Lori woke with a jolt. She was drenched in sweat.
She’d been deep in a dream, in the swimming-hole, drowning again. He’d swum towards her, like he did before, but this time he was propelling himself with his feet. Because he was carrying something in his arms, hugging it to his chest like a brown bag full of groceries. She couldn’t see what it was through the murk. But as he came closer he held it out to her, as though offering her a very special present. It was a human head. She’d opened her mouth to scream and water rushed in.
Then Junior was shaking her, jigging up and down beside the bed in excitement, the dog panting beside him.
“Guess what?” he shouted, his face ablaze. “It’s on the news. They just found Wayne Maxwell. Bits of him anyway. No head. And his body bit clean in two. The Sheriff’s closed the swimming-hole. Says there’s some kind of a monster fish down there.”
Marge came charging into the bedroom, carrying Lori’s breakfast on a tray. She set it on the bedside table before whacking Junior smartly round the head and propelling him out of the room.
“Take your time, honey,” she said, before she closed the door. “You don’t have to go to school today if you don’t feel like it. ”
Lori listened to her mom dragging her brother down the stairs, emphasising every other word with a clip round the ear.
“Are you CRAZY? (whack). You sister almost DIED in that swimming-hole yesterday (whack). She’s supposed to be RESTING (whack). And get that blasted DOG (whack) OUT OF THIS HOUSE (whack, whack, whack).”
Lori waited until she heard the kitchen door close on Junior’s protestations and the dog’s yelp, before she spoke. She felt sick to her stomach, nearly paralysed with fright.
“Hey?” she whispered. “Are you there?”
No reply.
The curtains were still drawn from the previous night. Except for a single ray of sun that had crept, like a thief, through a crack in the blinds, the room was as dim as an underwater cave. Lori shuddered.
“Where are you?” she said, her voice coming out in a croak. “I need to talk to you.”
But all was silence.
Not ordinary, tranquil, peaceful silence. More an absence of sound. Sinister. Menacing. She knew he was there. Could sense him. Smell him. Acrid and sweet. He was playing with her. It gave her the creeps. She pulled herself together and directed her next sentence at the charm, knowing and yet not wanting to know the answer before she’d even framed the question.
“Did you kill Wayne?” she said, urgently and then, because he wouldn’t come when she called, because there was still no reply, because she was angry and frightened and frustrated beyond patience, she tore the Dreamcatcher from the bed-post and went to hurl it across the room. It ignited in her hand, flames licking round her palm and between her fingers. She dropped it like a hot potato.
“Naughty, naughty,” said the voice in her head.
Lori stared at the Dreamcatcher in horror. It had gone back to normal in a twinkling. No sign of fire now, the feathers not even singed.
“What have you done?” she said in desperation. “I never asked you to kill anyone.”
“Specifics, Lori,” said the voice in her head. “You said someone should teach him a lesson. Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”
The sunbeam, pointing across the room, fell like a golden finger onto the breakfast that her mom had made for her as a special treat. Mushroom omelette. Her favourite.
And Lori was left with the sudden horrible realisation that she’d probably bitten off a good deal more than she could chew.
Downstairs, Ted Morrison shovelled hash-browns into his face and figured the odds.
“Think I might sue,” he said.
“Sue? Sue who?” Marge wanted to know.
“Those boys. The one’s threw her in. Families all got money. Mental cruelty. My little girl. Bit of luck the parents’ll settle out of court. Could mean big bucks. Better chance now, with Wayne dead.”
Marge curled her lip.
“You are the dregs, Ted Morrison,” she said. “Since when have you given two cents for your ‘little girl’? But now that there might be money in it...”
Ted was unperturbed.
“Trouble with you, Marge,” he said. “You got no vision. You want to be a short-order waitress all your life?”
Lori opened the curtains and scraped the omelette out the window. The dog panting in the yard below, wolfed it down before it even hit the ground.
She decided that this had got to stop. She didn’t know how but she had to call a halt to it. Once and for all. All she’d wanted was to be rich and famous. Was that a crime? No mention of anybody getting hurt. Nothing was worth....not even...
Then she turned back into the room and caught sight of herself in the mirror in the full light of day.
She looked absolutely fantastic. Her face was clear, her hair was thick, her eyes bright and shiny. And she’d lost more weight.
She jumped on the scales. Another five pounds. She’d lost fifteen pounds since Friday. She looked like a different person. Almost as good as Chesney Pace. Better than stupid Tracey Barnes. What was she going to wear? She didn’t have anything in the wardrobe that fit. And she’d need to be careful. Pretend she’d been dieting for weeks under her lumpy clothes. Otherwise people might talk. Wonder anyway. Mustn’t have that. Play the innocent. Especially with the Sheriff. A ball of ice formed in her stomach. What if he asked her about Wayne? What would she say?
“Wayne’s dead,” said the voice in her head. “Nothing you can do is going to bring him back. And there’s nothing to connect you to his death. You were miles away when it happened. Anyway, who cares? The Wayne’s of this world are expendable. The only person you need to worry about is you. And you are looking incredible. Perry Johnson won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
Lori admired herself in the mirror. Too true. Wayne was dead. But Perry was alive. And Wayne had been pretty horrible to her. She cinched her hands round the waist that she’d never had. Fifteen pounds. Where had all that weight gone?
Tracey Barnes, swung her legs out of bed and vowed revenge on Lori Morrison. That fat cow, she thought viciously. She’d make her pay for this.
Shrugging out of her baby dolls, crossing to the wardrobe to get her wrap before going for a shower, she was suddenly confronted by her reflection in the full length mirror. My God. What was happening? She looked like she’d put on weight. A LOT of weight. Her thighs, still slightly pink from the coffee scald, were puffy with cellulite and there was a definite tyre around her waist.
What had she eaten yesterday? She must be allergic to something. Something that was blowing her up like a balloon.
She moved closer to the mirror, stared at herself in horror. There were bags under her amber eyes and oh-my-god, was that a spot on her nose? It was. A big, red, throbbing spot, right on the end. And what had happened to her hair? It looked lank and yukkity yuk, greasy. She ran a hand through it, distractedly. When she took the hand away, a clump of hair came with it.
Tracey made a noise, halfway between a squawk and a shriek.
“You OK, Tracey?” It was her mom calling from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready. You’ll need to hurry if you want your Dad to give you a lift to school.”
Tracey rushed to the door and locked it. She couldn’t let anyone see her in this condition. Not even her mother.
“Could you phone in for me, mom?” she called through the keyhole. “I don’t feel very well.”
“Want me to get the Doctor?” Mrs Barnes sounded concerned. Her beautiful daughter was usually the picture of health.
“No thanks,” said Tracey. “It’s just...you know...the usual.”
“OK honey,” Mrs Barnes, relieved, went back to her breakfast. She’d been a martyr to ‘the usual’ herself when she’d been younger. One of the joys of puberty.
And upstairs her now not quite so beautiful daughter, sat down on the side of the bed, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her bulging stomach, and wondered what in blue blazes was going on?