hear Amy approach, I lower my head so my mouth is right next to Olivia’s ear and whisper, ‘I’ll get us out of here. I promise.’

  ‘Now then!’

  I look up and Amy is standing over me, a glass of red wine in each hand, her perfect hostess’s smile splashed over her face. She gestures with her head for me to get up, which I do, slowly.

  ‘Amy, she’s bleeding heavily. I need to get her to a hospital.’

  ‘No. She’ll be alright, just leave her.’

  ‘I can’t leave her –’

  With a huff of impatience, she puts the glasses down on the hall table, then turns on her heel back to the kitchen. Half a minute later she is back with a tea towel which she flings on the floor beside Olivia. I fold it carefully and press it to the wound, a low moan coming from deep in the girl’s throat.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Amy says.

  I feel a jolt of anger going through me at her autocratic tone. ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Get up!’

  She grabs me by the arms and hauls me to my feet, and I feel the anger in the clutch of her fingers, the menace in her voice. As soon as a wine glass is thrust in my hand, she changes, the menace falling away.

  She says in that overly bright tone, ‘Come on then!’

  Her hand grabs my elbow once more, and I allow myself to be drawn stiffly through into the living room. I choose the seat by the fireplace, nearest the door, but she frowns and shakes her head.

  ‘No. Over there,’ she orders, her tone becoming sharp as she indicates the couch.

  ‘I’m fine here,’ I say coldly.

  She squeezes her eyes shut for just a second and then comes towards me quickly and hits me, an open-handed slap – my cheek flares with sudden pain.

  ‘Over there,’ she orders again, her voice at the same pitch, hardly betraying any rise in emotion at the sudden violence.

  And it comes to me now that she has done this before. My legs are trembling. I do as she asks.

  The couch sags beneath me as I lower myself, keeping my glass steady on my knee. She takes a deep slurp of her wine, as if needing to calm her nerves, and then sits down next to me. A musky feral smell rises from her, like she hasn’t washed in days – weeks, maybe. The cuffs of her jeans are encrusted with muck, her trainers worn and threadbare. Her hair, which has grown longer now, scraggly ends skirting the collar of her jacket, is greasy and limp. Dark shadows linger in the hollows of her face. Her eyes are wide open and glittering with their own glassy light, and her mouth is animated – a twitching line that can’t keep still. She is an accumulation of tics and twitches, some manic energy pulsing through her, making her dangerous and unpredictable.

  ‘Here we are again,’ she says, smiling effusively, ‘back together, alone in a room. Just like the beginning.’

  I don’t say anything. In my mind, I am furiously playing through the various paths available for me to take. She is slight and not much taller than me, but there is a wiry strength to her. Whether to call her bluff, take the chance that her violent unpredictability won’t cause her to lash out again, or whether it’s better to appease her, calm her down, lull her into dropping her guard and then seize the opportunity to escape. But the front door is locked and the only key is snugly fitted inside her jeans pocket. A door from the kitchen leads on to a fire escape but even if I could make a run for it, I cannot leave without Mabel or Olivia.

  ‘You’re not drinking,’ she remarks.

  My eyes flick to the glass in my hand. ‘I’m not thirsty,’ I say stiffly.

  She reaches out and pushes the glass towards me. ‘Come on. This is a celebration. Drink it.’

  I hear the threat implicit in her tone, and warily raise the glass to my mouth. She watches me carefully as I sip and swallow, sip and swallow, the wine bitter-tasting, sediment lurking in the depths. After a couple of sips, I put the glass down.

  ‘It feels like fate, doesn’t it?’ she asks, beaming at me with a maddening smile.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘Us!’ she laughs, like I’m stupidly missing the point. ‘That we should be together. Even our names point to it!’

  ‘Our names?’

  ‘Beloved,’ she says, and there’s a tremor of emotion as she says it. ‘Amy. Cara. They both mean beloved.’

  It’s frightening, how intent she is, powered by this irrepressible belief.

  ‘You’re mistaken –’

  ‘I’m not! They both mean –’

  ‘No. Cara means beloved in Latin. But my name is the Irish version.’

  Consternation clouds her face. ‘So what does it mean?’

  ‘Friend.’

  She thinks about this for a moment, her face darkened with disappointment or irritation. Her eyes flicker about as if seeking somewhere to land her gaze.

  ‘Oh no,’ she exclaims suddenly, raising my alarm as she seizes hold of my hand, stricken. ‘You’re bleeding!’

  I can feel myself recoiling even though my hand is firmly in her grip. She stares in horror at the bite-mark, as if it has nothing to do with her. Putting down her wine glass, she holds my hand in both of hers and I feel the clammy heat of her skin wrapped around my cold paw, all the blood having fled my extremities with shock.

  ‘You shouldn’t have made me do that,’ she says in a softly admonishing tone, her thumbs stroking the puncture marks in my skin caused by her teeth. And then she does something that repulses me. She lowers her mouth to my hand and gently kisses the wound. I feel the wet warmth of her tongue against my skin, her eyes closing with reverence.

  All of this has an air of unreality. My hand held in her lap, her head bent, face turned so that her cheek rests against my fingers, her eyes fixed on mine with a beatific gaze. In the hall Olivia is slumped and bleeding. My child is alone in the bath.

  ‘Amy,’ I begin gently, and she looks at me dreamily. ‘I’m worried about Olivia. If we leave her there, it’s only going to get more serious. You’re going to be in a lot of trouble,’ I say softly, careful to keep the threat from my voice, ‘but if we take her to the hospital now, we can tell them it was just an accident. That she slipped and fell. The problem is, if we leave her … if she continues to bleed like that … she might die. And how will we explain it then? How will the police react when they learn she was bleeding profusely and we didn’t help her?’

  She lifts her head, stares down at the ottoman, chewing her thumbnail while turning the thought over in her head. Then, to my dismay, she shrugs and smiles and says, matter-of-factly, ‘People die. Shit happens.’

  Seeing the horror in my expression, she laughs and reaches for my hand once more.

  ‘Don’t worry! It won’t matter! Not when we’re alone. Not when we’re together without any distractions.’

  ‘How can you say that? Of course it would matter!’ My voice rises and I pull my hand away from her.

  She rolls her eyes, nudged
by annoyance. ‘That’s not the way it works, Cara. You’ll see. That’s not how it happens.’

  I know that she is talking of Connie. A cold shard enters my thoughts: If she can kill her best friend, what else is she capable of?

  She throws the contents of her glass to the back of her throat and stands up quickly, shaking the glass in her hand distractedly. There’s a jumpiness to her, like she can’t stay still.

  ‘We need more wine,’ she declares. ‘Come on. Finish up.’

  I sip a little more and then hand back my glass.

  ‘Stay here,’ she instructs.

  I wait until I can hear her in the kitchen, and then quietly I hurry back to the hall and crouch down over Olivia. Her breathing has slowed, her eyes are closed. I hiss her name in her ear, shake her arm gently, alarm fluttering inside me, but she is not entirely unconscious. Her eyelids partially open, and they fix me with a teary stare. I squeeze her arm to reassure her, for I know what I have to do. The only thing I can do to get us out.

  All the contents of the hall have been cleared, packed away in boxes. The only thing that remains – the only object at my disposal – is the lamp. A rounded terracotta base with a linen shade. Not ideal, but heavy enough for my purposes. I unplug it quickly from the wall, wrap the flex around my hand and remove the shade. It’s bulky and awkward, but I can just about hold it in one hand. Olivia watches through half-closed eyes, as I tiptoe towards the kitchen door, then pause, waiting.

  From within, I can hear the pop of a cork being sprung from a bottle, the scrape of the bottle being dragged from the table. Her footsteps are light but her trainers squeak on the tiled floor. My heart beats high and fast in my chest. I hold my breath and raise my hand, the lamp poised, ready to smash down on her head. I can hear her coming.

  ‘Mummy?’

  My head whips around.

  ‘I’m cold.’

  Mabel stands there by the open bathroom door, a red towel slipping off her shoulders, the ends of her hair damp and dripping.