by Linda Coles
After a few minutes, the warmth began to soothe her, and she let her head slip down into the water. Her roughly cropped hair floated around the back of her head, no longer able to fan out around the front like it used to do. It felt so strange. What the hell was her mother going to say tomorrow when she saw it? Taylor knew she’d be horrified, upset, mad even, but hadn’t a clue how to tell her what had really happened.
It wouldn’t be wise to tell.
No, she’d have to make her excuses, which in itself didn’t sit well. Lying to her parents was something she had never done, even as a teenager growing up. Lies meant you didn’t respect that person, and respect was something she had in spades for both of them. Whatever she’d got up to through the years she’d lived at home growing up, she’d told the truth and suffered any consequences that had followed. Even though her close friends had encouraged deceitfulness, she’d never obliged them. Her mother had bored it into her: ‘With lies you may go ahead in the world, but you can never go back.’
Yet she couldn’t face telling them the whole truth.
Feeling terribly ashamed at having been taken in, she sank her whole head under the bubbles, screwing her face up completely so as not to inhale any water, and there she stayed until she could hold her breath no longer.
“Bwahhh!” she hollered as she broke the surface of the water in a rush. Water sloshed over the sides of the tub and soaked the floor. She gulped air in frantically, trying to refill her lungs with much-needed oxygen. Startling herself, she sat shaking. Involuntarily her face screwed up like a child’s, her mouth forced down at the corners, and wracking great sobs erupted from her chest. Tears mixed with lavender water on her face as she let it all out in the sanctuary of her warm bathroom. With no one to hear her cries, she sobbed until she had nothing left to give, and the water had cooled enough to add to her misery. When she was finally depleted, she opened the plug and stepped out of the tub and into her robe. Feeling as tired as she could ever remember, Taylor curled up on her bed. What was left of her hair soaked her pillow, but that was the least of her concerns as she finally drifted into a deep slumber.
Chapter Seventeen
When the notification had come that his transaction was ready to be finalized, Terrance poured himself a martini and took it downstairs with him. He never referred to the room as a cellar; that sounded dank and fusty. But like a cellar, the room was underneath the main kitchen of the house. Few people knew it existed; certainly, none of the current staff did, and years ago it hadn’t held the same things it did now. No, he’d kept his interests away from the house back then – that is, until he’d taken on the place as his own. Then he’d done with it what he liked. And the room had been fitted out. Working after hours, the builder, carpenter, electrician, glazier and others had been paid handsomely to never mention the room to anyone, and as far as Terrance knew, they hadn’t.
Leading off the main passageway towards the old coal cellar further along was a door that no passerby would notice; it had been built to match the walls completely. Terrance raised his hand to find the small lever hidden by a beam. The wall slid back and the faint glow behind it spilled out into the corridor. Terrance stood in the doorway a moment to admire his collection from a distance before entering the room fully and appreciating it in its entirety. The door slowly closed behind him as he ventured forward to his wing chair in the centre of the room. It was the only piece of furniture in there save for the purpose-built cabinets that spanned each of the four walls. The chair stood on a circular plinth that rotated 360 degrees, enabling the person seated there to view any wall they chose by pressing a button.
Built of a rich, dark oak, each cabinet was divided up into three separate display cases stood on top of each other; each stacked unit was wide enough to span the entire width of the wall against which it stood. Most of the display cases were filled, leaving only a handful still empty. The brass hinges and knobs of each case gleamed in the light that came from strategically placed wall lights, giving the room an almost golden glow. The temperature of the room was always perfect: never too warm and absolutely never too cold. Placing his martini on the little table that shared the plinth with the chair, he sat down to experience the room in its entirety. He sank back, let out a deep, low sigh and pressed the button, relishing the anticipation. Ever so slowly, the chair turned, giving him a full 360-degree view of all of the items that he had collected over the years, each one with a different story attached to it.
Of course, things had changed, and his collection had increased in recent years thanks to what he’d been able to find on the dark web. It really had been a revelation to find others with similar wants and needs, as well as a way to procure for his own private collection, and all from the comfort of his own home. He barely needed to be involved in anything else but the receiving of his purchases.
The chair continued to rotate and he smiled as the very first piece of his collection came in to view. It was old now, though still just as beautiful as the day he’d taken ownership of it, and it sat displayed in cabinet number 1. There was a small plaque just above the glass, though he didn’t need to read it; he knew exactly what it said.
Prudence.
She had been the first, the catalyst for his whim, and she’d been very giving of it.
Eventually.
He took a sip of the martini as the plinth turned slowly. It wouldn’t be long now until his new arrival would take one of those reserved places and he could sit and appreciate it from his sanctuary. The thought pleased him; he felt a smile creasing his lips, a familiar stirring in his groin. She had been so delightful, so pretty. But before a cabinet was allocated with the rest of his collection, he’d have the pleasure of her in the privacy of his bed tonight.
He wondered what she’d smell of.
Picking up the remainder of his drink, he stood from the chair and headed back towards the hidden doorway. Before the lights dimmed as he left, he turned and took one last glance into the room to admire his collection so far.
Shining back at him silently, the thirty perfectly displayed glorious ponytails faded slowly as the golden lights dipped. He put a finger to his lips as he bid them good night.
Chapter Eighteen
It was nearly 8 pm when a text alerted him to a delivery arriving within the hour. Always ambiguous, never with a singular meaning, the text disappeared within seconds of him reading it. No one could ever know about the service he sought for his fulfilment, and as always, he was appreciative of the tight security. Since he’d begun using the services of the group, he’d never known the identity of any of the other participants. Each of them had a username that probably made sense to them alone and no one else. Take his own, for example: “Quinine.” Nearly 200 years before, Joseph Dubonnet had invented his eponymous drink as a means to make quinine more palatable for soldiers battling malaria in North Africa. Quinine on its own is extremely bitter, though Terrance didn’t see himself that way – quite the opposite, in fact – but the link to Dubonnet, however circuitous, was why he’d chosen the name.
Leaving his phone on his bedside cabinet, he headed through to the full-size bathroom adjacent to his room and drew himself a bath. At any other time of the day or night, he used the shower, the raindrop head allowing him the enjoyment of warm running water on his skin without the intrusion of invigorating jets. But on a night such as this, while he awaited his acquisition, he took sanctuary in the palatial room that the queen herself would have enjoyed bathing in. It had been planned out and designed meticulously, and nothing had been forgotten in the effort to make it a room of enjoyment. There was no toilet in this room, for obvious reasons; that was in a room of its own next door. Instead, a chaise longue sat proudly along the rear wall with soft, muted grey throw cushions neatly placed on top; a soft woollen blanket was folded and placed at the foot of it. The bath, with modern claw feet, sat in the centre of the room; cream shag pile carpet surrounded it. Brushed bronze tapware adorned the ceramic fittings, and bronze
accessories adorned the room on shelves and small tables, along with a bronze bust of a woman watching over him from the left corner of the room. A picture of the same woman hung on the opposite wall, placed as though to allow the two to look at each other.
Terrance watched as steaming water filled the tub from a bronze horse-head spout, the waterfall cascading therapeutically and mixing with the infused oil he so enjoyed. Lime and basil filled his nostrils. He loved the simple smells rather than more elaborate manufactured perfumes, and that went for fragrances on women, too. He’d much rather catch a vanilla bean on the wind than the cloying odour of something from an expensive bottle; it had more substance. He had fond memories of simple smells from when he was a boy, like Pears shampoo. ‘Fruits from the orchard,’ she’d told him when he’d admired the smell many years ago.
He stepped into the warm bath and laid his head back on the soft-towelled headrest; it was heated, and the warmth it emitted helped to relax him further. Classic music, the tinkling of piano keys, could just be heard coming from the hidden speakers on each side of his head. The muted lighting, the feel of infused water and oil on his skin and the gentle piano playing in the background was the therapy he needed before he welcomed his new addition.
How long ago it was that he’d first found his fascination. Glancing at the bronze bust looking over him, he smiled at the woman and idly wondered if perhaps she was still alive someplace. He’d never kept in touch after he’d taken what he’d so desired, what she had made him desire. She was the one who had led him to start his collection, to take hers first, to cherish it, to preserve it, to mount it in a cabinet. The first cabinet, the one numbered ‘1,’ with the name Prudence on the plaque. He felt himself stir at the thought of her, of how she’d used to sit on the edge of his bed as a young boy and tell him a story. Of how her eyes would twinkle as she spoke, how her soft-looking lips would move with her words and how her hair would shine. But it was when a nightmare came and he called out into the night that she would come from her room next door in her long nightdress, her hair loose around her shoulders. That was what he had found the most fascinating. And soothing. She’d lean in to him and stroke his hair to quiet him down, and he’d catch the smell of her hair. Fruity like an orchard. He could smell it now as clearly as though she were sitting there now, even over the lime and basil; it was there with him, always.
“Your hair always smells nice, Prudence,” he’d said one night while she helped him get back to sleep. “And so soft too.” His little fingers had reached up and touched it, stroked it and run themselves back down, through it. She’d bent her head into his touch, enjoying the feeling of someone’s affection. Young Terrance had fallen asleep filled with calm then, and whenever a nightmare had come after that, she’d used her hair to help him back to sleep. Terrance had had many nightmares growing up, though he could never say what they had been about exactly when she questioned him.
Forty-five minutes later, he emerged from his bathroom feeling relaxed, though anticipation was now subtly taking over. He made his way downstairs to await the text message that would tell him a delivery would be made within the following five minutes. He didn’t have long to wait. The lights of a car on his driveway could be seen through the trees now, and he opened the front door and stepped outside. When the black car had come to a standstill, a man in a black suit and driver’s cap took a slim, polished wood box out of the rear of the car and approached Terrance with it. It was about two feet long and just a few inches deep. He carried it like he was carrying the crown jewels, treating it with reverence as he walked slowly towards its new owner. Knowing what was inside, Terrance smiled inside and stretched out his arms to take ownership of the latest for his collection. The man handed the box over, then silently turned and climbed back into the black Mercedes to drive back the way he’d just come.
Terrance waited for the lights to completely disappear then closed the door and headed upstairs to his bedroom and the long-anticipated experience with Taylor Palmer’s long cognac locks.
As the driver headed away, the tiny chip embedded in the wooden lid confirmed the package had been delivered to the requested address, and a signal pinged on a screen somewhere back in London.
Another transaction had successfully been completed.
Chapter Nineteen
Griffin hadn’t expected her to get off at the same stop as his; he’d only decided what to do if she got off at a stop before his. And that was ‘do nothing’ anyway, so it wasn’t much of a plan. But now she was close by, just behind him somewhere, and he had precisely no idea what to do next. Walking forward down the platform towards the entrance and home, he fiddled with his iPhone and ear buds, his hands all thumbs and no fingers as he fumbled to undo a knot in the wires. He slowed his pace and moved over to the side, out of the way, as other passengers hurried past him.
“Can I help?” The small voice was coming from his left side and he froze. Summoning up his courage, he turned to look at the owner of the voice and was both startled and thrilled all at the same time. ‘Velma’ was looking at him for an answer.
“I . . . I . . .” he stammered, and then froze again. She smiled. He melted a little. Only a little.
“Here, let me help you,” she said. “My fingers are smaller than yours. I’ll be twice as quick as you.”
She reached for the wires. Griffin found himself handing them over and watching as her nimble fingers did indeed undo the knot in no time at all. She handed his ear buds back, smiling up at him.
“There. Told you it’d be quick.” Her petite face took in his, though while hers looked relaxed, Griffin’s was tense with anxiety. He still hadn’t uttered a full word. ‘Velma’ waited. It seemed like an age before he finally mumbled his thanks.
“Thanks. It was bugging me.” Finally.
“What are you listening to?” They started walking towards the entrance together again. It was less embarrassing than waiting for him to speak.
“Guns N’ Roses. Well, I was going to, but I’m talking to you now so I’m not listening to anything.” It came out a little more abrupt than he meant it to. ‘Velma’ felt the sting and glanced up at him. He backtracked a little.
“Sorry. I meant I will be listening to it, but obviously not right at this minute. That would be rude.” He chanced a nervous smile, his perfect white teeth peeping out from his lips a little awkwardly.
“I’ve seen you before. On the train. Where do you work?” Her voice bounced in a sort of singsong as she spoke. And the thought of her noticing him previously sent a tingle somewhere down his spine. He liked it.
“Green Park. I’m a sports reporter. How about you?”
“I work in IT just near Victoria station. I live here in South Croydon. I’m guessing you do too, since you got off here?”
Is she always so chipper and forward? he wondered.
“Yes, I do.” They both walked through the exit door and out to the road. “I live over there, just behind the church. I have a flat,” he said, pointing to a nearby spire.
“Lucky you. I’m a bit further on down, on Whitgift Avenue. I still live with my parents. Can’t afford a place of my own yet. Too damned expensive.”
Griffin mumbled a reply along the lines of ‘I hear you,’ and, still feeling very self-conscious, didn’t add anything further. They were nearly at his address when he found his words.
“I’m nearly home now. Thanks for sorting my buds out. Perhaps I’ll see you again, on the train?”
“What’s your name?”
“Sorry?”
“I said what’s your name?”
“Griffin. It’s Griffin.”
She stuck her hand out and, after several seconds of staring at it, he took it in his. They shook.
“Nice to meet you, Griffin. I’m Vee. That’s what everyone calls me. I’m Vera, really, but I don’t like it, so stick with Vee.”
“Nice to meet you too, Vee.”
She was already walking off as he spoke but she turned and ga
ve a little wave. He was sure he heard her say ‘I hope so,’ or did he imagine it? He hoped he hadn’t. She was cute.
Opening his front door, he thought back to Vee on the train when their eyes had caught each other’s, and how she did look like Velma Dinkley – glasses, haircut, height, everything about her. And she was called Vee. What a coincidence. And she’d spoken to him even though it had scared him half to death. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Her speaking to him? Because if it had been left up to Griffin to make the first move in greeting, the world would still be waiting. But then she had been very confident in her approach, something he lacked. When he was at the right place, he’d take a confidence-building course or something, but until then, there wasn’t much point. Work, walk, web were the routines of his life, his very existence; his walking counteracted the time he sat still at work and at home, surfing the web, most evenings. He spent a considerable amount of time online searching each night, trying to find the best option for his situation, and he was still a way off finding the solution. So he kept on looking.
Griffin took his satchel and put it in the cupboard before taking his clothes off and folding them all neatly in a pile on the end of his bed. He replaced them with training shorts and a T-shirt and collected his running shoes from a different cupboard. He downed 250 millilitres of water from the jug in the fridge and set out on his usual route to complete his 10,000 steps, pulling the door shut behind him. His mind ventured back to Vee’s petite face. She really was quite pretty. He was almost at the small park when he realized he’d been humming as he’d walked. Griffin never hummed.
But something had made him. Or someone, more to the point.
