Читать книгу When I Met You - Jemma Forte - Страница 8

I sit up, wondering what time it is, what day it is even. My bedroom’s completely dark and the light from the moon is the only thing enabling me to see anything at all. Rubbing my face, I switch on the bedside light and pick up my watch. Three minutes past nine. I only meant to shut my eyes but must have been asleep for ages.

Blurry with sleep, I sit staring blankly into space, wondering vaguely why the rest of the house is so silent until, overcome by both thirst and curiosity, I haul myself up and pad out onto the dark landing to investigate.

Downstairs, there’s a note on the dining table from Mum. It reads ‘Me and Mar gone to Sheena and Dave’s anniversary dins. On mobile. Quiche in fridge. Pete at Josh’s for night.’

Of course, I’d forgotten they were going there. I feel cold and a bit shivery, so as soon as I’ve glugged back a pint of water, I make a cup of tea, grab some biscuits from mum’s stash and head back to my room where I slump onto the bed. The same single bed I slept on throughout my teenage years, which serves as a constant reminder that at the age of thirty-one I haven’t come very far. Still, I’ve wasted enough hours lamenting my embarrassing woman-child status.

It occurs to me then that I should be making the most of the empty house by getting some violin practise in. The one thing I have progressed in over the years. When Mum’s around, I only ever get away with playing for about half an hour before the complaints start – apparently classical music makes her feel like a patient in a mental institution – so it’ll be nice not to have any interruptions.

I place the sheet music for Bach’s solo sonata No. 1 in G minor on my stand. The music’s hauntingly beautiful and incredibly hard to do justice to but, once I’ve practised my scales, arpeggios and a few studies, I feel ready to tackle it. It’s not long before I’m completely lost in the music, oblivious to the storm that is brewing outside. The window is ajar, but the sound of the gale howling only adds to the majesty of the sonata. Then, just as I’m in the middle of an exceedingly challenging section, there’s a huge rumble of thunder, the skies open and rain starts to pelt down, at which point I place my violin on the bed. I’m just about to pull the window shut when I hear a crashing sound coming from somewhere in our back garden. The security lights at the rear of the house instantly flick on. I jump out of my skin.

Heart thumping, I peer out, trying to see what made the noise. The lights give me a clear view of the patio below, which is undoubtedly the most furnished patio in Essex. You can hardly move on it for swing chairs, heaters, loungers and the like. My stepdad, Martin, makes his living selling garden furniture and equipment. He’s bizarrely passionate about it. I swear whenever he visits B&Q or Homebase to check out the competition he goes a bit quivery with anticipation. But I digress.

It doesn’t take long to work out what caused the noise. On the right-hand side of the patio, a dustbin lid is lying on the ground and as the wind picks up again, it rolls around, its metal making a terrible din. I guess it must have blown off the bin. Either that or a fox must have disturbed it or something. I yank the window shut. The noise of the storm is instantly muffled but I can still hear the lid clattering around at which point I realise I have no choice but to go outside and put it back on.

Going through the house I switch on every single light. The house is carpeted throughout so as I pad down the stairs into our hallway I don’t make a sound. Downstairs it smells in a synthetic, sickly way, of peach, due to the air freshener mum keeps constantly plugged in.

I pass the front room we never use and the downstairs loo, before carrying on straight ahead into our main living area. Usually I don’t mind being on my own at night, but the storm’s making me twitchy. I chastise myself for being silly.

What am I worried about? I’m not even sure. All I do know is that I’m planning on replacing the lid as quickly as is humanly possible so that I can race inside, upstairs and back to the non-creepy confines of my room.

The keys to the sliding doors, which lead out to the garden, are kept on a hook next to a hatch in the wall that divides the living room and kitchen. Once I’ve got them I unlock the doors and gingerly slide them open a touch. The wind is fierce. Rain immediately blows into my face but, taking the plunge, I step out into the elements at which point it’s quite a struggle to slide the doors shut again. By now the rain’s coming down in a torrent so, no matter how quick I plan on being, getting totally soaked is inevitable. Glad of security-conscious Martin’s lights, I pick my way across the width of the patio. The wind is almost strong enough to knock me over but with a lot of effort I make it to the offending bin lid, only just as, while I’m bending down to pick it up, an extra strong gust blows it yet further out of my reach. At that point I stop and, with my heart in my mouth, I spin around as a sixth sense heightens the feeling I’ve been trying to ignore. That I’m not alone.

I must be mistaken though. Fear’s playing tricks with my mind because there doesn’t appear to be anyone there. Although, having said that, if someone were lurking in the shadows, I probably wouldn’t be able to see them from here anyway. Not if they didn’t want me to. They could easily hide themselves away down the alley that spans the side of our house.

‘Who’s there?’ I yell, feebly and somewhat pointlessly. My voice was never going to carry very far against the noise of the storm. By now I’m soaked to the skin and shivering with cold. I pull myself together. My imagination is running away with me. I just need to get the blasted lid back on the bin, get back inside and into a hot shower. Heart thumping, I make a dash down the lawn for the lid again. Got it. I grab it, then turn and run towards the passage that runs down the side of the house where the bins are kept. Rain pummels my head and face and, gasping for breath, I slam the lid on, making sure it’s secure. As soon as it is, with adrenaline coursing round my body, I make for the house. Turns out, however, I wasn’t being paranoid. All my instincts had kicked in for good reason, for just as I’m about to reach for the door, I hear heavy, terrifying footsteps behind me. At this point, I scream so loudly I almost don’t recognise my own voice. It’s a guttural sound, a scream of survival, because I honestly believe I’m about to be killed, raped, or both. Just as my fingertips make contact with the door handle, a strong arm makes a grab for me and in that instance I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe the depth of pure terror that I feel.

I’m terrified, rendered totally incapable of rational thought. My body shuts down completely. My legs go to jelly. I want to scream again but as I try to, a black-gloved hand clamps my mouth shut. The man’s gripping on to me so tightly now I can feel his breath on my face. Then, the most eerie thing of all happens. In a rasping, deep, terrifying voice, my assailant says, right into my ear, ‘Don’t scream, Marianne.’

Well, that does it. The fact he knows my name makes the whole experience beyond sinister and I honestly think I’m going to pass out on the spot. This person has singled me out. He must have been watching the house. He knows everyone’s out and now he’s going to do something to me. I’m on the brink of collapse when the attacker says something else I’m not expecting. Though at first I think it’s some kind of sick joke.

‘Don’t be scared. It’s me. It’s your dad.’

And in that second my whole life implodes.