Читать книгу You Let Me In - Lucy Clarke - Страница 17

‘The best story to tell – the only story to tell – is the one living within you, inhabiting you, insisting that it be heard.’

Author Elle Fielding

I push open the car door into darkness, feel the hurried beat of my footsteps across my frost-hardened driveway.

On the doorstep, I fumble in my handbag looking for my key.

Maybe I should have had an extra glass of wine, crashed on Fiona and Bill’s sofa, not come back to an empty house.

I slot the key into the lock and slip inside, bolting the door behind me.

There it is, the silence. It pins me, fills my ears with its voiceless boom.

I hate coming home to an empty house – particularly after dark. Jesus, maybe Fiona is right: I do need a dog.

I keep finding myself missing the congestion of my old life in Bristol; the steady thrum of traffic, the stores open all hours of the night, the sounds from other people’s lives that filtered through the walls of our flat – voices, televisions, cisterns refilling, plates being stacked, laughter.

I force myself to move briskly through the house, flicking on lights, the radio and television.

It will be my first winter here and I wonder how warm it will be. Underfloor heating doesn’t give the same heat as a fire. I must start using the log burner – but each time I think about laying it, I’m overwhelmed by Flynn’s absence. It has always been his thing.

In the last place we rented, there was an open fire, and I remember the way he’d carefully select the wood each evening, telling me whether it was apple or silver birch, or a piece of plum chopped down from a job he’d done the previous year. He’d describe how long each piece would burn for, what the notes of the smell might be, how long it had been seasoned.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip my mobile from my pocket and dial his number. I want to hear his voice. I want to say, I’m thinking of lighting the log burner you chose. I want to tell him, I miss you. To hear him say, I forgive you.

When he picks up, I catch the low riff of music. Muddy Waters. One of Flynn’s favourite blues artists. He plays his music on a record player that used to belong to his father. He loves the ceremony of setting the needle, hearing the fuzzed scratch as the record begins to spin.

‘Elle?’

‘I just … I thought I’d … say hello.’ I glance at my watch. It is midnight on a Friday. Shit.

‘Right. Hello,’ Flynn says, lightly amused.

Tucking the phone under my ear, I move into the kitchen to make certain the back door is locked. I press on the handle, check the bolt. Then I follow the perimeter of the kitchen ensuring each of the windows is secure, and the wine cellar is locked.

I tell Flynn about my evening at Fiona and Bill’s as I move into the lounge, looking behind the sofa, running my hand along the curtains until I can feel the wall. Every room needs to be checked. Every window. It gives me peace of mind.

When I’m satisfied that the house is secure, I move into my bedroom, sinking down onto the bed, letting myself fall backwards, my head hitting the pillow with a soft thump.

Pressing the phone close to my ear, I can hear the slow draw of Flynn’s breath, can picture him sitting on the sofa, fire lit, an empty bottle of ale on the side table, the lights low.

The Muddy Waters record comes to its end and our conversation ticks comfortably into silence. I let my eyes close. In our previous life – the version of us that runs parallel to this one – I would be stretched out on the sofa, my feet on his lap, the warmth of the fire playing over my shins. We would be making plans for the weekend ahead: a walk in the forest with a pub lunch perhaps, or a drive to the coast to visit friends.

Across the phone waves I hear a door opening, then footsteps. Quick and light. There is the murmur of a female voice, low, keening.

‘Oh,’ I say, sitting up, a hand moving to my chest. ‘You’ve got company.’

His mouth sounds closer to the phone, as he says, ‘Listen, Elle, I didn’t know you were—’

I try to form words that will make this okay, but I can’t think what to say, what to do with this sudden, crushing realisation.

So I do the only thing that comes to me: I hang up.

I pace my bedroom, replaying the phone call, over and over.

Flynn.

Flynn and another woman.

It’s a fist in my stomach.

I launch my mobile at the bed. It bounces off, hits my cream bedside table and lands on the carpet.

I run a bath, add some essential oils, let the water slip over my body until it is cupping the disc of my face. I concentrate on my breathing, on trying to relax.

But I can’t. I climb out, water sloshing over the bathroom floor.

I wrap myself in a dressing gown, then eye my bed. There’s no point trying to sleep when I’m agitated, wired.

I’ll write, I decide.

The lamp casts a white spotlight across my desk. Behind me, the rest of the writing room is in darkness.

I take a breath. Hover the mouse over the Word document labelled BOOK 2.

It’s coming along well, I’d told Jane.

Five and a half weeks until my deadline.

Downstairs, I picture the unopened bills piled on the bureau, the mortgage repayment not met this month. Everything is riding on this book, waiting on me. I think of Booklover101’s latest post on my Facebook page. A gif of a woman sat at a typewriter, face possessed, keys bashing up and down. Hope you’re working hard. Remember, your no.1 fan is waiting .

I click.

The document opens onto the title page:

BOOK 2

By Elle Fielding

And below it, nothing.

Whiteness.

All that blank space eyeballing me, waiting to be filled. It’s like staring into a black hole – only white – as if I could be sucked into it, lose myself in all that emptiness.

Beneath the desk, my foot jigs up and down.

I remember how excited, how inspired, I felt before I was published. Back then I was writing without expectation or deadlines – writing just for myself. There was such freedom in it. I didn’t realise it at the time when I was yearning to get published, but it was a beautiful way to write – out in the wilderness, without a contract.

Now thousands of readers are eagerly awaiting my next novel, a publishing house is primed and ready, the security of my home teeters on it. I rub the skin below my collarbone, pressure tightening in my chest.

This isn’t how I imagined it to be.

None of this is how it was meant to be.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say aloud to the empty room, my voice unnaturally bright. ‘You can do this. You just need to focus, stop doubting yourself. Don’t overthink this, Elle. Just write.’

Team talk to self.

Jesus Christ, all this silence. No wonder I’m talking to myself. I play some music, turning it up loud. Then I flick on the large overhead light, too. There, that’s better, I think, pacing.

If someone is in the bay tonight, they could look straight into this room, see me up here, alone.

I pick up the paperweight from my desk, pressing my thumb into the jagged crack. I can almost feel the sharp point of the missing shard as if it’s still embedded in my heel.

That feeling, the hot breath of fear.

I lower myself into my chair, placing the paperweight beside me. The lamplight bounces off it, throwing my image back at me, distorted by the curvature of the glass.

I know the story I need to write. I think I’ve known it all along.

I’ve got it all here, in me. I see that now. My characters are already alive, living under my skin. I just need to get them on the page, pin them there.

So I picture them, I tune into their voices, I invite them in.

And then I start to type.