4 October
Maureen’s looking at me funny. I must’ve zoned out for a second or two. Flashbacks will do that to a person.
“Oh goodness, yes,” I say, suddenly talking like a vicar. “The landlord’s paying for everything. He seems like a good sort.”
How long will Maureen stay, now she knows Scott isn’t here? How much does she intend to quiz her prospective daughter-in-law? But more to the point, how can I use this situation to find out more about Scott? Best to get in there first, before she can open fire with queries of her own.
I perch myself on a box and try to style it out. “So, Scott talks about you all the time…’
Literally not once in four months, Maureen. You might as well be thermonuclear physics.
“… and now I’ve finally got to meet you, I’d love to know what he was like as a boy.”
No real idea of what I’m gunning for with this line of enquiry. I’d flailed around for any question that wasn’t, So who the fuck is your mad bastard son, really? Still, a little childhood colour might helpfully contribute to the profile I’m building of my dear departed lover.
Maureen chuckles and visibly loosens up. “Oh! Well, I can’t lie, he was a real wild one at school. Had me tearing my hair out at times.”
I mirror her laughter, as if my inquisition really is only small-talk fun. “Ah, really? What sort of capers did he get up to?”
Did I say capers? Pretty sure that happened. I normally only say that word when ordering pizza.
“He’ll kill me for saying this, but he did get into fights.”
A real wild one… fights… I try to square this with the placid, laid-back Scott I thought I knew, then remember the brooding wolf behind those eyes.
“He always told me it was self-defence,” Maureen quickly adds. “From bullies, you know. His brother always told me a different story. He said Scotty was sometimes the bully, but you know what brothers can be like. One-upmanship and all that silliness.”
Brother? New information alert.
“Oh yes, of course, his brother,” I say, then grimace and click my fingers a few times. “What’s his name again?”
“Raymond. He’s such a good boy.” How old is this guy – five? “But I have to admit, Scotty’s done quite well for himself too.”
She smiles fondly, in the exact same way my own mother never smiles about me. “And now,” she adds, slapping both hands down on her thighs. “Scotty’s settled down! That’s lovely.”
I nod and force a grin. Maureen said settled down with such happy incredulity that it was basically code for finally picked one girl.
Another slice of evidence for my fat dossier.
Before I can ask how often schoolboy Scott kissed the girls and made them cry, Maureen whacks the ball back into my court. “So how did the pair of you meet? Scotty did mention it, of course, but you know…” One hand darts to her temple, by way of explanation, or excuse. Christ, and I thought I was a transparent liar.
Well, Mrs Palmer, I first saw Scott on the hook-up app Tinder and Super-Liked him, but he didn’t even Like me back.
“We met at a business seminar,” I say with a professional smile. “Our eyes met over canapes, and then we were courting for quite a while.”
Capers. Canapes. Courting. What ridiculous word beginning with “C” will my brain magic up next?
“Oh, what business are you in?” What’s that glint I see in Maureen’s eye: is she testing me? Her bullshit detector may be more advanced than I’ve given her credit for.
Here we are, at another crossroads. Do I lie about my job? No, why should I? It’s a good one. And why am I even trying to impress the mother of a man who’s abandoned me?
“I’m a senior paramedic,” I tell her. “But, you know, there’s lots of business involved.” Think, think fast, for an example. “So many protocols we have to deal with.” Protocols, yes! Brilliantly oblique and dull. Nobody ever wants to hear more information on protocols.
Maureen nods, studying her clasped hands. There follows an eternal silence, during which neither of us knows what to say next. “Well,” she says, with a smile that doesn’t come anywhere near her eyes, “I suppose I’d better be getting on. Such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say, springing up from my box to help her out of the chair. She waves me off, determined to help herself. “Maureen, I’m so sorry I couldn’t offer more hospitality. Next time you come, this flat will be a palace.”
No, it won’t. Either my boxes and I will have gone somewhere else, or only a few will have been unpacked and I’ll feed you some crap about how the decorators have delayed the job.
“Have you seen Scott lately?” I ask, light as a feather, as I guide her towards the door.
“Not for a few weeks.” She sounds sad about this. “I don’t like to bother him on the phone: I always think I’m interrupting work. I wonder if you could ask him to call me, or even pay me a visit?”
“Of course. Do you live nearby, then?”
“Oh, I’m only up in Seven Dials.”
“Ah, yes, Scott did say. That is nice and close. Lovely.” I have no idea where Seven Dials is. “Well, I’ll certainly badger him to get in touch, Maureen, don’t you worry.”
As we walk to the door, Maureen scrawls something on a ratty little piece of paper, then hands it over. “That’s my home number, just in case you need me.”
What’s an appropriate farewell, now that we’ve been introduced? Maureen doesn’t strike me as the huggy type. I consider going for the handshake again, but after a quick Goodbye, dear she’s out the door so fast that the darkness swallows her in one clean gulp.
“Oh, heavens,” she says, from somewhere off along the corridor, her voice shrill. “Can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
“Careful, Maureen! Would you like to take one of my candles?” The fire door thumps shut, placing her out of earshot.
So. I’ve met Maureen Palmer. What an odd woman. No doubt she’s thinking exactly the same thing about me.
Now that I’m by myself once again, her son’s phone calls my name. I’ve barely scratched the surface with this thing, but I’m already awake far later than I should be. Chances are, if I behold evidence of more of Scott’s lies tonight, it’ll only rile me up and make sleep even more elusive. Besides, simply meeting Maureen has already given me evidence of bonus lies from Scott. Oh, happy day.
Tonight, I will devote more effort to the sleeping arrangements. Having hauled my bedding out of a box, I dump it on my designated spot. My Nokia goes ping a couple of times, no doubt because lovely Izzy wants to know how everything went on my first day, but she’ll have to wait till tomorrow. I could almost shed a tear of gratitude for the soft familiarity of my trusty old pillow.
Incredibly, all six candles are still burning. The wind must’ve changed direction. Should I mute Scott’s phone, in case another weirdo calls in the middle of the night? No. While I still have access to this handset, I may as well leave myself open to every scrap of information that comes my way. Bring it on, creeps.
There. Done. Let’s doze.
Using a technique I remember from a How To Sleep CD, I make my inner voice all slow and drowsy, then count down from three hundred.
Two hundred and ninety-nine…
Two hundred and ninety-eight…
Two hundred and ninety-seven…
Two hundred and ninety… can’t remember where I was. Back to three hundred…
Two hundred and ninety-nine…
What’s this strange taste in your mouth?
Don’t know, don’t care. Two hundred and ninety-eight…
I think you do care. Tastes like metal. Copper. Could this be blood?
Two hundred and ninety-blood… oh God, what is this taste?
I stick two fingers in my mouth then check them for blood, but it’s way too dark to tell.
Oh. Why is it dark all of a sudden?
Jesus, the candles have died. Every single one. Smoke drifts up from their wicks.
This weird taste grows stronger and my teeth hurt.
Are you feeling what I’m feeling?
No, brain, I’m not. Let’s just breathe and—
There’s something new in the flat. Some kind of presence.
Keen to rule out blood in my mouth, I reach over for Scott’s phone to use the torch.
In the furthest corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something and stop dead.
Over in the archway, there’s a fierce, pale blue flicker. Quite a big one.
Could this be an ambulance light? Surely not, because I’m on the fifth floor. So what the fuck is it?
Why don’t you roll over and take a proper look?
The metallic taste spreads through the soft palate of my mouth, and my dumb heart acts like someone just fired a starting pistol. Flying in the face of rational thought, animal instinct tells me to flee this thing and run out into the fresh air of the balcony, where sanity will prevail.
Fuck that. Sanity dictates that I stay put. This weird shimmer must be reflecting in from somewhere.
Then why is it moving towards you from out of the archway?
Somewhere inside me, a panic attack wants out, but I refuse to entertain it.
Sure enough, the flickering blue thing fades away to nothing. Because, of course, there never was any flickering. The metal taste has subsided, too.
Clearly, I’ve just had a textbook episode of psychosomatic stress. Seen so much of that in my time, and now it’s my turn. Stress makes people hallucinate, vomit and, in extreme cases, even go blind, so I’m getting off easy with a little flickering in my peripheral vision. The ambulance-style light even ties in with my job, so it makes perfect sense.
Don’t fool yourself. That was no hallucination. This thing came right out of the archway and was an actual entity.
Irritated by myself and my stupid imagination, I go back to counting down from three hundred, determined to ignore this copper aftertaste.