Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  He pauses for so long, I am beginning to think that he isn’t going to answer.

  “No, I don’t. I think she’s a heartless gold-digger, and I’m not kidding when I say that her phoney display of grief at my father’s funeral was utterly sickening, but what you’re insinuating is quite the leap. She’s just someone who always seeks the easy way in life, trading off her looks to get ahead. I don’t think she’s capable of murder.”

  That last word hangs heavy in the ait between is, an accusation that now feels sordid and nasty. I wish I could retract it – I’ve overstepped the line and I know it. It’s probably time that I attempt to backpedal.

  “I’m just worried for my friend, that’s all. I had to ask. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  He smiles slightly. “You haven’t offended me – she and my dad, they were probably perfect for each other. My dad wasn’t a particularly nice man; he made his bed. But she’s not a killer. She married my dad because he was rich. And she’s after your friend because he’s quirky, talented and good-looking. I mean, what isn’t to like? Plus, he happens to live in Broadgate, which she must love because clearly, she has Daddy issues.”

  His blasé, what isn’t to like comment reminds me of Blythe – I do believe that was exactly what she said, too. It makes me feel stupid, like I am some idiotic, conspiracist nut.

  Also, his words give me pause, and an invisible, icy finger trails the length of my spine.

  “I never said that Mark was quirky and good-looking.”

  He laughs, and I can’t be sure, but for a second, I think I detect a note of uneasiness in the sound.

  “You didn’t have to. He’s obviously around your age if you say you grew up with him, and you mentioned that he was rich and successful. Besides, I can’t imagine a woman like you falling for anything less.”

  My head is in a spin, and that trickle of unease lingers.

  “How many times? Mark’s just a friend.” The amount of times I’ve been saying that lately, I may even start believing it myself. “Do you know if Holly ever lived in Broadgate, when she was a kid?”

  “Sorry, I couldn’t say. But when I met her, she said she had always lived in London. She may have spent the first year of her life in Broadgate, or something, if at all.”

  As vague as he is, that rings true, because by the time I moved to Broadgate at the age of five, Holly was more than likely gone. I doubt that I ever lived in the same town as her, at the same time.

  Until now.

  Somehow, I can’t shake the conviction that mine and Holly’s paths are intertwined.

  “How old were you when you lost your mum?” I ask, changing tack, not sure if I have already asked this. I really need to slow down with the red wine.

  “Thirteen.” A dark cloud passes over his face. “She was an incredible woman and my world collapsed around my ears when she died. And my dad…”

  His voice trails off, his face suddenly closing over, as if he feels he has said too much.

  “Go on,” I softly plead. I feel absurdly close to tears, yet I’m unsure why.

  “I don’t want to bore you with stories about my childhood.”

  “It’s not boring. It must have been so hard for you.”

  He squints at me, assessing me, as if deciding whether to talk or not. I don’t think he is going to, but then he does:

  “My mum was everything that my dad wasn’t; kind, tolerant, gentle, loving. When she died, a small part of me died, too. I suppose my dad did his best in his own way, but he was never the most affectionate towards me and he had little patience with me. He sent me away to one of the most expensive boarding schools, and I diligently went on to university and got a degree in Music.”

  “Really? And you ended up in construction?”

  He shrugs his big shoulders. “I enjoy the manual labour – I’ve never been one for gyms. And music is my one true love; just getting a degree in it almost killed my passion for it. I’d prefer to keep that passion alive, to switch off at work and not fall out of love with music. It has to be my constant, raging fire, otherwise it might fizzle out and die. Plus, there was the added bonus that it really pissed off my dad that I became a builder. All that first-class education, completely wasted.”

  I think I get what he means about his music being a passion, but I’m not like him. I’m not one of those creative types who gets consumed by their art; I don’t know what that feels like. The only obsession I have ever known is Mark. That aside, I didn’t even get to university – my mum never pushed for it, and I never burned with anything enough to want to do it. Instead, I drifted around in various shop jobs and helped Mum with the B and B while she was still alive.

  We’re getting off-track again, and I want to know more about his father.

  “What made you fall so much in love with music? Were your parents that way inclined?”

  “Not really,” he replies. “My mum had a beautiful voice, but she never did anything with it. She was a model, like Holly. But the non-dirty kind. Clothing catalogue stuff, mostly.” He lets out a bitter laugh. “My dad listened to opera and classical, but I doubt very much that he loved it like he claimed to. He was a social climber who read the correct books and listened to the right music. He collected fine art, drank only the best wine and was just generally very accomplished and put-together.

  “I guess my father just liked collecting beautiful things. Including women. Especially women. He was never faithful to my mum. Not even close. But I believe that he loved her as much as he was capable of loving anyone. When she died, it was like his last spark of humanity went right along with her.”

  “It sounds like he was a formidable man.”

  He lets out another harsh bark of laughter. “Formidable. Yes, that’s certainly one word to describe him. He was capable of making grown men quiver in fear at his feet. And he often did so in the financial sector.”

  “I’m sorry that you never got the chance to work things through with him.”

  “Don’t be. Don’t get me wrong, my teenaged years were tough and loveless, but I mostly grew up to accept what my dad was. It wasn’t my fault, I know that now. By the time Holly came on the scene, it was like, he was almost a caricature of himself.”

  Not for the first time, it crosses my mind that Bill and Holly were – or even still are – having an affair. Maybe the idea of them arranging to have Jasper killed is a little extreme, but if Bill genuinely dislikes his father as much as he claims to, then what better revenge would there be than to bed his model-wife?

  Maybe I am jumping to conclusions, but something doesn’t quite add up here. It’s not that I disbelieve Bill, but I feel as though I am somehow missing something. Something pertinent. Like, I am looking at things through a distorted lens.

  For sure, the wine isn’t helping. I am dulled and fuzzy around the edges, suffused in a soft alcoholic glow.

  We are distracted when our food arrives and conversation turns to lighter matters. I allow my guard to drop. Now that I’ve stopped grilling the poor man, I discover how genuinely attracted to him I am. He is so easy to talk to, and I find myself telling him about my own past, the relatively straightforward relationship that I had with my mother and my uneventful childhood.

  The two-plus hours pass in a pleasant blur, and by the time we are having coffee after the cheesecake pudding that we shared, I am feeling decidedly giggly and lightheaded.

  “At least let me go halves with the bill, Bill,” I giggle.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

  “Sorry.”

  Don’t be. I’ve never it from anyone so cute before. And anyway, not a chance, sweetheart. This is on me.”

  A sense of unease cuts through the giddy euphoria, the bubble of giggles snatched clean out of my chest. For a moment – less – I get the distinct impression he is playing me.

  Oh, ye of little faith, I silently chide myself. I’ve had a lovely night – what is wrong with me that I have to second gue
ss everyone and everything? I refuse to give in to that niggly voice of doubt. I mean, I actually like this guy, which is a miracle in itself.

  Maybe there is life after Mark, after all. Perhaps, romantically, there is hope for me yet.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The last time I’d had sex with a man was with the mechanic on Denham Avenue whom I’d met on a rare night out with Blythe one year ago. The ill-fated, month-long relationship had all the spark and fizzle of Guy Fawke’s night in the pouring rain, the sex about as erotic as his servicing of one of his client’s cars.

  But with Bill, it is different.

  When we stumble out of the restaurant after polishing off the second bottle of wine and those pre-dinner drinks, I allow myself to believe that I have made a genuine connection, despite the less-than-genuine motives that initially brought me to this point.

  The chemistry between us is palpable. When he kisses me on Broadgate seafront, it is not at all like how Peter Williams, the mechanic on Denham Avenue, kissed me.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into the side of my neck, breaking off the passionate kiss.

  We walk together through the night in a daze, and it isn’t long before he deftly manoeuvres me into one of the shuttered, double-fronted doorways of TimToms Amusement Arcade. His lips seek mine again, and I wrap my arms around his strong shoulders, my neck craned all the way back as he is so much taller than me. My head is swimming in the potent mix of lust and wine, my legs trembling.

  I no longer feel like me, like I am watching myself from afar. It is some other person experiencing this wanton dizziness, this flickering arousal that squirms hotly in my lower abdomen.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt the desire to fuck so strongly. Only in my dreams, with Mark.

  And yet, the last time in that secret dream, Mark had turned into Bill.

  The kiss goes on and I arch my back, writhing, pushing my breasts, my groin into him, like an undulating snake.

  Or a worm on a hook, I think, in a moment of brief lucidity, a glimmer of sobriety. Because, as tantalisingly erotic as this, it also feels dangerous. Bill is dangerous. And maybe it is this air of danger that is turning me on, more than anything.

  My senses are on high alert. The salt-and-seaweed tang of the air, mixed with Bill. His unique, masculine, musky scent, at one with the sea air, now entering my lungs, and at one with me.

  I have the distinct sense of being part of something larger than myself, that me, Bill, and Broadgate itself are all interconnected. We are one being. I cannot differentiate between the distant roar of the ocean and the rush of blood in my ears. It is one and the same.

  We are all one and the same.

  Dimly, I wonder if Bill has dropped LSD into my wine, and the results are these trippy thoughts, this feeling of being at one with the Universe and on a higher plane of understanding.

  Bill breaks off the kiss.

  He holds me by my shoulders and gazes deep into my eyes. The deep and wide doorway we are in is shrouded in darkness as the glass doors are shuttered. In our hiding place, we are protected from the light that emanates from the long, thin row of non-shuttered windows, which tout the wares of TimToms, even at night.

  But, as dark as it is in our makeshift cave, the shadows around us flicker slightly, thanks to the blinking lights of the arcade machines displayed in the window.

  It is as if Bill’s face is shifting slightly before my eyes with the dancing shadows that distort his features. The walls of our cave also flicker with dancing shadows.

  A reflection of humanity on the walls of the cave, comes the crystal-clear thought about Plato’s Allegory Of The Cave. I don’t know why I should think something so deep, but then, I’m not exactly feeling myself right now. It’s like, I’m fully conscious for the first time, experiencing desire in its purest form and not a watered-down version thereof. Because Mark is only ever a dream to me, a reflection of desire, and Bill is the real thing. He ignites me more than any man – any real, flesh and blood man – has ever done.

  Eventually, still gripping my shoulders, he speaks. “Come back with me.”

  In the dark, his eyes are bottomless black pits. I see desire. Or maybe it is my own desire, reflected back at me. For the briefest moment I am quite sure that I am looking at the Devil himself.

  I am past the point of no return, and I am also okay with that.

  “Yes,” I say simply. “I will.”

  THIRTY

  Bill is booked into a smart hotel in the centre of town. It is an imposing building with at least ten rooms. It is officially a four-star establishment, compared to my paltry two, my lack of stars due to my basic facilities.

  We walked there in silence. It isn’t far from the restaurant – less than quarter of a mile.

  Bill lets us into his room on the second floor; a room that is much bigger than anything my B and B has to offer.

  As if in a dream I step inside, Bill shutting the door behind us.

  “I’ve never been in this hotel before,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious and completely out of my depth. This isn’t me. I don’t do things like this.

  I turn around slowly on the spot, taking in the room. It is beautifully done out, not dissimilar to the décor of Mark’s place. Correction. Mark and Holly’s place.

  Still feeling like I am dreaming, I wander into the bathroom, the sight of which knocks my breath out. I realise that I am looking at the reason why this place is four star and mine is only two.

  There is a bathtub in here the size of a jacuzzi – in fact, it is a jacuzzi. The shower is separate, although, it is less a shower and more a solid room in itself, a wet room within the bathroom. It doesn’t have a door, and numerous showerheads are built into the walls and ceiling, alongside many well-concealed spotlights. These spotlights are strategically placed throughout the entirety of the bathroom, illuminating the grey tiles and shiny stone in a muted glow. The overall effect is incredibly classy and elegant.

  I am momentarily so in awe of the place, I don’t hear Bill come up behind me. I flinch when he wraps his arms around me and gently kisses the side of my neck.

  I close my eyes, relaxing into him.

  “You want to test the shower?” he murmurs against my skin. His breath is hot and damp, sending shivers of longing coursing through me.

  “Maybe,” I whisper, my eyes still closed, lost as I am to these new sensations.

  I gasp, my eyes springing open when Bill assertively spins me around without warning so that I am facing him.

  A low moan rises up from my chest when he kisses me – a slow, lingering, explorative kiss that has my heart pounding and my legs trembling. Bill’s hands are now all over my body, no longer gently skimming the contours of my breasts and backside, but moulding and kneading.

  One hand roughly snakes under the low neckline of my red dress, gliding into my bra where his fingertips graze my nipple. The sudden, overtly sexual contact is a jolt to my senses, sending hard sparks of fiery pleasure shooting through my body and ending up between my legs, as if my clitoris and nipples are hardwired together.

  Bill continues to rub and pinch my nipple and breast, his other hand bunching up the skirt of my dress in his palm, dragging the hemline ever upwards.

  My hands are also freely exploring the contours of his torso over his shirt, revelling in the way his muscles bunch and tense beneath my roaming touch, as if he too is alight with desire. This is confirmed when my hand brushes against his crotch. The rock-hard heat of him through the thick, canvas material makes my palm tingle and snatches the breath clean out my lungs.

  His hand is now between my thighs, stroking me through my sopping wet knickers until I am trembling and whimpering with need against him.

  Usually, when I am with a man and I am at this stage of proceedings, I am raging an internal battle between psychological discomfort and arousal. I guess I just have the type of brain that will not switch off during any sexual act. I tend to start agonising over the mos
t trivial of things. Like, is my bikini line neat enough, and will he notice that pesky shaving rash, or is my vagina the wrong shape? As weird as that sounds, I am conscious that my inner labia protrudes ever so slightly past my outer labia, and I start stressing that the man I’m with is going to be first shocked, then repulsed. They never are, of course, my vagina is perfectly normal, I know this on an intellectual level, but it still doesn’t stop my sexual anxiety. I’m the same during sex; I just can’t ever get out of my own head enough to fully enjoy it. I’m always worrying that I’m taking too long to come during foreplay, or the man is thinking bad things about my body, like, my thighs are too chunky, my breasts are too droopy, and even that my naval isn’t attractive enough. And if he’s going down on me it’s even worse because I take way too long to come. I start stressing that that the taste of my vaginal fluids are wrong somehow, either too acidic or too alkaline, and as he’s so physically close to me, he must be thinking that my vagina is disgustingly ugly… And so it goes on.

  Needless to say, I tend to ruin things for myself.

  But with Bill – amazingly – there is none of that. It is just pure, molten need that I feel.

  When he breaks off the kiss to trail his hot, wet mouth down to my throat, I fist his hair which has come loose from his ponytail, clinging to him like a drowning woman to a rock at sea. Not even when his fingers nudge past the elastic of my knickers do the negative thoughts take hold.

  All I want is him.

  “I want you,” he sighs into the crook of my neck, echoing my own thoughts as his fingers glide against the wet valley of my labia, seeking out the hard, aching nub of my clitoris.

  “I want you, too,” I manage to gasp back at him.

  Then, without warning, he scoops me up in his arms as if I weigh nothing and holds me against his chest like an old-fashioned hero, straight off the covers of the romances I used to devour from the local library when I was a teenager. I feel every inch the helpless, wanton and desirably heroine in his arms.