I’ve made Ella a surprise lemon meringue pie. Her favorite. A kind of twisted celebration now that we’ve gathered enough evidence to go to the police and Ella’s decided to leave the Electra. To mark new beginnings.
I picture Ella and me at the police station: a white boxy room with unflattering fluorescent lights, a cup of sweet tea offered in a white polystyrene cup. Our hands in our laps, feet flat on the floor. We’ll dismantle our lives for the past six months and explain how we were too afraid to leave in case Navid harmed us, or Grace, and how I was forced to photograph Poi-Poi. The sickness and fear I’d felt as Navid stood behind me giving instructions. His hand touching my back, Ella touching Poi-Poi’s cheek for necessary comfort. We’ll hand over the incriminating facts and photographs: email accounts, Tao’s address and his accomplices, the girls’ passports, Cassie’s offshore bank account statements, and a memory stick of photographs posted on the dark web. We need to get Annabelle and Amy’s brother’s medical notes too if we can, Runner suggests.
“Annabelle might agree to it, but not Amy,” I say out loud. “Now that she’s Shaun’s girlfriend.”
I gaze down at the pie. I’ve added a hint of mint glitter to the whisked meringue that I now hold above my head, like a hat. Testing for stiffness. Voilà, parfait!
I wash my hands seven times (better), bleach the linoleum kitchen floor (cleaner), check that the windows are locked (good), count the knives in the cutlery drawer (twelve), then pour a large bowl of Coco Pops, adding milk.
Take your medication, Alexa; it’s three a.m., for Christ’s sake! Oneiroi orders, You haven’t slept for two days straight.
I’m fine, I say, spooning the candied pops in my mouth, stop fussing!
You’re not fine, and you lied to Daniel. You said you’d ask Anna for help.
Oneiroi shakes her head and leaves. A puff of exasperation to her cheeks.
You try talking to her, she says, addressing the others.
The Fouls take the Light and slap my face. It stings just a little.
Your so-called friend’s not interested in pie, they snicker. She wants Navid.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—
It’s close to five o’clock when we eventually venture out in the cold to deliver the lemon meringue pie. My head is thick with slumber and I feel foggy and disoriented from the Nytol Oneiroi forced me to take.
It’s okay, Oneiroi soothed, you needed to rest. You’ve been asleep for most of the day.
Tick-tock, tick-tock—
When I finally arrive on the corner of Ella’s street, Runner steps out and checks my phone to make sure the photographs I took at the Groom House have been uploaded to the cloud, then hands back the Body. Head still a little hazy from the Nytol, I note the front curtains drawn at Ella’s flat. I make my way across the driveway, crunching the gravel, a spill of engine oil leaked and smelling. Next door’s cat paws its way toward the leak and sniffs its black goo, sneezes, then, spotting me, quickly sprints off.
Ahhh, look at the kitty. Dolly points.
“Cute, isn’t she?” I speak out loud.
Balancing the pie on my palm, I press the doorbell and wait.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
There’s nobody in.
Told you she’s not interested in pie, stupid.
Quiet!
Christ, my head hurts.
Just leave it on the doorstep.
No, someone will steal it.
Don’t be ridiculous, who’d nick a pie?
Where’s the kitty gone?
Maybe check the back door.
Good idea.
I walk around to the side of her flat and open the back gate, the loud sound of grime breakbeats coming from an open window. Grace must be home, I think, no surprise they couldn’t hear me ringing the doorbell. I look down at the wooden slat table parked on the garden lawn, noticing a recent cigarette stubbed out in a glass ashtray, smoke still drifting. A pack of Marlboro Reds resting on its side.
Who smokes Marlboro Reds? Runner asks.
“I’m not sure.” I speak out loud. “Shaun used to, but he quit, remember?”
Something doesn’t feel right, Oneiroi says as I approach the back of the flat. You should walk away right now.
Ignoring her warning, I step up to the window and—
I stop breathing. The pie slips from my hand.
There, on the couch, kissing Ella’s naked breasts, is Navid.
I try to look away and fail.
My Reason sways with pleasure, her eyes gently sealed, her mouth easy and open. Luxury moves her further toward him as he takes hold of her ass. Navid working over her nakedness like a predatory cat. Charged and confident, she edges closer and arches her back. My disgust mixed with just enough envy has me suddenly feeling like I need to leave the Body immediately.
How could she, I say, dampness creeping beneath my arms.
With Grace at home too? Oneiroi adds.
You absolute fools, the Fouls sneer.
Reaching to kiss Navid’s neck, Ella opens her eyes and—
I stumble backward. She screams. Jolts. Stands and pushes him away. But it’s too late. I’ve already seen her. And him. Together.
Tick-tock—
I do not remember fleeing or how I came to be here, wherever this is, outside in the cold. No pie. I light a cigarette and check my watch, noting I’ve lost at least two hours, my head throbbing with pain. It’s as though someone has whacked my skull with immense force. Nervous, I touch it, checking for blood—but there is none. Sweat creeping up the back of my neck, I force my eyes to blink.
The image of Ella and Navid suddenly returns.
We need to check on Grace, Runner says.
We can’t go in there, Oneiroi orders.
All I can think about is the desire in her half-closed eyes. The memory now branded in my mind and unlikely to fade.
You liar, you whore, you disgust me. I want to scream, but don’t.
Pathetic, the Fouls scold.
Were I to take her lying, treacherous words—It’ll be the last thing, I promise. Then we’ll go to the police and I can leave the Electra for good—and drag them across my legs, they’d cut far deeper than any knife. How could I have been so dense? So foolish? Clinging on to memories of when we were younger and how there was an innocence to our friendship like to a life raft. We knew our bodies were blooming but we didn’t know the power they held, the sex that was inside us. Teenagers, we practiced fun and fashion, swooned over boy bands and exercised ways to clear zits, unaware of the consequences our naiveté held. So silly we were. And stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid, the Fouls mock.
Tick-tock—
The rattling from a closing garage door startles me. I search for my phone to call someone, anyone, needing to hear the kindness of another’s voice, but then realize there is no one.
Anna, call Anna, Oneiroi says, panicked.
I look up, the sound of a car’s engine fast approaching; its music bleeding into the onset of night.
I scroll through my contact numbers, pausing on Anna W. before moving on to Daniel R. I check the time—7:58 p.m.—and dial.
Deeply ashamed that the only person I feel able to call is my shrink, I force my hand down my leggings and drag my nails along my inner thigh. Immediately any numbness reawakens.
The call goes directly to voicemail.
Convinced Daniel is ignoring me, I run my nails a second time. Blood appearing like the scrawl of something wild.