My thoughts scratch at the inside of my skull. Who is Sophie? And what has happened to my shoes? Cat wouldn’t have borrowed them – her feet are too big. No one else has any reason to. No one knows of their significance but me.
Could Rachel have been lying? Could she have borrowed them and was too embarrassed to admit it? I should go back to the house, take a quick look in her room. I won’t go through her things or anything – just a peek won’t hurt. After all, this is a matter of life and death.
Something catches my eye, a fluttering in my peripheral vision. I look over my shoulder, but there’s nothing but the empty beach, sprawling behind me for miles. I’m seeing things; every change in the light, every ripple on the water is distracting me, making me nervous.
The withdrawal doesn’t help – I really overdid it last night. My nerves are scrambled, screaming for me to replace what’s been lost. I’ll top up the last refill of meds (I swear some are missing, even though I’ve been so careful to ration them over the past few weeks), stop at the bottle shop on the way home. God knows I have reason enough today.
A group of runners pass and I feel exposed, as if they can read my thoughts, see my panic. Help, I think. Someone help me. Someone fix this. As I close my hand around my personal alarm, I wonder, will they come, now? If they know it’s me, will the cops respond?
I near the houseboat and its sightless eyes stare out at me. There’s something different about it, but I can’t place what, and suddenly I’m desperate to inspect it. It’s low tide, so I kick off my shoes and wade into the shallows until the boat is only a metre away, then half a metre. A pinpoint of light glints off one of the front windows. Only it’s not sunlight. It’s coming from inside. Stepping closer, I strain to see through the layer of filth. There’s movement, a shadow passing. Then a face appears.
‘Hey, Mary!’
I shriek and fall backwards, landing on my bum with a splash. Someone’s standing above me; I squint up at them as I get to my feet. ‘Ben!’
‘Steady on!’ Ben laughs, taking my hand to help me up. ‘We have to stop meeting like this. Still in one piece?’
‘Just,’ I pant, wrapping my arms around my chest to conceal my clinging, wet T-shirt.
Ben’s grin is wide and genuine. He’s shirtless and holding a beach towel and I find myself remembering him that night. I hadn’t noticed the scar sitting just above the line of his board shorts, like he’s had his appendix removed. It all felt so different in the dark, almost like a dream. ‘What were you looking at just now?’
‘Oh. I thought I saw someone …’ I look back at the boat’s grimy window. There’s no light, save for the sunlight glinting off the glass. The only thing looking out at me is my murky reflection. ‘But I guess I was imagining things.’
‘It’s dangerous, isn’t it?’ Ben says.
I look at him sharply. ‘Dangerous?’
‘Having an imagination.’ He winks.
‘Oh.’ I laugh, relieved. ‘Totally.’
‘How’ve you been doing? I, uh, haven’t seen much of you lately.’
I look down at the water. ‘I’ve just had a lot on my mind. There’s a lot going on for me at the moment.’
Ben nods. ‘Yeah, I kind of got that feeling. Look, I know I’m a guy and everything, and therefore grossly underqualified to give good advice when it comes to, you know … emotional stuff …’
I give a weak smile and Ben clears his throat.
‘But I’m a good listener. So if there’s anything you want to talk about …’
Standing there in the water, looking into Ben’s warm, open face, I consider telling him the truth. I want it with an intensity I could never have anticipated. Take this from me, I want to say. Make it go away.
‘Ben …’
‘It’s okay,’ Ben whispers with a grin. ‘I won’t judge.’
Looking in his eyes, the words are there; I can hear myself speak them. I tear my gaze from his. ‘I’m sorry. I just … I can’t. Not yet.’
Disappointment flashes in Ben’s eyes. ‘I understand.’
‘Ben, I …’ Without thinking, I take his hand. I want to bring back the warmth in his eyes, that look that feels like it’s just for me. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to … It’s complicated. I don’t want … I don’t want you to get hurt.’ Goosebumps rise on my flesh as I speak those words. What if Mark were to find out about us? What would he do to Ben?
‘Mary?’
‘Yeah?’
Ben takes a breath and smiles. ‘I get that things are complicated. I do. Hey, life’s complicated. But I really like you, you know. A lot, actually.’
Warmth stirs in my chest and spreads. ‘I like you, too.’
We stare at each other until a breeze picks up and I shiver in my wet clothes.
‘I guess you’ll want to head back and change, then.’
‘I’d better, I guess.’
‘I’ll walk you. Here.’ Ben moves towards me and at first I think he’s going to hug me. Instead, he drapes his towel around my shoulders. It’s a bit damp yet warm from the sun and I feel warm inside, too.
‘Thanks,’ I smile, tugging the material around me.
As we walk back the way I came, the warmth inside me fades and I get a little shiver – unpleasant, like adrenalin. I look over my shoulder at the boat and think of ghosts and ghouls, then shake my head at my stupidity. Because it’s not someone dead I should be afraid of.
We walk in silence, and as Ben slips his hand in mine, the back of my neck prickles. I can’t shake the feeling we’re being watched.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I wake with the sense I’m not alone. Floating in between sleep and consciousness, I hear a rhythmic sound, like a drumbeat. Or footsteps.
I jerk upright and fumble for the lamp. Light sears my corneas and I blink back spots until I can see. The room is empty. No one here but me. And then I hear a creak from outside and a shadow moves beyond the balcony doors.
I suck in a breath. A silhouette is backlit by the balcony light. Someone’s out there. Heart thudding, I reach for the baseball bat I keep stashed under my bed. As my fingers close around it, the sliding door judders and creaks open.
I hold my breath. The curtains move to one side and a figure steps through.
‘Jesus!’ My breath rushes out and the bat slips from my fingers. ‘You scared the shit out of me.’
Rachel stands in the doorway, her shoulders slumped, face slack. Her dead eyes are engulfed by pupils. I can hear her ragged breaths, synchronised with mine, like an amplified pulse.
‘I hate you.’ Her voice is soft, deadly calm.
‘W … what?’ I try to breathe, to calm down, but the look on Rachel’s face is chilling.
‘I. Hate. You.’
I get to my feet. ‘Rach, you’re asleep. We need to get you back to bed. I’ll—’
‘Fuck you!’ The shrill exclamation pierces the air and Rachel lunges. Her eyes are like black holes, her hair a lion’s mane. She runs forward and grabs me by the throat. She squeezes. Hard.
Arms flying out, my hands scrabble for grip. Her fingers press deeper and my ears fill with the sound of roaring blood. Finding her shoulders, I shove at her, and she’s so slight she jerks backwards, her head snapping back.
There’s a moment when her grip loosens and I scrabble backwards, arms jutting forward as she recovers and lunges again.
‘Rachel, stop! STOP!’ I grab her before her hands can reach me and throw her onto her back. There’s a tangle of arms and legs and then I have hold of her wrists, and I pin them above her head.
‘I’ll kill you,’ she’s sobbing. ‘You bastard. I hate you, I hate you.’
Understanding comes like a shower of ice water.
‘Oh, God. Shh, shh. It’s me. Mary. Shhh.’
The sobbing rises in pitch and her breathing stutters.
‘Shh. It’s okay, you’re okay.’
Her face is to one side, her eyes squeezed shut, and she’s trembling. Her limbs have
loosened and I lower her arms to her sides. All of a sudden she’s limp, as if she’s left her body.
My throat tightens. I recognise that response. It’s a victim thing; once you realise there’s nothing left you can do, your psyche steps in to spare you the worst of the pain. You switch off, try to leave your body. Until it’s over.
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I’m saying. ‘It’s okay, Rachel. It’s okay.’
Rachel’s breathing evens out, her chest rising and falling. I push her hair back from her clammy forehead, stroke her head until I’m certain she’s asleep.
As the first rays of sun creep through the curtains, I prop myself on one elbow and look down at Rachel’s small, still body. My eyes feel like they’re full of dirt; they ache to close, but I know that if sleep wouldn’t come last night, it isn’t coming now.
As Rachel wakes, she turns her head to face me, a hesitant smile on her lips. Morning light makes her skin gleam gold. She’s so pretty that I get a pang of jealousy in my stomach.
‘I came in here last night, didn’t I?’
I nod. Her hand twitches at her side and I reach over to clasp it. It’s cold, as always.
‘I didn’t mean … I don’t know how …’
‘I know.’ Something burns inside me, a fierce, protective thing.
‘I do that sometimes,’ she says vaguely, staring into the middle distance. Sunlight illuminates the tips of her eyelashes. ‘Did I say anything? Like, anything weird?’
I squeeze her hand, feel her fine-boned fingers pressing against my palm. ‘No, nothing that bad.’
Our eyes lock and hold and there it is again, that feeling of exposure. Even though it’s her who’s been exposed.
Rachel’s face darkens. ‘I’m really sorry, Mary.’
‘It’s okay,’ I tell her, meaning it. ‘I understand.’
Rachel sits up suddenly. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Er … six-ish?’
‘Shit! I have to be at work by seven.’ Rachel scrambles from the floor. ‘Sorry. I’ll see you later?’
‘I’ll be here.’
Rachel crosses the room and reaches for the door handle. She hesitates before looking back over her shoulder. ‘Mary?’
‘Yeah?’
Rachel’s weary smile makes her looks older, somehow. ‘Thanks.’
Chapter Thirty
It’s pitch-black outside. The sea is barely visible beneath the cloud-covered moon, its dark, slick surface pinpricked only here and there with starlight. Even the handful of dim, amber lights that mark the few houses across the water have blinked out, one by one.
Sleep wouldn’t come, so I’m sitting on the balcony at 2.36 a.m., listening to the silence. My tongue and head are thick from too much wine; the beginning of a headache blooms behind my eyes.
I rest my head against the wall, my ear pressed to the narrow space between the sliding glass doors that lead to my room and the ones that open into the living area. A safe space, where no one can sneak up behind me.
My mind keeps flitting to the shoes. I can see them so clearly, I could reach out and grab them. But I can’t, because they’re gone, and I don’t understand it.
I’m tired. I can’t think tonight, don’t have the energy. I just want to drink. Be drunk. Forget.
I glug the remains of the wine from my glass, shake my head. Even my thoughts have stopped making sense now. Time for bed, Mary.
I stand on wobbly legs and make for the door. Steadying myself on the back of the chair, I wince as the chair legs scrape along the deck. But the sound I hear isn’t the sound of the chair scraping. It’s a floorboard creaking. Inside.
I freeze, waiting for the sound to come again. It’s hard to hear over the roar of my pulse, but then I hear it: the distinct sound of footsteps.
It’s just one of the guys, I tell myself, but my stomach flip-flops. I suck in a breath, step towards the living room door. The movement triggers the sensor light. For a second I’m blinded, then all I can see is my own startled reflection staring back at me.
Footsteps again, closer now. Whoever’s in there must be able to see me. Panic fires through me. I blink away the spots behind my eyes as the light disappears. It’s too dark to see; there are no lights on inside. Who’s in there walking around in the dark?
I’m stone-cold sober now. I peer through the glass. Nothing. I sidestep and look through the glass door connecting my room to the balcony. The curtains are drawn so I can’t see in. I try the handle but it’s locked. Wait. Locked? I stop and think. I came outside through this door. It can’t be locked.
From behind the door, a floorboard creaks. My blood runs cold. The squeaky floorboard, between the bedroom door and the vanity dresser. Someone’s in my room.
My mind flashes to a pair of ice-cold eyes and my throat tightens.
Run. Now.
I go back to the living room entry, inch the heavy sliding door open with my breath held. My eyes adjust to the dark and I can make out my bedroom door – closed – to the right, the front door at the end of the hallway ahead, light shining around its edges. I mentally calculate how long it will take to run there.
When the gap is wide enough, I slip through the doorway and into the apartment. Just as my feet hit the carpet, my bedroom door creaks open.
I freeze, staring at the slowly opening door. It seems to take an age. There’s still time to run! – but I can’t move. It’s like everything has been leading to this moment, and there’s some relief in the finality of meeting my fate.
As if in a dream, I watch as a figure steps out and, in slow motion, turns to face me. It’s him.
Wait.
No.
The hair is wrong – too long. The outline broader, shorter.
Air gushes from my lungs and I almost laugh.
‘Ben.’
‘Mary? What are you doing here?’
‘What am I doing here?’
‘Sorry?’ Ben looks confused.
‘You were in my room.’ The wind picks up, causing a faint howl to pass through the nearby trees. I slide the door shut, wrap my arms around my chest.
Ben shakes his head. I can’t see his face clearly, but I see him clench and unclench his hands. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were out.’
‘Oh, and that makes it okay.’
There’s a pause. ‘You’re angry.’
‘Yes!’
Ben laughs. I can tell from the slight slur in his words that he’s drunk. ‘Oh shit. It’s not what you think! I’m so sorry, Mary. I came home from the pub and I couldn’t see you anywhere. I thought you were out, so I went in to make sure your door was locked.’
‘You scared me.’
‘Oh fuck. I’m so sorry. I know it’s stupid to be paranoid, but I can’t help it, after …’ I wait, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. I’d never thought of Ben as the paranoid type before. How much has he had to drink?
‘I don’t think there’s much to worry about from out there.’ Believe me, I’ve thought about it. ‘We’re on the fifth floor.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you really worried about someone getting in?’
Ben shrugs. ‘It’s dumb, I know.’
There’s silence for several beats.
‘It’s not dumb.’
Ben takes my hand and the sudden heat spreads down my arm. His hands are surprisingly rough. ‘Listen, can we talk for a minute?’
The adrenalin from earlier is gone, and in its place is the comfort I find myself feeling in Ben’s presence.
‘Okay.’
I let him lead me into my own room, and just as I’m about to close the door, I see Rachel’s bedroom door click shut.
Ben stumbles along in the dark. There’s a bump and he swears, then the bedside lamp comes on with a plink. The room is bathed in a soft, warm glow. Mum’s old brass lamp with pastel-pink-coloured panels liked stained glass; a perpetual reminder of my childhood.
Ben’s rubbing his shin. ‘That’s better. It’s bloody dark to
night. Almost got lost on the way home.’
I smile. Then I see where he’s looking – the empty wine glass on the vanity, the collection of bottles in the waste-paper bin. His gaze travels to the half empty Pinot Grigio by the bed.
There’s a pregnant silence, which Ben breaks in a cheerful voice. ‘Mind if I have some?’
My cheeks feel hot. ‘Sure. Uh, I’ll get a clean glass.’
‘No need.’ Ben picks up the wine glass and an empty mug and sloshes wine into both. He hands the glass to me and grins, but his eyes are serious. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
We sit awkwardly on the bed, elbows bumping. I feel an intense surge of gratitude towards him for his silence, his lack of judgement.
‘I might understand better than you think,’ he says in a soft voice. He’s lost the slur. ‘And I want to explain … about being in here before. I don’t want you to think I’m some creep. The door locking, it’s … it’s become a bit of a compulsive thing.’
‘Okay …’
Ben cradles the mug in his hands. ‘We had a break-in, at my old place. I was sharing with a mate just outside the city – not the best area. It was pretty dodgy really. But it was close to uni and it was all we could afford. Some crackhead broke in one night and robbed us while we were sleeping. I woke up and caught him. My instinct was to try to stop him, wrestle him to the ground. It didn’t work out so well. The guy wasn’t right in the head. He had a knife.’
He takes a gulp from the mug and places it on the bedside table. Then he lifts his T-shirt up to the ribs, revealing a deeply tanned torso. His skin is peeling where he’s been sunburned. There’s a darker patch of skin, maybe a couple of inches long, just above his boxers. The scar I’d noticed at the beach. It’s a moment before I realise what I’m looking at.
My breath quickens. ‘Oh Ben.’
He pulls his shirt back down. ‘That’s why I’m here. I was looking for somewhere … safe.’
‘Yeah. I get that.’ The words rush out of me and Ben nods. ‘And uh, the security system. That’s a plus.’
‘Sure is. And look … I haven’t … I mean, I joke about it when I’ve had enough to drink, but it wasn’t … I didn’t cope that well. After, I mean. PTSD, I guess. It’s normal.’
The New Girl Page 13
