Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  In fact, his apathy had been soul-crushing.

  He doesn’t love you, a mean little voice whispers in my mind. He never has and he never will. He doesn’t even seem to like you all that much right now…

  I glance down at myself, worrying that I’m not dressed appropriately. I wanted to go all-out, to be sexy and eye-catching, but in the same breath, I am a lone woman travelling around London late at night. I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself. And anyway, it’s not like I’m planning on seducing this guy, all I want to do is ask him a few questions.

  In light of this, I have opted for understated. I am wearing a pair of well-fitting, slightly flared jeans, and a flowery, fitted blouse, over which I wear a bright-red tank-top. I am huddled into my long, black coat that comes almost down to my shins.

  I wish that Blythe were with me, but she didn’t want to come on my fool’s errand, as she had called it. Besides, she has a hot date, anyway, with some guy from out of town whom she said that she met on Tinder, which is why she couldn’t take Bertie.

  She’s right, I think. This is a fool’s errand. I am a fool.

  I take a deep breath – and suck down that disgusting aftershave in the process – as the train clacks along, my body jerking slightly from side to side with the motion of the carriage. Every time my shoulder inadvertently rubs against the large, odorous man’s, I cringe and tense up.

  Try as I might, I can’t stop my mind from drifting back to what Mark said this morning when I was standing on his doorstep – that he couldn’t invite me in because Holly was naked. I shudder. I am far more acquainted with Holly’s body than any person who isn’t a lover or in the medical profession has a right to be.

  This aside, the fact she was pottering around naked in the kitchen gives me the heebie-jeebies and I can’t even begin to fathom why. This feeling stems from more than mere jealousy. Her actions just seem so territorial, so manipulative and exhibitionist. Sure, they’re grown adults and loads of people are comfortable with nudity and more power to them. But with Holly, it is different. The fact that she is a glamour model aside, there is something inherently creepy about her constant lack of clothes.

  I close my eyes, still with my face pressed against the glass, and force my mind to clear, to settle in for the journey.

  *

  Disembarking the train at Liverpool Street Station is a shock to the system. The station is heaving with bodies everywhere, streaming around me.

  Noise and movement swamp me, the high, vaulted, glass and metal ceiling that is too high up to even focus on leaving me with a dizzying feeling of vertigo. It is sensory overload. A robotic, female voice echoes hollowly over the Tannoy system, calling out names of places that I don’t catch. The screech of hydraulics, the hiss of train doors opening and closing, the chatter of voices near and distant, and the cacophony of far-away, tinny music accompanied by the unidentified whirring of machinery all rush towards me on the train platform on a stiff, constant breeze. This station through-draft brings with it the distinctive scent of the city, of car fumes, and hot food, and something uniquely organic and human, that may well be the faintest trace of sewage.

  The platform tilts around me and I stagger ungainly towards the nearest metal bench with the curved seat, which by some miracle has a free space one end. I flop down onto it, and not a moment too soon as my legs have turned to jelly.

  I take a second to collect myself, to concentrate on what now feels like the monumental task ahead.

  *

  I’m okay after a polystyrene cup of coffee at McDonald’s. I hate the damn place, but needs must, and I feel much more human now. I even manage to find a stool in the outside eating area, overlooking the huge, paved forecourt in front of the impressive metal and glass façade that is Liverpool Street Station.

  I am waiting for the crowds to thin slightly, before I tackle the London Underground to catch the tube to Bethnal Green.

  Broadgate can get busy in the summer months, but it’s a different kind of busy, where people amble along in holiday mode. London feels like a whole other world – people are far more smartly-dressed and they walk with purpose. It’s like stepping into another time, another place, and it damn-near blows my mind that this city is only seventy miles from my doorstep.

  *

  I stretched out my time in McDonald’s for as long as I could, and now I am clutching the yellow pole on the lurching underground train on my way to Bethnal Green. There are still no available seats in this carriage despite it being gone seven.

  My original ETA, factoring in the time it might take to find the pub, was around half eight. It looks like I’m going to arrive earlier, provided I can find the place. Subcon are due to start at around nine, so I have time to get there and get settled. If I’m lucky, I might even be able to collar Bill Butler before he takes to the stage. I’m not banking on that, though. Nothing is ever that easy.

  SEVENTEEN

  I find the pub a lot quicker and more easily than I anticipated. According to Google maps when I looked at it before I left the house, it was less than a ten-minute walk from the tube station and pretty much in a straight line.

  Turns out, Google maps was spot on.

  I pull out my phone from the small, black leather shoulder bag I have with me and look at the time. My heart sinks. It is only half eight.

  I feel uncomfortable and conspicuous, loitering as I am on the opposite side of the wide street to The Red Lion. I gaze over at the pub on the other side of the busy main road – a road that leads to Whitechapel if one were to continue walking to the right.

  The Red Lion looks every inch the typical, English boozer. It is sandwiched between a dry cleaners and a very narrow newsagent’s – both of which are shut.

  I was expecting the place to be bigger. How can a band even fit in there? I wonder. There is a long, narrow, frosted window that runs one side of the double wooden doors, with the name of the pub painted on the glass in a curving, old-fashioned font. Above the window the pub sign is nailed to the wall, depicting a lion’s roaring head, his improbably red mane blowing in a breeze, making me think of a shampoo commercial.

  There is a big, bald, scary-looking guy in a red suit standing next to the double doors, his arms folded across his barrel chest. He is illuminated by the outside light above the doorframe on this dark, cold evening, his face cast into shadows, lending him the appearance of granite, rather than flesh and blood.

  That feeling of gut-wrenching disorientation washes over me, just like it did at Liverpool Street Station.

  I shouldn’t be doing this.

  The thought is sure and true, catching me off-guard and coursing through my system on a tide of adrenalin.

  Ignoring this gut feeling of wrongness, I locate the Pelican crossing, which is a good twenty or so metres to the right, quite a way down from the pub.

  It’s too late now. I am here, and I am going to do this.

  The bouncer looks me and down on my approach.

  “Hi,” I say nervously, wondering what he makes of me. A lone woman such as myself arriving early – he probably has me pegged for a groupie.

  “It’s twenty quid entry tonight, no exceptions,” he says, as if assuming that I am immediately going to start arguing.

  “Sure,” I say brightly.

  His stern gaze flickers to my opened coat, and I instinctively wrap it more tightly around myself, not caring for his predatory gaze on my body. I find it quite nasty, the way his mean little eyes are so openly assessing me.

  “You get a ticket. Don’t lose it. If you do, and you leave the premises, I may not recognise you and therefore not let you in again.”

  “Right.”

  On a power trip much? I think sourly, opening my shoulder-bag and fishing around inside for my wallet. I locate it, and pluck out a twenty-pound note, my actions hidden by the walls of my bag.

  He pockets the note with a grunt that may have been a thank you, and opens his red jacket, producing from an internal pocket a
flimsy sheet of A5 paper with writing printed on it.

  “Don’t lose it. And I need to check inside your bag,” he instructs me.

  “Right,” I say again, sliding it from my shoulder and uncertainly holding it open in front of him, not sure if I am supposed to hand it over, or not.

  Apparently, this is okay, for he shoves his hand inside, rootling through the contents. He won’t find anything remotely interesting in there, just my phone, my wallet, a pen and notepad, a packet of tissues, a comb, and a few bits of loose makeup kicking around.

  Even so, I feel faintly violated.

  He ceases to rummage. “You a big fan, then?”

  “Huh?” Of course. I’m so stupid, he’s talking about The Band. “Oh, yes, right. Absolutely. Big fan.”

  He nods curtly. “Thought so, as you’re so early. Just you, and those other girls. You don’t really look the type, though.”

  When I don’t reply or ask him to elaborate on what he means by looking the type, he opens one of the double doors for me. Absently, I wonder if that was this meathead’s idea of flirting.

  Maybe. God, he makes my flesh creep clean off my body.

  “Enjoy your night,” he says, when I step past him. “Don’t lose your ticket.”

  Just as I enter the pub, the sound of a vehicle pulling up behind me on the pavement makes me jump and spin around on the spot. It is a white van, its indicators flashing.

  I go inside.

  *

  The interior of the pub is almost as dark as the street outside. It is also a lot bigger on the inside than it looks from the street. The décor is all red leather and dark wood. Eighties rock floats softly around me – REO Speedwagon, I do believe. It isn’t anywhere near as rundown inside as it looks from the outside. This only serves to remind me that I am in London now, rather than a tacky, forgotten, British seaside resort. In Broadgate, this place would stink of urine, the soles of one’s shoes would stick to the floor, and the studded leather of the wraparound seating areas would be long disintegrated.

  Instead, this place looks nice. I make my way over to the high, black-wood bar that extends along a good portion of the back wall. In the far corner of the pub, to the left of the bar, is a sizable, slightly raised platform. I should imagine that, under ordinary circumstances, this serves as more seating area, but right now it is devoid of tables and chairs. It must be where Subcon are playing tonight.

  Swiftly, I take in the rest of the establishment. There are a few bodies in here, I see. Four men sit at the bar – the obligatory barflies, I think. Three of the tables are taken – a young couple around my age, a small group of mixed-sex twenty-somethings talking quietly, and a group of four, young, pretty girls, dressed up to the nines. They are by far the nosiest group in here, giggling loudly with a cluster of empty glasses before them on their table.

  “Hi,” the barman says, smiling as I approach. “What can I getcha?”

  He’s a good-looking man, around my age and dressed from head to toe in black.

  “Oh, I’ll have an orange juice, thanks.”

  He drops me a wink. “Coming right up.”

  The younger of the four barflies – the man whom I happen to be standing next to – swivels on his barstool to face me.

  “Orange juice? I thought you and your friends were hitting it hard.”

  I stare at him, confused, as the barman places my drink on the drip tray on the bar. I thank him and give him three, pound coins, muttering for him to keep the change.

  I feel like I know this man.

  “I don’t have any friends,” I say, realising how deeply stupid that sounded. “I mean, I have friends, but not tonight.”

  He raises an eyebrow and smirks at me. “As opposed to the other nights, when you are a person who does have friends?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I…”

  Oh my God, I realise in a rush. It’s bloody him. It’s Bill Butler…

  He’s far better looking in real life than in the Facebook photos of him and his band. He has long, dirty-blonde hair worn in a ponytail, a square jaw and a well-shaped, small nose that gives his face something of a young Brad Pitt vibe. His widely-spaced, brown eyes sparkle, but not necessarily with humour – it looks more like cynicism. He is wearing a short, beat-up, tan leather jacket, faded jeans, and a t-shirt with a bright yellow Mr Happy printed on the front.

  Something about him puts me in mind of Mark, and my heart lurches at the similarity. It might be something to do with their similar build, how they are both tall, lanky and kind of languid – although Bill is bulkier – as well as their similar dress sense.

  I clear my throat. “What I meant to say is that I’m here alone.”

  I glance over at the giggling girls as I speak; clearly, he thought that I was with them. When I look back at him, his dark gaze pins me in place, and I find myself mesmerised by the handsome, hard lines of his face and his flat cheekbones.

  “You’re not here to listen to us play, then? You don’t look like a groupie.”

  “That’s just what the man at the door said.”

  He lets out a snort of laughter. “That steroid-pumped ape? I’m surprised that he could even form words. So then why are you here?”

  A sense of unreality so strong washes over me. This is like a dream; surely it can’t be this easy? I can’t just walk into the place and find the lead singer of the band sitting at the bar, all alone?

  “I…” I begin.

  I am struck by how good-looking he is. I wasn’t expecting to fancy him. The truth of that is a real jolt. I am about to finish the sentence with, I wanted to ask you a few questions about something personal, if it’s not too much trouble, but I never get the chance.

  One of those giggling, scantily clad girls from the table across the room has appeared between us.

  “Hi,” she smiles, swishing her mane of platinum blonde hair from one shoulder to the other. “I love your music. I am such a fan.”

  “Thanks,” Bill replies, although he doesn’t look particularly enthralled by the girl, to say the least.

  “So, are you guys hanging around after the gig? Or are you hitting a club? And are you booked into a hotel, or something?”

  “No, we live in London. And I’m going home to feed my cat.”

  I laugh, then whither under the hateful glare the girl shoots me.

  She’s so pretty, I think. And at least ten years younger than me. She has a knockout figure which she makes the most of in a short, slashed-to-the-navel silver dress, which looks like it is made from the scales of a fish. It’s hard to see if she is a natural beauty under all that makeup, but she’s certainly not ugly. If anything, I suspect that her features are a little bland and small without the layer of warpaint.

  “Well, maybe we could hook up later, when you’re done? Me and my friends, if you like.”

  I gawp at her incredulously. Did she just offer this man a fivesome with her and her three friends? Or did she mean that her friends were available to pair up with his two band members? But that would still leave one girl left over.

  Honestly. The mind boggles.

  “Busy later. Sorry, darlin’.”

  Just then, the doors of the pub swing inwards and in stagger two men in their mid-thirties who I vaguely recognise, laden down with equipment and electrical leads.

  “Are you gonna help, you lazy twat?” one of them calls over – the shorter of the two men with a bald head, who is wearing a floor-length, leather coat.

  “I was just talk talking business with the proprietor of this good establishment.”

  “Like fuck. You’re a lazy twat.”

  “Fuck off,” Bill shoots back. “It’s not my fault the equipment is stored in your garage. I don’t have a van, how am I supposed to transport it here? Osmosis?”

  The other guy, with the spiky blonde hair and an armful of leads, calls over to Bill from the stage. “Grab some shit, will ya, Bill? We’re gonna get a fucking parking ticket if we don’t a fucking wriggle on.”
/>   Bill downs the last of his pint and gets to his feet.

  No, I think in a panic. I’m losing him.

  The blonde girl still stands there, despite having been dismissed. I am losing him to his job, to what he came here to do, and I might not get an opportunity as good as this one again.

  “Wait,” I say, as he turns to leave. “I really do need to talk to you.”

  Something in the tone of my voice made must have made him realise that I am truly not a fangirl, here to chuck myself at him, for he stops dead in his tracks, and looks at me quizzically, a frown drawing his thick, straight brows together.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Claire Wilson, and I’m nobody. I just need to ask you a few things. It’s really important, and kind of personal.”

  “Oi, twat face,” the bald guy calls over, now on the stage with his spiky-haired bandmate. Their names are Tom and Ade, if memory serves me correctly, from their Facebook page. “Are you gonna help this year, or not?”

  The blonde girl, unable to take a less than subtle hint, remains where she is, her fake-lashed eyes glued to Bill.

  “Well, Claire Wilson, I’m kind of busy right now. But I knock off at half eleven. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink then?”

  Suddenly, the thought of staying here for four more hours in a packed pub with a deafening band playing seems utterly unbearable.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling dazed.

  “Hey, why are you having a drink with her?” the blonde girl pouts. “I thought you said you were busy?”

  He winks at me. I am quietly astounded – why would the lead singer of a popular, indie band take a shine to me? I am so dowdy, and this girl is way hotter than me.