Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller

by Collette Heather

  He carries me back into the bedroom and gently lays me down on the silk sheets in the middle of the four-poster bed.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he sighs, gazing down at me.

  For the first time in a long time – perhaps ever – I feel it, too.

  And then he is kissing me again, and I am not thinking anything.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Bill says.

  My eyelids flicker open to the alien surroundings, to the bright, wintry, morning light that is pouring in through the opened curtains of the two sash windows and pooling on the dark oak floor.

  Groaning, I promptly shut them again as the sunshine is most unwelcome, feeling like knives piercing my retinas.

  I am aware of Bill behind me on the bed, dropping kisses on my exposed shoulder. His face is scratchy, like warm sandpaper.

  Confusion clouds my mind, last night coming back to me in fragments, for I have slept the dreamless sleep of the dead. Slowly, I become aware that Bill is outside the warm cocoon of the blankets and sheets, as opposed to inside them, with me. Also, I am naked.

  When I twist my aching head around to focus my bleary vision on Bill, he is dressed in the clothes he had on last night. It hurts too much to hold my head in that position, so I allow it to flop back down on the pillow, facing away from him.

  “Come back to bed,” I groan. My brain is throbbing in earnest now – God, how much did I have to drink last night? Too bloody much, is how much.

  “Can’t, I have to get back to London. I have a million things to do, and I’m working tomorrow.”

  Through my hangover and disorientation, it occurs to me that I know nothing about this man. Not really, not the important stuff. We only talked about our feelings last night and our childhood. I don’t know anything real, like, his address or his place of work.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  In great pain, clutching a solitary silk sheet to my naked torso, I haul myself into a sitting position.

  “What time is it?” I slur.

  “Just gone ten. They’re going to be kicking us out soon, anyway. You look rough.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, embarrassed.

  “Rough, but still beautiful.”

  He is kneeling on the bed next to me, grinning at me. He has no right to be so perky after the amount we drank last night. “Why don’t you grab a shower and I’ll order us room service? The breakfast here is supposed to be excellent.”

  “Right,” I reply. “Good idea.”

  It is a good idea, but that entails hauling my sorry backside off the bed and scrabbling around after my discarded clothes in the most demeaning fashion.

  “I took the liberty of picking up your clothes and putting them in the bathroom for you. I thought you’d want to sort yourself out in peace.”

  “Thanks,” I say, touched by the gesture.

  Still with the sheet wrapped around my naked body, I make my way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind myself.

  *

  I feel better after the shower. Bill had even thought to bring in my handbag which rests on top of my pile of clothes, so I am able to run a comb through my hair after I have washed it, and repair my face with the few bits and bobs of makeup I have floating around in my bag. The result isn’t great, but it will have to do.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Bill was true to his word. He has, indeed, ordered breakfast, which is on a tray on the made-up bed. Again, I am touched by the thoughtful gesture. Jumping into bed with a man after the first date has made me feel slutty, like my actions could be misconstrued as me not wanting anything serious, but Bill isn’t treating me like cheap trash, and I am so grateful for this.

  Again, it occurs to me that I really like this guy – I never lose myself during sex like that. Bill is different, I don’t think I’ve met a man quite like him before.

  “Come, sit,” he says, patting the bed next to him. “How do you take you coffee? I went for the continental; I didn’t think that you’d appreciate the room smelling like a greasy spoon.”

  I laugh, and sit down next to him, eyeing the tray of coffee, orange juice, croissants and little cereal boxes.

  “A touch of milk, no sugar,” I answer.

  Bill pours our coffee from the pot, and I watch him, suddenly overcome by embarrassment and awkwardness.

  “I’m so glad that I woke up this morning and you were still here, snoring away happily in the bed.”

  “I don’t snore,” I say indignantly.

  “It was only a little snore. A very sexy snore.”

  “Snoring can be sexy? Now there’s a thing.”

  Bill laughs. “Only when you do it.” He turns suddenly solemn. “I really enjoyed your company last night. Just so you know, I don’t normally open up like that. You’re different. Special.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble, accepting the coffee.

  “I mean it, Claire, I like you, a lot. I hope we can do this again, and soon.”

  *

  Bill gives me a lift home, even though it’s less than a mile walk.

  “You’re in the same clothes as last night,” he tells me. “That makes it the walk of shame, and I’m not letting you do that. You never know who’s watching.”

  So I get into his car which is parked in the private carpark of this hotel – another factor in its four stars, I presume. His car is a Ford Capri in a muted gold shade. It suits him somehow, I think, being so elegant and decadent, like he comes from a different era.

  He pulls up outside my house and turns to face me, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from my face.

  “Here we are,” he says, smiling softly. “I truly enjoyed every second of last night.” He cranes his neck, peering through the window to peer up at my house. “Nice place. Very nice.”

  “Thanks,” I say, then feel vaguely stupid, because the last part of his sentence wasn’t like it was a personal compliment.

  He looks back at me. “I mean it Claire, I had a great time. I hope we can do it again.”

  “Yes. Me too,” I reply, and meaning it wholeheartedly.

  “I’m busy with work for a fair few days now, but I’ll definitely call you and we’ll arrange something. If you want to, of course,” he hastily adds.

  “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” He twists his head away from me again to look out of the window. “And the not-so-fabulous Holly lives there?” he asks, gesturing down the road slightly with the faintest tilt of his head.

  “No, she’s two doors down the other way,” I correct him.

  “Right.” He gazes deep into my eyes once more and my stomach flips. Then he leans across the seats and kisses me slowly, lingeringly, on the mouth. “I’ll call you,” he says.

  I wonder if he means it; I really like this guy and it’s caught me totally by surprise. I get out of his car with a final bye, and wave him off from my doorstep. Then I start wondering if I’ll ever see him again. When he pulls away, I think how I still don’t know where he lives in London.

  *

  After Bill has dropped me home, I dart inside and head straight for the bathroom, where I attempt to make my face look as presentable as possible, after which I bang on Mark’s door.

  Thankfully, it is him that opens it.

  Holly’s probably naked somewhere, I think bitterly.

  “Why, good morning,” he says with a lopsided grin. “Good night, was it?”

  Bertie yaps in delight on seeing me, hurtling past Mark and scrabbling at my shins.

  “I’m so sorry, this is so unbelievably bad of me,” I say sheepishly as I lean down to cuddle Bertie and rub his back. “I really did mean to get back, but the time just kind of got away from me.”

  “Clearly. It seems to have a habit of doing that to you lately, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I repeat, my face burning in shame. “I swear, it won’t happen again. I’ll never ask you to look after him again.”

  Oh, relax, it’s no big deal, yo
u know I like Bertie. So, it’s getting serious with this guy, then? Did you go back to his place? Does he live in Broadgate?”

  “Yes,” I answer, not wanting to get into it.

  I don’t want him to know that I stayed in a hotel last night – it just sounds so sleazy, as well as potentially unleashing a ton of questions that I’m simply not ready to answer. If things do get serious between me and Bill, it’s going to make things very complicated.

  But I still hope that they do.

  “Well,” he says, “I guess you can tell us all about this guy tonight. If you’re still on for tonight that is? If you don’t have another hot date lined up with this mysterious guy?”

  “No. No hot date tonight. And I really am sorry for dumping Bertie on you.”

  He waves a dismissive hand. “It’s no problem.”

  He doesn’t invite me in, and, to my amazement, I find that I am glad he hasn’t.

  “See you later, then,” I say, lifting Bertie’s red lead and braces off one of the coat hooks in the porch, then bundling him into my arms like he is a baby.

  Only when I have covered the entire length of the short, garden path do I realise that I paid very little attention to Mark’s physicality today. When I try to recall his image, I can’t quite picture the clothes he had on. There is just a vague impression in my mind, rather than exact details. Like, I know he was barefoot and wearing blue jeans, but I don’t recall the logo on his t-shirt. Was it his grey ‘Misfits’ t-shirt, or some sport’s logo? I don’t remember.

  Either my infatuation has miraculously lessened overnight, or I’m dead on my feet. I am so tired and hungover, I am seeing double.

  I suspect the latter.

  *

  I take to my bed almost as soon as I get in. An indignant Bertie doesn’t even get his walk, and sniffs disdainfully around the back garden, throwing me dirty looks over his shoulder while he piddles on the hedgerow.

  I don’t care; I am exhausted. I don’t even pull out the bed or get undressed. I flop down onto the sofa, pull the throw over my body and snuggle my face into the cushions.

  Exhaustion claims me, and it isn’t long before I am carried away on the tide of sleep.

  *

  It’s almost time, Holly says.

  She is standing ten or so metres away from me on Broadgate Sands, her back to the ocean. Yet again, she is naked. And it is night. A full moon hangs over the horizon of the ocean. It is too low. Too bright. Too big. I have come to hate that moon which invades my dreams.

  I remember the tsunami from last time, the one that washed away me and Mark. I should be dead.

  Perhaps I am.

  Time for what? I ask her.

  She smiles at me, beautiful and ethereal in the moonlight, lit up as if on a stage. She twists slightly to the side and points up at the moon.

  Look, Claire. It is almost time, she says by way of reply.

  Where’s Mark? I ask. What have you done to him?

  Holly’s smile broadens as she lowers her arm. Tick tock, goes the clock. The moon clicks around. It is almost time.

  Time for what? I shout at her.

  Movement just behind her in the gentle surf of the ocean catches my eye and I gasp in fright, staring at the figure emerging from the sea. Unnoticed by me, someone has been swimming this night, and now there are coming back to shore…

  The person looms closer, first their head, then their shoulders, then their torso. Their shape is masculine, but they are shrouded in shadows and I can make out no details…

  Until He comes closer.

  It is Bill.

  And he is naked. He stands in the froth where sea meets shore, his hair loose, the water lapping around his ankles. He is deathly pale in the moonlight, all rippling muscles and broad shoulders. He approaches Holly, who remains facing me the entire time and wraps his arms around her, kissing the side of her neck, just as he did to me last night. She arches her back into him, as luxurious as a cat stretching in a shaft of sunlight.

  And then they both look at me.

  They are grinning.

  It is almost time, they say in unison.

  And they laugh at me. I scream at them to stop, but they don’t listen. I want to run away, but I realise that I am stuck, that I am sinking in the sand. The sand beneath my feet has turned to quicksand. I scream at them to help me, but they don’t. They find it funny. I sink further and further, helpless to the suction of the cold, slimy sand that sucks me down.

  When it finally closes over my head, I can still hear them laughing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  I slept for most of the day. The first thing I do when I come around is to reach for my phone to check for any missed messages or calls from Bill. Only after I have checked, does it occur to me that Bill is my first thought, and not Mark.

  Wonders will never cease, I think in amazement.

  But sadly, there is nothing from him.

  On hearing me lurching upright like Dracula rising from his coffin, Bertie is immediately by my side, tail wagging, whimpering hopefully. The poor sod hasn’t had his walk today and I really should oblige him.

  I glance at the time on my smartphone – it is just gone five. That gives me plenty of time to walk the dog, grab a quick shower and make myself look presentable for Mark later tonight.

  *

  A sense of déjà vu wraps around me when I am sitting at Mark’s kitchen table that evening. It feels just like the first time I met Holly – or technically the first time, anyway. I’m not counting the true first time, when I saw her standing there naked in the window of Mark’s bedroom.

  Once again, I feel shabby compared to my love foe. She is looking extra beautiful tonight – if that is even possible – in a snug-fitting, knee-length navy-blue, woollen dress that clings to her tiny waist and her tight curves. Her hair is loose and in a deep side part, set in gentle waves. She looks otherworldly, like a film-star from a bygone era, complete with the scarlet lipstick and subtly winged eyeliner.

  Once again, I have the distinct – and perhaps misguided – impression that she is copying me. That is my favourite shade of lipstick, my idea of a glamorous hairstyle and a pretty dress.

  As for me, I am wearing a fifties’ style, flared skirt in a softy, woollen mix material, and I feel such a frump next to her.

  But can I even call her my love foe anymore? I wonder. Because I can’t stop thinking about Bill. Why hasn’t he texted or called me yet?

  “…so I am definitely going to London the day after tomorrow, on the eighteenth,” Mark is saying, finishing his long monologue on why the exhibition in Berlin has been delayed.

  I wasn’t really listening to the details. Something about a cock-up with the gallery in Germany. A mix up with the dates, or something.

  “I just want you finished with that exhibition, already,” Holly says in that pouting, petulant way of hers. “I’m going to miss you so much. Are you sure you’ll be back by the end of the month?”

  “God, yes. I’ll be well back by then.”

  I look at Mark, perhaps properly since the first time I arrived, so distracted have I been by thoughts of Bill. He looks tired. Scruffier than usual. There are dark circles under his eyes and patches of stubble darkens his narrow jaw. He’s usually so cleanshaven, even if he is just bumming around doing nothing or painting.

  Also – although, I can’t be sure because I was so hungover and tired this morning – it looks as if he is in the same clothes from when I picked up Bertie. That is, the greying ‘Misfits’ t-shirt and a pair of ancient blue jeans. There is nothing that strange, I suppose, about this, but I’m positive that the Mark I know would get changed if he was having a guest round for dinner, even if that guest is only me. Or he would’ve had a shave, at the very least.

  “You look tired,” I say, openly scrutinising his crumpled appearance.

  I glance at Holly, sitting next to him on the opposite side of the table. She throws me the dirtiest look.

  What’s wrong with saying tha
t? I think defensively.

  Just as quick, the look passes over again, and she’s all pouting concern once more. I think about what Bill said last night, about how her phony displays of love towards his father made him feel physically sick.

  All roads lead to Bill, a sarcastic little voice whispers in my mind.

  “I am tired,” Mark says with a small laugh that sounds a little shaky to me. “I guess I’m just worried about this exhibition. I haven’t been sleeping so well, lately.”

  “You still getting those nightmares?”

  He nods, a haunted look to his shadowed, pale blue eyes that makes me shiver.

  “Me too,” I say, thinking of my own bout of nightmares. “Must be something in the water.”

  “Poor baby,” Holly says soothingly, still pouting. She rubs his back. “I’ll give you a nice massage later, it’ll help you sleep.”

  My stomach and heart twist together into a tight knot, but I’m not sure if this is in jealousy. In that moment, I think that I’m more frightened of her, rather than jealous.

  There is something deeply wrong with this woman, I think, not for the first time.

  Holly jumps to her feet.

  “Excuse me, I must check on dinner,” she chirrups.

  “You’re cooking tonight?” I ask.

  I can’t smell any cooking aromas in the air, and absently, I wonder what she’s making.

  “I love cooking,” she singsongs over her shoulder. “I’m not as good as Mark, but we like to share everything, don’t we darling?”

  “Yes, we do,” Mark agrees. “And you’re much better than me.”

  “Oh, you,” she simpers, and inwardly, I roll my eyes, praying that they’re not going to start on that weird thing couples sometimes do with the whole, I’m crapper than you, stuff.

  “So, when are you leaving for Berlin?” I ask Mark, keen to change the subject.

  “My God, Claire, I’ve told you twice already – the day after tomorrow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so distracted. It’s this guy, isn’t it?”