by Wendy Hudson
It was time to have that difficult conversation again. It wouldn’t take another three hours, but maybe they could share one last meal.
Eilidh pushed the living room door open and leaned against its frame. Claire sat on the sofa with her back to Eilidh, wine glass in hand. Some shite reality TV show had her attention, and if she felt Eilidh’s presence, she didn’t acknowledge it.
“Fancy a bite to eat?” Eilidh spoke to the back of her head. “Thought I’d do that chicken pad thai you love.”
Claire jerked her head round a little in Eilidh’s direction but didn’t catch her eye. “Not bothered really. I had a late lunch.”
“I don’t mind waiting until a bit later.” Eilidh tried again, entering the room fully and perching on the arm at the other end of the sofa.
Claire did look at her then. Her lids drooped a little with the effect of the wine, and her gaze held nothing Eilidh recognised. No warmth or friendship. No residual kindness for a woman she’d shared her life with. All Eilidh saw was regret and resentment.
“Don’t bother.” Claire waved the wine glass in Eilidh’s direction. “I’ve got my dinner sorted.” She reached for the remote and pointedly turned up the volume.
The obvious snub, clearly meant to provoke, had its desired effect. Eilidh’s despondency quickly sparked and flared to annoyance. How could someone she had once loved become so maddening? She reached and snatched the remote from the coffee table, punching the red off button with purpose.
“You can leave.”
“Excuse me?” She had Claire’s full attention now.
“I said you can leave.” It wasn’t how Eilidh had planned it, how she had imagined the conversation in her head, but it was clear their relationship was more than over now. They’d lost each other a long time ago, and there were no feelings left to be spared. “Fill the rest of your boxes and go. You’re free. Absolved. You’ve served your time. I don’t need you here anymore.”
Claire kept her gaze fixed on Eilidh’s as she knocked back the last mouthful of wine. Her eyes were glassy, but no tears fell. Eilidh couldn’t tell if it was relief, sadness, or the alcohol. She’d stopped being able to read Claire a long time ago. “I’ll be gone by the time you get home from work tomorrow.”
Eilidh hung her head. “If you need more time. There’s no rush.” She said it half-heartedly, hoping Claire wouldn’t take her up on the offer.
“Yes, there is.” Claire’s tone was clipped. She turned away from Eilidh and reached for the remote again. That was it. Conversation over. Eilidh had agonised for weeks, and it had been done with three simple words.
She stood and headed towards the door. “I’m sorry, Claire.” Despite everything, Eilidh knew some fault lay at her feet.
“Don’t be.” Claire didn’t turn; instead, she reached to top up her glass. “I’m not.”
Eilidh bit her lip. Every vile word and accusation she had wanted to throw Claire’s way over the past weeks sat dangerously on the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t say them. She wouldn’t. For her own sanity, she merely needed Claire gone, and with her all the negativity that had sucked the life from Eilidh.
Without another word, she left the room, swiped a bottle of wine from the fridge, and climbed the stairs towards a hot bubble bath in the hope it might calm her, help her get some sleep. As she stripped off and ran the water, her phone beeped on the windowsill. She couldn’t help but smile when Darcy’s name showed on her screen.
How’s it going? Saved any other inept women from their clumsiness lately? Darcy
Eilidh tentatively climbed in to the piping-hot water and reached for the phone again. After what had occurred downstairs with Claire, she wasn’t sure if Darcy’s timing was perfect or impossible. She tapped back a reply.
Only you. I try not to make a habit of it. Did the boss forgive you?
A few seconds passed before Darcy replied.
I don’t think she even noticed. Pretty sure she’s fuelled by acid anyway.
Eilidh laughed out loud at that, and the anger she had felt towards Claire began to simmer as the hot water worked its magic and the easy chat with Darcy offered light relief.
Ah, one of those. Bitchy robot bosses are the worst. How do you cope?
By eating a shitload of biscuits at work and drinking a shitload of wine at home.
Eilidh smiled and reached for her own glass of chilled wine. She took a satisfying sip before replying.
Seems a well-balanced diet and strategy.
It’s got me this far. Speaking of wine…are you free for that coffee or do you fancy upgrading to an alcoholic thank you?
Eilidh sank down further in the bath. Bubbles brushed her ears, and she could hear her heart beat faster in them. She thought about sitting across a table from someone who actually had a smile to offer her, and a beautiful smile at that. It had been so long since she’d felt the thrill of butterflies, and they tickled her now. This was it. Decision time.
Perfect or impossible?
It was something they had in common—cooking for one—and Darcy hated it.
Back pressed against the usual tree, a reoccurring thought surfaced as Darcy moved around the kitchen oblivious to her audience.
What would her reaction be if she knew?
That day it would have been so easy to grab hold of her. To step out from the shadows and shake her and say, “Here I am. I’m the person you’ve been wondering about. Do you know who I am?”
It was a fantasy that played out regularly. The moment Darcy found out the truth and discovered her real family history. How it had ended another. Would she believe it? Would she cry? Did she already know some of it?
But it wasn’t the right time, and the reserves of willpower that were tapped into daily provided strength yet again. For now, it was still about watching, waiting, listening to the voice that insisted Darcy had to go through this. The anguish, the uncertainty—every emotion suffered by those left behind. So Darcy could genuinely understand when she learned the truth.
Darcy was a romantic; she longed for the fairy tale. She dreamed about finding the one, falling in love, and living happily ever after. Endearing as it was, it was her weakness and the obvious angle to attack. The best way to teach her what she needed to understand and to show her the pain she had no idea existed. To wear her down until she knew life wasn’t all roses. To make her question a concept so dear to her…then tear it apart. To destroy that concept, that virtue Darcy had, the one they’d lost so long ago: Hope.
Until now, manipulating her various love interests had been simple. People were fickle, easily scared away. But dammit, Darcy was resilient, and she bounced back every time. It was hard not to admire that. Not to smile every time she picked herself up and dusted herself off. It also made the goal that much more difficult to attain. To a degree, the plan was working, but not enough. Resilience was a sign that hope lived strongly inside Darcy. The plan needed something more.
This was no time to soften. There had been too many years of hate, of building walls, to let her seep in and tug at any conscience reaching for the surface. It would undo too much.
No. It was impossible to even consider an alternative.
The alternative needed to be stomped out of existence.
Chapter 6
It had been two days, and Eilidh still hadn’t replied to Darcy’s text inviting her for a drink. Deflated was an understatement as to how she felt. She flopped on the sofa and reached for her hot chocolate, scooping out a mini marshmallow and popping it in her mouth before taking a sip. It wasn’t doing much to cheer her up, but when was chocolate ever a bad idea?
Her phone pinged with a notification from the latest dating app she was trying. It was Amy. A recent match and someone Darcy had chatted with on and off for a month or so. She was attractive in a polished way, a nurse who enjoyed mountain biking and hiking, and on paper sounded
ideal. Every now and then she had the ability to say something that tickled Darcy with excitement or made her swoon with the loveliness of it.
But Amy’s unsociable hours made keeping the conversation flowing difficult, and so no sooner would the chat take an interesting turn before Amy would go quiet and the conversation quickly fizzled out. That and every attempt to meet seemed to get side-tracked, and so it had never happened.
Maybe now was the time to try again. Eilidh clearly wasn’t interested but was obviously too polite to say so. Darcy needed to face facts and move on.
Amy’s message was cute as always and brought a welcome smile to Darcy’s lips.
I’m sorry, I know. I’ve been utterly crap. But even after four consecutive night shifts, I had to log on and see your face before crumpling in to an exhausted heap. Write me with your news. I want to make this happen. X
The fire had begun to settle, but the orange glow was still fierce and warmed Darcy’s toes as she pointed them towards it.
Amy wanted to make this happen.
In that moment, so did Darcy. Why the hell not? She wasn’t tied to anyone and couldn’t let her mystery torturer rule her life or force her to miss out on something potentially wonderful because of fear. It wasn’t how she was prepared to live her life.
She tapped a message back to Amy.
You’re right, you have been crap. But I’ll forgive you. So long as I finally get to see your face in person. Lunch next Sunday? D x
Pleased with herself for taking the plunge, Darcy cast her gaze around the small space she called home and consoled herself that if it all went tits up as Anja had put it, at least she had somewhere awesome to live. And hide.
It was hardly grand, but the cabin was cosy and quiet, and best of all it was hers. She had lucked out while sailing solo on Loch Ness on a rare sunny day, when she’d stopped for lunch in the Dores Inn and met a local farmer at the bar. He had a woodland plot he was willing to part with and had assured her planning would be granted for a single-story cabin, given he already had three that he let to holidaymakers and folk looking for some isolation.
They’d agreed a price for the land that she could pay off in installments, and the work to extend the gravel track beyond his cabins to hers, as well as hooking her up to his small wind turbine. All that was left had been to find the cabin, clear the trees, and have it built.
Set high in to the hills on the south side of Loch Ness, it afforded her solitude without a crazy commute. In twenty minutes, she was at the local supermarket; in thirty she was in town and walking distance from work. The farmer kept her in firewood and helped her shovel her car out when the snow fell heavily. His farmhouse was only a ten-minute walk down the track, which gave her a small measure of comfort when things went bump in the night or a storm was brewing.
She stretched out to the end of the sofa and groaned in the satisfaction of a yawn. After working the previous weekend and a run of early mornings, her bed would be calling soon.
A sharp crack broke through the quiet, making her start, and she immediately tensed. “What the…” The curtains were drawn, but she was sure something had just hit the window. A bat, maybe? A bird wasn’t likely at that time of night.
The sound came again, and she pinpointed it to the long window that looked out across the front porch. She glanced at the clock: eight-fifteen. There were no guests that she was aware of in the lower three cabins, but the farmer should be home. Her heart hammered. Should she go to the window? To the door? She reached for her phone as the sound of something faintly clattering against wood reached her ears. Was someone throwing stones? It sounded as if they’d missed the window and the rock had bounced on to her porch.
Her dining table sat under the offending window, making access difficult. She skirted around it to the tall lamp in the corner and clicked it off. Only the fire provided any light now, but if she peered out, she didn’t want to be seen. Slowly she drew the curtain from the side an inch and brought one eye to the gap.
Darkness.
No movement, no light, no person that she could see. Had she imagined it? Was she hearing things that weren’t there? The security light hadn’t come on, so if anything was out there, it wasn’t close. A shadow deep in the woods caught her eye, or was it a trick of the moon? She stared at the spot but saw no further movement and heard no recurrence of the noise.
She kept her eye on the woodland as she raised a hand towards the porch-light switch and flipped the button. Its brightness made her lean back a moment, then she pulled back the curtain fully and looked from one end of the porch to the other. Coldness ran through her when she saw it.
A box.
It sat perfectly aligned on her doormat.
“Are you fucking kidding me? No. No. No.” She could feel it. Knew who it was from. “You do not come to my house. Oh no you don’t.” She snatched the super-sized Maglite from its clip next to the front door, stuck her feet in to snow boots, and unlocked the door with purpose.
The box stared up at her, taunting her with its presence. She flicked the torch on and scanned back and forth into the darkness. “Where the fuck are you?” she shouted out into the emptiness. “Who are you? Eh?” The fat beam of light didn’t pick anything up. “Why don’t you come tell me to my face what you want? Otherwise stop it. Just stop it…”
The fight was gone, the rush of adrenaline already passed and morphed into frustration. Her tears came then, hot and fast. She shouted into the night one last time before slamming the door on the box. “Fucking, fucking arsehole.”
She swiped at the tears, angry at allowing them to happen. Teeth gritted, she kicked off her boots and reached for the phone.
Now for the process.
Call the police, drag them all the way out there to record the incident, and take away the box. Be asked inane questions that she still didn’t know how to answer. Then listen to them say there’s nothing they can do.
Then she’d call Anja and sob down the phone for an hour.
Fuck it. She decided on the reverse order for a change. “Fuck!” she cursed when Anja’s phone went to voicemail. The panicky flutter in her chest increased in speed. Thankfully, Anja picked up on the second attempt. “Hey, sorry, I was driving. What’s up?”
“There’s a fucking box on my doorstep, and the arsehole that left it informed me of its presence by throwing stones at my window.”
“Holy crap. Are you okay?”
“Understatement. And no. No, I’m not. Can you come? Please? Where are you anyway that you’re driving?”
“I’m in the supermarket carpark. Jason’s big meal, remember? He forgot the wine.”
“Ah, shit.” Darcy headed back towards her bedroom. She systematically checked windows as she went, putting lights on and off, illuminating every dark corner until she was satisfied she was alone in the cabin. “I totally forgot. Don’t worry about it, love. Go enjoy your meal, and I’ll get on to the police.”
“You haven’t called them yet?” Anja sounded exasperated, and Darcy understood why. It’s not as if this was her first time.
“No. I kind of hoped you’d be here with me. I know they think I’m overreacting, and I wanted someone else here while they’re patronising me. But honestly, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be daft. If smell was anything to go by, dinner was about to be a disaster anyway. Let me give him a call and I’ll be there in twenty.”
“You sure? I thought he had something to tell you.”
“It can wait, Darcy. He’ll understand. He knows how important you are to me.”
“Aw…you big softie, you.” But Darcy was smiling. It wasn’t often she got anything more than teasing or sarcasm out of Anja.
“Shut up and tell me where you are?”
“In the cabin, duh.”
“You know what I bloody mean, Darcy. Remember what we talked about
if this happened. Are you locked in the bedroom? Have you got the bat I bought you?”
“Yes, and yes. I’ve checked all the windows. The doors are locked, and the bat is in my hand. I’ll call the police as soon as we hang up.”
“Okay, well, go do it now. I can’t get there if I’m on the phone to you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Darcy nodded curtly, as if Anja could see her. “See you soon.”
Anja rang off and Darcy brought up her call log. Ten days. That’s how long it had been since she last rang the police. The gaps were getting shorter: at first it was monthly, then every few weeks, to less than a fortnight apart. She tapped in 1-0-1 instead of 9-9-9. It didn’t feel like an emergency anymore.
Chapter 7
Darcy closed the door on the two police officers and sighed with relief.
“You okay, kjære?” Anja came through from the kitchen with fresh hot chocolate for them both.
The Norwegian term of endearment brought a momentary smile to Darcy’s lips. Anja rarely slipped into her native language with anyone but Darcy. “I guess. A lot of good that did though.” She took a mug and headed for the sofa. Pulling a comforting blanket with her, she curled up at one end.
“Aye, I know.” Anja joined her. “But you need to keep reporting it, even if they haven’t a clue. It’s best to have it all on file just in case.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. “In case of what?”
“Sorry, sorry. That came out wrong.” Anja rubbed Darcy’s knee reassuringly. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine.” Darcy waved her away. She knew exactly what Anja meant by “just in case” but didn’t want to entertain for a second that her stalker might escalate their attentions. The possibilities were too flipping scary. Especially now they’d shown they knew where she lived.
“I only meant, well, you never know. Put all these little pieces together and they might come up with something.” Anja drew part of the blanket towards herself, tucking it under both their feet.
“Aye, right. If we know anything, we know they’re bloody sneaky and clearly not daft. Short of catching them on the doorstep, I don’t think we’re figuring this out any time soon.”
