Liarholic Page 7

  And I don’t fucking like feeling this way.

  10

  YOU

  THERE IS A LOUD KNOCK at my room door. It feels like the whole estate shudders. A firework goes bang right outside my window.

  I flex my legs and toes. Sit up straight on the sofa. It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

  ‘Yes?’ I say inside my own head. The sound bounces back, mocking me.

  Even if my life depends on it, my body isn’t going to let me budge an inch.

  It’s him.

  Another knock, much louder.

  I have a clear view to the door from where I’m sitting on the couch. I stare at it. At the peephole. Until my eyes sting with wetness. The light from the hallway, which should shine through like a little beacon, is eclipsed by whoever is on the other side. All I can see is a round dot of darkness.

  I stare with such fierce concentration, as if I can make out the bulky shape of him through the solid wood. The vein in my neck pulses like it might burst. I hold my breath until my head pounds and my fingers start to tingle.

  Then I hear boots retreating, going up the stairs, not down. Then the sound of the door to the top floor room opening and closing.

  What did he want? It’s nearly ten at night.

  I’ve noticed he always shuts the front door, properly. It makes me feel a bit better. I still have to check it. Even though I don’t have a key, anymore.

  I wonder if I should go upstairs and knock on his door. I find myself having the conversation in my head.

  Oh, hello. Did you knock? Why don’t you go live someplace else and leave me alone?

  No, that won’t do it. His touch is like a drug, and to be that close to the one person I trust to touch every inch of me, and not let him be able to, is excruciating. No, I can’t let what happened in the woods repeat itself, like a bad horror movie on a loop.

  I lie down in bed, trying again to find undiscovered cracks on the ceiling so I don’t think about Mum. Dad. Elizabeth.

  Shepherd.

  I’m not crying at all. This is what scares me the most. Where am I locking up the things I felt when he fed me to the wolves? I’m not big of a girl to carry all of it. To carry all the pain in the pit of my existence and all the loss of what was, all the wishes that will never come true.

  I can hear the whispers coming from the box under my bed.

  Tell him. He has every right to know the truth. This is why you’re not opening up to him.

  I know how important the contents of the Black Magic Box is, what it means to me — to us. If only I could turn back time, back to when the box wasn’t a place I kept this dark secret, but was just a chocolate box. The chocolates were eaten years ago, in a snug front room, passed around by my unbroken sister. A happy family, enjoying a treat together.

  Tentatively, I pull it out from under the bed. It feels heavier in my hands than it actually is. I lift the lid, and in the light cast by a shrieking crimson comet, a firework in the sky, the top photograph gleams with glossy perfection. I shut the lid with a loud clank, chuck it back under the bed, and turn my face to the wall.

  Shepherd is forcing me into the darkest corner.

  I can’t open it. I can’t.

  I can win this battle with memory if I only focus on my checks. Empty mind, numb heart.

  I need to do my checks.

  After an hour, the checking is going badly wrong. It’s worse tonight because I opened the box.

  It’s my fault Elizabeth is damaged. And what am I doing? I went into the woods and fell into euphoria and earthquakes and ecstasy with a man I . . . used to love.

  I’m a wicked human being.

  A wicked sister.

  Every time I think I’ve done the checks, doubt looms like a dark cloud, fear seeps into my veins like a virus. There’s no point doing it if I don’t do it properly. By the time I’m done, my hands are jelly. I start to cry then. Fat tears fall uncontrollably down my cheeks. My shoulders shake. And I collapse against my room door.

  Pain everywhere. My back, my wrists, my legs. Even my hair hurts.

  The worst of it is in my head. Hot, white shards of pain stabbing my skull. The dark closes in. I can’t tell where the blackness ends and I begin. Why is it so, so dark?

  I try again. Close my eyelids. Open. Close. Open. Nothingness still smothers me. I can’t see a thing.

  My hands pull at knots in my hair until some hair comes out —

  I hear the footsteps this time. Clunk of his heavy boots. I hear his door upstairs open and close. I stand still, like a frightened mouse, holding my breath, trying not to squeak.

  He knocks.

  BANG. BANG.

  I flinch back.

  I’m not scared it’s him. I’m a little bit scared of what comes after.

  ‘Amy? It’s me. What’s going on? Something wrong?’

  I can’t reply, I just gasp and sob.

  I think I hear a sigh.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ he says. ‘Open the door.’

  I gulp in deep breaths of stale air. ‘Nothing, I’m alright.’

  ‘Bullshit. Open the door. Now.’

  ‘No. Leave me alone.’

  ‘Open it, Amy,’ he says slowly, menacingly. ‘I can help.’

  ‘Help? You’re the last person who can help me. I told you what happened with us was a mistake. Please, just go away.’

  The tears pour down harder like hail. I’m angry now, as well as afraid. Angry at him for always being here. Angry that he is the glue keeping me from shattering apart like a glass doll.

  ‘Stand back, Amy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stand back.’

  I don’t know why, but something tells me to move. I get to my feet and step back.

  Shepherd smashes my door open, using the force of his wide shoulder to break through. My knees cave in and I drop like confetti, a crumpled mess. He charges in. The cell-like room suddenly smells intimate. I smell his pipe-tobacco and beer and his smell — leather, musk, and moonlight.

  He closes the door behind him, lock torn apart, and sits down next to me. He doesn’t come too close, just sits there with me.

  I can’t look at him.

  ‘Take a breath and hold it,’ he says.

  I listen to him and try. There is just a lot of gasping. ‘I’m so — I’m . . . I’m so tired. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t do it . . . couldn’t check.’

  ‘I get it,’ he says, and he doesn’t sound anything like the cruel Shepherd I’ve come to know in recent weeks. ‘Listen, think about your breathing, nothing else. Just your breathing, for now.’

  Again I try. My fingers tingle. The skin on my face, tingles. Feels like little electric shocks.

  ‘Take my hand, Amy.’ He extends it out across the gap between us, steady. A lifeline.

  I reach out, touch it, withdraw, touch it again, like a yo-yo going up and down, until he takes hold of me. His hand is cold, icy.

  ‘Now try again with your breathing. Amy, look at me.’

  I try that too. The breathing is still like a ping-pong machine. If I can’t keep calm, I am going to keel over.

  ‘Just think about your breathing. Breathe with me. In — hold it. Keep holding. Yeah, better. And out. Good, come on, do it again . . . ’

  It seems to take forever, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel as I start to get some feeling back in my hands and the breathing slows.

  I grip his hand. Scared that if I don’t, I will drown.

  ‘Amy,’ he says, almost like he’s in another galaxy. ‘What happened to you . . . ? You’ve changed. I barely recognise you . . .’

  He won’t understand. He can’t. That level of . . . of shame, of just wanting to claw at your own skin until you just don’t exist anymore.

  I shake my head, still not quite ready to speak. The light in the room is amber and starry, but that might be my tears.

  I look up at him and his eyes, his dark eyes, are looking at me completely without judgement. It tu
rns my heart to dust.

  He can’t be trusted, don’t fall for him again.

  I shift a little, away from him. In one, deft movement, he wraps his burly arm around me and tugs me into his rock-solid chest, where it’s warm and smells of him. He puts his hand on my head, stroking my hair.

  ‘It’s okay, Amy,’ he says, and I feel his voice rumble in his chest. ‘It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re alright. I’m here.’

  I feel so tired, I could almost sleep into him. Just as long as he keeps hold of me and never lets go. I peel open my eyes and I can just see black cotton, his shirt, and the way it moves over his rippled body as he breathes. I think I should move. Everything is starting to ache, and the fear has been replaced with crippling embarrassment.

  At last I lift my head and he eases away from me. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘go sit on the sofa.’

  He stands and helps me to my feet, then leads me to the soft grey sofa. I sit down and curl myself into a ball. I don’t want him to sit down next to me. If he does that, I don’t think I can resist snuggling up to him again.

  ‘I’ll go downstairs and make you a tea,’ he says.

  I nod, shivering. ‘Thank you.’

  By the time I hear him putting the mugs down on the table in front of me, I’d been dozing a little. My arms and legs feel like lead.

  I draw my knees to my tummy and hug them.

  ‘The checks. How long has this been going on?’ he says, sitting on the wooden chair opposite me.

  I sit up. ‘I can’t . . . ’ I say, my voice hoarse, my throat raw. ‘I’ll be fine. I appreciate the tea but don’t ask for more than I can give.’

  I risk picking up the mug with trembling hands. I take a gulp of tea. It’s hot. And surprisingly, the tea is better than my own. He watches me while I drink. He looks bone-tired too.

  ‘You remember how I take my tea,’ I say.

  ‘I remember everything.’

  Those words start the tears falling again, and I plop the mug down and cover my face with both my hands. I half-expect him to come over. Hold me. I brace myself for the shock of it. But he doesn’t move. After a few moments, I open my eyes and find a box of tissues on the table in front of me. I give a short laugh and take one, wiping my face.

  ‘You eaten, Amy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t ever apologise for something like this. Not to me. Not to anyone. Not ever.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I heard you crying.’

  ‘You should have left me to it.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Couldn’t do it.’

  Why does he care?

  He drinks some of his coffee. ‘Are they getting worse, the panic attacks?’

  I shake my head, too frightened to use words. Too frightened I’ll confess all my dark secrets.

  ‘Was that a bad one?’ he says.

  I shrug. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  He’s watching me steadily, appraisingly, like a doctor. I’m his damaged patient.

  I finish my tea at the same time he does.

  ‘I had to take your key away. You gave me no choice. You check the front door like it’s broken and you need to make a new one with your own hands. It was every single time you left or came back. It ain’t right.’

  I’ve caught the eye contact and now I can’t look away.

  ‘Why won’t you let anyone help you?’

  No matter how much the therapists over the three years have told me that talking will help, I don’t believe them. Control and secrets are all I know.

  ‘I don’t know what the point would be,’ I say. ‘Talking won’t change the past.’

  He gives a little shrug. ‘Not checking a thousand times, maybe it could give you some more free time?’

  Does he think this is some kind of joke?

  ‘What are you, Shepherd? Really, I mean? This unorthodox torture you’re putting me through. Are you even qualified?’

  He bends his head down. He says, ‘So long as I’m trying to help you, does it really matter?’

  ‘It should.’ I narrow my eyes towards him. ‘Are you really telling the truth? Or is this another cruel joke you’re playing on me? Am I just a lab rat for you to poke with?’

  His eyes are blank. ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘I think you’re too young to be a psychologist.’

  ‘Yeah. So what? Seen lots of OCD cases. You need to fix this — now. Or you’re gonna die in this hellhole.’ He looks closely at me. My face heats up under the intense stare. I gulp. ‘I think you’ve misunderstood your current situation. I’m not giving you a choice.’

  He sounds like my father and it scares me.

  ‘No, Shepherd, this can’t happen. Why can’t you let Jonathon be my therapist again?’

  ‘Think you’d know by now, Amy, that I don’t know the meaning of the word no. And that guy’s a tool. Three years, Amy, three years and he did fuck all, except drain somebody’s pockets.’

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flashy mobile phone. He hands it to me. Then he slides out a small black card. He chucks it on the table in front of me. I can see his name and number. It’s scribbled in gold writing.

  ‘If you ever have a panic attack — call me. I’ll come down and sit with you.’

  Yes, I think, like that is going to happen.

  ‘You think you can save me?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t think. I know.’

  ‘You’re not Superman. You know that, right?’

  ‘Yeah . . . but I’m damn close.’

  I pick up the card and turn it over and over in my fingers. It’s all hard edges, smooth and slick.

  ‘About your mum’s funeral —’

  ‘Please, don’t push me. I can’t go.’

  ‘Amy, the post-mortem said it was a heart attack.’

  Of course it was. A heart like hers, fighting so hard to keep us together. What else could it do but fail in the end?

  ‘If you don’t go to the funeral, you may regret it. You should think about it carefully. She’s your mother, Amy.’

  ‘Yes . . . she was my mother once.’

  I can’t go to the funeral, not if Elizabeth is there. It wouldn’t be fair to her. And if Dad is there, it would be unbearable.

  He shakes his head, confused. ‘Tell me about it,’ he says.

  ‘Tell you about what?’

  ‘What started it all? Why did you father bring you here? Is this to do with what happened to your sister? I mean, that’s when you came here, right? When she had her accident.’

  I don’t answer. I can’t answer.

  ‘Or was it me?’ he says. His dead eyes turn a different shade of brown. ‘Did this start after I . . . ’

  Dead silence. Neither one of us can speak of the betrayal. There is a curse on the past. It’s cursed to say it out loud.

  As Shepherd appraises my hurt, our eyes meet.

  I can’t help it, never can, as it is when Shepherd looks me deep in the eyes. Those eyes that are just too black or something, this is when I always lose it. Lose reason. Lose a semblance of control. Those eyes never show much, always so cold and always so piercing. But now they show something. Maybe an apology. No, not an apology. Shepherd doesn’t do apologies. Maybe just something else. Lust, maybe. Need? Friendship? It’s been a long time.

  ‘Do you remember Archer? My sister’s boss and my father’s friend?’ He nods. There is silence. He is watching me, waiting. ‘Elizabeth and he were in a secret relationship. Despite the thirty-year age gap, they were planning to get married. She’d bought a wedding dress. It was a secret. My parents could never find out.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If they were getting married, how could they keep it a secret?’

  Sucking in air, each breath is painful. But not as painful as the memories, now so close to the surface.

  Silence.

  From outside, an owl hoots.

  ‘I should sleep,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, you should. I�
��m staying with you tonight.’

  Suddenly, I feel too hot. Too electric. Too high. The smell of him becomes too sweet, too heady.

  There is a bad desire growing in me, and I hate who I am. I could hurt myself. Really. Because I want him to take me to bed and burn the pain away. Turn me to dust so I can’t feel it. Just one more time.

  Last time.

  I need him to help me forget my checks, my sister’s brain damage, the Black Magic Box.

  My fault. My fault. My fault.

  Sex with him is toxic. It’s like taking another line of cocaine, just after the first hit. So I lie about how I really feel in my heart.

  ‘Really, I’ll be alright now. Thank you for the tea, but I’d like to be alone.’

  For a moment his hard eyes soften and he says, ‘Before. In the woods, you wanted me. You were there because you wanted me, and your pussy was hot in my hand and you were breathing hard. Yeah, you were a little scared, but you wanted me to fuck you. No reason we can't get back to there.’

  My heart gallops and my jaw drops to the tips of my toes.

  ‘Relax, Amy. For now, you need to sleep. Don’t worry about the later.’

  I open my bedroom door and hesitate just inside the room. Dark curiosity wakes up in the back of my head. I turn back to him. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That night . . . why did you set me up for a fall?’

  The mist in his eyes is too thick to see the truth. ‘Sometimes, Amy, you have to be cruel to be kind.’

  He smiles. And I know not to trust it. It’s all a trick. It has to be. Always is with him. I know his real smile. I can never forget. In all those hours spent in the broom cupboard together, his smile was once in a blue moon. And so I remember it. It was like trying to catch it like a butterfly. I wanted to bottle it up forever, so I would never forget it.

  I look at him. And his fake smile. Nothing is what it appears to be with him. Not anymore.

  I just shake my head sadly and suddenly I’m torn by the wish that Shepherd will come and take me, and wrap his large body around me and tell me it’ll be okay — and the pitiful desire to have made the opposite decision and be as far away from Shepherd as possible, to hide from him, once again.