3 October
Why did Scott really crack that joke? Could it be that he didn’t understand what I meant about the great divide between the old couple on the train? Or did he understand only too well, and simply knew that he and I would barely even last three months, let alone as many decades?
Inside the impenetrable fortress that passed for Scott’s head, he may have been thinking about all the secrets he’d already kept from me. All the lies he’d told. The massive bait-and-switch he may already have had planned, as I sat beside him, so deeply smug and naïve.
Who knows? The fucker might even have laughed to himself as we rolled on towards old London town.
I couldn’t say how long this great flood has lasted. All I know is that the tears have given way to numb exhaustion. Tomorrow is my first day at work, so I need to rally myself and get practical. If I try to sleep in the bedroom, too many memories will scuttle across the carpet to torture me, so the living room floor will do for tonight.
As I circle my boxes, trying to work out which might contain my bedding, a terrible feeling creeps up on me. Subliminally at first, then with mounting clarity until the unease sinks bone-deep.
I am being watched.
I can’t say why or how I know this. I just know.
My skin feels way too tight.
Very carefully, oh so slowly, I turn on the spot, scanning the room for any sign of an electric eye.
What do secret surveillance lenses even look like these days? Exactly how tiny can they be? The size of a pinhead? Smaller?
Could their size be inversely proportional to my paranoia? Am I the pinhead here?
Possibly. But my gut instinct has served me well in the past, apart from when it comes to choosing men. I should trust my instinct now, or at least treat its suspicions with respect.
What if Scott has done all of this for some kind of sadistic enjoyment? He’d want to see your reaction, wouldn’t he? He’d want to film you. Thanks to the magic of night-vision cameras, he could be watching you right now. Scott Palmer’s azure blue eyes burning into you, from some remote location.
These thoughts drag ice up my spine. The man who I thought I knew and trusted, not only abandoning me but actually doing so with glee, like a mean kid watching an angry wasp trapped inside a bottle.
Please tell me I’m not starring in some banal hidden-camera show. Any second now, will a broadly grinning Scott walk in through the front door, joined by cameramen and a goofy YouTube personality? What a hoot that would be.
Actually, I can’t decide whether this would be better or worse than my current situation.
When TV spies conduct a security sweep, where do they search? Under lampshades usually, but there are none, so I just check everything in sight.
Prowling around, I use Scott’s phone torch to examine the walls, the skirting boards, plug sockets, curtain rails, light fittings and the dead radiators.
In the kitchen, the boiler has a detachable metal cover. A big red label stuck to this cover declares PLEASE LEAVE FOR YOUR SAFETY, which does little to ease my nerves.
The harder I search, the heavier my eyelids become. Eventually, having found nothing of note, I’m forced to call it a night.
Raising one middle finger, I slowly rotate 360 degrees, to ensure the message gets across to Scott, just in case. This really does make me feel deranged.
I’m so tired of myself and this bear-trap of a day.
Drawing on my last vestiges of strength, I push my three heaviest boxes across the living room floor and out through the archway, then stack them against the front door. Scott used to make me feel so safe and so protected. And yet now, the thought of this man sneaking in here during the night, perhaps to try and recover his lost phone, gives me the creeps.
Please leave for your safety.
Barricading this door feels like taking back at least one iota of control.
Staying fully clothed, I hunker down on the living room floor. I no longer have the will to find my pillow or blanket in these damn boxes, so I’ll make do with tucking my balled-up jacket under my head and braving the cold. Feels like a fitting end to one of the longest and worst days of my life.
What I have here, with Scott’s phone, is Pandora’s Box. Can’t stop thinking about what might be inside. Tomorrow, I’ll take this thing to a shop and get it opened.
What happened with Pandora, again? I mean, I know she unleashed all the evils into the world and stuff, but apart from that everything was fine.
Steel drums summon me back up from the depths of a bad dream. Something to do with the zip-wire tower on the beach, but I can remember no more than that.
I’ve been rudely woken by the incessant noise of a phone. The True Romance theme, to be precise.
Groggy, disorientated and cold, I sit bolt upright. A full moon has lent the hard floor a white sheen. Even though I’ve stayed in this flat so many times, the place may as well be the surface of an alien world.
The more gunk I wipe from my eyes, the more the fierce glow of Scott’s phone slides into focus. An incoming call. Unknown Number. Do I pick up?
Of course I do. I want to know who’s calling Scott.
But what if it’s Scott himself?
Why the hell should I worry about that? He’s the one who should be afraid. I have nothing to fear.
Not even here, all alone, in a flat with no lights?
Shut up. Look, I’m answering the call, see?
What I hear on the line is the sound of nothing. The sound of low, grey static.
Instinct tells me not to speak first. What if this is Scott’s secret other woman, or merely one of them?
In my ear, the nothing-buzz continues.
I really want to ask who this is, but hold my nerve.
This may only be a spammer. One of those infuriating calls that waits to detect that a human has answered the phone before launching its pre-recorded spiel.
Somewhere in the midst of all this static, I’m pretty sure I can hear someone.
Someone breathing. Calm, steady.
Scott?
Pressing the phone harder against my ear, I try to filter through the noise. I try to differentiate between the inhale and the exhale.
The voice of a stranger lunges out from the static, clear as a bell. Beyond the Scottish accent, this guy’s voice sounds flat and dark, as if his words have been recorded, then slowed down for playback.
“You’re going to love it here.”
Before I can prise open my sticky mouth to ask who this is, the static is replaced by a monotonous, dead hum.
Call Ended.
Before the screen can fade to black, I push a couple of buttons in the hope of exploiting some magical loophole to bypass the security system. Taking none of my shit, the phone dutifully locks itself up nice and tight.
Who was that speaking? One of Scott’s mates, joining in on the fun? If so, what’s next on their agenda: knocking on the door, then running away? What a truly risible pack of bastards. Next time someone calls, I’ll give them a message to pass on to Scott – one that’ll wipe the wolfy smirk clean off his face.
Loathing the sense that I’ve become the butt of a joke, I get up and wander aimlessly around the room. I try to stretch my aching back, still feeling like an intruder in what was supposed to be my dream home. The rain has eased off, so I head towards the windows, intending to peer outside.
My right foot steps in the pool of cold water, sending chills up my leg. I picture some prick laughing at this slapstick mishap as they watch the live infrared video feed.
Even though I can’t see the face drawn on the window, I can feel it grinning at me.
You’re going to love it here.
You’re going to love it here.
I am not creeped out.
You’re going to love it here.
I. Am. Not. Creeped Out.
The enormity of my fatigue finally triumphs over the adrenaline. I curl up on the floor and manage to close my eyes.
One word comes back to me, over and over. Why?
Why has Scott done this to me? And why should I spend the rest of my life not knowing? I might not like myself all that much, but even I know I deserve more.
If I’m ever going to be free of all this anger, hurt and confusion, then I need to know the reasons behind Scott Palmer’s behaviour.
I’m going to use his phone to learn what makes him tick. I’m going to crush him. Then I’ll flick him aside and rebuild my life as something fantastic.
But right now, I am going to do my best not to think about all these eyes watching me from the dark.