Two Doors Down: A twisted psychological thriller Page 9

  “Clearly, I am, darlin’,” he says to my rival without looking at her. His gaze hasn’t once left mine – I’ve got him interested, and I don’t know why.

  Once again, he turns to leave.

  “Wait,” I call after him, rummaging through my bag. With a trembling hand, I locate my wallet and prise it open, pulling out one of my credit-card sized business cards for The Atlantic View. “Here.”

  He plucks it from my fingers, staring down at it.

  “Claire Wilson of The Atlantic view.” A frown creases his brow. “You live in Broadgate?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Oi, twat,” his bald bandmate hollers from the door. “Move it.”

  Bill pockets my card. “We’ll talk after, okay?”

  “Yes. Great. Thank you.”

  But I am talking to the back of his head, because he is striding towards the door.

  EIGHTEEN

  The next hour or so passes in a blur of anxiety and boredom. After Bill deserted me to set up his equipment, the blonde girl had stropped back to her table, where her girlfriends were waiting.

  Not long after that, the place really began to fill up. I start to feel increasingly awkward standing at the bar, so I cast my gaze around for a seat. I retreat to a small table in a corner of the room.

  But this makes me feel even more awkward, as I am but one person, and groups of people are coming in, wishing to sit down. Sure enough, as a spare table becomes the most sought-after commodity in this room, a group of early twenty-somethings swarm me.

  “Are you waiting for anyone?” the skinny guy with the wispy goatee asks me.

  “No,” I murmur, and before I know it, my table is swamped by the five students from The Guildhall.

  I know this, because I have inadvertently become part of their conversation, like it or not.

  “Excuse me,” I say a few minutes later when it becomes too much, but no one is listening to me, anyway.

  I make my way back to the bar, which is now shoulder to shoulder with bodies. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself, and just stand there as people jostle to be served at the bar, clutching an orange juice like the friendless sad sack that I am, with nothing to sit on and nothing to lean on, gazing helplessly around the room.

  When I glance over at the makeshift stage, where the band is still setting up, Bill is standing perfectly still, clutching the microphone stand, his gaze fixed on me.

  My breath hitches in my throat and my heart starts hammering. I feel completely out of step with reality, like, not only am I dreaming, but I have stumbled into somebody else’s dream to boot.

  The intensity of his gaze is a physical thing, it’s simply too much. I smile at him, but it feels tight and unnatural – nearer a rictus grin.

  Turning away, I shoulder my way to the safety of the bar, where I drain the last of my orange juice and go to catch one of the bartenders’ eyes. The man behind the bar has since been joined by two others – a man and a woman. All three of them look as if they have stepped out of a perfume commercial, or something.

  I am failing miserably in my efforts to attract their attention, and I just stand there feeling dazed, wondering what the hell I’m doing here.

  It isn’t long before there is a tap on my shoulder. I spin around on the spot, the side of the bar digging into my backside. I find myself face to face with a vaguely familiar-looking black girl.

  One of blondie’s friends, I think. One of the now very drunk girls who are clearly obsessed with Subcon.

  A guitar rift suddenly blares out in the air around us; Subcon have started to play. I flinch, partly at the sudden loudness, and partly because this beautiful-looking girl has hell in her deep brown eyes.

  Her dark-skinned hand grips my bare upper arm – bare, because I have my coat slung over a forearm.

  “You need to leave,” she hisses into my face.

  Her full, red-painted lips are sneering at me, her eyes shining with anger and drunkenness. Despite the rich pigment of her skin, I can see how flushed her cheeks are.

  She is spoiling for a fight – the energy emanating from her crackles in the air between us. Inside, I am quaking, but I do my level best to remain outwardly collected. I live in Broadgate and I’ve witnessed enough drunken hen nights and obnoxious women to last me a lifetime. The only effective way I’ve ever seen to handle anyone that takes an aggressive shine to a person, is to diffuse them.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, remaining perfectly still, not flinching or trying to shake off her grip. If I act like a trapped, wild animal, it will release her own, inner hellcat. Not that I think it would take much. “Please. Just let go of my arm.”

  My instinct is to shake her off and scream for help, but I manage to fight it. Bill and his band are so loud, the people surrounding us are completely oblivious to this little drama that is playing out.

  “I’m not going to ask you again,” I say calmly.

  The girl’s grip tightens and I let out a gasp, but still I refuse to flinch. I am going to have one hell of a bruise on my arm tomorrow.

  She leans in close to speak in my ear, her large breasts in the lowcut, white dress almost mashed against mine.

  “The only reason I’m not clawing out your eyes is because I don’t want to get thrown out, you get me? If you don’t leave right now, I will follow you later and rip open your stupid, shiny, preppy face, do I make myself clear?”

  I stare into the depths of her deep, brown eyes. I see no mercy there. I believe her. And I do not want to get drawn into this shit.

  Ever so slightly, I nod my head, taking care to keep my expression neutral. I will not show fear.

  She lets go of my arm and cups the side of my face, wobbling my cheek like I am a baby or a dog. Still I don’t flinch.

  Bill’s surprisingly clear, tuneful voice punctuates the air. It is a Coldplay cover.

  …tears come streaming down your face, when you lose something you can’t replace…

  “Good girl.” She smiles cruelly. “I knew you’d understand. You’ve got five minutes.”

  Then she is gone, weaving her way back to her table, where her equally foul friends are waiting.

  My arm sings out in sharp protest where it has been so violently grabbled, and I am shaken by the encounter. I stare over at their table, catching glimpses of them here and there as the crowd shifts and sways around me. At any given moment, at least one of them is glaring in my direction.

  I no longer have any desire to order another drink, and I move away from the bar, standing there awkwardly as people chatter and laugh in groups around me. Bill is still belting out the Coldplay cover, but it’s not him that I am watching.

  Simultaneously, the four girls get to their feet. They rise up as if figures from a dream – four slim, gorgeous girls in party dresses.

  And they are staring right at me.

  This dreamlike feeling is so strong, I expect them to morph into monsters before my very eyes or shoot electricity at me from their fingertips. I blink, rooted to the spot, thoroughly spooked.

  They do none of these things, of course. In fact, they are no longer looking at me, but making their way to the front of the stage to get a better view of Subcon. They must mean business if they are willing to give up their table. Sure enough, it is immediately swamped by a group of young people.

  Dazedly, I watch Bill sing, the way he grips the microphone and stands there like a bone fide Rockstar. And he is looking right at me.

  …lights will guide you home…

  …he sings, the intensity of his dark gaze pinning me in place…

  …and I will try to fix you.

  The gaggle of girls – or bitches, more like – turn around to look at me. The stunning black girl rolls up a non-existent sleeve and pointedly looks at her equally non-existent watch. Then she makes a slitting motion with her hand across her throat.

  Shivering, I gawp at her, but they have all turned their backs to me again to watch their beloved Bill-bloody-Butler.
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  Well, they can bloody have him, I think in a surge of anger. Getting my face cut open or kicked in just to ask some stranger about his dead father’s ex-wife hardly seems worth it.

  I shouldn’t even be here, I think, not for the first time. Instinctively, I glance behind myself at the exit. I so badly want to talk to Bill, but I don’t want any violent confrontations even more.

  To my shame, my eyes are burning hot and prickly, and I blink rapidly. No. I will not cry in this pub, not in front of those bitches, and not in front of Bill Butler.

  Bugger them all, I think, turning to leave.

  Only when I do so, do I notice the figure in black standing just to the left of the closed, double doors. I don’t know what it is about this man that so suddenly and absolutely drew my attention, but I am alarmed to discover that I am shaking.

  He is just a normal-looking guy – around my age, slim, average height. He is wearing black jeans, black boots and a grey t-shirt, over which he has on an unzipped black hoodie. Just an ordinary guy, cleanshaven and pale, his mid-brown hair cut close to his scalp. He casually sips his pint, people watching.

  The skin on the back of my neck tightens and I am chilled through. I can’t for the life of me explain why, but I have the distinct impression that he is studiously avoiding looking at me. Like he is looking at everyone and everything in the room, apart from me.

  I’m being stupid, I know I am, but this horrible, prickly feeling is consuming me. I made a mistake coming here tonight, I know that now.

  Up on the stage, Subcon have moved onto a song that I don’t recognise, although it definitely has a Coldplay vibe. Perhaps it is one of their own.

  I throw a final glance at the stage. At Bill. He isn’t watching me, and I don’t know whether to feel relieved or sad. Neither are the four witches looking at me, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  As I close in on the exit, I watch the lone man from out of the corner of my eye. For a split second – less than that – I fancy that his gaze flickers in my direction, even if his head isn’t swivelled my way. The worst feeling squirms in my gut, and all I want to do is get away from there.

  NINETEEN

  In hindsight, maybe hurtling myself onto the streets of London in the middle of the night isn’t the brightest idea. Yet something else that I haven’t properly thought through. But what else, exactly, had I been planning on doing? Getting a taxi home to Broadgate? How much would that cost? Five hundred quid? More? There is no doubt about it – I am an idiot.

  But maybe, I tell myself, all is not lost. I have met him now, in the flesh. And, by some miracle, he seemed genuinely interested in me, for reasons that I can’t even begin to fathom. He has my business card, and I have access to his fan page on Facebook. Okay, so there’s a good chance it may not be him who runs it, and if he does have a personal Facebook its privacy settings are locked down tight because I can’t find it, but the point is he’s not completely uncontactable. Tonight hasn’t been wasted. I just wish that I could skip the whole, getting home part.

  I hunker down into my coat, tucking my chin into the collar and my hair down my back, trying to make myself look as androgynous and/or invisible as possible. Cars whiz past me as I hurry in the direction of the tube station. This is London, it is still busy, it never really gets truly quiet here. I can’t decide if this is a comfort or a worry, for any one of the passing cars could suddenly pull up next to me…

  Stop it, I tell myself. Just stop.

  It’s just gone nine. At this rate, I will easily make it home by midnight, which is great. Trains get considerably thinner on the ground come midnight, and God only knew what time I might’ve got in had I waited around till gone eleven to talk to him…

  I pass a few people on the street, and, each time I do, I wonder if they are friend or foe. Most of them are couples and this being London they all blank me.

  As I hurry along the pavement, my spine tingles. Once again, I have that horrible crawly sensation that I am being watched. I quicken my pace, thankful that I have chosen to wear flat boots beneath my flares, that the soles are silent on the pavement.

  I desperately want to twist around and look, but if I am being followed, that will only alert my stalker to the fact I know I am. And if they know that I know, they will either give up, or make their move…

  You’re not being followed.

  I want to believe it. My God, I hope I’m right.

  Up ahead, Bethnal Green tube station looms into view. It is a beacon, guiding me to safety. Only when I reach the tiled wall of the station do I allow myself to look over my shoulder. The pavement I have just walked is devoid of any lone figures. There are a handful of twosomes strolling along, but no solitary man, dressed in black.

  It’s official, I decide. I am the queen of paranoia.

  I enter the relative safety of the station – my sanctuary. I’m keen to get home, to draw a line under this weird night.

  *

  I arrive back at Grange Road before midnight. The lights in Mark’s place are off, so I don’t even dream of knocking to collect Bertie. They said that they were getting an early start tomorrow, with Holly catching the train back up to London to sort out her stuff. Like me, she doesn’t drive, which pleases me because at least there is one thing that she isn’t better than me at.

  They will definitely be tucked up together in bed right now. My heart and stomach twist into a tight knot of jealousy at the mere thought of them in bed together.

  No, I tell myself sternly. Don’t think about that.

  I sigh heavily. Wearily. At least the tube and train journey home were uneventful, my little wobble in Bethnal Green notwithstanding. It was indeed a small mercy that the feeling of being watched left me once I started my journey.

  I feel like an intruder in my own home when I insert the key into the lock, looking around myself guiltily. It is so quiet tonight – barely a car passes, and I can hear the ocean, lapping at the cliff face on the other side of the main road. It is unusual to hear the sea from my house, especially on a night as still as this one.

  As eerie as this one.

  I shiver in the cool night, wanting badly to get inside and put an end to this farce of an evening.

  The skin on the back of my neck tightens and a little gasp escapes my lips. I spin around on the doorstep.

  Oh God, not again…

  Movement on the other side of the street catches my eye, just up on the right. I blink. I was so sure that I had seen a shadowy figure dart behind a parked car on the other side of the road.

  I decide that I’m seeing things; it had to be a trick of the moonlight. If someone was behind that car, that would mean that they would have to be crouching there, like an animal. Like a lunatic.

  For what feels like ages, I stand there, staring at that shadowy car, the make of which is obscured by the shroud of darkness. That same, horrible feeling I had in London clings to me, making my breath come in shallow little gasps and my heart pound against my sternum.

  Nothing moves, not even a breath of wind stirs the spindly arms of the occasional Ash tree that line each side of this wide street; trees that are almost bare now with the tail end of Autumn.

  I stare so hard, my vision is blurring with the effort of straining my eyes and sheer exhaustion.

  There is nothing – or no one – there, and I go inside.

  *

  I am on my back, sunbathing on Broadgate Sands. I am wearing a tiny black bikini – one that I bought over a decade ago and have never worn.

  I should do this more often, I think in my dream. I close my eyes and stretch luxuriously on my beach towel. The sun warming my skin feels so good, heating me all the way through…

  Until it doesn’t.

  The backs of my eyelids, previously glowing a warm orange from the burning orb of the high summer sun, are now black. My eyes snap open in fright.

  How did that happen? I think dazedly, lurching into a sitting position. How did night arrive so quickly?

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p; I shiver, the temperature having dropped twenty degrees in a heartbeat. The full moon hangs low in the clear, black sky, its reflection shimmering on the glass-like surface of the ocean.

  Barely a ripple breaks its surface. The small waves lap gently at the shore with all the aggression of water sloshing in a bathtub.

  The gentle waves are wrong – Broadgate has a bigger tide. And the moon is wrong – it is too large in the night sky. This beach stirs a primal fear deep within me because everything is just wrong.

  I stagger to my feet, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around my shivering body.

  Every breath you take, every move you make.

  It is Holly’s voice, coming from behind me. She speaks – rather than sings – the lines from the famous pop song. Although, it is nearer a whisper with an unmistakably aggressive undertone.

  I spin around on the spot, clutching the towel to my body, the scream lodging in my throat so it comes out nearer a gasp.

  I’ll be watching you, she finishes.

  She is naked. The moon is so bright, she is illuminated as surely as if she were standing there in broad daylight. Her hair is loose, the pale gold lengths shimmering and undulating around her shoulders on an invisible breeze, as if she were a supermodel posing before a wind machine.

  What do you want? I ask.

  She only smiles, and extends a long, slender arm, pointing to the sea behind me.

  Mark, I gasp.

  He is standing where sea meets sand, his ankles submerged in the inky-black water. He is wearing the same Mr Happy t-shirt that Bill had on.

  Claire? he asks. Where am I?

  I open my mouth to speak, to ask him what’s wrong, but no words come. I go to move towards him, but my legs won’t obey the commands of my brain. He stares helplessly at me, like a lost little boy.

  I grow aware of a darkening. Something is blotting out the moon.

  I realise that it is the sea. A great tsunami is coming – taller than twenty of my houses stacked atop each other, and as wide as the horizon.