8 October
“Kate, there’s one thing I need to know, more than owt else. Please, please tell me you weren’t trying to get the phone back.”
Side by side on the living room chairs, both wearing our coats, Izzy and I are gazing out through the smashed balcony door to the horizon, where the clouds inflict one big wide bruise. Halfway through this heavily overcast afternoon, only the pier offers any real light. I used to love that place, but it now resembles a deathtrap and I’ve positioned the chair to keep it out of my sight.
Overnight, no new wood chips have appeared on the post-mat. Why? No idea. I may have simply been too quick to see supernatural reasons for everything. The door might be old and weak, and Scott’s DIY handiwork could have been poor. Sometimes the door crumbles, sometimes it doesn’t, and that’s that.
Izzy’s pupils are fringed with red veins. She carries this haunted look, one that screams, My best mate has turned out to be a nightmare and I’m struggling to cope.
I feel one hundred years old, as if imaginary weights have been tied to my limbs. The deep ache in my bones signals that I’m fast falling prey to flu. Every syllable I speak feels like a Herculean task.
“I wasn’t trying to do anything in particular. Like I said, it felt like sleepwalking.”
“But did you ever sleepwalk before?”
“Yeah, as a kid. I don’t know, trauma may have brought it back.”
If Izzy and I were sitting face to face, this lie would have required too much energy. Way too much control of all the muscles in my face and repression of those tell-tale ticks. Since we’re not, though, I’ve more lies where that came from.
“Honestly, Izz, I’m going to be fine now. The shrink reckons this has all been down to stress, and I agree. All I need is some rest, so please don’t feel like you have to—”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you here by yourself, especially after last night,” she says. “I’ve cancelled the next few days at work, so now we can chill the fuck out and sleep for a thousand years.”
No, no, no. With Izzy here, how am I supposed to get things done? How am I supposed to finish this? “Thank you.”
“I’ve booked a guy to come over tonight to change the locks on the door. I want us to rest easy, without worrying about Scott or Ray showing up.”
“Scott’s dead, Izzy.”
“Let’s not go over that again, yeah? We’re both fucked, honey: it’s been two nights without sleep and you almost died. If you still feel strongly about all this tomorrow, when we’re thinking straight, then the police will have to get involved.”
By we’re, she clearly means you’re. Could she be any more patronising?
I am thinking straight. All I want is to be left alone.
Izzy groans and heaves herself up on her crutches. “I’m going to get some supplies before we crash.”
I should tell her to sit back down. I should insist that we get food delivered here instead. And yet I do neither of these things, because I need this time to myself. A little time, that’s all, to do what needs to be done. And then we can sleep.
“You are amazing,” I tell her.
“I know I am.” As she makes her steady progress towards the door, every second feels like one whole minute. This yearning is unbearable. “You’re going to be so much better off without that phone now. You know that, right?”
“I do. I swear.” Contact lenses get stuck behind your eyes. It’s true, I swear. “Thank you, honey.”
Finally, the front door closes behind her. Oh, blessed, shameful relief.
When I hear both locks clunk, one by one, I have the fleeting sense of being an asylum inmate. Suppose I can hardly blame Izzy for taking no chances.
I don’t need to leave the flat, though.
All I need, it’s right here in my pocket.