Читать книгу Under My Skin - Zoe Markham - Страница 12
ОглавлениеIt’s pitch dark when the shouting wakes me, and for a second I don’t know where I am. I hear my name nestled in amongst a flood of swearing, and recognise Dad’s as the only voice before panic takes hold completely. The boxes. I wince as I remember throwing them out of my window. Fumbling for the light switch, I let rip a mini swear-fest of my own – why would he have come in and turned the lamp off? He knows I hate the dark. I pull back one heavy curtain and see him out on the drive, furiously gathering them up. I sigh, and brace myself as I open the window.
‘Chloe! I just went arse over wotsit over these! What did I say yesterday?’
‘Sorry!’ I shout back down. ‘I meant to say…’
The look he gives me speaks volumes, and I hold my hands up in surrender.
‘Just…’ He sighs, ‘Can you please try and keep things a bit tidier? I’ve got enough to deal with right now as it is.’
‘Yeah, sorry Dad, I will. Are you leaving already? Weren’t you even going to say goodbye?’
‘I left you a note,’ he says, leaning the boxes against the garage door. ‘I thought you could use the sleep, and I could use a head start.’ He wipes his hands on his jacket, then looks back up at me. ‘Don’t wait up for me. Keep the blinds and curtains closed, and don’t even think of answering the door to anyone. Even if it’s the police. Especially if it’s the police.’
I get that kick of fear in my belly that I narrowly avoided when I heard the shouting. It’s never far off.
‘Your phone’s all charged up,’ he says, his voice softening a little, ‘and I’ve put my number in it for you. Text me if you need anything, ok?’
‘Ok,’ I try to reply lightly, but my voice breaks and betrays my sudden terror at being left alone. I try again, and do a little better with a faux-cheery and not entirely appropriate ‘Good luck!’ Good luck finding the thing that will save me before we find out what the hell happens to me if you don’t.
I actually thought I’d be fine about it, I’ve been on my own in the flat a few times over the last few weeks, when Dad had his interview, and when he went to sign the lease on the cottage, but when I close the window a massive wave of anxiety hits me, hard. I have to physically steady myself, and I’m just about to pull the curtain back across when a second wave, packing an even harder punch, crashes over me as I see the car’s taillights disappear down the drive. I’m on my own, in the middle of nowhere. Anyone could be out there, watching the house, watching me from the darkness right now. I pull the curtain closed so hard that a couple of the hooks ping out and it sags heavily in the middle. I duck down next to the wall, and sit with my back to it, knees pulled tight against my chest, trying to get a grip. Agents could be watching Dad leave from anywhere down the lane, getting ready right now to come in and take me; and all that stands between me and them is a front door that I’m pretty sure would give with a swift kick or two from a decent enough boot. How could he leave me alone like this? What was he thinking? After everything he’s told me about them…
God. I can’t breathe. Don’t think, dontthinkdontthink.
Day one. Hour one. And it’s not going well.
Take the piss. Make it funny. Poor little rich girl cries for Daddy when she’s left alone in a beautiful house all day to do whatever she wants. Someone forgot to put their big girl pants on. What are you, six years old? Are you really so special that anyone would go to this much trouble to get hold of you? Self-important much!
It starts to work, slowly. It’s a pretty thin veneer, and it doesn’t hold up to too much questioning, so I don’t. I just try and go with it. It’s either that, or hide with my back to the wall all day. And I’m already getting cramp.
I pull myself up, take a deep breath, purely for effect, and shuffle over to get another hoodie from my wardrobe. I think about getting back under the covers for a bit, but my head feels light and cramps are slowly starting to make themselves known in my stomach as well as my back and legs. I need to eat, and I need to take my mind off things. This is a job for bacon.
I get through two packs of Danish before I cast a guilty look over at the frying pan, wondering how the hell I’m not the size of a house by now. I suppose it should be a bonus, but I can’t help wondering what all the fat and salt is doing to what’s left of my insides. I’ll have to try and talk to Dad about it again soon. I should probably at least switch to grilling the meat. Or maybe there’s a way I could just get some protein shakes, like those gym maniacs, instead of being such a carnivore. I’ve asked him about it before, and he didn’t exactly say no, as such, just gave me a kind of mutter that it’s ‘not quite that simple.’ No, well, nothing really is any more.
I contemplate a third pack, before realising that we don’t actually have one – we didn’t bring much shopping with us and we’re going to need to do a grocery run PDQ. I say ‘we’ meaning Dad, obviously. You do see a lot of frightening sights in Asda, I know, but there are limits. Resigned to a bacon-less environment, I set to work de-greasing the kitchen from my fry-fest, and before I know it, I’ve got the Marigolds on. Dad’s ‘keep things a bit tidier’ must still be swimming around in my head, because I have a sudden vision of cleaning the whole place from top to bottom. Or, almost the whole place. I don’t want to go into the basement. Being down there alone would bring back… well, I don’t know if there are words to describe the memories. The accident was horrific, but it was an understandable type of horror. I mean, it’s the kind of thing that happens every day, you just always hope it’s never going to happen to you or yours. What came after, well, that’s a whole different story. Not something I think the human brain is really equipped to deal with just yet; I know mine isn’t at least. I should be worrying only about shoes and hot boys, according to the books and magazines I’m supposed to buy. Not whether or not I’m some kind of soulless demon who has absolutely no right to exist.
Take one broken girl. Add a generous helping of pain and terror.
Simmer for six months.
Needles, a homemade drip attached to the frame of an old standard lamp, the dimmest of light bulbs, and a bright, blinding torch for when he needed to check my eyes. A room that never got warm, blankets that scratched and burned at my skin as my cells imploded and pores bled. Scrap metal, boiled, sharpened and seared through bone to force it back into place. Limbs that jerked uncontrollably one minute, and seized completely the next. Wires, everywhere, pretending to be veins, trying to trick my body, trying to make me into something I should never have become. Lying flat, not seeing anything other than a damp, water-stained ceiling week after week. Pain. Endless pain accompanied by endless doses of morphine that never touched it. Fear – of what the pain would do next, of what he would do next, of what I was turning into. A hideous, stumbling experiment, brought to life in the darkness. Screams. A million screams in a place where no one would ever hear them.
It wasn’t really me. That’s what I have to tell myself, or I can’t handle the flashbacks. That person, that thing, down there, wasn’t me. But I still can’t go into the basement. It doesn’t matter that the equations, the test tubes, the conical flasks and the bottles of god only knows what are all hidden away underneath this beautiful cottage in the middle of this beautiful countryside – that’s just a matter of aesthetics. There’s no more damp, cramped flat in the arse end of London, but the principle remains. And it’s a nasty principle, however you look at it.
A distraction, that’s what I need. It was never easy in the flat, because there was no room to move, no space to think. Here though, I’ve got nothing but room – and I obsessively, determinedly, clean and tidy every damn inch of it until everything looks nice; until everything looks normal. I find the radio and turn it up far too loud, wanting the inane chatter and cheesy, commercial music to fill my head, willing it to take up as much room in there as possible. I dust, I polish, I hoover. I fluff cushions. I sweep the fireplace. And I don’t stop until my arms and legs start to tremble and my heart starts to pound so hard in my ears it blocks out the radio. And when I can’t do any more, I sit and I cry like a baby – for a thousand different reasons. I even cry for the fact that I’m crying.
‘You’re pathetic, Chlo,’ I tell myself. ‘You’re absolutely bloody pathetic. What was the point of coming through it all, just to end up like this?’ I don’t want the end-product to be this whiny, self-indulgent, sickly creature. I know that I need to heal mentally as much as physically; but I just don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to do it. I lie back on the sofa, refusing to think about anything at all until the pounding in my ears eases, and the trembling in my limbs settles. I lose track of time, but as my body slowly recovers in its own way from the morning’s unusual exertion, angry growls start to bellow forth from my stomach. It must be protein o’clock, and as I realise that I’m going to have to go and mess up my now immaculate kitchen all over again, I start to laugh. And it feels better than crying.
*
I throw a pack of chicken breasts into the oven this time, thinking it’s probably healthier than frying them. I mean, I don’t actually have a clue what I’m doing; Mum always used to cook for us, or if she had to work late she’d leave money for pizza. It suddenly hits me that I’m going to have to cook for us tonight – that I’ve been somehow shifted into the role of housewife here, and I couldn’t be any less qualified for it. I see a panic attack racing across the horizon towards me, and I desperately look around for something to fight it off with. My new phone’s sitting on the windowsill, still attached to its charger, and I make a grab for it. I could text Dad, tell him to get a takeaway on his way back tonight. Or maybe I shouldn’t disturb him on his first day. I could save him some of the chicken. I’m starting to get dangerously close to setting off an ‘I can’t do this’ loop of destruction in my head, when I see the note he said he’d left; it was neatly folded up and tucked underneath the phone. Not the most obvious of spots, but he must’ve known I’d be playing with the phone at some point.
Chlo,
I’m getting an early start. Didn’t want to wake you. Don’t open the door, don’t answer the phone, keep the curtains closed tight and ring me if you need me. Eat well, and stay warm. I’ll pick up groceries & a takeaway on my way home.
Dad.
Well, that’s my dinner worry solved for today at least.
If we had the internet, it’d be easy; I could just look up some simple recipes. Dad doesn’t think I’m ready to get back online yet though. And he’s right. The temptation to email Tom and tell him everything would be pretty hard to resist. I mean, I write emails to him in my head every day:
Dear Tom, you’ll NEVER believe what happened…
I can remember his email address, but not his phone number. He was on speed dial on our landline, and just ‘Tom’ on my mobile. I can’t dredge up any more than a zero and a seven from the tangled mess of my memory. Some days I try, for hours at a time. Other days, I try for hours at a time not to.
I look down at the phone in my hands, and I wonder…
No… he wouldn’t be that careless, or that clueless…
… would he?
My fingers fumble through the options almost of their own accord, and as I press the web browser symbol, I get that familiar panicky sensation of ice flooding my stomach.
Mobile data is disabled for this device. Please check your settings.
That should be where I stop, but I follow the prompts and check the settings all the same. It’s like drinking, or smoking, you know it’s bad… you know it’s only going to hurt you… but you do it all the same. When I see Please enter your password to change your mobile data settings I’m genuinely relieved, glad that he’s taken the choice away from me, because I don’t think I would have been strong enough to make the right choice on my own.
I can’t stand the thought of anyone seeing me like this; I don’t want to catch the look in their eyes: revulsion, fear, disgust. I’m genuinely terrified of what their reaction would be. And it’s not just the look, it’s what they’d say. Would they call out? Cover their mouth with their hands just a split second too late to stifle their gasp of horror? Or would they just fire a horrified whisper to the friend beside them, pulling them in close and hurrying by? Maybe there’d even be some pity there, which I think would somehow be even worse. I could never go out, never talk to someone the way I look now. But if I was behind a screen… well, I could be anyone. I could make a fake profile on Facebook, friend Tom and see what he’s doing, find out who he’s hanging out with now, if he still thinks about me. I could open a Wattpad account and share everything that’s happened to me, pretend that I’ve got this crazy, twisted imagination and it’s all just fiction. Maybe people reading it would get hooked, and become as curious as I am to find out how it all turns out. Or maybe they’d just think I was sick in the head and move on to safer ground and some One Direction fan fiction.
Either way, I don’t have to worry, because Dad’s locked me out of the internet as securely as he’s locked me in the cottage. It keeps me safe. It keeps me so lonely that the coldness inside is actually starting to burn. And I’ve got nothing in the world to do but stare through the little window of the oven and wait for my chicken to cook.
*
When I’ve eaten, and cleaned up after myself (‘keep things a bit tidier’), I head up to my room before I get too tired or shaky to be able to manage the stairs. I wonder about maybe taking out my diary and making myself read through it, if only to see how far I’ve come. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Look at how far you’ve come rather than how far you’ve still got to go? I’ve done nothing but dwell on my own sorry self all morning though. If I’m going to be stuck here, like some twisted effigy of a Disney princess up in a tower, then I need something else… someone else, or I’ll go insane within a week. I can already feel the danger. I need an escape. And if I can’t go out, I’m going to have to look within.
I go to the bookshelves and scan through the titles until I find what I need, what never fails, and it brings a little twist of irony that makes me smile and lets me know what I need to do next. With my ancient, battered copy of Jane Eyre under my arm, I drag a thick blanket from the airing cupboard on the landing, and then stab viciously at the trapdoor above with the hooked pole that I find inside. As it swings open, I make a couple of failed attempts to hook the ladder, my co-ordination is pants these days, and finally wrestle the narrow, pull-down ladder into position. And then the real challenge begins. The ladder sits at a steep angle, and my knees buckle as I try to climb it whilst pushing up the heavy blanket and keeping the book wedged safely under my arm at the same time. Step by painful step I haul myself up, and finally pull myself, breathless and sweating, through the tiny hatch into the attic. Because what better place to curl up with Jane and her demons?
Once I’ve got my breath back I pull the hatch closed behind me, which makes me feel even more isolated from the world, but now that I have a book for company I don’t feel half as lonely. In fact, as I settle down and cocoon myself into the blanket, for the first time since leaving the flat I actually feel safe. It’s like hiding from the world physically is one thing, but without being able to hide mentally as well, I’m still totally vulnerable. Here, if there are footsteps on the drive, or a knock at the door, I won’t hear them – they can’t frighten me. No one can peer in through a gap in the curtains, no one can see movement behind a blind. And I realise that this place could be my saving grace. It’s freezing up here, but completely bare of anything that could remind me of who, or why, I am. The sunlight flooding in through the skylight is beautiful, there’s no need for a blind here, and the sloping ceiling is panelled with heavy, dark wood that makes me feel like I’m in a whole different house. I can’t imagine a better reading cave. Settling down with the blanket tucked tightly around me, just where the elongated rectangle of sun hits the floor, I open my book.
‘There was no possibility of taking a walk that day…’
Ha! You and me both, Jane.
And I take her hand and leave my own demons behind for a while.
The hours melt away from me. I don’t hear the tyres on gravel, or the heavy bang of the front door. I miss the first frantic cry, and the second, before the hammering of feet on the stairs startles me out of Thornfield. I can’t move; I’ve got so cold up here that my legs have seized completely, and my hands and feet are painful blocks of sharp ice. My heart seizes not from cold but from terror. They’re here, they’ve found me.
As the frenzied shout rings out, Dad’s voice registers, and relief mixes itself into the cocktail of panic that was building inside me.
‘I’m up here! I’m all right!’ I shout back, letting go of my book and awkwardly rubbing my legs, trying to encourage some life back into them. I’m supposed to be getting stronger, not giving myself hypothermia.
‘Hold on! I’m coming down!’
I drag myself over to the trapdoor and push it open, narrowly missing Dad’s head as he stares up at me.
‘Christ, Chlo.’ He exhales, ‘I thought…’
He thought they’d found me. He thought they’d taken me.
‘I’m fine!’ My teeth pick a really inappropriate time to start chattering. ‘I was just reading up here, I’m coming… I’ll be… down in a second…’
I can’t come down while he’s standing there. My legs still won’t work right and he’ll be angry if he sees the state I’ve got myself into. He’d probably lock the hatch so I wouldn’t be able to get up here again, and I’m not ready to lose this space now that I’ve only just found it.
He looks at me, head to one side, suspicion in his eyes.
Go… go downstairs… I’m fine, I’m fine…
‘All right,’ he finally relents with a sigh. ‘It’s late, Chlo. I’ve brought you a curry. Come on down and get it while it’s hot.’
‘’Kay!’
I move back from the opening and wait until I hear him go back down the stairs before I shake painful life into my frozen limbs. I leave the blanket where it is, and promise myself that tomorrow I’ll bring up a duvet, some cushions, and a couple of those little electric heaters I always used to have aimed at me in the flat – if I can find them.
He’s at the table when I come down, and the rich, spicy smell of the curry sends my stomach into a noisy growl-fest that kills the tension and makes him laugh, instead of lecture like I was expecting. I sit down to a plate piled high with riceless chicken madras, and tuck in. It’s still weird, being able to smell the spice but not taste it. The warm chunks of meat are heaven. There’s a pint of water set for me, which I down almost in one as I’m around halfway through my plateful. I hate to think what I must look like: some drunken rugby fan woofing down a massive curry and necking a pint after a game. Not exactly the most ladylike of approaches; yet another reason I can’t see myself ever being girlfriend material. One meal, and I’d be dumped. Plus I dread to think what Mum would make of me if she saw me like this.
‘How’s the chicken?’ Dad asks, presumably noticing I’ve stopped stuffing myself senseless.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, reloading my fork. ‘I just… my taste…’
He looks thoughtful for a minute before replying.
‘I think we can get it back,’ he says, although he looks down at his food instead of at me, which isn’t a promising sign. ‘There must be a way we can regenerate the cells on your taste buds. Once we’ve got everything else taken care of, I’ll work on it, I promise.’
‘It’s fine,’ I lie. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fuss about it. It’s just… everything tastes like… chicken.’
He’s laughing again, and it’s contagious this time.
This is nice, spending time together like this. We’ve been so on top of each other for so long lately that getting some distance like today – however bad it felt this morning – is probably going to do us both the world of good. We might actually learn to enjoy each other’s company rather than just putting up with it.
I attack the rest of my chicken with renewed vigour.
‘I might get you a vindaloo next time,’ he chuckles. ‘See how far gone those taste buds really are!’
I see that drunken rugby fan again, and try to sit up a little straighter and eat a little slower. I’ve never been much of girly girl, but I mean, there are limits.
