Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  It’s just creepy. It’s like she’s obsessed with Broadgate.

  I’m starting to see double quite badly, and I slam down the laptop lid, promising myself that I will attempt to read one of her books tomorrow. I think I’ve had more than enough for one night. I can’t even be bothered to pull out this sofa and put my bed together. Bertie is fast asleep on the cushion next to me, and I manoeuvre myself around him so that he is nestled in the crook of my knees. I grab the bright yellow throw that is slung over the back of the sofa and lie down, tucking it around my body, somehow managing to avoid Bertie. I snuggle down and curl into the foetal position, one hand tucked under the yellow cushion upon which my head rests.

  I should take off my makeup, get undressed, pull out the damn bed and at least void my bladder, but I can’t bring myself to move.

  I am so tired. So very drunk. I drift off straightaway, but my thoughts don’t stop turning.

  Who is the woman next door?

  And what does she want with Mark?

  THIRTEEN

  Holly is sitting on a countryside gate, the kind that swings open to let cattle through. She looks exactly as she did in one of the thumbnails I saw of her, before I went to sleep.

  She is naked, except for a pair of cowboy boots and a cowboy hat.

  But this isn’t a photo. In my dream I am standing before her, and she is laughing, her head thrown back in the bright sunlight, swinging her heels against the middle, horizontal slat of the gate like a little girl.

  What do you want? I ask her.

  She doesn’t answer me. She is still bathed in brilliant light, but when I glance up, it is now night-time. I can’t understand how this happened so quickly. I can’t understand how she is still lit up, as if an unseen spotlight has been trained on her. Above her, I see the overly large moon in the sky. It hangs above her head, impossibly large, impossibly bright.

  What do you want?

  I am shouting now, terrified, yet not knowing why I am.

  I want Mark, she says simply.

  And then she laughs.

  FOURTEEN

  “My God,” Blythe says by way of greeting. “You look like shit. Rough night?”

  “Yeah. You could say that.”

  I do, indeed, feel pretty rough, and the paracetamols are currently failing me.

  “So? How did it go? What’s she like?”

  I watch my friend in the tiny backroom, fussing on with the kettle and filling Bertie’s bowl. The movement, noise and light hurt my brain. Today, Blythe is wearing a long, black and red, bold floral-print skirt, comfortable, shin-high black boots not unlike mine, and a simple, figure-hugging, black rollneck. I wonder if she’s ill or something as she looks far from her usual, flamboyant self. Even her hair, which is usually in some fancy style or other, is worn down in her natural waves.

  “She was awful,” I sigh, flopping down onto Blythe’s desk chair, not caring that I’ve stolen her main seat. My needs are greater than hers. “She’s the fakest human being that I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

  Holly leans against the doorframe, arms folded across her small breasts.

  “Do tell more. What did she say? Was she rude to you?”

  Not rude, as such. More passive-aggressive, I guess. She made it quite clear that she didn’t like me.”

  Blythe retrieves the bowl of water for Bertie and places it on the floorboards next to the desk.

  “You can’t really blame her, can you? It’s so obvious that you’re in love with her boyfriend; I can’t say that I would like you very much, either.”

  “Thanks. Whose side are you on, again?”

  It’s strange, but whenever we talk about Mark, or anything Mark-related, she’s different. It’s like, she has a personality transplant – she’s more judgmental and far less forgiving of me. I just can’t understand it. I mean, she barely even knows the guy, having only met him a handful of times through me.

  But I love Blythe, and I have no one else to talk to, so I decide to persevere.

  “So, what does this Holly-person do?” Blythe asks. “Is she beautiful? Do she and Mark seem happy?”

  “Yes, she’s beautiful,” I reply bitterly. “She’s the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen, in the flesh. She used to be a model. You know, the dirty kind, mainly.”

  Blythe’s eyes widen in her head. “No way. But if that’s the case, how come you couldn’t find her the other day when you were stalking her online?”

  “Because she didn’t do it under the name Holly Butler. She took her middle name, which was Anne, and changed it to Anabelle, and used her maiden name, which was Turner.”

  “Maiden name? She was married before?”

  “Yeah. The ex is dead. Got run over by a bus. He was thirty years older than her and a millionaire.”

  “Wow. Bet she wasn’t so sad about him passing, then.”

  “You joke, Blythe, but I don’t like her. I don’t trust her. There’s something really off about her.”

  “What, exactly, are you suggesting here?” She carries over two mugs of steaming coffee, perches her slim backside on the edge of the desk and hands me one. “Are you saying that she pushed her husband under the bus? Did she tell you about her ex-husband over dinner?”

  “No. I googled it. I read a newspaper article about his death in The London Experience.”

  “So you don’t even know for sure if you’ve got the right person? Couldn’t it just be an article about some random guy that was hit by a bus?”

  “It’s him, it has to be. His name, location, the date. It can’t not be him.”

  “And you seriously think that she pushed him into oncoming traffic?”

  “Maybe not her. Maybe someone else made it happen for her.”

  “Jesus, Claire, you sound like a certifiable fruitcake. No offense.”

  “I’m going to London tonight to see her ex-husband’s son.”

  “You what?”

  Now Blythe’s eyes are comically large.

  “In the article, it said that he was succeeded by his wife, Holly Butler, and his son, William Butler, a musician. So this morning, I found William Butler – or Bill Butler – on Facebook. He’s the lead singer in a band called Subcon, for which he has a fan page. They have quite the cult following, and they’re playing tonight at The Red Lion in Bethnal Green. Tickets are twenty quid at the door.”

  “You can’t be serious? You’re going all the way to London to see a second-rate band in some dodgy boozer? And all so you can talk to this woman’s ex-husband’s son? Have you lost your mind? What are you going to ask him, exactly?”

  “It’s only an hour and a half on the train. And I only want to ask him about Holly and his dad. Maybe he knows something about her.”

  “What, like she murdered his father?”

  “I don’t know,” I snap, getting exasperated at her lack of support. “Just, you know, anything.”

  The truth is, I’m not sure what it is that I’m hoping to find out. And I won’t know what it is that I want to know until I ask him. Holly is horrible. I recognise this on an instinctive level, but I have nothing to back this feeling up with. In order to save Mark from a life of doom and misery, I need to find out something concrete on her. I need the dirt dished, and who better to do the dishing than the son older than his deceased father’s wife?

  “Well, I think you’re paddling around in very murky waters. That’s quite the accusation, calling your crush’s girlfriend a gold-digging murderess.”

  “I never said it quite like that.”

  I take a sip of the coffee; it is good, hot and bitter, going some way to alleviating the pain in my poor, throbbing skull.

  “You didn’t have to. This woman is rich already – I doubt very much that she’s after Mark for his money. Unless, of course, she didn’t actually inherit anything from her husband and it all went to his musician son?”

  “No, she got it, all right. She got his house, in Belgravia.”

  Blythe lets out
a low whistle of appreciation. “Then it’s safe to say she’s minted.”

  “Yeah. She’s going back to London tomorrow for a few days. She says she wants to arrange to bring some of her furniture down to Broadgate, and she’s going to put the house on the market.”

  “Moving stuff, down here? And not into Mark’s place in London?”

  “Yes. Believe me, Holly is big on Broadgate. The way she’s talking, she’s planning to live here permanently.”

  “But you always told me that Mark much preferred living in London.”

  “I know. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes, it does. He loves her and will clearly do anything to keep her happy. What does she intend to do in Broadgate? But then, I don’t suppose she needs to do anything, being a woman of such independent means.”

  “She works. Sort of, if you can call it that. She’s a self-published writer,” I say, keen to throw in the self-published part to diminish her writing abilities, even if she is clearly competent at what she does and is an established name in the world of extreme-horror writers. “She writes under the pseudonym Sam West, and weirdly, she’s set a lot of her books here in Broadgate. She says that being here is good for her creative juices. Don’t you find it strange that she’s so obsessed with Broadgate?”

  Blythe shrugs her slender shoulders. “Not really. It is the South’s answer to Blackpool, and it’s such a quirky, decadent place. I’m here, aren’t I? As much as I moan about the place, I am here. It has an energy. I don’t know, there’s something about it that feels magic. Dark and seedy, but magic, just the same.”

  “Right.” I don’t want her to start blithering on about Broadgate’s mystic energy and ley-lines, and all the rest of it – I heard more than enough of that crap last night from Holly. “So then, maybe Holly’s just using Mark for his house in Broadgate?”

  “Are you kidding me? Why on earth would she want to do that? She’s rich, Claire. She could buy and sell Mark one-hundred times over with the proceeds of selling her place in Belgravia.”

  “Sure. But maybe she wants Mark’s house specifically.”

  “That’s crazy. There are tons of houses up for sale just like yours and Mark’s. I know Mark is quite well off and everything, but he not that rich. You say that his lives in a two-bed flat in Brixton… That’s a far cry from Belgravia, don’t you think? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe she really does love him? I mean, he’s a gorgeous-looking guy. He’s talented, ambitious, modest, decent, age appropriate. And let’s say that you’re right, let’s say that she is obsessed with Broadgate, and then she happens to fall in love with a boy from Broadgate… It would be like serendipity to her. Like fate. A romantic fairy-tale. And birds of a feather flock together, don’t they? She’s a writer, he’s an artist, they’re both drop-dead gorgeous – what’s not to love in each other?”

  “Have you finished?” I huff.

  She smiles. “Yup.”

  I hate how much her words resonate within me a bit too well. I remember Holly saying last night about it being fate, her meeting Mark. Maybe Blythe is right. Maybe she does love him. I sure as hell do; such a concept isn’t exactly inconceivable.

  “Yeah, well, I still don’t like her,” I say, fully aware of how churlish I sound.

  “Maybe not. But maybe Mark’s the gold digger in this scenario – did you ever think about that?”

  The mere thought of such a thing makes my blood run cold. No. Absolutely not. I simply won’t have it.

  “No. Mark’s not like that.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I say emphatically, no longer feeling sure at all. The tiny seed of doubt has been sown in my mind.

  I also begin to wonder why I even bother popping in to see Blythe on my winter, morning walks.

  Blythe reaches over and slides open the top, side drawer of the desk, pulling out her smartphone.

  “Now, what did you say her modelling name was? You’ve got me dying of curiosity here.”

  I tell her, and so begins the stalking process all over again, this time with Blythe, re-treading the same ground I did last might.

  I am obsessed with this – with her – and there’s no going back now.

  FIFTEEN

  On the way home, I bang on Mark’s door. I look a hot mess, still hungover as I am from last night. I am dressed reasonably well, in a flared, dark-green, knee-length skirt and shin-length, black, comfortable boots. Over my tight, black pullover, I am wearing a cute, short, black-leather jacket.

  But there’s little I can do about the sorry state of my face. My eyes are puffy, my face feels bloated and even my nose is swollen.

  But I have to see him.

  “Hey stranger,” he says on opening the door, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe.

  He is wearing a pair of faded-blue, holey, ancient Levis and an equally faded t-shirt with Sid Vicious’ face plastered across the front. His hair is delightfully dishevelled like he has just woken up, his pale-blue eyes are bleary, and there is dark shadow shading his narrow jaw.

  “Hey yourself,” I reply, inwardly cringing at how awkward I sound. I’m always like this in the first few seconds of being confronted by him – it is the literal shock to the system until I can rein it in and function normally again.

  “How’s the hangover?” he asks with a sleepy, sly grin that has my heart hammering.

  I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I’ve had worse.”

  This is the point where I expect him to invite me in for a coffee, but to my dismay, he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, looking at me faintly quizzically, like he is expecting me to explain my presence on his doorstep at this ungodly hour.

  “So, what’s up?” he asks, when I don’t say anything.

  I swallow down my hurt – yet again – not believing that he isn’t inviting me inside.

  “Actually, I’m after a favour. I have to go out tonight, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. I was wondering if you could take Bertie? I wouldn’t normally ask, especially with it being Saturday, and all, but Blythe can’t have him, and I know that you guys said you were staying in tonight as you’re taking it easy because Holly is off tomorrow…”

  I’m rambling, and I force myself to stop speaking.

  “Sure no problem. You know I love the little tosser.” He bends over to pat Bertie, who pants and smiles and wags his string-like tail. “Yeah, you’re all right, ain’t cha?” He ruffles his head, then stands up straight again.

  “He doesn’t have any gross chemicals on the back of his neck anymore from the flea treatment, so he’s safe to touch now.”

  “Yes, really, it’s fine, don’t worry. Where are you going, then? You got a hot date?”

  “Yeah.” Nervously, I clear my throat. “Something like that.”

  “Well, good luck. Let us know how it goes.”

  He is dismissing me now, I can’t believe it. He’s not remotely curious about my plans for tonight, yet alone showing any signs of jealousy.

  An awkward silence befalls us. I know that it is up to me to end this conversation, as I am the one standing on his doorstep, therefore I am the one who must go. He would have to slam the door in my face otherwise to end it, and that would be outright rude, by anyone’s standards.

  “Listen, I would invite you in, but Holly is kind of naked,” he says in a lowered voice.

  I feel my eyebrows shooting up in my head. “She is?”

  “Yeah, she’s in the kitchen.”

  I laugh, but it sounds horribly false.

  “Right. I understand. I’ll drop Bertie off with his stuff at around six, then?”

  Why is Holly naked? I think in disgust. But then, that seems to be her preferred state, being the money-grabbing slut that she is. I say that I understand, but I don’t understand it at all. She is so fake, why can’t he see that?

  “Sure,” he says casually. “We’ll see you later, then. Bye, Claire.”

  He is shutting the door, and I have
n’t even started to move yet.

  I have been well and truly dismissed.

  SIXTEEN

  It is four p.m., and I am on the London-bound train headed for Liverpool Street.

  This is a bad hour to travel, as I will be hitting London at half past five and therefore peak rush hour. Go me. I really haven’t thought any of this through. I am acting like a crazy-arse stalker, devoid of rational thought.

  No matter. The wheels are in motion now – literally and figuratively. I have managed to nab a window seat, and a fat, middle-aged man in a shiny-looking suit squeezes in next to me. He smells faintly of BO, mingling with a cheap, aquatic aftershave that is headache inducing. I would rather the BO. Bits of him are spilling over onto my side of the seat and I try to make myself as small as possible, huddling against the window.

  I rest my hot forehead against the cool windowpane. Beyond the glass, I see one of Thanet’s many sprawling housing estates, stretching as far as the eye can see. Rows of sad-looking back gardens backing onto the track whizz by – a reminder of how lucky I am in the greater scheme of things, to live where I do.

  I can’t believe that I’m doing this, just travelling to London on nothing more than a whim. It is a stark reminder how small my world has become, how easy it really is to just do this, especially as I only live a ten-minute walk away from the station. Okay, so I don’t drive, but I could’ve gone up any time to see Mark. It’s just the mindset of living in a seaside town – your world shrinks.

  It’s because I’m so busy with punters in the summer, I tell myself. But that’s only half the truth. I am stuck in a rut, and it’s taken me this half-baked plan to realise it.

  My mind drifts back to less than half an hour ago, to when I had dropped Bertie plus his stuff with Mark and her. He still didn’t probe into what my plans might be for tonight. It had been only the most perfunctory of doorstop-drops. I said that if I was back before eleven, I would drop in and pick him up, but if I was later – which I knew full well that I was going to be – I would leave him with them for the night. Mark said that was fine.